do anything for the man they love. You do not see them over here--not
often; they are too busy raising their children. They do not figure
in the papers, for their life is spent in their homes. Only they
demand more of a man than you do. They do not realize what half-tamed
creatures we are, and sometimes they demand too much. I think you
understand men better.”
“Ah, yes,” laughed Miss Fayard, shaking her finger at Davis. “We
understand them! Never believe that I will not understand you! When you
lie to me, I shall know it--but you will never suspect that I know--not
until long, long afterwards. And then you will be very, very much
ashamed!”
“All right,” said Davis, gazing at her in rapt adoration. “I am not
afraid! Isn’t she a peach?” he added to Selden.
“Exquisite!” Selden agreed, suddenly sober. “Be good to her, old man!”
“You don’t need to tell me that!” said Davis quickly.
“Perhaps not. What are you going to do after you are married?”
“We’re going to take a trip around the world.”
“Yes--and after that?”
“Oh, settle down somewhere, I guess, and raise a family.”
“That will keep your wife busy, but not you. What are _you_ going to
do?”
“He will be a great politician!” cried Cicette.
Davis groaned.
“Not in America!”
“He is right,” said Selden, with a smile. “With us it is not the same
thing. Well, you must choose a career for him, mademoiselle, after you
know him better; something to keep him busy part of the time, so that
he won’t be annoying you all day long. I wish I had some one to choose
a career for me!” he added.
Madame Ghita looked at him quickly, struck by something in his voice.
“You have your career,” she said; “a very wonderful one!”
“Do you think so?”
“But of course! Every one thinks so!” She was looking at him
searchingly now, deeply concerned at what she saw in his face. “Do you
mean it does not satisfy you?”
“It seems rather empty at times,” he confessed.
“Empty? But how is that possible? Oh, you are jesting!”
“I wish....”
A sudden commotion at the outer door interrupted him--the sound of a
raised voice; and then the curtains were swept aside and Danilo burst
into the room.
“I have come for you, Rénee!” he cried, with a wild gesture. “Hasten--I
take you away to-night!”
CHAPTER XXII
A WOMAN’S DECISION
There was a moment’s stupefied silence, while the prince looked
triumphantly at each of them in turn, his gaze lingering upon Selden
an instant longer than upon the others, as though asking what he did
there. His eyes were shining strangely, and there was something defiant
in his face, something reckless in his air, as of a man who had started
forth upon some desperate venture and burned his boats behind him.
“Come!” he said again, as Madame Ghita made no move.
“But I do not understand!” she protested.
“I have had enough of it!” said the prince, and he filled himself
a glass of champagne and gulped it down. “I am treated as of no
importance, as just a pawn in a game which does not interest me.
I am told to do this, not to do that; to marry a woman for whom I
care nothing--that would not be so bad; it was what I expected; to
that I have agreed. But to leave the woman I love--no, to that I did
not agree, and when they tell me I must do it, I say no, it is not
possible; it is asking too much! I rebel--yes, I thrust it all aside,
and I come to take you away!”
Madame Ghita’s face was ghastly.
“But the dynasty--your grandfather; it will kill him,” she said, in a
voice hoarse with emotion.
“I cannot help it. That is no reason why I should be miserable all my
life.”
“And your country?”
“Jeneski will rule it better than I. Come! What is it?” he demanded,
seeing that she still stared at him as though fascinated, and made no
move. “What is it you fear? That I have no money? See here,” and he
plunged his hand into his pocket and brought forth a bulky purse. “I
have three hundred thousand francs--enough for two years!”
“Where did you get it?” she asked.
“No matter where I got it!” he cried, and a little spasm crossed his
face, distorting it for an instant. “I have it--that is enough. Come!”
“No, no!” she protested. “No, no! You cannot do this!”
“Look here,” put in Davis, who had caught the drift of things, “what
about my sister?”
“Your sister will be far happier if she does not marry me,” said the
prince. “I am not in the least the man for her.”
“Still,” protested Davis, “to be deserted like this....”
“She may make any explanation she pleases--that it was she who broke
off the match--and I will confirm it I have no wish to injure your
sister, monsieur, and she will not be injured.”
“Just the same,” Davis muttered, “it’s pretty tough that it should
happen twice!”
“If monsieur wishes any other satisfaction,” said the prince haughtily,
“I am at his service.” Then he swung back to Madame Ghita. “Alors,
Rénee!”
The blood was coming back into her face and she was regaining her
self-control.
“Sit down, Danilo,” she said, “and do not be so ridiculous. One cannot
go away like that. What about my packing?”
“Your maid can do it.”
“And you--you are going away like that, with just the clothes you have
on?”
“My man will send my things after me.”
“No,” she said; “you are too silly. You must keep your word to this
girl.”
“But you told me to-day that, when I marry her, everything is over
between us.”
“Yes; everything is over between us now, Danilo,” she said gently.
His face flushed a fiery red and he strode toward her threateningly.
“Then it is not because of this marriage that you leave me--it is
because you no longer love me!”
She made no answer, only looked at him, smiling slightly, a bright spot
of colour in either cheek.
“You love some one else!” he shouted. “Who is it?” and his eyes roved
for an instant back to Selden’s face.
“Ah, Danilo,” she said sadly, “do not spoil everything at the end in
this way. Do not make me regret that I have known you!”
“Then it is true! Who is it?”
“Monsieur,” said Madame Ghita coldly, “I am not to be shouted at, even
by you. You are not yourself to-night. If you are going to behave in
this manner, I must ask you to withdraw.”
For an instant, Selden, tense and ready to spring, thought the prince
was going to strike her.
“Withdraw!” he repeated, staring at her and then about the apartment,
as though doubting his own senses. “You tell me to withdraw!”
And then he burst into a roar of laughter, pulled up a chair and sat
down.
“Come,” he said, lighting a cigarette with trembling hand, “it is over.
I was a fool, hein? What a joke! Give me some wine!”
Davis, much relieved, filled his glass.
“Do you often have these fits?” he asked.
“Not often, monsieur,” said the prince drily, sipping his wine.
“Madame there can testify that I am usually of the most equable. But
sometimes--yes, sometimes I think I am a little mad,” and he rubbed his
hand across his forehead. “Yet we are all of us a little mad, are we
not, M. Selden?” and he looked at Selden with a sardonic smile.
“Some more than others,” Selden answered.
“Ah, you mean me!” said the prince. “Yes, it is so--I more than others.
Sometimes I am quite, quite mad. To-night, par example, I thought I had
discovered a way of escape from all the things that worried me. That
was mad, yes? Because one can never escape!”
“You are right,” Selden agreed. “One can never escape--not by running
away.”
