The saint’s-day gift of snuff was so well received by Frow Widow Orgats, Eszterhazy’s cook (who had taken his advice to stock up on coffee), that he thought he would lay in a further supply as a sweetener against the possibility of one of those occasions – infrequent, but none the less to be feared – when the Frow Cook suffered severe attacks of the vapors and either burned the soup or declared (with shrieks and shouts audible on the second floor) her intense inability to face anything in the shape of a stove at all. So, on the next convenient occasion, he once more made his way to the Court of the Golden Hart.
“Four ounces of the Imperial.”
He peered at the Swartbloi brother, who was peering at the scales. “You are not Kummelman,” he said. Almost. But not.
“No sir, I am Ignats,” said the brother. “Kummelman is at the moment—”
“In the mill, salting the Turkey. I know.”
Ignats Swartbloi looked at him with some surprise and some reproof. “Oh, no, sir. Kummelman always grinds the Rappee, and I always salt the Turkey. On the other tasks we either work together or take turns. But never in regard to the grinding of the Rappee or the salting of the Turkey. I had been about to say, sir, that Kummelman is at his home, by reason of his wife’s indisposition, she being presently in a very delicate condition.”
And he handed over the neatly wrapped packet of pleated paper bearing the well-known illustrated label – this one, old Frow Imglotch had tinted so as to give the snufftaker a gray nose and a green periwig, neither of which in any way diminished the man’s joy at having his left nostril packed solid with Brothers Swartbloi Snuff-Tobacco (though whether Rappee, Imperial, Minorka, Habana, or Turkey, has never been made plain, and perhaps never will be).
“Indeed, indeed. Pray accept my heartiest felicitations.”
The brother gazed at him and gave a slight, polite bow, no more. “That is very kind of you, sir. Felicitations are perhaps premature. Suppose the child will be a girl?”
“Hm,” said Eszterhazy. “Hm, hm. Well, there is that possibility, isn’t there? Thank you, and good afternoon.”
He could not but suppose that this same possibility must have also occurred to Brother Kummelman. And, in that case, he wondered, would a second visit have been paid to the large, antiquated room in the Grand Dominik where the Milord anglais still prolonged his stay?
Herr von Paarfus pursed his lips. He shook his head. Gave a very faint sigh. Then he got up and went into the office of his superior, the Graf zu Kluk. “Yes, what?” said the Graf zu Kluk, whose delightful manners always made it such a pleasure to work with him. More than once had Herr von Paarfus thought of throwing it all up and migrating to America, where his cousin owned a shoe store in Omaha. None of this, of course, passed his lips. He handed the paper to his superior.
“From Mauswarmer, in Bella, Excellency,” he said.
The Graf fitted his monocle more closely into his eye and grunted. “Mauswarmer, in Bella,” he said, looking up, “has uncovered an Anglo-Franco-Czech conspiracy, aimed against the integrity of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.”
“Indeed, Your Excellency!” said von Paarfus, trying to sound shocked.
“Oh yes! There is no doubt of it,” declared Graf zu Kluk, tapping the report with a highly polished fingernail. “The liaison agent – of course, in Prague, where else? – is a man named Novotny. The password is ‘wizard.’ What do you think of that?”
“I think, Your Excellency, that Novotny is a very common name in Prague.”
Graf zu Kluk gave no evidence of having heard. “I shall take this up with His Highness, at once,” he said. Even Graf zu Kluk had a superior officer. But then, long years of training in the Civil Service of Austria-Hungary cautioned him. “That is,” he said, “as soon as we have had word on this from our people in London, Paris, and Prague. Until then, mind, not a word to anyone!”
“Your Excellency is of course correct.”
“Of course. Of course. See to this. At once!”
Von Paarfus went out, thinking of Omaha. Not until the door had closed behind him did he sigh once again.
Oberzeeleutnant-commander Adler had had a long and distinguished career in the naval service of a neighboring power. “But then,” he said, stiffly, “I – how do you put it, in English? Than I copied my blotting-book? I of course do not desire to go into details. At any rate, I thought to myself, even if I shall not be actually at sea, at any rate, at least I shall be able to put my finishing touches on the revision of my monograph on the deep-sea fishes. But the High Command was even more loath with me than I had thought; ah, how they did punished me, did I deserved such punishments? Aund so, here I am, Naval Attaché in Bella! In Bella! A river port! Capital of a nation, exceedingly honorable, to be sure.” He bobbed a hasty bow to Eszterhazy, who languidly returned it. “But one which has no deep-sea coast at all! Woe!” For a moment he said nothing, only breathed deeply. Then, “What interest could anyone possibly find in a freshwater fish, I do enquire you?” he entreated. But no one had an answer.
“Mmm,” said Milord Sir Smiht. “Yes. Yes. Know what it is to be an exile, myself. Still. I stay strictly away from politics, you know. Not my pidjin. Whigs, Tories, nothing to me. Plague on both their houses. Sea-fish, rich in phosphorus. Brain food.”
But the commander had not made himself clear. What he would wish to propose of the Milord Sir Smiht was not political. It was scientific. Could not Sir Smiht, by means of the idyllic – what? ah! – thousand pardons – the odyllic force, of which one had heard much – could not Sir Smiht produce an ensampling of, say, the waters of the Mindanao Trench, or of some other deep-sea area – here – here in Bella – so that the commander might continue his studies?
The milord threw up his hands. “Impossible!” he cried. “Im-pos-sib-le! Think of the pressures! One would need a vessel of immensely strong steel. With windows of immensely thick glass. Just to begin with! Cost: much. Possibilities of success: jubious.”
But the Naval Attaché begged that these trifles might not stand in the way. The cost, the cost was to be regarded as merely a first step, and one already taken; he hinted at private means.
“As for the rest.” Eszterhazy stepped forward, a degree of interest showing in his large eyes. “At least, as for the steel, there are the plates for the Ignats Louis . . .”
The Ignats Louis! With what enthusiasm the nation (particularly the patriotic press) had encouraged plans for the construction of the Triune Monarchy’s very first dreadnought, a vessel which (it was implied) would strike justly deserved terror into the hearts of the enemies – actual or potential – of Scythia-Pannonia-Transbalkania! A New Day, it was declared, was about to dawn for the Royal and Imperial Navy of the fourth-largest empire in Europe; a Navy which had until then consisted of three revenue cutters, two gunboats, one lighthouse tender, and the monitor Furioso (formerly the Monadnock, purchased very cheaply from the United States after the conclusion of the American Civil War). Particular attention had been drawn to the exquisitely forged and incredibly strong steel plate, made in Sweden at great expense.