THE KING’S DEFENDER
Rumour, we are told, has a million tongues, and they were soon all at
work, wagging out the news of the Crown Prince’s mysterious departure.
Each tongue told a different story, and none of the stories tallied.
No information was to be obtained at Court. There nothing was said, but
that the Prince, disliking the formal ceremony of a public departure,
had privately set sail in his own yacht for his projected tour round
the world. Nobody believed this; and the general impression soon gained
ground that the young man had fallen into disgrace with his Royal
parents, and had been sent away for a time till he should recognize the
enormity of his youthful indiscretions.
“Sent away--you understand!” said the society gossips; “To avoid further
scandal!”
The Prince’s younger brothers, Rupert and Cyprian, were often plied
with questions by their intimates, but knowing nothing, and truly caring
less, they could give no explanation. Neither King nor Queen spoke a
word on the subject; and Sir Roger de Launay, astonished and perplexed
beyond measure as he was at this turn in affairs, dared not put any
questions even to his friend Professor von Glauben who, as soon as the
news of the Prince’s departure was known, resolutely declined to speak,
so he said, “on what did not concern him.” Gradually, however, this
excitement partially subsided to give place to other forms of social
commotion, which beginning in trifles, swiftly expanded to larger and
more serious development. The first of these was the sudden rise of
a newspaper which had for many years subsisted with the greatest
difficulty in opposition to the many journals governed by David Jost. It
happened in this manner.
Several leading articles written in favour of a Jesuit settlement in
the country, had appeared constantly in Jost’s largest and most widely
circulated newspaper, and the last of these ‘leaders,’ had concluded
with the assertion that though his Majesty, the King, had at first
refused the portion of Crown-lands needed by the Society for building,
he had now ‘graciously’ re-considered the situation, and had been
pleased to revoke his previous decision. Whereat, the very next morning
the rival ‘daily’ had leaped into prominence by merely two headlines:
THE JESUIT SETTLEMENT STATEMENT BY HIS MAJESTY THE KING.
And there, plainly set forth, was the Royal and authoritative refusal to
grant the lands required, ‘Because of the earnest petition of our loving
subjects against the said grant,’--and till ‘our loving subjects’’
objections were removed, the lands would be withheld. This public
announcement signed by the King in person, created the most
extraordinary sensation throughout the whole country. It was the one
topic at every social meeting; it was the one subject of every sermon.
Preachers stormed and harangued in every pulpit, and Monsignor Del
Fortis, lifting up his harsh raucous voice in the Cathedral itself,
addressed an enormous congregation one Sunday morning on the matter,
and denounced the King, the Queen, and the mysteriously-departed Crown
Prince in the most orthodox Christian manner, commending them to the
flames of hell, and the mercy of a loving God at one and the same
moment.
Meanwhile, the newspaper that had been permitted to publish the King’s
statement got its circulation up by tens of thousands, the more so as
certain brilliant and fiery articles on the political situation began
to appear therein signed by one Pasquin Leroy, a stranger to the reading
public, but in whom the spirit of a modern ‘Junius’ appeared to have
entered for the purpose of warning, threatening and commanding. A
scathing and audacious attack upon Carl Pérousse, Secretary of State, in
which the small darts of satire flew further than the sharpest arrows of
assertion, was among the first of these, and Pérousse himself, maddened
like a bull at the first prick of the toreador, by the stinging truths
the writer uttered, or rather suggested, lost no time in summoning
General Bernhoff to a second interview.
“Did I not tell you,” he said, pointing to the signature at the end of
the offending article, “to ‘shadow’ that man, and arrest him as a common
spy?”
Bernhoff bowed stiffly.
“You did! But it is difficult to arrest one who is not capable of being
arrested. I must be provided first with proofs of his guilt; and I must
also obtain the King’s order.”
“Proofs should be easy enough for you to obtain,” said Pérousse
fiercely; “And the King will sign any warrant he is told. At least, you
can surely find this rascal out?--where he lives, and what are his means
of subsistence?”
“If he were here, I could,” responded Bernhoff calmly; “I have made
all the necessary preliminary enquiries. The man is a gentleman of
considerable wealth. He writes for his own amusement, and--from
a distance. I advise you--” and here the General held up an
obstinate-looking finger of warning; “I advise you, I say, to let him
alone! I can find no proof whatever that he is a spy.”
“Proof! I can give you enough--” began Pérousse hotly, then paused in
confusion. For what could he truly say? If he told the Chief of Police
that this Pasquin Leroy was believed to have counterfeited the Prime
Minister’s signet, in order to obtain an interview with David Jost, why
then the Chief of Police would be informed once and for all that the
Prime Minister was in confidential communication with the Jew-proprietor
of a stock-jobbing newspaper! And that would never do! It would, at
the least, be impolitic. Inwardly chafing with annoyance, he assumed an
outward air of conscientious gravity.
“You will regret it, General, I think, if you do not follow out my
suggestions respecting this man,” he said coldly; “He is writing for the
press in a strain which is plainly directed against the Government. Of
course we statesmen pay little or no heed to modern journalism, but the
King, having taken the unusual, and as I consider it, unwise step of
proclaiming certain of his intentions in a newspaper which was, until
his patronage, obscure and unsuccessful, the public attention has been
suddenly turned towards this particular journal; and what is written
therein may possibly influence the masses as it would not have done a
few weeks ago.”
