The Goose Girl | Page 7

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 K?nig 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 caf��s 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 colonel, who bowed, excused himself to Carmichael, and made off after her.
"I believe I stepped on his toe that time," said Carmichael to himself.
Then he looked round for Gretchen. She was still at the side of the policeman. She had watched the scene between the two men, but was quite unconscious that it had been set for her benefit. She came back. Carmichael stepped confidently to her side and raised his hat.
"Did you get your geese together without mishap?" he asked.
The instinct of the child always remains with the woman. Gretchen smiled. This young man would be different, she knew.
"They were only frightened. But his highness"--eagerly--"was he very angry?"
"Angry? Not the least. He was amused. But he was nearly knocked off his horse. If you lived in America now, you might reap a goodly profit from that goose."
"America? How?"
"You could put him in a museum