“I see what you mean,” and the prince nodded. “To overcome one’s
troubles, one must not run away; one must face them, yes? Besides,
it is cowardly to run away, and a gentleman must not be a coward.
You see I can be a philosopher at times--I am at this moment, very
philosophique. I remain--I face my troubles. Monsieur Davis, you will
yet have me for a beau-frère! Madame, I ask your pardon!”
“It is granted,” she said. “I am happy to see you reasonable again.”
“Yes, I am reasonable,” he agreed. “Another glass!”
Madame, who had been watching him with evident anxiety, shook her head,
but Davis did not see the gesture and filled the glass.
“Wait,” said Davis, and refilled all the glasses. “You remember I told
you that I had a surprise for you to-night?”
“Ah, yes,” smiled the prince. “What is it?”
“It is that I am going to marry Miss Fayard,” answered Davis,
unconsciously falling into his idiom. “This is my betrothal dinner.”
“Is it true?” cried the prince, and sprang to his feet.
“Monsieur--madame--let us drink to the happy pair--to their health, to
their happiness, to everything that is good!” He drained his glass,
then walked around the table and took the girl’s hand. “Mademoiselle,”
he said, “I have always admired you, for you are good. I pray you to
accept this little gift for good luck,” and he drew a ring from his
finger and slipped it upon hers, then kissed her hand and released it.
“It is beautiful!” she cried, holding it to the light. “But it is your
good-luck ring--you should not give me your good-luck ring!”
“I shall not need it any more,” he said; “as père de famille, I shall
not tempt fortune. I shall just grow fat and lazy.” He drew his coat
about him.
“You are going?” asked madame.
“Yes--I must be getting back.”
“But is it true, Danilo, that you have all that money in your purse?”
“Yes, it is true.”
“It is very foolish--and very dangerous.”
“Dangerous? In Monte Carlo, where one meets a gendarme at every ten
steps? Besides--do not worry--I shall place it in the bank as soon as
possible. Unless--have you need of some?” and he thrust his hand in his
pocket.
“Ah, no!” she said quickly, with a gesture of repugnance.
“It is yours if you want it,” he persisted, his hand still in his
pocket, a strange smile on his lips.
“I do not want it,” she answered quietly.
“Then good night,” said the prince. “You have been very good to me,
madame; I shall never forget it, and shall wish you happiness always.
And you, monsieur,” he continued to Selden, “I regret that it has not
been my privilege to know you better--I feel that we might have been
friends. But I wish you all good fortune.” He hesitated, his eyes on
Selden’s, as though debating whether to say something more; then,
with a little shake of the head, turned to Miss Fayard. “And to you,
mademoiselle, again I say good luck. I am sure you will bring good luck
to others. How old are you?” he added, as though struck by a sudden
thought.
“I am nineteen, M. le Prince.”
“Nineteen--a good age--a lucky age!” he said, and kissed her hand. “And
you, M. Davis--but I do not need to wish you good fortune--you have it
there,” and he nodded toward the girl. “Do not worry, my friend--I will
do my best to make your sister happy. I can promise, at least, not to
annoy her. Good-bye!”
And with a wave of his hat, he was gone.
They all sat for a moment without speaking, staring at the door through
which he had vanished. Then Davis reached for his glass.
“Yes, he is mad,” he gulped. “But what does he mean, going away like
that? He--he frightens me!”
Again there was a moment’s silence. Perhaps he frightened all of them.
Madame Ghita touched her eyes gently with her handkerchief.
“He reminds me of a man about to go over the top,” said Selden,
pensively; “in a sort of ecstasy. I have seen them like that many
times, as they stood waiting for the word.”
“Yes,” cried Miss Fayard, with a catch in her throat, “the word to go
forward to their death!”
“It is not always death,” said Selden gently, his heart very tender for
the lovely sad woman beside him. “Sometimes it is victory!”
CHAPTER XXIII
THE PRINCE PLAYS
They still tell, at the Sporting Club, of the last visit of Prince
Danilo. There have been other visits more spectacular, ending with a
pistol-shot on the terrace or a draught of poison in the wash-room;
but of them no one speaks. There have been many persons who won more
or lost more--and were promptly forgotten. But there was something
about the prince that night, an air of mystery and unreality, which the
onlookers never forgot; and his style was so exquisite, his bearing
so perfect, that they have ever since served as a model by which the
attendants measure each new aspirant for the honours of the rooms. And
all are agreed that they have never been approached.
That visit, indeed, has not only been remembered, but is rapidly
passing into legend. Already it has been richly embroidered, and
reasons the most fanciful have been advanced as to why the prince chose
to play a certain number, or why he chose to play at all, and dazzling
stories have been woven of what would have happened if he had played at
any other table in the room, instead of the one he actually selected.
All of which is, of course, inevitable, because the great diversion of
the habitués of Monte Carlo, aside from trying to devise a system to
beat the bank, is explaining what would have happened “if!” How many
times daily the bank would be broken but for that little word!
As a matter of fact, when the prince left the Hotel de Paris, he
probably did not expect to play at all, for he asked the giant
be-medalled negro who keeps the door to call his car. The negro
explained respectfully that it was his infinite regret to be obliged
to inform M. le Prince that a slight accident had happened to the car;
a careless chauffeur, in turning, had backed into it and damaged the
front axle slightly. Already it was being straightened in the hotel
garage, and would be ready in twenty minutes. If M. Le Prince wished
another car?
“No,” said the prince. “I will wait,” and he walked slowly down to the
terrace and stood for a moment looking out to sea. A gardien saw and
recognized him, and saluted respectfully as he passed.
He might have stood there until the car was ready but for a violent
gust of rain which swept suddenly in from the sea and drove him back
up the steps. At the top he hesitated. The lights of the Sporting Club
gleamed on his left, and at last he turned slowly toward them. Perhaps
it was in his mind that, since the Goddess of Fortune had dealt him one
staggering blow that night, she might now, like a true woman, relent
and smile upon him.
At any rate, he mounted the steps to the entrance and passed in.
The rooms were crowded, as always, and all the tables were in play, but
he passed through without pausing or looking at any one, and walked
on into the buffet, where he ordered a whiskey and soda and drank
it standing at the bar. Then, as though his resolution was taken, he
walked quickly back into the gaming rooms, stopped at the nearest
table, changed a thousand-franc note for ten plaques, and placed them
around the number nineteen.
The chef de partie, sitting in his high chair behind the croupiers and
surveying the whole board, must have sensed something unusual in the
prince’s manner, for he watched him intently, but no one else paid any
attention to him. Every one was absorbed in the play.
An attendant asked him if he wished a chair, but he shook his head and
remained standing.
