tragic, rolling eyes and clenched fists, would have apprised Mlle. Marie
that all was not as it should be with M. Delmotte. With full
appreciation of the effectiveness of the gesture, the artist threw
himself into a large chair before an unfinished canvas of heroic
dimensions. He buried his face in his hands. He groaned. This was too
much for Marie. She approached. Laying a hesitating hand upon his
shoulder, she looked down with real concern at the bowed, curly head.
"And Pere Caros will not wait for the rent?" she queried.
"No, curse him," came from between the locked fingers.
"But 'Gene," persisted the girl as though puzzled, "I thought that
Harjes, the banker, always paid you an income."
"So he did until to-day. I went there, to be told that, to their regret,
my unknown benefactor had not sent them the usual monthly remittance.
They regretted also that their foolish rules prevented them advancing me
as much as a sou. No reasons given, no names disclosed. I haven't a
centime. Not a canvas can I sell. I've fasted since yesterday morning."
"Why, 'Gene?" she inquired innocently. Her mind was occupied with the
puzzle of the income which, womanlike, engrossed her entire curiosity.
"Huh," he sniffed bitterly, "because I had to. I haven't even paints
with which to complete my masterpiece."
He turned, the personification of despair, to regard the painting
against the wall.
"Have you no clues as to the source of the income?" she asked, her mind
clinging tenaciously to that unsettled question. "Have you no relatives?
No one you could ask to assist you?"
"Only slight memories dating back to early childhood--the remembrance of
a servant's face. Here is the tale, Marie. A thousand times I have gone
over it to myself, only to be disappointed at its meagreness. My parents
must have died when I was too young to have remembered them, judging
from what this attendant seems to have told me. I have that impression
resisting all arguments. My recollections all centre about a gray-haired
man of the confidential-servant class. He was my companion and humored
my every whim. By and by, though, he left me. I was taken charge of by a
charwoman, and only once visited by my infancy's mentor. My new guardian
was authority for the statement that, though not appearing wealthy, this
M. Petros, as she called him, was always able to obtain money as needed
from M. Harjes. There is nothing more to add."
"Clearly, M. Petros then knew something about the source of your
income," said Marie.
"Agreed, sweet creature, but since I do not have the slightest idea
where he is, I can't see how that will help me. I don't even know his
full name."
"Cheer up, 'Gene, you will yet see that picture hang."
"More likely to hang myself," he said with a return of awful gloom.
"But the great M. Lourney praised the conception, the breadth, of this,
your last picture," the girl said, as her hand pushed lightly through
the shock of curls on the man's head.
"Yes, it is good," he said responsively, both to the hope she inspired
and the caress she bestowed. That girl understood men. "Krovitch the
Bulwark," he continued. "They were a great people, Marie. Their history,
unfamiliar to most, has always interested me strangely." His eyes were
illumined with enthusiasm as he raised an index arm toward the canvas.
"See those vigorous fellows, each a hero. A single nation flinging back
from Europe the invasion of the infidel. A heroic subject for a
painting, eh, girlie?" He smiled up in her face, his troubles for the
nonce forgotten. Get a man talking about his abilities to achieve and
you can dispel the darkest gloom from his brow. It was high time to
bring him back to earth again, but she knew how. He had had just
sufficient gratulation to take the edge off pretended or real misery.
"It is, 'Gene, but it will not pay the rent. Listen." The timid flush
mounted to her cheek as she made the suggestion, "Go to the
pawnbroker's. Take these trinkets of mine. Beg him to loan you
sufficient for your rent. Now, don't refuse. You may redeem them when
you can. Besides, you gave them to me." She looked down with
affectionate regret at the bracelets, the bangles, the rings, which use
and the donor had made dear to her.
Being weak, he hesitated. His need was great. Then kissing the girl
lightly, he took them and strode from the room.
"Come right back, 'Gene," she called, happy as only a woman can be in a
sacrifice.
During his absence, from her own scanty store of edibles across the
hall, she prepared a meal for him. Absorbed in this occupation she gave
little heed to the steady tramp of feet ascending the staircase. A
peremptory knock recalled her from her world of happy thoughts.
"_Entrez_," she added, thinking it was one of 'Gene's jokes.
