AN UNBIDDEN GUEST
THE inarticulate voice of the crowd had grown to a roar and the ominous
note Tarsis caught was now a distinct expression of horror. It rose
above the tittle-chat, the tinkling of wine-glasses, the laughter and
all the clack and fizzle of the gay assemblage, sending the guests to
the windows and bringing the music to a stop. Hera took the arm of her
husband, and they started for the staircase. A few steps and they were
face to face with Sandro.
“I beg your pardon, Signore,” he said, his lips twitching.
“What is it?” Tarsis asked.
“I have to tell you, Signore, that his Majesty will not be here”--an
odd fling of cynicism, innocent as it was untimely, born of the
servant’s awe of his master rather than of an instinct to break the
news by degrees.
Tarsis looked as if he would strike the man. He moved closer to him,
fists clinched at his side. “What do you mean?” he demanded.
“The King is dead!”
Those within hearing echoed the words, pressing nearer to Sandro, and
from the windows, by which the news had come from the street, guests
swept toward the group about Tarsis, exclaiming, “The King is slain!”
Tarsis gripped Sandro’s arm. “Tell what you know!” he commanded him.
“I know only this, Signore,” he began--and the jewelled women and
decorated men narrowed the circle about him: “I got it from a customs
guard at the gate. His Majesty had just started from the athletic
grounds. A young workman walked up to the carriage and shot him at
three paces.”
“At three paces!” several women repeated, shocked anew by this detail
of the crime.
“What kind of man is the assassin?”
“The guard said he is a silk-weaver and an anarchist. That was the
rumor from Monza. They have him in charge.”
At the word anarchist, Tarsis, with a quick movement, turned from
Sandro and set his gaze on Mario Forza. The act was so marked that
every eye followed his. Mario returned a steady look, and for a moment
they stood thus, to the amazement of all.
Electric light flooded the scene, flashing back from the gems of the
women. There was the hubbub of the crowd in the street, with its hue
and cry. From the gardens the scent of magnolia came in on the evening
breeze. With a shuddering fear Hera saw the veins of her husband’s neck
strain, as she remembered them in that hour of wrath in the monastery.
He moved a pace closer to Mario. “Honourable Forza,” he said, his voice
like an edged blade, “the worst has happened. Are you content?”
The others were mystified, but Mario had an inkling of what he meant.
“Why do you ask that?” he inquired, striving to be calm.
“Because it is your work!” the other answered, savagely.
“Do you mean, Signor Tarsis, that I have had a hand in this
assassination?”
“That is precisely what I mean.”
“The assertion is absurd, and it is a lie!” Mario declared. “I regret
that I have to say this to you in your own house, but you have forced
me to it.”
Tarsis tossed his head and laughed mockingly. His studied decorum of
the gentleman was forgotten, and he stood forth in the truth of his
native self. A moment he eyed the man he hated in a vulgar effect of
shrewdness, then shook an index finger sidewise before Mario’s face, as
the Sicilian peasant uses to denote that he is not to be gammoned.
“Signori,” he began, turning to the astonished guests at his side,
“this man knows how to play the traitor and at the same time act the
innocent. He and I understand each other excellently. We shall have no
denial from him on that point, I think,” he added, throwing a glance at
his wife. “There are one or two more here who understand.”
“I thought he knew something,” whispered Signora Nobody-in-particular
to her companion. “Delicious! He’s going to tell!”
A similar thought must have impelled Mario. He stepped forward a
little, and, with the sole purpose of saving an insensate husband from
sullying his wife’s name, he spoke to Tarsis, his tone severe, but not
without a shade of entreaty.
“Guard your tongue,” he said. “If you have a quarrel with me, this is
not the time or place.”
Tarsis faced him, with blazing eyes, his last vestige of restraint
thrown off. “I will be judge of the time and place to speak!” he
exclaimed. “You know too well what I meant when I said this is your
work. Perhaps there are some here who do not catch my meaning. You and
your crew of demagogues are to blame for the King’s death. I charge
you with it publicly. You poison the minds of ignorant people, set the
workers against their betters, teach them to hate authority, incite
them to riot and bloodshed. I say that you have plotted against the
King’s life, and are just as much the taker of it as the miscreant who
fired the shot.”
It was so different from what he had expected and dreaded that Mario
felt more of relief than resentment. That Tarsis had omitted Hera’s
name seemed a full requital for the wrong done him in that reckless
accusation. Nevertheless, he would have replied to it but for the
Cardinal, who raised his hand and invoked peace in the name of heaven.
“It is hard to hold one’s peace,” Tarsis protested sullenly, “when such
a deed is done, and the instigator of it stands before one’s eyes
under his own roof.”
Mario was about to leave the palace, but the Cardinal touched his arm.
“Stay a while,” he said, “and I will go with you.” For a moment he held
Tarsis in the regard of his kindly though keen eyes, as if studying
him. “Much of the injustice that man does his neighbour is by reason
of his seeing him through the glass but darkly,” he affirmed, in the
manner of one who would dispel a misunderstanding. “It is not the first
time that the Honourable Forza has been called a demagogue, but always
it has been a calumny. I, who am his friend and know him, can do no
less than say this. To be a demagogue, I take it, is to be at war with
truth--to strive for popular favour by inflaming the selfish passions
of men. I am sure he has not done that. He has wielded a lance, and
an able one, but always it has been the lance of truth and valour. He
has striven to mellow the world’s hard hopes with even-handed justice.
Wrong is not a mender of wrong. The sorrow we all feel in this hour
and revengeful passions go ill together. The occasion does not call
for denunciation or abuse of men or doctrines. Let us try to find
the use there may be in this as in all adversity. Anarchy has no more
determined foe than Signor Forza. His war is upon offenders against
human justice, and that is the same as war upon anarchy. No one loves
his country more than he, no one loved the King more. I know that his
public services are in harmony with the things that we all should hold
best--the Church, which is of Christ, and Italy, which is our country.”
In the hush that reigned Mario said, “I thank your Eminence,” and Hera,
silently, breathed a thanksgiving.
Tarsis had not spoken his last word. His lips were curving with the
sarcastic smile that he could summon. “I perceive,” he remarked, “that
your Eminence has become an apostate to the New Democracy.”
The Cardinal made no reply, though he stood a second or two weighing
the words. Then, with the calmness of one who has schooled himself to
avoid fruitless and painful discussion, he turned, smiling, to Mario.
“Shall we go, Honourable?” he said, and the other inclined his
head. They gave a parting word to Hera, and, bowing to the rest of
the company, moved toward the door. As they passed nearly all made
reverence to the Cardinal. Their exit proved the signal for a general
departure of the guests, and with scant ceremony the company began to
go its way.