“Faites vos jeux, messieurs; faites vos jeux!” called the croupier,
and bets were placed up and down the board, but the prince alone was
on nineteen. “Les jeux sont faits?” and the croupier leaned forward,
picked the little ivory ball out of the compartment into which it had
fallen the previous play, gently reversed the motion of the wheel, and
with a quick snap of his middle finger sent the ball circling around
and around the cupped rim of the wheel--around and around, six times,
seven times, eight times, and then its pace began to slacken.
“Rien ne va plus!” called the croupier sharply, and the ball fell with
a rattle into the middle of the wheel, coasted up its raised centre,
hesitated for the merest instant, and settled with a quick snap into
one of the compartments.
“Le dix-neuf!” announced the croupier. “Rouge, impair et passe.”
Breaths that had been held were released, and there was a murmur of
voices lamenting that they had not been on nineteen. For the prince
had won.
It was not very much--perhaps fifteen thousand francs--but he seemed to
regard it as a sign, for he too took a quick breath and nodded to an
attendant, who hastened to find a chair for him. The prince sat down,
placed his winnings in front of him, and began to play with absorbed
attention, always on or around or in connection with the number
nineteen.
There have been many stories of desperate persons who risked an entire
fortune on a single turn of the wheel and lost, or of lucky individuals
who won enormous sums by permitting their stakes to accumulate as
the same number came out again and again. Neither of these things is
possible, for the bank sets arbitrary limits to the play, running from
a hundred and eighty francs on a number, which pays thirty-five for
one, to six thousand francs on the simple chances, odd or even, red
or black, high or low, which wins an equal amount. So that, if one
plays the maximum on all the chances, it is possible--though rather
difficult--to lose about thirty thousand francs, or to win a little
over a hundred thousand. But that is the limit.
So the prince, playing cautiously and confining himself at first to the
cheveaux and carrés, took a long time in losing the fifteen thousand
francs he had won, even though nineteen did not come again. Twenty,
seventeen and twenty-three came, which helped to recoup his losses,
and it was at least an hour after he had sat down that the last of his
fifteen thousand francs were swept away.
He glanced at his watch and made a motion as if to rise, then decided
to wait for the next play.
The ball fell into nineteen.
There was an outcry of sympathy and indignation on the part of the
spectators. What a shame, what a crime, that his number should come at
the very moment he had ceased playing!
Quietly, as though moved by some power stronger than himself, the
prince drew his purse from his pocket, opened it and laid it on the
table before him. And this time he staked the maximum.
It is not often that any one stakes the maximum at Monte Carlo. Even in
this day thirty thousand francs is a considerable sum. So an electric
whisper ran around the room that something unusual was going forward
at the prince’s table, and the crowd around it became thicker and
thicker. The chef de partie, scenting a battle royal, sent hastily to
the cashier for an extra supply of funds.
The hand of the croupier was perhaps a shade less steady than usual as
he picked up the marble and started it on its run. It spun, faltered,
rattled, clicked....
“The twenty-seven,” announced the croupier. “Red, odd and low.”
The prince had won six thousand and lost twenty-four. Imperturbably he
placed his bets again. It was at this moment that Selden entered the
room.
* * * * *
The prince’s abrupt departure had left a constraint upon the
dinner-party, which was not to be shaken off. They had gone from the
dining-room into the salon, and there, after one or two ineffectual
attempts at gaiety, Davis and his fiancée had withdrawn to a corner
sofa to discuss certain strictly intimate affairs, and Selden had
smoked a cigarette with Madame Ghita and talked of desultory and
unimportant things--of anything, indeed, except the one thing which had
been in his mind to say when he was buying the roses.
Impossible to say that now--impossible even to hint at it. It would be
indecent--like wooing a woman whose husband was dying in the next room!
Besides, she was in no mood for such confidences; she was distrait and
sad. The conversation faltered and died away; and presently he summoned
up courage to take his departure. She had been obviously grateful that
he should go.
He was too depressed and agitated to think of sleep, so he slipped into
his coat, left the hotel and descended to the terrace, just as the
prince had done half an hour before.
The rain-squall earlier in the evening had swept the terrace bare, and
he found himself alone there, except for the gardien. Masses of slaty
clouds were fleeing across the sky before the gusty wind, with the
moon peeping between them now and then and sending fugitive gleams of
light over the white-capped waves, which hissed and moaned dolefully
as they were driven in upon the rocky shore. More doleful still was
the rustle of the palms and the clatter of the rubber trees flapping
in the wind like a flock of ghostly night-birds. And above him gleamed
the lights of the casino, standing like a courtesan, white and gilt and
laboriously gay, but at heart most dismal of all!
Selden gave himself up for a time to the luxury of self-pity--to that
most dangerous of all dissipations, a fit of the blues. What was the
use of going on? What was the use of having ideals or of fighting for
them? The world paid no heed. What, indeed, was the world but a huge
casino, where every one was struggling to win his neighbour’s gold?
Why, above all, should he worry himself about a woman who was sad
because another man was leaving her?
But here his sense of justice asserted itself. The man was not leaving
her--she was sending him away. He had come seeking her and she had
refused to go. She had made her choice; but how could she help being
sad at the thought that one epoch of her life was ended? She had lived
with this man in closest intimacy; he had no doubt been kind and
generous. He had loved her. At the end he had come offering everything
he had--and she had sent him away. Where had he gone?
A sudden thought startled Selden out of his moodiness. What had the
prince meant when he promised to give his money to the bank? Why had he
smiled so ironically? Which bank?
In a moment Selden was hurrying toward the Sporting Club, and
the instant he entered the rooms he knew that his suspicion was
correct. That dense crowd around a single table could mean only one
thing--somebody was playing the limit.
“He is playing nineteen--always nineteen,” said a man beside him to his
neighbour.
Nineteen! Then of course it was the prince.
It was some time before Selden could get near enough to see what was
going on, but meanwhile the marble had been spun twice and he heard
the croupier announce two and eleven. Then he managed to worm himself
into a position from which he could see the prince.
Danilo seemed entirely cool, nonchalant--listless, even. He was
smoking a cigarette and tossing his notes into place upon the board as
though they were so many bits of worthless paper. He appeared equally
indifferent as to whether he won or lost, and totally unconscious of
the gaping crowd that watched him. Selden recognized in his bearing the
cold fury of the confirmed gambler, which stops at nothing. There had
been in his head the idea that he might intervene, but he saw that it
was useless. To speak to the prince now would be to insult him.
“The thirty-five!” announced the croupier. “Black, odd and low.”
Well, that was not so bad--six thousand on low and six on odd. But the
next number was six and the board was swept clear again.
The prince proceeded calmly to renew his bets.
Nineteen must come sometime, Selden told himself. If it came once, the
prince would win back all he had lost. If it came twice, he would be a
hundred thousand francs ahead.
