Prosper Ronsard, the French minister to Tokio, had formed very early in
life the ambition to be a Far Eastern diplomat. His way to the goal was
made in regular steps of enjoyment. First there had been Morocco,
scarcely more to him now than a far-off memory of yellow sands and white
cubes of houses, both emphasized, at effective intervals, by theatrical
groups of palms. Then came Cairo,--gay entrancing Cairo! His life there
held experiences that old age might lick its chops over. Leaving all
else aside, the one flame-tree near his hotel window in Cairo would have
burned that memory deep. Then there were French Siam, Tonquin, Nagasaki,
and, at last, Tokio.
The hot blood of the East flowed now, as native, in Ronsard's veins; but
the keen, calculating, questioning judgment of the European statesman
kept cool tenure of his brain. In Tokio he found all past Eastern
trickery to be useless chaff. Here were no inferior Orientals to
browbeat, threaten, or cajole. From Tonquin to Nagasaki he had crossed
more than the Yellow Sea; he had sailed over three submerged centuries
and landed on a green cliff. Here, in Japan, were men with reasons as
clear as his own, and methods that often proved themselves more
effective. In the mission to Tokio he soon realized that his full
ambition had been won. Every faculty, trained through long
apprenticeship, was here needed; and it was part of his intelligence
that at times he realized them all as insufficient. That span of
"Mysterious Asia" stretched between Algiers and Tonquin, brilliant and
pleasurable indeed, was, from the diplomatic standpoint, a mere dank
subway coming up at the central station, Tokio.
The fascinations of the East, potent as they were, could not quite wean
the Parisian from love of his native home. Visits to France were made
with strict regularity. It was his wont to declare, and with much show
of verity, that the perpetual resident of Paris could never know its
real charm. To live there always, paying bills, meeting disappointments,
enduring illnesses with the inartistic accompaniments of medicine boxes
and physicians, was like having an inexhaustible supply of one's
favorite vintage kept in a water-cooler on the back gallery. Ronsard had
the true sensualist's gift of extracting flavors.
On these home visits he was eagerly sought after by his friends and club
fellows, and by the more intelligent among fashionable women. In this
latter category shone pre-eminent the widowed Princess Olga Le Beau.
Rumor often had it that his next return to the East would be brightened
by the wedded companionship of this lady, but each time Rumor hid her
face.
The princess had married while yet a schoolgirl. Pierre, her only child,
was born within the year of the marriage. Before the boy was ten, his
father, Gaston Le Beau, died by accident. Slander called it suicide, and
hinted that the princess was the cause. Nothing, however, could have
been more decorous or more becoming than the mourning of the princess.
As slowly she came back to the world of fashion, Pierre was sent away to
England to be educated. A growing stripling of a boy is a fatal gauge to
his mother's waning youth. He was seldom pressed to come home during the
holidays, Princess Olga preferring to visit him in England (a country
which she loathed), or sometimes to take small tours with him through
infrequented parts of Europe.
After his very creditable career at an English university, she urged him
tenderly further to improve his mind by travel, and hinted that she
would prefer a diplomatic career for him. As she spoke, she was thinking
of Ronsard, but doubtless had her reasons for not mentioning him. It was
not until the young man's year of residence in America, and his own
choice of Tokio as a place at which to open his diplomatic primer, that
the power of this intimate family friend had been invoked. As we have
seen, Princess Olga gave the name, by letter, to her son. Pierre wrote
promptly, but the hastened departure of the Todds, and his determination
to sail with them and Yuki, would have given him no time to receive a
long and thoughtful answer, even had such been written.
Count Ronsard's motto, more or less rigidly adhered to in dealings with
his own sex, was "never to write a letter or to destroy one." Knowing
that the young man was soon to appear, he calmly waited the event. In
official life the French minister was, of course, designated by the
simple republican title of "Monsieur." With his friends, the old
aristocratic "Count" was permitted and enjoyed. To have slipped Pierre
into a second, third, or fourth secretaryship would have been a simple
matter. Count Ronsard, however, wisely determined to judge the character
of the applicant before admitting him into the bachelor comradeship of
the Legation. This square white residence, set in the midst of a fine,
walled, daimyo garden left over from feudal days, had never, during the
count's long term of service, known feminine sway. High orgies, balls,
and state dinners were held there in plenty, but the only women who
appeared at them were invited guests or hired geisha. The master of the
house carried his bachelor fancy so far that he insisted upon a similar
undetached state being preserved by his subordinates.
