The Kingmakers

by Burton Egbert Stevenson

PART III.—WEDNESDAY

CHAPTER XII
A DAY’S WORK

WELL, it was done, Selden reflected rather grimly next morning, over his coffee.

A telegram from the foreign editor of the Times had been brought him with his breakfast congratulating him warmly on his exclusive story and praying him to follow it up.

The Times, for all its drum-and-trumpet democracy, was, as he knew quite well, aristocratic and capitalistic at heart, and so was its American namesake with which his services were shared—indeed the latter journal made no especial effort to conceal the fact—and so the kind of stuff he had sent in the night before was exceptionally welcome. It was a sort of oasis in the desert. Presently there would be a ponderous editorial to the effect that staunch and sturdy Britain, with its traditional love of sportsmanship and fair play, was prepared to give even kings a chance!

Nevertheless he realized that his judgment had been considerably clouded the night before. Doubtless on his own quarterdeck, even Captain Kidd might seem a picturesque and downright character, who could cite injustices done him, and could point to atrocities committed by civilized society far more horrible than any of his own; he might even attain a certain merit because of his bold directness, his straight speaking, his scorn of littleness. He was probably fond of children and a sentimentalist at bottom.

So the king face to face was more impressive than in retrospect; yet, Selden reminded himself, there was a lot to be said for him. The trouble was that there was so little to be said for his grandson.

Though, Selden added to himself, even here he might be unjust. He did not really know Danilo. One thing in his favour was that he did not pose—people could take him or leave him. He was not a coward, and undoubtedly he had his code. Many crown princes had sown abundant wild oats, and yet made excellent kings.

But Selden knew it was none of these things that really troubled him; it was the uneasy feeling that he had been responsible for that quick nod of the head which Myra Davis had given her mother. And that, he told himself, was something he could not be responsible for—not, at least, until he was sure she understood exactly everything that nod let her in for. After that, if she wished to keep on nodding, it would be nobody’s affair but her own.

Therefore it was his duty to see that she did understand. He must go to her and tell her—tell her very plainly and directly, without palliating phrases. He squirmed a little at the prospect, but there was no other way he could square himself with his conscience. She would probably resent it, and her mother of course would be vastly outraged. But he must risk it.

He had the feeling that the baron had been a little lacking in candour the night before; his opinions had been asked without any hint of their implications. Yet, as he cast his mind back over what he had said, he did not see where he would have altered it, even if he had known. Nevertheless it was up to him to enlighten Miss Davis very thoroughly on the morals and manners of princes.

He was staring moodily out of the window, turning all this over in his mind, and keeping resolutely submerged a very, very sore spot in his consciousness whose existence he would not even admit, when a knock at the door announced a boy with a salver, on which lay a tiny note.

“I will be on the terrace at eleven,” it said, and it was signed “Vera de Rémond.”

“There is no answer,” he said to the boy, tipped him, and went back to the window. What did he care where the countess would be at eleven! He had not forgotten that moment of revelation the night before when she had looked at Myra Davis like a beast of prey sure of its quarry. There had been in her face a kind of gloating, as though she were revenging herself in some way upon the girl. But that was nonsense. Yet why had she seemed so triumphant? Could the quarry be some one else—Jeneski, Madame Ghita?

The name was uttered at last; he had not been able to keep it back. Yes, there was the sore spot; it was for her he was uneasy, it was she for whom his heart reproached him, it was she whom he wished to protect....

He suddenly made up his mind that he would see the countess. If she really had a secret, he would drag it out of her.

So he arrayed himself rapidly, glad to have something definite to do, and sallied forth into the bright, cool morning.

He had not noticed the time, but as he left the hotel, the big clock over the casino entrance told him that he was early, so he strolled about the camembert, as the little round park just in front of the casino is derisively called, and looked at the people and tried to arrange his thoughts.

The crowd here is astonishingly different from that on the terrace, for these are the people who haunt the public rooms—derelicts, for the most part, poised as it were before the mouth of the dragon, searching for an inspiration before plunging in to stake their last louis; or perhaps with their last louis lost and nothing to do but watch the feverish procession which continually ascends and descends the casino steps, and wonder where another louis could be borrowed or begged or stolen.

It is a motley and sordid crowd, lolling on the benches or loitering uncertainly about: ridiculous old women, wonderfully arrayed in the fabrics of 1860, fondly misinterpreting the astonished glances cast at them; frizzled old men struggling to conceal a bankrupt interior behind a pompous front; cocottes endeavouring to pretend they are not for everybody and at the same time to appear not too difficult; impecunious gamblers trying to pose as men of affairs, but always betrayed by a loose end somewhere; dowdy old couples to whom the tables have become a habit more devastating than any drug—a new Comédie Humaine waiting for another Balzac.

Selden, regarding these people for the hundredth time with an appreciative eye, wished that he were the Balzac, and sighing a little because he was not, he turned away to the gayer life of the terrace—gayer at least on the surface, fascinating as a whirlpool is fascinating, tempting the onlooker to jump in and be swallowed up, and seductive, as things dangerous and forbidden have been seductive since the days of Eve.

The Countess Rémond possessed those qualities of fascination and intrigue, too—superlatively. He realized it anew as he saw her coming toward him down the steps, her lithe uncorseted body faultlessly clad in a grey tailleur, which, conventional and subdued as it was, seemed somehow exotic as she wore it. Selden thanked his stars that he had gained immunity the night before by that glimpse he had had of her soul; it was very pleasant to know himself out of danger.

“How good of you to come,” she said, as he took her hand. And then she looked at him more closely, for her instinct felt the change in him. “Are you annoyed at something? Did it disarrange you to meet me here?”

“No; not at all.”

“I shall keep you but a moment. But I felt that I must have a little talk with you before....”

“Before....” he prompted, as she hesitated.

“Before I begin my day’s work. And since the safest place for a confidential conversation is in the midst of a crowd....”

“So we are going to have a confidential conversation?” queried Selden, falling into step beside her.

“Yes; on my part, at least. Like the baron, I am going to place all my cards on the table.”

“It is what I had been hoping,” said Selden, quietly.

She looked at him quickly, smiling a little.

“Yes; I saw in your eyes last night that you were not pleased with me. Perhaps I had had too much champagne. But I am quite recovered from that!”

“So am I,” said Selden, grimly. “In fact, I am very sober—I have even some twinges of remorse.”

“I was afraid you would have. That is one reason I wanted to see you. We must talk it out.”

“Yes, we must,” he assented.

She led the way to a seat at the end of the terrace facing the harbour, where they could talk undisturbed.

“Now,” she said, “why remorse?”

“Well,” began Selden slowly, “you know as well as I do that, while this flood of American money may be a sort of short-cut to prosperity for your little country, in the end it will be disastrous for it, since it brings the old dynasty back.”

“No,” she said, “I know nothing of the sort.”

He looked at her.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“How long do you think the old king has to live?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, not long. He has already had two heart attacks.”

“Ah, I see what you mean,” he murmured; “and after him the republic again?”

“Certainly. My country would never endure Danilo, nor permit itself to be governed by an American.”

“But in that case,” he pointed out, “this whole affair is nothing but a piece of sharp practice.”

“Against whom?”

“Against the Davises.”

“Oh,” she said negligently; “they deserve it. I am not concerned about them.”

“But I am,” he said. “At least I am concerned for Miss Davis.”

“You need not be,” she assured him, with a flash of the eyes. “She is by no means the ingénue you seem to suppose; she can take care of herself. And she can afford to lose a few millions.”

“It isn’t the money—I think the country should have some of it; but she ought to know exactly what she is letting herself in for.”

“You mean Madame Ghita?”

“Yes.”

“Well, why do you not tell her?” she asked mockingly.

“I’ve about made up my mind that I shall have to,” he said dismally. “You see I sort of pushed her into it last night.”

She was smiling again as she looked at him.

“And this is the real cause of the remorse?”

“I suppose so.”

“How did you push her into it?”

“I was silly enough to say that I really thought she could do a lot of good out there.”

“Well—do you not believe it?”

“Of course I believe it. But that isn’t the question. Dash it all, you know as well as I do what I mean. These women are absolutely ignorant of European ideas—of the ideas of such fellows as Danilo. Mrs. Davis poses as worldly-wise, thoroughly initiated, but she is really as ignorant as a child. She has heard that men have mistresses, that husbands are sometimes unfaithful, and so has her daughter, I suppose. But it is all outside their personal experience. It is always some other woman’s husband. It would never occur to either of them that their own husbands could be, or that in this particular instance the husband-to-be is not only unfaithful now, but hasn’t the slightest intention of being faithful in the future—that he would laugh at such an idea—that at this moment he is living here with his mistress....”

“But she is not his mistress,” put in the countess quietly.

Selden, halted in mid-career, could only stare. A dozen conjectures flashed through his mind.

“Not his mistress?” he stammered.

“It is Madame Ghita you are talking about, I suppose?”

“Of course.”

“She is his wife—she has a right to the name; I have even the idea that he is faithful to her.”

“His wife!” Selden gasped. “But....”

“Married quite regularly in Paris—morganatically, of course. I do not know whether you will think that better or worse.”

Selden, his head in a whirl, did not know himself. But of one thing he was sure—the wrong to Madame Ghita would be far worse than he had fancied. He tried to explain this to the countess, who listened with an amused smile.

“You remind me of those silly old knights,” she said, “who were always riding out to rescue some damsel, without waiting to find out whether she really wanted to be rescued. Don’t worry about Madame Ghita. In the first place, she knew perfectly well when she married the prince that he would have to marry again some day for the sake of the dynasty. In the second place, I suspect that the prince is much more in love with her than she is with him. At least, the baron tells me that she is an unusually clever woman, while, as you know, the prince is quite stupid.”

“So she can hold him if she wants to?”

“Undoubtedly. And if she wants to, she will stop at nothing.”

“Do you know her?” Selden asked.

“No.”

“So you don’t know....”

“Whether she will want to? No—but I am going to find out. I have asked her to lunch with me to-day. That is the first part of my day’s work.”

“Does Miss Davis know about her?”

“Not yet—at least, I do not think so. But she is going to know.”

“You mean you are going to tell her?”

“Yes,” said the countess, with a little grimace. “That is the second part of my day’s work. I have tea with her and her mother this afternoon.”

Selden took off his hat and drew a deep breath of relief.

“Then that lets me out,” he said. “I think it’s rather sporting of you.”

“Do not idealize me nor my motives,” protested the countess. “It is a matter of business. Lappo asked me to. We are going to tell her because she is certain now to learn it anyway, and it is far better that she learn it from us than from some malicious newspaper or anonymous letter. It will not be difficult; as the baron puts it, it will be almost as though she were marrying a divorced man. That will not shock her so much.”

“No, I suppose not,” Selden agreed. “Of course you will swing it!”

“Yes, I think so,” agreed the countess with a little smile. “But before I started to try to swing it, I wanted to have this talk with you, so that everything would be quite clear between us. I must know where you stand.”

“All right. Cards on the table. Go ahead,” and he settled back to listen.

“If Miss Davis has the situation explained to her, so that she knows what she is letting herself in for, as you put it, and still chooses to go ahead with it, you will have no further compunctions on that score, I hope?”

“Certainly not.”

“Well,” said the countess quietly, “I shall be very much surprised if she does not go on with it. She is neither a child nor a fool—and there is a compelling impulse driving her on.”

“Yes—she sees herself the benefactress of an impoverished people.”

“The country will have a new saint!” said the countess with a mocking little laugh. “But perhaps there is still another reason.”

“You think the prince attracts her?”

“Oh, no—though she may get to like him. At present, he is just a necessary evil, since for children there must be a father! He has one quality which will appeal to her more and more—he knows how to be discreet.”

“Which reminds me,” Selden remarked, “that the explosion you expected last night did not take place.”

“No—the prince prevented it. It was that made him late.”

“He was with her?”

“Yes. He must have promised her something.”

“She knows, then?”

“Of course. Lappo has already had a talk with her.”

“What did she say to him?”

The countess smiled at remembrance of the baron’s face.

“I do not know exactly—except that she spoke of love.”

“Ah, you see!”

“But that does not discourage me,” went on the countess cheerfully. “On the contrary. Women really in love rarely speak of it. My own impression is that she is determined to make the best bargain she can—and she is right. But I shall have it out with her at lunch—that is, if she comes. She has not yet accepted, but I think she will, if only out of curiosity. There may be some fireworks, but in the end she will agree. I am sure of it.”

“Agree to what?” asked Selden.

“Agree to exchange the prince for the annuity which the king is now, for the first time, able to offer her.”

Selden made a grimace of distaste. All this was a little too cynical—especially as it touched Madame Ghita.

The countess looked at him, her eyes sparkling with amusement, not entirely free from malice.

