THE PRINCESS OF HEARTS
But first came Alice. Snow was upon her light fluffy hair and her
long fur coat, and her cheeks were pink with the cold and her eyes
bright with the excitement of this first meeting between father and
fiancé. Next came her mother, her matronly figure amplified by her
thick Russian coat, exultant satisfaction on her proud face--the sense
of having triumphantly done the thing she had started out to do. And
behind them came the prince, whom the two had met at the entrance of
the hotel.
The great financier took the slender hand of his ancient-blooded
son-in-law. He looked him keenly over, all the while the words of
getting acquainted were being exchanged--looked him over with growing
satisfaction. The prince was a man, despite his forty years, who well
might capture a young girl’s fancy. He was straight, with the easy
grace of a courtier, and wore a dark green uniform of a colonel of the
Czar’s Guards, with a heavy festoon of gold braid across his breast and
with high patent-leather boots. He was the acme of ancient lineage and
high breeding; his face was pale, his lips and nostrils were thin, his
black moustache had just the proper upward lift, his slight baldness
only made more suggestive of power a forehead naturally large, and
the great scar on his left cheek (a Heidelberg scar) that might have
disfigured a coarser man only added to his distinguished air. Diplomat,
soldier, art connoisseur, student, it was said of him that the Czar’s
domain held no more polished gentleman. No wonder Alice admired and
her father was satisfied; this was no mere hang-lipped, chinless,
stuttering, penniless title.
After the formal words natural to the situation had all been said,
the talk ran to other matters--first to the house party the prince
was giving in the Howards’ honour, and then to a ball which they all
expected to attend that night at the palace of Prince Valenko, the
military governor.
Alice turned to Drexel. “You are fortunate, Henry, to get back in time
to meet Princess Valenko.”
“I think I shall not go,” he returned. Only one woman interested him,
and she was of a sort far different from this great lady.
“Not go!” cried his aunt. “You must not miss meeting the princess!”
“No,” added Alice, darting a quick look at the prince, “you must not
fail to meet Princess Valenko.”
“And what is so wonderful about this Princess Valenko?” put in Mr.
Howard.
“She’s the handsomest young woman in St. Petersburg--so they say,”
returned Alice, with a sceptical toss of her head. “We’ve heard
nothing but Princess Valenko ever since we entered Russia.”
Again she darted a look at Berloff. The prince knew well the meaning of
this glance; it was an open secret that he had been a suitor for the
princess, and she had refused him. But he met Alice’s challenging look
with an impassive smile.
“Also she is my cousin,” said he to Mr. Howard. But, he did not add,
cousin on his mother’s side, and so of far older stock than he.
“Her father is the military governor of St. Petersburg,” added Mrs.
Howard. “They say she is the proudest, haughtiest young--I beg your
pardon, prince, but that’s just what people say.” She looked at her
husband. “We haven’t met her yet. She has been travelling in France,
Italy and Germany, and she returned only to-day.”
“I saw her,” Alice announced.
“You were at her house?” asked the prince.
“No. I was out driving this morning and I chanced to go near the Warsaw
Station just after the Berlin Express had arrived. She had just come in
from Berlin. I saw her drive by.”
“Was she as beautiful as people say?” Drexel asked mechanically.
Alice sniffed. “Oh, I suppose some men might think her moderately
good-looking. Judge for yourself when you see her to-night.”
“You will have an even better chance to judge her day after to-morrow,”
said the prince. “She has just written that she is coming to the house
party.”
At this moment Countess Baronova, sweeping past, bowed to them. “And
you are coming, too, countess?” added the prince.
She paused. “Coming to what?”
“To my house party.”
“Of course. Your parties, prince, are the sort one cannot afford to
miss.”
They asked her to join the group, and as Freeman at this moment came
up with her coat upon his arm, they could but include him in the
invitation. Drexel felt a shiver as the lean, dark correspondent sat
down among them; and he could but wonder what these women would think,
what the prince would think, if they knew what he knew. Drexel watched
him covertly. The lean, lithe grace of his figure, the reposeful
alertness of his gleaming eyes, the cool indifference with which he met
the prince’s thinly hid disdain--all these bore it in upon him again
that here was a man who respected no one, who feared no one.
It was not long ere these qualities had exemplification. The three
women presently withdrew, and Mr. Howard began to question the prince
about Russia’s political situation. The prince answered that the Czar
was kindly, that he loved his people and did only what was best for
them; but like a father with an unruly son he had to chastise where
he loved. As for the trouble, that was all made by the country’s
scum--and it would be best for the country if it were exterminated.
