LOUIS DE PALEOLOGUE
I
Do you know Ragusa--Ragusa, the Pearl of the Adriatic?
It was here that the Imperial yacht carried the Emperor when at last he
sailed from Trieste--here that John Faber saw him within three hours of
his going ashore.
Here also Faber found the man he had sought so many years. Louis de
Paleologue, who had taken his mother to America after his father's death
in Paris.
Ragusa--what city is like to this of all that border the incomparable
shore? Sebenico, Zara, Spalato--who cares if they perish while Ragusa
remains?
Consider how through the centuries this little republic shut the gates
of her sanctuary in the face alike of Moslem and of Christian; how she
defied now the Turk, now the Servian, even the mighty power of Venice at
its zenith. Neither friend nor foe coming to her for shelter was
refused. She protected Stephen Nemanja, who fought her allies of the
Byzantine Empire; she opened her gates to Queen Margarita, and defended
them against the King of Dalmatia. The "winged lion" writes no shame
upon her citadel. She fell at last, not to man, but to the very earth
which opened and swallowed her up. There was never a history of Ragusa
after that fateful year 1667. The great earthquake ended a
story--Napoleon wrote but a sorry epitaph.
What a cosmopolitan company is that which gathers every day within the
tremendous walls of this fallen citadel. All the colours of the Balkan
peoples are to be seen here--the flag and turban of the Turk; the white
breeches of the Albanian--Joseph's coat upon the back of the son of the
Black Mountain. Servians are here: Bosnians and men of Herzegovina;
Italians who have drifted down from northern towns; Austrians in
possession. Crimson clashes with the sky-blue tunics of the Austrian
officers--there are deep reds and glowing tints of orange--all moving in
kaleidoscopic splendour through streets which the extended arms may
measure; by churches and palaces, which are matchless in their art. A
city girded by the libidinous foliage of the south; a city of
half-lights and shaded cloisters; of a fortress running out into the
blue Adriatic, lifting mighty walls to the caress of the kindly seas.
II
Louis de Paleologue had taken up his abode in a veritable hole in the
wall near the Dominican monastery. The place was dark and cavernous, and
might have been (but for its monstrous stones) a booth in an Eastern
bazaar. When he worked it was in the cool of the monastery gardens, the
monks stealing looks over his shoulder at wonderful forms in bewitching
_négligé_--or even at terpsichoreal advertisements of pills and powder.
For despite his sixty-two years, and the fact that he was a prince in
his own country, Louis still earned his living by the advertisers, and
was held to be the cleverest draughtsman at the business.
One grievance he had, and one joy--his daughter Maryska, nineteen upon
her last birthday, and still a child. Maryska like her father (and
another celebrity who has had a statue raised to him) never grew up. She
was the youngest woman of nineteen in the whole wide world, and when
father and daughter went for "a rag" together, it was wonderful that
anything at all was left in the Cantina--as he had named the house.
Such days they passed! Louis, prone in the sun with a cigarette in his
mouth; Maryska, flitting about the scene like a schoolgirl at play! They
went hand in hand everywhere like sworn friends in an academy for young
ladies. What money they earned would be sometimes in his pocket,
sometimes in hers. They quarrelled babyishly--the man shedding tears
more often than the girl. Yet he would have put his knife into the heart
of any who did her injury, with as little thought as he would have
killed a stray dog at his door. There had been one such tragedy at
Zara--the body was found in the harbour some days afterwards.
Maryska was a cosmopolitan. She had starved in New York, in London, in
Paris, in Berlin. Now she starved in Ragusa--except upon those splendid
occasions when a cheque came from England. Then the Austrian banker
would be fetched out of bed or café to cash it. They were rare days, for
Louis would knock down the bottles like ninepins, and never turn a hair
whatever their number. Maryska drank just as much as she could, and then
fell asleep. He used to shout and swear because she would not wake up to
draw another cork for him.
