THE LIONS ROAR
The _London Times_ does not reach Nice until five o’clock in the
evening, but by the middle of the morning a crowd of newspaper men,
diplomats and motley adventurers were besieging the gates of the Villa
Gloria. As the baron had foreseen, Selden’s telegram had caused a
considerable flutter at many London breakfast tables.
Lord Curzon, for example, who, heaven knows, is not easily moved from
the prearranged and almost godlike tenor of his ways, reached his
office ten minutes earlier than usual, wired Paris for a confirmation,
and called in his Balkan expert and his financial adviser for a
conference that lasted nearly an hour, at the end of which a long
telegram of mingled advice and admonition was sent to Jeneski and
another to the ambassador at Paris, informing him that the attitude of
the British foreign office would be strictly neutral--which meant, of
course, that if the king could get back his throne, pay off his debts
to Britain and open up some trade, the Empire would have every reason
to be gratified.
All the Balkan ambassadors proceeded to warm up the wires between
London and their several capitals, most of them sending Selden’s
article in full in order to avoid the bother of composing something out
of their own heads, and then repaired to Lord Curzon’s ante-chamber
to inquire what the British government was going to do about it. Lord
Curzon, of course, hadn’t the slightest intention of telling any one
what he was going to do about it, even if he knew himself, but he
concealed this fact behind a cryptic manner and a Jove-like demeanour.
He gave Jeneski’s ambassador an extra minute, on the strength of which
that worthy sent a hopeful telegram to his master.
But neither of these telegrams reached Jeneski, nor did the ones from
Paris, Brussels and Belgrade, for by the time they had been relayed
through to his capital, Jeneski had departed. Nobody knew he had
departed, except three of his ministers whom he had called together
in the early morning to read a telegram which had just arrived from
Nice; the general impression was that he was suffering from a slight
cold; but as a matter of fact he was in an airplane flying across the
Adriatic.
As Selden had suspected, there was no lack of decision about Jeneski in
a critical moment, but even his ministers wondered what he could hope
to accomplish at Nice. Two of them were strongly of the opinion that he
should stay at home and begin at once to organize his forces; if it got
about that he had left the country, the effect would be very bad. The
royalists might even attempt a counter-revolution. The third one urged
him by all means to go, but it was in the secret hope that he would
fall into the Adriatic en route, and the way be opened for the king and
the millions he would bring with him. Perhaps Jeneski suspected this,
but he started just the same.
The stir in London was not only in the diplomatic dovecotes, for a
number of people of no discoverable occupation either sent urgent
telegrams in cipher or else suddenly discovered that they needed a
rest on the Riviera and booked places on the afternoon boat-train.
And, of course, the foreign editor of every newspaper wired his Nice
correspondent (or his Paris correspondent, if he had none at Nice) an
inquiry, more or less polite, as to how the devil he had come to miss
this important piece of news.
During the day, this commotion spread to the continent, and from
Paris, Rome, Vienna, Lucerne, hopeful adventurers turned their faces
toward Nice, like vultures gathering for a feast, all of them anxious
to assist in the restoration of a dynasty so well fortified with real
money in the shape of American dollars.
All of which was brought forcibly to Selden’s notice about the middle
of the afternoon when he was startled out of his thoughts by the
ringing of his ’phone.
“Yes--what is it?” he asked.
“’Allo! Is this M. Selden?”
“Yes.”
“’Allo! This is the manager.”
“Yes; what is it?”
“’Allo! There are some people here to see you, M. Selden.”
“Who are they?”
“I do not know who they are, monsieur,” said the manager, “but they say
they are journalists and that it is necessary they see you at once. I
hope there has been no scandal....”
“Reassure yourself,” Selden laughed. “Cause them to be sent up to my
room, if you please.”
Three minutes later there was a bang on his door, which was flung open
without further ceremony--as he had been so certain it would be that he
had not taken the trouble to rise.
