of Switzerland are owned by Teutons and that ninety per cent of the Swiss are German-Swiss, and speak German habitually.
And still at the same time I realized that, unless brutally menaced and secretly coerced by the boche the Swiss were first of all passionately and patriotically Swiss, even if they might be German after that fact. They wished to be let alone and to remain a free people. And the Hun was blackmailing them.
Smith had now roamed away through the uncut grass, smoking a cigarette and probably cursing me out – a hungry, disconsolate figure against the background of deserted buildings.
I turned to Major Schoot and Captain Schey:
"Very well, gentlemen; if there's no immediate way of selling this property I'll live here until your law permits me to sell it. But in the meanwhile it's mine. I own it. I insist on my right of privacy. I shall live here in indignant solitude. And if any stranger ever sets a profane foot upon this property I shall call in the Swiss police and institute legal proceedings which – "
"Pardon," interrupted Major Schoot mildly, "but the law of Switzerland provides for Government regulation of all inns, rest-houses, chalets, and hotels. All such public resorts must remain open and receive guests."
"I won't open my chalet!" I said. "I'd rather fortify it and die fighting! I hereby formally refuse to open it to the public!"
"It is open," remarked Captain Schey, "theoretically."
"Theoretically," added Major Schoot, "it never has been closed. The law says it must not be closed. Therefore it has not been closed. Therefore it is open. Therefore you are expected to entertain guests at a reasonable rate – "
"What if I don't?" I demanded.
"Unhappily, in such a case, the Federal Government regretfully confiscates the property involved and administers it according to law."
"But I wish to reside here privately until such time as I am permitted to sell the place! Can't I do that? Am I not even permitted privacy in this third-rate musical comedy country?"
"Monsieur, the Chalet of Schwindlewald has always been a public 'Cure,' not a private estate. The tourist public is always at liberty to come here to drink the waters and enjoy the climate and the view. Monsieur, your late Uncle, purchased the property on that understanding."
"My late Uncle," said I, "was slightly eccentric. Why in God's name he should have purchased a Swiss hotel and bottling works in the Alps he can perhaps explain to his Maker. None of his family know. And all I have ever heard is that somebody interested him in a plan to drench Europe with bottled spring-water at a franc a quart; and that a further fortune was to be extracted from this property by trapping a number of Swiss chamois and introducing the species into the Andes. Did anybody ever hear of such nonsense?"
The Swiss officers gaped at me. "Very remarkable," said Major Schoot without any inflection in his voice or any expression upon his face.
Smith, weary of prowling about the place, came over and said in a low voice: "Cut it out, old chap, and start that red-headed girl to cooking. Aren't you hungry?"
I was hungry, but I was also irritated and worried.
I stood still considering the situation for a few moments, one eye on my restless comrade, the other reverting now and then to the totally emotionless military countenances in front of me.
"Very well," I said. "My inheritance appears to be valuable, according to the Swiss appraisal. I shall, therefore, pay my taxes, observe the laws of Switzerland, and reside here until I am at liberty to dispose of the property. And I'll entertain guests if I must. But I don't think I'm likely to be annoyed by tourists while this war lasts. Do you?"
"Tourists tour," observed Major Schoot solemnly.
"It's a fixed habit," added Captain Schey, – "war or no war. Tourists invariably tour or," he added earnestly, "they would not be tourists."
"Also," remarked Schoot, "the wealthy amateur chamois hunter is always with us. Like the goitre, he is to be expected in the Alps."
"Am I obliged to let strangers hunt on my property?" I asked, aghast.
"The revenue to an estate is always considerable," explained Schoot. "With your inn, your 'Cure,' your bottling works, and your hunting fees your income should be enviable, Mr. O'Ryan."
I gazed angrily up at the mountains. Probably every hunter would break his neck. Then a softer mood invaded my wrath, and I thought of my late uncle and of his crazy scheme to stock the Andes with chamois – a project which, while personally pursuing it, and an infant chamois, presently put an end to his dashing career upon earth. He was some uncle, General Juan O'Ryan, but too credulous, and too much of a sport.
"Which mountain did he fall off?" I inquired in a subdued voice, gazing up at the ring of terrific peaks above us.
"That one – the Bec de l'Empereur," said Captain Schey, in the funereal voice which decency requires when chronicling necrology.
I looked seriously at the peak known as "The Emperor's Nose." No wonder my uncle broke his neck.
"Which Emperor?" I inquired absently.
"The Kaiser."
"You don't mean William of Hohenzollern!"
"The All-Highest of Germany," he replied in a respectful voice. "But the name is in French. That is good politics. We offend nobody."
"Oh. Well, why all the same?"
"Why what?"
"Why celebrate the All-Highest's Imperial nose?"
"Why not?" retorted the Swiss mildly; "he suggested it."
"The Kaiser suggested that the mountain be named after his own nose?"
"He did. Moreover it was from that peak that the All-Highest declared he could smell the Rhine. Tears were in his eyes when he said it. Such sentiment ought to be respected."
"May I be permitted to advise the All-Highest to return there and continue his sentimental sniffing?"
"For what purpose, Monsieur?"
"Because," I suggested pleasantly, "if he sniffs very earnestly he may scent something still farther away than the Rhine."
"The Seine?" nodded Captain Schey with a pasty, neutral smile.
"I meant the United States," said I carelessly. "If William sniffs hard enough he may smell the highly seasoned stew that they say is brewing over there. It reeks of pep, I hear."
The two neutral officers exchanged very grave glances. Except for my papers, which were most perfectly in order and revealed me as a Chilean of Irish descent, nothing could have convinced them or, indeed, anybody else that I was not a Yankee. Because, although my great grandfather was that celebrated Chilean Admiral O'Ryan and I had been born in Santiago and had lived there during early boyhood, I looked like a typical American and had resided in New York for twenty years. And there also I practiced my innocent profession. There were worse interior decorators than I in New York and I was, perhaps, no worse than any of them – if you get what I am trying not to say.
"Gentlemen," I continued politely, "I haven't as yet any lavish hospitality to offer you unless that red-headed girl yonder has something to cook and knows how to cook it. But such as I have I offer to you in honor of the Swiss army and out of respect to the Swiss Confederation. Gentlemen, pray descend and banquet with me. Join our revels. I ask it."
They said they were much impressed by my impulsive courtesy but were obliged to go back to barracks in their flivver.
"Before you go, then," said I, "you are invited to witness the ceremony of my taking over this impossible domain." And I took a small Chilean flag from the breast pocket of my coat, attached it to the halyards of the white-washed flag pole, and ran it up, whistling the Chilean national anthem.
Then I saluted the flag with my hat off. My bit of bunting looked very gay up there aloft against the intense vault of blue.
Smith, although now made mean by hunger, was decent enough to notice and salute my flag. The flag of Chili is a pretty one; it carries a single white star on a blue field, and