Count Ronsard was a dilettante in music and art, and a professional
lover of beauty, especially in the form presented by his friend and
countryman, Bouguereau. His favorite writer was Daudet; his favorite
luxury, eating. Withal, he was a trained statesman and a subtle
diplomat.
Pierre, upon his arrival in Tokio, had been urged to make the Legation
his temporary home. His first question was, of course, for the
appointment. Count Ronsard gave evasive reply. As this continued to be
the case, Pierre felt, in decency, that he must cease to press the
matter. As days passed, and the count, so indulgent, fatherly, and
candid in other things, continued to avoid the discussion of Pierre's
hopes, the young man could not fail to draw the conclusion that the
elder had his personal reasons for not wishing to come to a decision.
Pierre did not greatly care. The anxiety about Yuki kept his thoughts
busy. More than once he had been on the point of confiding in Count
Ronsard and of asking advice, but each time something prevented. Mrs.
Todd, in this stress, was his unfailing sympathizer. Gwendolen was kind,
but he knew well that there was now, and always had been, a certain
reserve in her approbation of his love-affair. The laxity of hours at
the French Legation, and the absence of all restrictions, suited well
the boy's present restless temper.
The morning after Prince Hagané's banquet he woke to a feeling of
heaviness and depression that saké could not altogether account for.
Small bits of recollection began to sting him like brier-points left
under the skin. He saw now, in Yuki's white face, a protest which,
twelve hours before, he had wilfully ignored. Gwendolen's eyes flashed
again indignant warning. The extreme attentiveness of the host, a lurid
after-image of the pictured god, the innumerable small cups that, at the
time, had seemed innocuous, came over him in humiliating memories.
"Gwendolen was right. It was all a test, and I, as usual, played the
impulsive fool!" thought he, bitterly.
On reaching the breakfast-room he was pleasantly surprised to find his
host still at table. A heap of letters, opened and unopened, showed the
cause of delay. Several with foreign postmarks were at Pierre's plate.
As the young man entered, Ronsard touched an electric button, giving
four short, peculiar rings. A few seconds later a servant appeared with
a tray of steaming coffee and food.
"What news from war-centres, your Excellency?" was Pierre's perfunctory
question.
"Mon Dieu, war is surely coming! We are upon the very verge, though our
friends the Russians pretend not to believe. Kurino is to abandon St.
Petersburg. I still have a gleam of hope that the Japanese will have
common intelligence, and withdraw."
"If Kurino leaves, then the Russian minister here must withdraw. I was
told yesterday that he too made preparations."
"Each move may be a feint. Diplomacy is largely made up of feints." Here
he gave a fleshy shrug. "But, my young friend, our speculations will not
change events. As the Japanese say, 'Shi-ka-ta ga nai,' which, being
interpreted, means, 'Way out, there is none.' Tell me of yourself. You
are pale. Do the joys of Tokio prove too arduous?"
The speaker, lolling back in his leathern chair, lighted another
cigarette, his eighth since breakfast, and turned an inquiring leer upon
his companion. Pierre was staring into the smoky coal fire. He had
scarcely heard Ronsard's last words. Yet all at once he felt that here
was an opportunity to ask the advice he had been craving.
"Last night I was at a Japanese banquet, an affair splendid, but small,
given to the family of the newly presented American minister, Mr. Todd,
by Prince Hagané," he began.
Ronsard showed unmistakable interest. "Ah, the prince! The old toad who
sits at the heart of empire in Japan. And at his private villa! You are
fortunate, Monsieur."
Pierre nodded.
"And you said a family affair. I hear there is a Miss Todd. Am I to
understand that you and the charming Mademoiselle--"
Pierre gave a gesture. "No," he said, "not she,--though the charm is
unquestioned. Mr. Dodge and I were included because of being
ship-comrades with the Todd party. There were also present Miss Onda and
her father. Miss Onda was on the ship with us. She was educated in
Washington. I knew her there."
"Ah," murmured the other, more thoughtfully. "Rumors of Miss Onda's
great beauty are already abroad. They will contemplate an official
marriage for her with some fortunate heathen, honored in his own land.
Cela!"
"She will marry no Japanese," said Pierre, quickly. He felt Ronsard's
upward look, but did not meet it. His heart moved a little faster. This
was his first bold step upon a bridge too narrow for turning.
"Ah," murmured Ronsard again.
"Yes," repeated Pierre, "she will marry no Japanese. I--I--am in a
position to know."
"She is already betrothed, perhaps?"
"Yes."
"And not to a Japanese?"
"No."
"To an American, I presume. You say she has been educated in that
country. _Educated!_ And in America! The thought is droll."
"Not to an American either, your Excellency. To one of your own
race,--to a Frenchman."