The door opened. Into the room trooped a throng of men, resplendent in
black and gold, silver and gray. Her eyes opened in astonishment; so did
theirs. Her lips, parted to speak, could only gasp; so could theirs. The
surprise was apparently mutual. With true Parisian humor she laughed
heartily at the paralysis, and speech was thawed. Colonel Sutphen stood
forward and bowed courteously.
"Your pardon, mademoiselle. We were informed that a young man, Eugene
Delmotte, resided here. Pardon our mistake, accept our most humble
apology and permit us to depart." He moved toward the door as a signal
for a general exodus.
"But 'Gene--but M. Delmotte does live here," she cried, in apprehension
of the departure of these lordly and apparently affluent strangers who
might aid poor 'Gene. The elderly gentleman stopped on hearing this. He
regarded her with more chilling politeness.
"And you," he asked, "are Mme. Delmotte?"
"Oh, no, monsieur," she replied simply.
"His--his companion?" The Colonel flushed at his own audacity. The girl
smiled forgivingly, though a little wanly.
"Oh, no, monsieur. I am only his friend and occasional model. He is in
trouble, messieurs. I came to cheer him up. I live across the hall."
Colonel Sutphen, scanning the far end of the room, failed to find the
object of his inquiry. The girl came forward with an explanation as the
elderly noble turned a questioning face toward hers.
"He has gone out, monsieur," she said. "He will soon return. He is in
debt." She hung her head in distress. Colonel Sutphen turned to Josef in
surprise. The latter whispered something in his ear, which apparently
satisfied him. The girl closely watched this little by-play.
"Oh, then you know about him, messieurs?" she said. "You will help him?
You are his friends?" She was happy for her neighbor.
"Only a few of a great many thousands," replied Sutphen ponderously.
"Tell me, mademoiselle, have you any--er--er claims upon M. Delmotte?
Are you betrothed? Any claims of er--er sentiment?"
The girl's eyelids dropped as she answered,
"Not that he is aware of, monsieur." Then her eyes blazed at the sudden
realization of the indignity put upon her. "Who are you, though, and by
what right do you question me? He is an artist and I--I am a friend.
That is all, monsieur."
She had little spirit, after all, for a contest; but a door in her heart
had been opened, a door that a girl generally keeps closed to mankind,
and she naturally resented the intrusion. Look, too, where she would she
could not escape the eyes of encircling masculinity.
Carter, appreciating her embarrassment and feeling an American
gentleman's compassion for her predicament, undertook a divertisement.
"Fine picture, that," he said, loud enough to be heard by the others.
"Those chaps are wearing the Krovitch Lion, too. Coincidence, isn't it?"
Involuntary curiosity called all eyes toward the painting. The effect
was magical. Astonishment showed in every Krovitch face. They, one and
all, uncovered their heads as they recognized in the subject the
unconscious expression of their sovereign's patriotism.
"Is that the work of M. Delmotte?" inquired the Colonel with voice
softened by what he had just seen.
The girl nodded; she was proud of her friend's ability to move these
strangers to reverence.
"Gentlemen--an omen," said the grizzled veteran, pointing to the
picture. "History repeats itself."
"Mademoiselle," Carter said gently under cover of the general buzz of
excited comment aroused by the picture, "mademoiselle, M. Delmotte is
destined to a high place among the great men of the world. While to some
is given the power to portray famous events, to a very few indeed it is
given to create such epochs. Such men are necessarily set apart from
their fellows. Despite the promptings of their hearts, they must forego
many friendships which would otherwise be dear to them. M. Delmotte is
both fortunate and unfortunate in this." As with careful solicitude for
her feelings he strove to prepare her for the separation from the
artist, the girl's color came and went fitfully as gradually the truth
began to dawn upon her.
"I think I understand, monsieur," she said, grateful for his
consideration. Then she continued slowly, deliberately, letting the acid
truth of each word eat out the joy in her heart, "You mean that M.
Delmotte must no longer know Marie, the model."
The Colonel, who had approached, had overheard this last thing spoken.
"It is possible," the latter hinted, "that he might desire to spare you
the pain of leave taking, as he goes with us from Paris--from your
world."
"Oh, monsieur," she turned appealingly to Carter, her eyes wide in their
efforts to restrain their tears, "is this true?"
Carter nodded his head gravely. Sutphen pressed a fat, black wallet upon
her, which she declined gently.
"As a gift," he insisted.
"Oh, monsieur," she cried reproachfully, and with averted face fled from
the room.
