THE ROYAL BALL
The ball at the palace was a very brilliant affair. The rooms were
hung with a thousand lights; the flowers, many of them strange to
Fenton's western knowledge, and the decorations were on a munificent
scale. Beautiful women and handsome men in vari-coloured uniforms
moved here and there, intent upon enjoying themselves. Fenton was
impressed and not a little surprised. The whole atmosphere was one of
wealth and luxury, such wealth and such luxury as one does not expect
to find in the kingdoms of the Balkans.
Fenton was paying a mental tribute to it all when Varden touched him on
the arm and took him away to present him to King Alexander and his
consort. Fenton had heard that the King was a charming man, and His
Majesty's personality made the few words of welcome which he uttered
well worth remembrance. Alexander was possibly the handsomest monarch
in Europe. Dark, tall and soldierly he looked every inch a king. It
came to Fenton as he stood there chatting, that here was a man who
would have his own way.
The formalities of royal presentation over, Fenton was backing away
when he caught a glimpse of an officer, apparently of high rank,
approaching the King, with a young girl on his arm. Fenton looked at
the girl--and forgot everything else. She was tall and graceful, with
an air that could only be defined as regal. The oval face was
surmounted with a crowning glory of hair, dark and lustrous. Her skin
was like the petals of a wild rose. Her deep violet eyes, large and
unwavering of gaze, were fringed with long lashes that imparted the
only suggestion of coquetry to a face of surpassing witchery and charm.
Fenton continued to stare in a literal haze of admiration.
He was aroused from his dream by the reappearance of Varden. The
latter took him by the arm and propelled him forward until they stood
in the presence of the divinity who had so completely set Fenton's wits
wool-gathering. Fenton, awe-struck at this good fortune, felt like a
humble mortal suddenly transported into the august company of the gods
on Mount Olympus.
"Your highness," he heard Varden say to the girl, "may I present Mr
Fenton, my friend from Canada? Fenton, this is her highness, the
Princess Olga."
The Canadian bowed low over the princess's hand, surely the most dainty
hand in all the world. He was presented in due form to her escort, the
Grand Duke Miridoff, a heavy-set man with hawk-like features, long
moustache and side-whiskers, which stood out aggressively with an
unmistakable Teutonic suggestion. The grand duke typified the
domineering efficiency of the military caste.
Fenton, murmuring a commonplace greeting, felt a strange antagonism for
Miridoff. The latter's manner, while strictly courteous and even
urbane, did not conceal the fact that Miridoff himself look no pleasure
in the introduction.
In a few minutes Varden, with a happy tact, discovered an errand that
took both himself and Miridoff away. Fenton allowed his glance to
follow their retreating figures for a moment, and then, conscious of
the scrutiny of his companion, turned back to the princess. She was
studying him with frank interest and did not seem at all disposed to
hide it.
"I must have a long talk with you, Mr Fenton," she said, speaking in
excellent English. The conversation previously had been conducted in
French, in which Fenton was well schooled. "You are so--so different
from us. I have met but two Americans before, and they were of
Austrian descent. You see, we are off the beaten track of tourists
here in Ironia. Coming from your strange, big country across the ocean
you seem almost like a visitor from Mars."
The princess smiled, and if her face was charming in repose it was ten
times more so when it expressed animation. Fenton's diffidence left
him. He began to talk of Canada, of the vastness of the country, of
its customs and its freedom; particularly of its freedom. The princess
listened with deepest interest.
"I should like to go to America--to Canada," said she. "It would be so
splendid to be able to do what one wanted without bothering with
customs and etiquette; to be able to go about without endless crowds of
people staring at one."
"Canadians turn out to stare at princesses the same as they do here in
Ironia," answered Fenton. "In fact, as their opportunities are fewer,
they probably make more of them. And even if you were to travel
incognito--I'm afraid my countrymen would let their admiration get the
better of their politeness."
They were soon on most friendly terms, quite forgetful of the fact that
she was a princess of the royal line. In fact, Fenton found it
difficult to realise that his companion was anything but an unusually
attractive partner at a dance; and she seemed quite as willing to let
all other considerations recede into the background. A quarter of an
hour of most delightful interest passed, though it seemed but a moment
to Fenton, when a tall, elderly man in uniform brought their
_tête-à-tête_ to an end.
"Mr Fenton, this is my father," said the princess.
The Canadian, who had been observing everything, acknowledged the
introduction with a correct imitation of the stiff formal bow that
seemed an integral part of Ironian etiquette. The princess's father
bore a striking resemblance to King Alexander. Could this be the
Prince Peter to whom Varden had referred?
They talked for a few minutes, the prince also speaking English with
fluency. Then someone came, a little understrapper in a most gorgeous
uniform, and bore the princess away to dance.
"Lucky devil!" sighed the Canadian to himself.
The two men walked out to a balcony, and on the prince's first remark
Fenton became assured of his identity.