“You do not like it?”

“No.”

“But if she does agree, you will have no compunctions about her either?”

“No—if she really does.”

“You do not believe she will?” she asked, looking at him with a gaze suddenly intent, as though for the first time she saw something in his face she had not before suspected. “Well, come to lunch, too, and see for yourself.”

Selden stared.

“It is my lunch,” she explained. “I may ask whom I please. You will enjoy it.”

“I’m not so sure of that!”

“Besides, I shall need your moral support,” she added, laughingly. “Please come.”

“Will Lappo be there?”

“No—he has gone to Paris to arrange the marriage settlement with the Davis solicitor. There will be just us three. If she does not come, we shall be tête-à-tête.”

Selden was distinctly conscious that he had no ardour for a tête-à-tête with the Countess Rémond, and, though he did his best to keep it out of his face, she instantly perceived it.

“How American you are!” she said, looking at him with laughing eyes. “No; I am not offended. But do not be afraid. She will come.”

“But if she resents my presence....”

“She will not. If she does, you can leave before the real discussion begins.”

“All right,” said Selden, “I’ll come. But I don’t promise to give you any moral support. You may find me fighting on the other side.”

“Then I shall be sure to win!” said the countess, and looked at him with a strange smile. “Now I must be going. The luncheon is at one, in my apartment.” She glanced at her watch and sprang to her feet in a sudden panic. “Juste ciel! I must fly! No, you are not to come with me. I am in earnest. Please do not!”

He watched her as she hurried away through the crowd and up the steps toward the casino.

At the top of the steps a burly man was standing, as though keeping an appointment, his eyes on the entrance to the hotel just across the street. The countess approached him swiftly and touched his arm.

As he started round upon her, Selden caught a glimpse of his face. It was Halsey, of the Journal.

CHAPTER XIII
CLEARING THE GROUND

WHAT could be the connection between Halsey and the Countess Rémond, Selden wondered, as he turned away. He tried to remember what he knew of Halsey, but it was not very much. They had met casually in Paris a number of times, and had dinner with him once at the Cercle Interallié, when they happened to be working on the same story, but that was all.

He had never liked Halsey’s style. The Journal was a sensational sheet; always seeking to play up the scandalous, never so happy as when it was able to uncover a dark corner in the life of some public man, ever eager to impute unworthy motives to the backers of any cause—and Halsey rather gave the impression that he liked that sort of thing. Certainly he was not held in very high esteem by his associates, and Selden’s own idea was that he had lived so long in a cynical circle in Paris that he had caught its tone.

Once he got hold of this affair of the prince and Myra Davis, Selden very well knew what he would make of it—more especially if he discovered the existence of Madame Ghita. But of that he was probably already aware, since the marriage had no doubt been played up by him at the time it occurred.

He wondered if the countess, for some reason of her own, was keeping Halsey informed. But she could scarcely do that, since Halsey’s jeers would imperil the whole plan upon which her heart was so evidently set. Or was she keeping him in order? Or was he just her lover? But Selden could not imagine why such a woman as the countess....

And then all thought of Halsey and the countess vanished, for he saw approaching the woman whom, from the first moment he reached the terrace, he had hoped to see; the woman about whom his thoughts were centring more and more; who, in the last half hour, had taken on for him a new interest and a new meaning.

She saw him at the same instant, and turned and spoke a word to the man walking beside her, and Selden, looking at him, perceived it was young Davis, completely immersed in Miss Fayard, who walked on his other side, and who was certainly not unresponsive. In another moment Davis was bringing the ladies toward him.

“Selden,” he said, “I want you to meet Madame Ghita. You remember....”

“Very well,” said Selden; “I am happy indeed to meet madame.”

“I also,” she said, and gave him her hand with a charming smile. “But let us speak French. To myself I said, who can it be, that man so distinguished whom I have not seen here before, and later I inquired of M. Davis. What he told me made me more than ever curious, so when I saw you just now, I commanded him to present you.”

“That was very nice of you,” said Selden, making a mental note of that word “later.” So the prince and Davis had kept the appointment, as he had supposed they would do.

Her eyes were resting on his with the same frank and unembarrassed questioning he had noticed the first time he saw her, as though she were seeking to discover what was passing in his mind, what he was pondering about. They were a very dark brown, those eyes, almost black; and again he noted the ivory softness of her skin, innocent of make-up, and singularly glowing in spite of her lack of colour.

“This is my niece, Mlle. Fayard,” she added, and Selden bowed to the young girl. “You two may walk on and continue your French lesson, while I talk to M. Selden.”

“She is teaching me the first conjugation,” Davis explained, looking ridiculously happy. “We have started with aimer.”

“Allez, allez!” commanded madame, laughing at the blush which overspread the girl’s cheek. “With a Frenchman I could not do that,” she added, looking after them. “But with an American, yes. Why is it?”

“I don’t know,” said Selden.

“But you agree with me that it is quite safe?”

“Oh, yes,” said Selden; “for the girl, that is.”

She laughed outright.

“Are you really such a cynic?” she asked. Then she grew suddenly serious. “Do not be mistaken about her—she is a very good girl, believe me. I have taken good care of her.”

“I can see that,” said Selden, and they walked on for a moment in silence.

“Are you married?” she asked suddenly. “Forgive me,” she added, as he stared a little; “but it is something that a woman always wishes to know about a man. I do not think you are, but I should like to be sure.”

“Well, I’m not,” said Selden. “A fellow who knocks around the world as I do has no business to be married.”

“You travel a great deal?”

“I am always looking for trouble. Whenever there is a row anywhere, I pack my bag and start.”

“Was it for trouble you came to Monte Carlo?”

“Oh, no,” said Selden. “I came here to get warm, after two months in the Balkans—also to rest a little. And I have had the good fortune to meet here some very interesting people—one superlatively so,” and he made her a little bow.

“Thank you. But you have not rested?”

“I usually find some work to do.”

“And then, of course, there are the tables.”

“Yes.”

“And the women.”

“Yes—they are wonderful, aren’t they?” he countered.

“Not all of them. But the one you were with yesterday seemed to me rather unusual. Who was she?”

“Ah, that,” said Selden, calmly, “was the Countess Rémond.”

He felt that he had scored, although Madame Ghita certainly did not start. But there was a new expression in her eyes.

“She is an old friend of yours?” she asked.

“No; I met her Monday evening.”

“I have never met her,” said madame; “but I am going to have lunch with her to-day.”

“Are you?” said Selden. “I am very glad. So am I.”

This time she did start.

“You are sure it is for to-day that you are asked?” she questioned.

“Oh, yes. She told me that she had invited you, but that you had not as yet accepted.”

“So you are in the plot, too,” she said slowly, and the eyes with which she scanned his face were quite black. “That is a thing I had not suspected.”

“No,” answered Selden quickly, “I am not in any plot. But if I were, I should be on your side, madame; I pray you to believe it.”

She looked at him yet a moment as though striving to read his very inmost thought. Then she glanced around.

“Let us sit down,” she said, and led the way to a bench. “Now you must tell me what you know—everything. In the first place, you know, do you not, that Prince Danilo is my husband?”

“Yes; I know that.”

“As legally my husband as the woman you marry will be your wife.”

“Yes.”

“Except that I have no claim upon his estates or his title, and our children, if we had any, could not succeed to them.”

“Yes.”

“And there was, of course, the understanding that some day, if he wished, he would be free to make a marriage of state in order to carry on the title.”

“Yes.”

“Well, the prince does not wish to marry again. If he consents, it is only because the king commands it, and he conceives it to be his duty to his country.”

“I can well believe it, madame,” said Selden.

“Eh bien, I went to Nice last night to stop it; after all, I have some pride, some rights. I will not be disregarded and cast aside like that!”

“I understand,” said Selden. “You are right. Do you need my help?”

She looked at him suddenly, with curious intentness.

“You are in earnest?”

“Absolutely.”

She smiled at him, almost tenderly.

“I shall not forget that,” she said; “perhaps some day I may even call upon you. But I did not interfere last night because Danilo gave me his word that he would leave the matter in my hands to decide one way or the other, before the settlement is signed.”

“That was fine of him!”

“Oh, Danilo is a gentleman,” said madame; “and he will keep his word. Besides....”

She stopped and shrugged her shoulders, but to Selden the shrug was more eloquent than words. She meant, of course, that Danilo loved her. And she—did she love him? That was the question Selden would have liked to ask, but he did not dare.

“You have not yet made up your mind?” he asked instead.

“No,” she answered slowly, looking at him with a queer little smile; “you see there are so many things to consider. Of course, if Danilo refuses, the king will cast him off—for a time, at least—and there will be no more money. Danilo could never earn any, and he has borrowed all that is possible. So his affection for me would grow less and less day by day—for he is like a cat; he must be comfortable; and at last the day would come when he could endure it no longer, and would tell me good-bye.”

“You are saying nothing of yourself,” Selden pointed out.

“Oh, I could endure it no more than he!” laughed his companion. “Less perhaps! So it may be the part of wisdom, for his sake and for my sake, to make the best bargain I can, now, while there is a chance. Does that seem very cynical?”

“No; just sensible.”

“But one is not supposed to be sensible in affairs of the heart—is it not so? Well, I may not be sensible in this affair—I cannot tell. But I am willing to listen to what they have to say. The Countess Rémond is an emissary from the king, is she not?”

“Yes.”

“And she is inviting me to lunch in order to discuss this affair?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so,” and again she looked at him, with her strange little smile. “What I do not understand is that you also should be there.”

“Ah, madame,” said Selden quickly, “I pointed out to her that you would not like it. I shall not come.”

“But I did not say I did not like it. On the contrary, I wish you to come. Only, if you are an ally of the countess, I must be prepared for you.”

“I am not an ally of the countess,” Selden protested; “not in any sense. I should like to be your ally, madame, if you will have me.”

She glanced at him quickly, then turned her head away for a moment, as though looking for her niece and Davis. Then she looked back at him, and her face was very tender.

“Of course I will have you!” she said, her voice a little thick.

Selden was deeply moved; he looked away, out over the sea, and for a moment there was silence between them—but it was a silence which said many things.

“Have you met her,” she asked at last, “this Miss Davis?”

“Yes.”

“Does she resemble her brother?”

“Oh, no,” said Selden; “not in the least. She is much stronger and finer.”

“You admire her then?”

“Yes—in a way.”

“Is she fond of Danilo?”

“No, I don’t think so—not especially.”

“Then it is just ambition—ambition to be a queen!”

“Her mother is ambitious, and of course urges her on. But I think what Miss Davis cares for most is the opportunity to do good with her money.”

“No, no,” said Madame Ghita quickly; “a man might believe that, but not a woman! There is something beside that—there must be—something more personal, more passionate. I am sure of it. If I could only see her! Well, it may be possible—why not? I would invite her to open her heart to me, as I should open mine to her, and together we would decide. Yes, yes—that would make it easy!”

A donkey-engine which had been unloading coal from a steamer beside the quay gave a shrill shriek with its whistle and abruptly stopped. There came a tinkle of bells from the ships in the harbour.

“Twelve o’clock!” cried Madame Ghita. “Can it be? I must be going! Where are those children? Come, we must look for them.”

The children were discovered not far away, leaning over the balustrade, watching a low Italian destroyer which was steaming rapidly along the coast, and working assiduously at their languages—French for Davis, English for Cicette. They seemed to be progressing very satisfactorily among the tenses of “aimer”—though Cicette found it difficult to get exactly the correct sound of the “o” in love, and Davis thought the way she said it much prettier than the right way—as, indeed, on her lips it was.

Madame Ghita broke in upon them without compunction.

“Come, Cicette,” she said. “Bid adieu to the gentlemen—we must be going. It is very late.”

Selden, looking at her more carefully than he had taken the trouble to do before, found her much less ordinary than she had seemed at first glance. Her face was yet a girl’s, but it gave promise of character as well as beauty. Davis might well do worse!

“But look here,” Davis protested, “I won’t see you again till evening, then! Why can’t I take Cicette to lunch?”

“Impossible!” said madame firmly. “I have her reputation to consider,” and she led her charge away.

The two men watched them as they went up the steps—the elder woman so straight, so graceful, so full of ease; the younger fluttering beside her like a butterfly, her feet scarce touching the ground. It was difficult to realize that the actual difference in their ages was probably not more than five or six years, and that the impression of maturity which Madame Ghita gave was due almost wholly to her finish, her ease, her perfect poise. As they passed from sight, Davis took off his hat and wiped his forehead and breathed a deep sigh.

“Is it as bad as that?” inquired Selden, with a smile.

“Oh, I’m in love all right,” Davis answered, “and I’m going to marry her—I don’t give a damn what anybody says. I’ve never met a girl who could hold a candle to her.”

