Soon they were all laughing again as gaily as they had during dinner. De Richleau ordered up two magnums of champagne. They were all connoisseurs enough to know that the wine was exceptionally mature and fine, but only Simon noticed that it was Veuve Cliquot, Dry England, 1906, a wine that would almost certainly have been dead from its great age had it been in bottles; and he knew it to be the Duke’s very finest, of which he had only half a dozen magnums left.
It was one o’clock before they broke up, Rex and Simon leaving together, and Richard, Marie Lou and Lucretia, who were staying with the Duke, going to their rooms.
When they had left him de Richleau drew wide the curtains of one of the windows, opened it and stepped out on to the shallow balcony. The dance was still in progress further up the street. The music of the band came faintly to him. The street lamps shone with a warm friendly glow on the pavements, where a few young couples, who had left the ballroom for a breath of air, were strolling up and down.
For a few moments he remained there, looking down upon those young, carefree people, yet with unseeing eyes. He had laughed as gaily as any of his guests all the evening, but now he was a sober and sadly troubled man. He was wondering desperately if all six of them would ever meet again. For a second he had an absurd impulse to rush downstairs, and out into the street after Rex and Simon; to call them back so that he might at least make certain of looking upon their well-loved faces just once more. But it was too late now, even for that.
With a little sigh he turned back into the room and put out the lights, still heavy with the grim foreboding that, if they ever did come together again, it could only be in a world gone mad. In what circumstances of distress, and perhaps terror and despair, they might meet, he knew that time alone could show.
2
The Secret Rendezvous
Lubieszow was a long, low house set in a clearing of the forest. It had no garden as the English think of gardens, but shady walks wound among the trees and flowering shrubs bordered its drive, while, at the back, a wide terrace with a pleasant view looked out over the meadows to a great lake into which ran the river Stachod.
It was very peaceful there as the countryside of Russian Poland is sparsely populated, and Pinsk, the only town of any size, lay a good thirty-five miles away to the north-eastward across the desolate Pripet Marshes.
De Richleau was enjoying his stay with the fat, jovial Baron Lubieszow, mainly because it was such a contrast to his normal life of a round of engagements among his many friends in the great cities and fashionable holiday resorts. The placid, orderly life of the Polish landowner, with its talk of crops, livestock and horses, carried him back to those more restful and contented days when he had often made one of a house-party on some great estate. The Baron’s conversation was strictly limited, but he was shrewd enough in a way that is common among those whose life is devoted to the soil. His table groaned under the good, plain, succulent fare that came from his farms; his cellar was adequate; and if one wished to talk politics or literature there was always his wife, Clotilde.
She was a thin, ailing woman with a sardonic humour, who took little interest in her husband’s activities and spent most of her time with Count Ignac Krasinski, their nearest neighbour and a daily visitor to the house. De Richleau suspected that the Count either was or had been her lover. In any case, he was her constant companion and supplied her with the gossip for which she was so avid, about the international situation, which the Count got from Warsaw, with which he seemed able to keep in remarkably close touch through his own channels.
Nearly a month had passed since the Duke and Lucretia had left London. On their way they had spent a few nights in Prague, and a week in Warsaw; the remaining fifteen days at Lubieszow had gone all too quickly, and soon they would be returning to England.
While showing little more than polite interest, de Richleau took in all that the Baroness and Count Ignac had to say about the dispute that was already raging over Danzig. He knew that Europe was a seething pot, on which a few weak, inept statesmen were vainly trying to hold down the lid, in spite of their awareness that the scalding Nazi steam inside must soon blow it off. But, like a condemned man lingering over his last meal, the Duke was determined to savour to the full such little time as might remain far from the excited, propaganda-maddened crowds which waited breathless for each radio bulletin and scare headline.
Besides, Lucretia was enjoying herself, and that meant a great deal to him. Her golden hair had become brighter from the August sun, there was more colour in her cheeks, and she no longer checked her impulses to laugh in the half-guilty, nervous way she had done when fresh from the horrors that she had witnessed in Spain.
