His face disappeared again. John and I exchanged glances. He smiled a little, shrugged his shoulders, and I took off my shoe and put the third piece of paper in the heel. It began to feel stuffed, and the lace spread a little wider than that on the other foot.
Then we knocked on the door, and heard the key grate in the lock, and our prison was opened. I closed the door behind us, and noticed that there was no guard on the stairs below except the man who preceded us. Above, I heard the scrape of a boot, and knew that there was a guard outside the door of the man with the polished finger nails. He had a chance, then, to get out, by dropping down to our bed, which would dull the sound of his fall, and the door of our room was not locked now.
We were bowed through the door of a large dining room, and John said “Oh” appreciatively, as he saw it. Like the whole house, the walls and woodwork were white, with heavy wrought iron hardware of intricate patterns showing smartly black against it. The furniture was polished or painted with scenes and portraits, or covered with colored leather or vivid brocades. It was fresh and bright, and I liked it. John spoke in praise of it. “My God,” he said, “it would be priceless in New York. The decorators would go mad with excitement.” He leaned down to examine a series of tiny brilliant medallions painted on the top of a chest. “But what a crime it would be to move it,” he said. “Here it is perfect, with the mountains outside as a complement.”
“It’ll make a pleasant memory,” I said. “I’m getting pretty fond of home, suddenly. It was nice and comfortable there.”
“Yes,” John said. “Yes, I suppose so.” But he didn’t sound as though he meant it entirely. He was absorbed in studying the lovely old furniture.
Our two captors came in, then. They looked refreshed and ready for the day. I knew that we did not. In spite of our brushing and shaving we were still bedraggled and rumpled and unpresentable. The last two days and nights had been almost as hard on our appearance as on our feelings, but we must have been a great improvement on the two unshaven tramps they had found on the road the night before. The elder introduced himself. “I am Colonel Count Visichich,” he said. “This is my son, Lieutenant Count Ivan Visichich, in charge of the customs house at the foot of the Pass. I have also a daughter who will be ’ere in a moment. When she arrives we will eat lunch. Meanwhile it would be well to sit down. You gentlemen are probably not yet fully rested. I am afraid you ’ad a difficult time last night.”
We sat on a long carved bench with a crimson damask cushion. It was under a window and faced the door. John was absorbed in two very old portraits that hung across the room. He was so much absorbed in them, indeed, that he did not notice the Countess Visichich when she entered the room.
“Katerina,” said the Colonel, “I wish to present the two gentlemen of whom I spoke to you. Gentlemen, this is my daughter, Countess Katerina Visichich.”
We both hesitated, to see whether she would show any sign of having seen us before. She did not, but bowed formally. She was keeping the letter of her word to us. I was not surprised. I had already decided that she probably would do that. She had the courteous manners of a Frenchwoman, together with a barbaric sense of honor, and a fearlessness that was the result of her half civilised surroundings and not-too-distant nomad ancestors. She smiled at us candidly. “My father and brother tell me you came ’ere late last night,” she said. “Just before I returned myself, in fact. Yesterday was very busy for many of us, it would seem. I am so glad you—’appened to find your way here. It was better as sleeping on the road, no?” Her eyes teased us, she might be our jailor but she was a pleasant and a friendly one. “You ’ave ’urt your ’ands,” she went on concernedly, to John. “Please, may I be of service? I have studied in the ’ospitals—almost I am a nurse. Come with me—yes?—and I will fix them.”
She led John out of the room, talking as they went, while the two Visichich men entertained me assiduously for a quarter of an hour until she chose to bring John back again, his hands swathed in great white mounds of gauze. They were no doubt very professional, but they looked ridiculous, and I saw that he meant to get them off again as soon as possible. “I have been very cruel to ’im,” she announced, “but my cruelty was of a moment only, and he is already almost well again of it.” They smiled at each other, and we sat down to lunch. We were treated like guests of the house. I hoped that was an omen of release, but somehow I doubted it. I could not see why they should let us go, and I was right. After we had finished the meal, they led us to the garden. As we stepped out into the sunlight the old Count said, gently, “You gentlemen will find time a little ’eavy on your ’ands, I fear. So long as you do not go beyond the archway you are quite free to wander as you will through the garden as long as we remain at ’ome. I regret that we must leave late this afternoon, and must then request you to return to the tower for a time. I am sure you understand me without further explanation.” He offered us cigarettes, and as we took them he said, “I ’ave warned you, gentlemen. This is an uncivilised country.” It might be uncivilised, but the manners of its people were perfect. I began to wish that a few of my former bosses could have said threatening things—or unthreatening ones, for that matter—half so pleasantly. He seemed to be laughing at some kindly joke, as he waved his hand at us, and turned away into the house followed by his son. The Countess Katerina stepped down to a low, tiled terrace. “Come look at my roses for a moment,” she called, “then I shall be obliged to leave you, too. I am a very busy woman—so much ’ousekeeping!” She laughed a little. That might easily be a joke, though I could imagine the Countess Katerina an excellent housekeeper. European ladies, especially southern European ladies, waste very little of their time going to parties as American ones do. They learn, instead, every step in the primitive keeping of their homes—spinning, weaving, lace-making and all the rest of the thousand arts that with us are represented by the corner delicatessen and the department store. Not that I suspected the Countess Katerina of leaving us to make lace. For that day at least I was sure her cares were not of the house.