Maurice, as he labored before his mirror, wondered why in the world it
took him so long to dress. An hour had passed since he began his evening
toilet; yet here he was, still tinkering, so to speak, over the last
of a dozen cravats. The eleven others lay strewn about, hopelessly
crumpled; mute witnesses of angry fingers and impassioned mutterings.
Usually he could slip into his evening clothes in less than thirty
minutes. Something was wrong. But perhaps this occasion was not usual.
First, the hems of his trousers were insurgent; they persisted in
hitching on the tops of his button shoes. Laces were substituted. Then
came a desultory period, during which gold buttons were exchanged for
pearl and pearl for gold, and two-button shirts for three-button. For
Maurice was something of a dandy. He could not imagine what was the
matter with his neck, all the collars seemed so small. For once his
mishaps did not appeal to his humor. The ascent from his shoes to his
collar was as tortuous as that of the alpine Jungfrau.
Ah, Madam, you may smile as much as you please, but it is a terrible
thing for a man to dress and at the same time think kindly of his
fellow-beings. You set aside three hours for your toilet, and devote two
hours to the little curl which droops over the tip of your dainty ear;
but with a man who has no curl, who knows nothing of the practice of
smiles and side glances, the studied carelessness of a pose, it is a
dismal, serious business up to the last moment.
With a final glance into the mirror, and convinced that if he touched
himself it would be only to disarrange the perfection which he had
striven so hard to attain, Maurice went down stairs. He had still an
hour to while away before presenting himself at the archbishop's palace.
So he roamed about the verandas, twirled his cane, and smoked like a
captain who expects to see his men in active engagement the very next
moment. This, together with the bad hour in his room, was an indication
that his nerves were finely strung.
He was nervous, not because he was to see strange faces, not because his
interest in the kingdom's affairs was both comic and tragic, nor because
he was to present himself at the archbishop's in a peculiar capacity,
that of a prisoner on parole. No, it was due to none of these. His
pulse did not stir at the prospect of meeting the true king. Diplomatic
functions were every-day events with him. He had passed several years of
his life in the vicinity of emperors, kings, viceroys, and presidents,
and their greatness had long ago ceased to interest or even to amuse
him. He was conscious only of an agitation which had already passed
through the process of analysis. He loved, he loved the impossible
and the unattainable, and it was the exhilaration of this thought that
agitated him. He never would be the same again--he would be better.
Neither did he regret this love.
Even now he could see himself back in his rooms in Vienna, smoking
before the fire, and building castles that tumbled down. It was worth
while, if only to have something to dream about. He did not regret the
love, he regretted its futility. How could he serve her? What could he
do against all these unseen forces which were crumbling her father's
throne? So she remembered what he had said to her in the archbishop's
garden? He looked at his watch. It was nine.
“Let us be off,” he said. He started for the Platz. “How uncertain life
is. It seems that I did not come to Bleiberg carelessly in the way of
amusement, but to work out a part of my destiny.” He arrested his steps
at the fountain and listened to the low, musical plash of the water,
each drop of which fell with the light of a dazzling jewel. The cold
stars shone from above. They were not farther away than she. A princess,
a lonely and forlorn princess, hemmed in by the fabric of royal laws; a
princess yet possessing less liberty than the meanest of her peasants.
Nothing belonged to her, not even her heart, which was merchandise, a
commodity of exchange, turned over to the highest bidder. “Royalty,” he
mused, “is a political slave-dealer; the slaves are those who wear the
crowns.”
Once inside the palace, he became a man of the world, polished,
nonchalant, handsome, and mildly curious. Immediately after the usher
announced his name, he crossed the chamber and presented his respects to
the prelate, who, he reasoned not unwisely, expected him. The friendly
greeting of the archbishop confirmed this reasoning.
“I am delighted to see you, Monsieur,” he said, showing his remarkably
well preserved teeth in the smile that followed his words. “A service
to her Royal Highness is a service to me. Amuse yourself; you will find
some fine paintings in the west gallery.”
“I trust her Royal Highness is none the worse for the fright,” Maurice
replied. He also remarked (mentally) that he did not see her Highness
anywhere. Several introductions followed, and he found himself chatting
with the British minister.