Young Stanislas, the son of the house, was largely responsible for that. He was a nineteen-year-old subaltern in a crack regiment of Polish Lancers, now spending some weeks of his summer leave with his parents. No brighter, more irresponsible young blackguard had ever thrown a leg over a horse. Although Lucretia was considerably older than himself, he had fallen for her at once and made open love to her on every possible occasion. She refused to treat him seriously, but his laughing, tempestuous wooing was just the elixir of life she needed to restore her temporarily lost youth; and, as they both adored riding, they spent a good part of each day together cantering through the forest glades on the higher land to the south of the house.
Jan Lubieszow; the Baron’s nephew, who had arrived in his own plane some six days before, had also had some share in taking Lucretia’s mind off her own problems. He was a thickset, square-faced, determined-looking fellow in his early thirties, and, although he lacked the carefree charm of his young cousin, he could talk well upon a great variety of subjects, and possessed a most melodious voice in which he could croon the latest American torch songs or, with equal ease, sing the old hunting songs of his beloved Poland. The Duke suspected that he, too, was considerably attracted by Lucretia, but, if so, he hid it with some skill, and in any case Stanislas left him little opportunity of being alone with her.
Four other guests had come and gone in the past fortnight, and more were expected that evening, so there was little excuse for any member of the party becoming bored from lack of congenial companionship. The Baron had said little to the Duke about the newcomers he was expecting, except that one of them was called General Mack and that he and the brother officers he was bringing were really friends of Count Ignac, who lived in too small a house to entertain them and had asked that they should be put up.
De Richleau was so used to such hospitality being extended to the friends of a friend by the old-world nobility of Central Europe that it did not even occur to him to speculate about Count Ignac’s possible motive in arranging the visit. But he was a little surprised when about six o’clock four large cars drew up in front of the house and disgorged no less than seven new arrivals with their servants. He was even more surprised when, just before dinner, in the big main living-room of the house, where hunting trophies decorated the walls and bearskin rugs lay scattered over the polished parquet of the floor, he was introduced to General Mack, and realised at the first glance that ‘General Mack’ was only the nom-de-guerre of one of Poland’s most famous statesmen.
Without batting an eyelid the Duke shook hands, but his curiousity was instantly aroused, and he asked himself: ‘What the devil is this fellow doing here while Hitler’s puppet is creating merry hell for the Polish citizens of Danzig and half the Chancelleries of Europe are in a ferment?’
Next moment he was shaking hands with a portly, grey-haired man who was introduced as Colonel Moninszko, but the Duke felt certain that he had seen his face also somewhere before, and a second later he was convinced that he was exchanging smiling platitudes with a soldier who ranked far senior to Colonel and was, in fact, one of the highest officers in the Polish Army.
The newcomers had brought no women with them, so Lucretia, the Baroness and buxom Anna Lubieszow, a middle-aged cousin who kept house for the Baron because his clever wife was
either too frail or too lazy to burden herself with such matters, enjoyed more than a normal share of male attention.
De Richleau noted with interest that the European crisis was barely mentioned and, when it was, General Mack brushed it aside with the light assertion that, though the Government would never give way to these cursed Nazis, the matter would soon be settled, because Hitler was only bluffing.
When the ladies had retired after dinner the men sat for a little over their wine, and the Duke waited with interest to see if they would now discuss the international situation, having perhaps refrained from doing so before from the fear that its gravity might alarm the women. But he was not at all surprised when they continued to confine themselves to light gossip about their acquaintances and casual talk of the season’s shooting. He had been involved in too many conspiracies himself to fail to recognise the faint but unmistakable atmosphere of excitement which pervaded the party. The laughter of General Mack and his companions came just a shade too readily, and their silences were just a shade too sudden. Whatever the real reason for their visit, the Duke was soon convinced that they did not intend to disclose it to their unsuspecting host or to himself.
