“Anyhow, I shall not get out; put my valise and dressing-bag close to me, and go and order two cups of coffee at the buffet, to be brought here.”
“I think madame will not be disturbed,” said the maid as she opened the carriage; “everyone has left the platform, and I see no more officials about. I hope madame will be all right whilst I am gone; I will be back directly.”
And Róza prepared to get out of the coupé.
“Excuse me, mademoiselle,” said a voice, as she alighted on the platform, “everyone must get out here.”
A man, in the uniform of the custom-house officials, stood by the carriage door, respectfully lifting his cap as he peered into the coupé and saw Madame Demidoff surrounded by her luggage.
“Surely it is not necessary,” said madame in a tone of annoyance; “my luggage is registered through, and they told me distinctly in Vienna that I shall not be troubled with these stupid formalities.”
“I am very sorry, madame, but our orders are very strict, and we are not allowed to let anyone remain in the carriages, nor any luggage,” he added emphatically, pointing to the valise, dressing-bags, and rugs that lay on the cushioned seats.
Madame Demidoff knew enough about officialdom to be well aware that it was absolutely useless to disobey or even to protest. The man was perfectly civil, nay, respectful, but at any sign of resistance he would call for help, and deposit madame’s luggage, without hesitation, on the platform, or carry it away to the customs hall, where she would perforce have to follow it.
Resigning herself with an impatient sigh, she prepared to step out of the carriage, leaving Róza and the man to follow with her things. She knew she had nothing, that she need mind being handled by the most prying Austrian official; her reports and papers this time were safe in the secret receptacles of the Emperor’s candlesticks; these she had placed in her valise, labelling them conspicuously: “China—Fragile—the property of his Eminence Cardinal d’Orsay.” The parcel might be opened, with a view to verifying the truth of the label, but no one could guess that a Russian agent’s reports were hidden inside such brittle works of art.
The whole thing was merely a matter of annoyance and weariness, and Madame Demidoff soon found her way to the customs hall, followed by her maid and the polite but tiresome official, who were carrying her things.