"Ah," said Ronsard. It was wonderful what expression he could cram into
that small, elastic sound. Evidently the intonation on this occasion was
far from pleasing to the listener. Pierre's blue eyes flashed and
darkened. Fixing them for the first time steadily on his companion he
said, "She is betrothed, your Excellency, to me. Do I receive your
felicitations?"
His look was a challenge. Ronsard passed a fat hand over his mouth
before asking, "With her family's consent?"
"Not yet. Our betrothal was in Washington, shortly before sailing, and
entered into with the full knowledge and consent of her intimate
friends, the Todds. As to the Japanese father's consent, we had planned
and hoped to gain it immediately upon reaching Japan."
Ronsard's thin eyebrows arched to the very roots of his thin, gray hair.
"You have arrived,--two weeks, is it not? You have not gained?"
"Things went wrong with me from the instant of landing," said Pierre,
dejectedly. "I offended in some unknown way that grim image she calls
her parent. I do not know yet in what I did wrong; but he keeps us
apart, and prevents her even from writing an explanation. The Todds have
seen her but once, and learned only the bald fact of her father's
opposition. At the banquet last night we both seemed under
espionage,--subjects for dissection, in fact. I am bewildered with the
misery of it, your Excellency, for I love the girl. My one hope is that
I have her promise, and on her loyalty alone I must now rely."
Count Ronsard drew a long, long whiff from his cigarette, and then
ostentatiously flipped the ash in air. It dissolved before reaching the
floor, a vague little puff of gray nothingness. "That is what the
Japanese think of such a promise! The true Jehovah in Japan is the
composite will of the family. Is it not partly so in France, Monsieur?
If you really desired marriage with this bit of ivory, and--pardon
me--so harsh a yoke seems utterly unnecessary, you should have persuaded
your inamorata to become a Christian, and, while still in America, have
consummated a Christian marriage. Even a Japanese, in these enlightened
days, would not dare to attack such a bond."
"She is a Christian already," said Pierre. "And for an American marriage
I pleaded with a scourged soul. Even Madame Todd advised it; but Yuki-ko
would not listen. She must wait, she said, for her family's consent."
"Very proper of Mademoiselle," said Ronsard, gravely. As Pierre made no
immediate reply, the count went on with his theme, "The Japanese family,
my son, is like a large web, or a small solar system. In the midst, as a
central sun, or reptile, squats the father. Behind him is the mystery
and power of _his_ father, living or dead, and his father's father, back
to the visionary era of Jimmu Tenno. All about him, as planets, or
flies, are dotted the children, the wife, grandparents, uncles, aunts,
cousins to the tenth branch, the family servants and their connections,
the family cat, the family dog, the family ghost, the priests,
soothsayers, physicians,--Mon Dieu, down to the very crickets who chirp
beneath the family doorstone. In a question of marriage, all these must
be consulted. The bride is no more than a gnat caught somewhere in the
web, or a very small satellite belonging to a distant world."
"It is of interest, your Excellency," protested Pierre; "but I have no
mind to give it. Consider my plight. I am young, madly in love, and
touched with despair. I turn to you as a father."
"A father?" echoed the count, with a small gleam of amusement in his
eyes, "Mother of God! It is a name to conjure with. What will you?"
"You have lived here long; you know the country well. Aid me to win the
only woman I can ever love."
"In lawful marriage? Shall I assist you to inclose yourself in that
barbed-wire fence of love?"
"There can be no other thought for Miss Onda and me," said Pierre,
stiffly.
Count Ronsard shrugged. "You are quixotic. I was so at your age. Such
sentiments are, I assure you, wasted in this place. The Japanese
themselves prefer the laxer course. They very properly execrate these
mixed marriages, especially legal mixed marriages."
The man's voice was so soft, so kindly, so self-controlled, that Pierre,
in a sort of wonder, turned again to study his face. The minister met
his look with the friendliest of smiles and a little nod. Then, as if to
give the student of physiognomy every chance, he modestly lowered his
eyes.
It was a face that must have been old even in childhood,--old, and
shrewd, and self-indulgent. The unhealthy fat, which gave his body an
unstable rotundity, showed here chiefly in the cheeks, sagging them down
into loosely filled bags, and drawing long wrinkles in the pull. The
forehead, very narrow toward the top, with hair growing downward in a
deep point, was as gray as the scant, bristling hair. The whole face,
indeed, was gray; its hueless monotony given emphasis by the single note
of the underlip which protruded, moist, velvety, and round, like a
scarlet fungus from the bark of a rotting tree.