“Carewe?” the Englishman repeated thoughtfully. “Are you not Maurice
Carewe, of the American Legation in Vienna?”
“Yes.”
“May I ask you a few questions?”
“A thousand.”
“A fellow-countryman of mine has mysteriously disappeared. He left
Vienna for Bleiberg, saying that if nothing was heard of him within a
week's time, to make inquiries about him. This request was left with
the British ambassador, who has just written me, adding that a personal
friend of the gentleman in question was in Bleiberg, and that this
friend was Maurice Carewe, attache to the American Legation. Are you
acquainted with Lord Fitzgerald, son of my late predecessor?”
“I am indeed. I saw him in Vienna,” said Maurice; “but he said nothing
to me about coming here,” which was true enough. “Is there any cause for
apprehension?”
“Only his request to be looked up within a certain time. The truth is,
he was to have come here on a peculiar errand,” with lowered voice. “Did
you ever hear of what is called 'Fitzgerald's folly?'”
“Yes; few haven't heard of it.” Maurice could never understand why he
resisted the impulse to tell the whole affair. A dozen words to the man
at his side, and the catastrophes, even embryonic, would be averted.
“You must tell me who most of these people are,” he said, in order to
get around a disagreeable subject. “I am a total stranger.”
“With pleasure. That tall, angular old man, in the long, gray frock,
with decorations, is Marshal Kampf. You must meet him; he is the
wittiest man in Bleiberg. The gentleman with the red beard is Mollendorf
of the police. And beside him--yes, the little man with glasses and a
loose cravat--is Count von Wallenstein, the minister of finance. That
is the chancellor talking to the archbishop. Ah, Mr. Carewe, these
receptions are fine comedies. The Marshal, the count and Mollendorf
represent what is called the Auersperg faction under the rose. It is a
continual battle of eyes and tongues. One smiles at his enemy, knows him
to be an enemy, yet dares not touch him.
“Confidentially, this play has never had the like. To convict his
enemies of treason has been for ten years the labor of the chancellor;
yet, though he knows them to be in correspondence with the duchess,
he can find nothing on the strength of which to accuse openly. It is a
conspiracy which has no papers. One can not take out a man's brains and
say, `Here is proof!' They talk, they walk on thin ice; but so fine
is their craft that no incautious word ever falls, nor does any one go
through the ice.
“I have watched the play for ten years. I should not speak to you about
it, only it is one of those things known to all here. Those gentlemen
talking to the chancellor's wife are the ministers from Austria,
Prussia, France, and Servia. You will not find it as lively here as it
is in Vienna. We meet merely to watch each other,” with a short laugh.
“Good. The Marshal is approaching.”
They waited.
“Marshal,” said the minister, “this is Monsieur Carewe, who rescued her
Highness's dog from the students.”
“Ah!” replied the Marshal, grimly. “Do not expect me to thank you,
Monsieur; only day before yesterday the dog snapped at my legs. I am
living out of pure spite, to see that dog die before I do. Peace to his
ashes--the sooner the better.”
The minister turned to Maurice and laughed.
“Eh!” said the Marshal.
“I prophesied that you would speak disparagingly of the dog.”
“What a reputation!” cried the old soldier. “I dare say that you have
been telling Monsieur Carewe that I am a wit. Monsieur, never attempt
to be witty; they will put you down for a wit, and laugh at anything you
say, even when you put yourself out to speak the truth. If I possess any
wit it is like young grapes--sour. You are connected in Vienna?”
“With the American Legation.”
“Happy is the country,” said the Marshal, “which is so far away that
Europe can find no excuse to meddle with it.”
“And even then Europe would not dare,” Maurice replied, with
impertinence aforethought.
“That is not a diplomatic speech.”
“It is true.”
“I like your frankness.”
“Let that go toward making amends for saving the dog.”
“Are all American diplomats so frank?” inquired the Marshal, with an air
of feigned wonder.
“Indeed, no,” answered Maurice. “Just at present I am not in a
diplomatic capacity; I need not look askance at truth. And there is no
reason why we should not always be truthful.”
“You are wrong. It's truth's infrequency which makes her so charming and
refreshing. However, I thank you for your services to her Highness; your
services to her dog I shall try to forget.” And with this the Marshal
moved away, shaking his head as if he had inadvertently stumbled on an
intricate problem.
