The Kingmakers

by Burton Egbert Stevenson

PART II.—TUESDAY

CHAPTER VII
THE ROAD TO EZE

MONTE CARLO, like all other pleasure resorts, has its inexorable routine, and the feature of the morning is a walk upon the terrace. This is followed by an apéritif and half an hour of gossip under a sun-shade in front of the Café de Paris, these two items occupying the time pleasantly until lunch, when the day really commences.

The terrace pedestrians begin to gather about eleven o’clock, reach their densest an hour later, and then gradually thin away. To sit during that hour on one of the benches which face the walk is a rare privilege.

For the human stream is of never-ceasing interest. There is the nouveau-riche and his family, not yet accustomed to the wealth the war showered upon them, ill at ease in their new clothes, glancing apprehensively at every one as though expecting an accusation; there is the prognathous Englishman masking his mental vacuity with an air of aloofness, but alert to salute every one he considers his social equal; there are old roués of every nationality, hair plastered down (if there is any left), moustaches waxed to a point, great pouches under the eyes, ogling the women, especially the very young ones, and turning around for another look at their legs and the motion of their hips; there is the stream of semi-paralytics, neurasthenics, and debile generally, flowing ceaselessly in and out of the hydropathic establishment at the end of the terrace, seeking relief from the results of unimaginable forms of debauchery; there are fat Turks and lithe Greeks who glare at each other; tall Russians and little Italians who fraternize; as well as a scattering of all the nationalities, scarcely yet knowing their own names, created since the war over the breadth of central Europe.

And then there are the women—the women who are the raison d’être for Monte Carlo and all resorts like it. It is to see the women, to permit them to exhibit themselves, that this morning parade takes place; it is to please the women the chefs in the great hotels labour; it is for them the orchestras play; it is to them the little expensive shops cater; it is for them the casino operates. And they are at their best, these women, on the terrace in the morning. The old ones are still in bed, the ugly ones shun the merciless morning light. Only the young and beautiful venture to sally forth, and some of them are superb.

There are celebrities, too, of a sort, and decorations of every degree, from the grand rosette of the Legion down to the humble “poireau”; there are grey-bearded Academicians, monocled diplomats, pallid artists, heavy-sterned generals, portly financiers. There is the Gargantuan McCormack, his hat pulled down over his eyes, his lithe little wife trotting beside him; there is the sallow Venizelos, not yet recovered from the shock of defeat, in close confab with some other exile; there is the talented but enslaved Chalmino with his ridiculous fat mistress; there is Marlborough and his next duchess; there is Suzanne, fresh from her victories at La Festa and twittering like a sparrow to two tall worshippers in flannels; there is Chevrillet, the great journalist, whose passion for play destroys him—these and a hundred others like them pass and repass, watch for a time the stupid slaughter of pigeons going ceaselessly forward on the semi-circle of lawn down near the water, and finally fade away.

Among this throng, Selden presently appeared in obedience to a command of the Countess Rémond, delivered to him that morning with his breakfast:

“I am in the mood for walking,” she had written. “Please wait for me on the terrace.”

So, since he had made up his mind to see the adventure through, here he was, walking up and down, looking at the crowd, and breathing deep draughts of the wonderful air. It was one of those exquisite mornings, bright and yet soft, which make the Riviera the most favoured of winter resorts. The air was full of ozone, there was a tang in it which gave a fillip to the blood; the sea was of a deep and lustrous blue defying description, flecked here and there with whitecaps and dotted with the sails of a flotilla of little sloops engaged in a race. On the landward side, steep slopes, clad with vine and olive and dotted with white villas, rose up and up, until they culminated with a mighty rush in the rocky summit of the Tête de Chien, two thousand feet above.

A fairy-land; a land of wonder and delight.

Selden turned from this loveliness and looked again with a feeling of disgust at the people loitering past. Was it for this crowd of parasites and voluptuaries that this superb corner of the world had been created? He had asked himself the same question once before as he sat in the dining-saloon of a great new ship, homeward bound from Europe—was it merely to minister to the pleasures of that crowd, and other crowds like it, that men had laboured and sweated and died in the fabrication of that marvellous boat? What mockery, what waste! No wonder socialists see red! And then he had remembered the hundreds in the steerage—to them the ship was an ark, a sanctuary. It was bearing them to the land of freedom.

