The Laughing Girl. Chambers Robert William

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СКАЧАТЬ a Norwegian than was I; and that he could tell a very interesting story about those papers and passports of his if he cared to. I had lived too long in New York not to recognize a New Yorker no matter what his papers showed.

      Anyway we seemed to attract each other and during my enforced and bothersome sojourn in Berne we became companionable to the edge of friendship.

      And when I told him about my ridiculous inheritance and the trouble I was having in trying to get rid of it, he offered to come up here with me and keep me company while the Swiss Government was making up its composite mind about his offer to reforest such cantons as required it.

      That is how we came to be here in Schwindlewald together. I was to stay until the prescribed time elapsed when I should be allowed by law to sell the place: he was willing to remain with me until his offer to the Swiss Government had been either accepted or rejected.

      I had begun to like Smith very much. We were on those terms of easy and insulting badinage which marks the frontier between acquaintances and friends.

      Now as I entered the house I turned on the threshold and glanced back to see what Smith was doing. His hat was off; the Alpine breeze was ruffling his crisp, blond hair. He sat at ease beside the fountain, a fresh cigar balanced between his fingers, a cork-screw in the other hand. Beside him on the grass stood a row of bottles of light Moselle. He had investigated the cellar. And as I watched what appeared to me a perfectly characteristic type of American from Manhattan Island, his voice came across the grass to me, lifted in careless song: —

      – "My girl's a corker,

      She's a New Yorker,

      She plays the races,

      Knows the sporty places

      Uptown, downtown,

      Always wears a nifty gown." —

      "Yes," said I to myself, "you're a Norwegian – aye don' t'ank!" which is good Norwegian for "I don't think."

      And I smiled subtly upon Smith as he drew the first cork from the first bottle of that liquid sunshine called Château Varenn, and with which one may spend a long and intimate afternoon without fear of consequences.

      As I entered the house his careless song came to me on the summer wind:

      "My girl's a corker,

      She's a New Yorker – "

      "Such a saga," said I to myself, "could be sung only by that sort of Viking. Now why the deuce is that young man in Switzerland?"

      But it didn't matter to me, so I continued along the wide hallway toward the kitchen in the rear.

      III

      IN THE CELLAR

      She was peeling potatoes in the kitchen when I entered; – she did it as daintily, as leisurely as though she were a young princess preparing pomegranates – But this sort of simile wouldn't do and I promptly pulled myself together, frowning.

      Hearing me she looked up with a rather sweet confused little smile as though aroused from thoughts intimate but remote. Doubtless she was thinking of some peasant suitor somewhere – some strapping, yodling, ham-fisted, bull-necked mountaineer —

      "I have come to confer with you on business," said I, forestalling with a courteous gesture any intention she might have had to arise out of deference to my presence. I admit I observed no such intention. On the contrary she remained undisturbed, continuing leisurely her culinary occupation, and regarding me with that engaging little half-smile which seemed to be a permanent part of her expression – I pulled myself together.

      "My child," said I pleasantly, "what is your name?"

      "Thusis," she replied.

      "Thusis? Quite unusual, – hum-hum – quite exotic. And then – hum-hum! – what is the remainder of your name, Thusis?"

      "There isn't any more, Monsieur."

      "Only Thusis?"

      "Only Thusis."

      "You're – hum-hum! – very young, aren't you, Thusis?"

      "Yes, I am."

      "You cook very well."

      "Thank you."

      "Well, Thusis," I said, "I suppose when Mr. Schmitz engaged you to come up here, he told you what are the conditions and what vexatious problems confront me."

      "Yes, he did tell me."

      "Very well; that saves explanations. It is evident, of course, that if I am expected to board and feed any riff-raff tourist who comes to Schwindlewald I must engage more servants."

      "Oh, yes, you'll have to."

      "Well, where the deuce am I to find them? Haven't you any friends who would perhaps like to work here?"

      "I have a sister," she said.

      "Can you get her to come?"

      "Yes."

      "That's fine. She can do the rooms. Could you get another girl to wait on table?"

      "I have a friend who is a very good cook – "

      "You're good enough! – "

      "Oh, no!" she demurred, with her enchanting smile, "but my friend, Josephine Vannis, is an excellent cook. Besides I had rather wait on table – with Monsieur's permission."

      I said regretfully, remembering the omelette, "Very well, Thusis. Now I also need a farmer."

      "I know a young man. His name is Raoul Despres."

      "Fine! And I want to buy some cows and goats and chickens – "

      "Raoul will cheerfully purchase what stock Monsieur requires."

      "Thusis, you are quite wonderful."

      "Thank you," she said, lifting her dark-fringed gray eyes, the odd little half-smile in the curling corners of her lips. It was extraordinary how the girl made me think of my photograph upstairs.

      "What is your sister's name?" I inquired – hoping I was not consciously making conversation as an excuse to linger in my cook's kitchen.

      "Her name is Clelia."

      "Clelia? Thusis? Very unusual names – hum-hum! – and nothing else – no family name. Well – well!"

      "Oh, there was a family name of sorts. It doesn't matter; we never use it." And she laughed.

      It was not what she said – not the sudden charm of her fresh young laughter that surprised me; it was her effortless slipping from French into English – and English more perfect than one expects from even the philologetically versatile Swiss.

      "Are you?" I asked curiously.

      "What, Mr. O'Ryan?"

      "Swiss?"

      Thusis laughed and considered me out of her dark-fringed eyes.

      "We are Venetians – very far back. In those remote days, I believe, my family had many servants. СКАЧАТЬ