Not long after, Maurice was left to his own devices. He viewed the
scene, silent and curious. Conversation was carried on in low tones,
and laughter was infrequent and subdued. The women dressed without
ostentation. There were no fair arms and necks. Indeed, these belong
wholly to youth, and youth was not a factor at the archbishop's
receptions. Most of the men were old and bald, and only the wives of the
French and British ministers were pretty or young. How different from
Vienna, where youth and beauty abound! There were no music, no long
tables of refreshments, no sparkling wines, no smoking-room, good
stories and better fellowship. There was an absence of the flash of
jewels and color which make court life attractive.
There seemed to be hanging in the air some invisible power, the forecast
of a tragedy, the beginning of an unknown end. And yet the prelate
smiled on enemies and friends alike. As Maurice observed that smile he
grew perplexed. It was a smile such as he had seen on the faces of men
who, about to die, felt the grim satisfaction of having an enemy for
company. The king lay on his death bed, in all probabilities the throne
tottered; yet the archbishop smiled.
The princess did not know that her father was dying; this was a secret
which had not yet been divulged to her. And this was the only society
she knew. Small wonder that she was sad and lonely. To be young, and to
find one's self surrounded by the relics of youth; what an existence!
She had never known the beauty of a glittering ballroom, felt the music
of a waltz mingle with the quick throbs of the heart, the pleasure
of bestowing pleasure. She had never read the mute yet intelligent
admiration in a young man's eyes. And what young woman does not yearn
for the honest adoration of an honest man? Poor, lonely princess indeed.
For, loving the world as he himself did, Maurice understood what was
slipping past her. Every moment the roots of love were sinking deeper
into his heart and twining firmly about, as a vine to a trellis.
Is there a mental telegraphy, an indefinable substance which is affected
by the close proximity of a presence, which, while we do not see,
we feel? Perhaps; at any rate, Maurice suddenly became aware of that
peculiar yet now familiar agitation of his nerves. Instinctively he
turned his head. In the doorway which separated the chamber from the
conservatory stood her Royal Highness. She was dressed entirely in
black, which accentuated the whiteness--the Carrara marble whiteness--of
her exquisite skin. In the dark, shining coils swept back from her brow
lay the subtle snare of a red rose. There was no other color except on
the full lips. She saw Maurice, but she was so far away that the faint
reflection of the rose on her cheeks was gone before he reached her
side.
“I was afraid,” she said, lowering her eyes as she uttered the fib,
“that you would not come after all.”
“It would have been impossible for me to stay away,” he replied, his
eyes ardent. The princess looked away. “And may I ask after the health
of the dog?”
“Thanks to you, Monsieur; he is getting along finely. Poor dog; he
will always limp. What is it that makes men inflict injuries on dumb
creatures?”
“It is the beast that is envious of the brute.”
“And your hand?” with a glance sympathetic and inquiring.
“My hand?”
“Yes; did you not injure it?”
“O!” He laughed and held out two gloved hands for her inspection. “That
was only a scratch. In fact, I do not remember which hand it was.”
“You are very modest. I should have made much of it.”
He could not translate this; so he said: “There was nothing injured but
my hat. I seem unfortunate in that direction.”
She smiled, recalling the incident in the archbishop's garden.
“I shall keep the hat, however,” he said, “as a souvenir.”
“Souvenirs, Monsieur,” she replied carelessly, “and old age are
synonymous. You and I ought not to have any souvenirs. Have you seen
the picture gallery? No? Then I shall have the pleasure of showing it
to you. Monseigneur is very proud of his gallery. He has a Leonardo, a
Botticelli, a Murillo, and a Rembrandt. And they really show better in
artificial light, which softens the effect of time.”
Half an hour was passed in the gallery. It was very pleasant to
listen to her voice as she described this and that painting, and the
archbishop's adventures in securing them. It did not seem possible to
him that she was a princess, perhaps destined to become a queen, so free
was she from the attributes of royalty, so natural and ingenuous. He
caught each movement of her delicate head, each gesture of her hand, the
countless inflections of her voice, the lights which burned or died away
in the dark wine of her eyes.