“Look here,” said Selden, “if you can get your mind off that young woman for a minute or two, I’d like to talk to you about something else. What about this engagement between your sister and Danilo?”

“Well, what about it?” asked Davis, a little truculently.

“Does she know about Madame Ghita?”

“I don’t know—probably not.”

“Don’t you think she ought to know?”

“What for? When the prince marries again, Madame Ghita becomes his widow, that’s all.”

“Perhaps so,” assented Selden, scenting the baron’s teaching. “Just the same she ought to know there is a widow. It would be squarer.”

“Oh, well, I can tell mother,” said Davis.

“I think she already knows.”

“Well then, it’s none of my business,” said Davis, impatiently. “And don’t you worry about sis; she’s perfectly able to take care of herself, and always has been. If you think she would take any advice from her loving brother you’re greatly mistaken—she looks down upon me as a kind of insect to be pitied but not respected. Also, if she has made up her mind to marry Danilo, she’ll marry him just the same if she knew he had ten widows! See here, though—I’ll tell her if you want me to, provided you’ll do something for me.”

“What is it?” asked Selden.

“Help me to get mother’s consent to marry Cicette. I’m of age, and I can marry anybody I want to—but dad never had much confidence in me, and my money is all tied up so I can’t touch it. Beastly, I call it. Of course I’d have enough to live on, but if I married Cicette, I’d want to show her the time of her life. Will you?”

Selden looked appraisingly into the pleading face. Perhaps Davis wasn’t such a bad sort, after all. The right kind of wife might make a man of him. Even a big brother might do something. Selden had never had a kid brother, and the thought rather appealed to him.

“I won’t promise,” he said. “I want to look you both over a bit more first—I haven’t spoken two words to Cicette and not many more to you.”

Davis must have seen a certain sympathy in Selden’s eyes, for he caught his hand and wrung it delightedly.

“All right!” he shouted. “I agree. The more you see of Cicette, the more you will like her. I’m not afraid of that. But you’ve got to convince mother that she’s good enough for me.”

“Oh, I wasn’t thinking of that!” Selden retorted. “The only question in my mind is whether you are good enough for her! Now I’ve got to go,” and he left Davis staring after him in delighted amazement.

CHAPTER XIV
PLACE AUX DAMES

SELDEN went up to his room and got ready for lunch with a clearer conscience than he had had since he opened his eyes that morning. At last he knew where he was—he was definitely aligned—not on the king’s side, or the prince’s side, or Miss Davis’s side, or the countess’s side, but on Madame Ghita’s side. And there, he was quite sure, he would remain until the end, whatever the end might be. Whatever help he could give her was hers to command. Not that she seemed to need any help! Just the same, there he was, and the consciousness of that fact might be some comfort to her.

And as the first step, he decided to be promptly on time, so that Madame Ghita might find him—her ally!—on the spot when she arrived. So, at one o’clock precisely, he was knocking at the door of the countess’s suite.

It was opened by a heavy-set woman of middle age, Slav or Italian, discretion personified. Evidently the countess chose her maid not for looks but for qualities more useful, and one glance at this woman confirmed him in the opinion that the countess was a born intriguer.

She took his hat and ushered him into the salon, where the countess joined him in a moment.

“I know you will be greatly disappointed,” she said a little maliciously, “but it is not to be a tête-à-tête, after all. Madame Ghita is coming. You see I was right.”

“Yes—and I feel like the second at a duel,” Selden commented.

“Oh, do not be alarmed,” said the countess lightly. “There will be no bloodshed—a few feints at the most. Then she will surrender. What else can she do?”

“I am inclined to think she can upset the whole affair if she wants to—so don’t be too confident. And I warn you that my sympathies are entirely on her side.”

“I know it,” said the countess, looking at him with a strange little smile. “That is one reason I wanted you here.”

And before he had a chance to ask her what she meant by that, the maid ushered in Madame Ghita.

More than ever Selden was reminded of the field of honour by the way the two ladies shook hands, each measuring the other, and he breathed a sigh of relief, for it was instantly evident that Madame Ghita had nothing to fear from her antagonist. She was, as always, calm, smiling, perfectly at ease, while there was in the cheeks of the countess an unwonted flush of colour which betrayed a profound excitement.

“It was too good of you to offer me lunch, madame,” Madame Ghita was saying. “I have heard so much of you from the prince, my husband.”

Certainly, Selden thought, the lady was losing no time, for the last words had been flung at the feet of the countess like a gage of battle. But the countess chose for the moment to disregard them.

“Yes,” she said sweetly, “I had the pleasure of meeting Monsieur le Prince a few nights ago. Permit me to present to you a friend of mine, M. Selden.”

“Enchanted,” said madame; “it is always a pleasure to meet Americans,” and she gave Selden her hand, her eyes shining with amusement, with a quick little pressure of the fingers which recognized him as an ally with a secret between them.

The countess had given a signal to her maid, who drew apart the curtains before an alcove looking down upon the public gardens and disclosed the waiting table.

“Come,” she said, and led the way to it, placing Selden on her right and Madame Ghita on her left, facing each other across the centre-piece of feathery mimosa.

“It is delightful here,” said Madame Ghita, looking out across the gardens as she drew off her gloves and tucked them back out of the way. “My apartment is on the other side, facing the south, with a little too much sun. Here you have the sun only in the morning. Are you staying in this hotel also, M. Selden?”

“Yes, madame,” said Selden, “and my room also faces the south; but I do not complain, for I cannot soak up sun enough after two months in the Balkans.”

“You have been in the Balkans? I have never been there. Strange, is it not, when one considers that my husband is prince of a Balkan country. But he himself has not been there for a long time—through no fault of his,” she added with a smile.

“It appears he will be going back before long,” remarked the countess.

She had nodded to the maid, who served the hors d’œuvres, taking the dishes from a table near the outer door, where the waiters left them—a discreet arrangement, to which she was apparently well accustomed.

“Yes, I have heard that Baron Lappo has another plot in hand,” said Madame Ghita negligently, and glanced at the maid.

“Ah, you can trust Anita,” said the countess quickly, noticing the glance. “For one thing, she is very deaf.”

Madame Ghita laughed.

“Deafness is very convenient sometimes, is it not? And I can see she is discreet. An old family servant, perhaps?”

“She has been with me for a long time,” said the countess. “She has but one fault—a weakness for gambling. In Paris, she wastes her last sou on the races; here the tables take everything.”

“It is a terrible vice,” agreed Madame Ghita. “Have you been having good luck, M. Selden?”

“Really, madame,” said Selden, “I have never played seriously—I lack the gambler’s instinct. When I am winning, I never dare to push my good luck far enough, and when I am losing, I always stop just too soon. I always hear my number come as I leave the table! To my mind, the only way to play is to sit down certain of winning—resolved to win, or to lose one’s last franc in the effort. But I have not the temperament—I am too cautious.”

“Yes,” said Madame Ghita, “it is so my husband plays—and he always loses his last franc.”

Again it seemed to Selden that there was a trace of defiance in the way she uttered those words—“mon mari”—my husband. It was the third time she had used them since she entered the room.

“He does not always lose, madame,” Selden corrected. “I saw him winning the bank’s last franc a few nights ago.”

“But by this time the bank has them all back again. I sometimes think it is even worse for a gambler to win than to lose. He is encouraged to go on—to commit new follies. You should be thankful you have not the temperament, M. Selden.”

“And you, madame?” he asked.

“Ah, I too gamble sometimes, it is true, not because I have the temperament but because I have great need to distract my thoughts. What would you, monsieur! Here am I the wife of a prince, but not recognized because I have no money; in a position the most equivocal, knowing that schemes are constantly afoot to marry him to some other woman. Is it strange that I become a little mad sometimes and do foolish things? I tremble myself at the things I think of doing—plan out to the last little detail as I lie awake at night staring at the ceiling. I have been to him a faithful wife—I have been discreet—I have asked nothing—I have worked for his interest whenever I could. And what is my reward? That fat Lappo comes to me and insults me!”

“Surely he did not insult you, madame!” protested the countess.

“Is it not an insult to offer a woman a price for her love?” demanded Madame Ghita. “And such a price!”

“If it is only a question of price,” began the countess.

“It is not!” broke in Madame Ghita. “After all, I have my pride! And I have also perhaps more power than they think.”

“But you have always known, madame,” pointed out the countess, “that some day the prince would marry.”

“Yes,” said madame; “but if I wish, I will take him away from his wife on his wedding-night, as I did on the night of his betrothal!” and she attacked her salade viciously. “Oh, I am not a fool,” she went on. “I know what is planned—Danilo confides in me. I know what occurred last night. I had made up my mind to prevent it, but....”

“But your better sense prevailed,” said the countess. “You said to yourself, since a marriage must take place, it may as well be now as any time, more especially since now it will give the dynasty its throne again, while, in another six months, it will be too late.”

“That makes nothing to me!” sniffed Madame Ghita.

“And since it will also give you an annuity,” went on the countess, undisturbed, “on which you can live in comfort—luxury even.”

“I warn you that luxury is expensive.”

“One can live very well,” said the countess, “even in these days, on a hundred and fifty thousand francs a year.”

There was a moment’s silence. Selden was deeply moved to see a tear roll slowly down Madame Ghita’s cheek and splash into her plate. But there was one tear only; she was herself again in a moment.

“Come,” she said, “I must understand where I am. Is it Lappo who sent you to me?”

“Yes; he asked me to see you, since he had failed himself.”

“I am afraid I was not very polite to the good Lappo,” admitted Madame Ghita, “though I am rather fond of him. But I was annoyed that day, and it seemed to me that he took things too much for granted—as though I had nothing to do but to accept whatever he was pleased to allow me. He is in some ways a great man, and I think he even has a certain fondness for me, but....”

“He has told me as much,” put in the countess.

“But beside this old king of his, this dynasty to which he is a slave, nothing else matters. I am certain he would not hesitate to murder his son, to kill his wife, if he had one, if they stood in its way. He is a fanatic on that subject. It would be a good thing for him if the dynasty perished. There is another thing I do not understand,” she went on, more calmly. “Why is M. Selden present at this discussion? Is he a witness?”

Selden, suddenly crimson, started to rise, but Madame Ghita waved him imperatively back into his seat.

“I am not objecting to your presence, monsieur,” she said quickly. “Pray do not take offence. But I should like to understand it.”

“M. Selden is not here of his own choice,” explained the countess. “He is here because I asked him to come. As a witness, perhaps; but a witness for you, madame, not for me.”

“I do not understand,” said Madame Ghita slowly, her eyes full upon Selden’s.

“Madame,” said the countess, weighing each word and watching its effect, “M. Selden is, as perhaps you do not know, a very great journalist. Unfortunately he has always been an admirer of republics, but the baron has, I think, convinced him that in this case the monarchy can do more for our country than is possible for the present republic. M. Selden’s support will mean a great deal to the monarchy, and the baron has laboured hard to get it; but one scruple remained in M. Selden’s mind—the fear that you would be wronged too much—that you would not be treated fairly. So I asked him to be present to-day in order that he might see for himself what your feeling is. He has warned me more than once that he is here as your ally.”

It was wonderful to see the change which came into Madame Ghita’s eyes as this explanation proceeded—the tenderness, the happiness of the look she turned on Selden. And when it was ended, she held out her hand to him across the table.

“You will forgive me, monsieur,” she said softly. “I am very proud to have such an ally!”

And whether he raised her hand to his lips, or whether it raised itself, he never knew—but as he kissed those long, delicate fingers, he felt them flutter shyly against his mouth, like the wing of a bird.

“Come,” said the countess, who had lost nothing of all this—who had watched it indeed with the satisfaction of a general who sees his plan of battle succeed; “tell me you accept. There is nothing else to be done—your good sense tells you so. What would you gain by making a scene? You might prevent this marriage—though even that is by no means certain. But would that compensate you for ruining the prince, upsetting the dynasty, and condemning yourself to a life of poverty? There will never again be a chance like this. If this is lost, all is lost. You are still young....”

“Yes,” said Madame Ghita with a little smile, “so there is no reason why I should lead a life of poverty, unless I choose it.”

“That is true; but accept now, and you will have something very few women have—independence. You will be free to look for love—to wait for it!”

For an instant Madame Ghita’s eyes rested pensively upon Selden.

“Independence; yes, that is very nice,” she said. “But it is a pleasure to be dependent upon a man when one loves him!” Then she looked at the countess curiously. “I am astonished to find you on this side—so eloquent! I had always understood that you were Jeneski’s friend.”

Selden knew that the countess flushed, though his eyes were on the table. But her hand was in the range of his vision, and he saw that it was trembling.

“That is long since finished,” she said, a little thickly. “The baron is a much older friend—and I am doing what I think best for my country.”

“And for me also?” asked Madame Ghita, with a strange smile.