On leaving the table they went upstairs to the Baroness’ drawing-room, a large, ornate apartment resplendent with the gold, ormolu and brocades of the French Empire period, so typical of Russia under the nineteenth-century Czars. But she only allowed them to stay there for about ten minutes before, beckoning General Mack and Count Ignac over to her, she packed the remainder of the party off to play cards.
De Richleau was a great devotee of the tables, and on occasion had been known to skin professional poker players on trans-Atlantic runs, but it was one of his principles never to play round games for anything more than token stakes with his friends; and ‘country house’ bridge, with its uncertainties of partners and certainties of recriminations, he normally avoided like the plague. But tonight, that “satiable curtiosity’, which he shared with the Elephant’s Child, being roused, he decided to play a few rubbers in order to learn a little more of the Baron’s mysterious guests.
The six members of General Mack’s party, the Baron and the Duke made up two tables, so Lucretia, Jan and Stanislas were left standing by. Stanislas, determined to lose no chance of being alone with Lucretia, remarked lightly to Jan:
‘I know you’d like to cut in, old chap, so don’t you worry about us. I’ll take Lucretia for a stroll down to the lake to watch the fish rise in the moonlight.’
But he had reckoned without his normally indulgent papa, who looked up and said with unusual firmness: ‘Tonight I should prefer you to remain here, Stanislas. As the son of the house it is your place to look after the comfort of our guests.’
A faint twinkle came into Jan’s grey eyes as he smiled at Lucretia. ‘In that case, may I offer myself as a substitute to take you to see the fish?’
She hesitated. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t rather stay here to cut in if anyone wishes to be relieved of their hand?’
‘No, no,’ he laughed. ‘Tonight that pleasure is reserved for my accomplished young cousin, and he is welcome to it. Come, let’s go.’
De Richleau had watched the little comedy with amusement, and was now engaged in a comedy of his own. As a courtesy to the non-Polish guests, French had always been the language spoken during their stay at Lubieszow. Most educated Poles spoke French quite naturally as a second language, but one of the officers at the Duke’s table, a square, chunky-faced man, evidently of peasant stock, was having considerable trouble with his bidding. De Richleau was half-Russian by birth and, as a boy, had spent many happy weeks on that very estate, so he could both understand Polish and speak it fairly fluently. However, he had often found that it paid a handsome dividend not to disclose his linguistic gifts without good reason, and now he was very glad that none of the household or guests at Lubieszow knew that he talked their language. While the chunky-faced officer muttered angry asides to his friends in Polish about having been landed with ‘this blasted foreigner’ as a partner, the Duke smiled the rather apologetic, uncomprehending smile of one who has not the faintest idea about what his companions are talking.
Lucretia had previously thought Jan rather a silent man, but she soon discovered that he was nothing of the kind, and it was only then she realised that this was the first time she had been alone with him for more than a few minutes.
She discovered, too, that, like most of the Polish ‘Sylachta’, as the nobility were termed, he was passionately fond of his country, knew its history intimately, and dwelt much in the past. He spoke of the battle that had changed the course of European history, in which, with only a handful of men, the Polish hero, Jan Sobieski, had defeated the Turks under the walls of Vienna in 1683; and of how Tadeusz Kosciuszko, another Polish paladin, more than a century later had led the Poles against the combined might of Russia and Prussia, as though these events had occurred only a few months ago.
But, as Lucretia knew, Kosciuszko’s valour had proved in vain. After two previous disastrous wars, in both of which great areas of Polish territory had been acquired by Russia, Prussia and Austria, in 1795 the final partitioning of the country by her three powerful and greedy neighbours had taken place. Then for over a hundred and twenty years the Polish race had groaned in slavery until, after the First World War, they had at last regained their territories and become an independent nation once more.
What Lucretia did not know was that Poland had been the first country in Europe to adopt a democratic form of government, since in 1791 her nobles had voluntarily relinquished many of their privileges and recognised the right of the people to a voice in the running of their State.