“I quite believe that!” said Bernhoff tersely; “But I cannot arrest
a man for writing clever things. Literary talent is no proof of
dishonesty.”
Pérousse looked at him sharply. But there was no satire in
Bernhoff’s fixed and glassy eye, and no expression whatever in his
woodenly-composed countenance.
“We entertain different opinions on the matter, it is evident!” he
said; “You will at least grant that if he cannot be arrested, he can be
carefully watched?”
“He _is_ carefully watched!” replied Bernhoff; “That is to say, as far
as _I_ can watch him!”
“Good!” and Pérousse smiled, somewhat relieved. “Then on the first
suspicion of a treasonable act----”
“I shall arrest him--in the King’s name, when the King signs the
warrant,” said Bernhoff; “But he is one of Sergius Thord’s followers,
and at the present juncture it might be unwise to touch any member of
that particularly inflammable body.”
Pérousse frowned.
“Sergius Thord ought to have been hanged or shot years ago----”
“Then why did not you hang or shoot him?” enquired Bernhoff.
“I was not in office.”
“Why do you not hang or shoot him now?”
“Why? Because----”
“Because,” interrupted Bernhoff, again lifting his grim warning finger;
“If you did, the city would be in a tumult and more than half the
soldiery would be on the side of the mob! By way of warning, M.
Pérousse, I may as well tell you frankly, on the authority of my
position as Head of the Police, that the Government are on the edge of a
dangerous situation!”
Pérousse looked contemptuous.
“Every Government in the world is on the edge of a dangerous situation
nowadays!” he retorted;--“But any Government that yields to the mob
proves itself a mere ministry of cowardice.”
“Yet the mob often wins,--not only by excess of numbers, but by sheer
force of--honesty!”--said Bernhoff sententiously; “It has been known to
sweep away, and re-make political constitutions before now.”
“It has,”--agreed Pérousse, drawing pens and paper towards him, and
feigning to be busily occupied in the commencement of a letter--“But it
will not indulge itself in such amusements during _my_ time!”
“Ah! I wonder how long your time will last!” muttered Bernhoff to
himself as he withdrew--“Six months or six days? I would not bet on the
longer period!”
In good truth there was considerable reason for the General’s dubious
outlook on affairs. A political storm was brewing. A heavy tidal wave
of discontent was sweeping the masses of the people stormily against the
rocks of existing authority, and loud and bitter and incessant were the
complaints on all sides against the increased taxation levied upon every
rate-payer. Fiercest of all was the clamour made by the poor at
the increasing price of bread, the chief necessity of life; for the
imposition of a heavy duty upon wheat and other cereals had made the
common loaf of the peasant’s daily fare almost an article of luxury.
Stormy meetings were held in every quarter of the city,--protests were
drawn up and signed by thousands,--endless petitions were handed to
the King,--but no practical result came from these. His Majesty was
‘graciously pleased’ to seem blind, deaf and wholly indifferent to the
agitated condition of his subjects. Now and then a Government orator
would mount the political rostrum and talk ‘patriotism’ for an hour
or so, to a more or less sullen audience, informing them with much
high-flown eloquence that, by responding to the Governmental demands
and supporting the Governmental measures, they were strengthening the
resources of the country and completing the efficiency of both Army
and Navy; but somehow, his hydraulic efforts at rousing the popular
enthusiasm failed of effect. Whereas, whenever Sergius Thord spoke,
thousands of throats roared acclamation,--and the very sight of Lotys
passing quietly down the poorer thoroughfares of the city was sufficient
to bring out groups of men and women to their doors, waving their hands
to her, sending her wild kisses,--and almost kneeling before her in
an ecstasy of trust and adoration. Thord himself perceived that the
situation was rapidly reaching a climax, and quietly prepared himself
to meet and cope with it. Two of the monthly business meetings of the
Revolutionary Committee had been held since that on which Pasquin Leroy
and his two friends had been enrolled as members of the Brotherhood,
and at the last of these, Thord took Leroy into his full confidence, and
gave him all the secret clues of the Revolutionary organization which
honeycombed the metropolis from end to end. He had trusted the man in
many ways and found him honest. One trifling proof of this was perhaps
the main reason of Thord’s further reliance upon him; he had fulfilled
his half-suggested promise to bring the sunshine of prosperity into the
hard-working, and more or less sordid life of the little dancing-girl,
Pequita. She had been sent for one morning by the manager of the
Royal Opera, who having seen the ease, grace, and dexterity of her
performance, forthwith engaged her for the entire season at a salary
which when named to the amazed child, seemed like a veritable shower of
gold tumbling by rare chance out of the lap of Dame Fortune. The
manager was a curt, cold business man, and she was afraid to ask him any
questions, for when the words--“I am sure a kind friend has spoken to
you of me--” came timidly from her lips, he had shut up her confidence
at once by the brief answer--
“No. You are mistaken. We accept no personal recommendations. We only
employ proved talent!”