“Hello!” he said, as they rushed upon him, “what’s the matter with
you fellows, anyway? Why, hello, Scott--I’m mighty glad to see you. I
didn’t know you were down here,” and he shook hands with Paul Scott,
of the _Daily News_, the comrade of many a campaign and one of the
best-informed men on international affairs in Europe. “Now what’s
eating you?”
There were perhaps a dozen men in the crowd, and he nodded to the
others that he knew.
“You know well enough what’s eating us, you damn pirate,” said Scott
grimly. “Since when have you been the publicity man for that old
toreador over at Nice?”
“I haven’t tackled that job yet,” said Selden; “I’m still working for
the _Times_.”
“Then why should he send us all over here to see you?”
“Did he do that?”
“Yes, he did just that.”
“Maybe he wanted to get rid of you,” suggested Selden with a chuckle.
“But sit down, Scott. Sit down, the rest of you, if you can find
chairs. Now let’s have the story.”
“My story,” said Scott, taking off his hat and wiping his forehead, “is
simply this. I came down here partly to get a rest, partly to interview
old Clemenceau when he gets back from India, and I expected to have
a few days just to loaf around. But this noon I get a telegram from
Lawson asking if I wake or if I sleep, and outlining that beat you put
across. After I had cooled off a little, I put on my hat and hunted up
the villa where the king lives. There I found these boys kicking their
heels outside the gates and discussing a polite little note which the
king’s secretary had just brought out to the effect that there was
nothing to be added to your story of yesterday evening, and that he was
very busy and must beg to be excused, but would be happy to see us at
six o’clock. He was busy all right--a blind man could see that!” Scott
added impartially.
“Busy doing what?” Selden queried.
“Busy receiving all the diplomats in Nice--to say nothing of the shady
characters from various down-and-out circles--all the birds of prey
along the Riviera.”
“He was letting them in?”
“A good many got past the gates. How much farther they got I don’t
know. Old Buckton, the British consul, came out while I was there,
red as a turkey-cock and grinning all over; and our own ineffable
Hartley-Belleville, who couldn’t have had any possible business there,
but has to be in on everything!”
“Well, and then what?” asked Selden.
“Well--some of these fellows represent evening papers, and couldn’t
wait till six o’clock, and we sent in a round-robin pointing this out.
And what do you think old Pietro did? He sent out your address and
referred us to you! Fierce, wasn’t it? Well, we swore awhile, and then
we tumbled into some cars and rushed over here. Now stand and deliver!”
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything.”
“All right,” said Selden, and filled his pipe. Scott also fished his
out of his pocket.
“May I suggest that monsieur speak in French?” asked one of the French
correspondents, who had followed this rapid interchange with the utmost
difficulty.
“Is there anybody here who doesn’t understand French?” Selden asked.
“No, I guess not,” said Scott. “Fire ahead.”
So Selden told the story very much as he had told it in his telegram,
with perhaps an added detail or two and a little more colour, and they
all sat and listened, and the Frenchmen made notes of the unfamiliar
American names and asked how they were spelled.
“I always thought you were a democrat,” said Scott, when he had
finished.
“Yet I infer from your tone that you are in favour of letting this old
reprobate bribe his way back to power.”
“He won’t have to do any bribing. When his people know he has some real
money to spend on the country, they’ll be only too anxious to have him
back.”
“That may be true--but it is bribery just the same--only wholesale
instead of retail.”
“It is national interest--self-preservation--exactly what every country
is governed by.”
“I seem to remember some articles of yours in which you were rather
dippy about Jeneski and his new republic.”
“Yes; but I didn’t foresee this alternative. You know conditions
over there, and how much good this money will do. Besides, there is
a certain poetic justice in putting it back into the country of the
people who earned it.”
Scott grunted sceptically.
“Just how many millions are there?”
“I don’t know. They ought to be able to find that out in New York.”
“How old is the girl?”
“About twenty-three, I should say.”
“Where does she live?”
“In Cimiez somewhere--I think the family has a villa.”
“Twenty-two Avenue Victoria,” piped up one of the Frenchmen. “It is
almost impossible to get inside--when one does, it is always the same
thing, ‘Please go away--not at ’ome!’”
