THE WOMAN WHO LISTENED

New Zealand Times, Volume XXXII, Issue 7025, 13 January 1910, Page 7

THE WOMAN WHO LISTENED

(By Augustus M. Moore, in "M.A.P.”)

; He was a wise man who said that one cliemiu. do fer leads to another, Any,way, tho little club rat Boyat-les-Baius, where I was taking tho;cure, had swallowed no most of. my ready money, and ,1 was bound to go over to La Boui’boulo 'to see my older brother, ivho preferred this petit trou, pas ■ chore to ours —the villes d’oaux of Auvergne, being particularly like our Irish villages, having a natural attraction for us. . Even if I , had not boon broke, being well travelled, I should not have taken a first-class on such a little side line, mid thus I. fell, in talk with tho only other traveller that evening, who talked india-rubber to mo till bo got out at, 1 think, Biom. Nothing, however, turns on that. Anyway, as lie got out a mid-dle-class girl got in, and tho hot summer night and the question of a draught from tho window, soon, got, us into conversation. A very few phrases convinced me she was .not Prench, and soon it itranspired she was Irish, so, after that, !we became, friends in a minute. She ‘confided t0..-me. that she had met her mistress in. America,, that her mistress was a Polish countess, -that she was travelling by ■ the same train, that they lha-d been taking the cure at Vichy, were S>ihg to complete it at Mont-Dore, that or mistress was certainly young, a [widow, and as to pretty, “Monsieur must judge for himself." , This, interspersed with what I vouchsafed about Ireland, which she bad not visited .since she was a child, occupied (Miss King, for that was her name, and thyself till we stopped out into the dark at the little station of Baguouillos,' from which! learned we were to‘proceed by correspondence—really an omnibus — ißcrosis the mountains to La Bourboule. I We—La Comtosse, King, and I—were 'the only passengers, and this, together with tho fact of my-acquaintance with ■King, -and that none of us were English, soon enabled me, to got into coniversation with tho little Polish lady who interested me strangely, for, she (certainly was very, young bo be a widow, and was a very, fragile little beauty with quite ..ivory skin, jot black hair, largo dazzling, turquoise-blue eyes, and a little round mouth like a pink carnation ■bud. , : It was a lovely night, but tne heat in the ’bus was'intense, and therefore ithere was nothing unnatural in my rer‘ ark: . .. “Should wo not find it cooler if we went outside?” It was a bold stroke for a tete-a-tete, but it-came off, and with the remark from her mistfcss : , “I (suppose. King, you would sootier be stuffy and go to sleep?"' I was soon helping Madame La Comtesse to climb by the little ladder on to the roof. 1 . Never since Borneo wooed Juliet,, or since Lorenzo joined Jessica in Portia’s avenue, was there a more beautiful night. The sky bung over us like a huge illuminated mother-of-pearl shell, and tho moon seemed to swing, like a golden lamp lighting up tho volcanic mountains and casting queer, grotesque shadows. -ns we passed, from the rocks and the cabins and the, calvorea, across our .path, while the silver streams gurgled and- glistened like joyous little sliver snakes as they- plunged into the dark, deep valleys beneath us.. It was certainly a night and an opportunity for confidences among such strangely-met young people, and, after .a well-chosen quotation from Alfrcd.de Musset,, and an attempt at a pun on , Polonaise and. Polaire, she said: , . “So you have been picking poor King a cotton brains about me. Well, what have vou found out?" “That we both belong to a conquered nation."

“You are Irish.” • “Yes, who told, you?” "Kinsl What else?" ' . “She told me. I must find out the rest for myself." ’ “You asked her my name?" “No, indeed." , "Then, what?”

• "If you were pretty.” She smiled .'hut said nothin? ns if avoiding an, obvious compliment, pad then, said: ' “If chance had thrown mo into coniidencen with your valet, 1 think 1 should have asked your name.” “Do you know,” said I, “it would he a "unique experience to meet as wo have met, to woo and win, to continue to the end, and if there. never were an , end, to part unknown and unknowing, never to meet again, hut always wondering and being wondered about, and therefore never forgotten.”

