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[Illustration]
KINGS IN ADVERSITY
by
EDWARD S. VAN ZILE
Author of “The Manhattaners,” “The Last of the Van
Slacks,” etc.
“Kings are like stars—they rise and set, they have
The worship of the world, but no repose.”—SHELLEY.
[Illustration]
New York
F. Tennyson Neely
114 Fifth Avenue
1897
* * * * * *
Neely’s Prismatic Library.
GILT TOP, 50 CENTS.
“I know of nothing in the book line that equals Neely’s
Prismatic Library for elegance and careful selection. It sets a
pace that others will not easily equal and none surpass.”—E. A.
ROBINSON.
SOUR SAINTS AND SWEET SINNERS. By Carlos Martyn.
SEVEN SMILES AND A FEW FIBS. By Thomas J. Vivian. With full-page
illustrations by well-known artists.
A MODERN PROMETHEUS. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
THE SHACKLES OF FATE. By Max Nordau.
A BACHELOR OF PARIS. By John W. Harding. With over 50 illustrations by
William Hofacher.
MONTRESOR. By Loota.
REVERIES OF A SPINSTER. By Helen Davies.
THE ART MELODIOUS. By Louis Lombard.
THE HONOR OF A PRINCESS. By F. Kimball Scribner.
OBSERVATIONS OF A BACHELOR. By Louis Lombard.
KINGS IN ADVERSITY. By E. S. Van Zile.
NOBLE BLOOD AND A WEST POINT PARALLEL. By Captain King.
TRUMPETER FRED. By Captain King. Illustrated.
FATHER STAFFORD. By Anthony Hope.
THE KING IN YELLOW. By R. W. Chambers.
IN THE QUARTER. By R. W. Chambers.
A PROFESSIONAL LOVER. By Gyp.
BIJOU’S COURTSHIPS. By Gyp. Illustrated.
A CONSPIRACY OF THE CARBONARI. By Louise Muhlbach.
SOAP BUBBLES. By Dr. Max Nordau.
* * * * * *
F. Tennyson Neely,
Publisher,
New York, London.
Copyrighted in the United States and Great Britain in MDCCCXCVII by F.
Tennyson Neely.
All rights reserved.
KINGS IN ADVERSITY.
THE CROWN PRINCE OF REXANIA.
CHAPTER I.
Almost within a stone’s throw of the antique structure that for a full
century has been known to New Yorkers as St. Mark’s Church stands a
mansion that has had, like Eden, its glory and its fall. Once it was the
home of aristocracy and wealth. To-day it is an eating-place for those
whose lot is poverty and whose faith is democratic.
At the moment at which our story opens, the rooms in which in the old
days portly Knickerbockers indulged in stately feasts are crowded
with picturesque waifs from the Old World, who have, for a variety of
reasons, crossed the Atlantic to air their woes in a freer atmosphere
than surrounded them at home. A _table-d’hôte_ dinner, greasy, cheap, and
plentiful, is the magnet that has drawn from the East Side many of its
most daring spirits, men with great grievances and enormous appetites.
While emphasizing the former and appeasing the latter, these men grow
loquacious and blow white clouds of cigarette smoke toward the ceilings;
and the dinner nears its end.
It is with a group of four foreign malcontents that we must seat
ourselves in spirit, for they have a mighty matter under discussion, and
in their conversation lies the explanation of certain startling episodes
that occurred in the metropolis last year, the details of which have not
been made known hitherto either to the public or to the police.
“You feel sure, Posadowski,” a frowzy-headed, full-bearded man was
saying in the purest Rexanian, a dialect spoken by only a few hundred
East-siders, “you feel sure that you have the dates exactly as they
should be?”
“I will read you the letter, Rukacs, and you can make your own
calculations,” answered Posadowski, a better-groomed man than his
companions, nearing middle age, but with a fresh complexion and a clear,
gray eye that could look like ice or gleam with fire, as the spirit of
the man ordained. His companions bent toward him eagerly, as he took
from his pocket a letter bearing a foreign postmark. Lighting a fresh
cigarette, Posadowski read, in a low voice, the following epistle:
“DEAR BROTHER: Strange things have happened in Rexania. The
crown prince has left here in disguise. Three men only know
this, the king, the prime minister, and myself. If they knew
that I held their secret, this would be my last letter—eh,
my friends? But they will never suspect me—the best servant
in the palace—of communicating with such rebellious rascals
as you, Posadowski and Rukacs and the rest of you. The king
was bitterly opposed to Prince Carlo’s journey. But Carlo is
no longer a boy. He is a clever, active-minded, studious man,
who might have been one of us if he had not been born a crown
prince. He has great influence over Prime Minister Fejeravy,
and persuaded him to plead with the king. Carlo has set out
for America, and travels incognito. I have risked my life to
tell you that he will reach New York on the _Wiendam_, under
the title of Count Szalaki. He has promised to return as soon
as he has crossed the continent and visited Chicago and San
Francisco. The fact is that the prince is anxious to see for
himself how a country looks that is governed by its people.