Poor devil! he mused, himself in mind; poor fool! He forgot the world,
he forgot that he was a prisoner on parole, he forgot the strife between
the kingdom and the duchy, he forgot everything but the wild impossible
love which filled his senses. He forgot even Prince Frederick of
Carnavia.
In truth, the world was “a sorry scheme of things.” It was grotesque
with inequalities. He had no right to love her; it was wrong to give
in to the impulses of the heart, the natural, human impulses. A man can
beat down the stone walls of a fort, scale the impregnable heights of
a citadel, master the earth and the seas, but he can not surmount
the invisible barriers which he himself erected in the past ages--the
quality of birth. Ah! if only she had been a peasant, unlettered and
unknown, and free to be won! The tasks of Hercules were then but play to
him!
Next she led him through the aisles of potted plants in the
conservatory. She was very learned. She explained the origin of each
flower, its native soil, the time and manner of its transportation.
Perhaps she was surprised at his lack of botanical knowledge, he asked
so many questions. But it was not the flowers, it was her voice, which
urged him to these interrogations.
They were on the point of re-entering the reception chamber, when the
jingle of a spur on the mosaic floor caused them to turn. Maurice could
not control the start; he had forgotten all about Beauvais. The soldier
wore the regulation full dress of the cuirassiers, white trousers,
tucked into patent leather half-boots, a gray jacket with gold lace and
decorations, red saber straps and a gray pelisse hanging from the left
shoulder. A splendid soldier, Maurice grudgingly admitted. What would
the Colonel say? The situation was humorous rather than otherwise, and
Maurice smiled.
“I was looking for your Highness,” said Beauvais, as he came up, “to
pay my respects. I am leaving.” His glance at Maurice was one of polite
curiosity.
“Colonel Beauvais,” said the princess, coldly, “Monsieur Carewe, of the
American Legation in Vienna.”
She was not looking at the Colonel, but Maurice was, and the Colonel's
total lack of surprise astonished him. The gaze of the two men plunged
into each other's eyes like flashes of lightning, but that was all.
“I am charmed,” said the Colonel, a half-ironical smile under his
mustache. “Your name is not unfamiliar to me.”
“No?” said Maurice, with studied politeness.
“No. It is connected with an exploit. Was it not you who faced the
students this afternoon and rescued her Highness's dog?”
“Ah!” said Maurice, in a tone which implied that exploits were every
day events with him; “it was but a simple thing to do. The students were
like so many sheep.”
The princess elevated her brows; she felt an undercurrent of something
which she did not understand. Indeed, she did not like the manner in
which the two men eyed each other. Her glance passed from the stalwart
soldier to the slim, athletic form of the civilian.
Conversation drifted aimlessly. Maurice had the malice to cast the brunt
of it on the Colonel's shoulders. The princess, like a rose coming in
contact with a chill air, drew within herself. She was cold, brief, and
serenely indifferent. It was evident to Maurice that she had resumed her
royal mantle, and that she had shown him unusual consideration.
Presently she raised her hand to her head, as sometimes one will do
unconsciously, and the rose slipped from her hair and dropped to the
floor. Both men stooped. Maurice was quickest. With a bow he offered to
return it.
“You may keep it, Monsieur;” and she laughed.
They joined her. Maurice knew why the Colonel laughed, and the Colonel
knew why Maurice laughed; but neither could account for the laughter of
the princess. That was her secret.
All things come to an end, even diplomatic receptions. Soon the guests
began to leave.
Said the princess to Maurice: “Your invitation is a standing one,
Monsieur. To our friends there are no formalities. Good night; ah, yes,
the English fashion,” extending her hand, which Maurice barely touched.
“Good night, Monsieur,” to Beauvais, with one of those nods which wither
as effectually as frost.
The Colonel bent gracefully.
“Decidedly the Colonel is not in high favor tonight,” thought Maurice;
“a fact which is eminently satisfactory to me. Ah; he looks as if he had
something to say to me. Let us wait.”
“Monsieur, have you any other engagement this evening?” asked Beauvais,
swinging his pelisse over both shoulders. “If not, my rooms are quite
handy. I have capital cigars and cognacs. Will you do me the honor? I
should like to have you regale me with some Vienna gossip; it is so long
since I was there.”
“Thanks,” said Maurice. “I shall be happy to smoke your cigars and drink
your cognacs.” He was in the mood for any adventure, comic or serious.
