The Prisoner of Zenda - The Original Classic Edition. Hope Anthony

whereas among the Rassendylls dark eyes are the commoner.

       That is the explanation, and I am glad to have finished it: the blemishes on honourable lineage are a delicate subject, and certainly this heredity we hear so much about is the finest scandalmonger in the world; it laughs at discretion, and writes strange entries between the lines of the "Peerages".

       It will be observed that my sister-in-law, with a want of logic that must have been peculiar to herself (since we are no longer allowed to lay it to the charge of her sex), treated my complexion almost as an offence for which I was responsible, hastening to assume from that external sign inward qualities of which I protest my entire innocence; and this unjust inference she sought to buttress by pointing to the uselessness of the life I had led. Well, be that as it may, I had picked up a good deal of pleasure and a good deal of knowledge. I had been to a German school and a German university, and spoke German as readily and perfectly as English; I was

       thoroughly at home in French; I had a smattering of Italian and enough Spanish to swear by. I was, I believe, a strong, though hardly fine swordsman and a good shot. I could ride anything that had a back to sit on; and my head was as cool a one as you could find,

       for all its flaming cover. If you say that I ought to have spent my time in useful labour, I am out of Court and have nothing to say,

       save that my parents had no business to leave me two thousand pounds a year and a roving disposition.

       "The difference between you and Robert," said my sister-in-law, who often (bless her!) speaks on a platform, and oftener still as if

       she were on one, "is that he recognizes the duties of his position, and you see the opportunities of yours."

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       "To a man of spirit, my dear Rose," I answered, "opportunities are duties."

       "Nonsense!" said she, tossing her head; and after a moment she went on: "Now, here's Sir Jacob Borrodaile offering you exactly what you might be equal to."

       "A thousand thanks!" I murmured.

       "He's to have an Embassy in six months, and Robert says he is sure that he'll take you as an attache. Do take it, Rudolf--to please me."

       Now, when my sister-in-law puts the matter in that way, wrinkling her pretty brows, twisting her little hands, and growing wistful

       in the eyes, all on account of an idle scamp like myself, for whom she has no natural responsibility, I am visited with compunction. Moreover, I thought it possible that I could pass the time in the position suggested with some tolerable amusement. Therefore I said:

       "My dear sister, if in six months' time no unforeseen obstacle has arisen, and Sir Jacob invites me, hang me if I don't go with Sir

       Jacob!"

       "Oh, Rudolf, how good of you! I am glad!" "Where's he going to?"

       "He doesn't know yet; but it's sure to be a good Embassy."

       "Madame," said I, "for your sake I'll go, if it's no more than a beggarly Legation. When I do a thing, I don't do it by halves."

       My promise, then, was given; but six months are six months, and seem an eternity, and, inasmuch as they stretched between me and my prospective industry (I suppose attaches are industrious; but I know not, for I never became attache to Sir Jacob or anybody else), I cast about for some desirable mode of spending them. And it occurred to me suddenly that I would visit Ruritania. It may seem strange that I had never visited that country yet; but my father (in spite of a sneaking fondness for the Elphbergs, which led him

       to give me, his second son, the famous Elphberg name of Rudolf) had always been averse from my going, and, since his death, my brother, prompted by Rose, had accepted the family tradition which taught that a wide berth was to be given to that country. But the moment Ruritania had come into my head I was eaten up with a curiosity to see it. After all, red hair and long noses are not confined to the House of Elphberg, and the old story seemed a preposterously insufficient reason for debarring myself from acquaintance with a highly interesting and important kingdom, one which had played no small part in European history, and might do the like again under the sway of a young and vigorous ruler, such as the new King was rumoured to be. My determination was clinched

       by reading in The Times that Rudolf the Fifth was to be crowned at Strelsau in the course of the next three weeks, and that great magnificence was to mark the occasion. At once I made up my mind to be present, and began my preparations. But, inasmuch as it has never been my practice to furnish my relatives with an itinerary of my journeys and in this case I anticipated opposition to my wishes, I gave out that I was going for a ramble in the Tyrol--an old haunt of mine--and propitiated Rose's wrath by declaring that I intended to study the political and social problems of the interesting community which dwells in that neighbourhood.

       "Perhaps," I hinted darkly, "there may be an outcome of the expedition." "What do you mean?" she asked.

       "Well," said I carelessly, "there seems a gap that might be filled by an exhaustive work on--"

       "Oh! will you write a book?" she cried, clapping her hands. "That would be splendid, wouldn't it, Robert?"

       "It's the best of introductions to political life nowadays," observed my brother, who has, by the way, introduced himself in this manner several times over. Burlesdon on Ancient Theories and Modern Facts and The Ultimate Outcome, by a Political Student, are both works of recognized eminence.

       "I believe you are right, Bob, my boy," said I. "Now promise you'll do it," said Rose earnestly.

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       "No, I won't promise; but if I find enough material, I will."

       "That's fair enough," said Robert.

       "Oh, material doesn't matter!" she said, pouting.

       But this time she could get no more than a qualified promise out of me. To tell the truth, I would have wagered a handsome sum that the story of my expedition that summer would stain no paper and spoil not a single pen. And that shows how little we know what the future holds; for here I am, fulfilling my qualified promise, and writing, as I never thought to write, a book--though it will hardly serve as an introduction to political life, and has not a jot to do with the Tyrol.

       Neither would it, I fear, please Lady Burlesdon, if I were to submit it to her critical eye--a step which I have no intention of taking.

       CHAPTER 2

       Concerning the Colour of Men's Hair

       It was a maxim of my Uncle William's that no man should pass through Paris without spending four-and-twenty hours there. My uncle spoke out of a ripe experience of the world, and I honoured his advice by putting up for a day and a night at "The Continen-tal" on my way to--the Tyrol. I called on George Featherly at the Embassy, and we had a bit of dinner together at Durand's, and afterwards dropped in to the Opera; and after that we had a little supper, and after that we called on Bertram Bertrand, a versifier

       of some repute and Paris correspondent to The Critic. He had a very comfortable suite of rooms, and we found some pleasant fellows smoking and talking. It struck me, however, that Bertram himself was absent and in low spirits, and when everybody except ourselves had gone, I rallied him on his moping preoccupation. He fenced with me for a while, but at last, flinging himself on a sofa, he exclaimed:

       "Very well; have it your own way. I am in love--infernally in love!"

       "Oh, you'll write the better poetry," said I, by way of consolation.

       He ruffled his hair with his hand and smoked furiously. George Featherly, standing with his back to the mantelpiece, smiled unkindly.

       "If it's the old affair," said he, "you may as well throw it up, Bert. She's leaving Paris tomorrow." "I know that," snapped Bertram.

       "Not that it would make any difference if she stayed," pursued the relentless George. "She flies higher than the paper trade, my boy!"

       "Hang her!" said Bertram.

       "It would make it more interesting for me," I ventured to observe, "if I knew who you were talking about." "Antoinette Mauban," said George.

       "De Mauban," growled Bertram.