"To be candid, my boy," murmured the minister, still with eyelids
drooped, "your penchant for Miss Onda was already known to me. A ship is
a huge floating laboratory of social gossip. Touch land, voilà, and the
germs fly. My attaché, Monsieur Mouquin, chanced to witness your meeting
with Papa Onda. He saw your rejection, and the manner in which your
betrothed was heartlessly abducted. We--that is, Mouquin and
myself--have even ventured to speculate upon possibilities, diplomatic
possibilities in the interest of France, that may be lying dormant in
your continued--er--friendship with the charming Miss Onda. At the axis
of each new twig of history, Monsieur, sits the love of a woman."
"I--I trust that I do not clearly understand your Excellency," said
Pierre, fighting down, as he spoke, a whole swarm of unsavory
intuitions.
The count gave a small, resigned sigh, turned slightly in his chair, and
tapped with one white hand his heap of opened letters. "Several of these
documents suggest the appointment of a certain young Monsieur Le Beau to
office in the French Legation at Tokio. The old Duc de St. Cyr is writer
of one."
"Monsieur le Duc is my great-uncle, and my friend," said Pierre.
"You will realize that it becomes my duty to acquaint myself with the
calibre of such an applicant, of a youth so highly recommended, and
especially at a time when relations between our country and Japan are
slightly--er--neuralgic."
"I have no previous record in civil service, but I believe I could do
something for France."
"Ah, that is just the point!" said the count, with more eagerness than
he had yet showed. "To serve France,--that is our whole concern. You
have had no training, it is true; yet you have already a weapon that old
and tried diplomats might weep for. I refer, as you conjecture, to your
friendship with Mademoiselle Onda, daughter of Tetsujo Onda, and ward,
in a sense, of his Highness Prince Hagané."
Pierre, in a flash, was upon his feet. Cigarette ashes tumbled from the
folds of his waistcoat. He hurled a newly lighted tube into the fire.
"You, sir," he began, with evident effort to control his voice, "you,
sir, are experienced, and I am ignorant; you are calm and I am
impetuous,--perhaps I should listen courteously to what you wish to say;
but I believe it impossible for me to do so. I love this girl as a man
loves the woman whom he desires to make his honored wife. In England,
where I went to school, I learned ideas, stricter perhaps than Parisian
conceptions, of the sacredness and the responsibility of marriage. This
girl is a thing of snow. No tie could be too strong, no sacrament too
safe, for pledging my fidelity. You see, I could not listen."
The count, as the young man was speaking, gazed steadily into the fire.
His face remained as expressionless as a leaf. Pierre, striding here and
there in his agitation, came back at length to the mantel, and stood
still. The count spoke slowly.
"It is far better for France and for you that I speak my mind fully;
yet, because you are ignorant and impetuous, you cannot, as you say,
listen in decent reserve. It is ever so with youth."
The deep sadness of the elder man swept aside Pierre's rising
indignation. He looked very old now, huddled in the great chair, his
hands spread, palm outward, to the blaze.
Pierre threw himself on an ottoman near. "Pardon my boorishness. I will
listen, Monsieur, though your words be fangs. You are my mother's valued
friend, and for that alone I should owe you reverence. Speak what you
will."
At the re-mention of the word "mother," the same curious look flickered
in Ronsard's eyes. He drew a sigh, gathered himself into a more upright
posture, and asked of Pierre, in judicial tones, "Let me inquire,
Monsieur, whether you and Mademoiselle Onda, or your friends the Todds,
have thought out any logical conclusion, should the family of Onda
determine that you are to be definitely repulsed?"
Pierre dropped his head to his hands. "No, we can think of
nothing,--except elopement, and that, now, is impossible."
"Have you thought for her of a possible forced marriage?"
"To a Japanese? Yes, my God, when have I not thought it! No, Monsieur, I
do not think it--I will not; she would accept death sooner than break
her troth to me. I have her word, her broken hairpin--"
"A menacing implement--" interpolated Ronsard.
"Can you think it possible, your Excellency?"
"What, the forced marriage?" Ronsard broke off, looked at Pierre, and
then, as if in compassion, removed his gaze.
"Make it not unendurable," muttered Pierre, through whitening lips.
"I make nothing," said Ronsard. "You have begun the train of disaster; I
can but trace the map of possible retreat. Yes, I believe truly that the
next move in her family will be to marry her off to some eligible
suitor,--an old man, probably, one strong enough to keep you and the
girl in check. Some worn-out voluptuary, or a War-God in Pig Iron, like
old Hagané himself."