All the same Pequita felt sure that she owed the sudden lifting of her
own and her father’s daily burden of life, to the unforgetting care and
intercession of Leroy. Lotys was equally convinced of the same, and
both she and Sergius Thord highly appreciated their new associate’s
unobtrusive way of doing good, as it were, by stealth. Pequita’s
exquisite grace and agility had made her at once the fashion; the Opera
was crowded nightly to see the ‘wonderful child-dancer’; and valuable
gifts and costly jewels were showered upon her, all of which she brought
to Lotys, who advised her how to dispose of them best, and put by the
money for the comfort and care of her father in the event of sickness,
or the advance of age. Flattered and petted by the great world as she
now was, Pequita never lost her head in the whirl of gay splendour, but
remained the same child-like, loving little creature,--her one idol
her father,--her only confidante, Lotys, whose gentle admonitions and
constant watchfulness saved her from many a dangerous pitfall. As yet,
she had not attained the wish she had expressed, to dance before the
King,--but she was told that at any time his Majesty might visit the
Opera, and that steps would be taken to induce him to do so for the
special purpose of witnessing her performance. So with this half promise
she was fain to be content, and to bear with the laughing taunts of
her ‘Revolutionary’ friends, who constantly teased her and called her
‘little traitor’ because she sought the Royal favour.
Another event, which was correctly or incorrectly traced to Leroy’s
silently working influence, was the sudden meteoric blaze of Paul Zouche
into fame. How it happened, no one knew;--and _why_ it happened was
still more of a mystery, because by all its own tenets and traditions
the social world ought to have set itself dead against the ‘Psalm of
Revolution,’--the title of the book of poems which created such an
amazing stir. But somehow, it got whispered about that the King
had attempted to ‘patronise’ the poet, and that the poet had very
indignantly resented the offered Royal condescension. Whereat, by
degrees, there arose in society circles a murmur of wonder at the poet’s
‘pluck,’ wonder that deepened into admiration, with incessant demand for
his book,--and admiration soon expanded, with the aid of the book, into
a complete “craze.” Zouche’s name was on every lip; invitations to great
houses reached him every week;--his poems began to sell by thousands;
yet with all this, the obstinacy of his erratic nature asserted itself
as usual, undiminished, and Zouche withdrew from the shower of praise
like a snail into its shell,--answered none of the flattering requests
for ‘the pleasure of his company,’ and handed whatever money he made
by his poems over to the funds of the Revolutionary Committee, only
accepting as much out of it as would pay for his clothes, food, lodging,
and--drink! But the more he turned his back on Fame, the more hotly
it pursued him;--his very churlishness was talked about as something
remarkable and admirable,--and when it was suggested that he was fonder
of strong liquor than was altogether seemly, people smiled and nodded
at each other pleasantly, tapped their foreheads meaningly and murmured:
‘Genius! Genius!’ as though that were a quality allied of divine
necessity to alcoholism.
These two things,--the advent of a new dancer at the Opera, and the
fame of Paul Zouche, were the chief topics of ‘Society’ outside its own
tawdry personal concern; but under all the light froth and spume of the
pleasure-seeking, pleasure-loving whirl of fashion, a fierce tempest
was rising, and the first whistlings of the wind of revolt were already
beginning to pierce through the keyholes and crannies of the stately
building allotted to the business of Government;--so much so indeed that
one terrible night, all unexpectedly, a huge mob, some twenty thousand
strong, surrounded it, armed with every conceivable weapon from muskets
to pickaxes, and shouted with horrid din for ‘Bread and Justice!’--these
being considered co-equal in the bewildered mind of the excited
multitude. Likewise did they scream with protrusive energy: ‘Give us
back our lost Trades!’ being fully aware, despite their delirium, that
these said ‘lost Trades’ were being sold off into ‘Trusts,’ wherein
Ministers themselves held considerable shares, A two-sided clamour
was also made for ‘The King! The King!’ one side appealing, the other
menacing,--the latter under the belief that his Majesty equally had
‘shares’ in the bartered Trades,--the former in the hope that the
country’s Honour might still be saved with the help of their visible
Head.
Much difficulty was experienced in clearing this surging throng of
indignant humanity, for though the soldiery were called out to effect
the work, they were more than half-hearted in their business, having
considerable grievances of their own to avenge,--and when ordered
to fire on the people, flatly refused to do so. Two persons however
succeeded at last in calming and quelling the tumult. One was Sergius
Thord,--the other Lotys. Carl Pérousse, seized with an access of
‘nerves’ within the cushioned luxury of his own private room in the
recesses of the Government buildings, from whence he had watched the
demonstration, peered from one of the windows, and saw one half of the
huge mob melt swiftly away under the command of a tall, majestic-looking
creature, whose massive form and leonine head appeared Ajax-like above
the throng; and he watched the other half turn round in brisk order,
like a well-drilled army, and march off, singing loudly and lustily,
headed by a woman carried shoulder-high before them, whose white robes
gleamed like a flag of truce in the glare of the torches blazing around
her;--and to his utter amazement, fear and disgust, he heard the very
soldiers shouting her name: “Lotys! Lotys!” with ever-increasing and
thunderous plaudits of admiration and homage. Often and often had he
heard that name,--often and often had he dismissed it from his thoughts
with light masculine contempt. Often, too, had it come to the ears
of his colleague the Premier, who as has been shown, even in intimate
converse with his own private secretary, feigned complete ignorance
of it. But it is well understood that politicians generally, and
diplomatists always, assume to have no knowledge whatever concerning
those persons of whom they are most afraid. Yet just now it was
unpleasantly possible that “the stone which the builders rejected” might
indirectly be the means of crushing the Ministry, and reorganizing
the affairs of the country. His meditations on this occasion were
interrupted by a touch on the shoulder from behind, and, looking up, he
saw the Marquis de Lutera.
