



Produced by Al Haines.





[Illustration: "I don't like men, I never did." (Page 100)]




                                  *The
                             Laughing Girl*


                         By ROBERT W. CHAMBERS



                               AUTHOR OF
                          "The Restless Sex,"
                            "The Dark Star,"
                      "The Business of Life," Etc.



                           With Frontispiece
                             By HENRY HUTT



                           A. L. BURT COMPANY
                          Publishers New York

          Published by arrangement with D. APPLETON & COMPANY




                          Copyright, 1918, by
                           ROBERT W. CHAMBERS



                Printed in the United States of America




                                   TO
                                 MY SON
                                  BOB
                        AT PLATTSBURGH BARRACKS




                               *FOREWORD*


    I

    Here's a pretty tale to tell
    All about the beastly boche--
    How the Bolsheviki fell
    Out of grace and in the wash!
    --How all valiant lovers love,
    How all villains go to hell,
    Started thither by a shove
    From the youth who loved so well,
    Virtue mirrored in the glass
    Held by his beloved lass.


    II

    _He who grins in clown's disguise_
    _Often hides an aching heart--_
    _Sadness, sometimes worldly-wise,_
    _Dresses for a motley part--_
    _Cap, and bells to cheat the ears,_
    _Chalk and paint to hide the tears_
    _Lest the world, divining pain,_
    _Turn to gape and stare again._


    III

    You who read but may not run
    Where the bugles summon youth,
    You who when the day is done
    Ponder God's eternal Truth
    Ere you fold your hands to rest,
    Sheltered from the fierce huns' ruth,
    Here within the guarded West
    Safe from swinish tusk and tooth
    Laugh in God's name, if you can!--
    Serving so the Son of Man.


    IV

    _Gorse is growing, poppies bloom_
    _Where our bravest greeted Christ._
    _Is His dwelling, then, the tomb?_
    _Has the sacrifice sufficed?_
    _What is all we have then worth_
    _In Thy sight, Lord, in Thy sight?_
    _Take our offered heart-sick mirth--_
    _Let our laughter fight Thy fight._

    R. W. C.




                          *TABLE OF CONTENTS*


CHAPTER

      I. An Inheritance
     II. Al Fresco
    III. In the Cellar
     IV. Modus Vivendi
      V. An Odd Song
     VI. Master and Maid
    VII. Conservation and Conversation
   VIII. The Knees of the Gods
     IX. Rex, Regis
      X. Clelia
     XI. A Pyjama Party
    XII. Royalty
   XIII. In the Rain
    XIV. The Mysterious Mr. Smith
     XV. A Traveling Circus
    XVI. The Countess
   XVII. More Mystery
  XVIII. The Gangsters
    XIX. Confidences
     XX. A Local Storm
    XXI. Sus Scrofa
   XXII. Particeps Criminis
  XXIII. Thusis
   XXIV. Raoul
    XXV. The Duchess of Naxos




                          *THE LAUGHING GIRL*



                                  *I*

                            *AN INHERITANCE*


There was a red-headed slattern sweeping the veranda--nobody else
visible about the house.  All the shutters of the stone and timber
chalet were closed; cow-barn, stable, springhouse and bottling house
appeared to be deserted. Weeds smothered the garden where a fountain
played above a brimming basin of gray stone; cat-grass grew rank on the
oval lawn around the white-washed flag-pole from which no banner
flapped.  An intense and heated silence possessed the place.  Tall
mountains circled it, cloud-high, enormous, gathered around the little
valley as though met in solemn council there under the vast pavilion of
sky.

From the zenith of the azure-tinted tent hung that Olympian lantern
called the sun, flooding every crested snow-peak with a nimbus of pallid
fire.

In these terms of belles-lettres I called Smith's attention to the
majesty of the scene.

"Very impressive," remarked Smith, lighting a cigarette and getting out
of the Flivver;--"I trust that our luncheon may impress us as
favorably."  And he looked across the weedy drive at the red-headed
slattern who was now grooming the veranda with a slopping mop.

"Her ankles might be far less ornamental," he observed.  I did not look.
Ankles had long ceased to mean anything to me.