Latterly, it had been the devil to pay at the Cantina. Louis had lived
in prospective upon six disorderly nymphs--all décolleté--who were to
have proclaimed the merits, _urbi et orbi_, of a new suspender for
ladies of fashion. These drawings were quite wonderful. The prior of the
monastery who no doubt, may have imagined that they were part of a
scheme for a stained glass window, thought very highly of them. The
Austrian officers begged for copies of the paper. The governor laughed
and had a fit of coughing. He wanted to know where the models came from.
Louis would not tell him that, except to say that they were memories of
Paris and New York. He rarely drew the beautiful dark face of
Maryska--but there is a portrait of her in the church of St. John the
Divine in London, and many would swear it is a madonna of an old master.
Louis painted it for the priest, who used to tell him he was a
scoundrel. It was so very true.
Well, the pictures were drawn and dispatched to London; and then a
dreadful thing happened. The firm, which understood the female mysteries
so well, treated the financial verities with a contempt which quickly
ended in Carey Street. No cheque came to that hole in the wall at
Ragusa. Squat-legged and patient, Louis smoked his cigarette and
listened to Maryska's wholly unmelodious music. There was bread in the
house, but no wine. Well, wine would come presently.
Wine did not come, but in its place came John Faber. For a moment, Louis
thought that a customer had crossed the seas to buy his pictures. Then
he said that the firm, which was suspended because of its suspenders,
had sent an embassy with the cash. However it might be, he determined to
borrow five crowns of the stranger, and saluted him with princely
politeness.
Maryska, meanwhile, stood up ready to go to the wine-shop.
III
Faber took off his hat at the entrance to the cavern, and blinked in the
darkness. He saw a handsome man squatting on the floor, and behind him a
pair of eyes which glowed as a cat's. They belonged to Maryska; but he
did not know, indeed, he wondered if there were wild beasts in the
place.
"Say, does anyone named Louis de Paleologue live here?"
The accent transplanted father and daughter to New York in an instant.
What years they had lived there! How they regretted them!
"He does, sir, and what then?"
"You are Mr. Paleologue?"
"That is so. My daughter--she doesn't bite--at least, only me!"
Maryska's teeth were to be counted on the instant. She laughed as the
Italians laugh, without reservations.
"_Accidenti!_" she cried, and then coming out into the light, "_caro
mio_--he is too tough, poppa, I should spoil my teeth!"
Faber saluted her in a way he intended to be Continental.
"You have been in New York, signorina?"
"Five years, mister. I am all Americano!"
"Then I'll walk right in, if I may."
He did not wait for permission, but entered the cavern. It was evident
that he would have liked a chair, but seeing none, he accepted a mat
which she offered.
"Poppa burned all the chairs long ago. Can you sit down on nothing,
mister?"
He said that he could, looking at Maryska all the while. Louis took a
box of Bosnian cigarettes from the floor and passed it over.
"Say, are you thirsty, boss?"
Faber smiled at that.
"Well, this is thirsty ground. As the governor said--but I guess ye
don't know what the governor----"
"Bet you!" He said. "'Don't let it be long between the drinks.' There's
a wine-shop two blocks away."
Maryska stepped forward, as keen as a hound. She held out her hand for
the money without any shame at all--she and her father had been holding
it out for years--yet some of Louis' gifts in return had been more
precious than gold.
"How much shall I give you?" Faber asked. She replied that a kronen
would be ample. He gave it her, and she was away in a flash.
They smoked a space in silence when she was gone. Presently Faber said:
"Business good down this way?"
Louis did not like the tone of it, and the quills of his pride
stiffened. "What's that to you?"
"Might be a good deal--I'm in dead earnest."
"What's your line--pills or powder?"
"I'm neither. I make guns."
"Want me to fire 'em off--well, I'm ready. What's the size?"
Faber smiled.
"Not quite it," he said; and then wandering right away from the subject,
"I wish I'd known you were in New York. You didn't work under your own
name there."
"That's so. I used to sign just 'Louis.'"