“Almost a riot!” he said, forcing a pale smile,--“But not quite!”
“Say, rather, almost a revolution!” retorted the Marquis
brusquely;--“Jesting is out of place. We are on the brink of a very
serious disaster! The people are roused. To-night they threatened to
burn down these buildings over our heads,--to sack and destroy the
King’s Palace. The Socialist leader, Thord, alone saved the situation.”
“With the aid of his mistress?” suggested Pérousse with a sneer.
“You mean the woman they call Lotys? I am not aware that she is his
mistress. I should rather doubt it. The people would not make such a
saint of her if she were. At any rate, whatever else she may be, she
is certainly dangerous;--and in a country less free than ours would be
placed under arrest. I must confess I never believed in her ‘vogue’ with
the masses, until to-night.”
Pérousse was silent. The great square in front of the Government
buildings was now deserted,--save for the police and soldiery on guard;
but away in the distance could still be heard faint echoes of singing
and cheering from the broken-up sections of the crowd that had lately
disturbed the peace.
“Have you seen the King lately?” enquired Lutera presently.
“No.”
“By his absolute ‘veto’ against our propositions at the last Cabinet
Council, the impending war which would have been so useful to us, has
been quashed in embryo,” went on the Premier with a frown;--“This of
course you know! And he has the right to exercise his veto if he likes.
But I scarcely expected you after all you said, to take the matter so
easily!”
Pérousse smiled, and shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly.
“However,” continued the Marquis with latent contempt in his tone;--“I
now quite understand your complacent attitude! You have simply turned
your ‘Army Supplies Contract’ into a ‘Trust’ Combine with other
nations,--so you will not lose, but rather gain by the transaction!”
“I never intended to lose!” said Pérousse calmly; “I am not troubled
with scruples. One form of trade is as good as another. The prime object
of life nowadays is to make money!”
Lutera looked at him, but said nothing.
“To amalgamate all the steel industries into one international Union,
and get as many shares myself in the combine is not at all an unwise
project,” went on Pérousse,--“For if our country is not to fight, other
countries will;--and they will require guns and swords and all such
accoutrements of war. Why should we not satisfy the demand and pocket
the cash?”
Still the Marquis looked at him steadily.
“Are you aware,”--he asked at last, “that Jost, to save his ‘press’
prestige, has turned informer against you?”
Pérousse sprang up, white with fury.
“By Heaven, if he has dared!--”
“There is no ‘if’ in the case”--said Lutera very coldly--“He has, as he
himself says, ‘done his duty.’ You must be pretty well cognisant of
what a Jew’s notions of ‘duty’ are! They can be summed up in one
sentence;--‘to save his own pocket.’ Jost is driven to fury and
desperation by the sudden success of the rival newspaper, which has been
so prominently favoured by the King. The shares in his own journalistic
concerns are going down rapidly, and he is determined--naturally
enough--to take care of himself before anyone else. He has sold out of
every company with which you have been, or are associated--and has--so
I understand,--sent a complete list of your proposed financial ‘deals,’
investments and other ‘stock’ to--”
He paused.
“Well!” exclaimed Pérousse irascibly--“To whom?”
“To those whom it may concern,”--replied Lutera evasively--“I really can
give you no exact information. I have said enough by way of warning!”
Pérousse looked at him heedfully, and what he saw in that dark brooding
face was not of a quieting or satisfactory nature.
“You are as deeply involved as I am--” he began.
“Pardon!” and the Marquis drew himself up with some dignity--“I _was_
involved;--I am not now. I have also taken care of myself! I may have
been misled, but I shall let no one suffer for my errors. I have sent in
my resignation.”
“Fool!” ejaculated Pérousse, forgetting all courtesy in the sudden
access of rage that took possession of him at these words;--“Fool, I
say! At the very moment when you ought to stick to the ship, you desert
it!”
“Are _you_ not ready to run to the helm?” enquired Lutera with a satiric
smile; “Surely you can have no doubt but that his Majesty will command
you to take office!”
With this, he turned on his heel, and left his colleague to a space
of very disagreeable meditation. For the first time in his bold and
unscrupulous career, Pérousse found himself in an awkward position.
If it were indeed true that Jost and Lutera had thrown up the game,
especially Jost, then he, Pérousse, was lost. He had made of Jost, not
only a tool, but a confidant. He had used him, and his great leading
newspaper for his own political and financial purposes. He had entrusted
him with State secrets, in order to speculate thereon in all the
money-markets of the world. He had induced him to approach the Premier
with crafty promises of support, and to inveigle him by insidious
degrees into the same dishonourable financial ‘deal.’ So that if this
one man,--this fat, unscrupulous turncoat of a Jew,--chose to speak out,
he, Carl Pérousse, Secretary of State, would be the most disgraced and
ruined Minister that ever attempted to defraud a nation! His brows grew
moist with fever-heat, and his tongue parched, with the dry thirst of
fear, as the gravity of the situation was gradually borne in upon him.
He began to calculate contingencies and possibilities of escape from the
toils that seemed closing around him,--and much to his irritation and
embarrassment, he found that most of the ways leading out of difficulty
pointed first of all to,--the King.