Pierre raised bloodshot eyes. His mouth writhed and opened, but no words
came. The old diplomat's voice had been like cut velvet, woven on wires
of steel.
"You--you--do not--spare--" Pierre managed to gasp at length.
Ronsard wore, if anything, a look of satisfaction. He now lifted a
jewelled hand to press and pinch and fondle the moist, warm cushion of
the protruding lip. His eyes, from under their drooping lids, darted
sharp fusillades of meaning upon his shrinking companion. The very sting
restored Pierre. "Yes," resumed the other, as if Pierre had spoken, "in
such mariages de convenance personal affection is left aside. Yet how
deplorable--how impossible--that a Botticelli in ivory and pearl should
never know the joys of ardent love! Opportunities always arise. And
then, as wife of a Japanese official, Mademoiselle Onda might prove
invaluable to France--invaluable!"
Pierre rose this time slowly. Both delicate hands gripped the rim of the
table hard. For a moment he shut his eyes that the vision of the
sneering, sensual face might not tempt the blow his young arm tingled to
inflict. "It is enough," he said, "I was wrong in thinking that I could
listen. If your Excellency will now be so good as to excuse me--"
Ronsard gave a gesture of good fellowship. He smiled cunningly to
himself as Pierre vanished from the room. Self-congratulations fawned
upon him. His aim had been true. The poisoned arrow was in place, and
though Pierre might snap, or draw it forth, the wound would fester.
Among his morning letters one had been carefully concealed. It was of
the latest tint and shape of fashion. It smelled of Paris and intrigue.
The last words were these, "Say nothing to my headstrong boy of this
letter, but, for my sake, keep him from serious entanglement. I object
not, you will understand, to passing follies; but let not the handcuffs
of a Japanese marriage click. Mon Dieu, think of grandchildren! Yours,
for the old time's sake, Olga Le Beau." The count read it through once
more, rubbed it thoughtfully against his red lip, and finally, with a
sentimental sigh, placed it on the coals.
Dropping his head forward, he began to dream. At first it was of Paris,
only Paris, with its gay streets, beautiful women, its theatres and
supper-rooms. What waste of years to have lived so long away! Yet in the
East had been compensations. Diplomacy, as he conceived it, was the
highest form of gambling; life itself, a spinning roulette table.
Diplomacy was the only profession for one with romance, poetry, passion
in his veins, and brains in his skull. Pierre, Olga Brekendorff's child,
was fitted for the career, if, at the outset, he did not manacle his own
hands. He must not marry, least of all marry a Japanese girl of high
connections. Let the girl love him, and be given to another. Visions of
purloined state papers, of secrets won in the marriage chamber only to
be given France next morning, of Japanese chagrin at the mysterious
betrayal of plans, caressed him with leprous fingers. Ah, to be young
once more and beautiful, like Pierre! How like his eyes were to the
Russian mother! No wonder the Japanese girl loved him!
A sharp knock roused him.
"Entrez! Oidé!"
Mouquin rushed in as if pursued, leaving the door open. Within a few
feet of Ronsard he stood still, shivering in an ague of excitement.
"Well, what is it? Speak, man. You chatter and grimace like an ape."
Mouquin waved a small square of paper printed in Japanese. "An extra!
War! They say Togo has fired!"
Ronsard leaned forward and snatched the paper. He read Japanese well.
"War! Togo fired this morning! Three Russian boats already sunk! Mother
of God!"
The telephone began a frantic ringing. Mouquin went to it sidewise.
"Your Excellency, the Russian minister."
"Hold the wire." Ronsard got to his feet. Mouquin still chattered. His
words came now in a torrent. He was drunk with the bigness of the hour.
"Fired, your Excellency! Japan the pygmy, with no further provocation,
has dared fire upon Imperial Russia!"
Ronsard eyed the speaker with a sort of scorn. "True, Monsieur, and, as
I understand, Japan the pygmy has begun already to sink Imperial
Russia."
Mouquin stared for a moment at the speaker, seeking a clue to the
unexpected words. Perhaps he saw for himself a chance at singularity. He
bowed over, gave a low laugh, and backing toward the door cried out,
"And has begun to--_sink_ Imperial Russia! Banzai Nippon!" He went out
quickly.
Ronsard stood quiet by the telephone. It hissed and bubbled like an
impaled crab. He lifted the receiver slowly, his eyes still on the door.
"I know it now," he murmured, "I have long suspected it. Somewhere in
this desert of gray huts Mouquin has a Japanese wife. It was her lips
that uttered through him that 'Banzai Nippon.' And so I think it would
soon be with the impressionable Pierre. Hello! Oui, it is Ronsard."