Sixteen! That was good--thirty thousand francs, nearly--a gain. But the
next numbers were fifteen, thirty-three, three and again six, and the
prince had lost another hundred thousand.
Nobody else was playing; it was a battle between the prince and the
bank. M. le Directeur des Jeux had come out from his little office to
watch it, and to take command if necessary. The prince lighted another
cigarette and placed his money again.
Nineteen!
There was a little cheer from the crowd as the croupier counted out the
various bets one after the other, and pushed the notes across to the
prince.
Again now! And every one pulled for nineteen as the little ball spun
gaily around. But it fell into eight, and again the board was swept
clean.
That was the beginning of a bad run; six--there was a fatality about
that six!--eight again--thirty-three--twelve--two--twenty-four--a
little gain there!--fifteen. And then there was a short rally:
sixteen--twenty--twenty-three; but never again nineteen. Then another
bad run, and the pile of notes under the prince’s hand diminished
rapidly. He did not hesitate--always nineteen.
The crowd was beginning to get impatient with him. Why nineteen? Why
keep it up when he saw it was not a good number? And as if to mock him,
the croupier at the next table could be heard announcing nineteen! But
certainly he should change--if not the number, then the table. It was
imbecile to keep on like that!
But the prince did not change.
* * * * *
It was nearly two o’clock when he finally put his empty purse away and
rose to his feet.
“Messieurs,” he said, with a little bow to the directeur and the chef
de partie, “I have to thank you for a very pleasant evening.”
And he walked calmly to the door, got his hat and coat from the
vestiaire, and went out into the night.
PART V.--FRIDAY
CHAPTER XXIV
AN AFFAIR OF STATE
Selden took train for Nice next morning with a sense of impending
calamity. He was greatly depressed. The emotional events of the
previous evening had overtaxed his nerves. He had slept badly,
disturbed by elusively threatening dreams, and his brain was muggy and
distraught. He was almost sorry he had not heeded his impulse to run
away--to leave his lamp unlit! He doubted more and more whether its
feeble rays would ever guide him out of the labyrinth in which he was
madly wandering, and from which there seemed to be no way of escape.
The train he had caught was a local, and as it bumped its leisurely way
along, he had time to review his position over a contemplative pipe;
but the more he considered it, the worse it seemed to grow; turn it as
he might, he could discover no bright side. Of one thing only he was
certain: his life would never again be the calm and satisfactory thing
it had been. A few days had changed it beyond recognition: it was no
longer simple: it was incredibly complex. He could scarcely believe
that only eighty hours had elapsed since he had walked into the lounge
of the Hotel de Paris to meet the Countess Rémond.
At Nice, the passengers were hurried across the tracks, for the
Rome-Paris express had been signalled, and as he gave up his ticket
to the guard at the exit, Selden’s eye caught a familiar figure. It
was Halsey, walking nervously up and down in the waiting-room, pausing
now and then to watch the people pouring from the train-shed. His eyes
met Selden’s for an instant, but he gave no sign of recognition. He
was rather a pitiable figure, his face grey and drawn, his eyes shot
with blood--evidently his affair with the countess was not progressing
smoothly. Well, he was only getting what he deserved, Selden told
himself, as he turned away.
It still lacked fifteen minutes of the hour named by the baron; so,
deciding that the walk would do him good, Selden turned briskly down
the Avenue des Victoires toward the sea. The street was swarming, as
usual, with tourists and winter residents, whose presence there was
always an insoluble mystery to Selden. He never could understand why
any one would want to spend a winter at Nice, when there were so many
other places up and down the coast infinitely more attractive. It was
the herd instinct, he decided, which brought these thousands of people
here to spend their vacations in an inordinately expensive hotel or a
dingy pension, with nothing to do except walk up and down the Promenade
des Anglais, or look sadly on at the laboriously manufactured gaieties.
He found the Promenade a solid mass of people moving in two slow
currents, one up, one down, for this was the fashionable hour to
get out and take the sun and exhibit one’s new gown, which some man
somewhere had somehow procured the money for. Truly, human nature is a
curious thing!
The gates of the Villa Gloria were open, and he walked through, past
the concierge, who recognized him and touched his cap, up the path to
the door, where a waiting attendant received him and ushered him at
once into the salon.
The king and Lappo were already there and greeted him warmly. Then
the baron introduced him to the notary, M. Noblemaire--a true type,
with hawk-nose, crinkly beard, and carefully brushed clothes of rusty
black--who, with an assistant, was going over the papers to make sure
that everything was in order.
The prince came in a moment later, greeted Selden casually, and sat
down beside the long table which occupied the centre of the room. He
was dressed in irreproachable morning costume and, save for a slight
pallor, gave no hint in his appearance of his exciting experiences of
the night before. No one looking at him would have suspected that he
had lost a fortune! Selden was conscious of a great relief, for he had
expected he knew not what--some excitement, some discomposure, at least
some vestige of wreckage after the storm. Certainly the prince had
consummate self-control!
Then the door opened and Mrs. Davis and her daughter were shown in--the
former very warm and voluble, the latter as composed as the prince
himself.
Nothing could have been more delicate, more exquisitely attuned to
the situation, than the way in which Danilo greeted her, respectful,
reserved, but with just a hint of ardency beneath the surface. From the
quick glance she shot at the prince’s face, Selden inferred the manner
was new to her, but it was evidently not distasteful, and as he turned
away to meet Mrs. Davis, who was bearing down upon him, he saw that
the baron was contemplating it with satisfaction. The prince had been
tamed. He was playing the game, and playing it extraordinarily well!
“How do you do, Mr. Selden?” cried Mrs. Davis. “It was _too_ good of
you to consent to be our witness. I should not have dared to ask, but
the dear baron assured me that you were very good-natured....”
Miss Davis came forward and gave him her hand.
“It was nice of you,” she said; “and it relieves my mind.”
“Relieves your mind?”
She smiled a little at his tone.
“I regard it as the seal of your approval,” she explained.
“Do you still need the seal of my approval?” he asked.
“It is very comforting to have it. That is what your being here means,
isn’t it?”
“I suppose so; but you must remember that I am looking at it from the
outside, while you....”
“I know what you mean,” she said, as he hesitated. “There is no reason
why you should beat around the bush--I am not a child!”
“Of course--but it has bothered me.”
“It needn’t bother you any longer. It is all right. I had a letter from
her this morning--a very splendid letter. Some day I should like to
know her.”
Mrs. Davis, to whom M. Noblemaire had been presented, was announcing
that Charley had stopped for their notary, since it _was_ necessary
they have their own notary.
“But surely, madame,” said M. Noblemaire, who had some English.
“Otherwise it would be most irregular.”
Well, so Charley had gone around for him, and should arrive at any
moment. And, sure enough, at that moment Charley did arrive with
another notary in tow.
