A PRIVATE CONVERSATION.
"That," said the President to his confidential secretary, so soon as
the door had closed on the retiring deputation, "is over, but we shall
have plenty more in the future. Savrola will most certainly be elected
for the Central Division, and we shall then have the pleasure of
listening to him in the Senate."
"Unless," added Miguel, "anything should happen."
The President, who knew his man well, understood the implication. "No,
it is no good; we cannot do that. Fifty years ago it might have been
possible. People won't stand that sort of thing now-a-days; even the
army might have scruples. So long as he keeps within the law, I don't
see how we can touch him constitutionally."
"He is a great force, a great force; sometimes, I think, the greatest
in Laurania. Every day he grows stronger. Presently the end will
come," said the Secretary slowly and thoughtfully, who, as the partner
of Molara's dangers, no less than of his actions, had a claim to be
heard. "I think the end is coming," he continued; "perhaps quite
soon--unless----?" he paused.
"I tell you it can't be done. Any accident that happened would be
attributed to me. It would mean a revolution here, and close every
asylum abroad."
"There are other ways besides force, physical force."
"None that I can see, and he is a strong man."
"So was Samson, nevertheless the Philistines spoiled him."
"Through a woman. I don't believe he has ever been in love."
"That is no reason against the future."
"Wanted a Delilah," said the President dryly. "Perhaps you will find
one for him."
The Secretary's eyes wandered round the room artlessly, and paused for
a moment on a photograph of Lucile.
"How dare you, Sir! You are a scoundrel! You have not an ounce of
virtue in you!"
"We have been associated for some time, General." He always called him
_General_ on these occasions, it reminded the President of various
little incidents which had taken place when they had worked together
during the war. "Perhaps that is the cause."
"You are impertinent."
"My interests are concerned. I too have enemies. You know very well
how much my life would be worth without the protection of the Secret
Police. I only remember with whom and for whom these things were done."
"Perhaps I am hasty, Miguel, but there is a limit, even between----"
He was going to say _friends_ but Miguel interposed _accomplices_.
"Well," said Molara, "I do not care what you call it. What is your
proposition?"
"The Philistines," replied Miguel, "spoiled Samson, but Delilah had to
cut his hair first."
"Do you mean that she should implore him to hold his hand?"
"No, I think that would be useless, but if he were compromised----"
"But she, she would not consent. It would involve her."
"She need not necessarily know. Another object for making his
acquaintance might be suggested. It would come as a surprise to her."
"You are a scoundrel--an infernal scoundrel," said the President
quietly.
Miguel smiled, as one who receives a compliment. "The matter," he
said, "is too serious for the ordinary rules of decency and honour.
Special cases demand special remedies."
"She would never forgive me."
"The forgiveness would rest with you. Your charity would enable you to
pardon an uncommitted crime. You have only to play the jealous husband
and own your mistake later on."
"And he?"
"Fancy the great popular leader. Patriot, Democrat, what not,
discovered fawning to the tyrant's wife! Why, the impropriety alone
would disgust many. And more than that,--observe him begging for
mercy, grovelling at the President's feet,--a pretty picture! It would
ruin him; ridicule alone would kill him."
"It might," said Molara. The picture pleased him.
"It must. It is the only chance that I can see, and it need cost you
nothing. Every woman is secretly flattered by the jealousy of the man
she loves, even if he be her husband."
"How do you know these things?" asked Molara, looking at the ugly
pinched figure and glistening hair of his companion.
"_I_ know," said Miguel with a grin of odious pride. The suggestion of
his appetites was repulsive. The President was conscious of disgust.
"Mr. Secretary Miguel," he said with the air of one who has made up his
mind, "I must request you not to speak to me of this matter again. I
consider it shows less to the advantage of your heart than of your
head."
"I see by Your Excellency's manner that further allusion is
unnecessary."
"Have you the report of the Agricultural Committee for last year?
Good,--please have a _précis_ made of it; I want some facts. The
country may be kept, even if we lose the capital; that means a good
part of the army."
Thus the subject dropped. Each understood the other, and behind lay
the spur of danger.
After the President had finished the morning's business, he rose to
leave the room, but before he did so he turned to Miguel and said
abruptly: "It would be a great convenience for us to know what course
the Opposition intends to pursue on the opening of the Senate, would it
not?"
"Assuredly."
"How can we induce Savrola to speak? He is incorruptible."
"There is another method."
"I tell you physical force is not to be thought of."
"There is another method."
"And that," said the President, "I directed you not to speak of again."
"Precisely," said the Secretary, and resumed his writing.
The garden into which Molara walked was one of the most beautiful and
famous in a country where all vegetation attained luxuriant forms. The
soil was fertile, the sun hot, and the rains plentiful. It displayed
an attractive disorder. The Lauranians were no admirers of that
peculiar taste which finds beauty in the exact arrangement of an equal
number of small trees of symmetrical shape in mathematical designs, or
in the creation of geometrical figures by means of narrow paths with
box-hedges. They were an unenlightened people, and their gardens
displayed a singular contempt for geometry and precision. Great blazes
of colour arranged in pleasing contrasts were the lights, and cool
green arbours the shades of their rural pictures. Their ideal of
gardening was to make every plant grow as freely as if directed by
nature, and to as high perfection as if cultivated by art. If the
result was not artistic, it was at least beautiful.