“Yes; for you also. Can you doubt it?”

Again there was a moment’s silence. Then Madame Ghita looked across at Selden.

“Come, M. Selden,” she said, “since you are my friend and my ally, what do you advise?”

“Ah, madame,” protested Selden, with a gesture of helplessness, “how can I advise? I do not know what is in your heart!”

“But if my heart is not concerned?”

“In that case,” said Selden, a little coldly, “I should by all means advise you to accept!”

He was looking at her now—at the vivid, mobile mouth with its little mysterious smile; at the eyes curiously intent, as though experience had taught her that she must look into people’s minds as they talked in order to get their full meaning. And suddenly she burst into a peal of laughter.

“How serious you are!” she cried. “And how shocked if, by any chance, a woman tells the truth! Come, it is settled! I accept! The prince shall have his little American with her millions, the king shall have his throne again, Lappo shall have his heart’s desire, and I—I shall have a hundred and fifty thousand francs a year, and shall be free to look for love! So we shall all be happy! It is understood of course that the hundred and fifty thousand will be mine to do with as I please?”

“But certainly!” said the countess, looking at her curiously. “There are no restrictions.”

“And you, Madame la Comtesse, what do you get? A new title? To serve one’s country, yes, that is very noble; men have died for their country; but for a woman it is not enough!”

“Ah,” said the countess, sombrely, “that is my secret! Perhaps you will know some day!”

Madame Ghita looked at her for a moment with that clear and penetrating gaze; then she pushed back her chair.

“Our business is arranged, then,” she said, “and I must be going. I have a niece to look after. I promised her that I would not be long. Madame, I have to thank you for a most delightful luncheon.”

“I also,” began Selden, but the countess stopped him.

“If you will remain for a moment,” she said.

Madame Ghita flashed an ironic glance into Selden’s face. What she saw there seemed to amuse her.

“Au revoir, alors,” she said, and in a moment she was gone.

“So you see I was right,” commented the countess, as the door closed behind her.

“Yes,” agreed Selden, a wry smile upon his lips. “Yes; she is, as you said, a sensible woman!”

“Every woman in her position has to be sensible,” the countess pointed out. “She may treat herself to nerves occasionally, but she must never lose her head. And she is right—absolutely right!”

“Oh, of course she is right!” agreed Selden, a little bitterly. “But sometimes it is better to be wrong—gloriously wrong!”

“Do not misjudge her,” said the countess quickly. “She may not be at all sensible in the way you think. It was not because of the money she accepted—I am sure of it. I doubt if she will even use it for herself—you heard her stipulate that she might use it as she pleased.”

“Yes,” said Selden; “but that would be very—ah—unusual.”

“She is an unusual woman. And if she ever loves a man—really loves him—that man will be very fortunate; do you not think so?”

“Undoubtedly,” agreed Selden, trying to speak lightly. “I only hope she finds the right one!”

“So do I,” said the countess. “I am sure she will!” she added, with a little smile.

She was silent for a moment, looking at Selden’s troubled face, as though hesitating whether or not to say something more.

“At least,” she went on, at last, “your compunctions in that direction are at an end?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“I go to Nice this afternoon, as you know, to see Miss Davis. Then my work will be finished.”

“You are going away?”

“Yes; I shall not stay here. But I shall tell you to-night how my mission succeeded.”

“To-night?”

“Have you forgotten,” she asked, with a smile, “that you invited me to dinner?”

“Pardon me!” he said, confused. So much had happened since that invitation was given! “Of course!”

“At Ciro’s,” she went on.

“Yes, at Ciro’s,” he assented.

There was an ironic light in her eyes as she looked at him.

“I can see you are not very keen for it,” she said; “but I have a very special reason for wishing to dine with you at Ciro’s to-night. So you will be good and take me.”

“Why, of course I’ll take you,” he said, and registered a mental vow to give her the best dinner Ciro’s could produce. “I shall be proud to take you!”

“You are very nice, you know,” she said, her head a little on one side. “Sometimes I almost regret that you do not care for me—but no, it is better as it is! I am going to see that you are rewarded. Now do not ask any questions!”

“Very well,” said Selden. “I will call for you at nine,” and he took his leave.

Once in his room, he got into robe and slippers, filled his pipe and threw himself on the chaise-longue. He must reason this thing out—he must find the key to what was in the minds of these two very subtle women.

Why had the countess looked at him so strangely? What was the reward she planned for him?

And what had Madame Ghita meant by “friend”? What was it she had said?

“I thought you were Jeneski’s friend.”

Why had that long white hand trembled so?

CHAPTER XV
THE LIONS ROAR

THE London Times does not reach Nice until five o’clock in the evening, but by the middle of the morning a crowd of newspaper men, diplomats and motley adventurers were besieging the gates of the Villa Gloria. As the baron had foreseen, Selden’s telegram had caused a considerable flutter at many London breakfast tables.

Lord Curzon, for example, who, heaven knows, is not easily moved from the prearranged and almost godlike tenor of his ways, reached his office ten minutes earlier than usual, wired Paris for a confirmation, and called in his Balkan expert and his financial adviser for a conference that lasted nearly an hour, at the end of which a long telegram of mingled advice and admonition was sent to Jeneski and another to the ambassador at Paris, informing him that the attitude of the British foreign office would be strictly neutral—which meant, of course, that if the king could get back his throne, pay off his debts to Britain and open up some trade, the Empire would have every reason to be gratified.

All the Balkan ambassadors proceeded to warm up the wires between London and their several capitals, most of them sending Selden’s article in full in order to avoid the bother of composing something out of their own heads, and then repaired to Lord Curzon’s ante-chamber to inquire what the British government was going to do about it. Lord Curzon, of course, hadn’t the slightest intention of telling any one what he was going to do about it, even if he knew himself, but he concealed this fact behind a cryptic manner and a Jove-like demeanour. He gave Jeneski’s ambassador an extra minute, on the strength of which that worthy sent a hopeful telegram to his master.

But neither of these telegrams reached Jeneski, nor did the ones from Paris, Brussels and Belgrade, for by the time they had been relayed through to his capital, Jeneski had departed. Nobody knew he had departed, except three of his ministers whom he had called together in the early morning to read a telegram which had just arrived from Nice; the general impression was that he was suffering from a slight cold; but as a matter of fact he was in an airplane flying across the Adriatic.

As Selden had suspected, there was no lack of decision about Jeneski in a critical moment, but even his ministers wondered what he could hope to accomplish at Nice. Two of them were strongly of the opinion that he should stay at home and begin at once to organize his forces; if it got about that he had left the country, the effect would be very bad. The royalists might even attempt a counter-revolution. The third one urged him by all means to go, but it was in the secret hope that he would fall into the Adriatic en route, and the way be opened for the king and the millions he would bring with him. Perhaps Jeneski suspected this, but he started just the same.

The stir in London was not only in the diplomatic dovecotes, for a number of people of no discoverable occupation either sent urgent telegrams in cipher or else suddenly discovered that they needed a rest on the Riviera and booked places on the afternoon boat-train. And, of course, the foreign editor of every newspaper wired his Nice correspondent (or his Paris correspondent, if he had none at Nice) an inquiry, more or less polite, as to how the devil he had come to miss this important piece of news.

During the day, this commotion spread to the continent, and from Paris, Rome, Vienna, Lucerne, hopeful adventurers turned their faces toward Nice, like vultures gathering for a feast, all of them anxious to assist in the restoration of a dynasty so well fortified with real money in the shape of American dollars.

All of which was brought forcibly to Selden’s notice about the middle of the afternoon when he was startled out of his thoughts by the ringing of his ’phone.

“Yes—what is it?” he asked.

“’Allo! Is this M. Selden?”

“Yes.”

“’Allo! This is the manager.”

“Yes; what is it?”

“’Allo! There are some people here to see you, M. Selden.”

“Who are they?”

“I do not know who they are, monsieur,” said the manager, “but they say they are journalists and that it is necessary they see you at once. I hope there has been no scandal....”

“Reassure yourself,” Selden laughed. “Cause them to be sent up to my room, if you please.”

Three minutes later there was a bang on his door, which was flung open without further ceremony—as he had been so certain it would be that he had not taken the trouble to rise.

“Hello!” he said, as they rushed upon him, “what’s the matter with you fellows, anyway? Why, hello, Scott—I’m mighty glad to see you. I didn’t know you were down here,” and he shook hands with Paul Scott, of the Daily News, the comrade of many a campaign and one of the best-informed men on international affairs in Europe. “Now what’s eating you?”

There were perhaps a dozen men in the crowd, and he nodded to the others that he knew.

“You know well enough what’s eating us, you damn pirate,” said Scott grimly. “Since when have you been the publicity man for that old toreador over at Nice?”

“I haven’t tackled that job yet,” said Selden; “I’m still working for the Times.”

“Then why should he send us all over here to see you?”

“Did he do that?”

“Yes, he did just that.”

“Maybe he wanted to get rid of you,” suggested Selden with a chuckle. “But sit down, Scott. Sit down, the rest of you, if you can find chairs. Now let’s have the story.”

“My story,” said Scott, taking off his hat and wiping his forehead, “is simply this. I came down here partly to get a rest, partly to interview old Clemenceau when he gets back from India, and I expected to have a few days just to loaf around. But this noon I get a telegram from Lawson asking if I wake or if I sleep, and outlining that beat you put across. After I had cooled off a little, I put on my hat and hunted up the villa where the king lives. There I found these boys kicking their heels outside the gates and discussing a polite little note which the king’s secretary had just brought out to the effect that there was nothing to be added to your story of yesterday evening, and that he was very busy and must beg to be excused, but would be happy to see us at six o’clock. He was busy all right—a blind man could see that!” Scott added impartially.

“Busy doing what?” Selden queried.

“Busy receiving all the diplomats in Nice—to say nothing of the shady characters from various down-and-out circles—all the birds of prey along the Riviera.”

“He was letting them in?”

“A good many got past the gates. How much farther they got I don’t know. Old Buckton, the British consul, came out while I was there, red as a turkey-cock and grinning all over; and our own ineffable Hartley-Belleville, who couldn’t have had any possible business there, but has to be in on everything!”

“Well, and then what?” asked Selden.

“Well—some of these fellows represent evening papers, and couldn’t wait till six o’clock, and we sent in a round-robin pointing this out. And what do you think old Pietro did? He sent out your address and referred us to you! Fierce, wasn’t it? Well, we swore awhile, and then we tumbled into some cars and rushed over here. Now stand and deliver!”

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

“All right,” said Selden, and filled his pipe. Scott also fished his out of his pocket.

“May I suggest that monsieur speak in French?” asked one of the French correspondents, who had followed this rapid interchange with the utmost difficulty.

“Is there anybody here who doesn’t understand French?” Selden asked.

“No, I guess not,” said Scott. “Fire ahead.”

So Selden told the story very much as he had told it in his telegram, with perhaps an added detail or two and a little more colour, and they all sat and listened, and the Frenchmen made notes of the unfamiliar American names and asked how they were spelled.

“I always thought you were a democrat,” said Scott, when he had finished.

“Yet I infer from your tone that you are in favour of letting this old reprobate bribe his way back to power.”

“He won’t have to do any bribing. When his people know he has some real money to spend on the country, they’ll be only too anxious to have him back.”

“That may be true—but it is bribery just the same—only wholesale instead of retail.”

“It is national interest—self-preservation—exactly what every country is governed by.”

“I seem to remember some articles of yours in which you were rather dippy about Jeneski and his new republic.”

“Yes; but I didn’t foresee this alternative. You know conditions over there, and how much good this money will do. Besides, there is a certain poetic justice in putting it back into the country of the people who earned it.”

Scott grunted sceptically.

“Just how many millions are there?”

“I don’t know. They ought to be able to find that out in New York.”

“How old is the girl?”

“About twenty-three, I should say.”

“Where does she live?”

“In Cimiez somewhere—I think the family has a villa.”

“Twenty-two Avenue Victoria,” piped up one of the Frenchmen. “It is almost impossible to get inside—when one does, it is always the same thing, ‘Please go away—not at ’ome!’”

At that moment Selden’s telephone rang.

“Excuse me,” he said, and picked up the receiver.

“This is Danilo talking,” said the prince’s voice, when assured that he had Selden on the wire. “The king has requested me to speak with you. All day there have been journalists asking—demanding—to see him. Naturally he does not wish to offend them, and he has therefore promised to see them at six o’clock. He very much wishes you also to be present. He will send a car for you.”

“No—I can get over,” said Selden. “I shall be very glad to come.”

“Thank you,” said the prince. “Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” said Selden, and glanced at his watch. It was a few minutes after four. “That is all I can tell you fellows now,” he said. “It’s all I know. Perhaps we shall learn something more at six o’clock.”