Sheepishly guilty in feeling as only men can be, the party in the studio
awaited expected developments. In a few minutes they heard the approach
of a man's footsteps upon the stairs. All eyes turned curiously toward
the doorway. Nearer came the sounds, nearer, while with increasing
volume their hearts beat responsively. The steps stopped. The waiting
hearts seemed to stand still in sympathy. Then the door opened.
"It is he," whispered Josef. All heads uncovered and each man bowed low.
Delmotte stood petrified with astonishment.
"Messieurs," he said at last, recovering his speech, "messieurs, I am
honored." Then as his eyes lighted on Josef, they sparkled with
unexpected recognition. "You are Petros," he said, puzzled by the
brilliant throng surrounding him.
"Josef Petros Zolsky, Your Majesty. I am your childhood's retainer and
hereditary servitor. Yes, I am he you call Petros," and the white head
bowed low as a gratified light kindled in the crafty eyes.
"Majesty! What the devil--am I crazy? I am not drunk," he added
regretfully.
"Sire," stammered Colonel Sutphen, "sire, you are the King of Krovitch."
"The devil I am," came the prompt response. Nevertheless the artist
threw an affectionate glance at the painting as one might in saying,
"You were my people." The piquancy of the situation caused him to smile.
"Gentlemen," he said, "if this is some hoax, believe me it is in very
poor taste. Taste? Yes, for I haven't eaten in two days. What's your
game? I've just come from a pawnbroker's, where I had gone with the
paltry jewels of a model, to try and secure enough to pay my rent. You
offer me a crown. Corduroys and blouse," he pointed to his garb, "you
tempt me with visions of ermine. A throne to replace my stool, and pages
of history are given for my future canvases. I am starving, gentlemen,"
he said half turning away suffused in his own self-pity, "do not trifle
with me." He appealed to Josef. "Is this true--what they say,
Josef-Petros, or whatever your name is?"
"It is true, Your Majesty."
"A King! A King!" exclaimed the astonished artist. "But still a King
without a kingdom--a table without meat. A mockery of greatness after
all. Why do you come to tell me this?" he cried turning fiercely on
them. "Was I too contented as I was? It is not good to taunt a hungry
man. To tell me that I am a crownless King without six feet of land to
call my realm, is but to mock me."
"The remedy is at hand, Your Majesty," Sutphen asserted confidently.
"Eighty thousand men await your coming, all trained soldiers. We will
raise the battle cry of Krovitch and at Schallberg crown you and your
Queen."
"My Queen," almost shouted the astonished Delmotte, "have I a Queen,
too? Are you all crazy, or am I? Pray heaven the Queen is none other
than Marie, else I'll have no supper to-night. Who is my queen?" He
asked as he saw the expression of disapproval which appeared on more
than one face present.
"The noblest woman under heaven, sire," said Sutphen reverently. "One
who well could have claimed the crown herself. She wished a man to lead
her people in the bitter strife and waived her claims for you. It is
therefore but meet that she who has wrought all this for you should
share your throne."
"Why was I chosen?"
"You are descended from Stovik--she from Augustus, the last King of
Krovitch, Stovik's rival." So step by step they disclosed their plans,
their hopes and ambitions to the dazzled Parisian. Finally, his mind was
surfeited with the tale of this country which was claiming him; he
turned and, with sweeping gesture, indicated those present.
"And you?" he asked. "And these? I know your rightful name as little as
I am sure of my own."
"Your Majesty's rightful name is Stovik Fourth." Then Sutphen presented
each in turn. Carter came last. The eyes of these two, so near an age,
instinctively sought out the other and recognized him as a possible
rival. Probably the first there to do so, Carter admitted that this
so-called heir to a throne was nothing but an ordinary habitue of cafe
and boulevard; a jest-loving animal, with possibly talents, but no great
genius.
The artist, with an assertion of his novel dominance, arose. "I am
ready, gentlemen," he said. "My baggage is on my back. I understand that
the rendezvous is on the Boulevard S. Michel. Proceed."
Without one backward glance or thought he passed from the attic home,
his foot in fancy already mounting his throne. Marie was forgotten in
the dream of a royal crown and visions of a distant kingdom.
XVII
AT THE HOTEL DES S. CROIX
Some distance back from its fellows on the Boulevard S. Michel, not far
from its intersection with S. Germain, stands the one-time palace of the
Ducs des S. Croix.
