A NIGHT OF RIOTS
Fenton had recognised the possibilities of a popular demonstration for
the great French General, but if he had known how far public feeling
would be aroused, he undoubtedly would have hesitated before suggesting
that capital be made out of the timely visit of the French hero. As
things turned out the appearance of the grey-haired general on the Lodz
set in motion such waves of racial enthusiasm and warlike frenzy that
Serajoz experienced one of the wildest days and maddest nights in all
its wild and mad history.
The terms of the duel had been settled between the sadly perturbed
Varden and a saturnine officer who called on behalf of the aggrieved
Neviloff, and the former sat with his principal in a balcony that
overlooked the seething, turbulent Lodz. It was after eleven o'clock,
but the crowds were not thinning out, and the tumult seemed to be
increasing in violence all the time.
After half an hour's earnest argument Varden had given up hope of
persuading the Canadian to depart from the capital before he fell a
victim to the skill of Neviloff, and now sat eyeing, glumly, the
animated scene below. Suddenly, above the noise of the mobs, came the
electrifying crackle of musketry. First there were a few sharp
explosions, then gradually the firing settled down into the sustained
din of a steady fusillade.
"That means trouble!" ejaculated Varden. "The Guards must be firing on
the people down around the royal palace, judging from the sound."
Moved by a common impulse the two men rose. Varden brought out heavy
caps and cloaks, so that when they emerged into the street they were
effectually disguised.
"Lead on, right into the thick of it," admonished Fenton. "I'm afraid
we've missed something!"
They had. When they reached the square in front of the royal palace,
they found it jammed with excited humanity, except for a significant
radius around the entrance. Drawn up across the imposing gates was a
double file of soldiers.
"The Guards fired on the mob. A couple have been killed!" exclaimed
Varden, who had picked up the information from the excited shouts of
those around them. "The fat's in the fire, Don! If Alexander holds
out much longer they'll burn the palace to the ground."
In the surging mob the pair were soon separated, Varden being borne off
bodily in a panicky rush of the people to avoid a threatened charge by
the soldiers. Loath to return home while the excitement ran so high,
Fenton drifted along with the crowd. He witnessed a demonstration in
the course of which every window in the Austrian embassy was smashed.
He saw Turkish shops and Austrian restaurants raided. Street fights
became a mere incident. The clamorous cry for war was heard on every
hand, coupled with execrations of King Alexander. On one public square
the stubborn sovereign of Ironia was burned in effigy.
About one o'clock Fenton found himself in a small Greek restaurant on
one of the narrow mercantile streets that run off the Duntzig. He was
hungry enough to overlook the uninviting appearance of the place and
the decidedly rough-looking crew who crowded about the tables. He
shared one table with a picturesque old foreigner with a battered,
time-worn countenance, and apparel that bespoke either poverty or utter
disregard for appearance. Fenton stared at the grimy menu card printed
in Ironian that a tatterdemalion waiter presented, and pointed to one
of the items haphazard. Luck was not with him, his selection proving
to be a sallow omelet of uncertain composition but positive odour. One
look at the steaming mess and Fenton's appetite took wings. He pushed
the plate to one side.
"Monsieur has not learned to appreciate native cookery," said the
foreigner, glancing up and speaking in excellent French. "Monsieur
perhaps speaks French?"
"He does," replied Fenton. "And decidedly he does not appreciate
native cookery."
"For ten years I have been an exile from my beloved France!" sighed the
old man. "It has been hard, monsieur, very hard. But the hardest part
has been to subsist on the reeking, nauseous stuff that these Ironians
call food. But time can work any miracle, monsieur. To-day I,
François Dubois, with a palate that once was educated to the highest
Parisian standard, can eat even the omelet of an Ironian cook
and--forgive the blasphemy, monsieur--call it good!"
Fenton twisted his chair around so that he could regard his table
companion more closely. The old Frenchman had a care-lined face from
which a pair of black eyes looked out with a virility strangely at
variance with the lifeless grey of the mask in which they were set.
"How do you happen to be living in Serajoz?" Fenton asked curiously.