The men who served evening papers hurried away to get off their stories, hoping to catch the last edition. The others departed more leisurely. Scott remained till the last.

“Look here, old man,” he said, when the door was shut, “what do you really think about this affair?”

“I’m willing to give the king a try,” said Selden. “Perhaps the war has taught him something. If he doesn’t make good, he can always be fired out again.”

“It won’t be so easy the next time,” Scott pointed out. “Besides, it isn’t the king—it’s Danilo. There is one detail you didn’t mention.”

“What is it?”

“That he has a morganatic wife. It’s perfectly well known in Paris. These fellows are all going to play it up.”

“Are they?”

“One of them has even dug up an old picture of her—as a ballet dancer.”

“Was she a ballet dancer?”

“Yes—at the Opéra. But you don’t mean to tell me you didn’t know about it?”

“Yes, I knew about it; but look here, Scott—she may have been a ballet dancer—I don’t know; but I met her to-day and I found her an extraordinary woman.”

“Is she staying here?” Scott inquired.

“Yes; she and a niece.”

“H’m!” said Scott, and Selden knew as well as if he had said it, that Scott had made up his mind to find her.

“Interview her by all means, if you can,” he said. “You’ll see in a minute that it will be an outrage to drag her through the mud.”

“I’m not going to drag her through the mud,” Scott protested; “but of course I’ve got to mention the marriage and it can’t do any harm to see the lady. I was wondering, though, how that angle of the story will strike them over in America.”

“I have stopped wondering how anything will strike them over there!” said Selden.

Scott grinned cheerfully.

“Yes, I know we are not in the League yet. But this marriage story may make a difference. Doesn’t it make any difference to you?”

“Not a particle—and it won’t make any difference to anybody. Most Americans have been so stuffed with cheap romance and pseudo-memoirs and backstairs gossip—to say nothing of the movies!—that they consider a morganatic wife and two or three mistresses as natural to a prince as—well, as two legs or two arms. He is incomplete without them!”

“Perhaps so,” Scott agreed; “but I should think it would make some difference to the girl.”

“If I were she, I’d prefer him to have had one wife rather than a dozen mistresses.”

“That is one way of looking at it, of course,” said Scott slowly; “but as a matter of fact, one woman is far more dangerous than a dozen. Does she intend to let the prince go?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, well, in that case, I suppose it’s all right,” said Scott, and rose. “She must be an extraordinary woman. See you at six,” and he put on his hat and walked out.

For a long time Selden sat staring at the door. Would Madame Ghita let the prince go? After all, that was not the bargain—she had agreed merely not to make a scene....

---

Selden took care not to reach the Villa Gloria in advance of six o’clock. He wanted to go in as the others did. But he had taken the precaution to get the king’s secretary on the ’phone and to give him certain advice to be passed on to his master. So they found the prince with his grandfather when they were ushered into the salon. Both of them were in the national costume. It was the first time that Selden had seen the prince so attired, and he found him much more attractive than in the ordinary garb of western Europe. The colours suited his dark hair and skin admirably. He even had a little of his grandfather’s dignity.

As for the king, no one could have looked more regal; nothing could have surpassed the urbanity of his greeting as he shook hands with the correspondents one by one. There were a lot of them by this time—Italian, French, American, English—among the latter Halsey, returning the king’s smile with an expression which seemed to Selden distinctly sardonic. But then Halsey was always sardonic—there was something wrong inside of him. Perhaps, as the French would say, he listened to himself too much! He caught Selden’s eye as he turned away from the king, but made no sign of recognition. Evidently he had cut Selden from his list of acquaintances!

“I am desolated, messieurs,” said the king, “that I was not able to receive you earlier, but I have been very much engaged. It has astonished me, the interest awakened by the announcement of my grandson’s betrothal. And I have been deeply gratified by the felicitations which I have received.”

“Official felicitations, sir?” asked Halsey.

“No,” said the king. “Those, of course, must wait upon the formal announcement, which will be issued in a few days. It is delayed only until the date of the wedding is agreed upon.”

“The wedding will be soon, no doubt, sir?” inquired one of the Italians.

“As soon as the necessary arrangements can be made. The Baron Lappo, my minister, is already in Paris to that end. I need not tell you gentlemen how gratified I am to be allied to this powerful American family, which will enable us to do so much for our fatherland. Mlle. Davis shares this enthusiasm. I assure you that you will find her, when you meet her, to be everything that a queen should be.”

“A queen, sir?” asked Halsey, quickly. “A restoration is planned, then?”

“It is at least envisaged,” said the king. “I am going to ask my people to choose, and I have not the slightest doubt what their choice will be. But whether or not we succeed, I am still king, monsieur, and my grandson will be king after me and his son after him.”

“We should like very much to meet the lady,” some one suggested.

“I will see if it can be arranged,” said the king. “There is one thing more I wish to say to you. It is no secret that some years ago my grandson contracted a morganatic marriage with a young lady in Paris—a lady for whom I have the very highest respect and esteem. This marriage was contracted in the regular way and no attempt was made to conceal it. We are in no way ashamed of it, and I should much regret to see it made the basis of scandal or innuendo. The prince and this lady have been happy together; but the hour has come, foreseen from the beginning, when they must part. It is not an easy thing to do; but they do it with brave hearts for the sake of my country. I find it admirable, this sacrifice; I hope it will appeal to you, messieurs, also, and that you will treat it tenderly.”

It could not have been better done; it was evident that, to the Latins at least, the romantic appeal was irresistible. But on Halsey’s countenance the sardonic expression grew a little deeper. And the face of the prince was also a study.

Then somebody said something about photographs, and the king summoned his secretary and instructed him to provide them, and then he shook each man by the hand again, and so did the prince, and the interview was over.

“He is a wonder,” said Scott, as they went out together, and that seemed to sum up pretty well the impression the king had made on all of them, to judge by the comments of the crowd. Most of them were of amused admiration at the way the old king managed to carry things off. He was a poseur, yes; he was a mediæval old fossil, yes; but he had always been a friend of the journalist—an inexhaustible source of copy. So why not be kind to him? After all, what did it matter who ruled over the few square miles of barren mountains that constituted his kingdom. They were all a little weary of reformers and patriots—so many of them had proved to be mere wind-bags, or worse! Yes, they would be kind to the king. Even Scott smiled and said, “Oh, well, let’s give the old boy a chance!”

Only, Selden noticed, Halsey did not join in this discussion, but hurried away, as soon as he had passed the gates, as though to keep an appointment. Undoubtedly there would be a slashing article in the Journal. Halsey had unusual powers of invective when he let himself go.

But perhaps the countess would stop him.

Well, Selden told himself, in either event he did not care. He was only an outsider looking on at the comedy and applauding the bits that appealed to him.

And yet—was that all? Or had he been involved? Had he a stake in the game?

But a ballet dancer ... a woman who was for sale....

CHAPTER XVI
AT CIRO’S

IT was to Ciro’s that Selden had promised to take the countess that evening, and remembering his resolve to give her the best the place had to offer, he drove there, before going to his room, to reserve a corner table and have a word with the head waiter.

He found that worthy, of course, most anxious to oblige, and fertile in suggestion. There had just arrived a shipment of marennes, vitesse, from La Grève; they would be delicious; yes? good, monsieur. For soup, petite marmite, perhaps; no, that would be too heavy; croûte-au-pot would be better; good. For fish, a sole, perhaps, or a trout prepared in a special way; no—one moment; Jean, bring hither that basket of langouste; behold, monsieur, how fresh, how sweet, and not too large; this one; good; for garniture, trust me, monsieur. And then partridges, perhaps, or a wild duck; no—permit me to suggest pauillac, monsieur, pauillac véritable, very young, very tender, truly fed with milk, delicious; with asperges; good. And for entremet monsieur wishes crêpes susettes; good. For wine, Martinis first, of course; then a little Sauterne with the oysters; and then what would monsieur prefer? Champagne? No. Bordeaux, Burgundy? Permit me, monsieur, to suggest a Chateauneuf du Pape of which we are very proud—1915, the great year—and from the special vineyard just above Avignon; good. At nine o’clock? It shall be ready, monsieur. Au revoir, monsieur; merci bien. And Selden went on to the hotel feeling as though he had assisted at a sacrament.

So at nine o’clock, behold him, seated beside the Countess Rémond on the banquette at a corner table—the langouste, with garniture of pink jelly and ornaments of truffles, proudly displayed near by—ready to talk, to listen, to dine, and to observe the world at its gambols.

For Ciro’s is not only the pleasantest restaurant at Monte Carlo, but the most discreet as well, for there, sitting in view of all the world, one can talk of the most intimate things much more safely than in a private room, with the certainty that one’s voice will be lost in the lively medley of dancing feet and music and other voices with which the place is always filled.

And one can dine well, also; though not quite so well, perhaps, as in the old days, for there is a new proprietor. The former one, a handsome, slim Italian who had kept his youth while his wife had lost hers through excessive libations, suddenly quarrelled with her, sold his business and took train to Paris, where he now manages a restaurant, small and very intime, known only to the elect, two steps from the Avenue de l’Opéra. He is a pleasant fellow, with a record of many conquests; but he goes to see his wife sometimes at the lodging house which she now conducts in the Rue St. Georges, and his two daughters who are very fond of him; and sends them champagne for their réveillon and their fête days; and the chef he took with him now delights his very discriminating Parisian patrons.

The new proprietor is not as handsome as the old, and his chef lacks that indefinable something which distinguishes the great artist; but he is capable and not without imagination, and it is only by comparison that he suffers. The sommelier is the same, so the cellar is all that could be desired. No one can surpass him at a dry Martini. Selden watched him fill the little glasses, then leaned back with a sigh of content and looked at his companion.

She was uncommonly arresting, with her air of distinction, her eyes a little tilted and fatigued—consummate art again! She had chosen a black gown of some filmy material which foamed up over her breast, accentuating its whiteness and delicate contour and the grace of her arms and shoulders. Her only ornament was again that strange stone of greenish-yellow which matched her eyes. She was by all odds the most interesting woman in the room; the eyes of the other men were wandering toward her constantly—yes, and the eyes of the women, too, but with a different expression.

For whom had she arrayed herself, Selden wondered. He was sure it was not for him, and he looked at the other men, but he knew only one of them. That was old Scott, who was dining by himself at a table across the room. He looked at Selden’s companion with marked interest, and bowed elaborately when he caught Selden’s eye. But Selden answered only with a curt nod which warned Scott as clearly as anything could to keep away. Selden had no objection to his meeting Madame Ghita, but there was no reason why he should know the countess.

“Who is your friend?” she inquired, as she drew off her gloves.

“Just a newspaper man.”

“Your bow was not very cordial,” she commented.

“No—I don’t want him interfering with this dinner. I don’t want anybody interfering!”

“Nobody is going to interfere,” she assured him, and picked up her Martini and touched his glass with hers. “To the fulfilment of all our hopes!” she said, and they drank together. “What happened to you this afternoon?”

“The press has broken loose,” he answered, and told her of his adventures with his fellow correspondents and of the interview with the king. “It went off better than I expected,” he added. “All the boys are inclined to give the old fellow a boost—all, that is, except your friend Halsey.”

She turned upon him quickly.

“Why do you call him my friend?” she demanded.

“Wasn’t it Halsey we met on the terrace the other morning?”

“Yes.”

“And he was waiting for you this morning also.”

“It is true—he is a great nuisance; but he can be useful to me in a certain affair, and so for the moment I tolerate him. That is all.”

Selden was certain she was lying, but the marennes, lying so cool, so fresh, so green on their little shells, demanded his attention. The maître-d’hôtel stood anxiously by until he ate the first one and beamed triumphantly at his approving nod. Yes, they were delicious.

“One reason I like to dine in a French restaurant,” said Selden, “is because every one is so pleased when one finds the food to one’s taste. In other countries nobody really cares, you can take the food or leave it; but here it is a matter of life or death; at least, they make it appear so. And they are wiser than we in another way. When a Frenchman enters a restaurant, he puts his affairs, his worries, out of his head; he thinks only that he is to eat; he is smiling and happy; he allows nothing to hurry him, so he enjoys his food and digests it easily. But the American enters in a rush, thinking of his business, or he brings a paper to read, or he gets out his memoranda and makes computations between the courses; so he not only does not enjoy his food, but he does not digest it, and wonders why he has dyspepsia. It is very foolish! Ah, here is the croûte-au-pot.”

It also was perfect; and then came the serving of the langouste, a solemn ceremony performed by the maître-d’hôtel in person, with two of the waiters as acolytes. It was at this point that Selden tasted the Chateauneuf du Pape, which the sommelier had placed reverently before him, and knew definitely that the dinner was a success.

“But you have told me nothing of your adventures,” he pointed out. Halsey could rest for a while; perhaps, later on, he might find a way to get back to him. “You saw the Davises?”