Time, the leveler, seemed to have no more effect upon the princely pile
than to increase its hauteur with each passing year. Its every stone
breathed the dominant spirit of its founders, until at last it stood for
all that was patrician, exclusive and unapproachable.
Its eight-foot iron fence, wrought in many an intricate design, formed a
corroding barrier to the over-curious, while its spiked top challenged
the foolish scaler. A clanging gate opened rebelliously to the paved way
which led unto the wide balustraded steps. The windows, each with its
projecting balcony, seemed thrusting back all cordial advances. Along
that side toward the Quai D'Orsay, a cloistered porch joined the terrace
from the steps to rear its carven roof beneath the windows of the upper
floors. Each rigid pillar was lifted like a lance of prohibition. The
walls of either neighbor, unbroken, windowless and blank, were flanking
ramparts of its secrecy.
The casual pedestrian, after dusk, was tempted to tiptoe lightly across
the palace front, so pervasive was its air of mystery. No more fitting
place could be found for plots of deposed monarchies and uncrowned
kings. The last S. Croix, impoverished in the mutations of generations,
reluctantly, half savagely, had swallowed his pride a few years
previously and had consented to rent his ancestral halls. The ideal
locality and its immunity from the over-curious had appealed to one who,
gladly paying the first price asked, had held the place against the day
of need. The lease was in the name of Josef Zorsky, none other than the
Hereditary Servitor.
Behind the mask of night, the new-found king, with his gentlemen, was
driven to the Hotel des S. Croix, where three ordinary Parisian
_fiacres_ discharged the royal party who had come directly from the
attic studio. His Majesty was the last to alight. Taking Colonel
Sutphen's proffered arm, he proceeded toward the entrance, followed by
his suite. The place was dark and grim, no light came through the
heavily curtained windows and only by a gleam through the transom above
the door could the closest observer have discovered that it was
inhabited.
A single wayfarer--the neighborhood boasted but few pedestrians after
dark--was approaching. As he drew nearer the group about the King he
slackened his pace. Probably actuated by some slight natural curiosity
aroused by the unaccustomed sight of many men alighting from cabs before
a mansion traditionally, and apparently, empty, he could be excused for
gazing inquiringly at each of the party in turn. Accident may have made
Josef the last to be noticed, but to Carter's watchful eyes it seemed
that some lightning recognition passed between the two. Certainly he saw
Josef extend two fingers and as rapidly withdraw them. The passer-by
acknowledged the signal, if such it was, by the slightest of smiles and
passed on toward the Quai D'Orsay. Carter mentally determined to speak
to Sobieska at the first opportunity and regretted that his duties to
His Majesty for the present prohibited the consultation.
A species of stage-fright, seizing upon the King, sent a quiver through
his limbs, causing his knees to quake, his hands to tremble.
"Who will be here?" he asked in a tone he strove desperately to hold
natural and easy. He had already received this information, but speech
seemed a refuge from his trepidation. If Sutphen had noticed how his
king's voice quavered he was too loyal a subject to comment. With the
patience of iteration he answered his sovereign.
"The Duchess of Schallberg, the Countess Muhlen-Sarkey, together with
the remaining gentlemen of the household, are all anxiously waiting to
welcome Your Majesty."
In response to a signal from Sutphen, the doors were flung wide to admit
His Majesty, Stovik Fourth, King of Krovitch. An hundred electric
lights, doubled and trebled a score of times by pendant crystals and
glistening sconces, greeted the eyes of the man who a few short hours
before had been a struggling artist.
Half blinded by the brilliance, he hesitated, his foot already upon a
way strange to him. He realized numbly how symbolic of his future that
present moment might be. New conditions arose suddenly to confront him,
only to find him halting, incompetent. He took a step forward. In his
embarrassment his foot caught beneath a rug's edge. Calvert Carter's
hand, alone, kept the king from sprawling frog-wise on the polished
floor. A sudden pallor at the untimely accident came to the face of
Sutphen.
"What is it?" Carter whisperingly inquired of the veteran.
"A bad omen, coming as it does as he enters the house," replied the
soldier in the same low tone, tinged with the superstition of his race.
"I pray God," he continued, "that he turn out no weak-kneed stumbler."
