The Princess Sarolta, apparently absorbed in the achievements of the
chef of Királyi Palota and the lively conversation about her, observed
her imperial charge and pondered. It was the first time that Ranata
had played the part of independent hostess beyond the limits of her
small court and the few privileged friends, and the Princess was not
surprised at her sudden blossoming into a graceful, almost informal,
hostess, with a word of personal meaning for each of her guests as
she greeted them, and an animation at table which a keen sense of
liberty and her desire for popularity had finally set free. But what
puzzled and faintly alarmed the valiant but suspicious soul of the
Obersthofmeisterin was her exceeding graciousness to the brother of
her American friend. The Archduchess had lifted her chin coquettishly
as he bowed formally before her, and then offered him her hand with a
spontaneous warmth as she made known her wholly feminine and unroyal
pleasure in meeting the brother of her dearest friend. To the handshake
and the remarks the Princess had no particular objection--there was
fitness in both; but why the blush and the coquetry? Why the curiously
puzzled expression of Mr. Abbott, followed by a flash of relief and
pleasure? Why the constant change of expression as she turned from
Prince Illehazy who sat on her right to the American who sat on her
left? The Princess was abnormally acute in the ways of her sex, and
with age she added to the sum of a knowledge born of much experience,
while forgetting nothing. It was towards the middle of the dinner that
her alarm faded, and she remarked to herself: “She is up to some game
or other. She is playing a part. But what an actress! Who would have
suspected--but no, has she not always been playing the parts demanded
of her rank? This is merely one of her own choosing. But what does it
mean? I must find out before I sleep to-night.”
Ranata, to those who knew her well, had never looked so beautiful.
She wore white, for her colored wardrobe had not yet come, but the
low bodice of her gown had been trimmed with blue velvet flowers, and
there were sapphires on her neck instead of the usual pearls. Her
brilliant coppery hair was arranged with so many little sparkling
combs that it looked as if enmeshed in a diamond net; and almost
in front was a sapphire lily. She had adjusted her new manner to
perfection; while losing nothing of the dignity of the princess,
she was a girl delighting in the levity of the hour, a human being
conscious to the quick of unrestricted intercourse with lively and
intelligent minds. She joined in the general conversation as far as
was possible; pleasing and astonishing her guests with her intimate
knowledge of Hungarian affairs and the crisis of the moment--there is
always a crisis in Hungary--her subtly expressed sympathy, and her
constant intimate references to the mother and brother who had been so
beloved by this ardent and appreciative people. Her evident devotion
to the memory of her brother would have insured her popularity had
she reminded them less of him, been less attractive in herself. Those
within her range had no sense whatever of being entertained by royalty;
forgot the awful dinners they had sat through with their king; were
at exactly the same informal ease as when dining with each other. And
yet, so deathless is the reverence of the monarchical born for majesty
and all begotten of majesty; so insidious the flattery of those whose
souls are steeped in purple; that even these most independent of all
monarchists unconsciously swelled with a fuller enthusiasm for the
beautiful and gracious hostess, inasmuch as she commanded homage by
divine right.
During the early part of the dinner Ranata was conscious only of the
buoyant atmosphere, the gay content of her guests, their versatility of
mind, their very evident admiration of herself, the smiling approval
of the beautiful women in the pink flood of the palm-and-flower-filled
gallery where the table was spread. It was her first taste of power,
and it was not only sweet but inspiring. Her own enthusiasm waxed high.
She felt expansive, democratic. Her ardent nature struggled with its
bonds. She felt a momentary impulse to tell them that she was happy for
the first time in her life, and felt as keenly as they the common bond
of human nature.
She hardly knew when she began to feel the subtle difference between
the American’s homage and that of the great Hungarian magnates. For
some time her words with him were desultory, so much of her attention
was demanded elsewhere; but as the conversation at the long table
coupled, and the beautiful Roumanian, wife of Count Ábris Teleky, who
sat on the other side of Prince Illehazy, absorbed more and more of his
attention, she found her own consecutively claimed by Fessenden Abbott.
She had been content with the apparent impression her coquetry and
graciousness had made on the American, reflecting with arrogance that
there is nothing so dense as the vanity of man. It was not long before
she was made aware that Fessenden, if admiring, was not prostrate; that
sensible as he might be to her flattery, his head was still cool. But
it was not until they talked without interruption that she experienced
for the first time in her life the sensation of being a mere woman
talking to a mere man, and realized in a flash that she had spent the
early part of the evening in a fool’s paradise. Given to self-analysis,
she wondered at its fascination, for Fessenden’s attitude after the
Chardash had been intensely irritating. But every nerve in her had
been on edge during that extraordinary dance; however he had comported
himself at its finish would doubtless have served as a pretext for
opening a safety-valve among the sensations that were oppressing her.
