Marguerite sat right down on the carpet and literally rained kisses upon this prodigy.
“My clever baby,” she crooned over him. “Was there ever in the world such a wonder, such a treasure? Wait till Papa hears you say that, you darling, just wait!”
The nurse and the maid, chatting together in whispers by the dressing-room window, were not attending, Marguerite lost in admiration did not hear, and yet at this juncture there was a curious motion of the portières separating Basil’s room from his wife’s, a smothered sob, and then a light scurry of little feet running away. Could any of the three women have seen the livid fury masking the face of Piotr as he fled through corridor after corridor to a back stairs leading upon the terrace, what might not have been spared to all?
Almost immediately Marguerite, remembering Basil, and how absurdly anxious he would be if she was not there on time, reluctantly gave the baby to his nurse, with the hundred recommendations which invariably followed such an act, and, relinquishing herself to her maid’s hands, implored her to hurry, in comic accents of despair.
Divyne, the methodical Bretonne, left the room, slowly descended the main stairs, and went out by the perron. The wind had fallen to a breeze, singing now over the waves, and murmuring in the thick mantle of ivy luxuriantly draping the portion of the walls at the foot of which she generally took her charge for an airing. The baby, vexed, doubtless, at being removed with so little ceremony from his mother’s room, was fretful, and Divyne glanced quickly around to see if the footman specially detailed for that service had disposed the big white rug and the toys in their accustomed place. But, no, this had not been done, and she began to call him at the top of her voice.
There was no answer; the noise of the surf below was too loud to permit a lesser sound to penetrate into the Castle, so the Bretonne retraced her steps and went quickly to a side passage leading to the servants’ hall.
“Louis!” she cried. “Hé! Louis!—Pierre! Jean-Marie!” She tried again, hoping that another of the footmen on duty would hear her, but this collective call remained unanswered, too, and, getting impatient, Divyne placed little Pavlo very carefully on the thick rug and ran to the farther end of the corridor to bawl out at better advantage. At last she heard, from the depths of beyond, manly accents responding, “Présent, Mam’selle Divyne!” It was the recreant Louis coming at full speed, and Divyne went to pick baby up from the rug. And then the footman heard a shriek that lent wings to his feet.
The baby was gone.
“Will you never be through?” Marguerite was telling her maid. “Here, give me my hat and stick! Well! Well! Well! Haven’t I got my boots on yet?” She rushed to a window and, bending out, shouted to Ireland: “Leave my horse with the groom, Irry, and gallop on to the Carrefour to tell monsieur that I am coming. I’ve been delayed, and he’ll be anxious!”