GENERAL LEBRUN
Worn out from the excitement of the night, Fenton slept well through
the forenoon. When he finally wakened it was to a realisation of
stiffened muscles and a general feeling as though he had been drawn
through a threshing machine. He seemed one mass of bruises. A warm
bath effected a partial revival, and then slowly and laboriously he
found his way into his clothes, paying tribute with every move to the
prowess of his unknown antagonist of the previous night's mêlée.
He found his host most impatiently pacing the library. Varden had not
been down long himself but, to judge from his attitude, he had already
come into possession of important news.
"Just in time, Fenton," said Varden briefly. "In ten minutes I'd have
gone without you."
"Where?" asked the Canadian. His tone seemed to evidence a certain
lack of interest, due possibly to his breakfastless condition.
"To the station," replied Varden. "I just got wind of an interesting
piece of news. General Jules Lebrun, the hero of the French Army, is
passing through Serajoz to-day on his way to Russia to consult with the
General Staff of the Tsar. He has a stopover of a few hours, and his
entertainment has been entrusted to me. As you probably surmise," went
on Varden, lowering his voice to a discreet pitch, "the time that the
General spends with me will not be entirely given over to social
amenities. He has certain papers bearing on a suggested plan of
campaign in case of--certain eventualities--which are to be handed to
me. We may get an opportunity to discuss various phases of the plan.
You understand, of course, the reason why this work is in my hands. It
would not be politic for a member of the Ironian General Staff to be
seen with the French general. I will serve as a go-between."
Fenton had spent the greater part of the time following the outbreak of
the war in the south of Russia, so that such news of the progress of
the campaign as reached him had been decidedly meagre. Nevertheless he
had heard much of the spectacular work of the great little victorious
French general, and Varden's news kindled in him a keen desire to see
the famous fighter whose dashing tactics had done so much to win the
Battle of the Marne. And then an idea occurred to him.
"Varden," he said, "has it occurred to you that the general's visit can
be turned to great purpose in deciding the wobbling policy of Ironia?"
"In what way?" asked the other.
Fenton shook his head sadly. "As a newspaper man you always fell down
hard when it came to grasping the dramatic possibilities of a story.
As a diplomat it seems you are just the same. Percy, don't you realise
the advertising value of Lebrun's visit to Serajoz? He has come right
at the psychological moment to produce the proper dramatic effect.
"The Ironian people are Latin and so claim kinship with the French," he
went on. "The influence of France is shown in every phase of Ironian
life. The factor in deciding the sympathies of Ironia, next in
importance to the question of the two lost provinces, is the love and
admiration that the people here have for everything that pertains to
France. Now then, Lebrun's exploits have been told and retold from one
end of Ironia to the other. Just let it become generally known that
he's in Serajoz, and you'll stir up a demonstration that will open the
eyes of your stubborn King! I tell you, Percy, it's a heaven-sent
opportunity. The hoarse roar of a thoroughly enthused mob will
accomplish more than the carefully considered whisperings of all the
diplomats in the country."
"But," protested Varden, "I must have an opportunity to talk with him.
A popular demonstration is not just the best background for a
discussion on tactics."
"Have your talk first," said Fenton confidently. "Then take our trump
card out in an open fiacre and drive him slowly down the Lodz. Be sure
that the good news is circulated well in advance. I tell you what--let
me stage-manage this affair. I was always rather strong on the
dramatic possibilities."
They talked the plan over in whispers, while Fenton bolted a ten-minute
breakfast. Varden then hurried away to keep his appointment, and the
Canadian began the busy task of arranging the "props" for the brilliant
demonstration he had planned out.
No inhabitant of Serajoz will ever forget that day. The news that
General Lebrun was in the city spread like wild-fire. His name was on
every lip within an hour. Thousands of excited and enthusiastic
Ironians rushed to the station only to learn that the little general
had duly arrived and been promptly whisked away. Crowds gathered in
the streets. Ironian and French flags were displayed on all sides,
impromptu processions were organised, songs were vociferously chorused
by the ardent townspeople, the "Marseillaise" being heard as often as
the Ironian national anthem. Later, when Percival Varden drove out
into the Lodz in an open fiacre with a little white-haired, powerful
man beside him, the stage was all set for a demonstration, the like of
which Serajoz had not seen since the memorable day when Alexander
Sobiesku, first King of Ironia, was crowned.
The fiacre drove slowly up the Lodz between solid banks of agitated
humanity. "Lebrun," "France," "War," were the words that one heard
rising from out of the babel of sound. Excited men climbed on the
steps of the carriage to grasp the hand of the gallant little
Frenchman. Swords appeared above the heads of the mob, and the clamour
for war became insistent and belligerent. The demonstration reached
its height when the carriage rolled into the Square of Triumph, where a
huge bronze statue of Sobiesku, the national hero of Ironia who had
defeated the Turks in the War of Liberation, reared itself proudly
above plashing fountains and luxuriant foliage. Here, immediately
beneath the figure of the grim old warrior, they encountered another
carriage containing Prince Peter. The King's brother rose and warmly
grasped the hand of the grizzled French general. For several seconds
they stood thus, while the crowds thundered their appreciation of the
tableau.
Standing back in the dense throng, Fenton witnessed the scene with
double appreciation, for he had himself suggested, and, in fact,
arranged the setting. "Pretty effective," he said to himself. "If
this doesn't shake the country off the fence I am out in my
calculations."
He felt a pressure on his arm as though someone had gently tugged his
sleeve. Next moment a slip of paper was pressed into his hand. Fenton
turned as quickly as his crowded surroundings permitted but could
discern nothing in the swarthy faces of those nearest him to indicate
who had been responsible. Elbowing his way out of the crush, Fenton
made his way to a deserted corner of the street and eagerly inspected
the note. It was written in French in a feminine hand and contained
neither address nor signature, merely the words:
"Dine at eight to-night at the Continental. Important."