"Will you draw me a picture of Maryska--for my house? A thousand dollars
now and another thousand when it's delivered?"
Louis drew back a little.
"Why the girl?"
"You must know why. There couldn't be a better subject."
"Yes; but if I do not choose to do it, what then?"
"Why, then I'm beaten."
He threw away the stump of his cigarette and took another. Presently
Maryska returned with the flask of white wine and the glasses were
chinked. The child drank a draught which would have put a vintner to
shame. Then she showed her pretty teeth.
"Oh, how good!" she said, and then with a heavenly sigh, "_Ecco c'e
vuoto_."
"Think you could do another?" Faber asked Louis. The reply was quite
stately.
"Sir, I am at your disposition."
Maryska went off with five crowns this time. When she was gone, her
father thawed a little.
"Have you seen much of this place?"
"Just as much as the harbour showed me."
"Staying here long?"
"Why, as to that--why stay?"
Paleologue knocked the ashes off his cigarette with magnificent dignity.
"You make guns; why not see some of them go off?"
"Do you suggest fighting?"
"That's so. I'm going up to Podgorica in three days' time, afterwards on
to the frontier. There'll be riot, rape and pillage. Like to come
along?"
Faber was a little nonplussed.
"Do you go alone?" he asked.
"The girl and I, certainly. We can talk business on the road. Why not?"
"Oh, I'll come! Here's the wine, I see. She's a wonder that girl of
yours."
Louis assented.
"Her bringing up; she has forgotten how to read and write. It is
education which is the matter nowadays. I believe the Greeks knew women.
Come here, wild cat, and tell the stranger you can't read or write."
Maryska reddened at this and cried "Beast!" with real anger. She sulked
for quite a long time, hiding in the dark corner where only her glowing
eyes could be seen. Louis took no notice of her tantrums; he had begun
to be rather interested in the stranger.
"Say, you know the fighting may be a bit lively. I'm bound for
Ranovica--want to see it burned. There was a man here yesterday from the
London illustrated papers. He's out for fancy pictures and put me on.
He's mighty anxious after the rape and pillage. I guess we'll see
something of that at Ranovica."
Faber looked at the girl; she did not seem to be listening.
"Aren't you imprudent? Isn't it better to leave your daughter here?" he
asked in a low voice.
Louis did not understand him. "Where I go, she goes. Besides, they know
me very well, these people. You are not afraid, mister?"
"Afraid! How do we go?"
"Steamer to Antivari."
"I'll take you on my yacht."
Louis expressed no surprise. If his guest had promised a warship with
golden plates his sphinx-like attitude would have been unchanged.
"Just as you like," he said. "We take the horses at Scutari anyway."
To which Faber responded with a further offer. "I've a car on my ship;
we'll put her ashore and try that road."
Louis shook his head. "No good at all; there isn't any damned road.
To-day's Saturday; shall we say to-morrow morning at ten?"
"But it was to be three days' time."
Louis yawned. "Oh, d----n time!" he said. "I never think of it."
"Then we'll start to-morrow at ten."
He drank off his wine and turned to look at Maryska. She had crept
nearer while they talked, and her head was bent to the floor that she
might not miss a word. When Faber held out his hand to her she leaned
upon her elbows and looked at him with strange eyes.
"Good-bye, mister!"
"You are coming on my ship, Maryska."
"Not with that man," and she pointed to her father.
"Pouf!" said Louis. "I will flay you with the whip."
"And I will kill you with my knife," she said quickly, in Italian.
It was the customary exchange of their daily compliments. Louis rather
liked it.
"Say," he exclaimed on the threshold, "and who may you be, anyway?"
"I? Why, my name's John Faber."
"Faber--Faber? I used to know a Faber in Paris in the 'seventies."
"His son, sir."
Louis turned his cigarette over in his mouth.
"How did you hear of me?" he asked.
"Oh, I got your name in Paris. The _New York Mitre_ people gave it to
me."
"That's odd; I used to know your mother forty years ago. Well, so long,"
and he turned on his heel.