The Goose Girl | Page 7

all that an Irishman is generally likened to a bull
in a china-shop.
"How the deuce will it end?"--musing half aloud. "I'll forget myself

some day and trip so hard that they'll be asking Washington for my
recall. I'll go over to the gardens and listen to the band. They are
playing dirges to-night, and anything funereal will be a light and happy
tonic to my present state of mind."
He was standing on the curb in front of the hotel, his decision still
unrounded, when he noticed a closed carriage hard by the fountain in
the Platz. The driver dozed on his box.
"Humph! There's a man who is never troubled with counting the fool's
beads. Silver and copper are his gods and goddesses. Ha! a fare!"
A woman in black, thoroughly veiled and cloaked, came round from
the opposite side of the fountain. She spoke to the driver, and he
tumbled off the box, alive and hearty. There seemed to be a short
interchange of words of mutual satisfaction. The lady stepped into the
carriage, the driver woke up his ancient Bucephalus, and went
clickety-clack down the König Strasse toward the town.
To Carmichael it was less than an incident. He twirled his cane and
walked toward the public gardens. Here he strolled about, watching the
people, numerous but orderly, with a bright military patch here and
there. The band struck up again, and he drifted with the crowd toward
the pavilion. The penny-chairs were occupied, so he selected a spot
off-side, near enough for all auditual purposes. One after another he
carelessly scanned the faces of those nearest. He was something of an
amateur physiognomist, but he seldom made the mistakes of the tyro.
Within a dozen feet of him, her arms folded across her breast, her eyes
half shut in the luxury of the senses, stood the goose-girl. He smiled as
he recalled the encounter of that afternoon. It was his habit to ride to
the maneuvers every day, and several times he had noticed her, as well
as any rider is able to notice a pedestrian. But that afternoon her beauty
came home to him suddenly and unexpectedly. Had she been other than
what she was, a woman well-gowned, for instance, riding in her
carriage, his interest would have waned in the passing. But it had come
with the same definite surprise as when one finds a rare and charming
story in a dilapidated book.

"Why couldn't I have fallen in love with some one like this?" he
cogitated.
With a friendly smile on his lips, he took a step toward her, but
instantly paused. Colonel von Wallenstein of the general staff
approached her from the other side, and Carmichael was curious to find
out what that officer's object was. Wallenstein was a capital soldier,
and a jolly fellow round a board, but beyond that Carmichael had no
real liking for him. There were too many scented notes stuck in his
pockets.
The colonel dropped his cigarette, leaned over Gretchen's shoulder and
spoke a few words. At first she gave no heed. The colonel persisted.
Without a word in reply, she resolutely sought the nearest policeman.
Wallenstein, remaining where he was, laughed. Meantime the
policeman frowned. It was incredible; his excellency could not possibly
have intended any wrong, it was only a harmless pleasantry. Gretchen's
lips quivered; the law of redress in Ehrenstein had no niche for the
goose-girl.
"Good evening, colonel," said Carmichael pleasantly. "Why can't your
bandmaster give us light opera once in a while?"
The colonel pulled his mustache in chagrin, but he did not give
Carmichael the credit for bringing about this cheapening sense. For the
time being Gretchen was freed from annoyance. The colonel certainly
could not rush off to her and give this keen-eyed American an
opportunity to witness a further rebuff.
"Light operas are rare at present," he replied, accepting his defeat
amiably enough.
"Paris is full of them just now," continued Carmichael.
"Paris? Would you like a riot in the gardens?" asked the colonel,
amused.
"A riot?" said Carmichael derisively. "Why, nothing short of a

bombshell would cause a riot among your phlegmatic Germans."
"I believe you love your Paris better than your Dreiberg."
"Not a bit of doubt. And down in your heart you do, too. Think of the
lights, the theaters, the cafés and the pretty women!" Carmichael's cane
described a flourish as if to draw a picture of these things.
"Yes, yes," agreed the colonel reminiscently; "you are right. There is no
other night equal to a Parisian night. _Ach, Gott!_ But think of the
mornings, think of the mornings!"--dolefully.
"On the contrary, let us not think of them!"--with a mock shudder.
And then a pretty woman rose from a chair near-by. She nodded
brightly at the