The King! The very personage whom he had called a Dummy, only bound
to do as he was told! And now, if he could only persuade the King that
he,--the poor Secretary of State,--was a deeply-injured man, whose
life’s effort had been solely directed towards ‘the good of the
country,’ yet who nevertheless was cruelly wronged and calumniated by
his enemies, all might yet be well.
“Were he only like other monarchs whom I know,” he reflected. “I could
have easily involved him in the Trades deal! Then the press could have
been silenced, and the public fooled. With five or six hundred thousand
shares in the biggest concerns, he would have been compelled to work
under me for the amalgamation of our Trades with the financial forces of
other countries, regardless of the rubbish talked by ‘patriots’ on the
loss of our position and prestige. But he is not fond of money,--he is
not fond of money! Would that he were!--for so _I_ should be virtually
king of the King!”
Cogitating various problems on his return to his own house that evening,
he remembered that despite numerous protests and petitions, the King
had, up to the present, paid no attention to the appeals of his people
against the increasing inroads of taxation. The only two measures he had
carried with a high and imperative hand, were first,--the ‘vetoing’ of
an intended declaration of war,--and the refusal of extensive lands to
the Jesuits. The first was the more important action, as, while it had
won the gratitude and friendship of a previously hostile State, it had
lost several ‘noble’ gamblers in the griefs of nations, some millions
of money. The check to the Jesuits was comparatively trivial, yet it had
already produced far-reaching effects, and had offended the powers at
the Vatican. But, beyond this, things remained apparently as they were;
true, the Socialists were growing stronger;--but there was no evidence
that the Government was growing weaker.
“After all,” thought Pérousse, as a result of his meditations; “there is
no immediate cause for anxiety. If Lutera has sent in his resignation,
it may not be accepted. That rests--like other things--with the
King.” And a vague surprise affected him at this fact. “Curious!” he
muttered,--“Very curious that he, who was a Nothing, should now be a
Something! The change has taken place very rapidly,--and very strangely!
I wonder what--or who--is moving him?”
But to this inward query he received no satisfactory reply. The
mysterious upshot of the whole position was the same,--namely, that
somehow, in the most unaccountable, inexplicable manner, the wind and
weather of affairs had so veered round, that the security of Ministers
and the stability of Government rested, not with themselves or the
nature of their quarrels and discussions, but solely on one whom they
were accustomed to consider as a mere ornamental figure-head,--the King.
Some few days after the unexpected turbulent rising of the mob, it was
judged advisable to give the people something in the way of a ‘gala,’
or spectacle, in order to distract their attention from their own
grievances, and to draw them away from their Socialistic clubs and
conventions, to the contemplation of a parade of Royal state and
splendour. The careful student of History cannot fail to note that
whenever the rottenness and inadequacy of a Government are most
apparent, great ‘shows’ and Royal ceremonials are always resorted to, in
order to divert the minds of the people from the bitter consideration of
a deficient Exchequer and a diminishing National Honour. The authorities
who organize these State masquerades are wise in their generation. They
know that the working-classes very seldom have the leisure to think for
themselves, and that they often lack the intelligent ability to foresee
the difficulties and dangers menacing their country’s welfare;--but
that they are always ready, with the strangest fatuity, patience, and
good-nature, to take their wives and families to see any new variation
of a world’s ‘Punch and Judy’ play, particularly if there is a savour of
Royalty about it, accompanied by a brass band, well-equipped soldiers,
and gilded coaches. Though they take no part in the pageant, beyond
consenting to be hustled and rudely driven back by the police like
intrusive sheep, out of the sacred way of a Royal progress, they
nevertheless have an instinctive (and very correct) idea that somehow or
other it is all part of the ‘fun’ for which they have paid their money.
There is no more actual reverence or respect for the positive Person of
Royalty in such a parade, than there is for the Wonderful Performing Pig
who takes part in a circus-procession through a country town. The public
impression is simple,--That having to pay for the up-keep of a Throne,
its splendours should be occasionally ‘trotted out’ to see whether they
are worth the nation’s annual expenditure.
Moved entirely by this plain and practical sentiment, the popular breast
was thrilled with some amount of interest and animation when it was
announced that his Majesty the King would, on a certain afternoon, go in
state to lay the foundation-stone of the Grand National Theatre, which
was the very latest pet project of various cogitating Jews and cautious
millionaires. The Grand National Theatre was intended to ‘supply,’
according to a stock newspaper phrase, ‘a long-felt want.’ It was to be
a ‘philanthropic’ scheme, by which the ‘Philanthropists’ would receive
excellent interest for their money. Ostensibly, it was to provide the
‘masses’ with the highest form of dramatic entertainment at the lowest
cost;--but there were many intricate wheels within wheels in the
elaborate piece of stock-jobbing mechanism, by which the public would
be caught and fooled--as usual--and the speculators therein rendered
triumphant. Sufficient funds were at hand to start the building of the
necessary edifice, and the King’s ‘gracious’ consent to lay the first
stone, with full state and ceremony, was hailed by the promoters of
the plan as of the happiest augury. For with such approval and support
openly given, all the Snob-world would follow the Royal ‘lead’--quite
as infallibly as it did in the case of another monarch who, persuaded to
drink of a certain mineral spring, and likewise to ‘take shares’ in its
bottled waters, turned the said spring into a ‘paying concern’ at
once, thereby causing much rejoicing among the Semites. The ‘mob’ might
certainly decline to imitate the Snob-world,--but, considering the
recent riotous outbreak, it might be as well that the overbold and
unwashen populace should be awed by the panoply and glory of earthly
Majesty passing by in earthly splendour.
