She who sleeps A romance of New York and the Nile
hopelessly bewitched Barry he had never been able to understand. Nor
could he comprehend how she could possibly have reached Paris without
the knowledge of the American authorities.
But unmistakably it was Princess Zalithea and none other who walked
along before him. Her lithe figure, her graceful carriage, the very
turn of her head when she paused to look in a shop window were
familiar to the man who had met her many times in New York.
From the crowded boulevard into which she had turned on coming out of
the perfumers’ she entered a side street. Jim didn’t know the name
either of the street or the boulevard. His bump of locality was low.
But he knew that he wasn’t going to lose sight of her if he had to
follow her around Paris all day!
He was turning a problem over in his mind as he tracked the trim,
leisurely figure. What should he do if she saw him?
Zalithea came out onto another boulevard and waited at the corner of
the street for a moment. Evidently she was going to cross. She did so,
and Jim was delayed by the eccentric Paris traffic. When he finally
ran over, for a moment he lost her. Then, just disappearing around the
corner of the next street along, he saw the smart figure again.
He hurried to the spot, swung round the corner--and saw Zalithea
entering a discreet-looking hotel on the same side. He was in the
lobby a minute later--and she was talking to a clerk at the desk!
Jim turned his back and stared out into the street through the glass
doors. The lobby was small. He could hear every word spoken at the
desk. And what he heard gave him the crowning surprise of the morning.
“No, madam--” the clerk spoke perfect English--“no American mail has
come in yet.”
“Thank you. If any comes later will you please send it right up?”
_The speaker was Zalithea!_
Astounded--thrown off his guard--Jim turned and met Zalithea face to
face!
“Princess!” he said. “You remember me!”
The girl’s white teeth closed sharply on her lower lip. She nearly
dropped the parcel she was carrying, but just managed to recover it.
She flushed and as quickly paled. But she looked at him
unflinchingly--and he knew her long, dark eyes.
“You have made a strange mistake,” she said, evenly. “I am not a
princess and I don’t know you.”
Jim wondered if he were going mad. The clerk was watching him
dubiously, so was a hall porter.
“But--” he floundered--“but----” The dark eyes remained fixed upon him
inscrutably. “I’m sorry. Forgive me. But it’s miraculous.”
She turned and walked out of the lobby. Jim did not afterward remember
having seen her leave. It was the scrutiny of the officials that
brought him to his senses and sharpened his ready wits. He turned to
the clerk, taking a card from his wallet. It was the card of a member
of the agency recently employed by John Cumberland!
He tossed it on the desk, and:
“You no doubt wonder what I’m up to?” he said breezily. “There’s the
answer!”
“Oh!” muttered the clerk, glancing at the name. “I see. But you were
wrong, weren’t you?”
“I’m afraid so,” Jim confessed--“quite wrong!” He stared at a menu
that chanced to lie near and learned that he was in the Hôtel
Chatham. “Nothing for the Chatham to worry about!” he added
reassuringly. “But I should like to make my apologies. _We_ have a
reputation, too!” He drew a pencil from his pocket. “What is the name
of the lady I so unfortunately insulted?”
“She is a Miss Marguerite Devina of New Jersey, U.S.A.”
“Thanks,” said Jim, making a note of it. “Here alone?”
“Yes. I believe she is expecting relatives to-day.”
“Much obliged.”
Jim nodded in a brusque fashion based upon that of the lawful owner of
the card and stepped out into the street.
The street gained, his assured manner deserted him. He was the most
hopelessly bewildered American in Paris. What in the name of sanity
should he tell Barry? That this _was_ Princess Zalithea he would have
been prepared to declare upon oath. Besides, good actress though he
granted her to be, she had failed to hide her surprise at sight of
him. He had seen her bite her lip--to check what? A sudden utterance
of his name? Probably. Her changed colour, her trembling hands, proved
that she had recognized him.
It was she. But what did it mean?
How could he face Barry with such a story?
Turning these problems over in his mind, he plodded back to the café.
From afar he saw Barry--watching. At sight of Jim he jumped up and ran
to meet him.
“Tell me!” he cried, his eyes feverishly bright. “Where does she
live?”
“At the Hôtel Chatham.”
“Thank God! And she didn’t see you?”
“But she did!”
“What!”
“Come back and sit down, Barry,” Jim urged. “Get a grip on yourself.
We’re together in this thing. Let me order you a glass of good
cognac.”
“You’re hiding something!”
“I’ll give you the story word for word when you have sat down and had
a drink and lighted your pipe. Not a damn’ syllable before!”
He had his way, for he could be very truculent at times; and poor
Barry Cumberland was a parody of his old masterful self. So, while
Barry smoked furiously the story was told--a stranger story than any
Jim had ever expected to have to tell. In conclusion:
“If _you_ are mad,” he said, “I’m mad, too! Because Miss Marguerite
Devina is Princess Zalithea. But Princess Zalithea only spoke
_gazoobi_ or _swahili_--and Miss Devina speaks perfect English. Now
search me! _Garçon, deux cognacs!_”
The chairs about them were becoming filled with loungers, as the day
wore on to noon. A cosmopolitan crowd thronged the street and the
neighbouring boulevard. Somewhere near by an orchestra had begun to
play a melody very popular in New York. Newsboys shouted. Drivers of
carts shouted. Everybody shouted.
