Posadowski passed through Prince Carlo’s sleeping-room and stepped out
upon the balcony. The heir to a throne was still dreaming of love and
peace in a land where Cupid should reign supreme, as the arch-conspirator
joined him. The young man’s face was pensive with the gentle longings
that tinged his revery with sadness. He turned toward Posadowski and said
cordially:
“Be seated. I wish to talk with you.”
The clear gray eyes of the exiled Rexanian rested searchingly on the
pale, clean-cut face of the youth, and he smiled benignly as he drew
a chair toward his captive and, seating himself, awaited the latter’s
pleasure.
“How long have you lived in this country, Posadowski?” asked the prince,
abandoning his smiling visions with an effort and returning to the dreary
realities of life.
“Nearly ten years,” answered the revolutionist, whose gray hair proved
that he was older than his smooth pink and white complexion would have
indicated.
“I wish to ask you a few questions,” continued Prince Carlo. “I feel—in
spite of the fact that you deceived me at our first meeting—that in the
larger matters pertaining to the questions at issue between us I can
trust you implicitly. I give you credit, Posadowski, for being a man of
good intentions and honest in your avowed love for Rexania.”
The arch-conspirator bowed gratefully, in acknowledgment of the generous
words of the man he had wronged.
“Tell me frankly,” went on the prince, “do you find, Posadowski, that
in this land of democracy the people of the lower classes—for I learn
that there are class distinctions in America—are in better case than
the working-people of Rexania? Compare, for instance, the rich and the
poor in Rexopolis and the rich and the poor in New York. Is there not
more awful poverty in yonder city than in my capital across the sea?
Conversely, is there in Rexania a nobleman who wields over the lives
of others an authority as tyrannical as that exercised by the great
landlords of New York?”
Posadowski gazed at Prince Carlo in bewilderment. He had come to point
out to his royal captive the far-reaching influence his abdication of a
crown would have upon the oppressed millions of the human race who still
live and struggle and perish beneath the crushing weight of thrones
and what those thrones demand; and, lo, this incarnation of obsolete
systems and archaic theories had asked him a few pertinent and practical
questions that rendered Posadowski’s present mission seemingly absurd.
For the arch-conspirator was a clear-headed, honest-hearted man, whose
constitutional detestation for shams had long ago made him a rebel
against monarchy, and now rendered him dumb as he slowly took in the full
significance of the line of inquiry Prince Carlo had put forth.
“You do not answer, Posadowski,” went on Prince Carlo, his voice and
manner growing sterner as his words flowed more freely. “Do you know,
man, why I came to this country, why I defied my father’s wishes and ran
a risk greater even than I imagined at the moment? I wished to see for
myself what popular government has really done for a great people in a
century of time. They told me on the steamer, these New Yorkers, facts
that made even the hard heart of a king bleed for the poor devils who
chased the _ignis fatuus_ of freedom into the very stronghold of human
tyranny. These are harsh words, Posadowski. Do you dare tell me that they
are false—you who know the East Side of that great city in which you, and
thousands of deluded Europeans, have toiled in misery that makes the lot
of a Rexanian peasant easy, even luxurious, in comparison? Perhaps I have
been misinformed. Perhaps I have failed to read aright the newspapers
that have come to my hand since I reached this strange, distorted land.
But what I have heard, what I have read, forces me to the conviction
that no Rexanian in Rexopolis has ever suffered from a form of tyranny
so pitiless as that which keeps our countrymen in New York poorer and
more hopeless than they were in their native land. If I am wrong, if I
am deceived through insufficient data, I am sure you will set me right.
Speak, man. Have I told the truth?”
Posadowski was silent for a moment. Then he answered, a note of
stubbornness in his voice:
“Industrial conditions here are not as they should be. That is true. But
surely a monarchy would not set them right.”
“Ha!” cried Prince Carlo, “that is just the point. A monarchy would not
solve the problems of this country. On the other hand, a republic would
not remedy the defects in Rexania’s body politic. I am liberal in my
views, Posadowski. I will grant you that if I should mount the throne
of Rexania I could not rule after the fashion of my great-grandfather.
The king and his people must walk hand-in-hand to-day, not at sword’s
points. But let Rexania become a republic on the instant, and what would
result? Dissensions among the people, and political chaos: possibly
the annexation of the country by a stronger power on our border. You
talk of the selfishness of kings. Are they not the most heroic figures
of the age? Take my father—God be with him! He has loved Rexania with
a devoted unselfishness that only those who have been near him can
appreciate. Weary, sad at heart, sometimes almost hopeless, he has had it
in his power to accumulate a vast fortune, put it into portable shape,
and abandon his country for a land in which he could live in peace and
idleness. Do you think that such a step has been no temptation to him?
You have so long looked at only one side of this matter that it will be
hard for you to realize the full force of my question. I tell you that my
father has loved Rexania with more fervor than you have ever felt for our
fatherland, that he has displayed more courage and patriotic devotion in
his life than any one of his rebellious subjects has ever shown, and that
he has understood the practical necessities of our country’s environment
better than the dreamers who have fostered discontent among the people.
My father has been a grand and unselfish man, Posadowski, and you—you
would crucify him.”
The arch-conspirator had grown pale as the youth, with a calmness that
was almost uncanny in its exhibition of self-control, had given voice
to the thoughts that had taken form in his mind during his days of
captivity. Presently he spoke again, observing that Posadowski had, at
that moment, no arguments to advance.
“What dire calamities you may bring upon Rexania by holding me here a
prisoner I dare to contemplate. Granting that you keep me captive from
the very highest motives of patriotism, can you not see that you are
endangering the very cause for which you strive? Let us suppose that my
father dies and that Rexania becomes a republic. Unless you kill me,
Posadowski, I shall eventually return to Europe. Not only that, but I
shall be placed upon the throne of Rexania by forces against which your
republican brethren could make no resistance worthy of the name. You
are a clear-headed man, Posadowski. I can see by your face that what I
have said has made an impression upon you that will give you, surely, a
different point of view.”
A grim smile crossed the arch-conspirator’s countenance. “I will
acknowledge, Prince Carlo, that I have not at this moment arguments at
hand to answer the line of reasoning you have advanced. I am a slow
thinker, and, as you can well understand, I am confronted by a dilemma of
tremendous import. I must ask you to give me time to weigh your words.
If, after close consideration, I reach your conclusions—a result that
necessitates the rejection of convictions that I have cherished for many
years—I will discuss frankly with you the step that we should take.”
Posadowski arose and approached the prince.
“Let me ask you, Prince Carlo,” he said, before taking his leave, “let me
ask you not to discuss the matters we have in hand with my colleagues.
There is not one among them who would have allowed you to explain your
position as I have done. You understand me?”
“Fully,” answered the prince, smiling up at the gray-eyed Rexanian, “I
understand you, Posadowski, and I trust you.”
At that very moment Ludovics was making his exit from a road-house a
mile away, the fumes of brandy imprisoned in the cells of his brain.
With the money that Norman Benedict had left for him at the restaurant
in St. Mark’s Square, Ludovics had purchased a revolver and had gone on
a hunting expedition into Westchester County. It was big game that he
was after—nothing less than a king who was making wild merriment at his
expense; and where that king was Ludovics well knew.