The President, however, cared very little for flowers or their
arrangement; he was, he said, too busy a man to have anything to do
with the beauties of colour, harmony, or line. Neither the tints of
the rose nor the smell of the jasmine awakened in him more than the
rudimentary physical pleasures which are natural and involuntary. He
liked to have a good flower garden, because it was the right thing to
have, because it enabled him to take people there and talk to them
personally on political matters, and because it was convenient for
afternoon receptions. But he himself took no interest in it. The
kitchen garden appealed to him more; his practical soul rejoiced more
in an onion than an orchid.
He was full of thought after his conversation with Miguel, and turned
down the shady path which led to the fountains with long, hasty
strides. Things were looking desperate. It was, as Miguel had said, a
question of time, unless,--unless Savrola were removed or discredited.
He refrained from precisely formulating the idea that had taken
possession of his mind. He had done many things in the rough days of
the war when he was a struggling man, the memory of which was not
pleasant. He remembered a brother officer, a rising man, the colonel
of a regiment, who had been a formidable rival; at a critical moment he
had withheld the supports, and left it to the enemy to remove one
obstacle from his path. Then another tale came into his mind which
also was not a pretty one, a tale of a destroyed treaty, and a broken
truce; of men, who had surrendered to terms, shot against the wall of
the fort they had held so long. He also recalled with annoyance the
methods he had adopted to extract information from the captured spy;
five years of busy life, of success and fortune, had not obscured the
memory of the man's face as it writhed in suffering. But this new idea
seemed the most odious of all. He was unscrupulous, but like many men
in history or modern life, he had tried to put away a discreditable
past. Henceforth, he had said when he obtained power, he would abandon
such methods: they would no longer be necessary; and yet, here was the
need already. Besides, Lucile was so beautiful; he loved her in his
hard way for that alone; and she was such a consort, so tactful, so
brilliant, that he admired and valued her from a purely official
standpoint. If she ever knew, she would never forgive him. She never
should know, but still he hated the idea.
But what other course remained? He thought of the faces of the crowd
the day before; of Savrola; of the stories which reached him from the
army; of other tales of a darker and more mysterious kind,--tales of
strange federations and secret societies, which suggested murder, as
well as revolution. The tide was rising; it was dangerous to tarry.
And then the alternative presented itself; flight, abdication, a
squalid existence in some foreign country, despised, insulted,
suspected; and exiles always lived to a great age he had heard. He
would not think of it; he would die first; nothing but death should
drag him from the palace, and he would fight to the last. His mind
returned to the starting point of his reflections. Here was a chance,
the one solution which seemed possible; it was not an agreeable one,
but it was that or none. He had reached the end of the path and
turning the corner saw Lucile seated by the fountain. It was a
beautiful picture.
She saw his preoccupied look and rose to meet him. "What is the
matter, Antonio? You look worried."
"Things are going wrong with us, my dear. Savrola, the deputation, the
newspapers, and, above all, the reports I receive of the people, are
ominous and alarming."
"I noticed black looks this morning when I drove. Do you think there
is danger?"
"I do," he answered in his precise official manner, "grave danger."
"I wish I could help you," she said, "but I am only a woman. What can
I do?" He did not answer and she continued: "Señor Savrola is a kind
man. I used to know him quite well before the war."
"He will ruin us."
"Surely not."
"We shall have to fly the country, if indeed they allow us to do that."
She turned paler. "But I know what men look like; there is a sympathy
between us; he is no fanatic."
"There are powers behind and beneath him of which he knows little,
which he cannot control, but which he has invoked."
"Can you do nothing?"
"I cannot arrest him; he is too popular, and besides he has broken no
law. He will go on. In a fortnight are the elections; he will be
returned in spite of my precautions; then the trouble will begin." He
paused, and then speaking as if to himself continued: "If we could
learn what he means to do, perhaps we might defeat it."
"Can I not help you?" she asked quickly. "I know him; I think he likes
me. He might whisper to me what he would not tell to others." She
thought of many victories in the past.
"My darling," said Molara, "why should you spoil your life by mixing in
the darker side of politics? I would not ask you."
"But I want to. I will try if it would help you."
"It might do much more."
"Very well, I will find out for you; in a fortnight you shall know. He
must come to the State Ball; I will meet him there."
"I am loth to let you talk to such a man, but I know your wit, and the
need is great. But will he come?"
"I will write him a note with the invitation," she said, "laugh at
politics and advise him to keep his private life at least free from
them. I think he will come; if not, I will find some other way of
seeing him."
Molara looked at her with admiration. At no time did he love her more
than when he realised of what use she was to him. "I leave it to you,
then. I fear you will fail, but if you can do it, you may have saved
the State. If not, no harm will have been done."
"I shall succeed," she answered confidently, and rising from her seat
began to walk towards the house. She saw from her husband's manner
that he would like to be alone.
He remained seated there for a long time, staring into the water in
which the fat, lazy, gold fish swam placidly. His face wore the
expression of one who has swallowed some nasty thing.