"It's a long story and would weary monsieur's patience in the telling,"
replied the old man. "In a word, I came here with a company of
strolling players--I was an actor and a musician, monsieur. Ironia was
in a bad way ten years ago. A revolution threatened, war with Turkey
was feared, the Government was nearly bankrupt. We made so little
money that our company disbanded in Serajoz, and here has Francois
Dubois remained ever since, picking up a meagre living by teaching
music to such pupils as he has been able to find. The thought that
some day I would save enough to return to France has kept life in this
useless old body, monsieur. But that hope is now almost gone!"
"You know Ironia well then?" suggested Fenton. "Tell me, what is the
real sentiment of the people? Is this all froth or do they really want
war?"
"The people of Ironia want war!" said the old man soberly. "Listen to
me, monsieur, for I know of what I speak. They are a deep lot, these
Ironians, deeper than most people think--fiery in love, implacable in
hate, consistent in gratitude, eternal in revenge, deep, deep. They
hate the Turk and the Austrian. They want to win back the lost
provinces, and would rather win them back by fighting for them. The
smoke of battle is incense in the nostrils of the Ironian."
The old man wagged his forefinger portentously at Fenton.
"If there is one man in Ironia blinder than all others it is King
Alexander," he went on. "I, Francois Dubois, say so. Monsieur, I feel
in the prophetic vein to-night and I am telling you this: that
Alexander will not give in to the people. He is a stiff-necked man,
this Alexander, and he believes in the divine right of kings. His
pledged word as a monarch is more to him than the welfare of the
country over which he rules. He will not budge one inch, monsieur, and
I see the day not far distant when, as first step to making the war
they have willed, the Ironians will take from Alexander his crown. No
king can balk the will of a nation to-day--not even a nation in the
Balkans!"
"You really think it could happen?" asked Fenton, a little incredulous.
"If they did depose Alexander, who would succeed him?"
"The Prince Peter, perhaps," replied the old actor. "Or, more likely
still, Ironia would become a republic like my own dear France! Ah,
monsieur, it would almost reconcile me to dying in this country if I
knew that the freedom of France had at last reached Ironia!"
"A republic!" ejaculated Fenton, bright visions flitting before him,
conjured up by the old man's words. A republic meant the breaking down
of social barriers, the abolition of royal families--and, therefore, of
royal marriages. But then he perceived the absolute futility of the
idea. What did it matter to him whether Ironia became a republic or
not? That morning he was due to offer himself as a target to Neviloff,
and the outcome did not seem at all uncertain. Almost unconsciously he
started to talk to his companion, telling him of the impending duel.
"It is not uncommon for visitors to become embroiled with native
officers, monsieur," said the old man. "Many a duel has been fought on
grounds that smacked strongly of robbery. The upper-class Ironian,
monsieur, is a cut-throat, a thief, with the manners of a gentleman but
the instincts of a pirate. But," and he shrugged his shoulders, "I
would not fear the outcome. I know my Ironian well. He is devilish
handy with the sword, but a poor shot, an atrociously bad shot. Have
courage; you are more likely to wing him yourself. And in any case,
the duel--it has not often the fatal ending. Look at me, monsieur. In
my day four duels have I fought--and at sixty-two I live to teach music
in the gutter of Europe!"
Considerably comforted by the old man's words, Fenton took down his
address on a card and left, promising to look Monsieur Dubois up on the
first opportunity.
* * * * *
At dawn the Canadian accompanied Varden to a misty, silent field on the
outskirts of the city, there to wait for Neviloff and his friends.
They waited long past the appointed hour, until Varden, who had come in
a mood of almost despairing protest, began to cheer.
"Something's gone wrong," he said finally. "Neviloff would not funk
it, of course. This sort of thing is all in the day's work to
Neviloff. But a hitch has occurred somewhere."
As he finished an officer came across the field toward them. He
saluted and spoke in Ironian to Varden.
"Saved, Don!" exclaimed the latter when the officer had left. "Once
again have you managed to evade the consequences of your rash conduct.
Neviloff can't keep the appointment. The riots last night became so
bad that the troops in the city have been ordered to remain under arms,
and the gallant lieutenant will be chained to duty until the situation
becomes less acute. In the meantime his slighted honour must go
without redress. He sends most profuse apologies--for not being able
to kill you this morning. Come on, Don, I feel as though I could enjoy
a good breakfast now."