Line upon line of aeroplane hangars lay spread below them — squadron after squadron of ’planes: bombers, fighters, scouts, looking like toys in the distance, their wings flashing silver in the afternoon sun. Row upon row of hutments and barracks, offices, and repair sheds. All the time little flights of ’planes rose and descended with perfect precision on the numerous landing grounds. In every part of the park some sort of activity was going forward — tractors were pulling ’planes in and out of hangars, little groups of soldiers were drilling or being marched from place to place; for many minutes the friends stood silent, watching this amazing spectacle.
“The Forbidden Territory,” Simon laughed, suddenly.
De Richleau nodded. “Yes, this is the secret they are so anxious to preserve — it must have been in order to create this gigantic air-camp that they finished the railway to Tobolsk, and put the road we came on last night in such good repair.”
“I reckon Jack Straw ’ud like to give this place the once-over,” said Rex.
“He’s given us the name of Colonel Marsden, at the Thatched House Club, in London. If we get through we must let him know of this,” De Richleau replied, thoughtfully. “How many ’planes do you think there are, Rex?”
“All of a hundred and fifty squadrons — two hundred, maybe, just take a look at those hangars — it’s impossible to count.”
“Well, now, I’ll tell you,” said Simon, quietly. “I never did believe what they say in Moscow about being frightened of a combined attack by the capitalist countries — they’re out to conquer us — that’s a certainty; I wonder how they feed this lot — the road was empty, and we’ve never been more than a mile from the local railway — yet we haven’t heard a single train go by!”
“Can’t you see?” Rex extended a long arm. “On the far side there, they’ve rail-trucks and engines — that little one-eyed decavil that runs by the river couldn’t supply five per cent of this outfit — they’ve scrapped it, and built a new one direct from Tobolsk through the forest. I’ll say it — ”
They were so interested that they had not noticed the approach of soft footsteps, deadened by the snow. Suddenly a voice behind them said, quietly:
“A dangerous secret for foreigners to know.”
XV — Enter the Princess Marie Lou
The three men swung round; the challenge was so unexpected that De Richleau’s hand jumped to the butt of his automatic — in spite of the fact that the voice was that of a woman; when he saw that she was alone, he relaxed his hold.
She was laughing quietly at their comical air of consternation. Eyes of the deepest blue, an adorable retroussé nose, and a red mouth, which curved deliciously in laughter. Under a sheepskin hat, set at a rakish angle, peeped tight little curls of chestnut-brown. She wore a short coat of squirrel, now almost hairless in places, but in spite of her worn clothes she had a chic and neatness altogether astonishing. She stood no higher than the Duke’s shoulder, but her tiny figure was perfectly proportioned.
Her blue eyes suddenly became grave. “It is not a good place for Englishmen, this,” she said.
De Richleau removed his papenka and bowed with a gesture which would not have ill become him had it been made to a lady of his acquaintance at Ascot or Auteuil. “We are fortunate,” he said, “in being discovered by Mademoiselle — that we should have seen this” — he motioned, with a smile, towards the giant air-park. “It is, by the way, our one wish to be back in England as soon as possible.”
“England, eh! That is a long way,” she said, seriously.
“Unfortunately,” the Duke added, quietly, “we have had some slight difference of opinion with the authorities, therefore we may not take the train; also our horses and sleigh were stolen from us by a rascally driver this morning. All today we have been wandering in the woods, hoping to find a farm where we may hire a conveyance.”
“Monsieur is very trusting to tell me this!”
De Richleau bowed again. “No one with the eyes of Mademoiselle could be unkind or indiscreet,” he smiled.
“You know that I am not a Russian, eh?”
“Mademoiselle at this moment should be taking her tea at the ‘Marquis de Sévigné.”
“‘The Marquis de Sévigné’?” She frowned, puzzled. “What is that?”
“Surely, I cannot be mistaken? Mademoiselle is French, and ‘Sévigné’ the most fashionable tea-shop in Paris. It is there that you belong.”
She smiled a little sadly. “I do not remember Paris, but I am French. How did you know?”
The Duke spread out his elegant hands. “The carriage of Mademoiselle proclaims it from the house-tops — the way Mademoiselle wears that little hat is in the manner born of the Parisienne.”
“My mother was French,” she admitted.
De Richleau spoke earnestly. “Mademoiselle, as a foreigner here you are no doubt regarded with some suspicion, the last thing that we wish is that you should incur danger on our behalf, but, if without doing so you could inform us where we should be likely to obtain horses, we shall owe you a great debt of gratitude.”
“Come with me.” She turned abruptly on her heel. “For the present you shall remain in my cottage, later — we will see.”
“That’s real kind,” said Rex, smiling. “But I’m afraid we can’t accept your hospitality. It would mean big trouble for you if we were found in your place.”
She shrugged, impatiently. “I am the teacher of languages there, in the school. I am not a foreigner to them — they have known me since I was a child — come, then!”
They followed her through the darkening woods — the shadows of the trees grew rapidly longer, and it was almost dark when they reached a small cottage, carefully fenced about. No other houses were in sight.
The interior of the tiny place was like the girl herself, neat and gay; the furniture was clumsy and old-fashioned, but the covers and curtains were of bright woven stuffs. A long shelf of well-thumbed books had been carefully recovered in sprigged linen that suggested a bygone bedspread; each bore a little hand-printed label.
The Duke and Simon had not been inside a comfortable room since they had left Moscow; Van Ryn had known the rigours of a Bolshevik prison for the last two months. They all sank into Mademoiselle’s comfortable chairs with relief, and praised Heaven that she had found them.
“Permit us, Mademoiselle, to introduce ourselves. My friends are Mr. Rex Van Ryn of New York, and Mr. Simon Aron of London. I am the Duke de Richleau.”
She smiled at each in turn and to the Duke she said: “So you also are a Frenchman?”
“Yes,” he said, “but unfortunately, like yourself, I am an exile.”
“Ah, that is sad.” The smile died from her face. “Myself, I left France when I was five. I do not remember it, but always I long to return. But what am I thinking of — you must be hungry after your long journey!”
They hardly had the courage to protest, only Simon, thinking of the difficulties which he knew existed about rationing, began half-heartedly to unpack the cold food from the rucksacks.
She waved it impatiently aside. “I leave you for quarter of an hour, perhaps,” she shrugged, with a typically French gesture, as she resumed her worn furs. “No one will come here — you will be as safe as can be.” Before they could protest she was gone with a smile and a wave of the hand, closing the door softly behind her.
De Richleau stretched his tired legs. “We are in luck,” he said to Simon. “It is certain that we have one guardian angel left between us.”