To-night she was filled with good-will to all the world; she had
already sighed for democracy, and while she sighed again at the death
of an illusion, it was doubtless consistent to accept pleasurably a
momentary sensation of true equality. That this famous American, who
was beginning to appall the world with his resource, was dazzled by her
beauty and captivated by her charm, was apparent to whomsoever chose to
observe, but it was the surrender of man to his goddess; his eyes were
level, not upcast in the homage of courtier to princess. His masculine
vanity was flattered, no doubt, but by the woman, not by the daughter
of the Emperor of Austria.
For a time the conversation was impersonal enough. “I hope you will
come to my ball,” the Archduchess had said, and then added with a
laugh--“That ball! How often its plans have been changed! The Princess
Sarolta thought that it should be given to the aristocracy alone, but
I have finally decided that all the members of Parliament shall be
invited, and all who have distinguished themselves in art and letters.
I am not very patient. I do not like doing things by degrees. You saw
Alexandra this afternoon? I told her to take you into our confidence.”
“It is a very great scheme, and I am entirely at your disposal. But
what do you intend, in this instance, to do about the wives of your
untitled members? And the wives of your other distinguished guests who
do not come to court as a matter of course?”
“Oh, the women cannot come. They do not expect it.”
“They would be valuable allies.”
“It is quite impossible. The women of the aristocracy would
rebel--would stay away from court, no doubt.”
“I wonder. Court life in Hungary is very rare. Surely you are powerful
enough to set your own fashions.”
But Ranata looked determined and unmoved. “I should lose much and gain
nothing. And, besides, I do not wish it. An empire is an empire, not a
republic. If I opened the gates, where would be the end? I should be
shaking hands with eight thousand people of an evening, like your poor
President.”
“You would find that rather interesting. Your wild and picturesque
peasants--Hungarians, Roumanians, Wallachians, Servians, Croats,
Orthodox Jews, and what not--would come pouring in from their
fastnesses.”
“I shall go to them in their villages. To hold a little court for them,
as it were, will be delightful. But here--it would be only to cheapen
myself.”
“It would be a great victory gained if you could bring the members of
the Extreme Left to court. The Emperor cannot; but if you invited their
wives, no doubt you would conquer their prejudices--the wives would see
to that.”
“Do you think I have given no thought to the Kossuths? I have my plan
of campaign. ‘Just you wait,’ as Alex would say.” She lifted her eyes
and looked directly at him; there was not even defiance in their rays.
“It has also been decided that although all the magnates and their
families will come in the national costume, only a hundred of the
younger will dance the Chardash. The older--the men at least--seem to
have lost nothing of their fire, but I fear apoplexy.”
“It certainly requires the wind of youth. I suppose I shall not be
permitted to dance it,” he added discontentedly. “Whom shall you dance
it with?”
She hesitated a perceptible half moment; then she answered, “I shall
not dance it at all.”
He turned to her with a flash in his eyes, and her own dropped. “Allow
me to contribute an idea. Why not have it danced by peasants? Many of
the women have beautiful costumes, although they do not always wear
them; enough could be found, at all events. Bring them here--house them
in the servants’ quarters for two or three nights. Do not offer to pay
anything but their expenses. Ask them to come as a favor. Give them a
feast and dance of their own afterwards. All the peasantry of Hungary
will be delighted. Let your other guests dance the Chardash in their
own way afterwards. You would then please everybody. I suppose no one
has dared to tell you, but the women are by no means enthusiastic at
the prospect of having the breath whirled out of them; and many are
disappointed at not being able to wear their latest costumes from Paris
and Vienna.”
“Ah! That _is_ the truth, I suppose.” She laughed. “The evolution of a
ball! One would think this was the first that ever had been heard of.
But I like your idea. Yes--it shall be. And only those who wish shall
dance the Chardash.”
“Then,” said Fessenden quickly, “you can dance with me afterwards. I
have to wear some sort of a costume, anyhow.”
She caught her breath, and again her anger rose.
“It is customary,” she began haughtily, then paused, at a loss how to
word her rebuke. This was not only an American, but a sovereign in his
way, and her friend’s brother. She stole a glance at him. He had thrown
back his head, and was staring down at her with a glitter in his eyes
that made them seem peculiarly contracted. He looked more angry than
she felt. She lifted her head and said defiantly, “I shall not dance at
all.”
“That is a great pity,” said Fessenden coldly, “for I never knew any
one to enjoy dancing more.” Then, as her face flushed and her own eyes
glittered, he added deliberately: “I have no intention of ignoring an
experience which I have lain awake more than one night to remember.