But Barry was silent. At last:
“Well?” Jim inquired. “What do we do now?”
“I have just decided,” Barry replied quietly. “It will be best for you
to stay where you are at the Meurice. We don’t want to frighten her.
But I shall transfer to the Chatham, at once.”
CHAPTER XXXI.
THE MEETING
If Barry Cumberland had his weaknesses--and who has not?--he had one
marked virtue. He knew what he wanted, and always headed straight for
his objective. In fact, his impulsiveness was excessive and sometimes
overrode his practical common sense.
He was wise enough to know this, for he was well stocked with
imagination; and, safely lodged at the Hôtel Chatham that afternoon,
he made a direct move, which was characteristic, but one that allowed
of safe withdrawal in the event of failure. This was sound strategy.
His tentative advance was suggested by the name of the mysterious
guest--“Devina.”
John Cumberland sometimes spoke of a Madame Devina, a once famous
operatic soprano of the Metropolitan Opera; an idol of New York who
had disappeared from the musical world at the height of her success.
She had been entertained at the Cumberland home more than once during
a brilliant season notable for her singing of Thaïs--the rôle which
had made her reputation. Those days Barry could just remember and no
more. They belonged to the dreams of childhood in which his dainty
mother figured as the centre of a wonderful world.
Now, those memories served a good purpose, and, seated in his room, he
wrote the following note:
Dear Madam:
Please forgive an impulsive countryman for intruding. But I chanced to
see your name in the register to-day, and it reminded me of the fact
that my father, John Cumberland, and my mother, were formerly friends
of Madame Devina. As the name is an unusual one, I venture to ask if
you are related to that lady. If you are, I should be more than happy
to make your acquaintance, and my father, I know, would be delighted
to hear of you.
Respectfully,
Barry Cumberland.
This he directed to “Miss Marguerite Devina” and gave to a page to be
delivered to her in person.
His letter dispatched, Barry restlessly crossed to the window, which
he threw open. It overlooked a garden courtyard, which for some reason
cast his memory back to Shepheard’s in Cairo. Many balconies looked
down upon this sheltered oasis, and he allowed his imagination to tell
him that one of them belonged to the room of Zalithea.…
Zalithea! Was there any such person as Zalithea? Had there _ever_ been
a Zalithea?
Once, this thing which had happened would have frightened him and set
him questioning his own sanity. But now, as Jim had said that morning,
“If _you_ are mad, _I’m_ mad, too!”
Would she answer? Would she consent to see him? If she refused, what
next?
His anxiety and impatience made it impossible for Barry to keep still.
He walked away from the window; paced the room; listened at his door
for the footsteps of the returning messenger; then went across to the
window again.
For long minutes he stood there, moving restlessly. He lost track of
time. A knocking on his door recalled him to reality. He turned, his
heart leaping.
“Come in!” he cried.
The page entered. At a glance Barry saw that he brought no note.
“Miss Devina will be downstairs at four o’clock, m’sieur.”
No doubt the world went on as usual during the next hour, and Paris
lived and loved and laughed as Paris has done from time immemorial;
but to Barry the interval afterward appeared to have been a blank--a
hiatus in existence. Four o’clock came at last.…
She was seated in a cane chair before a little round table set for
tea. She stood up as he crossed to her.
“It was nice of you, Mr. Cumberland,” he heard her saying in
Zalithea’s unforgettable voice!
He found himself seated beside her. A waiter was serving English tea
and handing little dishes of cakes, biscuits, and sweetmeats. This
Barry saw and heard through a sort of fog. Everything was muffled. His
sensations were almost identical with those he had known toward the
close of his farewell college supper. Presently, in a voice not unlike
his own:
“You have not told me,” someone said, “if my guess was right. Are you
related to Madame Devina?”
“Devina was my mother.”
The fog was cleared away by that definite, simple statement. The
merciful numbness which alone had enabled Barry to behave himself
rationally thus far left him. He looked into long, dark eyes.
“You know that we have met before?” he said.
Marguerite Devina watched him unflinchingly.
“You had an accident some months ago right outside my door,” she
replied. “But I didn’t know that you saw me. You were unconscious when
we found you.”
Barry clenched his teeth. An insane desire to laugh came to him. He
knew he must fight it.
“You are referring to my crash in New Jersey?” he said evenly,
tonelessly.
“Yes. You must have wondered why we behaved so oddly afterward. The
fact is that my guardian and I were booked to sail for Europe, and we
realized that if we appeared in the matter it would almost certainly
mean delay. We couldn’t afford that, you see.”
“Your guardian? Mr. Brown?”
“Oh, no!” she laughed--Zalithea’s beloved laughter!--“Mr. Brown was
the man who drove you to the hospital and took care of your car. We
were tenants of his.” She hesitated, bit her lip, and: “When did you
see me?” she asked--“before or after the accident?”
“Before,” said Barry. “On the balcony.”
“Yes,” murmured the girl, bending to pour out tea--“It’s a queer thing
to admit, but I’m fascinated by lightning. Do you think--it was seeing
me there that--caused you to crash?”
“No,” Barry replied promptly. He was watching the slim hands, the turn
of her wrists, the line, seen below a smart little hat, of her creamy
neck. “You were dressed very oddly.”
She stooped forward over the sugar bowl.
“Yes; I was--trying on a fancy costume.” She glanced up quickly. “Two
lumps?”