After another moment's hesitation I handed Smith his suit-case, picked
up my own, and descended from the Flivver.  The Swiss officer at the
wheel, Captain Schey, and the Swiss officer of Gendarmerie beside him,
Major Schoot, remained heavily uninterested in the proceedings.  To
think of nothing is bovine; to think of nothing at all, and do that
thinking in German, is porcine.  I inspected their stolid features: no
glimmer of human intelligence illuminated them. Their complexions
reminded me of that moist pink hue which characterizes a freshly cut
boiled ham.

Smith leisurely examined the buildings and their surroundings, including
the red-headed girl, and I saw him shrug his shoulders.  He was right;
it was a silly situation and a ridiculous property for a New Yorker to
inherit.  And the longer I surveyed my new property the more worried I
became.

I said in English to Major Schoot, one of the ample, pig-pink gentlemen
in eye-glasses and the uniform of the Swiss Gendarmerie: "So this is
Schwindlewald, is it?"

He blinked his pale little eyes without interest at the low chalet and
out-buildings; then his vague, weak gaze flickered up at the terrific
mountains around us.

"Yes," he replied, "this is now your property, Mr. O'Ryan."

"Well, I don't want it," I said irritably.  "I've told you that several
times."

"Quite right," remarked Smith; "what is Mr. O'Ryan going to do with a
Swiss hotel, a cow-barn, a bottling factory, one red-headed girl, and
several large mountains?  I ask you that, Major?"

I was growing madder and madder; and Smith's flippancy offended me.

"I'm an interior decorator," I said to Major Schoot.  "I've told you
that a dozen times, too.  I don't wish to conduct a hotel in Switzerland
or Greenland or Coney Island or any other land!  I do not desire either
to possess kine or to deprive them of their milk.  Moreover, I do not
wish to bottle spring water.  Why then am I not permitted to sell this
bunch of Swiss scenery and go home?  What about my perfectly harmless
business?"

Major Schoot rolled his solemn fish-blue eyes: "The laws of the canton
and of the Federal Government," he began in his weak tenor voice,
"require that any alien inheriting property in the Swiss Republic, shall
reside upon that property and administer it for the period of not less
than one year before offering the said property for sale or rent----"

He already had told me that a dozen times; and a dozen times I had
resisted, insisting that there must be some way to circumvent such a
ridiculous Swiss law.  Of what use are laws unless one can circumvent
them, as we do?

I now gazed at him with increasing animosity.  In his uniform of Major
of Swiss Gendarmes he appeared the personification of everything
officially and Teutonically obtuse.

"Do you realize," I said, "that my treatment by the Swiss Confederation
and by the Federal police has been most extraordinary?  A year ago when
my uncle's will was probated, and that German attorney in Berne notified
me in New York that I had inherited this meaningless mess of house and
landscape, he also wrote that upon coming here and complying with the
Swiss law, I could immediately dispose of the property if I so desired?
Why the devil did he write that?"

"That was a year ago," nodded Major Schoot. Captain Schey regarded me
owlishly.  "A new law," he remarked, "has been since enacted."

"I have suspected," said I fiercely, "that this brand new law enacted in
such a hellofa hurry was enacted expressly to cover this case of mine.
Why?  Why does your government occupy itself with me and my absurd
property up here in these picture-book Alps?  What difference does it
make to Switzerland whether I sell it or try to run it?  And another
thing!--" I continued, madder than ever at the memory of recent
wrongs--"Why do your police keep visiting me, inspecting me and my
papers, trailing me around?  Why do large, moon-faced gentlemen seat
themselves beside me in restaurants and cafes and turn furtive eyes upon
me?  Why do they open newspapers and punch holes in them to scrutinize
me?  Why do they try to listen to my conversation addressed to other
people?  Why do strange ladies lurk at my elbow when hotel clerks hand
me my mail?  Dammit, why?"

Major Schoot and Captain Schey regarded me in
tweedle-dum-and-tweedle-dee-like silence: then the Major said: "Under
extraordinary conditions extraordinary precautions are necessary."  And
the Captain added: "These are war times and Switzerland must observe an
impartial neutrality."

"You mean a German neutrality," I thought to myself, already
unpleasantly aware that all the banks and all the business 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