But here there was no such saving purpose; it was all mean, all sordid, compact of vanity and greed and sensuality....

Then, suddenly, his eyes saw the face they had been searching for, almost without his knowledge—the arresting and clever face of Madame Ghita. She, at least, had no reason to fear the light, nor had the glowing young Cicette who chattered beside her. Madame Ghita was listening and smiling as though to a child, oblivious of the glances she attracted, with that air of supreme poise which Selden had noted and admired the night before. Would she see him, he wondered, his heart accelerating its beat....

Yes, she saw him; her eyes rested in his for an instant, and she gave him a gracious little nod of the head as she passed.

He was unreasonably elated—yet why shouldn’t she nod? Monte Carlo was not a formal place; besides, he had been of some little assistance to her the night before in interpreting her to Davis. It was almost an invitation—should he turn and intercept her? And then he caught himself up grimly; really, he told himself, he was behaving like a boy of twenty, rather than like an experienced and somewhat disillusioned man of thirty-four. What could Madame Ghita ever be to him? Nothing, of course! Just the same, he would like to know her—no harm in that!—she looked stimulating. Perhaps she would pass again.

He turned at the end of the terrace—to find himself face to face with the Countess Rémond.

“How you walk!” she gasped. “Like the wind. And how people have stared to see me pursuing you!”

“They must think me very fortunate!”

“Ah, well—yes!” she smiled. “But had you quite forgotten me?”

“Forgotten you! My dear countess!”

“Then you must have been composing a new article, to stalk along like that with your head down, looking neither to the right nor left.”

“No,” said Selden, as he fell into step beside her, “I was reflecting how ironical it is that the most beautiful spot on earth should be—what you see.”

“But it is always like that,” she pointed out. “Not only the pleasantest places, but the nicest things, belong to the people who least deserve them. You should write an article about it.”

Selden laughed grimly.

“That was a savage thrust!”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t you suppose I know how futile it is—writing articles?”

“Is it futile?” she asked innocently.

“The most futile thing on earth! I ought to know; I’ve been doing it all my life, and it makes me sick to think of it. But don’t talk about it—don’t spoil this beautiful morning. How can we enjoy it best?”

“Suppose you suggest something,” she said, looking at him from under lowered lashes.

“You said you were in the mood for walking—did you mean just walking here on the terrace?”

“Not in the least. I meant walking over the eternal hills. See—I am dressed for it,” and she held out for his inspection a slender foot shod sensibly—at least, not too foolishly.

“And I may have—how much time?”

“Until five o’clock,” smiled the countess.

Selden was conscious that Madame Ghita and her companion had turned at the other end of the terrace and were coming back, but he kept his attention riveted on his companion—even, to his own ironic amusement, simulated an ardour he did not feel, and which caused her to rest curious eyes upon him.

“Splendid!” he cried. “Then here is the programme: we will go up to La Turbie, have lunch, walk along the Grande Corniche to Eze—do you know Eze?”

“No; is it a town?”

“Yes—a gem. And we will sit there and look at it and at the world stretched out beneath us, and when we are quite ready, a car will bring us back. Will that suit you?”

“It will be lovely!” and she permitted her eyes to caress him the merest bit. “But I would point out that it is I who am taking your time, not you mine. If you have something else to do....”

“Nonsense!” Selden broke in. “I may be an American, but I don’t work all the time! Come along!”

As they turned toward the steps, a bulky male figure suddenly loomed in front of them.

“Oh, how do you do,” said the countess, and then Selden saw that the man with whom she was shaking hands was John Halsey, who had been Paris correspondent of the London Journal from time immemorial. “Do you know Mr. Selden, Mr. Halsey?”

“Selden?” echoed Halsey, who up to that moment had not looked at him. “Oh, hello, Selden. I thought you were somewhere in the Balkans.”

He did not offer to shake hands and there was something faintly hostile in his air.

