THE COUNT'S CONFEDERATE
Count Romanoff sat alone in his room. On one side the window of his room
faced Piccadilly with its great seething tide of human traffic, from
another St. James's Park was visible. But the Count was not looking at
either; he was evidently deep in his own thoughts, and it would appear
that those thoughts were not agreeable.
He was not a pleasant-looking man as he sat there that day. He was
carefully dressed, and had the appearance of a polished man of the
world. No stranger would have passed him by without being impressed by
his personality--a dark and sinister personality possibly, but still
striking, and distinguished. No one doubted his claim to the title of
Count, no one imagined him to be other than a great personage. But he
was not pleasant to look at. His eyes burnt with a savage glare, his
mouth, his whole expression, was cruel. It might seem as though he had
been balked in his desire, as though some cruel disappointment had made
him angry.
More than once his hands clenched and unclenched themselves as he
muttered angrily, savagely, while again and again a laugh of vindictive
triumph passed his lips. And yet even in his laugh of triumph there was
something of doubt. He was perturbed, he was furious.
"But he shall be mine," he said at length, "mine! and then----"
But his tone lacked certainty; his eyes burnt with anger because he had
not been able to accomplish his designs.
"It might be that he was especially watched over," he reflected, as
though some beneficent Providence were fighting for him. "Providence!
Providence! As though----!"
He started to his feet and began to pace the room. His stride was angry,
his whole appearance suggested defeat--a defeat which he had determined
to transform to triumph.
"Good! Evil!" he cried. "Yes, that is it. Good! Evil! And I have given
myself over to evil, and I have sworn that evil could be made stronger
than good! I have sworn to exemplify it, in the case of that young fool,
Dick Faversham. I thought I should have accomplished it long ago but I
have so far failed, failed!"
He still continued to pace the room, although apparently he was
unconscious of the fact. There was a far-off look in his eyes, a look
that almost suggested despair.
"Does it mean after all that right is stronger than wrong, that right is
more eternally established in the world than wrong? That in the sweep of
events the power of right is slowly but surely conquering and crushing
the evil, that the story of what is called evolution is the story of the
angel in man overcoming the beast?"
Again he laughed, and the laugh had a cruel ring in it.
"No, no; evil is triumphant. Nearly two thousand years have passed since
the Man of Nazareth was crucified, and yet for years the devil has been
triumphant. Europe has been deluged in blood, world hatreds have been
created, murder has been the order of the day, and the earth has been
soaked in blood. No, no; evil is triumphant. The Cross has been a
failure, and Him who died on it defeated!"
He paused in his angry march around the room, and again he looked
doubtful.
"No, no," he cried; "cruelty, lies, treason, have not triumphed. Germany
is beaten; her doctrine that might was right--a doctrine born in
hell--has been made false. After all this sword-clanging, all the
vauntings about an invincible army, materialism, devilry, have failed.
Germany is being humbled to the dust, and her militarism defeated and
disgraced."
The thought was evidently wormwood to him, for his features worked
convulsively, his eyes were bloodshot. It might seem that the triumph of
right filled him with torture.
Presently he shrugged his shoulders impatiently, and lifted his hands
above his head as though he would throw a burden from him.
"But that is not my affair," he cried. "It was for me to conquer that
man, to make him my slave. I swore to do it. I had every chance, and I
thought that he, young, ambitious, and subject to all human passions,
would be an easy victim. He was no dreamer, he had none of the makings
of an ascetic, much less a saint, and yet so far he has beaten me. He
still lives what is called the clean, healthy life. He still mocks me.
It might be that he is specially guarded, that some angel of good were
constantly fighting against me, constantly defeating me."
The thought seemed to disconcert Romanoff. A look almost like fear swept
over his features, and again something like despair came into his eyes.
"But no, I have other weapons in my armoury yet," he reflected. "He is
no religious fanatic, no pious prig with ideals, he is still ambitious,
still craves for all the things that humanity longs for."
A clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour of six.
"He should soon be here," he reflected. "I told him not to waste a
second."
At that moment there was a knock at the door, and a second later a man
entered who gave the appearance of having come from a distance.
He was a mild, placid-looking creature whose very walk suggested that he
was constantly making an apology for his existence. A creature not of
highways, but of byways, a humble Uriah Heep sort of fellow who could
act like a whipped cur in his desire to curry favour, but who in his
hour of triumph would show his fangs, and rend his victim without mercy.
"You are back to time, Slyme. Well, what news?"
By this time Romanoff was the great gentleman again--haughty,
patronising, calm, and collected.