The night was calm, warm and moonlit. By the lakeside they found a dry, grassy bank and sat down upon it. Some young women might have been bored by a man talking of the past to them, but Lucretia had for long been interested in European politics, and the dry bones of history took on new flesh and blood when Jan spoke so enthusiastically of the old Kings and almost forgotten wars. He gave her, too, swift, vivid glimpses into the lives of many of his countrymen who had contributed so much to Europe’s civilisation: Copernicus, the great astronomer; the painters, Juljusz Kossak, Artur Grottger and Jan Metizko; the musical geniuses, Chopin and Paderewski, and that outstanding scientist, Madame Curie.
Quite suddenly Jan asked if Lucretia would like him to sing to her.
Hiding her surprise she agreed at once, and, lifting his square, strong face to the moon, he began, softly at first then with increasing abandon, until the night was filled with his clear, tuneful tenor.
When he stopped she clapped her hands in applause, and he went straight on to sing another half-dozen songs. As he was singing in Polish she could not understand the words, but his rich tones conveyed, as well as any words could have done, at one time all the sadness of an oppressed people, at another the courage with which they had striven to regain their independence in many a bloody insurrection, at a third the valour of Poniatowski’s Lancers as they fought their way under Napoleon from one end of Europe to the other, and at a fourth the hearty revelry of a peasant people at a village merrymaking.
At last he paused, breathless; taking her hand he laughed and said: ‘See what you let yourself in for, coming out here alone with me! But I love to sing, and never have I had a more charming audience.’
She let her hand remain in his for a moment, then gently withdrew it as she replied: ‘I loved it, and you must sing for me again another night, but it’s getting late. We must go in, or they will be wondering what has happened to us.’
He hesitated only a second. ‘All right, if that is a promise I’ll let you go this time, otherwise I’d be tempted to …’
‘To what?’ she smiled, scrambling to her feet.
‘Why, carry you off, of course.’
‘But there’s nowhere to carry me, except into the woods, and I’m far too fastidious a person to prove a willing victim in such surroundings!’
&n
bsp; ‘No, no. My aeroplane is in the big field to the west of the house. I should put you in that and fly you over the hills and far away. Do you like flying? I simply live for it, and by night, with the land all moonlit below, it is glorious.’
‘Yes, it must be fun.’
‘What about it, then? Let’s go up now!’
‘No, not tonight. Some other time, perhaps.’
‘You really mean that?’
She laughed. ‘I said perhaps. Come now, I’m going in.’
‘When a lady says “no”, she means “perhaps”, and when she says “perhaps” she means “yes”,’ he said quickly.
‘And if she says “yes” she’s no lady!’ Lucretia completed the ancient jest for him. ‘But I’m no lady in that sense, and when I say “perhaps” I mean just “perhaps”.’
‘In any case, you are a most remarkable and lovely woman,’ he said with sudden seriousness. ‘I’ve been wanting to get you to myself for days; but that young devil Stanislas monopolises every moment of your time.’
‘Perhaps—once more perhaps!—I won’t let him do so quite so much in future. We’ll see. Anyhow, I’ve enjoyed this evening.’
He took her arm with an easy, friendly gesture and drew it through his own as they started to walk back to the house together.
She let it remain there until they reached the terrace, and when she got into bed half an hour later she confessed to herself that it really was a very long time since she had enjoyed an evening so much.
De Richeleau spent a profitless, or almost profitless, evening, his net gains being forty-five zloties, won on the last rubber, and the information that yet more guests were expected at Lubieszow the following day, deduced from a remark which he overheard General Mack make to the Baroness just as the party was breaking up for the night.
Upstairs in his room, having got out of his clothes and into a gorgeous Mandarin’s robe which he used as a dressing-gown, he began to pace softly up and down like some large, lithe, grey cat. For once in his life he was frankly puzzled. At such a time, when international relations were strained almost to breaking point and Poland the very centre of the vortex, what could one of her principal Ministers and a group of officers, who, he now felt certain, were key-men on her General Staff, be doing at Lubieszow? Why had they left the capital at this hour of crisis? Why had they chosen this remote estate where even their host was a stranger to them? Why had the self-styled General and Colonel taken the names of ‘Mack’ and ‘Moninszko’, instead of using their own?
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