The two men of the robe greeted each other with punctilious politeness.
To look at them, no one would have suspected that they played dominoes
together every evening at the café on the corner.
“We are all here, I think,” said the king, and took his place at the
head of the table. Baron Lappo conducted Miss Davis and her mother
to the seats at the king’s right. The prince took his place at his
grandfather’s left, and their partisans ranged themselves on either
side below them. Selden found himself near the foot of the table,
facing M. Noblemaire’s assistant.
For some minutes, there was a great rustling of papers on the part of
the notaries. Then they bent their heads together across the table in
earnest conversation, while M. Noblemaire explained two or three of the
clauses to his colleague, who seemed to be objecting to something, as
a matter of form, no doubt, to give the appearance of earning his fee,
but who finally nodded his head as though satisfied, and settled back
in his chair.
Then M. Noblemaire cleared his throat and rose to his feet.
“Mesdames et messieurs,” he began, speaking in French, with a
pronounced accent of the Midi, and dwelling upon every syllable after
the manner of an orator, “we have come here to-day to sign and to
acknowledge certain articles of agreement between the royal house
of Ghita and the American family Davis, which envisage the marriage
of a prince of that house with a daughter of that family. With your
permission, I will proceed to read those articles.”
He adjusted his glasses and began to read, with great care and
solemnity, while his fellow-notary followed on a duplicate copy,
checking off the articles one by one. Selden listened with deep
interest. He was gratified to hear the baron’s assertion verified:
Miss Davis’s fortune was to remain absolutely in her hands, and was
to descend to her children. The necessity of children was recognized
quite frankly, and their status, rights, and privileges were provided
for in great detail. During the lifetime of the king, he was to be
their guardian jointly with their mother. After his death, this duty
was to devolve upon the Baron Lappo. The prince was to have a yearly
allowance of two hundred thousand francs and his present debts were
to be paid. In return, he engaged to reside within the borders of his
country for ten months of every year, unless his presence elsewhere was
necessitated by reasons of state approved by the king.
Selden glanced up and down the board, as Noblemaire read slowly on.
The king and Lappo were listening attentively, careful to let no
word escape them; the prince sat with arms folded and eyes downcast
and face inexpressive, like a prisoner listening while sentence was
pronounced; Miss Davis sat quietly attentive, her hands folded in her
lap. Her attitude seemed to say that, since this document concerned her
so closely, it behooved her to be familiar with all its provisions,
but it was a matter of business, not of sentiment. Selden recalled
the baron’s words about her. Was it really some old trial, some cruel
disillusion, which had given her this serene self-control? Had she
really suffered some disastrous adventure? It scarcely seemed possible.
And then Selden remembered a sentence which her brother had uttered,
apparently at random, the night before. It had passed unheeded then,
but Selden found that it had somehow stuck in his memory. What was it
he had said? “It’s pretty tough that it should happen twice!” Something
like that.
That what should happen twice? That she should be twice deserted? For
another woman? Was it that old affair with Jeneski he referred to? Had
Jeneski deserted her for another woman--the Countess Rémond? But the
Countess Rémond hated him too! She also was seeking to be revenged.
And suddenly the pieces of the puzzle fell together in his mind like
the bits of coloured glass in a kaleidoscope, and he understood.
Jeneski was to be overthrown because two women hated him; the destiny
of a people was to be changed, the course of history altered, to
gratify their vengeance.
Ah, well, that had happened a thousand times; women were always
altering the course of history to suit their whims or their passions;
damming it up, throwing it into strange channels....
Or perhaps it was only his too-fervid imagination magnifying a
chance remark. Myra Davis certainly did not look like a girl to seek
adventure, to court disaster. At any rate, whether or not she had been
deserted once, she was not being deserted twice. Presently she would be
a princess, and after that queen-regent. Her son would be a king--the
first king in history to be born of an American woman. That, also,
would alter its course!
M. Noblemaire’s voice droned on, and each of them sat and listened
and dreamed his dream; and Mrs. Davis’s, perhaps, was the sweetest of
all--of a place on the steps of a throne....
Then suddenly the voice ceased and startled them awake.
“You find it correct, I trust, monsieur?” inquired M. Noblemaire of his
fellow-notary.
“Yes, monsieur; in every detail.”
“Then we have only to sign,” said M. Noblemaire, and turned to his
assistant for the pens, ink and blotter.
Selden was amused to see that the pens were long quills.
M. Noblemaire dipped one of them in the ink, picked up the paper, and
approached the king.
“If you will sign here, Your Majesty,” he said, and laid the paper
before him, indicated the place, and handed him the pen.
The king scrawled a great PIETRO across the page.
It was the prince’s turn next, and the baron witnessed the signatures.
“Now, mademoiselle,” said M. Noblemaire, and laid the document in front
of Miss Davis.
She took the pen from him with a hand that shook a little.
“No, no!” cried a voice outside. “It is impossible, monsieur; you
cannot enter! Monsieur....”
“But I must enter!” cried another voice, and the door was thrown open
with a crash.
CHAPTER XXV
THE COURSE OF HISTORY
For a moment no one stirred--just sat and stared at the man who came,
swift and resolute, into the room, while the frightened attendant
goggled from the door behind him--a man of perhaps forty, with dark,
vivid face, outlined by a little beard, and a mop of black hair falling
over his forehead, and deep-set eyes gleaming under heavy brows--a
man with a bearing indescribably confident and audacious; just sat
and stared as he advanced quickly to the table, bowed to Selden and
to the Baron Lappo, and then went straight to Myra Davis, took her
hand--dashing to the floor the pen he found in it--and drew her to her
feet, against his breast.
“Little one,” he said, “I have come for you.”
But she held him away from her--held him away with arms trembling and
convulsive, but inflexible; and there was something like terror in her
eyes as she looked at him.
“No, no,” she gasped. “You are horrible to come here like this.”
“I love you!”
“It is too late!”
“It is not too late! Why is it too late?”
“Because--I do not--love you any more!”
“No?” he asked calmly, without any motion to release her. “Of
course--in that case....”
But by this time the king was on his feet, his face purple.
“What is this farce?” he roared. “Jacopo--Mario--throw this fellow out!”
“One moment, sir,” said the stranger. “Perhaps the Baron Lappo will do
me the honour to present me.”
And the Baron Lappo, his face a study, rose in his turn.
“Your Majesty,” he said, “this is M. Jeneski.”
Jeneski. Selden, of course, had recognized him, and Mrs. Davis, too,
apparently, from the energy with which she now rushed forward, rescued
her daughter from his grasp, and tried to kill him with a look. But to
the king it was undoubtedly a blow, and for an instant his hand fumbled
at his breast. Yet not for nothing had the old warrior reigned for
sixty years in the midst of hate and violence, and his composure was
back in a moment. He signed to Jacopo to close the door.