Poor fellow! I have long felt sorry for him. Upon his firmness
at his father’s death will depend the maintenance of the
Rexanian monarchy, and I feel sure that he is only half-hearted
in his assumed regard for royalty. But I dare not waste more
time on this hasty letter. I am obliged to spend nearly all my
time quieting suspicions that I fear I may have aroused in this
palatial hotbed of treachery and intrigue. Nevertheless, my
brothers, reflect on this: fate has placed a great opportunity
in your power. The king is old and failing. If the crown prince
is not at hand when the king dies—well, there will be no more
kings in Rexania. The people love the prince; but if he is not
here when the sceptre falls from his father’s hand he will
never be crowned. It is in your control—the future of Rexania.
I and my fellow-republicans—we are very quiet at present—leave
it to you to make Rexania free. If the king dies and the crown
prince is not here, no power on earth can prevent the republic.
My love and devotion to you all. Courage! We trust to you.”
The faces of the conspirators had turned pale as Posadowski had slowly
and impressively emphasized the pregnant sentences of the revolutionist
who defied death at the king’s right hand.
“He is magnificent,” exclaimed Posnovitch, the oldest member of the
quartette, a gigantic man, with picturesque gray locks.
“Yes. How little we have to fear, compared with a spy who knows the
king’s secret thoughts and who lives under Fejeravy’s eye,” remarked
Rukacs. “But tell me, Posadowski, have you a plan of action in your mind?”
“There is only one thing to do,” said Ludovics, a small, black-whiskered
man with feverish eyes and nervous manner. “Count—Count Szalaki, I think,
was the name he took, was it not?—must not leave this country alive.”
“Hush!” whispered Posadowski, imperatively, as a waiter refilled their
coffee-cups. “You were always reckless, Ludovics. There may be a way open
to us that does not require bloodshed. The crown prince, we are told, is
not a monarchist at heart.”
“Don’t be deceived by that fact—if it is a fact,” returned Ludovics,
hotly. “He won’t abdicate. Whatever may be his inner convictions, he
has an hereditary liking for a throne, and I’m sure that his visit to
this country will destroy all fondness that he may have begotten, in his
imagination, for republics.”
His companions looked at the speaker suspiciously. Was he growing
reactionary in his views? was the question that came into their minds.
“Don’t mistake me,” he continued, noting their look of consternation. “I
am as good a republican as walks the earth, but I don’t think a surface
view of this country will have an influence upon the crown prince tending
toward a great renunciation on his part. He will return to Rexania more
determined than he is at present to rule. I tell you, my brothers, the
prince must be destroyed, if he won’t be converted.”
There was silence for a time. Finally, Posnovitch beckoned to a waiter
and ordered brandy for the quartette.
“Posadowski, what do you propose?” asked Rukacs, smiling as he glanced
confidingly at the real leader of the group.
The clear-eyed Rexanian gazed thoughtfully at his companions. “Our steps
must be guided by circumstances,” he remarked, guardedly. “The _Wiendam_
is due here on the 7th. It is now the 5th. One of us must make it his
duty to shadow the prince and keep informed of his every movement.”
“You’re the man to do it, Posadowski,” exclaimed Posnovitch, with
conviction. “You have become more Americanized than the rest of us, and
won’t create suspicion. Will you accept the responsibility?”
Posadowski sat silent for a time, puffing cigarette smoke thoughtfully
and looking at his companions, who were watching him eagerly.
“Perhaps you are right, Posnovitch. I see no reason why I should not
take the prince in tow. But let me impress several things upon you
all. Listen. We must arrange a plan whereby I can summon you here at an
hour’s notice. I have in mind a scheme that will require firmness on our
part, but is not attended with any great danger. Not that any of you
fear that. We all got used to it in the revolutionary days, ten years
ago. Rexania was not a bed of roses at that time, was it, Rukacs? But
to the point. That brandy has made me sentimental, and I’m tempted to
dwell on the past rather than the future. Now, my brothers, if you really
wish to leave this matter to me for the time being, I will do my best
to satisfy you all. Our aim is simply this: to keep the crown prince in
this country—which means, of course, within our immediate vicinity—until
the king dies. An interregnum of even one day would be fatal to monarchy
in Rexania. To-morrow night I will tell you all the details of my plan.
Meanwhile, let us be seen together as little as possible. Posnovitch,
come to me in the morning. I have a journey that I want you to make into
Westchester County. And be careful of the brandy to-night. You must
have a clear head to-morrow to carry out your part of the plan. Do you
understand me?”
“Well enough to keep sober,” answered the elderly giant, good-naturedly.
“And so good-night, my brothers,” said Posadowski, as he arose to leave
the room. To each of them he gave his hand, and before he turned to
go bent down to them and in solemn tones cried, feelingly, “God bless
Rexania and make her free!”