May tore out a card and wrote upon it, in German, Sie muss fort! and handed it to Fides, the dog, who trotted silently off. What means Schmidt used, May never knew; but some ten minutes later, four children came screaming down the avenue, running and gasping for breath, followed by a thin and wiry woman, robed in a flapping whitey-brown duster, whose haste and streaming bonnet-ribbons bore every evidence of extreme mental perturbation.
Shortly afterward Schmidt himself appeared, in his hands a glass and another bottle of the same claret. By a refinement of delicacy, the glass was full. “Monsieur n’a pas fini son dejeúner,” said he; and May took the glass with trembling fingers, but put it down untasted.
“Schmidt,” said he, in French, “it is nearly midday. You must bring everything here. I dare not go back to the house.”
The valet evinced no surprise, but nodded and disappeared. Left to himself, May opened the shutters of several of the windows and looked out. The side of the pavilion that was farthest from the house rose directly out of the broad pond or ornamental lake already referred to. This was to the west; the northern was screened by a dense growth of pines, the southern contained the entrance door before mentioned, and the eastern façade commanded the house, which was some two hundred yards distant across the avenue. May looked out across the water, which was an ornamental piece fringed with reeds and water-flowers. In the centre of the little lake rose a low round island, which had a comfortable rustic seat and a soft and grassy surface. May pressed a small knob in the wall near the window, and coming back from it, took a heavy book from one of the dwarf bookcases that lined the large room. The book was a quarto edition of Burton’s “Anatomy of Melancholy;” and immediately afterward the adjoining section of bookcase swung slowly forward from the wall, revealing a descending passageway. Through this May disappeared, and the bookcase swung itself back into place.
Some minutes later, Schmidt entered, after several knocks, with a large japanned tray. Upon this tray was a small paper of bromide of potassium, two boxes of cigars, strong and mild, a carafe of cognac, seltzer, a large opera-glass, a powerful dark-lantern, and a six-barrelled silver-mounted revolver. Fides lay on a mat on the floor; but his master was nowhere visible in the room. Schmidt set the tray upon the table and looked about him. Being alone, it must be confessed that his cosmopolitan face showed traces of surprise.
The whole interior of the pavilion obviously contained but one room; and in that room Austin May was nowhere to be seen. In the centre was a huge long centre-table of carven oak; it was covered with dust, and upon it was but one large book—Burton’s “Anatomy of Melancholy.” All the four walls were lined with filled bookcases, and, above them were serried ranks of engravings, etchings, drawings, but nothing that was not in black and white. Most of these had woman for a subject, but woman always either in her least agreeable or most unspiritual aspect—Katherines with Petruchio, Madame de Staels, Harriet Martineaus, Manon Lescauts, Cressidas, and Marneffes; Messalinas, Hecubas, Danaës, Judiths, daughters of Herodias; an engraving of the Appalachian Women’s Rights Association, and a charcoal sketch of Daudet’s Sappho. And of such as were not real persons or historical characters, there was but one common characteristic, namely, that all were shamelessly naked of body and unspiritual of face. The sole exception to this rule stood at the farther end of the room from Schmidt; it was a full-sized and marvellously perfect reproduction of the Venus of Milo; having the cynical inscription upon its pedestal, “A woman without rights.”
Schmidt gave a long low whistle, as he went about the room to examine these engravings; then he returned to the centre-table, wholly at a loss. May surely had not left the pavilion; but where was he? He looked out of the windows, and saw only the pine-grove, the house, the lawn, and the lake. In the centre of the lake was a large fountain, plashing merrily, and shaped like the coronal of some huge lily. As he was watching this, the fountain suddenly stopped; the water-petals wavered and fell, revealing a small grass island that had been screened by the circlet of playing water. A moment after, he started at his master’s voice; May was immediately behind him, calmly putting a book back in the bookcase. It was the Burton’s “Anatomy.”
“You may go now, Schmidt; I shall not want you until to-morrow. You will stay in the under part of the house; and not go out under any circumstances, unless you hear a pistol-shot. When you hear my pistol fired you will come out rapidly. If fired twice, you will run to the stable for a horse. If I want you to do anything, I will send Fides with a note.”
Schmidt bowed his comprehension and was about to withdraw.
“Stop,” said May, “there is one thing more. You must go to Brookline village and hire a fast horse and a buggy, without a driver; put the horse in the stable, but don’t unharness him, and shut the door. You may go.” Schmidt went.