I thought this a philanthropic idea, and for several reasons worthy of encouragement. So Patsy and the red-cheeked mädl embarked on a heavy sea of churches, the mädl munching apples under rose-windows, while Patsy inspected the pulpit. A week had been spent in this innocent diversion, when the dire news came to us that the mädl had been taken to a hospital with peritonitis. The sour-faced spinster who succeeded her Patsy would have none of. “I shall go alone to see the engravings,” she announced firmly.
I resigned myself to accompany her; but when we reached the Albertina Burg I was persuaded to take “a tiny stroll” into the Graben, and return for Patsy in half an hour. There seemed nothing out of bounds in this, as the library where Archduke Albert housed his engravings, like most libraries, is sternly shunned by all but the semi-defunct and care-takers. It shares the usual old court with the usual old palaces of mediæval Austrian nobility; and I waited at the gate till Patsy had entered the open square, hesitated a moment before the several doors confronting her, and finally followed sedately in the wake of some Americans—past a pompous gold-lace porter—into the first door on the right. The rest of the story is hers.
She walked leisurely up some shallow stairs, without noticing at first that the Americans had stayed behind to converse with the porter; and that finally they went out instead of following her above. She did think the porter was rather elaborate for a library, said Patsy, but in Austria he didn’t seem extraordinary. The staircase was, however; and she wondered why Baedeker had passed it by. Beautifully carved in white marble, it was carpeted with old Turkish rugs and hung with splendid portraits of the Hapsburgs, and—at the landings—with charming old French clocks.
Patsy admired all these treasures at length, serenely ignoring another and still more imposing guard who scrutinized her sharply as he passed. She has a way with guards, has Patsy; they are generally reduced to becoming humility, no matter how arrogantly they start in. This one stalked on downstairs, leaving her to proceed on her way upward. She was still searching Baedeker for the key to the interesting portraits, and also to the whereabouts of the famous engravings—as yet nowhere to be seen.
According to the guide-book, these should be “in two long rows above the book-cases”; and “one should sit down at the small tables provided for inspecting them, as the crowd of tourists makes it difficult to see the drawings satisfactorily.” This was puzzling. Patsy, now in solitary possession of the large room at the head of the stairs, saw neither engravings nor tables nor tourists. She was quite alone in the centre of the beautiful empty apartment.
She looked at the Louis Quinze furniture, at the gorgeous onyx table set with miniatures; at the impressive portrait of Maria Theresa over the mantelpiece, and several autographed pictures of kings. Baedeker said nothing of all this. It occurred to Patsy then that it must have been the reception-room of the late Archduke, and that the engravings were probably on the floor above. But, before going on, she paused in one of the gold and grey chairs for a moment, further to admire the exquisite room.
While she sat there, she was startled by the sudden appearance of two footmen, in the same grey and gold livery of the porter downstairs. They showed no signs of surprise at her presence, however, but mumbled obsequious greetings and backed into the room beyond. Hardly had they disappeared when another installment of flunkies came in, carrying great trays of food; they too, at sight of Patsy, bent as low as they could under the circumstances—but she now was thrown into a tumult of trepidation. When the door into the other room was opened again, she had a glimpse of a great round table laid with gold plate and crystal and sèvres; grand high-backed chairs surrounded it, and more Hapsburg portraits lined the walls.
Patsy gasped with terror and astonishment. At last it dawned on her that she was in the wrong place!
She caught up her furs and the miserable guide-book, and started towards the door. Only to suffer still worse fright, when she was confronted there by a tall man in uniform; who in most courteous French insisted on her staying to lunch. He was young and had black hair and blue eyes (I will not vouch for the authenticity of these details, as Patsy just then saw all uniforms possessed of black hair and blue eyes); and it was hard to be stiff with him. But she managed to explain with some dignity that she had come to the Albertina to see the engravings, but had evidently entered the wrong door; that she deeply regretted the intrusion, which she begged this gentleman to excuse, and that she must forthwith find her uncle who was waiting in the court below.
I wasn’t, but that is beside the story. The blue eyes of the young man being as keen as most Austrians’ at a second glance, he realized his own mistake, and apologized in turn; hastening to add that mademoiselle could not intrude in this house, as it was honoured by her presence, and that she and her esteemed uncle would be welcome whenever they might be gracious enough to visit it. He begged leave to accompany her downstairs and, as Patsy could hardly refuse, she went with him—“knees wobbling, and my heart still in my mouth, Uncle Peter! When the glum old porter saw us, he all but went into catalepsy; and bowed to the ground, while the nice uniformed man was talking fast to him in German.