The incident naturally enough had not served to increase the King's
self-confidence. After a glance into the impassive faces of the waiting
servants, he gathered sufficient grace to proceed and look about him,
with eyes more accustomed to the light. With an assumption of ease
foreign to his turbulent heart, he took his way along the splendid hall.
He was soon lost in a professional appreciation of the evidence of royal
circumstance, the glories the succeeding years had generously spared,
and which now were enriched and ripened by Times' deft touch.
From their coigns the priceless portraits of the S. Croix gazed
complacently down upon him. Royalty had aforetimes been of daily habit
to them. Their scornful brows with sombre eyes, their thin curling lips,
appeared to be of some alien race. They seemed to hold themselves aloof
as though he was a child of their one-time serfs, having no claim upon
their bond of caste. Even to himself he felt an impostor, a peasant in a
royal mask. That he was really a king had not yet come home to him. He
felt no embryo greatness struggling to possess him. Upon his face abode
the look of one who dreams of pleasant, impossible things. Half smiling,
he was yet reluctant of the awakening he was sure would come and scatter
forever the wondrous glories of his slumbers. Unwilling that these
creations of pigment, brush and canvas should, by exposing him,
dissipate his fancies, he dropped his gaze to find himself approaching
the entrance of a brilliantly lighted salon.
What lay beyond?
A new world, a new life, an existence such as he had never dreamed of
might be waiting on the thither side. He paused again involuntarily.
Beside the richer scene, with all its priceless relics of another age,
its warmth, its lights, its rows of bowing flunkeys and his new-found
friends, its dream of a crown and distant throne, arose a passing vision
of a life he had laid aside. There the plenty of yesterday melted in the
paucity of to-day. There cringing cold had crept forlornly in and hunger
had been no unexpected guest. There hope and ambition on their brows had
ever borne the bruising thorns of defeat and failure. There wealth was a
surprising stranger and poverty a daily friend. Friends! Friends! Yes,
friends leal and true, a crust for one had meant a meal for all. Such
had been real friends. Their jests had banished every aching care and
solaced each careless curse of fate. Would this new life give as much?
Could the new life give him more? Would even the "glory that was Greece
and the splendor that was Rome" repay him for the sleepless nights, the
watchful anxious days of him who fought, who ruled, who trembled upon an
uncertain throne?
Having chosen he feared to turn back, lest men should call him a craven
and coward. Sensual visions of a greater luxury than this around him
came to console him as the picture of the attic life slipped from him.
He stepped beyond the boundaries of regret into the radiant portals of
the salon.
A woman stood before him.
Unconsciously his fingers itched for the abandoned brush while his thumb
crooked longingly for the discarded palette. Here was a subject fit for
his Muse, a Jeanne d'Arc whose soul was beaming from her luminous eyes.
Not that maid of visions and fought fields, but as she hung
flame-tortured in the open square of Rouen. No peasant soul this, rather
a royal maiden burning on the altars of her country. Awkward and
speechless he stood before her. Instinct apprised him that this was no
other than Trusia, waiting to receive her King.
Her head was held high in regal pride, but her eyes were the wide dark
eyes of a fawn, fear-haunted, at the gaze. Her throat and shoulders
gleamed white as starlight while her tapering arms would have urged an
envious sigh from a Phidias or a David. Her gown of silk was snow white;
the light clung to its watered woof waving and trembling in its folds as
though upon a frosted glass. Diagonally from right to left across her
breast descended a great red ribbon upon whose way the jeweled Lion of
Krovitch rose and fell above her throbbing heart. This with her diamond
coronet were her only jewels. The high spirited, whole-souled girl was
face to face at last with the man she had vowed to marry to give her
land a king.
Unswervingly her fearless eyes probed to the soul of Stovik and dragged
it forth to weigh it in the balance with her own. Fate had denied her
heart the right of choosing, so she had prayed that at least her King
should be great and strong of soul. Fate in mockery had placed before
her an ordinary man to rule her people and her future life.
As though to gain courage from the contact, her hand sought and rested
upon the jeweled Lion of her race. Slowly she forced her lips into a
little smile, which one observer knew was sadder than tears.
Carter, standing behind the King, was madly tempted to dash aside the
royal lout to take her in his arms where she might find the longed-for
solace of her pent-up tears.
Colonel Sutphen with a courtly bow took her hand and turned to the
monarch.