“M. Jeneski,” he said, with a bow, “I have often wished to meet you.”
“I must apologize for my abrupt entrance, sir,” said Jeneski, smiling
his appreciation of the king’s aplomb, “but I feared that I should be
too late.”
“Too late for what, sir?” asked the king.
“Too late for this ceremony,” explained Jeneski, with a gesture toward
the papers on the table.
“Ah,” said the king, “you wish to witness it?”
“I wish to prevent it,” corrected Jeneski quietly.
The king wrinkled his brow incredulously, and his colour heightened a
little.
“Really,” he began.
“Believe me, sir,” said Jeneski quickly, “I deeply regret this violent
and dramatic procedure. I assure you that it is not at all in my
character, but I had no choice. I have strained every nerve to reach
here at the earliest possible moment. I should have arrived last night,
but was delayed by a series of misadventures which I will not weary you
by reciting. So when, twenty minutes ago, at the villa of Madame Davis,
I learned of this conference, I could only hasten here and force my way
in.”
“You may as well force your way out again,” broke in Mrs. Davis, who
had listened to all this with a face even redder than the king’s.
“If you think for a minute my daughter will have anything to do with
you....”
“Hush, mother,” whispered the girl, her face convulsed.
“I confess,” said the king politely, “that I do not understand. Is it
that you profess to have some claim upon this young lady?”
“Only the claim of a man who loves her,” said Jeneski humbly.
“Love!” began Mrs. Davis, violently.
But again her daughter stopped her.
“I am at a very great disadvantage,” went on Jeneski. “It is very
difficult to speak--to explain--to say what I have to say thus
publicly. If I for one moment might see Miss Davis alone....”
“Never!” cried her mother.
His eyes implored the girl, but she turned her face away.
“Very well,” he said, and drew close to her side. “I must speak to you
then, little one, as though we were alone. Forget that there is any
one present but you and me.” His voice was trembling with emotion. He
paused an instant to collect himself and moistened his lips nervously.
“Before I say anything else, I must say this: for the wrong I did you
in a moment of madness I have suffered much. Perhaps if you knew the
whole story--but no; there is no excuse. I say to you only that I have
suffered, that I have done great penance. All that was torn out of my
life and cast aside many months ago. Since then I have thought only of
my country and of you. The baron can tell you that this is true--since
he has used that old affair to secure an accomplice in the plot against
me.”
She was staring at him with wide-open eyes, white to the lips, her
hands pressed against her heart. He made no motion to touch her, but
his eyes never wavered from hers.
“Even then,” he went on rapidly, “I would not have dreamed of coming
near you--no, not yet. I would have worked on for my country and
cleansed myself with sacrifice--loving you always and hoping that some
day you might find me worthy; but this, this alliance--it must not
be! Do you know what you are doing? You are riveting again on half a
million people the shackles they have just thrown off after a struggle
of two centuries....”
“We are willing to leave it to the people themselves, sir,” put in the
baron quietly.
“Ah, yes,” cried Jeneski, “after you have corrupted them with I know
not what promises! Of course they will choose the easy way!”
“Well, then,” said the baron.
“They are not fit to choose--not yet. Let them learn first what freedom
means. Come--I ask nothing for myself--nothing,” he went on, turning
back to the girl. “I have no right to ask anything for myself. Do I not
know it? Yes--better than any one. But for my country I do ask--I have
the right to ask; not much--only this: that you delay this marriage for
a year--for six months, even--_then_ leave it to the people....”
He had raised his arms in his excitement, and as he brought them down
with an impassioned gesture, there was a spatter of blood across the
papers on the table, and a steady drip, drip from under his sleeve and
across his left hand to the floor.
He seized his left arm near the shoulder and held it tight.
“What is that?” asked Myra Davis, taking a quick step toward him. “Are
you hurt?”
“It is nothing,” said Jeneski impatiently; “less than nothing; just one
of the misadventures which delayed me.” Then a little smile flitted
across his lips, and he looked at the baron. “I confess, however, that
I did not suppose the Baron Lappo would descend to methods so--so
primitive.”
“What do you mean, sir?” demanded the baron.
“Was it not you,” asked Jeneski, still smiling, “who posted that big
Englishman on the platform up yonder to shoot me as I left the train?”
The baron’s face was livid.
“M. Jeneski,” he began, “I swear to you....”
“It was not the baron,” put in Selden quickly. “It was the Countess
Rémond. I knew she was driving Halsey on to something--but I never
guessed....”
“Ah, well, I should have guessed,” said Jeneski. “I apologize to you,
M. le Baron. After all, it is nothing--a scratch across the arm. I had
time to bandage it but hastily, so it bleeds a little. I am sorry.”
There was a moment’s pause. Then Myra Davis released herself from her
mother’s grasp and turned to Baron Lappo.
“Is it true,” she asked, “what he said about that--that affair?”
“Yes, mademoiselle,” answered the baron grimly. “It is true.”
The colour had come back into her face and her eyes were shining.
“And is it true that you have suffered?” she asked of Jeneski.
He made a little motion with his hands, more expressive than any words.
“I have suffered, too,” she said simply.
“Oh, my love,” said Jeneski, humbly, “some day I hope you will find it
in your heart to pardon me!”
She stood yet an instant looking at him, then she held out her hands.
“I pardon you now!” she said.
* * * * *
It was over. The Davises were gone, and Selden too had tried to go, but
the baron had asked him to remain.
The king had behaved magnificently. Well he knew the folly of
trying to argue with a woman’s heart, and he had uttered no word of
disappointment or reproach. Instead, having thrown and lost, he took
defeat like a sportsman and a gentleman, faced ruin, exile, tragic
failure, with a smile; had even wished her happiness and kissed her
hand in farewell. With Jeneski he had been almost cordial.
Selden had never admired him so much, though he told himself it
was this very habit of dissimulation which rendered the king least
admirable. Perhaps he had not yet lost hope--some fanatic with a better
aim than poor, fuddled Halsey might take a shot at Jeneski--or there
was the countess herself, presumably raging somewhere at the failure of
her plot. There was still that possible alliance between young Davis
and the Princess Anna. Finally there was always that huge sum which had
been offered for his abdication; which he had once refused, but which
he could still accept whenever it seemed wise, and upon which he could
live comfortably for the remainder of his life. No doubt it was such
considerations as these which enabled the king to bear up so well.
Selden was surprised to note that Danilo seemed far more deeply
affected. He was like a man stunned; slouched forward in his chair,
staring at the papers with the dash of blood across them, his face
ghastly in its pallor.
