“Then he—the nice man—kissed my hand, and held the door for me himself, and said all the polite things over again. I was feeling relieved by this time, so I thought I might smile when I said Au revoir, and begged pardon once more for my stupidity. I stole a last look too at that lovely staircase and the fierce old portraits; and now, Uncle Peter, I want to get Captain Max and find out directly whose they are!”
Captain Max was inclined to be what Patsy calls “starchy” over the affair. “Gray uniform—blue eyes—black hair?” he repeated tersely. “And the door was the first on the right, in the Albertina Palace?”
Patsy nodded. Suspense overpowered her speech.
“Then it was Salvator, brother of Archduke Ferdinand, the heir to the throne. He was probably having one of his famous little luncheons in the Archduke’s palace.” And Captain Max scowled darkly, first at Patsy, then at me. He thinks, poor enamoured young man, I should have a guardian, myself.
“Then I was in the Archduke Ferdinand’s palace?” cried Patsy. “But why was I allowed? Where were all the guards and things? I might have had a bomb in my muff!”
“We don’t have suffragettes in Austria,” said Captain Max loftily. “And the Heir is what you say ‘strong’ for democracy. He has fewer servants than anybody. Those that he has were probably getting Salvator’s luncheon ready!”
A look I well know came into Patsy’s limpid eyes. “It looked like a very nice luncheon,” said she; “I wish now that I’d stayed.”
The hauptmann coloured furiously. Then all at once he laughed. “You will have a chance to tell him so,” he said blandly, “when you make your curtsey to him at the ball next week!”
Really, he is not so bad, this young man for whom I opened the door.
The ball was the famous Metternich Redoute, given every year, during Carnival, by the old Countess who was Austrian ambassadress at the court of the third Napoleon. Each year she names her masque by a different fantasy and, once it is announced, excitement runs high over costumes, head-dress, etc. This winter it was Meeresgrund, “The Bottom-Of-The-Sea Ball,” and the shops along the Graben and Kärtnerstrasse displayed seductive ropes of coral, glittering fish-skins, pearls and golden seaweed—all the heart of mermaid could desire. The one topic of conversation at parties, between acts at the opera, and in the boudoir at home, closeted with anxious maids, was: what shall her costume be for the Meeresgrund?