He had an idea what the Colonel wanted to say to him, and he was not
unwilling to listen. Besides, he had no fear; he now wore an amulet
close to his heart.
“Come, then,” said Beauvais, gaily; and the two made off. “It is a
wonderful game of chess, this world of ours.”
“Yes,” said Maurice, “we do keep moving.”
“And every now and then one or the other of us steps out into the dark.”
“So we do.” Maurice glanced from the corner of his eye and calculated
his chances in a physical contest with the Colonel. The soldier was
taller and broader, but it was possible for him to make good this
deficiency with quickness. But, above all, where and under what
circumstances had he met this man before?
“Here we are!” cried the Colonel, presently.
He led Maurice into one of the handsome dwellings which faced the palace
confines from the east. They passed up the stairs into a large room,
Oriental in its appointments, and evidently the living room. The walls
were hung with the paraphernalia of a soldier, together with portraits
of opera singers, horses and celebrities of all classes. On the mantel
Maurice saw, among other things, the glint of a revolver barrel. He
thought nothing of it then. It occurred to him as singular, however,
that the room was free from central obstruction. Had the Colonel
expected to meet him at the archbishop's and anticipated his acceptance
of a possible invitation?
Two chairs stood on either side of the grate. Between them was an
octagon on which were cigars, glasses and two cognac bottles. The
Colonel's valet came in and lit the tapers in the chandelier and woke
up the fire.... Maurice was convinced that the Colonel had arranged the
room thus for his especial benefit, and he regretted his eagerness for
adventure.
“Francois,” said Beauvais, throwing his shako and pelisse on the lounge
and motioning to Maurice to do likewise, “let no one disturb us.”
The valet bowed and noiselessly retired. The two men sat down without
speaking. Beauvais passed the cigars. Maurice selected one, lit it, and
blew rings at the Chinese mandarin which leered down at him from the
mantel.
Several minutes marched into the past.
“Maurice Carewe,” said the Colonel, as one who mused.
“It is very droll,” said Maurice.
“I can not say that it strikes me as droll, though I am not deficient in
the sense of humor.”
“'Twould be a pity if you were; you would miss so much. Through humor
philosophy reaches its culmination; humor is the foundation upon which
the palace of reason erects itself. The two are inseparable.”
“How came you to be mixed up in this affair, which is no concern of
yours?”
“That question is respectfully referred to Madame the duchess. I was
thrown into it, head foremost, bound hand and foot. It was a clever
stroke, though eventually it will embarrass her.”
“You may give me the certificates,” said Beauvais.
Maurice contemplated him serenely. “Impossible,” with a fillip at the
end of his cigar.
“You refuse?” coldly.
“I do not refuse. Simply, I haven't got them.”
“What!” The Colonel half sprang from his chair.
His astonishment was genuine; Maurice saw that it was, and he reflected.
Madame nor Fitzgerald had been dishonest with him.
“No. Some one has forestalled me.”
“Are you lying to me?” menacingly.
“And if I were?” coolly.
Beauvais measured his antagonist, his eyes hard and contemptuous.
“I repeat,” said Maurice, “the situation is exceedingly droll. I am not
afraid of you, not a bit. I am not a man to be intimidated. You might
have inferred as much by my willingness to accompany you here. I am
alone with you.”
“It is true that you are alone with me,” in a voice, which, though it
did not alarm Maurice, caused him to rest less comfortably in his chair.
“In the first place, you know too much.”
“The knowledge was not of my own seeking. You will agree with me in
that.” He took a swallow of the cognac. “However, since I am in the
affair--”
“Well?”
“I'll see it to its end.”
“Perhaps. We shall not cross purposes. When men plot as I do, they stop
at nothing, not even at that infinitesimal minutiae called the spark of
life. It becomes a matter of self-preservation. I am in too deep water;
I must keep on. I can not now turn back; the first shore is too far
away.”
“Even villainy has its inconveniences,” Maurice observed.
“What do you call villainy?”
“An act in which a man accepts pay from one to ruin him for another.
That is villainy, without a single saving grace, for you are a native
neither of the kingdom nor the duchy.”
