The Madonna of the Sleeping Cars (15 page)

I did the impossible to calm her with kisses and words of
love whispered into her disordered hair. But my gentle caresses seemed, on the contrary, to make her more unhappy. She threw herself on the bed, and her whole body shook with sobs. I thought I heard this exclamation, blurted into the pillow:

“
Ach, Gott
! I am not a bad woman! I’m going to prove that to you—you are going to keep on loving me!”

The gong on the tramway clanged out in the Ring. The proverbial seventh heaven mobilized its forces on the second floor of the Hotel Bristol.

THE VOYAGE HAD SEEMED TOO SHORT TO ME. Budapest, Brasov, Bucharest, Constanza—so many wayward stops on the schedule of our sleeping car. We were now sharing a suite at the Pera-Palace. And in spite of myself I regretfully counted the hours before I must say goodby to this golden-haired companion whom chance had maliciously placed in a corner of my compartment.

For three days we tasted Constantinople, with its quilllike minarets pointing toward the zenith. From Disdarié to Stamboul, from Sirkedci to Iédi-Koule, we lost the notion of passing time, inhaling old rose perfumes, the odors of
raki
and amber fragrance, recalling harems of days gone by. A lost couple, we wandered along the walls of
yalis
; bordered with trees of Judea; along the shores of the placid Bosphorus, in the golden quiet of twilight. We mused in the doorways of bazaars, filled with motley articles. Seated in an
araba
badly managed by an apoplectic cabby, we made a pilgrimage to the necropolis of Eyoub, a funebrial game of dominoes with innumerable double blanks lying on the arid soil. Then on two evenings, after the vesperal prayers of the muezzins, we lost ourselves in the cosmopolitan cohorts on the streets of Pera, swarming with sailors from all countries and with nondescript Russians and Greeks.

Our hours were numbered. Our kisses had the bitter flavor of imminent separation. On the fourth day I spent the afternoon in the offices of tourist agencies with the idea of finding a steamer bound for Batoum. At the Turkish steamship line I was offered a passage on board the
Abdul-Aziz
which would stop at the Caucasian ports in about two weeks. Klara accompanied me.

She said, “Darling, perhaps I can help you make your arrangements. I know an Egyptian businessman who used to come to Berlin twice a year and who would like nothing better than to do me a favor. His offices are on Voïvoda Street.”

We called on Mr. Ben Simon, who received us in an office constellated with samples of
rabat-loukoum
, dried fruit, Daghestan or Karamanian rugs, Bulgarian embroidery, and automobile headlights. This eclectic merchant gave us coffee and wrote a letter of introduction to Mr. Agraganyadès, director of the Phébus Shipping Company. This Greek, who was the son of a Sicilian by a usurer from Patras, suggested that I embark at noon the next day on board one of his ships—thus he described his 900-ton tramps which carried oil from Batoum to Salonica. I thanked him extravagantly and returned to the Palace.

My last night with Klara was marked by the sadness of my unavoidable departure. The dawn overtook us. My
little Lorelei had unfastened her hair, which fell in a blond cascade on her round white shoulder.

I said, “Nine o’clock. We must get ready, dearest one.”

She put her arms about me and begged, “We still have plenty of time.”

An hour passed. It seemed so short. A ray of sunshine, fused obliquely with gold in the obscurity of the room, designed an ellipse in the middle of the floor. When it reached
us, we must tear ourselves away from the delights of Pera. Kisses punctuated those brief minutes. The luminous ellipse was about to fall upon us. I freed myself from Klara’s embrace. She arose, brusquely, pathetically, stretched out her arms and cried:

“Don’t go. Listen to me! I must talk to you.”

Disconcerted by the sincerity of her tone, I went to her. In a voice quavering with emotion, she continued:

“Darling—I cannot say goodby without telling you everything. I want you to forgive me for having spied upon you and to try to despise me less because I have unburdened my conscience.”

I understood immediately. I took her in my arms once more and said, without anger, “You are employed by Moscow.”

She bent her head. I kissed her neck.

“I am not annoyed with you, dearest little Klara, because your kisses were sweet to my lips and your smile charmed the fugitive hours of our voyage together.”