"Of course your honour has heard that he's in? I wired the moment I
knew."
"Yes, I knew that before I got your wire. A servant in the hotel here
told me the moment it was ticked off on the tape. Of course I expected
that. Naturally it was uncertain, as all such things are. One can
calculate on the actions of the few; but not on those of the many. Human
nature is a funny business."
"Isn't it, your Excellency? It's a remark I've often dared to make; one
can never tell what'll happen. But he's in; he's the Member for
Eastroyd."
"With over a thousand majority."
"I've discovered that he's coming up to town by the midnight train from
Eastroyd."
"Ah!" The Count's eyes flashed with interest.
"Yes, he seemed very much delighted at his victory, and is coming up I
suppose to consult with other Members of his party."
"Of course he's delighted with his victory. For heaven's sake refrain
from remarking on the obvious. Tell me about the election."
"What does your honour, that is, your lordship, want to hear about? What
phase of the election, I mean?"
"You had your instructions. Report on them."
"Well, if I may say so," remarked Slyme apologetically, "although he has
over a thousand majority, he has very much disappointed the people."
"Why? In what way?"
"He isn't so much of a firebrand as he was. The people complain that he
is too mealy-mouthed."
"Less of a people's man, do you mean?"
"I don't say that quite. But he's more moderate. He talks like a man
trying to see all sides of a question."
The Count reflected a few seconds, and then snapped his fingers.
"And his private life?" the Count questioned.
"As far as I could find out, blameless."
"Have the wealthier classes taken up with him at all?"
"No, not actively. But they are far less bitter towards him. They are
saying that he's an honest man. I do not say that for myself. I'm only
quoting," added the little man.
Romanoff asked many questions on this head, which the little man
answered apologetically, as if with a desire to know his employer's
views before making direct statements.
"There are generally a lot of scandals at a political election," went on
the Count. "I suppose that of Eastroyd was no exception?" He said this
meaningly, as though there were an understanding between them.
Little Polonius Slyme laughed in a sniggering way. "Polonius" was the
name by which he was known among his friends, and more than once the
Count used it when addressing him.
"I made many inquiries in that direction," he replied; "I even went so
far as to insinuate certain things," he added with a covert look towards
the Count. "I had some success, but not much."
But the Count's face was like a mask. Polonius Slyme could tell nothing
of his thoughts.
"I did not think your lordship would be offended?" he queried with a
cunning look in his eyes.
"Go on."
"I had some success, but not much."
"What were your insinuations about? Drink, drug-taking, debt,
unfaithfulness to his class?--what?"
"Oh, there was no possibility of doing anything on those lines,
although, as I said, there was some disappointment on the last head. But
that's nothing. I reflected that he was a young man, and a bachelor--a
good-looking bachelor." He added the last words with a suggestive
giggle.
"I see. Well?"
"Of course he is a great favourite with the fair sex. By dint of very
careful but persistent investigation I discovered that two ladies are
deeply in love with him."
Romanoff waited in silence.
"One is the daughter of a wealthy manufacturer, quite the belle of the
town among the moneyed classes. I inquired about her. There is no doubt
that she's greatly interested in him."
"And he?"
"He's been seen in her company."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Oh, nothing. She would be a good match for him, that's all. There was a
rumour that she had visited his lodgings late at night."
"Which rumour you started?"
"I thought it might be useful some day. As for the other woman, she's a
mill girl. A girl who could be made very useful, I should think."
"Yes, how?"
"She's undoubtedly very much in love with him--after her own fashion.
She possesses a kind of gipsy beauty, has boundless ambitions, is of a
jealous disposition, and would stop at nothing to gain her desires."
"And is Faversham friendly with her?"
"Just friendly enough for one to start a scandal in case of necessity.
And the girl, as you may say, not being overburdened with conscientious
scruples, could be made very useful."
Romanoff reflected for some time, then he turned to Slyme again.
"Slyme," he said, "I don't think you need go any further in that
direction. Faversham is scarcely the man to deal with in the way you
suggest. Still you can keep them in mind. One never knows what may
happen."
Polonius Slyme was evidently puzzled. He looked cautiously,
suspiciously, at the face of the other, as if trying to understand him.
"I have tried to do your lordship's will," he ventured.
"Yes, and on the whole I'm satisfied with what you've done. Yes, what is
it?"
"If your lordship would deign to trust me," he said.
"Trust you? In what way?"
"If you would tell me what is in your mind, I could serve you better,"
he asserted, with a nervous laugh. "All the time I have been acting in
the dark. I don't understand your lordship."
The Count smiled as though he were pleased.
