Alas, the day of the Triune Monarchy as one of the naval powers of the world had been exceedingly short-lived and more or less terminated upon the discovery that the Ignats Louis would draw four feet more than the deepest reaches of the River Ister at high water in the floods. The cheers of the patriotic press were overnight reduced to silence, subsidies for the dreadnought vanished from the next budget, the skeleton of the vessel slowly rusted on the ways, the exquisitely forged and incredibly strong steel plating remained in the storage sheds of the contractor; and the two gunboats and the monitor alone remained to strike terror into the hearts of, if not Russia and Austria-Hungary, then at any rate Graustark and Ruritania.
The downcast face of the foreign naval commander slowly began to brighten. The countenance of the English wizard likewise relaxed. And, as though by one common if semi-silent consent, they drew up to the table and began to make their plans.
“Qu’est-ce qu’il y a, cette affaire d’une vizard anglais aux Scythie-Pannonie-Transbalkanie?” they asked, in Paris.
“C’est, naturellement, une espèce de blague,” they answered, in Paris.
“Envoyez-le à Londres,” they concluded, in Paris.
“What can the chaps mean?” they asked each other, in London. “‘English vizar Milor Sri Smhiti’? Makes no sense, you know.”
“Mmm, well, does, in a way, y’know,” they said in London. “Of course, that should be vizier. And sri, of course, is an Injian religious title. Dunno what to make of Smhti, though. Hindi? Gujerathi? Look here. Sir Augustus is our Injian expert. Send it up to him,” they said, in London.
“Very well, then . . . but, look here. What can this be about Tcheque novothni? They simply can’t spell in Paris, you know. Check up on the Novothni, what are the Novothni?”
“Blessed if I know. Some hill tribe or other. Not our pidjin. Best send it all up to Sir Augustus,” they said, in London.
But in Prague they sat down to their files, which, commencing with Novotny, Abelard, ran for pages and pages and pages down to Novotny, Zygmund. They had lots and lots of time in Prague, and, anyway, it was soothing work, and much more to their tastes than the absolutely baffling case of a young student who thought that he had turned into a giant cockroach.
They had directed the old hall-porter at the Grand Dominik to inform all would-be visitors that Milord Sir Smiht was not receiving people at present. But Frow Puprikosch was not one to be deterred by hall-porters; indeed, it is doubtful if she understood what he was saying, and, before he had finished saying it, she had swept on . . . and on, and into the large old-fashioned chamber where the three were at work.
“Not now,” said Smiht, scarcely looking up from his adjustments of the tubing system to the steel-plated diving bell. “I can’t see you now.”
“But you must see me now,” declared Frow Puprikosch, in a rich contralto voice. “My case admits of no delays, for how can one live without love?” Frow Puprikosch was a large, black-haired woman in whom the bloom of youth had mellowed. “That was the tragedy of my life, that my marriage to Puprikosch lacked love – but what did I know then? – mere child that I was.” She pressed one hand to her bosom, as to push back the tremendous sigh which arose therefrom, and with the other she employed – as an aid to emphasis and gesticulation – an umbrella of more use to the ancient lace industry of the Triune Monarchy than of any possible guard against rain.
“And what would Herra Puprikosch say, if he knew what you were up to, eh? Much better go home, my dear lady,” she was advised.
“He is dead, I have divorced him, the marriage was annulled, he is much better off in Argentina,” she declared, looking all around with great interest.
“Argentina?”
“Somewhere in Africa!” she said, and, with a wave of her umbrella, or perhaps it was really a parasol, disposed of such pedantries. “What I wish of you, dear wizard,” she said, addressing Eszterhazy, “is only this: to make known to me my true love. Of course you can do it. Where shall I sit down here? I shall sit here.”
He assured her that he was not the wizard, but she merely smiled an arch and anxious smile, and began to peel off her gloves. As these were very long and old-fashioned with very many buttons (of the best-quality mother-of-pearl, and probably from the establishment of Weitmondl in the Court of the Golden Hart), the act took her no little time. And it was during this time that it was agreed by the men present, between them, with shrugs and sighs and nods, that they had beter accomplish at least the attempt to do what the lady desired, if they expected to be able to get on with their work at all that day.
“If the dear lady will be kind enough to grasp these grips,” said Sir Smiht, in a resigned manner, “and concentrate upon the matter which is engaging her mind, ah, yes, that’s a very good grasp.” He began to make the necessary adjustments.
“Love, love, my true love, my true affinity, where is he?” demanded Frow Puprikosch of the Universal Aether. “Yoi!” she exclaimed, a moment later, in her native Avar, her eyebrows going up until they met the fringe, so pleasantly arranged, of glossy black hair. “Already I feel it begins. Yoi!”
“‘Yoiks’ would be more like it,” Smiht muttered. He glanced at a dial to the end of the sideboard. “Good heavens!” he exclaimed. “What an extraordinary amount of the odyllic forces that woman conjugates! Never seen anything like it!”
“Love,” declared Frow Puprikosch, “love is all that matters; money is of no matter, I have money; position is of no matter, I expectorate upon the false sham of position. I am a woman of such a nature as to crave, demand, and require only love! And I know, I know, I know, that somewhere is the true true affinity of my soul – where are you?” she caroled, casting her large and lovely eyes all around. “Oo-hoo?”
The hand of the dial, which had been performing truly amazing swings and movements, now leaped all the way full circle, and, with a most melodious twang, fell off the face of the dial and onto the ancient rug.
At that moment sounds, much less melodious, but far more emphatic, began to emanate from the interior of the diving bell. And before Eszterhazy, who had started to stoop toward the fallen dial hand, could reach the hatchcover, the hatchcover sprang open and out flew – there is really not a better verb – out flew the figure of a man of vigorous early middle age and without a stitch or thread to serve, as the French so delicately put it, pour cacher sa nudité . . .
“Yoiii!!!” shrieked Frow Puprikosch, releasing her grip upon the metal holders and covering her face with her bumbershoot.
“Good heavens, a woman!” exclaimed the gentleman who had just emerged from the diving bell. “Here, dash it, Pemberton Smith, give me that!” So saying, he whipped off the cloak which formed the habitual outer garment of the wizard anglais, and wrapped it around himself, somewhat in the manner of a Roman senator who has just risen to denounce a conspiracy. The proprieties thus taken care of, the newcomer, in some perplexity, it would seem, next asked, “Where on earth have you gotten us to, Pemberton Smith? – and why on earth are you rigged up like such a guy? Hair whitened, and I don’t know what else. Eh?”
Pemberton Smith, somewhat annoyed, said, “I have undergone no process of rigging, it is merely the natural attrition of the passage of thirty years, and tell me, then, how did you pass your time on the sidereal level – or, if you prefer, astral plane?”