“Do you think so?” said she, fascinated with my etrange fancy. “Oh, yes!” I replied. ■ “Everyone else you know, everyone, else I know, knows all about us-rour names, our ages, our likes aud dislikes; . tho goat-paths wo have travelled and wilt return to; they and wo have worn out our interest and our love and hate, one for the other. But a new. an everlasting new experience would bo to part .before we wore out our loves, with the scene of the fresh flower over in our brain, tho taste of the new honey ever on our lips, never to seo one another change or grow old, but always to stay in .each other's memory as we are, young; never to know tho other is dead or married, hut always to feel that ono thing in the world had not come to an end, believing that, if wo met again, we would be tho same.' “Go on!” was all she said. “Don t stop! Say things.-” . ■ I took her-little hand that fluttered, like a bird in mine; “To exchange names is to label oneself; to establish doubt; fear as to the past and as to what the other will do, or think, or say. Not to give names is to -act naturally, as if alone, unseen, unwatched, unafraid even aa the birds who, coming' but of nowhere, meet in the shade of a tree and part, always seeking the other bird, never finding that tree, but never doubting, never forgetting.” , . She was entranced with my parados, her head was on my shoulder. She said dreamily : “Go on! Talk to me!” and J lot niy fancy free. ■ “If I do not tell you .my name, if I never hoar yours, nothing that may ever happen to either of us will matter. ■lf your death were announced, if my name became the most dishonoured in the world's history, it would bring no sorrow or shame to either of us, nor shadow our pleasant memory of to-night which must ever be eternal.” I talked of many developments of the theme, and asked her what she thought. .. “How lovely! I think if I ever had a child I would give it no name and teach it never .to have none. How wise you are! The idea has endless possibilities. Names, as you say, are a follv only fit for pet dogs. I will not tell you mine. Look!'' , It was a pine, wood on fire afar on, and it renddened. the sky like the dawn, but, as we turned round the mountain again, the heavens , were dark and we drove into La Bourboule.

X persuaded her to break the journey, find we wont to our hotels, I to the lies Britaniques, she to the Amba&sadeurs, chose oar rooms, and, by agreement, met again ajid wandered about till we found a place open to eat sup* per in. But .we ate little. I smoked and drank and talked. She listened with her great eves-intent upon me. arid then we walked out into the moonlight which lighted un the littlo shallow river

Dorodogne that flows through, the town, and the white chalk cliffs that rise above it. - At what time I kissed her for the last time and we parted, I do not know. ; I remember she cried and clung to me, and I promised, to call for her after I had seen my brother. This I did, " but only to leave a note with King, saying my brother required me to start.* at once for Paris from which I would, return immediately and come straight - to her. - • ■ On the third day I woe back. to learn that the lady I described had gone to Lyons. I followed her there, ■ and after some delay tracked her, to Biarritz, and thence to Spain. I wm madly in love, and 1 determined to find, ; her. {Everywhere she eluded mo.. No-" where' did she give her name, signing only as Mrs King and maid.” . Seville, Madrid, north and south, and cast and west, I tracked her till I came ; to Barcelona, where I could not hoar of her having left, aud yet where I ■■ could not find her anywhere. In my j despair, I sent her description to thepolice. Hours passed. At last they came —there were several of them—and the -principal one said •• “You. are looking for a lady of whom you have sent us a “Yesl” “Do you know her?” “Yes." , ' “Is her name " I stopped him with "I do not . _ \j , her name. She is a Polish countess) ; where is she?” ‘ ■; “You are quite right, Signor. You have been following her all over Spain. Wo have followed you. We know all about yon. You need have no fear.” , "Never mind about me, What of hex?” --W "Her name‘is • ' ■ •‘J-Ai-e*-* 1 ' ■*; "I don't know or wish to know he* ; name. Where is she?" "On her way to Siberia?” "Siberia! Why Siberia?" “She was enticed to a luncheon,, on board a yacht by the Russian secret police." ■ ■■■■•■ “My God- The police!" The words struck me like a knife. “What is she supposed to have done?” ‘‘Tiley oay she is a member of soma ■political secret society." There was nothing more to say, nothing to bo done but. journey back to London, worm myself into the confidence of the Russian Embassy, get letters of’, credit and a passport, become attached' to a great newspaper, and start .on a; mission to prove to the world at largo that Russian prisons were all that w beautiful and good, and the Siberian mines were rest cures. I knew they; would bo so prepared for me, as they had been so prepared for other travel-: ling Englishmen. T found them so, and so reported, and accordingly I was given all information I desired. I played my game well, and was more than discreet, never asking the one thing about the ono person in the world 1 wanted to know till I found myself inside the fortress of , St. Peter and Paul, for there I found she had been taken. Hew dossier was even shown to me. She was , a great lady, and nothing, more was alleged against her than that she was buspected. The last'word in tho document was “Escaped.” It would have been useless to ask what that meant. There is but one means of "escape” from the prison of St. Peter and Paul, and that is through a trap-door in a dark corridor which runs over the river.