My indulgence upset her terribly. She wept bitterly, her head buried on my chest.

Then she confessed, “Gerard, I am desolate. But it’s not altogether my fault. I am really Lieutenant Hoeckner’s widow. He was killed on the French front in nineteen-fifteen. Since the war I have lived on my pension and a very small income. But the fall of the mark forced me to find some other source of money so that I could live honestly. Chance and my connections attached me to the counter-espionage service of the Soviets. They needed a woman, pretty and not stupid, to carry out certain confidential missions. I accepted the position. At first they gave me unimportant tasks which I managed very easily. I was promoted—I was officially attached to the Russian delegation to the Conference at Genoa—I paraded the lobbies of
the big hotels—I overheard whispered conversations—I was courted at Miramar by an American observer and a French senator who acquainted me with their secret duties. In short, I won the confidence of my superiors. Last month, during the Anglo-Soviet meeting in London, I was given a special mission among the thousands of leaders of the Labor Party. Posing as a German feminist, I interviewed the
Daily Herald
and the representatives of the Fabian Society; the Sinn-Feiners talked frankly with me. Every two days I reported at a little office on Throgmorton Street, an unpretentious place where they cook up propaganda and where they control the Russian spy system. I returned to Berlin. A few days ago I was summoned by a woman who plays an occult role with certain party leaders and who received me privately.”

“Number forty-four Belle Alliance Platz—Madam Mouravieff.”

Klara gazed at me in astonishment. “You know her?”

I answered evasively. “I have heard of her. Go on with your story.”

“She asked me if I would be willing to spy on a Frenchman who was going from Berlin to Nikolaïa.”

I interrupted Klara rather rudely. Her words made me think rapidly. “Exactly when did the person in question mention my intended trip to Nikolaïa?”

“Let me think. We left Berlin Tuesday morning. It was the afternoon before.”

“Late?”

“At about six o’clock.”

I remembered that I had interviewed Madam Mouravieff at three o’clock the same afternoon. How could she have guessed that Lady Diana would send me off immediately on receipt of a telegram which would only arrive the next morning?
Various theories flashed through my brain. Only one seemed feasible—the message sent by Mr. Edwin Blankett had certainly been communicated to Madam Mouravieff’s informers before it had been expedited. And she, warned in advance, through diplomatic channels, had learned on Monday afternoon that Lady Diana would receive the expert’s wire the following morning. Therefore it was simple logic which made her anticipate my precipitate departure.

Having satisfied myself on that score I begged Klara to go on with her interesting revelations.

“I replied to the Russian woman that I was ready to depart and I asked for her instructions. She commenced by showing me a large photograph of you, torn from an American newspaper. Underneath it was written:
Prince Séliman, who has just married Mrs. Griselda Turner
. You see, dear, I knew all about you without your even suspecting me! She told me to engrave your features in my memory and to follow you when you left Berlin. She added, ‘Your mission will be to intrigue that bird there’—I beg your pardon, but those were her exact words—‘to read his private documents if there are any of real importance and to inform me as to the people with whom he associates. That won’t be difficult for you because you’re very pretty, and all those French imbeciles go crazy over pretty women, like frogs with a bit of red flannel. If he proves difficult, follow him just the same and move heaven and earth to make his acquaintance at Constantinople. At the moment, the boat service between Constantinople and Batoum is most irregular. You must help him to take passage on one of the cargo boats of the Phébus Company so that he will depart for Batoum at the earliest possible date. When he is actually on board, telegraph me in the Moscow code. Then you can return to Berlin with the feeling that your work is done.’ The next
morning, I immediately recognized you at the Anhalt railway station and took very good care to get the place opposite you. You know the rest. You began the conversation and accepted every advance I made. I had to do it. But there was another impulse behind it all—something indefinable which drew me to you. Your courteous manners, our romantic little dinner at
Zulma’s
, the discretion which you displayed that evening at the Bristol, all those things went for my ultimate captivation, and it was not a spy doing her prescribed duty but a happy woman that you had with you that evening.”

“And after that?”