There is no reason why the subject should be taboo, and it makes an
absurd and annoying complication. Do you expect me to be eternally on
my guard lest I make a reference to it?”
For a moment the Archduchess did not answer. Her next words must decide
the status of their future acquaintance, possibly would determine
whether they ever met again or not. There was no mistaking the gauntlet
he had thrown down: she was to take him on his own terms or not at
all. Should she? Should she? Her anger had ebbed in an unaccountable
manner. There was something very alluring in the prospect not only of
a new variety of homage, but of adventuring farther on the path of
liberty. Many changes had lifted their heads within her since her break
for comparative independence and her rapid victory. She was beginning
to perceive how fatally easy it is for women and nations to cross
the border between liberty and license. Four days ago she had made
an appalling addition to the limited sum of her experiences: she had
known for a few moments the intoxication of abandonment. The retrospect
had filled her with an alternate fury and delight. Woman-like she had
vented her wrath on the man; and he had commanded her waking thoughts
to the exclusion of the Austrian dynasty. Then, with the elaborate
subtlety of the feminine mind, she had persuaded herself that her
duty to her country demanded that she win the American from the man
who menaced the future integrity of the Austrian Empire; and, buoyed
up by the virtue of her cause, she had drawn him into the circle of
her influence, having first analyzed him into the abstract condition
of a curiosity. During the last half-hour she had quite forgotten
that virtue alone had summoned Fessenden Abbott to court; but as she
hesitated, fascinated, but doubting the policy of letting him eat the
fruits of victory, the devil, which sits on his tail in a corner of
every woman’s brain, plucked this virtue from its hook and flung it
into the light.
She raised her brilliant powerful eyes to his and said sweetly: “You
have placed me in a position from which there are only two outlets. I
acknowledge myself defeated. What is it you would like to say about our
Chardash? I am quite ready to discuss it threadbare.”
He laughed, but without annoyance, for she had uttered the words “our
Chardash” in a tone that gave him a sharp sensation of delight. “The
laurels are to you,” he said with commendable sobriety. “It is my turn
to acknowledge defeat. I shall never mention the subject again except
at your command.”
She had accomplished her purpose, and should have been satisfied.
But she was filled with a sudden desire to hear all that he had left
unsaid. What had he wanted to tell her? How had he felt for her that
day? What did the memory mean to him? She cast about in her mind for
the words that would express a delicate and elusive query, to lead him
on, while not committing herself. But an interview with a Königsegg was
a simple matter beside playing with fire when the fire was actually
between one’s fingers; the hereditary game of coquetry was no guide.
Nonplussed, but unwilling to leave the subject, she bit her lip and
drew a long breath.
“What are you sighing about?” asked Fessenden.
“I am a woman and inconsistent.”
“I know less about women than you do, so I can’t help you out--at all
events unless you tell me what is the matter with you.”
“Alexandra is direct, but she has a great deal of subtlety!”
“I haven’t a particle of subtlety. I’ll give a direct answer to a
direct question from anybody but a South American president or a
Chinaman. What is it?”
“I don’t think I’ll tell you,” said Ranata hurriedly. “How I long to
hear all your adventures at first hand! Even listening to Alexandra,
I have held my breath. But we are going to have our coffee on the
terrace.”
A few moments later, as the company was standing about the pillared
gallery behind the vines, the Princess Sarolta took Alexandra’s arm and
strolled with her beyond the others.
“Why are you angry?” asked the watchful Obersthofmeisterin.
“Ranata is trying to make a fool of my brother.”
“You are making a fool of Zrinyi. Your brother has doubtless been
made a fool of before. I was afraid that Ranata was taking man--in
the person of your brother--as seriously as she has taken all life
heretofore.”
Alexandra was on the alert at once. “You are quite mistaken,” she said
indifferently. “Ranata has a very particular reason for turning my
brother’s head. I promised, in a moment of enthusiasm, to help her. I
do not know that that would hold, but I am in a quandary. I want Ranata
to succeed in all that she has undertaken, but I do not want my brother
sacrificed.”
“At your age tender consideration for a man is a characteristic! It
is one of the amusing reminiscences of age. When you have learned, my
child, how much they can stand--_enfin!_ I am relieved that it is this
way, for although I hope to have Ranata under my supervision when she
goes through the inevitable, yet I shrink from it--and there is little
I do shrink from! She would suffer quite horribly, because she must be
utterly without hope; even intrigue would be forbidden her--she has too
much at stake. But no! as well now as any time. As well your brother as
any man. He looks as if he would never _affiché_ a woman, he is not hot
of head, he knows the world--and lives on the other side of it!”
“You are all wrong, Sarolta. Ranata is playing a game.”
“The game is fire,” replied the Princess dryly.