At that moment Selden’s telephone rang.
“Excuse me,” he said, and picked up the receiver.
“This is Danilo talking,” said the prince’s voice, when assured that
he had Selden on the wire. “The king has requested me to speak with
you. All day there have been journalists asking--demanding--to see
him. Naturally he does not wish to offend them, and he has therefore
promised to see them at six o’clock. He very much wishes you also to be
present. He will send a car for you.”
“No--I can get over,” said Selden. “I shall be very glad to come.”
“Thank you,” said the prince. “Good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” said Selden, and glanced at his watch. It was a few minutes
after four. “That is all I can tell you fellows now,” he said. “It’s
all I know. Perhaps we shall learn something more at six o’clock.”
The men who served evening papers hurried away to get off their
stories, hoping to catch the last edition. The others departed more
leisurely. Scott remained till the last.
“Look here, old man,” he said, when the door was shut, “what do you
really think about this affair?”
“I’m willing to give the king a try,” said Selden. “Perhaps the war has
taught him something. If he doesn’t make good, he can always be fired
out again.”
“It won’t be so easy the next time,” Scott pointed out. “Besides, it
isn’t the king--it’s Danilo. There is one detail you didn’t mention.”
“What is it?”
“That he has a morganatic wife. It’s perfectly well known in Paris.
These fellows are all going to play it up.”
“Are they?”
“One of them has even dug up an old picture of her--as a ballet dancer.”
“Was she a ballet dancer?”
“Yes--at the Opéra. But you don’t mean to tell me you didn’t know about
it?”
“Yes, I knew about it; but look here, Scott--she may have been a
ballet dancer--I don’t know; but I met her to-day and I found her an
extraordinary woman.”
“Is she staying here?” Scott inquired.
“Yes; she and a niece.”
“H’m!” said Scott, and Selden knew as well as if he had said it, that
Scott had made up his mind to find her.
“Interview her by all means, if you can,” he said. “You’ll see in a
minute that it will be an outrage to drag her through the mud.”
“I’m not going to drag her through the mud,” Scott protested; “but of
course I’ve got to mention the marriage and it can’t do any harm to see
the lady. I was wondering, though, how that angle of the story will
strike them over in America.”
“I have stopped wondering how anything will strike them over there!”
said Selden.
Scott grinned cheerfully.
“Yes, I know we are not in the League yet. But this marriage story may
make a difference. Doesn’t it make any difference to you?”
“Not a particle--and it won’t make any difference to anybody. Most
Americans have been so stuffed with cheap romance and pseudo-memoirs
and backstairs gossip--to say nothing of the movies!--that they
consider a morganatic wife and two or three mistresses as natural to
a prince as--well, as two legs or two arms. He is incomplete without
them!”
“Perhaps so,” Scott agreed; “but I should think it would make some
difference to the girl.”
“If I were she, I’d prefer him to have had one wife rather than a dozen
mistresses.”
“That is one way of looking at it, of course,” said Scott slowly; “but
as a matter of fact, one woman is far more dangerous than a dozen.
Does she intend to let the prince go?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, well, in that case, I suppose it’s all right,” said Scott, and
rose. “She _must_ be an extraordinary woman. See you at six,” and he
put on his hat and walked out.
For a long time Selden sat staring at the door. Would Madame Ghita let
the prince go? After all, that was not the bargain--she had agreed
merely not to make a scene....
* * * * *
Selden took care not to reach the Villa Gloria in advance of six
o’clock. He wanted to go in as the others did. But he had taken the
precaution to get the king’s secretary on the ’phone and to give him
certain advice to be passed on to his master. So they found the prince
with his grandfather when they were ushered into the salon. Both of
them were in the national costume. It was the first time that Selden
had seen the prince so attired, and he found him much more attractive
than in the ordinary garb of western Europe. The colours suited his
dark hair and skin admirably. He even had a little of his grandfather’s
dignity.