“That is plain language. You do not take into consideration the
villain's motives. There may be certain ends necessary as his life's
blood, which may be gained only by villainy, which, after all, is a hard
name for political conspiracy.”
“Oh, I do not suppose you are worse than the majority. But it appeals
to me as rather a small, unmanly game when your victims are a man who is
dying and a girl who knows nothing of the world nor its treachery.”
An almost imperceptible smile passed over Beauvais's countenance. “So
her Highness has captured your sympathies?” with a shade of banter.
“I admit that; she would capture the sympathies of any man who has a
good pair of eyes in his head. But you do not seem to be in favor just
at present,” banter for banter.
The Colonel studied the end of his cigar. “What is to be your stand in
this affair?”
“Neutral as possible, for the simple reason that I have passed my word
to Madame; compulsorily, it is true; I shall abide by it. That is not
to say that my sympathies are not wholly with the Osians. Madame is a
brilliant woman, resourceful, initiative; she has as many sides as a cut
diamond; moreover, her cause is just. But I do not like the way she has
gone about the recovery of her throne. She has broken, or will break, a
fine honest heart; she tried to break another, but, not being above
the pantry maid, the subject of her attention failed to appreciate the
consideration.”
Beauvais laughed at this. “You are very good company. Let me advise you
to remain neutral. I wish you no harm. But if you change your mind and
stand in my path--”
“Well, and if I stood in your path?”
“Pouf! you would vanish. O, I should not stoop to murder; that is a
vulgar word and practice. I should place a sword in your hand and give
you the preference of a gentleman's death. I see nothing to prevent me
from carrying out that this very night,” with a nod toward the rapiers
which hung from the opposite wall.
“You might be surprised at the result,” said Maurice, stretching his
legs. “But at present I have no desire to quarrel with you, or to put
your skill to a test. Once Madame gives me back my word, why, I do not
say.” He dipped his hand toward the ash-pan. “Human nature is full of
freaks. A man will commit all sorts of crimes, yet stand by his word.
Not that I have committed any crimes against the ten commandments.”
And so they fenced.
“You picked up a rose to-night,” said the Colonel.
“So I did.” Maurice blew a puff of smoke into the chimneyplace and
watched it sail upward and vanish. “Moreover, I propose to keep it. Have
you any objections?”
“Only this: her Highness intended the rose for me.”
“No, no, my friend,” easily. “She would not have laughed had you picked
it up.”
“That is to say I lie?”
“It is,” laconically.
There was no eluding a statement so bald as this. Beauvais sat upright.
“To call me a liar is a privilege which I extend to no man.”
“I did not call you a liar,” undisturbed. “You wrote it down yourself,
and I simply agreed to it. A duel? Well, I shall not fight you. Dueling
is obsolete, and it never demonstrated the right or wrong of a cause.
Since my part in this affair is one of neutrality, and since to gain
that knowledge was the object of your invitation, I will take my leave
of you.”
He rose and looked at the porcelain clock. As he did so his gaze rested
on a small photograph standing at the side of it. He scanned it eagerly.
It was a face of dark Castilian beauty. He turned and looked at Beauvais
long and earnestly. There was an answering gaze, an immobility of
countenance. Maurice experienced a slight shock. The haze over his
memory was dispersed. The whole scene, in which this man loomed in the
foreground, came back vividly.
“Your stare, Monsieur, is annoying.”
“I shouldn't wonder,” replied Maurice, leaning against the mantel.
“Do me the honor to explain it.”
Maurice, never dreaming of the trap, fell head foremost into it. “I have
traveled a good deal,” he began. “I have been--even to South America.”
“Ah!” This ejaculation expressed nothing. In fact, Beavais was smiling.
There was a sinister something behind that smile, but Maurice was
unobservant.
He went on. “Yes, to South America. I was there in a diplomatic
capacity, during one of the many revolutions. This country was the
paradise of adventurers, the riff-raff of continental social outcasts.
I distinctly remember the leader of this revolution. Up to the very last
day, Captain Urquijo was the confidential friend of the president whom
he was about to ruin. Through the president's beautiful daughter Urquijo
picked up his threads and laid his powder train. The woman loved him as
women sometimes love rascals. The president was to be assassinated
and his rival installed. Captain Urquijo was to be made General of the
armies.
