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Cartoner sat at the open window until the sun rose and the fields were dotted here and there with the figures of the red-clad peasant women working at the crops. At seven o'clock he was still sitting there, and soon after Prince Martin Bukaty, after knocking, drew back the sliding door and came into the compartment, closing the door behind him.
If Prince Bukaty should be first in Poland, Prince Martin must assuredly be second. She laid the violets on the stone seat. Martin had turned now though he was still far away. She looked towards him, still thinking rapidly. He was a man of honor. She knew that. She had fully gauged the honor of more than one man; had found it astonishingly reliable.
And it was borne in upon Netty that Uncle Joseph had received some order; that he was pluming his ragged old wings for flight. It was not yet mid-day when Paul Deulin called at the Bukaty Palace. "Is the prince in?" he asked. "Is he busy?" he added, when the servant had stood back with a gesture inviting him to enter. But the man only shrugged his shoulders with a smile.
Petersburg to see in the great museum there the portraits of his fathers, the books that his predecessors had collected, the relics of Poland's greatness, which were his, and the greatness thereof was his. "Yes," he answered to the loquacious curator, "I know. You tell me nothing that I do not know. These things are mine. I am the Prince Bukaty!" And the curator of St.
But it is not good to be a Bukaty and live in Poland just now, though some of us manage to have a good time despite them all eh, Wanda?" And he laid his hand momentarily on his sister's arm. But she did not answer. She desired before all things that clear understanding which was part of her creed of life, and she glanced quickly from side to side for fear some interruption should approach. "Mr.
And he finished with an odd laugh, that had a tender ring in it. "Bukaty and I," he went on, after a pause, "do not talk of these things together. But we have come to an understanding on that point. And when the first flurry is over and we come to the top for a breath of air, you have only to wire to my address in Paris to tell me where you are and I will tell you where we are.
Princess Wanda met Cartoner's serious eyes again, and in that place, where human fates are written, another page of those inscrutable books was folded over. Prince Bukaty was an affable old man, with a love of good wine and a perfect appreciation of the humorous.
His blue eyes laughed in the shadow of the black sou'wester tied down over his eyes, his slight form was lost in the ample folds of Captain Petersen's best oilskin coat. "It remains to be seen," he said, peering out into the rain and spray, "whether that little man will come to us in this." "He will come," said Captain Petersen. Prince Martin Bukaty laughed.
Martin and I looked out of our nursery window on April 8, 1861, and saw what was done on that day. My father was in the streets. And ever since we have been accustomed to unsettled times." "I know," said Cartoner, "what it is to be a Bukaty." And he smiled slowly as she looked at him with gray, fearless eyes. Then suddenly her manner, in a flash, was different.
It slipped out when I was not thinking. Oh! please be generous, and do not ask me." By some instinct she had leaped to the right mark. She had asked a Bukaty to be generous. "Some day," he said, "I will ask you." And he walked with her to the gate of the gardens in silence. Though the fine weather did not last, it was a promise of better things, like the letter that precedes a welcome friend.
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