“What was that?” asked Basil, with a quick turn of the head.
“Oh, a trifle! but since it was connected with our Guardsman, I’ll tell it to you in two words. It was about three years ago, if I am correct, on a bitter winter day—thus does the tale begin. Ha! Ha! I am quite a raconteur in my humble way, I beg you to observe! Well, we were at the time keeping our eyes upon a certain Servian ‘Prince’—the nerve they display, those Servians, in affording themselves, while away from home, the luxury of titles which do not exist in their own land, is truly marvelous! But to proceed: we were, as I was saying, having this questionable personage—er—watched, in a discreet fashion—you understand—so when driving out for my airing, the fancy seized me to go to the Botanical Gardens. I had been informed that the ‘Noble’ Servian was in the habit of dropping in there—to admire the flowers, and meet—quite by accident, of course—a friend—or perchance two—also naturally quite by accident—do you see? So I told Yèfime—you remember my old Yèfime—to drive me there. From a good distance the whole mass of the gardens began to gleam against the sky like some gigantic jewel-case open to the sun-rays. We had had a hard frost, which had incased every branch and twig in crystal—I can see it before me now. I stopped the sleigh and passed up the board walk leading to the conservatories beneath those gently clinking branches, and, pursuing my idea, I entered the great glass vestibule, and from there went into the main house. The first whiff of moist, heavily perfumed air after that cruel cold outside—I can really still smell it—was a sort of voluptuous delight, and I followed a broad, pebbled path bordered on each side by hedges of twenty-five-foot camellias in full bloom. You know the place, and what a joy to the eye it is. Precious palms and tree-ferns growing free to the very top of the cupola ... orange and lemon adored orchids! Ah! What orchids—above regular thickets of gardenias—a paradise! After a while I came to the aerial staircase winding among all those lustrous plants, and reached the top where it communicates with the astounding lacy bridge that spans the whole length of this particular conservatory, and there I paused to lean a moment on the balustrade. Just below me on the balcony of the first landing were two people standing close together, a man and a woman; he tall, slimly built, but rather square-shouldered and straight as an arrow. The collar of his long fur coat was raised—in that heat, mind you! She, I could see, was extremely élégante, and heavily veiled. Both my natural and my official curiosity were aroused I confess, and, making myself as small as the good God ever permits me to be, I bent cautiously and listened. They were whispering, and so absorbed in one another that they had not heard my feet on the metal steps, and only a few disconnected words reached me. It struck me as peculiar that they were speaking English, for I greatly doubted whether my Servian would use that tongue, and, even more, whether he had ever used the Botanical Gardens for an amorous rendez-vous. His talents had appeared to be entirely political. Perhaps I had done him an injustice; at all events, I had decided to leave him to his twitterings, when an interesting thing happened. The uniformed guardian who keeps watch over the collections approached from below, yawning to dislocate his jaws, and the lovers sprang apart in evident dismay.
“‘Good-bye!’ I heard the woman’s muffled voice say, and the echo came at once:
“‘Good-bye, my love—my heart and soul to you—always!’
“The sun was lighting up the whole place with extraordinary brilliancy, and I distinctly saw a tear splash on his gloved hand that rested on the edge of the balcony, as she fairly ran for the opposite staircase. He—poor devil—remained for a few minutes where he was, his shoulders rising and falling queerly, and he nervously pulled down his fur collar as if he wanted air. The face I saw then, for a glancing second, was that of young Moray. And I wondered; because that Lesghise assuredly spoke no English, barely a few lately acquired phrases of French, perhaps—if that! Next day a grave political complication drove the whole thing out of my head, and I have never thought of it since.”
“The winter of four years ago!” Basil soliloquized, and, recollecting himself, he added with a laugh: “You have a good memory, General. Fancy recalling—even with a little extraneous aid—so trifling an incident after four long years!”
The General, who was not quite proof against compliment, got up and rubbed his hands.
“Eh! Eh!” he cried. “It does not always follow that gray hairs must needs dull the brain beneath them. I could still have been of considerable use, I believe, to our Imperial Master; but, as I happen to know, he was strongly advised to the contrary, and so here I am now, lazing my life away, inactive and growing fat, with my ear split like a reformed French cavalry horse. But must you really go? Of course, now that you have wrung me dry, you leave me without a scruple, for such are the ways of the world. But you were always a cajoler, my dear Basil, and knew how to gain your ends. I hope that some day in the near future you will honor me with more details concerning this affair of the English captain, for I cannot understand how you can be so interested in him as to waste an hour over it.”
“Waste, General? An hour spent with you is never wasted.”
“There you are again! Flattery, vile flattery! And you are going straight on from here to your beautiful Tverna? Pray place my homage at Madame Palitzin’s pretty feet. How is she, by the way? Upon my word, I am losing my manners.”