"Mr Varden has spoken of you to me," said Prince Peter. "He intimates
that it is your intention to remain for some time in Ironia and to lend
your assistance to the cause that Mr Varden has himself espoused."
Fenton responded warmly, and for half an hour the two men talked war
problems and Ironia's relation thereto. Prince Peter discussed the
situation with a frankness which might have astonished the young
Canadian had he not been aware that all Ironia was thoroughly
conversant with most phases of the vexed problem. When the prince
returned to the ball-room, he left Fenton with an unbounded enthusiasm
for the new cause and a deep respect for Prince Peter himself. The
latter was a born leader in every respect, particularly in his ability
to win adherents.
Fenton lit a cigarette and started down a dark path leading to the
extensive and intricately planned royal gardens. He wanted to be
alone. He wanted to be able to think, to dream. And his thoughts and
dreams at first ran exclusively along one groove. How beautiful the
princess was! He began to reflect on the future--his future and hers.
In a moment his thoughts took a gloomy turn. He would go back to
Canada, which now for the first time seemed void of interest. She
would marry a man of royal blood and rule in some such country as
Ironia. He pictured her married for diplomatic reasons to a royal
nonentity, condemned to a lifetime of endless etiquette, of senseless
rigmarole. He reflected darkly on the benighted condition of the old
world which made such things possible. Was there no way that an
ambitious young millionaire from the new world could succeed in
upsetting this almost inevitable arrangement, by scaling the walls of
custom and tradition?
In keeping with his thoughts his pace had become savagely energetic.
He now discovered that he had wandered well away from the palace into a
maze of dark paths. He stopped and looked about him. And then
suddenly he heard voices.
They proceeded from a thick clump of bushes close to his right. One
voice was raised sufficiently high above the rest to carry its message
to his ears. The owner of the voice was speaking in German, and Fenton
knew enough of that language to catch what was being said. It
interested him so acutely that he stepped through the bushes cautiously
in the direction from which the sound came.
In a small clearing, part of which was thrown into relief by a ray of
light from a nearby building, stood a group of men. One of them turned
and the light fell direct on his face. With a start of surprise Fenton
recognised the Grand Duke Miridoff.
"Are we all here?" asked Miridoff.
From where he stood behind the bushes, Fenton could watch the party
without being seen himself. He noted that they were all in uniform or
evening dress, having apparently left the ball-room to attend this
stealthy rendezvous. It struck Fenton that the majority of the group
were not Ironians. They gathered about Miridoff, who quite apparently
was the leader.
"Members of the Society of Crossed Swords," Miridoff was saying, "we
have heard news of such importance that we deemed it necessary to have
word passed quietly to each of you to meet here.
"Events are taking an unfavourable turn," he went on. "The King is
still loyal to our cause, but the strong feeling throughout the country
is making an impression on him. Peter is pressing him strongly. I
regret to have to state it, but I can clearly see the King is wavering."
There was a moment's silence, and then Miridoff began again in such low
tones that Fenton could hardly catch the words.
"I received important news to-night from the front. The Russians are
massing for an invasion of Mulkovina. It will be hard to hold them.
Once they get possession of Mulkovina, without Ironia's assistance, no
power on earth will wrest it from them." Miridoff's voice at this
point sunk almost to a whisper. "If the people know that Russia is
ready for the advance, nothing will prevent them from declaring for the
Allies while there is still time to gain the two provinces by so doing.
Alexander's opposition will be swept away. There is only one course
left. Ironia must be ranged on Germany's side before the news of the
Russian mobilisation leaks out!"
This statement was followed by a babel of discussion in which most of
the men took part, and the confused tangle of talk proved too difficult
for Fenton's inadequate knowledge of the German tongue. He lost the
thread of the discussion until the decisive tones of Miridoff again cut
through the talk.
"There is but one course open. If Prince Peter is not there to prompt
the King, to urge his arguments of policy, Alexander could be rushed
into declaring war against Russia at once. That is what we must bring
about. Peter must be removed!"
A general murmur followed Miridoff's statement, and out of it Fenton's
amazed senses picked one word--"Assassination!"
"Well, who's to do it?" someone asked.
"It is to decide that point that we are here," answered Miridoff. "It
is a regrettable necessity, but our cause demands it. Peter dead, the
people will be like a flock of sheep without a shepherd. Is it
necessary to get your consent to the step?"
The men assented as with one voice to what their leader had said.
"Our oath binds us to secrecy," said Miridoff. Drawing from his pocket
some slips of paper, he deposited them in his hat. "Two are marked,"
he said. "Those who draw them will be called upon to perform the
service. Are you agreed?"
Rooted to the spot with horror, Teuton watched the men draw in turn
from the hat. After all had drawn, two of them stepped aside for
consultation with Miridoff.
"The rest of you had better go," said the latter. "This place is none
too safe. Remember, not a word. Perhaps by to-morrow morning we shall
have news for you, news that will shake the world and cause a grey fear
to creep into the faces of the cursed English!"