Freeman’s eyes had begun to blaze. “Your last statement, prince, is
quite true,” he said quietly. “Yet it is altogether misleading.”
“Misleading?” the prince queried coldly.
“Yes. You neglected to inform Mr. Howard that the trouble-making scum
whose extermination would so benefit the country, is where the scum
always is--at the top.”
“You mean?” said the prince.
“I mean the officials, the nobility--and royalty, if you please.”
The prince gave a start and slowly wet his thin lips. Drexel held his
breath, and waited what should come next. He knew what temper of a man
was the terrorist; and he knew, too, that a man who had merely refused
to rise when the Czar had been toasted in a restaurant had been shot
dead in his chair by an officer opposite--and the officer had been
acquitted.
“Do you not think,” said the prince, with a steel-like edge to his
voice, “that you are speaking a little rashly, considering you are in
Russia?”
The terrorist was leaning insouciantly back in his chair, but his eyes
were flaming. “An American, sir,” said he, “is not afraid to speak the
truth, no matter in what tyrant’s land he finds himself.”
The prince’s face darkened. He again wet his lips, his long
interlocked hands tightened and his eyes gleamed back into the
terrorist’s.
“My advice to you, sir,” and there was an ominous threat in his voice,
“and to all other foreign scribblers, is to keep a quieter tongue in
your head!”
“You think you can cow me?” said Freeman, a contemptuous, defiant sneer
upon his lips. “You can kill me--yes. But let me tell you, all you
blood-sucking officials, all you nation-crushing aristocrats, you, and
your snivelling, cowardly, blood-drenched little Czar----”
Berloff sprang to his feet. “What, you insult the Czar!” and like the
dart of a serpent his hand flashed across the table and struck Freeman
full in the mouth.
Freeman shot up like a released spring, his dark face livid, and made
to hurl himself upon the prince. Drexel seized an arm. Its tense
muscles were like steel wire, and it flung him aside with one violent
sweep, and again the terrorist made for the prince. For an instant
Drexel feared for Berloff’s life; but officers from an adjoining table
threw themselves upon the terrorist, and a moment later he was securely
held by gendarmes. He struggled and hurled fierce defiance at the
prince, who stood erect and impassive, with just the faintest tinge in
his white cheeks.
“You’ll remember this!” cried the terrorist, darkly.
Berloff did not answer--gazed at him with cold contempt as he was
bundled out. Perhaps he did remember--perhaps not. But afterward Drexel
remembered--and remembered well.
This sudden flare-up of passion drew upon them the curious stare of
the dozens of people in the cafe, and the terrorist had not been five
minutes gone before the other three withdrew, the prince going to the
apartment he maintained for his occasional St. Petersburg visits, and
Drexel and his uncle mounting to their rooms above. His uncle asked
about Freeman, and Drexel told what was common knowledge, holding back
the sinister information he had gained in Three Saints’ Court; for he
had decided to say nothing, for the present at least, of his adventure
with the young woman and the experiences into which it had led him.
They had just finished dinner--at which the prince had joined
them--when a card was handed to Drexel. He looked at it, and for a
moment hesitated.
“I’ll see him,” he said to the servant. “Have him shown to my
sitting-room.”
He excused himself and left the Howards’ apartment for his own
quarters. He paced the room excitedly. Perhaps here was a clue through
which he might find the young woman! But he was cool enough when the
visitor entered.
“Will you be seated, Mr. Freeman,” said he calmly.
“Thank you,” said the correspondent, taking the indicated chair.
“I dare say you are surprised to see me at liberty, after what just
happened. Were I a Russian I should not be; but Russia is careful how
she treats citizens of powerful foreign countries.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “But enough of that. I have come on what I
hope will prove an acceptable matter of business to you; on what is to
me a matter of humanity, and-- But we’ll pass my motives. May I trouble
you for two minutes?”
“You may,” said Drexel.
Freeman drew his chair nearer. “I must begin by taking you into my
confidence, a confidence I know you will respect. My real purpose
in Russia is actively to help the revolutionists in their struggle.
Perhaps you wonder at my confiding in a person who is to be the cousin
of Prince Berloff. But I believe I am shrewd enough to have seen that
no love is lost between Prince Berloff and yourself. Am I right?”
“Go on,” said Drexel.
“Well, then--let me tell you that I am in close touch with the
revolutionists. The revolution is bound to succeed. But what it needs
just now is money--money for arms. To gain liberty for their country
the revolutionists can afford to pay a hundred per cent.--yes, a
thousand per cent. Now to come straight to the point: would you
consider undertaking to secure some large sum for the revolutionists,
in return for which an authorized committee would bind themselves to
give you certain business privileges and properties now controlled by
the present Government--land, railroads, mines, and such? Would you
consider it?”