“We must consider,” said the baron, “how best to announce this to the
world. M. Selden, I am sure, will not wish to do us any unnecessary
injury.”
“Certainly not,” said Selden. “I shall use only the official version.”
“I will not conceal from you,” went on the baron, “that this--débâcle
I think I can call it--has left us in a somewhat delicate position. We
had made certain financial arrangements, based on this alliance, which
will have to be cancelled, or at least reconsidered. Fortunately....”
He hesitated, glancing at the king.
“Yes,” the king nodded, “I have not touched the money since I placed it
in my bureau last night. It can be returned if Hirsch demands it.”
“It is that fact alone,” the baron pointed out, “which saves us from
the most painful embarrassment.”
The prince stirred uneasily, passed his hand across his haggard
forehead, and rose unsteadily to his feet.
“You will excuse me,” he said.
The king nodded and the prince went slowly out.
“I did not suppose it would be such a blow to him,” said the king, as
the door closed behind Danilo. “I do not understand it. Unless he has
been losing again--but he has no money.”
“No,” agreed the baron; “and I know of no way he could secure any.”
Selden managed to keep an impassive face, but he was smiling inwardly.
Evidently the prince had sources of supply unknown to the baron.
“Whatever it is,” said the king, “let us hope it will make him more
serious. Continue, baron.”
The baron paced up and down for a moment, his chin in his hand.
“Of course she will marry Jeneski,” he said, at last, and glanced at
his master.
“Yes, I understand, Lappo,” said the king quietly. “You would say
that it is finished--that the game is up. Well, we shall see--I have
confidence in my star! At least ... what was that?”
From somewhere in the house had come a muffled report as of a door
slamming--or a pistol-shot....
A sudden pallor swept over the king’s face.
“Danilo!” he cried, and started to rise, then sank back clutching at
his breast. “Danilo!”
* * * * *
But Danilo lay sprawled across his bed, a bullet through his heart.
He had managed to escape, after all!
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER XXVI
A LAST ENCOUNTER
“Since this is our last night in Paris,” said Selden, looking up from
his paper, “we ought to celebrate it. What shall we do?”
“The opera,” replied Rénee instantly. “Let me see what it is,” and she
took the paper away from him.
It was Samson and Delila.
“And the curtain is at eight,” she added. “We must hurry!”
They were there when the curtain rose, and were soon under the spell
of the enchanting music with which Saint-Saëns has clothed the old
Scripture allegory of man’s weakness and woman’s perfidy--a drama which
is re-enacted daily wherever men and women live, and so touches a chord
in every heart. Surely no lovelier song was ever written than Delila’s
Mon coeur s’ouvre à ta voix comme s’ouvrent les fleurs
Aux baisers de l’aurore....
“My heart opens at thy voice as the flowers open to the kisses of the
dawn....”
And no more effective scene was ever staged than that of the blinded
Samson, chained like a beast to the mill, and pushing it round and
round. So the great drama swept on to the supreme moment when Samson,
praying for strength, bends his back between the mighty pillars of the
temple and brings it crashing down upon the heads of his enemies.
There was to be a ballet afterwards to a Chopin suite, and when Selden
and his companion came back from a turn in the foyer, they found that
the front row of the orchestra, which had been empty during the opera,
was filling up with distinguished-looking old men, most of them with
the rosette of the Legion gleaming red on their coats.
Rénee nodded toward them with a smile.
“You see,” she said; “it is as I told you. They come for the ballet
only. But look--who is that? Is it not the Baron Lappo?”
“So it is,” said Selden, and they watched him take his seat, a little
thinner, perhaps, with the passage of the months, a little greyer,
but still erect, alert. “I wonder what he is doing in Paris? Shall we
waylay him after the ballet?”
“Yes, let us. There are so many things I should like to ask him!”
“I also,” said Selden, and then fell silent, for the music had begun.
There is nothing lovelier to be seen anywhere than that Chopin suite as
danced at the Paris Opéra....
“Do you regret that it is not you?” asked Selden, as the tall and
willowy Ida Rubenstein came forward again and again to acknowledge the
applause.
“Not the slightest--not the smallest bit,” and she nestled against his
shoulder. “I know too well what is behind the scenes. Besides, I could
never have been like that--I was not a great dancer.”
Selden put his hand over hers and held it tight. He could never get
over his astonishment at the thought that this magnificent woman loved
him, was his....
“We must hurry,” she added, “if we are going to catch the baron.”
“Wait a moment here,” said Selden, “and I will go around and get him. I
should like to surprise him--I don’t think he knows.”
She nodded, and he hurried away to the door by which the baron would
emerge into the foyer. Yes, there he was--not changed; and yet changed,
too, in some subtle way--clouded, a little sad, with the lines about
the eyes a trifle more pronounced.
Selden’s heart moved curiously, as he watched him coming forward; he
had never before realized how fond he had grown of the old diplomat.
“My dear baron,” he said, and stepped forward with hand outstretched.
The baron adjusted his glass and looked to see who it was.
“Why, it is M. Selden!” he cried. “My dear friend!” and he caught
Selden’s hands in both of his and shook them up and down, his face
irradiated. “How glad I am to see you again! Come--we must have a
talk--yes?”
“By all means! But first I want you to meet some one,” and he caught
the baron’s arm and guided him to the spot where Rénee waited. “Baron,”
he said, “permit me to introduce you to my wife.”
“Your wife!” The baron’s lips were trembling as he pressed them to
Rénee’s hand. “Tiens!” and he dropped his glass and polished it
vigorously. “But, my dear children--how happy you make me! I should
like to embrace you! I am a silly old man--yes?” and he touched his
handkerchief to his eyes without shame. “But you recall so many things!
Where shall we go? We cannot talk here. To Rizzi’s--it is but a step!”
and seizing an arm of each, he led them down the great stairway and
across the square, talking in broken sentences all the way.
Monsieur Rizzi knew the Baron Lappo, and he snatched the reservation
card from a glass on the corner table and seated the baron and his
guests there, and himself took the order.
“Let me see,” said the baron, “you used to have a Moët et Chandon, very
dry....”
“Ah, yes, the ’98,” said M. Rizzi. “We still have a few bottles, M. le
Baron.”
“It is foolish at my age, at this hour,” said the baron; “but never
mind; and a little lobster, yes? with mayonnaise. I have not forgotten
your mayonnaise. And afterwards--what?”
“Permit me,” said M. Rizzi; “a surprise.”
“Very well,” agreed the baron; “I am sure it will be a delightful
one.” And then as Rizzi hastened away to make sure that the order was
properly executed, the baron turned back to his guests. “Now let me
look at you,” he said. “Madame, I have never seen you so lovely, so
radiant. And you also,” he added to Selden; “you also appear content!”
