The Lost Girl Part 29

"You have been good to Kishwegin, and Kishwegin has a heart that remembers. There, Miss Houghton, I shall do what you tell me.

Kishwegin obeys you." And Madame patted Alvina's hand and nodded her head sagely.

"Shall I take your temperature?" said Alvina.

"Yes, my dear, you shall. You shall bid me, and I shall obey."

So Madame lay back on her pillow, submissively pursing the thermometer between her lips and watching Alvina with black eyes.

"It's all right," said Alvina, as she looked at the thermometer.

"Normal."

"Normal!" re-echoed Madame's rather guttural voice. "Good! Well, then when shall I dance?"

Alvina turned and looked at her.

"I think, truly," said Alvina, "it shouldn't be before Thursday or Friday."

"Thursday!" repeated Madame. "You say Thursday?" There was a note of strong rebellion in her voice.

"You'll be so weak. You've only just escaped pleurisy. I can only say what I truly think, can't I?"

"Ah, you Englishwomen," said Madame, watching with black eyes. "I think you like to have your own way. In all things, to have your own way. And over all people. You are so good, to have your own way.

Yes, you good Englishwomen. Thursday. Very well, it shall be Thursday. Till Thursday, then, Kishwegin does not exist."

And she subsided, already rather weak, upon her pillow again. When she had taken her tea and was washed and her room was tidied, she summoned the young men. Alvina had warned Max that she wanted Madame to be kept as quiet as possible this day.

As soon as the first of the four appeared, in his s.h.i.+rt-sleeves and his slippers, in the doorway, Madame said:

"Ah, there you are, my young men! Come in! Come in! It is not Kishwegin addresses you. Kishwegin does not exist till Thursday, as the English demoiselle makes it." She held out her hand, faintly perfumed with eau de Cologne--the whole room smelled of eau de Cologne--and Max stooped his brittle spine and kissed it. She touched his cheek gently with her other hand.

"My faithful Max, my support."

Louis came smiling with a bunch of violets and pinky anemones. He laid them down on the bed before her, and took her hand, bowing and kissing it reverently.

"You are better, dear Madame?" he said, smiling long at her.

"Better, yes, gentle Louis. And better for thy flowers, chivalric heart." She put the violets and anemones to her face with both hands, and then gently laid them aside to extend her hand to Geoffrey.

"The good Geoffrey will do his best, while there is no Kishwegin?"

she said as he stooped to her salute.

"Bien sur, Madame."

"Ciccio, a b.u.t.ton off thy s.h.i.+rt-cuff. Where is my needle?" She looked round the room as Ciccio kissed her hand.

"Did you want anything?" said Alvina, who had not followed the French.

"My needle, to sew on this b.u.t.ton. It is there, in the silk bag."

"I will do it," said Alvina.

"Thank you."

While Alvina sewed on the b.u.t.ton, Madame spoke to her young men, princ.i.p.ally to Max. They were to obey Max, she said, for he was their eldest brother. This afternoon they would practise well the scene of the White Prisoner. Very carefully they must practise, and they must find some one who would play the young squaw--for in this scene she had practically nothing to do, the young squaw, but just sit and stand. Miss Houghton--but ah, Miss Houghton must play the piano, she could not take the part of the young squaw. Some other then.

While the interview was going on, Mr. May arrived, full of concern.

"Shan't we have the procession!" he cried.

"Ah, the procession!" cried Madame.

The Natcha-Kee-Tawara Troupe upon request would signalize its entry into any town by a procession. The young men were dressed as Indian _braves_, and headed by Kishwegin they rode on horseback through the main streets. Ciccio, who was the crack horseman, having served a very well-known horsey Marchese in an Italian cavalry regiment, did a bit of show riding.

Mr. May was very keen on the procession. He had the horses in readiness. The morning was faintly sunny, after the sleet and bad weather. And now he arrived to find Madame in bed and the young men holding council with her.

"How _very_ unfortunate!" cried Mr. May. "How _very_ unfortunate!"

"Dreadful! Dreadful!" wailed Madame from the bed.

"But can't we do _anything_?"

"Yes--you can do the White Prisoner scene--the young men can do that, if you find a dummy squaw. Ah, I think I must get up after all."

Alvina saw the look of fret and exhaustion in Madame's face.

"Won't you all go downstairs now?" said Alvina. "Mr. Max knows what you must do."

And she shooed the five men out of the bedroom.

"I _must_ get up. I won't dance. I will be a dummy. But I must be there. It is too dre-eadful, too dre-eadful!" wailed Madame.

"Don't take any notice of them. They can manage by themselves. Men are such babies. Let them carry it through by themselves."

"Children--they are all children!" wailed Madame. "All children! And so, what will they do without their old _gouvernante_? My poor _braves_, what will they do without Kishwegin? It is too dreadful, too dre-eadful, yes. The poor Mr. May--so _disappointed_."

"Then let him _be_ disappointed," cried Alvina, as she forcibly tucked up Madame and made her lie still.

"You are hard! You are a hard Englishwoman. All alike. All alike!"

Madame subsided fretfully and weakly. Alvina moved softly about.

And in a few minutes Madame was sleeping again.

Alvina went downstairs. Mr. May was listening to Max, who was telling in German all about the White Prisoner scene. Mr. May had spent his boyhood in a German school. He c.o.c.ked his head on one side, and, laying his hand on Max's arm, entertained him in odd German. The others were silent. Ciccio made no pretence of listening, but smoked and stared at his own feet. Louis and Geoffrey half understood, so Louis nodded with a look of deep comprehension, whilst Geoffrey uttered short, snappy "Ja!--Ja!--Doch!--Eben!"

rather irrelevant.

"I'll be the squaw," cried Mr. May in English, breaking off and turning round to the company. He perked up his head in an odd, parrot-like fas.h.i.+on. "_I'll_ be the squaw! What's her name?

Kishwegin? I'll be Kishwegin." And he bridled and beamed self-consciously.

The two tall Swiss looked down on him, faintly smiling. Ciccio, sitting with his arms on his knees on the sofa, screwed round his head and watched the phenomenon of Mr. May with inscrutable, expressionless attention.