A week before, had Drexel seen definite prospect of the revolutionists’
success, he would have leaped at this as a wonderful business
opportunity. But it was quite another influence that now determined
his reply. Freeman had been in conference with Sonya and her friends;
he was going to be in further conference with them; to enter into this
plan, even if he chose not to carry it out, would mean that somehow he
would again come into contact with Sonya.
“I would consider it,” he answered.
“Would you meet with a duly authorized committee to talk it over?”
“Yes.” He thought of the conference he had witnessed four nights since,
and he wondered if he would come before the same group. “Meet where?”
he asked.
“I am supposed not to give the address, and I would rather not.”
“As you like,” Drexel returned stiffly. “But either I know where I am
going, or I do not go.”
“Oh, very well;” and Freeman gave the address of the house in Three
Saints’ Court. He rose. “This of course has been only a preliminary
talk. I shall see you again in the course of two or three days.
Good-night.”
Drexel, preoccupied with this new chance of his finding again the girl
he loved, returned to the Howards’ apartment, and found them prepared
to start to the ball at Prince Valenko’s. In his present mood he
shrank from that brilliant show. He preferred to remain at home, kept
company by thoughts of a beautiful, spirited young woman in the coarse,
shapeless clothing of a factory girl. He tried to beg off; but Alice
would not hear of losing a convenient cavalier whom she might have need
of--and his uncle demanded, if he did not go, with whom was he to talk,
with nobody around him except people that spoke only French and this
fizz and pin-wheel business that they called Russian? So Drexel could
do nothing but consent and follow to the carriage.
They drove past the Winter Palace, empty of royalty, for the Czar, in
fear of those he ruled, dared not trust his person there--past huge
grand-ducal palaces--and presently they entered a great mansion that
looked forth upon the ice-bound Neva. Drexel was well accustomed to
the luxury of the rich Russian nobility, but even he, with his double
reason for being dull to impressions, could but note that he had been
in no house so rich as this. And he recognized that, save for the Czar
and his immediate family, there were none prouder and higher in all the
empire than these haughty men whose breasts were a blaze of orders and
these haughty women who seemed to walk amid a moving fire of jewels.
And of them all, he well knew, none had lineage older, nobler, than
Princess Valenko.
Drexel did not see the princess upon his entry, for interest in the
famed beauty, long absent abroad, was high, and she had been swept
aside into one of the drawing-rooms by an admiring group and was there
the prisoner of her guests. Drexel ascended to the brilliant ball-room.
A little later, while he was standing with his uncle and Prince
Berloff, General Valenko, recognizing Berloff, paused a moment beside
them. The military governor was straight, gray-haired, gray-bearded,
a splendid figure of a soldier-statesman at sixty-five, his bearing
and every feature marked with that pride which unbends only to equals,
with strength, decision, dominance. There was also that in his face and
bearing which suggested that his character was fibred with pitiless
severity--with that despotic severity which becomes a mere matter of
course after a lifetime of service to the most autocratic and cruel of
Christian governments.
“You would not think to look at him, would you,” said Drexel after the
general had passed on, taking Berloff with him, “that he loves his
daughter more than he does his life? Yet that is what people say.”
Mr. Howard’s glance followed the straight, proud figure. “He looks to
me more like that old Roman party--what do you call him, Brutus--that
ordered his own son executed. The girl must be a wonder.”
“They say half the best young nobility of Russia have proposed to
her--and been refused.”
“A sort of queen of hearts--eh?”
“You guessed close, uncle, to what they call her. She is known as ‘The
Princess of Hearts.’”
“Well,” grumbled his uncle, “I wish she’d step lively. I’m getting
anxious to see her.”
And so was Drexel, a little, even if his heart did belong to a woman of
quite a different station.
But they had not long to wait. Of a sudden there fell a hush, and into
the room through the wide entrance at the farther end, upon the arm of
the gray, erect Prince Valenko, there swept a tall slender young woman
in a shimmering, lacy gown, with gems twinkling from her corsage, from
her throat, from the tiara on her high-done hair. Her chin was held
high, her eyes swept the room with cold hauteur, in her every movement
was knowledge of her ancient princely blood and of her peerless beauty.
“Well, well!” breathed Mr. Howard. “The Princess of Hearts--I should
say so!”
The sudden clutch of Drexel’s hand made him turn. “Hello, there--what’s
wrong?”
Drexel, suddenly cold, stood with bulging eyes fixed upon her. For four
nights before she had worn a factory girl’s shawl and jacket, and he
had told her that he loved her!