“Content is a feeble word!” said Selden.
“So--it is well! But would you believe, madame, that I one day found
this great imbecile in his room at Monte Carlo, trembling with fear,
packing his bag, even; planning to run away--to run away from a great
happiness. Incredible, is it not? But men do stupid things like that
sometimes, and women, too, though not so often. So, because I had grown
fond of him, I ventured to give him some advice....”
“Which I followed,” said Selden.
“You have not been sorry?”
“Sorry!”
“Just the same,” went on the baron, “you are not worthy of her.”
“Good Lord, don’t I know it?” groaned Selden. “Don’t I wake up every
morning in a panic for fear it is only a dream!”
“Fi donc!” laughed Rénee. “How silly you both are!”
The waiter had filled the glasses, and the baron lifted his from the
table.
“Words are so weak to express what is in the heart,” he said, “but I am
sure you know what is in mine--every wish for your happiness and your
good fortune--and may you always love each other!”
They drank, and set the glasses back upon the table, and there was a
little silence.
Then M. Rizzi brought the lobster for the baron’s approval, and himself
proceeded to dismember it.
“There is something else that I recall very vividly,” went on the
baron; “that day, when I found you so depressed, there was another
thing that worried you--how did you say it?--that your future was
behind you! Is it still there, or is it in front, where it should be?”
“It is in front again,” said Selden with a smile, “due also to this
wonderful woman.”
“I will not have it!” cried Rénee. “It was M. Scott’s idea.”
“But it was you who found a way to realize it.”
“It needed but a word!” she protested.
“Please tell me about it,” said the baron, who had watched this
altercation with a smile.
“It was like this,” Rénee explained. “It is true that at one moment
this imbecile was so stupid as to think his career ended. He permitted
himself to become discouraged because he could not, all at once,
persuade his country to think as he did--to make it think, as he calls
it, internationally.”
“That is something no country does,” observed the baron. “Perhaps it
will come some day, but I am not at all hopeful. The better we know
other peoples the less we seem to like them. But go on.”
“It was M. Scott--a friend--who proposed the idea of an organ--a
journal, you understand, hebdomadaire--where he could gather together
a band of fanatics like himself and keep on fighting for his beliefs.
The idea appealed to him--he began to think that, in control of such a
journal, he might find life again worth living.”
“So he doubted, did he, that life was worth living?” commented the
baron. “Even when he had you? It is easy to see that he is an American!”
“Yes; Americans are like that. They have something, I know not
what--an engine--a dynamo--inside them, driving them on. I doubt if
they are ever really happy, as a Frenchman can be happy--entirely happy
and content. At least, not for long; they feel they must be doing
something.”
The baron nodded.
“You are right. What is M. Selden going to do?”
“He has his journal!” cried Rénee and clapped her hands.
“Yes,” laughed Selden, “she got it for me, much as she would buy a toy
for a child, to keep it quiet.”
“But how?” asked the baron.
“Ah, it was simple,” Rénee explained. “The only difficulty, it seemed,
was one of finance. You remember that young M. Davis?”
“Very well.”
“You knew, by the way, that he had married my niece, Mlle. Fayard?”
“But certainly!” laughed the baron. “That was another of my defeats.
The Princess Anna is still a spinster--though she also has become a
bride--but of the church. M. Davis is happy, I trust?”
“Oh, yes; but he also is an American--though not so earnest a one as
my husband here. Nevertheless he wished to find something to do--some
way to employ his money--a way that would amuse him and not be too
fatiguing. I had only to suggest the journal.”
“It is going to be rather wonderful,” said Selden, his eyes shining.
“I have been in New York all summer making the arrangements; I was
astonished at the enthusiasm; I shall have a splendid staff, and
perhaps we shall accomplish something yet! But before I started it, I
came back for this lady.”
“And now you are returning?”
“Yes--we sail to-morrow on the _Paris_.”
“That is good,” said the baron. “But come--let us drink to the
journal--that it may accomplish all you hope for it! Yes,” he went on
after a moment, “I am glad you are going back--though that means that
I shall, perhaps, not see you again, for I am growing old. But it is
not well for an American to stay too long in Europe. It is difficult
for me to explain just what I mean. It is like an apple,” and he picked
one up from the basket of fruit on the table. “One gathers one’s crop
of apples and one puts them away for the winter, and some of them
keep very well. But others, after a time, begin to show little specks
here and there. That does not hurt them--indeed, it improves their
flavour--but they must be used at once. Otherwise, almost before one
knows it, they grow rotten at the core and have to be thrown away.
“Americans are like that. They do not keep well in the atmosphere of
Europe. It is good for them, yes, up to a certain point. They grow a
little specked, perhaps, but their flavour is better, more rich, more
satisfying. But beyond that--no. Forgive me,” he added, carefully
replacing the apple. “An old man likes to preach. Ah, here comes the
surprise!”
M. Rizzi’s surprise proved to be a soufflé piping hot with an ice in
the middle.
“But tell us about yourself,” said Selden. “What are you doing in
Paris?”
“It is a long story,” answered the baron musingly. “After the king’s
death--which, as you know, was very sudden--I felt as you had
felt--though with much more reason--that I was finished, that there was
nothing left for me to do but to creep away somewhere and die. Then
Jeneski sent for me. He asked me to be his minister in place of one
whom he had discovered to be a traitor to him. And I found that I still
loved my country. We get along very well together.”
“And his wife?” asked Rénee, her eyes shining.
“She has already become a sort of saint to her people; they adore
her, and they have reason to, for there is no country in Europe which
progresses as ours does. She is very happy.”
“Have you ever heard from the Countess Rémond?” Selden asked.
“Not directly; but I believe she is in Budapest plotting to
place Charles back on the throne. It seems she has a passion for
restorations. That poor M. Halsey has been released, as perhaps you
know. He was sent to a maison de santé for a time, but Jeneski refused
to press the case.”
They sat silent for a moment with full memories and tender hearts. Then
the baron looked at his watch.
“It is good to be here,” he said; “it renews my youth. But I must
go. M. Rizzi,” he added to the bowing restaurateur, “permit me to
compliment you upon this little supper. I have never tasted better
mayonnaise, and your surprise was exquisite. No--I shall not need a
cab--I have but a step to go.”
They passed together into the street.
“My hotel is just there,” said the baron. “So I shall bid you
good-bye.” He looked at them for a moment pensively. “The French have
a proverb,” he added, “‘To part is to die a little!’ It is true,
especially for the old. Write me sometimes.”
“Oh, we shall!”
They watched him as he walked away--a gallant figure, defiant of the
years. At the corner he turned and waved his hand. Then he was gone.
Selden raised his hat.
“I hope,” he said softly, “that some day I shall meet another man like
that!”
THE END
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.