“Yes,” and she laughed a little. “The family Davis is having for the first time the experience of being internationally important.”

“Do they enjoy it?”

“Oh, yes—at least the mother does, enormously. About the daughter, I am not so sure—she has something at the bottom of her heart—something I do not understand....”

“Yes?” he said, as she paused.

“Ah, well,” she said, with sudden vehemence, “what woman has not something at the bottom of her heart—a little worm which gnaws and gnaws!” She checked herself and touched her napkin to her lips. “Do not heed me—it is nothing!”

At that moment came the pauillac—those tender and delicious ribs of milk-fed lamb from the country below Bordeaux—and again the head waiter beamed at Selden’s approving nod.

“But it was amusing,” went on the countess; “those journalists camped about the place as at a siege. They have a villa at Cimiez, the Davises—a large place which they have taken furnished. They have picked up their servants where they could, and of course the servants are in no way loyal, but are looking only to make all they can out of the rich Americans. They had orders, those servants, to admit none of the journalists, but first this one and then that one would bribe his way in. But it was of no use. It seems that Baron Lappo had impressed upon Madame Davis that she was not to talk—not a word to any one. He must have hinted at terrible consequences, for she was quite awed, and all she would say was ‘Please go away,’ over and over again until the butler would come and lead the journalist away. Indeed, she had rather the air of expecting to be blown up, but she has set her heart upon being the mother of a queen, and nothing will deter her, not even assassination. She has even the idea that it might be well to cement the union doubly by marrying her son to the Princess Anna.”

Selden laughed.

“I fancy she will have some difficulty there!”

“Yes, but she is counting upon your assistance.”

“My assistance?”

“She is going to ask you to talk to him, since it seems he refuses to listen to her.”

“I wonder,” said Selden, “if all this could be the baron’s idea?”

“But of course—his or the king’s. They would like to pluck the family clean.”

“Well, young Davis will never marry the Princess Anna.”

“Do not be too sure,” the countess warned him. “The baron is one of the cleverest men in Europe—a genius at manipulations of this sort. It is true that in this case he has for an opponent a very clever woman. You know very well that I mean Madame Ghita,” she went on, in answer to his look, “and that she destines that young man for this girl she calls her niece.”

“I have seen the girl,” said Selden. “She seems very nice. Is she not her niece?”

The countess shrugged her shoulders.

“How do I know? Cicette Fayard is the name she goes by.”

“And she also will pluck him clean?”

“Can you doubt it?” asked the countess, a malicious light in her eyes.

“Well,” said Selden, philosophically, “since it seems he is certain to be plucked, why worry? At any rate, he will find the process more amusing at the hands of Mlle. Fayard than at those of the baron and the Princess Anna. It will do him good to get some hard knocks. But what about his sister? Are you free to tell me about your interview?”

“Oh, yes; it is as I thought. She has made up her mind to carry it through. She was not astonished or offended that the prince should have had a mistress. In fact, I think she already knew it.”

“You told her straight out?”

“But of course—why should I use équivoque? She is not a child. I explained that I was speaking, not because I considered the matter of great importance, but because I wanted her to be treated fairly and to understand everything.”

“What did she say?”

“She thanked me, entirely without warmth,” said the countess, smiling. “She does not like me—I seem to remind her of some one she dislikes very much. Nor, to be frank, do I like her. It is instinct, I suppose. We find ourselves antagonistic.”

Selden decided that it was time to gather his forces for the attack.

“Did you know her, out there in Montana?” he asked.

“I saw her, of course, but only a few times. She was away at school a great deal.”

“Last night she was looking at you as though wondering where she had seen you before.”

“Yes, I noticed it. But I have changed a great deal from the girl she saw occasionally; and a little care in make-up changes me still more.”

“I noted the oriental twist you gave yourself,” commented Selden, with a smile.

“I repeated it, of course, this afternoon, so she could not place me.”

“And you did not recall yourself to her memory?”

“No,” said the countess, and her face darkened. “I had a special reason for not doing so.”

Selden would have liked to know the reason, but the countess did not explain it, and he could scarcely ask. One thing was clear, however—the person Miss Davis disliked very much, and of whom the countess reminded her, was the countess herself.

His attention was distracted for the moment by the solemn ceremonial attending the preparation of the crêpes susettes. This too required the finished touch of the head waiter, for whom an alcohol lamp surmounted by a silver platter had been prepared. He lighted the wicks of the lamp, filled the platter with a sauce over which he had been working, whose basis was fine champagne, and, as it began to simmer, immersed in it one of the thin pancakes which had been brought from the kitchen. He turned the pancake over and over, sprinkled it with powdered sugar, folded and refolded it, gave it a dash of kümmel, powdered it again, and popped it to a plate in the hands of the attendant waiter, who hastened to place it piping hot before the countess.

“Please eat it at once, madame,” he implored.

And the countess ate it, while Selden’s was in course of preparation. There were three for each of them—three indescribably delicious morsels, such as only a French chef could conceive.

There had been a little bustle of new arrivals at the door, which Selden was too preoccupied to heed. And then he looked up to find Madame Ghita smiling down at him—that peculiar little smile which always puzzled him. She was perfectly gowned and fully as arresting as the countess—more so, perhaps—though on a different note; and with her were two companions, Miss Fayard and young Davis.

Selden thought for a moment that she was going to stop; but she did not—just nodded to them and drifted past in the wake of the obsequious patron, with the little fish-tail in which her clinging gown terminated sliding noiselessly at her heels, and making her look absurdly like a mermaid, a siren....

Selden could not help smiling as he looked after her—the deep spiritual smile with which one regards a masterpiece.

“Yes, she is very striking,” the countess agreed; “and very intelligent; do you not think so?” and she looked at him curiously.

“Of course I think so,” said Selden, with a heartiness a shade artificial.

“She is too good for the prince,” the countess went on. “She should have for her lover a great artist, a poet, a dramatist—a great journalist like yourself; she would arouse him, keep him awake, furnish him with endless themes, and make his future. With the prince her talents are wasted.”

“Perhaps,” Selden suggested with elaborate carelessness, “after this annuity business is settled, and she has further consolidated her position by marrying that girl to Davis, she will drop the prince and look about her. I certainly hope so.”

“Why?” asked the countess quickly, still looking at him.

“Because,” Selden explained, “the whole point of the situation is not whether the prince has had a mistress—but mistress isn’t the right word. After all, he married her.”

“With the left hand,” said the countess. “There is a difference.”

“Well, the question is not what the prince has done, but what he is going to do. You will remember, she hasn’t promised to give him up—only not to make a scene.”

Involuntarily he looked across at the other table. Davis and Miss Fayard had their heads together over the menu. Madame Ghita was sitting with folded hands gazing calmly across at Selden and the countess. The latter had looked at her too, and so she knew of course that they were talking about her.

Selden abruptly changed the subject.

“Did you know young Davis’s father?” he asked.

“Yes—he came to see my father quite often. They were good friends. He was a very genuine, human man. He and my father and Jeneski used to sit for hours talking about all sorts of things.”

“Jeneski also?”

“Yes. He was a sort of deputy for Mr. Davis in keeping the people in order. They were together a great deal.”

The waiter had cleared the table and placed the coffee before them. The sommelier, at a nod from Selden, filled two tiny glasses with golden Benedictine.

“Jeneski is a remarkable man,” said Selden slowly. “I found him very fascinating. I should think he would be especially so to women.”

“He is,” agreed the countess quietly; “the more so because he finds women less fascinating than politics. Oh, how do you do, Mr. Halsey,” she added, in another tone.

It was indeed Halsey, who passed on with a curt nod, sat down at a table facing them and ordered coffee and liqueur. And looking at his sardonic face, Selden began to glimpse the countess’s motive in insisting on this dinner; she had need of Halsey—she herself had said so—and she was disciplining him when he proved recalcitrant. Well, one thing was certain; he wasn’t going to be used as a stalking-horse for Halsey. If he could only fathom the game the countess was playing....

“He doesn’t seem very happy,” he remarked.

“Who?”

Selden nodded in Halsey’s direction.

“Oh, he is never happy,” said the countess. “He is one of those unfortunate men who never know what they want—or when they do, are afraid to pay the price. Come—I will not sit here with him glaring at me. Besides, I have work to do—my reports to make!”

“To Lappo?”

“Yes.”

She was drawing on her gloves nervously. Selden asked for the bill and paid it.

“I also have a telegram to send,” he said, as they went out together. Over his shoulder he saw that Halsey was paying his bill. He glanced at Madame Ghita—she was looking after them with that little ironical smile, which deepened for an instant as she caught his eye.

“M. Selden,” said the countess, when they were on the esplanade outside, “I have to thank you for a lovely dinner—but more than that, for consenting to take me. I shall not forget it. Perhaps I can do something for you some day.”

“You can do something for me now,” said Selden.

“What is it?”

“Persuade Halsey to be decent about this affair of the prince.”

“But I do not....” She checked herself. “Very well,” she said quietly. “I will see what I can do.”

They were at the hotel entrance.

“Thank you,” Selden said. He did not look over his shoulder, but he was certain that Halsey was not far away. “I am not coming in—I’ll go over to the postoffice and get my story off.”

“Good night.” She held out her hand. “It is nice of you not to ask any questions. And if I do not see you again....”

“You are going away?”

“I may be called away very suddenly. So if I do not see you again, remember that I am your friend and wish you good fortune!”

“Thank you,” Selden answered. “Good night!”

For an instant she permitted him to retain her hand, then she drew it away and walked quickly up the steps. She waved at him from the top, and was gone.

As he turned the corner, he could not resist glancing back. A heavy figure was running up the steps to the hotel entrance—unmistakably Halsey.

Selden turned, with a sudden impulse, sped back and up the steps into the hotel. He must solve this mystery—at least he must establish beyond a doubt the connection between Halsey and the countess. He raced up the stair and reached the upper corridor just as Halsey paused before the door of the countess’s suite. It was evidently ajar, for he walked straight in without knocking, leaving it open behind him.

In an instant Selden was peering through the crack between door and jamb. The countess was taking a telegram from the hand of her maid.

“All right!” said Halsey roughly, as he burst in upon her. “I agree—to anything....”

“Wait!” said the countess, without even glancing at him, and ripped open the message with shaking fingers. Her eyes devoured its contents at a glance. Then she turned to him with a strange smile. “So you agree?”

“Yes.”

“You swear it?”

“Yes.”

“It was time!” she said. “Look at this,” and she thrust the sheet of paper beneath his eyes.

Halsey stared at it blankly.

“‘Registered parcel wings mailed Nice this morning okrim,’” he read. “What does that mean?”

“It is from Mirko, Jeneski’s minister,” she said, her whole body quivering, “and it means that Jeneski started for Nice this morning by airplane.” Then, looking past him, she saw the open door. “You fool!” she began....

But Selden was safely around the turn in the corridor before the door slammed.

CHAPTER XVII
A PROMISE

SELDEN left the hotel and made his way down to the terrace. He felt that he had need to collect his thoughts, to arrange his ideas. He walked up and down for a minute or two until the blood stopped pounding in his temples, then sat down on a bench and started to reason it out.

So the countess was in a plot against Jeneski—well, that was nothing new; she had been on Lappo’s side avowedly from the first. And that one of Jeneski’s ministers should have been corrupted was easy enough to understand. But the bearing of the countess as she read that telegram—her emotion, her fierceness, her passion—had torn a veil from Selden’s eyes. She was not in this because of friendship for Lappo, nor because she loved her country—she herself had said it, “For a woman, that is not enough!”—but for some personal reason, deep, compelling, malignant. She hated Jeneski.

But where did Halsey come in? What did he mean when he said, “I agree”? Agree to what? Something he had held out against—something the countess had driven him to. Perhaps it was only to what Selden himself had suggested—to forego the chance for a sensation. His air had been tragic—but that would be a tragedy for Halsey—like cutting off his right hand.

And his reward? Selden shrugged his shoulders. It was nothing to him what reward the countess might choose to bestow. He cared not at all how many men entered her rooms, nor how long they remained.

Poor old Halsey! He was surely running his head into a noose! She was sure of him now—she had left her door open, knowing that he would follow! She had even made him swear! Heavens, what a fool!

And then a sudden thought stung Selden to his feet. Was Halsey the only fool?

What precipice was it toward which he himself was walking, lured by the vision of a face which grew more vivid with every hour, more dear—a face with calm questioning eyes....

He would have to have it out with himself, the whole question of his relations with this woman—this Madame Ghita—this ballet dancer—this mistress of a prince; what he hoped, what he feared; have it out without evasion or self-deceit. And his face was grim, for he foresaw that he would not emerge with flying colours.

Hope? Pah!

