“Indeed, you begin to interest me. What is your occupation when not in search of--comic operas?”
“Ananias?” A pause. “Ah, you are a diplomat?”
“Yours is a careless country,” observed the Veil.
“Yes, to send forth her green and salad youth. Eh, bien! There are hopes for you. If you live you will grow old; you will become bald and reserved; you will not speak to strangers, to while away an idle hour; for permit me, Monsieur, who am wise, to tell you that it is a dangerous practice.”
“At least you have a ready tongue,” laughing.
“And you told me that I had been a soldier.”
“I am older than you think, Mademoiselle of the Veil. I have been a soldier; I have seen hard service, too. Mine is no cushion sword. Youth? 'Tis a virtue, not a crime; and, besides, it is an excellent disguise.”
“You are thinking of something, Mademoiselle.”
“You have been a soldier; you are, then, familiar with the use of arms?”
“They tell me so,” modestly. What was coming?
“I have some influence. May I trust you?”
“There may be a comic opera, as you call it. War is not so impossible as to be laughed at. The dove may fly away and the ravens come.”
“Who in thunder might this woman be?” he thought.
“And,” went on the Veil, “an extra saber might be used. Give me your address, in case I should find it necessary to send for you.”
Now Maurice was a wary youth. Under ordinary circumstances he would have given a fictitious address to this strange sybil with the prophecy of war; for he had accosted her only in the spirit of fun. But here was the key which he had been seeking, the key to all that had brought him to Bleiberg. Intrigue, adventure, or whatever it was, and to whatever end, he plunged into it. He drew out a card case, selected a card on which he wrote “Room 12, Continental,” and passed it over the table. She read it, and slipped it into her purse.
Maurice thought: “Who wouldn't join the army with such recruiting officers?”
While the pantomime took place, a man pushed by Maurice's chair and crossed over to the table recently occupied by him. He sat down, lit a short pipe, rested his feet on the lowest rung of the ladder-like railing, and contemplated the western hills, which by now were enveloped in moon mists. Neither Maurice nor his mysterious vis-a-vis remarked him. Indeed, his broad back afforded but small attraction. And if he puffed his pipe fiercely, nobody cared, since the breeze carried the smoke waterward.