Alas, poor Snob-world! How often has it thought the same thing! How
often has it fancied that with show and glitter and brazen ostentation
of mere purse-power, it can quell the rage for Justice, which, like
a spark of God’s own eternal Being, burns for ever in the soul of a
People! Ah, that rage for Justice!--that divine fury and fever which
with strong sweating and delirium shakes the body politic and cleanses
it from accumulated sickly humours and pestilence! What would the
nations be without its periodical and merciful visitations! Tearing
down old hypocrisies,--rooting up weedy abuses,--rending asunder rotten
conventions,--what wonder if thrones and sceptres, and even the heads
of kings get sometimes mixed into the general swift clearance of
long-accumulated dirt and disorder! And vainly at such times does the
Snob-world anxiously proffer golden pieces for the price of its life!
There shall not then be millions enough in all the earth, to purchase
the safety of one proved Liar who has wilfully robbed his neighbour!
No hint of the underworkings of the people’s thought, or the movement
of the times was, however, apparent in the aspect of the gay multitudes
that poured along the principal thoroughfares of the metropolis on the
day appointed for the ceremony in which the King had consented to take
the leading part. Poor and rich together, vied with one another to
secure the various best points of view from whence the Royal pageant
could be seen, winding down in glittering length from the Palace and
Citadel, past the Cathedral, and so on to the great open square, where,
surrounded by fluttering flags and streamers, a huge block of stone hung
suspended by ropes from a crane, ready to be lowered at the Royal touch,
and fixed in its place by the Royal trowel, as the visible and solid
beginning of the stately fabric, which, according to pictorial models
was to rise from this, its first foundation, into a temple of art and
architecture, devoted to Melpomene and Thalia.
It was a glorious day,--the sun shone with vigorous heat and lustre from
a cloudless sky,--the sea was calm as an inland pool--and people wore
their lightest, brightest and most festive attire. Fair “society” dames,
clad in the last capricious mode of ever-changing Fashion, and shading
their delicate, and not always natural, complexions with airy parasols,
filmy and finely-coloured as the petals of flowers, queened it over
the flocking crowds of pedestrians, as they were driven past in their
softly-cushioned carriages drawn by high-stepping horses;--all the
boudoirs and drawing-rooms of the most exclusive houses seemed to have
emptied their luxury-loving occupants into the streets,--and the whole
town was, for a few hours at any rate, apparently given over to holiday.
As the long line of soldiery preceding the King’s carriage, wound
down from the Citadel, groups of people cheered, and waved hats and
handkerchiefs,--then, when his Majesty’s own escort came into view, the
cheering was redoubled,--and at last when the cumbrous, over-gilded,
over-painted “Cinderella” State-coach appeared, and the familiar, but
somewhat sternly-composed features of the King himself were perceived
through the glass windows, a roar of acclamation, like the thundering of
a long wave on an extensive stretch of rock-bound coast, echoed far
and near, and again and again was repeated with increased and
ever-increasing clamour. Who,--hearing such an enthusiastic
greeting--would or could have imagined for one moment that the King, who
was the object and centre of these tremendous plaudits, was at the same
time judged as an enemy and an obstruction to justice by more than
one half of the population! Yet it was so,--and so has often been. The
populace will shout itself hoarse for any cause; whether it be a king
going to be crowned, or a king going to be executed, the stimulus is
the same, and the enthusiasm as passionate. It is merely the contagious
hysteria of a moment that tickles their lungs to expansion in
noise;--but the real sentiment of admiration for a fine character which
might perhaps have moved the subjects of Richard Coeur de Lion to
cries of exultation, is generally non-existent. And why? For no cause
truly!--save that Lion-Hearts in kings no more pulsate through nations.
By the time the Royal procession reached its destination the crowd
had largely increased, and the press of people round the scene of the
forthcoming function was great enough to be seriously embarrassing
to both the soldiery and the police. Slowly the gorgeous State-coach
lumbered up to the entrance of the ground railed off for the
ceremony,--and between a line of armed guards, the King alighted.
Vociferous cheering again broke out on all sides, which his Majesty
acknowledged in the usual formal manner by a monotonous military salute
performed at regular intervals. Received with obsequious deference by
all the persons concerned in the Grand National Theatre project, he
conversed with one or two, shook hands with others, and was just on the
point of addressing a few of his usual suave compliments to some pretty
women who had been invited to adorn the scene, when David Jost advanced
smilingly, evidently sure of a friendly recognition. For had not
the King, when Crown Prince and Heir-Apparent, hunted game in his
preserves?--yea, had he not even dined with him?--and had not he, Jost,
written whole columns of vapid twaddle about the ‘Royal smile’ and the
‘Royal favour’ till the outside public had sickened at every stroke
of his flunkey pen? How came it, then, that his Majesty seemed on this
occasion to have no recollection of him, and looked over and beyond
him in the airiest way, as though he were a far-off Jew in Jerusalem,
instead of being the assumptive-Orthodox proprietor of several European
newspapers published for the general misinformation and plunder of
gullible Christians? Dismayed at the Royal coldness of eye, Jost stepped
back with an uncomfortably crimson face; and one of the ladies present,
personally knowing him, and seeing his discomfiture, ventured to call
the King’s attention to his presence and to make way for his approach,
by murmuring gently, “Mr. Jost, Sir!”