"What do you want to know?" he asked.
"I am very bold, I know, and doubtless I am not worthy to have the
confidence of one so great and so wise as your lordship. But I have
tried to be worthy, I have worked night and day for you--not for the
wages, liberal though they are, but solely for the purpose of being
useful to you. And I could, I am sure, be more useful if I knew your
mind, if I knew exactly what you wanted. I am sure of this: if I knew
your purposes in relation to Faversham, if I knew what you wanted to do
with him, I could serve you better."
The Count looked at Slyme steadily for some seconds.
"I allow no man to understand my mind, my purposes," the Count answered.
"Certainly, your lordship," assented the little man meekly; "only your
lordship doubtless sees that--that I am handicapped. I don't think I'm a
fool," he added; "I am as faithful as a dog, and as secret as the
grave."
"You want to know more than that," replied Romanoff harshly.
Polonius Slyme was silent.
"You want to know who I am," continued the Count. "You have been puzzled
because I, who am known as a Russian, should interest myself in this man
Faversham, and up to now you, in spite of the fact that you've hunted
like a ferret, have found out nothing. More than that, you cannot think
why I fastened on you to help me, and, cunning little vermin that you
are, you stopped at nothing to discover it."
"But only in your interest," assented the little man eagerly; "only
because I wanted to deserve the honour you have bestowed upon me."
"I am disposed to be communicative," went on the Count; "disposed to
make something of a confidante of you. Of my secret mind, you, nor no
man, shall know anything, but I will let you know something."
Polonius Slyme drew nearer his master and listened like a fox. "Yes,
your lordship," he whispered.
"Look here, Polonius, you have just told me that you are a man of
brains: suppose that you wanted to get a strong man in your power, to
make him your slave, body and soul, what would you do? Suppose also that
you had great, but still limited power, that your knowledge was wide,
but with marked boundaries, how would you set to work?"
"Every man has his weaknesses," replied Polonius. "I should discover
them, fasten upon them, and make my plans accordingly."
"Yes, that's right. Now we'll suppose that Faversham is the man, what
would you regard as his weaknesses?"
"Pride, ambition, a love, almost amounting to a passion, for power,"
answered the little man quickly. "That would mean a longing for wealth,
a craving for fame."
"And conscience?" queried the Count.
"He has a conscience," replied the little man; "a conscience which may
be called healthily normal."
"Just so. Now I'll tell you something. I've placed wealth in his way,
and he has rejected it for conscience sake. I've tempted him with power
and fame, almost unlimited power and fame, and although he's seen the
bait, he has not risen to it."
Polonius was silent for some time. Evidently he was thinking deeply;
evidently, too, he saw something of what lay behind the Count's words,
for he nodded his head sagely, and into his cunning eyes came a look of
understanding.
"Of course you do not care to tell me why you want to make him your
slave, body and soul?" he whispered.
"No!" the Count almost snarled. "No man may know that."
"You ask what I would do next?"
"Yes, I ask that."
"No man is invulnerable," said the little man, as though he were talking
to himself. "No man ever was, no man ever will be. Every man has his
price, and if one can pay it----"
"There is no question of price," said the Count eagerly; "nothing need
stand in the way, any price can be paid."
"I see, I see," and the little man's foxy eyes flashed. "You want to
work the man's moral downfall," he added. "You want to make him a slave
to your will--_not_ to make him a saint?"
The Count was silent.
"If I wanted to make such a man a slave to my will, and I had such means
as you suggest, I should find a woman to help me. A woman beautiful,
fascinating, unscrupulous. I would instruct her to be an angel of light.
I would make her be the medium whereby he could obtain all that such as
he desires, and I would make him believe that in getting her he would
find the greatest and best gift in life, a gift whereby all that was
highest and best in this life, and in the life to come, could be got. At
the same time she must be a _woman_, a woman that should appeal to his
desires, and make his pulses throb at the thought of possessing her."
For some time they spoke eagerly together, the Count raising point after
point, which the little man was not slow to answer.
"Polonius, did I not know otherwise, I should say you were the devil,"
laughed Romanoff.
"I know you are," replied the little man in great glee.
"What do you mean?" and there was a kind of fear in the Russian's voice.
"Only that your cleverness is beyond that of ordinary mankind. You have
thought of all this long before you asked me."
"Have I? Perhaps I have; but I wanted your opinion."
"The difficulty is to find the woman."
"In two minutes she will be here. Go into the next room and watch, and
listen. After she has gone, you shall tell me what you think of her."
A minute later the door opened, and Olga Petrovic entered the room.