OF CERTAIN TRANSPIRINGS AT A CAFÉ TABLE
Benton's eyes seemed hypnotically drawn to the table pointed out, but he
kept them tensely riveted on his coffee cup.
"Yes?" he impatiently prompted.
"Of course," continued Blanco absently, "no one could regret more
profoundly than the Grand Duke any accident or fatality which might
befall his royal kinsman, yet even the holy saints cannot prevent evil
chances!" He paused to sip his coffee. "At the right of 'Louis, the
Dreamer,' as he is called, sits the Count Borttorff, who is not greatly
in favor with Prince Karyl. He, too, is a Galavian of noble birth, but
Paris knows him better than Puntal. He on the left, the man with the
puffed eyes and the dissipated mouth--you will notice also a scar over
the left temple--" Blanco was regarding his cigarette tip as he flecked
an ash to the floor--"is Monsieur Jusseret supposed to be high in the
affairs of the French _Cabinet Noir_."
"There is one more--and a vacant chair," suggested Benton.
The _toreador_ nodded. "True, I had not forgotten the other. Tall,
black-haired, not unlike yourself in appearance, _Señor_, save for a
heavier jaw and the mustache which points upward. He is an Englishman by
birth, a native of the world by adoption. Once he bore a British army
commission. Now he is seen in distinguished society"--Blanco
laughed--"when distinguished society wants something done which clean
men will not do. His name, just now, is Martin. In many quarters he is
better known as the English Jackal. Where one sees him one may scent
conspiracy."
In all the life and color compassed between the four walls of Moorish
tiles and arches, Benton felt the magnet of the group irresistibly
drawing his eyes to itself.
"And this gathering about a table for a cup of coffee, in Cadiz--what of
it?" argued Benton. He tried to speak as if his curiosity were dilute
and his thoughts west of the Atlantic. "Are they not all known here?"
Again Blanco gave the expressive Spanish shrug.
"Few people here know any of them. I only said, _Señor_, that if any
chance should cause Galavia to mourn her new King that same chance would
elevate the tall, pale gentleman from a café table to a throne. I did
not say that the chance would occur."
"And yet?" urged Benton, his eyes narrowing, "your words seem to hint
more than they express. What is it, Manuel?"
The Spaniard took a handful of matches from a porcelain receptacle on
the table. He laid one down.
"Let that match," he smilingly suggested, "stand for the circumstance of
the Grand Duke leaving Paris for Cadiz which is--well, nearer to
Puntal--and less observant than Paris." He laid another on the marble
table-top with its sulphur head close to the first, so that the two
radiated from a common center like spokes from a hub. "Regard that as a
coincidence of the arrival of the Count Borttorff from the other
direction, but at the same time, and at the precise season of the
coronation and marriage of the King." He looked at the two matches, then
successively laid down others, all with the heads at the common center.
"That," he said, "is the joining of the group by the distinguished
Frenchman--that the presence of the English Jackal--that is the chance
that runs against any King or Queen of meeting death. That--" he struck
another match and held it a moment burning in his fingers "--regard
that, _Señor_, as the flaring up of ambitions that are thwarted by a
life or two."
He touched the burning match to the grouped tips of sulphur and his
teeth gleamed white as he contemplated the little spurt of hissing
flame. Then he dropped his flattened hand upon the tiny eruption and
extinguished it, as his sudden grin died away to a bored smile.
[Illustration: HIS TEETH GLEAMED WHITE AS HE CONTEMPLATED THE LITTLE
SPURT OF HISSING FLAME.]
"There, it is over," he yawned, "and of course it may not happen. _Quien
sabe?_"
"And if they should flare up--" Benton spoke slowly, carefully, "others
might suffer than the King?"
"How should one say? The King alone would suffice, but Kings are rarely
found in solitude," reasoned the Andalusian. "For a brief moment Europe
looks with eyes of interest on the feasting little capital. The King
will not be alone. No, it must be--so one would surmise--at the
coronation."
"Good God!" Benton gaspingly breathed the exclamation. "But, man, think
of it--the women--the children--the utterly innocent people--the Queen!"
The Spaniard leaned back, balancing his chair on two legs, his hands
spread on the table. "_Si, Señor_, it is regrettable. Yet nothing on
earth appears so easy to supply as Kings--except Queens. And after all,
what is it to us--an American millionaire--a Cadiz _toreador_?"
For a moment Benton was silent. When he spoke it was in quick,
clear-clipped interrogation.
"You know Puntal and Galavia?"
"As I know Spain."
"Manuel, suppose the quaking of a throne _does_ interest me, you will
go there with me--even though I may lead you where its fall may crush us
both?"
The Spaniard grinned with a dazzling show of white teeth. His shoulders
rose and fell in a shrug. "As well a tumbling castle wall as a charging
bull."
"Good. The first thing is to learn all we can of Louis and his party."
"There is," observed Blanco calmly, "a table on this side also shielded
by plants. From its angle we can observe,--and be ourselves protected
from their view. However, we will first go for a stroll in the _calle_
and return. The change of position will then be less noticeable. Also,
the _Señor's_ forehead is beaded with moisture. The air of the street
will be grateful."
As Benton rose he noticed that the Grand Duke was leaning confidentially
toward the member of the French _Cabinet Noir_.
