Page:The International - Volume 7.djvu/237

 self with drawing pictures of Foltyn on the covers of an expensive book. Her ladyship, taking from among her things a nude antique statuette, stood looking searchingly around the room.

“Advise me, Henry. Where can I safely place it?”

“You ought to have left it where it was.”

“Impossible! We are inseparable, this delicate marble figure and I. I should feel lonely without it.”

“But if you continue to carry it about the world in this fashion it won’t remain whole much longer.”

“Why, Henry, I guard it as I would the pupil of my eye! You know I held the box with it on my lap during the entire journey.”

“Better get a pug dog, my dear.”

The dark eyes flashed with indignation, and her ladyship’s lips parted; but she seemed to change her mind. Carefully carrying the statuette, she scornfully rustled past her husband toward a niche on the other side of the room. Just as she was about to deposit it there, she suddenly stepped back, and, turning, lifted a finger toward her husband. The ancient dust of the niche left a gray mark on it.

“See,” she exclaimed.

“See,” he echoed, pointing to the ceiling. From a group of fantastic blossoms hung a long, wavy web, at the end of which a hideous spider rocked itself. “You would not listen to my warning. There, now, is the prelude to your country idyl about which you have rhapsodized.”

Her ladyship tightened her lips, partly disgusted with the ugly spider, partly with her husband’s sneer. Angrily she jerked the bell on the table. The fat footman in purple livery appeared.

“Say downstairs that I want a maid to remove the dust and spiders in this room,” said the beautiful lady, with contracted brow. Then she took a seat opposite her husband, who smiled maliciously while she gloomily gazed on her favorite statuette. Some time passed; no maid appeared. His lordship’s smile became more malicious, her ladyship’s gaze more gloomy.

Meantime the message had alarmed the lower regions of the castle dreadfully, first because of the dust and spiders found, and secondly because of the maid wanted. A maid! Where were they to get her? At last, after much discussion it was decided that Foltyn’s daughter, Marie, was their only hope. Foltyn, who thought thus to repair through his daughter the damage which his drum had made, had to go through a good deal of both begging and scolding before the timid girl consented to leave the lodge.

The stewardess tied her own yellow silk neckerchief with a heavy fringe around Marie’s neck and bosom, and forced a duster into the small hands. Thus equipped, the trembling victim was led by the purple man to the noble apartments.

Her ladyship stamped her foot and came forward when the door opened. Marie, pale and frightened, stood on the threshhold. The angry words died on the lips of the baroness; indeed, the peasant girl made a charming picture. Slender and graceful, with refined features and of childlike roundness, heavy masses of brown hair well harmonizing with the fresh white complexion—the whole breathed the sweetness and simplicity of spring time.

“There my child,” the baroness kindly pointed to the webs.

The girl bowed timidly; from beneath the heavy lashes came one quick, dark bluish ray; then she came forward. The duster did not quite reach the web. She had to stand on tiptoe. Her pallor changed to a beautiful pink, the dark blue eyes looked upward, the delicate white throat was stretched, and beneath it, through the fringe of the silk kerchief, peeped a row of imitation red coral beads on the snowwhite folds of the underbodice. Add to all the tiny foot of a princess, and admit it was a tempting sight.

When everything disagreeable was removed, her ladyship patted the girl’s shoulder, and asked: “What is your name?”

“Marie Foltyn,” whispered the girl.

“Foltyn, Foltyn? What is your father?”

“The gatekeeper, your grace.”

“Ah! undoubtedly the one with the drum,” interposed the baron, and a faint smile passed over his face.

“Go into the next room and wait there,” said the baroness. When Marie was gone she turned toward her husband. “A charming child! Don’t you think so?”

“Well, it is a matter of taste.”

“Charming, I say! A perfect figure, such a sweet face, and such modesty.”

“Hm, the marble statuette may fear a rival!”

“Oh! but sincerely, what do you think