The placid gardien sauntering by was startled to see a man standing by the balustrade suddenly slash viciously at the air with his cane, as though laying it savagely across somebody’s back, and he slackened his pace to observe this madman, who had probably lost all his money, and to intervene if need be. Perhaps he designed to cast himself on the railroad tracks below. That must be prevented, because it would cause a scandal, and scandals are frowned upon most heavily at Monte Carlo.

But there was no need of intervention, for the unknown, after a couple of rapid turns up and down the terrace, ran up the steps, and the gardien, following cautiously, saw him turn into the postoffice, and went back to his beat with a shrug of the shoulders. It was not a madman, then; it was only a fool who, instead of killing himself, was telegraphing for more money!

That moment’s ebullition had relieved Selden; besides, there was nothing to be gained by beating the air. His immediate job was to get off his special to the Times, and during those quick turns up and down the terrace it had taken shape in his mind. First, of course, a paragraph about the sensation which the exclusive announcement in the Times had caused; the crowd at the gates of the Villa Gloria; the call made by the Hon. Percy Buckton and its apparently satisfactory result, Mr. Buckton being the British consul at Nice, and acting under instructions from Lord Curzon, as to the character of which, however, he would say nothing; the reception of the correspondents, picturesque old king and scarcely less picturesque grandson, creating most favourable impression; Baron Lappo in Paris arranging the marriage settlement; wedding to be very soon; frantic efforts of the correspondents to see Miss Davis, who had denied herself to everybody, except a personal friend or two; it had, however, been the good fortune of the Times correspondent to meet her; here follow with short and complimentary description. And then a discreet paragraph or two about the morganatic marriage, quoting the king and treating it as a thing of the past.

But was it?

That was the crucial question. It was upon that point, in Seldon’s mind at least, that the ethics of the whole affair hinged. And it was there, he felt, that he must seek some assurance better than the king’s. There was only one place to get it; there was only one person who really knew. For the matter lay wholly in the hands of Madame Ghita. It was she who would decide. It was from her that assurance must be sought.

---

Half an hour later, at the booth in the postoffice, he had completed his special and was about to sign his name, when a sudden thought struck him. Well, why not? And he added this final paragraph:

There is much speculation as to what line Jeneski will take with respect to this affair. No one who knows him believes for a moment that he will sit quietly by and permit the republic for which he has struggled and which he believes in so thoroughly to be overthrown without a contest. He has to face no little opposition at home, even among his own ministers, but he has shown himself before this to be capable of rapid and decisive actions in a crisis. There is a persistent rumour here that he left his capital this morning by airplane for Nice. There is no confirmation of this rumour, and no one can imagine what he hopes to accomplish here, if he is really on his way, his arrival will give a new twist to a situation already absorbing the attention of many chancelleries.

He signed his name, pushed the sheet through the window, waited to be assured that the message had been started, and left the building.

Just across the way the great globes at the entrance to the Sporting Club cast their light along the street, and Selden, without an instant’s hesitation, turned toward them. He was certain that the trio he had seen dining at Ciro’s would reach there sooner or later, and he had made up his mind what to do. He was going to demand an answer to the question which was worrying him. He was going to find out definitely what Madame Ghita intended to do.

It was a little early yet for the club, but the rooms were already filled and all the tables were in operation. Selden strolled from one to another looking for his quarry, and he soon discovered Davis and Miss Fayard seated side by side and absorbed in play. Davis was placing thousand-franc notes on adjacent transversales, which gave him a chance on nine numbers out of the thirty-seven, with a double chance on three of them, and seemed on the whole to be winning. His companion was betting more moderately with plaques, or hundred-franc chips, on the carrés, four at a time, which gave her also a chance on nine numbers; but she was less fortunate and her last plaque was finally swept away. Davis pushed some notes over to her and told her to go on, and then he looked up and saw Selden watching from across the table.

“Hello!” he said. “Come over here a minute. I want to see you before you go,” he went on, when Selden had worked his way to his side. “I’ve carried out my part of the bargain.”

“Have you?”

“Yes; and now I want you to carry out yours.”

“We’ll talk it over,” Selden agreed. “Where is Madame Ghita?”

“In the buffet, I think. A newspaper fellow got hold of her a while ago. You’d better look them up. I’ll join you as soon as I’ve busted the bank.”

“I don’t think I can wait that long!” Selden protested, laughingly returning Miss Fayard’s greeting, and turned away to the buffet with considerable misgiving.

The instant he passed the door he saw Madame Ghita, and, seated on the banquette beside her, talking away earnestly, was Paul Scott. Selden was conscious of a decided feeling of relief. Old Scott wouldn’t do any harm. For some reason he had feared that it was Halsey!

He approached them with a smile. Scott was too absorbed in his talk to notice him, but Madame Ghita had seen him at once, and his heart quickened a little as her smile answered his.

“Good evening, M. Selden,” she said; “this is very nice. You will sit down, of course?” and she made room for him on the banquette. “You know Monsieur ... Monsieur....”

“Scott is the villain’s name,” said Selden, as he sat down. “Yes, I know him—too well, indeed!”

Scott, his discourse brought abruptly to a halt, stared at him in indignation.

“See here, Selden,” he said, “don’t you know that when a gentleman is talking to a lady, third persons aren’t wanted? It is plain that you are not a man of the world! Run along now!”

“I like it very well here,” said Selden, settling back in his seat.

“Then my seconds will wait on you in the morning,” said Scott fiercely.

“All right—coffee and pistols, eh? Only I’ll take my coffee now,” and he told a waiter to bring him some.

“Is it that you are rivals?” asked Madame Ghita, who had listened to this interchange in evident alarm.

“Deadly rivals!” said Selden. “More than ever at this moment. I welcome the prospect of ridding myself of him forever! I must say you haven’t lost any time,” he added to Scott. “Who introduced you?”

“I used your name,” explained Scott, with a broad grin. “It worked like a charm.”

“My name?”

“It is true,” said Madame Ghita, her eyes sparkling, for she was beginning to understand. “In the rooms out yonder, ten minutes since, monsieur introduced himself to me as a friend of yours.”

“The infernal impostor!”

“But it is his fault,” Scott protested, waving his hands. “Figure to yourself, madame, this afternoon he spoke of you in terms so glowing, so complimentary, that I would have been less than a man if my interest had remained unawakened. I made up my mind to meet you. He even approved.”

“I consented,” Selden corrected; “I saw I might as well. Now that you have met her, you’d better beat it.”

“Beat it?” repeated madame. “What does that mean?”

“I am inviting him to make his adieux,” Selden explained.

“I place myself in the hands of madame,” said Scott with a bow. “It shall be for her to choose between us.”

“Ah, but that is too difficult,” she protested. “Yet you must stay a little while, if only to tell me what M. Selden said of me.”

“He said you were an extraordinary and fascinating woman, madame,” said Scott, while Selden turned a little crimson; “an opinion in which I fully concur. So when I saw him to-night at Ciro’s with a lady also of unusual charm, I could only infer that it was you. I did not know that he had turned Turk as well as Royalist. When, upon inquiry, I found that it was not you, I confess that I was shocked.”

“Yes, it is true,” agreed madame; “I fear that he is very, very inconstant!”

“So I warn you against him, madame,” added Scott, rising. “Be on your guard—I even hesitate to leave you alone with him!”

“You are going? But it is not I who am sending you away!”

“No—it is duty compelling me. I have to get off my story of to-day’s events.”

“Good-bye then,” said Madame Ghita, and held out her hand, which Scott raised to his lips most respectfully.

Then he paused for an instant to look quizzically into Selden’s eyes.

“You old reprobate!” he snorted. “I see through your game! But it’s all right!” he added. “Will you have lunch with me to-morrow? At Amirauté’s? One o’clock? Good! Till to-morrow, then!”

The two watched him until he passed from sight. Then Madame Ghita turned to Selden with a smile.

“A most amusing man,” she said, “and a very great friend of yours.”

“Yes, old Scott is all right; as square as they make them. We have been in some close places together. What was he talking about?”

“He was speaking of you.”

“Of me?”

“Of the work you have done and the ideals you have fought for—I was very glad to listen; and how surprised he was to find you on the king’s side now; at least not bitterly fighting him—willing to give him this opportunity; and how he was beginning to understand and to take the same view, but that it depended upon me, perhaps, that you should never regret it. And then you came before he had time to explain.”

“I will explain, madame,” he said, his heart very tender toward old Scott, who knew him so well.

“Then it does depend upon me?”

“Yes, madame; absolutely. When I came into this club to-night,” he went on, “it was with the hope of seeing you, for I must talk to you—quite frankly.”

“Please do,” she said, her eyes shining. “I should love to have you speak to me frankly. And I—I also will be frank. I promise it.”

“My regret, if I ever have any,” he went on, “will not be for the king nor for his country. The king takes his chance. As for the country, it will be a great help to have this fortune spent there. Afterwards, the people can choose another ruler if they wish.”

“My own thought,” she nodded.

“My regret will be for the American girl who is involved in all this. She is contracting to place her fortune and perhaps her happiness in the hands of Prince Danilo. But he, too, is contracting something.”

“Yes, a marriage; a very serious thing, you would say?”

“It is serious to an American girl, at least, madame. She knows, of course, of the prince’s alliance with you. To that she can have no possible reason to object—on the contrary; it has been an honourable and recognized arrangement. But when she marries him, she naturally expects that alliance to cease.”

“Ah, well,” said madame, pensively, “the prince is casting me off, is he not?”

“Yes; but are you casting him off? You have already told me that it is in your hands. You can keep him, if you choose—no doubt of that! You are the most fascinating woman, madame, that I have ever known, and you are very clever. You can do with a man what you will.”

“Even with you?” she asked, and looked into his eyes. “Ah, no—do not lie. You are an American—there is something in you, very deep down, which holds you back from the supreme follies we Latins commit so easily, and which even the English sometimes achieve. I have seen it—how often! You think it a merit; and because of it, at the bottom of your minds, you believe yourselves superior to us of Europe. Is it not so?”

“Perhaps.”

“But is it a merit? Is it not rather a cowardice?”

“I do not know, madame,” said Selden, humbly. “I suppose we have not the same urge.”

“That is it—you have not the same urge. But is that a thing to be proud of—to be more vegetable than we are?”

“But if we are happier so?”

“Happy? Can one be happy without great moments? Yes—as a cow is happy—as a sheep is happy. But for me, that is not happiness—that is ennui! I demand more than that! For me, happiness is to risk everything on one turn of the wheel!”

“Well—you are risking it now,” Selden pointed out.

“Oh, no, I am not!” she retorted quickly, and leaned back a little wearily. “I am perhaps willing to risk it, but the stake is too high—the bank refuses to take my bet. Is it that the bank has other bets?” and she looked at him sharply.

“I am just an obtuse American, madame,” answered Selden steadily, though his pulses were pounding madly, “and not at all good at guessing riddles.”

She looked at him a moment longer; then her eyes softened and a little smile played about her lips.

“You are really very clever, M. Selden,” she said; “very, very clever. I knew it the first time I saw you—I looked at you well to make sure. And I have a great admiration for clever men—I have met, alas, so few! But you were speaking of the prince. Do you wish that I send him away?”

“I think it would be best.”

“I am not asking what would be best, but whether you wish it.”

“Yes, I do,” said Selden brusquely.

He had had no intention of speaking those words, of making that admission, of permitting it to become in the slightest degree a personal matter, but some force stronger than himself drove them to his lips. And he was strangely glad that they were uttered.

She was looking at him with luminous eyes, her parted lips trembling a little....

“Very well,” she said, softly. “I agree,” and she touched his hand lightly with her fingers. “That is finished.”

CHAPTER XVIII
REVELATIONS

“I COULD be very angry with you if I wished,” said Madame Ghita, presently, “at certain things your attitude has seemed to imply. It is true that I had never promised to give up the prince; but you have appeared to think that I would consent to share him.”

Selden was conscious that his cheeks were crimson.

“Madame,” he stammered, “madame....”

“I am not angry,” she said sadly; “only I regret that you do not know me better. Perhaps if you did, you would not have thought that of me.”

“Yes, I was a brute,” agreed Selden humbly, still hot with shame and contrition. “Can you forgive me?”

“Ah, yes!”

“But at least you will prescribe a penance,” he persisted; “a severe one!”

“Shall I?” she smiled at him. “Very well. Hereafter you will be my friend, yes?”

“All my life,” he promised. “But that is not a penance—that is a reward.”

“Ah, my friend,” she said, laughing, “do not be too sure! I can be very exacting, sometimes. So you may find it a penance—a very heavy one—before you have finished!”

“I am proud to take the risk,” he said, covering her hand for a moment with his own. “We must pledge this friendship!”

She nodded assent, and a waiter took the order and hurried away.