Fifteen minutes later the two men were ensconced in their more sheltered
coign, with wine glasses before them, and all the seeming of idle hours
to kill.
"Is Louis ostensibly a friend of the throne?" demanded the American.
"Professedly, he is, _Señor_. He will write his felicitations when the
marriage and the crowning occur--he will even send suitable gifts, but
he will remain at his café here with his absinthe, or in Paris near the
fair Comptessa Astaride, whom he adores, unless, of course, he goes to
touch the match."
"Does he never return to Puntal?"
"Once in five years he has been there. Then he went quietly to his
hunting lodge which is ten miles, as the crow flies from the capital,
yet barred off by the mountain ridge. It is two days' journey by sea
from Puntal, and save by the sea one comes only through the mountain
pass, which is always guarded. Yet on that occasion heliographs reported
his movements; the King's escort was doubled and the King went little
abroad."
"Who stands at Louis' back? Revolutionists?"
"_Dios!_ No, _Señor_. The Galavians are cattle. Karyl or Louis, it is
one to them. Galavia is a key. The key cares not at what porter's belt
it jingles. Europe cares who opens and closes the lock. _Comprende?_
Spain cares, France cares, Italy cares, even the Northern nations care.
The movement of pawns affects castles and kings."
Manuel suddenly halted in his flow of talk. "Blessed Saints!" he
breathed softly. "When he comes nearer you will see him--the palms
obscure him now. It is Colonel Von Ritz. He has just entered. He stands
near Karyl and the throne. He is a great man wasted in a toy kingdom.
All Europe envies the services which Von Ritz squanders on Galavia."
Benton looked up with a rush of memories, and was glad that the Galavian
could not see him.
Like all the men concerned, Von Ritz was inconspicuously a civilian in
dress, but as he came down the center of the room he was, as always, the
commanding figure, challenging attention. His steady eyes swept the
place with dispassionate scrutiny. His straight mouth-line betrayed no
expression. He came slowly, idly, as though looking for someone. When
still some distance from the table where sat the Duke Louis, he halted
and their eyes met. Those of the Duke, as he inclined his head slightly,
stiffly, wore a glint of veiled hostility. Those of Von Ritz, as he
returned the salute, no whit more cordially, were blank, except that for
the moment, as he stood regarding the party, his non-committal pupils
seemed to bore into each face about the table and to catalogue them all
in an insolent inventory.
Each man in the group uneasily shifted his eyes. Then Karyl's officer
turned on his heel and left the place. Louis watched him, scowling, and
as the Colonel passed into the street turned suddenly and spoke in a
vehement whisper. Jusseret's sardonic lips twisted into a wry smile as
though in recognition of an adversary's clever check.
The café was now filled. Few tables remained unoccupied, and of these,
several were near that of the Ducal party.
Blanco rose. "Wait for me, _Señor_," he whispered, then went to the
front of the café where Benton lost him in a crowd at the door. A moment
later he came lurching back. His lower lip was stupidly pendent, his
eyes heavy and dull, and as he floundered about he dropped with the
aimless air of one heavily intoxicated into a chair by a vacant table
not more than ten feet distant from that of Louis, the Dreamer.
There he remained huddled in apparent torpor and for some moments
unobserved, until the Duke signaled to a passing waiter and indicated
the _toreador_ with a glance. The waiter came over to Blanco. "The
_Señor_ will find another table," he said with the ingratiating courtesy
of one paying a compliment. "It is regrettable, but this one is
reserved." Blanco appeared too stupid to understand, and when finally he
did grasp the meaning he rose with profuse and clumsy apologies and
staggered vacantly about in the immediate neighborhood of the conspiring
coterie. Finally, after receiving further attention and guidance from
the waiter, he returned to Benton, and dropping into his chair leaned
over, his white teeth flashing a satisfied smile. "The matches may not
flare, _Señor_," he said, "but it would appear it was planned. Now
Martin and Borttorff cannot go to Puntal. Since the brief visit of Von
Ritz they are branded men. The others are already known to Karyl's
government."
Benton sat with his brows knitted intently listening.
"Now," went on Blanco, "there is one thing more. They await the man for
whom they hold the empty chair."
There was a brief silence, then the Spaniard uttered a low exclamation
of satisfaction. Benton glanced up to see a young man of frank face,
blond mustache and Paris clothes drop into the vacant place with evident
apologies for his tardiness.
"Ah," breathed Blanco again, "I feared it would be someone I did not
know. He is the _Teniente_ Lapas, of Karyl's Palace guard. The
_pobrecito_! I wonder what post he hopes to adorn at the Court of the
Pretender."
For a moment the Spaniard looked on with an expression of melancholy
reflection. "That boy," he said "at last, has the trust and friendship
of the King. Before him lies every prospect of advancement, yet he has
been beguiled by the Countess Astaride, and throws himself into a plot
against Karyl. It is pitiable when one is perfidious so young--and with
such small cause."
"Who is the Countess Astaride?" inquired the American.
"One of the most beautiful women in Europe, to whom these children are
playthings. For her there is only Louis Delgado. It is her firing of his
dreams which makes him aspire to a throne. It is she who has the
determination. He can see visions of power only in the colors of his
absinthe glass. She uses men to her ends. Lapas is the latest--unless--"
Blanco paused--"unless he is playing two parts, and really serves Karyl.
Come, _Señor_, there is nothing further to interest us here."