From morning to night he was revolving in his mind the problem as to how they could leave this dangerous forbidden territory with speed and secrecy — his brain was stale with it, and the more he thought the less likely it seemed that fresh ideas would come. He knew that, himself, yet he could think of nothing else, and that made him still more nervy and irritable.
Marie Lou drew him outside into the slanting sunlight. “Come and talk to me,” she begged. “You think too much — it is not good.”
He smiled, with something of his old charm. “What would you have me talk about Princess?”
“What you will. Tell me about Paris.”
“Ah, Paris....” He leant against the wall. “Paris is a hundred cities. There is the Paris of Henry of Navarre, the Paris of the Grand Monarch, the Paris of the Revolution.”
“No, no, tell me of the Paris of today.”
He smiled again. “There also, Mademoiselle — in the one there are many cities. Between the Paris of the old catholic families and the Paris of the American tourists there is a great gulf fixed. Then there is the city of the artists, and the city of the night-life. There is the Russian colony, and the bicycle-racing world of the bourgeoise. But I, myself, have not been to Paris for many years.”
“But why, Monsieur?” she exclaimed, in astonishment. “Surely Paris is the one city in the world in which to live?”
“Perhaps — I am not sure of that — but like yourself, for many years I have lived in exile.”
“Tell me about this, Monsieur.”
“It was in ‘96, Princess; for us who preserve the loyalties of our birth, there is still a king of France. When I was a young man I was an ardent Royalist. In those days there was serious hope of restoring the monarchy — hopes which I fear are now for ever dead. I was deeply implicated in a conspiracy to bring about a coup d’état. I do not grumble at the penalty, it only makes me a little sad at times that I cannot return freely to the places which I love.”
“Freely? you say, Monsieur; you do then at times go back?”
“Yes, at long intervals — but it is a risk that I am not prepared to take so readily now that I am an older man. Besides, it is impossible for me to stay in the houses of my friends without bringing a certain risk on them too, and in the public places, where my world gathers, I should be recognized immediately.”
“That is sad, Monsieur. Where then do you live?”
“I have a villa in Italy, where I stay sometimes in the winter, and an old castle in Austria, but I do not care to go to Austria now. Since the War, all my friends there have lost their money. Oh, it is pathetic — all those dear, charming people, so gay, so hospitable. They never thought of money, and now they have none, they think of nothing else. Most of my life is spent in London now.”
“Tell me of London. Is it true that there is always fog?”
De Richleau laughed. “By no means, Mademoiselle. On a May morning London can be as charming as any place in the world. We will take a walk down Bond Street one day, you and I!”
“Do you know the King of England and the Prince of Wales?”
“I have the honour to be known to His Majesty, also to the Prince.”
“Tell me about them, please.” She looked up at him with large grave eyes. He began to talk to her of Windsor and Balmoral — then Ascot and Goodwood — the yachting week at Cowes, days in the Leicestershire country, hunting with the Pytchley, summer nights on the gentle river that flows by Maidenhead — of the spires and courts of Oxford, and the beauty of the English country lanes in autumn, of all the many things he had come to love in the chosen country of his exile; and in the telling, for an hour, forgot the peril that beset them in the land of snows.
The shadows lengthened, the red ball of the sun dropped behind the trees, the bitter cold of the Siberian night chilled them once more.
Rex returned safely, a little less than an hour after dusk. He would say nothing of his excursion, but seemed strangely elated. They had their frugal meal, Simon’s wound was dressed, and the miserable Rakov exercised; then they turned in for the night — perhaps their last night in shelter and security for many days.
In the morning Rex was up with the first streak of dawn, and systematically began to wrench and break the only pieces of rusted machinery that were not obviously solid; even the Duke, knowing that they were to move that night, and in a more settled frame of mind, lent him a hand. The furnace had been gutted long ago, and the slabs of stone prized up from the floor; every inch of the walls had been tapped for a hollow note, but each sheet of metal gave out the same dead sound. They worked without ceasing, except for a brief snack at midday, until four in the afternoon, and then at last Rex confessed himself defeated.
“It’s no good,” he declared in disgust. “Somebody’s beat us to it, maybe years ago. Perhaps he’s dead and buried with the stones still on him, but they’re not here. If only the old bum had told me what place he really did put ’em before he died on me.... Sorry, Marie Lou,” he added, hastily. “I forgot the prince was your father!”
“No matter, Monsieur,” she smiled. “We can only think of people as we knew them; to me, the prince was nothing but a wicked old man — he was always malicious, often drunk and cruel, and I used to dread his visits here.”
De Richleau glanced through the window. “In an hour,” he said, “it will be dark; we should lose no time, but make immediately for Rakov’s, that we may drive all night and put many miles between us and Romanovsk.
“We’ll put some miles between us and Romanovsk all right,” Rex laughed suddenly. “Listen, children. I’ve been keeping something up my sleeve since last night. You know I took a walk?”
They all looked up at him, eagerly. “Go on,” said Simon.
“Well, I had a hunch, and a darned fine hunch too; what do we want to monkey with a horse and sleigh for, when we’ve got a thousand aeroplanes sitting doing nothing within a mile?”
“You’re not serious, Rex,” protested De Richleau.
“I certainly am. I went out yesterday to take a look-see. One batch of those four-seater fighters is parked a whole half-mile from the barracks, and there’s only one sentry on every block of hangars. If we can nail him we’ll get a ’plane and be away before the guard turns out.”
“What about the — er — electric fence?” asked Simon, dubiously.
“I’ve thought of that — it isn’t higher than my chin. I’ll pitch you over one by one.”
“But yourself?” asked Marie Lou.
“Don’t worry about me. I wasn’t the big boy in the pole-jumping game at Harvard in my year for nix. I’d clear that fence with my hands tied.”
“It’s a ghastly risk.” The Duke shook his head. “To touch that fence is instant death. Besides, will there be petrol in the ’planes — enough to carry us any distance?”
“Now there you’ve got me. It’s on the cards they empty all their tanks at night, case of fire, but there’s a pump to each row of hangars. If we take the end ’plane we should be able to fill up before we start What d’you say?”
“I think the immediate risk is far greater; there is the fence — a sentry to overcome — the possibility that even if we succeed so far, we may be surprised by the officer on his rounds — and then the uncertainty about petrol. In our original plan we had only the Rakov family to deal with. Of course, if your plan was successful, it’s advantages are immense.”