“Ah, indeed!” said the monarch, with calm grey eyes still fixed on
vacancy,--“I do not know anyone of that name! Permit me to admire
that exquisite arrangement of flowers!” and, smiling affably on the
astonished and embarrassed lady, he led her aside, altogether away from
Jost’s vicinity.
Stricken to the very dust of abasement by this direct “cut” so publicly
administered, the crestfallen editor and proprietor of many journals
stood aghast for a moment,--then as various unbidden thoughts began
to chase one another through his bewildered head, he was seized with a
violent trembling. He remembered every foolish, imprudent and disloyal
remark he had made to the stranger named Pasquin Leroy who had called
upon him bearing the Premier’s signet,--and reflecting that this very
Pasquin Leroy was now, by some odd chance, a contributor of political
leaders and other articles to the rival daily newspaper which had
published the King’s official refusal of a grant of land to the Jesuits,
he writhed inwardly with impotent fury. For might not this unknown man,
Leroy,--if he were,--as he possibly was,--a friend of the King’s--go
to the full length of declaring all he knew and all he had learned from
Jost’s own lips, concerning certain ‘financial secrets,’ which if fully
disclosed, would utterly dismember the Government and put the nation
itself in peril? Might he not already even have informed the King? With
his little, swine-like eyes retreating under the crinkling fat of his
lowering brows, Jost, hot and cold by turns, wandered confusedly out
of the ‘exclusive’ set of persons connected with the ‘Grand
National Theatre’ scheme, who were now gathered round the suspended
foundation-stone to which the King was approaching. He pretended not
to see the curious eyes that stared at him, or the sneering mouths that
smiled at the open slight he had received. Pushing his way through
the crowd, he jostled against the thin black-garmented figure of a
priest,--no other than Monsignor Del Fortis, who, with an affable word
of recognition, drew aside to allow him passage. Affecting his usual
‘company-manner’ of tolerant good-nature, he forced himself to speak to
this ‘holy’ man, who, at any rate, had paid him good money in round
sums for so-called ‘articles’ or rather puff-advertisements in his paper
concerning Church matters.
“Good-day, Monsignor!” he said--“You are not often seen at a Royal
pageant! How comes it that you, of all persons in the world have brought
yourself to witness the laying of the foundation-stone of a Theatre?
Does not your calling forbid any patronage of the mimic Art?”
The priest’s thin lips parted, showing a glimmer of wolfish teeth behind
the pale stretched line of flesh.
“Not by any means!” he replied suavely--“In the present levelling and
amalgamation of social interests, the Church and Stage are drawing very
closely together.”
“True!” said Jost, with a grin--“One might very well be taken for the
other!”
Del Fortis looked at him meditatively.
“This,” he said, waving his lean hand towards the centre of the
brilliant crowd where now the King stood, “is a kind of drama in its
way. And you, Mr. Jost, have just played one little scene in it!”
Jost reddened, and bit his lip.
“I am also another actor on the boards,” continued Del Fortis smiling
darkly;--“if only as a spectator in the ‘super’ crowd. And other
comedians and tragedians are doubtless present, of whom we may hear
anon!”
“The King has nasty humours sometimes,” said Jost shortly, looking down
at the flower in his buttonhole, and absently flicking off one of its
petals with his fat forefinger--“He ought to be made to pay for them!”
“Ha, ha! Very good! Certainly!” and Del Fortis gave a
piously-deprecating nod--“He ought to be made to pay! Especially when
he hurts the feelings of his old friends! Are you going, Mr. Jost? Yes?
What a pity! But you no doubt have your reporters present?”
“Oh, there are plenty of them about,”--said Jost carelessly, “But I
shall condense all the account of these proceedings into a few lines.”
“Ha,--ha!” laughed Del Fortis,--“I understand! Revenge--revenge!
But--in certain cases--the briefest description is sometimes the most
graphic--and startling! Good-day!”
Jost returned the salute curtly, and went,--not to leave the scene
altogether, but merely to take up a position of vantage immediately
above and behind the surging crowd, where from a distance he could watch
all that was going on. He saw the King lift his hand towards the ropes
and pulleys of the crane above him,--and as it was touched by the Royal
finger, the foundation stone was slowly lowered into the deep socket
prepared for it, where gold and silver coins of the year’s currency
had already been strewn. Then, with the aid of a silver trowel set in a
handle of gold, and obsequiously presented by the managing director of
the scheme, his Majesty dabbed in a little mortar, and declared in a
loud voice that the stone was ‘well and truly laid.’ A burst of cheering
greeted the announcement, and the band struck up the country’s National
Hymn, this being the usual sign that the ceremony was at an end.
Whereupon the King, shaking hands again cordially with the various
parties concerned, and again shedding the lustre of his smile upon
the various ladies with whom he had been conversing, made his way very
leisurely to his State equipage, which, with its six magnificently
caparisoned horses, stood prepared for his departure, the door
being already held open for him by one of the attendant powdered and
gold-laced flunkeys. Sir Roger de Launay walked immediately behind his
Sovereign, and Professor von Glauben was close at hand, companioned by
two of the gentlemen of the Royal Household. All at once a young man
pushed himself out of the crowd nearest to the enclosure,--paused a
moment irresolute, and then, with a single determined bound reached the
King’s side.