“One fine day the troops lined both sides of the plaza, the square
also about which lay the government buildings. It was the event of some
celebration; I believe the throwing off of the yoke of Spain. The
city flocked into the plaza. Strangely enough, those who were
disaffected--the soldiers under Urquijo--faced the loyal troops. By
a preconceived plan, the artillery was under the command of Urquijo.
Suddenly this Captain's murderous and traitorous guns swept the plaza,
mangling women and children. There was a flaw, however, in the stroke.
Urquijo fled, a reward posted for his head--mind you, his head; they did
not want him alive.
“The daughter expiates her foolish love in a convent. Her disgraces
proved too much for her father, who blew out his brains. The successor
secured extradition papers in all the leading capitals of the world. The
story was the sensation of the day; the newspapers made much of it. All
governments offered to assist the republic in hounding down this rascal.
To whatever country he belonged, that country promised to disown him.”
Maurice took the photograph and cast it into Beauvais's lap. “Do
you recognize that face? Is it not a mute accusation to your warped
conscience?” The voice, changing from the monotone of narrative, grew
strong and contemptuous. “I know you. I recognized you the moment I laid
eyes on you, only I could not place you. Perhaps it was because it
did not seem possible that you would dare show your face to civilized
people. That photograph has done its work. By the Lord, but you're a
fine rascal! Not a bit changed. Have you forgotten your Spanish? As God
hears me, I shall hold you up.”
“You are a very young man,” said Beauvais, rising. He was still smiling.
“Do you know why I asked you here? For this very reason. Madame divined
you well. She said that you had a dash of what romanticists call valor,
but that you never saw an inch before your nose. I knew that you would
be at the archbishop's; I knew that you would follow me to this room.
Indeed, you might have suspected as much by the unusual arrangement of
the fixtures of the room. I placed that photograph there, trusting to
your rather acute eyesight.
“My memory seems to be better than yours. I knew you the first time
I saw you in Bleiborg. I was waiting only to see how much you had
remembered. I am not Colonel Beauvais; I am not Urquijo; I am the last
of a noble Austrian house, in exile, but on the eve of recall. Your
knowledge would, of course, be disastrous to my ambitions. That is why
I wanted to find out how much you know. You know too much, too much by
half; and since you have walked into the lion's den, you shall never
leave it alive.” With this he sprang to the wall and tore down the
rapiers, one of which he flung at Maurice's feet.
Maurice felt the hand of paralysis on his nerves. He looked at the
rapier, then at Beauvais, dazed and incapable of movement. It had been
so sudden.
“And when they find you in some alley in the lower town they will put
it down to thieves. You are young and thoughtless,” Beauvais went on
banteringly. “A little discretion and you might have gone with a whole
skin. We never forget a woman's face, and I knew that you would not
forget hers. Don't trouble yourself about leaping through the windows;
the fall will kill you less effectually than I shall.”
Maurice pulled himself together. The prospect of death brought back
lucidity of mind. He at once saw the hopelessness of his position. He
cursed his lack of forethought. He became pale and furious, but his
head cleared. His life hung in the balance. He now translated Beauvais's
smile.
“So you wish to add another to the list?” he said.
“To shield one crime, a man must commit many others. O, this will not be
murder. It will be a duel, in which you will have no chance. Pick up the
sword, if only for form's sake.” Beauvais caught the wrist thong of the
rapier between his teeth and rapidly divested himself of his jacket and
saber straps. With his back toward the door, he rolled up his sleeve and
discovered a formidable forearm. He tried the blade and thrust several
times into the air.
“What promise have I,” said Maurice, “that you will not run me through
when I stoop for the sword?” This question did not serve.
Beauvais laughed. “I never get angry in moments like these. I am giving
you a sword to ease my conscience. I do not assassinate boys.”
“But supposing I should kill you by chance?”
Beauvais laughed again. “That is not possible.”
Maurice had faced death before, but with more confidence. The thought
that he had poked his head into a trap stirred him disagreeably. He saw
that Beauvais possessed a superabundance of confidence, and confidence
is half of any battle. He picked up the sword and held it between his
knees, while he threw off his coat and vest, and unbuttoned his collar
and cuffs. What he had to sell would be sold as dearly as possible. He
tested the blade, took in a deep breath, fell easily into position--and
waited.