As for the king, no one could have looked more regal; nothing could
have surpassed the urbanity of his greeting as he shook hands with
the correspondents one by one. There were a lot of them by this
time--Italian, French, American, English--among the latter Halsey,
returning the king’s smile with an expression which seemed to Selden
distinctly sardonic. But then Halsey was always sardonic--there was
something wrong inside of him. Perhaps, as the French would say, he
listened to himself too much! He caught Selden’s eye as he turned away
from the king, but made no sign of recognition. Evidently he had cut
Selden from his list of acquaintances!
“I am desolated, messieurs,” said the king, “that I was not able
to receive you earlier, but I have been very much engaged. It
has astonished me, the interest awakened by the announcement of
my grandson’s betrothal. And I have been deeply gratified by the
felicitations which I have received.”
“Official felicitations, sir?” asked Halsey.
“No,” said the king. “Those, of course, must wait upon the formal
announcement, which will be issued in a few days. It is delayed only
until the date of the wedding is agreed upon.”
“The wedding will be soon, no doubt, sir?” inquired one of the Italians.
“As soon as the necessary arrangements can be made. The Baron Lappo,
my minister, is already in Paris to that end. I need not tell you
gentlemen how gratified I am to be allied to this powerful American
family, which will enable us to do so much for our fatherland. Mlle.
Davis shares this enthusiasm. I assure you that you will find her, when
you meet her, to be everything that a queen should be.”
“A queen, sir?” asked Halsey, quickly. “A restoration is planned, then?”
“It is at least envisaged,” said the king. “I am going to ask my people
to choose, and I have not the slightest doubt what their choice will
be. But whether or not we succeed, I am still king, monsieur, and my
grandson will be king after me and his son after him.”
“We should like very much to meet the lady,” some one suggested.
“I will see if it can be arranged,” said the king. “There is one
thing more I wish to say to you. It is no secret that some years ago
my grandson contracted a morganatic marriage with a young lady in
Paris--a lady for whom I have the very highest respect and esteem. This
marriage was contracted in the regular way and no attempt was made to
conceal it. We are in no way ashamed of it, and I should much regret
to see it made the basis of scandal or innuendo. The prince and this
lady have been happy together; but the hour has come, foreseen from
the beginning, when they must part. It is not an easy thing to do; but
they do it with brave hearts for the sake of my country. I find it
admirable, this sacrifice; I hope it will appeal to you, messieurs,
also, and that you will treat it tenderly.”
It could not have been better done; it was evident that, to the Latins
at least, the romantic appeal was irresistible. But on Halsey’s
countenance the sardonic expression grew a little deeper. And the face
of the prince was also a study.
Then somebody said something about photographs, and the king summoned
his secretary and instructed him to provide them, and then he shook
each man by the hand again, and so did the prince, and the interview
was over.
“He is a wonder,” said Scott, as they went out together, and that
seemed to sum up pretty well the impression the king had made on all
of them, to judge by the comments of the crowd. Most of them were
of amused admiration at the way the old king managed to carry things
off. He was a poseur, yes; he was a mediæval old fossil, yes; but he
had always been a friend of the journalist--an inexhaustible source
of copy. So why not be kind to him? After all, what did it matter who
ruled over the few square miles of barren mountains that constituted
his kingdom. They were all a little weary of reformers and patriots--so
many of them had proved to be mere wind-bags, or worse! Yes, they would
be kind to the king. Even Scott smiled and said, “Oh, well, let’s give
the old boy a chance!”
Only, Selden noticed, Halsey did not join in this discussion, but
hurried away, as soon as he had passed the gates, as though to keep
an appointment. Undoubtedly there would be a slashing article in the
_Journal_. Halsey had unusual powers of invective when he let himself
go.
But perhaps the countess would stop him.
Well, Selden told himself, in either event he did not care. He was
only an outsider looking on at the comedy and applauding the bits that
appealed to him.
And yet--was that all? Or had he been involved? Had he a stake in the
game?
But a ballet dancer ... a woman who was for sale....