“Thief of the People’s money! Take that!” he shouted, wildly,--and,
brandishing aloft a glittering stiletto, he aimed it straight at the
monarch’s heart!
But the blow never reached its destination, for a woman, closely veiled
in black, suddenly threw herself swiftly and adroitly between the
King’s body and the descending blade, shielding his breast with both her
outstretched arms. The dagger struck her violently, piercing her flesh
through the upper part of her right shoulder, and under the sheer force
of the blow, she fell senseless.
The whole incident took place in less time than it could be breathlessly
told,--and even as she who had risked her life to save the King’s, sank
bleeding to the ground, the police seized the assassin red-handed in his
mad and criminal act, and wrenched the murderous weapon from his hand.
He was a mere lad of eighteen or twenty, and seemed dazed, submitting to
be bound and handcuffed without a word. The King, perfectly tranquil and
unhurt, bared his head to the wild cries and hysterical cheering of the
excited spectators to whom his narrow escape from death appeared a kind
of miracle, moving them to frantic paroxysms of passionate enthusiasm,
and then bent anxiously down over the prostrate form of his rescuer,
endeavouring himself to raise her from the ground. A hundred hands at
once proffered assistance;--Sir Roger de Launay, pale to the lips with
the shock of sick horror he had experienced at what might so easily have
been a national catastrophe, assisted the police in forming a strong
cordon round the person of his beloved Royal master, in order to guard
him against any further possible attack,--and Professor von Glauben,
obeying the King’s signal, knelt down by the unconscious woman’s side to
examine the extent of her injury. Gently he turned back the close folds
of her enveloping veil,--then gave a little start and cry:
“Gott in Himmel!” And he hastily drew down the veil again as the King
approached with the question--
“Is she dangerously hurt?”
“No, Sir!--I think not--I hope not--but--!”
And the Professor’s eyes looked volumes of suggestion. Catching his
expression, the King drew still nearer.
“Uncover her face,--give her air!” he commanded.
With a perplexed side-glance at Sir Roger de Launay, the Professor
obeyed,--and the sunshine fell full on the white calm features and
closed eyelids of “the woman known as Lotys.” Her black dress was darkly
stained and soaked with oozing blood--and the deep dull gold of her hair
was touched here and there with the same crimson hue;--but there was a
smile on her lips, and her face was as fair and placid as though it had
been smoothed out of all pain and trouble by the restful touch of Death.
Silently, and with a perfectly inscrutable demeanour, the King surveyed
her for a moment. Then, raising his plumed hat with grave grace and
courtesy, he looked on all those who stood about him, soldiery, police
and spectators.
“Does anyone here present know this lady?” he demanded.
A crowd of eager heads were pushed forward, and then a low murmur began,
which deepened into a steady roar of delighted acclamation.
“Lotys! Lotys!”
The name was caught up quickly and repeated from mouth to mouth--till
away on the extreme outskirts of the crowd it was tossed back again with
shouts--“Lotys! Lotys!”
Swiftly the news ran like an electric current through the whole body of
the populace, that it was Lotys, their own Lotys, their friend, their
fellow-worker, the idol of the poorer classes, that had saved the life
of the King! Half-incredulous, half-admiring, the mob listened to the
growing rumour, and the general excitement increased in intensity among
them. David Jost, from his point of observation, caught the infection,
and realizing at once the value of the dramatic “copy” for his paper, to
be obtained out of such a situation, jumped into the nearest vehicle and
was driven straight to his offices, there to send electric messages
of the news to every quarter of the world, and to endeavour by printed
loyal outbursts of “gush” to turn the current of the King’s displeasure
against him into a more favourable direction. Meanwhile the King himself
gave orders that his wounded rescuer should be conveyed in one of the
Royal carriages straight to the Palace, and there attended by his own
physician. Professor von Glauben was entrusted with the carrying-out of
this command,--and the monarch, then entering his own State-equipage,
started on his homeward progress.
Thundering cheers now greeted him at every step;--for an hour at least
the populace went mad with rapture, shouting, singing and calling
alternately for “The King!” and “Lotys!” with no respect of persons,
or consideration as to their differing motives and opposite stations in
life. Two facts only were clear to them,--first an attempt had been
made to assassinate the King,--secondly, that Lotys had frustrated the
attempt, and risked her own life to save that of the monarch. These
were enough to set fire to the passionate sentiments of a warm-blooded,
restless Southern people, and they gave full sway to their feelings
accordingly. So, amid deafening plaudits, the Royal procession wended
its way back to the Citadel, the State-coach moving at a snail’s pace in
order to allow the people to see the King for themselves, and make sure
he was uninjured, as they cheered, and followed it in surging throngs
to the very gates of the Palace,--while in another and reverse direction
the wretched youth whose miserable effort to commit a dastard crime had
so fortunately failed, was marched off, under the guard of a strong
body of police to the State-Prison, there to await his trial and
condemnation. A small crowd, hooting and cursing the criminal, pursued
him as he went, and one personage, austere and dignified, also followed,
at a distance, as though curious to see the last of the would-be
murderer ere he was shut out from liberty,--and this was Monsignor Del
Fortis.