“I profited by one of your absences to examine your papers. You cannot blame me for having carried out my orders, can you? But even if I had discovered information of importance to Russia, I would never have betrayed you. The proof is that I have already made three fantastic and non-compromising reports.”

“You know perfectly well that I am not angry with you, Klara darling, and that your frankness touches me deeply.”

Then she became very grave, took both my hands in hers, and said suddenly, “Dearest—I have no idea what you plan to do in Georgia, but if you take my advice, you will give up the trip.”

Shrugging my shoulders, I joked, “Give up the trip? Are you afraid I might fall into an oil well? You make me laugh.”

“No, but something tells me that you’re taking an unwise step.”

“What makes you think so? Has Madam Mouravieff given you any reason to believe that?”

“No. At least nothing definite. But I know her reputation. She spoke of you with an animosity which portends no good for you.”

“Exactly what did she say?”

“She said, ‘Prince Séliman is one of my enemies and, in time of war, it is essential to be informed as to the activities of the adversaries.’ And her expression betrayed such a hostility toward you that I implore you to take my advice.”

I sat down on the bed. Klara’s remarks disconcerted me. It was obvious that she was in complete ignorance of the intimate drama which lay behind the whole scheme. For my part, I could see only two possible solutions: either to disregard utterly the apprehension of my golden-haired ally or else to refuse to face the danger and telegraph Lady Diana to the effect that I had decided to take no part in her Caucasian interests. But I considered that the latter course would be unworthy of me. I could not admit to Lady Diana that, alarmed by the vindictiveness of Madam Mouravieff, I preferred not to run the risk of antagonizing her and that I wanted to forsake the project and return to London. I could never look my conscience in the face if I hesitated for one minute to fulfill my agreement.

“Klara, dear,” I said smilingly, “your solicitude has proven to me the sincerity of your affection. I am deeply grateful to you. But really, you know, Madam Mouravieff is not a she-devil and I shall certainly not cancel my passage on Mr. Agraganyadès’ ship
just because of the flash in her beautiful eyes. I have the proper passport, bearing the Moscow visa. I am going to join a friend. What harm can there be in that?”

“A passport! You know perfectly well how much that scrap of paper is worth! Since the insurrection in Georgia there has been a continual state of siege and you are at the mercy of the veriest whim of the Communists.”

“That may be all very true but I am leaving just the same. A rich foreigner runs far less risk than a poor Russian. Come
along, Klara dearest, dress yourself and perform your final duty by seeing me board the boat for Batoum.”

At a quarter to twelve we arrived on the dock. There we saw the
Djoulfa
, which had as much resemblance to a steamer as a hansom-cab has to a Rolls-Royce. Klara came on deck with me. Three minutes before the last blow of the whistle, she implored once more:

“Darling—stay with me. I will telegraph Moscow that you have sailed.”

“No, you’re awfully sweet and I wish you every happiness. Who can tell? Perhaps we shall meet again some happy day in Paris or London.”

The second mate of the
Djoulfa
informed me that they were about to take up the gangplank. Klara and I embraced in silence. She raised her lips to mine once more and rushed down the shaky passageway. A bell rang in the engine-room and the speed was increased. I waved my handkerchief wildly. Klara answered me, standing pathetically between a pile of dirty sails and an indifferent Turk with a faded fez.

I was silently contemplating the delicate outline of my charming spy when a fat man dressed in a black
gandourah
with red braid on the chest looked at me with compassion. He stopped chewing something or other to say very quietly:

“It is very sad when one must leave one’s wife, is it not, Effendi?”

Curtly, I agreed. Klara was still on the dock. In her pearl gray traveling suit and her little white hat she was like one of the motionless sailboats in the harbor. This was a bitter parting. Alas, could I have but foreseen that she had told the truth about what I was about to encounter!

The
Djoulfa
had one funnel. But that did not prevent her from smoking abominably and covering the deck, on which
opened the doors of the six cabin passengers, with thick black soot. I compared her to a floating steam-engine. The
Djoulfa
, furthermore, was a bad sailor. She rolled like a Holland cheese. Almost without cargo, she was on her way to Batoum to fill her 500-ton reservoirs.