We did not like to leave our luggage to the mercy of the lounging soldiers, but there was nothing to do but follow the sergeant into the customs house.
Inside there was a rather dirty, not too large, room, with a single heavy table on which lay cards that had been obviously laid down so as not to disturb a game that would be resumed as soon as we had been disposed of. An army officer of evidently small importance sat behind the card table. He bowed as we entered, but did not offer us seats. It was John’s car, so I let him do the talking. He had had the bright idea of offering that ridiculous collection of French souvenirs of bureaucracy as evidence that we were fit persons to be allowed to dodge a revolution. I stood in the window to watch the luggage. The sergeant who had ushered us in went to the door and lighted a lantern such as we called a bull’s eye when I was a child. I hadn’t seen one in years. They had been useful before the days of electric torches. The Alarian sergeant was flashing signals with it. Knowing neither the Alarian language nor any telegraphic or heliographic code, I did not bother to watch the flashes, but contented myself with looking to see whether he would be answered. He could only be sending a message about us.
It was, of course, from the white manor house that the answer came. It was the only building in sight. The residence of a superior officer, no doubt, and telephone service either disconnected or not trusted or not available. The under officer rapped suddenly on the table.
“May I claim your attention, gnädiger Herr?” It was not a question but a command. He ordered me to stay away from the window. We were, then, suspicious characters. I obeyed, but satisfied my pride by sitting down without permission. He cleared his throat and glared, then began talking volubly, but very little, so it seemed to me, to the point. “And who is it your intention to see while you are in Rheatia?” he asked, among a lot of other things. John had his mouth open to answer, when I spoke at random, suddenly determined to tell nothing that was not necessary.
“We are in search of beautiful scenery,” I announced, with a comprehensive wave of my hand. “We are strangers both in Alaria and Rheatia. We have no ultimate destination.”
John showed no surprise. He did not even glance at me. No doubt he thought I wished to spare Helena any possible gossip which our visit might occasion among the rough soldiers. And I had had some such idea, but I felt more that our character as innocuous American tourists had been somewhat impaired by John’s nonsense with the Parisian permits. A small country is always suspicious, and at the moment the Alarians were right to be suspicious of anyone.
The officer asked more questions, addressing them to me, now. They were for the most part the same questions he had asked John. How long had we had the car, where had we come from, where did we live in the United States, what was our occupation? Everything, indeed, except whether we had any dutiable merchandise. Obviously he was merely filling in time, while he waited for someone to come. It was quite useless to do more than be polite. A large fly droned against the window, the soldiers outside gossiped in gradually louder tones, while the sun slid down slowly, point by point, behind an invisible Herrovosca. It began to grow darker, and John was openly fidgeting, when we heard a car approaching, its cut-out wide open after the now familiar Balkan custom. The officer hastily lighted two kerosene lamps, and a moment or two later the car stopped. We heard the door slam. The officer rose, expectantly. We followed suit, and turned to face the doorway and the official who should enter.
But it wasn’t an official who came in. It was a woman.
I stared in surprise, not only because I had expected a man, but because this was a new kind of woman to me. She was tall, and handsomely built—that’s not so new, nor was any one thing about her. After all, a newspaper man sees a lot of women, sees them with reddish-brown hair that is red in the lamplight, sees them with tawny eyes, almost the color of a cat’s, sees them with clear olive skin, warm and sunny, and sees them with a ruthless yet luscious mouth. But he rarely sees all those things in one woman, and combined with a direct and forceful authority of manner, but without any loss of femininity. Her figure, which was less voluptuous than most Central European women’s, was covered with gold-embroidered green velvet. She wore a gold chain around her neck, and rings and earrings, but no hat, and her velvet dress was cut like the peasants’, tight bodice, short bolero jacket, and full, long skirt. She might have stepped out of a mediæval play, but she was not theatrical, as the Queen Mother was. John was staring at her, more delighted than I have ever seen him. She was returning his stare with little humorous lines curled around her mouth and the corners of her eyes. I deduced that she was quite accustomed to admiration.
“I hope,” John said to me in English, “that our passports are all wrong and keep us here forever.”