“What is it you propose to do with young Davis?” asked Selden, after a moment.

“Are you concerned for him also?” inquired Madame Ghita, drily.

“Not in the least—only curious. I suppose you know that they are planning to marry him to the Princess Anna?”

A flame of anger sprang into madame’s eyes.

“But he wants too much, that old king!” she cried. “He forgets that there are other people in the world. Well, in this he shall be disappointed!”

“You will marry Davis to Mlle. Fayard, I suppose?”

“It will not be my doing—he loves her.”

“Yes, I think he does,” Selden agreed.

“And she is a good girl, Cicette; not very clever, perhaps, but more clever than is he. She will make him a good wife. Between us, we will educate him. He is not bad at bottom, but he is very ignorant. It seems impossible that any man should be so ignorant; it is impossible except in America.”

“He has never had to learn anything; he has grown up with his eyes shut; he has been spoiled by a mother who is too fond of him.”

“Cicette is fond of him, but she will not spoil him—not in that way. He has one great virtue—he is kind hearted and generous.”

“Yes,” remarked Selden; “too much so, perhaps. I noticed that he was staking Mlle. Fayard at the table out yonder. That was not wise.”

“No, it was not,” agreed madame quickly. “I did not know it—I will see that it does not occur again. Every one seeing it would believe that they are lovers. But it is not true—I have taken care of that; and, indeed, he has never suggested such a thing. There is one point in the character of American men which I find truly admirable—which even gives me to marvel,” she added. “They are nice to women without demanding anything in return; they will help a girl, just for the pleasure of it, without expecting to be paid in any other way. No other men are like that. And Cicette—she is not silly. Do you know what is her dream? To marry a good man, to settle down, to have many children, and to be faithful to her husband. That is the dream, perhaps, of every woman,” she went on, musingly, “but many of us cannot bring ourselves to make the necessary sacrifices. We lack strength of character. Cicette is different. She understands things; she will be very good to him, and she will not expect too much. He will be very happy with her. She will not be exacting. She will guide him, without annoying him.”

“Heaven knows he needs guidance!” Selden agreed.

“You will not oppose it, then?” she asked, looking at him anxiously.

“Oppose it? What right have I to oppose it? But I don’t even wish to; on the contrary, I have half-promised to intercede for him with his mother.”

“That is good of you!” she said, and her eyes were shining again.

“Oh, come!” he protested. “I want to do it! You are absurdly grateful for little things!”

“They have always meant so much to me—the little things!” she said.

“Of course, if I had any sense,” he went on roughly, to hide his emotion, “I’d keep out of it, since it is no affair of mine.”

“Ah, well,” she began, and stopped.

“You were going to say that neither is his sister’s future any affair of mine. But it is, in a way, since without knowing it, I helped her to make up her mind; so I want the prince to treat her fairly. Where is the prince to-night?”

“He telephoned that his father is ill.”

“Very ill?”

“I do not think so. He has been exerting himself too much. He forgets that he has eighty years.”

“He is a wonderful old man,” said Selden. “It is a pity he did not pass on his qualities to his grandson.”

“Perhaps his great-grandson will inherit them,” suggested madame, “and some American ones, as well.”

“I confess,” said Selden, smiling, “that, absurd as it may sound, something like that has been in my mind.”

“How serious you are!” she commented. “Do you plan that far ahead for yourself also?”

“To my great-grandson? Oh, no; I haven’t even got to the children yet!”

“But you expect to marry?”

“Some day, perhaps. But not while I am merely a wandering newspaper man. It wouldn’t be fair to the woman. Some day, I suppose, I shall settle down. The trouble is I don’t want to settle down—not for a long time. You see, I’m like those women you spoke of—not willing to make the necessary sacrifices—without strength of character.”

“You have not even a little friend?” she asked, quite simply.

“No. Oh, I don’t pose as a saint,” he added, hastily. “But I have been tremendously busy and tremendously interested in other things, which have kept my mind occupied. Besides, I am a coward—I’m afraid I’d marry her, if she was very nice to me!”

“There are women who like to wander too—who make good companions on the road.”

“I know it, but....”

“Confess,” she broke in, “the real reason is that you have never been in love.”

“Yes,” he said soberly, watching the waiter as he filled their glasses. “I am ashamed to confess it, because it proves that I am lacking somewhere—but I suppose that is the real reason.” He picked up his glass and touched it to hers. “To our new friendship, which will never grow old!”

“That is the nicest toast I ever drank,” she said, and raised her glass to her lips.

“Tell me,” he went on, after a moment, “you said something at lunch to-day which puzzled me.”

“What was it?”

“You said to the countess that you had always understood she was Jeneski’s friend. What did you mean by that?”

She hesitated.

“Are you very fond of her?”

“I am not fond of her at all.”

“Is it true?”

“Quite true. She repels me.”

She took a quick little breath.

“All I know is what the prince has told me,” she said, “that Jeneski was living with a woman known as the Countess Rémond, whom he had met in America, and who had been married to Lappo’s illegitimate son, and that he had had a small estate restored to her.”

“She hates Jeneski now,” said Selden. “They quarrelled, I suppose.”

“Or perhaps he never was her lover—gossip like that starts easily.”

“Yes—she said something to me just to-night—what was it? Oh, yes, that he found women less fascinating than politics.”

“Well, so do you. So do most men—if not politics, then something else—we are always second to something. But that is as it should be—it is a sign of strength. Life has taught me that.”

“I wish you would tell me something about your life,” said Selden.

“You really wish it?”

“I have heard so many things....”

“Ah, well, you shall know the truth. I should like you to know—though there is really not much to tell. My father was a merchant of lace, a traveller, you understand, selling it to the shops in various towns. One of these shops was at Périgueux, and was managed by a young woman with whom my father fell in love. They married and moved to Paris, where they opened a magasin—not to sell to persons, but to other shops—you understand?”

“What we call a wholesaler.”

“Yes. They did very well and the business grew until it occupied the whole first floor of a building on the Rue de Rivoli near the Chatelet. My mother really managed it, but she found time nevertheless to have two children—two girls. My sister resembled her; but I resembled my father, and he was very fond of me. He still travelled from town to town, taking orders for the business; sometimes he would take me with him. He would wash and dress me in the morning, and comb my hair, and in the evening I would sit at the table with all the men, listening to their talk, and understanding more than they imagined. We were very happy together; but he was a strange man, and once he got an idea into his head, it never left him. For example, he had once lost a parcel through the carelessness of a porter at a railway station, and had made a vow that no porter should touch his baggage in future. So at every stop, he would send the porters away with dreadful insults and stagger along the platform with his great cases of lace on his back, and I would follow very much ashamed, for I could see that people were laughing at him. However it made no difference.

“But those good times did not last. My father began to gamble, and the habit grew so strong that in the end my mother could scarcely find the money to meet the bills each month. When he came home, there were scenes, terrible scenes, during which he sometimes threw all the dishes into the street. Then he would promise to reform; but always the habit was too much for him; it was like a disease, getting worse and worse. I do not know what happened at the end—I was only fourteen years old—but one evening I went to his room to call him to dinner. I knocked, but he did not answer. I opened the door and saw him sitting in his chair before his desk. I ran to him and threw my arms around him, and he fell over against me. He was dead. He had shot himself.”

She stopped for a moment, and passed her hand before her eyes.

“That was the end of the business,” she went on. “It was taken away from us to pay the debts—everything was sold. My sister and I were sent to England to a convent school—it was there I got such English as I have—and mother went to work again in a shop. It was very hard for her, but there was nothing else to be done. We were gone three years. When we came back, she had married again, a maître de danse at the Opéra. He was old and very eccentric and all that he wanted of my mother was that she should make a home for him; and she did, a very good one. It was not amusing, but it was better than working in a shop.

“Then came the war, and for a time there was no more dancing, so to amuse himself and keep himself occupied, he gave lessons to me and to my sister. With my sister he soon stopped and sent her to learn to be a typist; but with me he kept on all day, every day, until I dropped with fatigue—not dancing only, but many other things—how to walk, how to talk, how to acknowledge an introduction, how to hold my fork, how to eat from my spoon—he said the French are pigs because they take their soup from the end of the spoon instead of from the side. He was very clever—a little mad, perhaps. But to him I owe everything.

“He was mad about the drama—but the classics only. Whenever there was a great play at the Comédie or the Odéon, he took me to see it—fortunately he could get tickets, or we should have been ruined. When there was no performance, we spent the evening reading—Racine, Molière, Hugo—I know them all by heart. And then when at last the Opéra opened again, every day he took me with him to rehearsal, and before long I was in the ballet. A year later, the première danseuse fell ill one night and I took her place and did so well that I was given an engagement.

“You know, perhaps, what the life of the stage is—there are no reticences, no privacies. If you have ever been to the Opéra on the night of a ballet, you have noticed that the front row of seats is empty until the ballet is about to begin; then a number of old men come in and take the seats. Most of them have decorations; many of them are famous in art or literature or diplomacy—and each carries an opera-glass. They have come to see the girls—especially the particular girl each of them is protecting; and when the ballet is over, they come back and watch the girls dress and carry them off to supper somewhere.

“Well, it was from that my step-father protected me. He could not protect me from the knowledge of what was going on, from the loose talk and coarse jests; but at least I remained vierge. It was a greater merit on his part than on mine, for those old men disgusted me, but he could have made a little fortune. Perhaps he had something else in his mind for me—something greater. At any rate, in the end he made my mother come with me to watch over me better than he could, and every night I went home between them. Everybody called them the Dragons.

“And then, one night after I had danced very well, the director brought Danilo back and introduced him to my mother and to me. I thought him very handsome and distinguished. Then my step-father came and they talked together for many minutes, my step-father shaking his head all the time. Finally we went home, and my step-father was very silent all the way.

“After that, the prince came back almost every evening and talked to us, and brought me little gifts of flowers and bon-bons. Once he gave me a ring, but my mother made me return it. He scarcely glanced at the other girls, though they did all they could to attract him; and he had other talks with my step-father. At last one day my step-father took me to his study and bade me sit down.

“‘My child,’ he said, ‘you are twenty-two years old, and it is time you thought of your future. I shall not be able to watch over you much longer, for some day my weak heart will stop beating, and before that I should like to see you range yourself. This prince, now—what do you think of him?’

“‘He is not bad,’ I said, ‘but he is too young.’

“‘You are right, and if it was merely the question of a protector, I would prefer an older man; he would know better how to value you, and you would have the benefit of his experience. But none of those old fellows would marry you.’

“‘Do you mean that the prince will marry me?’ I asked, astonished.

“‘You will not be his wife, exactly,’ said my step-father, ‘and yet you will be more than his mistress,’ and he explained to me as well as he could what a morganatic marriage is. ‘Some day he will have to marry again for reasons of state, but by that time you will have acquired a knowledge of the world, a certain position, and should be able to look out for yourself. He has not much money, but a prince does not lack money like an ordinary man, for there are always people willing to provide it just for the privilege of being seen with him. It will be a great education for you and I advise you to accept.’

“‘But my dancing,’ I objected.

“‘My child,’ he said, ‘I will speak to you frankly. You are a good dancer, but you will never be a great artist. No—your place is in the world.’

“‘But will his family consent?’ I asked.

“‘Yes. He has caused them many anxieties, and they wish him to settle down with some nice girl until they can find a very wealthy wife for him. That is not possible at present. Of course they will wish to see you. What do you say?’

“What could I say except yes? It was, as my step-father said, a great opportunity—much better than I could have hoped for. A few days later Baron Lappo came to see me. He approved of me, and so the marriage was arranged. Behold the result,” and she offered herself with a little gesture, as a showman might offer his wares.

“The result is wholly admirable,” said Selden. “Yes, you were right to accept. And your step-father?”

“His heart stopped beating one day as he had foretold,” she answered, her lips trembling. “He was the best man I ever knew.”

“But your mother is living?”

“Oh, yes; she lives with my sister. My sister married a little bourgeois shopkeeper. They manage the business much better than he could.”

“And Mlle. Fayard?”

“She is the daughter of my step-father’s younger sister. I promised him to look after her.”

Selden looked at her musingly. How far she had already travelled from her humble beginning! How interesting it would be to watch her future—to see what she made of herself, to what heights she rose.

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

“I am thinking you will go far,” he said. “Some day a man will be prime minister because of you, or there will be a great poem, a great play, a great picture of which you were the inspiration; and I shall go to the minister or to the artist and congratulate him, and say, ‘Monsieur, I foretold this long ago, one evening at Monte Carlo!’”

Her eyes were shining again and she laid her hand lightly upon his.

“Perhaps you are right, my friend,” she said, “but it is not of that I am thinking.”

“What are you thinking?”

“That I hope to find love some day,” she said, and raised her hand for an instant to her eyes.