“No, I’m here,” said Selden briefly, wondering if it could be possible that Halsey was jealous, or if it was just his British manner.

But Halsey had already turned back to the countess.

“I have been looking for you everywhere,” he said. “I got in just a few minutes ago and they told me at the hotel that you had gone out. I want you to come to lunch with me. We must have a talk.”

There was something in his air at the same time threatening and cringing—like a tiger conscious of his strength, but chilled to the bone at sight of the trainer’s whip.

“I am sorry,” said the countess, “but I have an engagement.”

“Who with?”

“Mr. Selden and I are going to lunch at La Turbie,” she explained sweetly, but there was a dangerous gleam in her eye.

Halsey started to say something, but saw the gleam and checked himself.

“Dinner, then?” he asked.

“No, I am engaged for dinner also. But I shall be back at five. Call me up,” and she nodded curtly and turned definitely away.

Selden, glancing back as they mounted the steps together, saw that Halsey was still standing there, hat in hand, staring after them with a look anything but pleasant. Yes, the fool must be jealous; but even then he had no right to speak to the countess so rudely. However, he wasn’t going to waste any time over Halsey, and he put him definitely out of his mind.

He stopped a second at the hotel to order a car sent on to Eze, and ten minutes later they were in the funicular, and its little engine was puffing and panting as it pushed them steeply upward toward La Turbie, with Monaco and the serrated coast opening out superbly below.

The carriage was filled with tweed-dad English on their way to the golf course on Mont Agel, and the feminine members of the party regarded Selden and his companion with evident distrust, as of another world, while the men seemed loftily unaware of their existence. It always amused Selden, this barrier with which the average Englishman tries to surround himself in public, and he watched now with a smile as the party, like a herd of deer scenting danger, drew together into a compact mass and hastily got the barrier into place.

As he glanced at his companion, he saw that she was smiling, too, though it might have been with pleasure at the magnificent panorama opening below them, upon which her eyes were fixed.

For the first time that morning he had the chance to take a really good look at her. She had no reason to fear the light, though there was nothing girlish about her; indeed, she looked a little older than she had the night before—thirty, perhaps. Every line of her face bespoke the mature woman of the world, but the flesh was smooth and firm, the eyes unshadowed, the lips fresh and rounding upward a little at the corners. It was not so arresting as when he had first seen it—that quality had perhaps been due to art—but it was still unusual, with a suggestion of the unplumbed and unfamiliar—of age-old jealousies and intrigues and ambitions. It had race, as distinguished from ancestry. In fact, Selden doubted if there was any ancestry—that was one of the things she would tell him. For he was determined now that he would have her story—and not only her own, but Lappo’s and Danilo’s. He knew exactly where he was going to take her to unfold it, and exactly what he was going to say.

She felt his eyes upon her face, and glanced at him, and smiled, and looked away again. And presently the engine shrieked and panted to a stop and they clambered out.

Sixteen hundred feet below them Monaco lay glittering in the sun, while to right and left stretched the indented coast, from the chersonese beyond Beaulieu to Bordighera and the Italian hills, with the blue, blue sea mounting to an horizon which seemed grey by contrast—a panorama which, perhaps, is equalled nowhere on earth.

It still lay below them as they sat at lunch on the terrace of the hotel, and talked, by tacit consent, of indifferent things; and presently he had bought her an iron-tipped cane and they were setting forth through the little town.

La Turbie is one of those old, old villages built ages ago along this coast high in the mountain fastnesses for safety from the Barbary corsairs and the miscellaneous pirates who roamed up and down the Mediterranean, raiding and sacking and seeking what they might devour. It was captured by the Romans two thousand years ago, and is overshadowed by the ruins of a great stone tower which Augustus set up to commemorate the victory. Its narrow streets and dingy rubble houses have come unchanged through the ages, and are still inhabited by the descendants of the old tribes the Romans conquered, following the same trades in the same way, and living the same lives.

Except that now they must dodge the motor cars which flash ceaselessly through the town along the Grande Corniche. Strangest contrast of the ages, the silken, jewelled femme du monde who glances out carelessly at the rough-clad, red-faced girl pushing a barrow of manure to the fields. And what thought stirs the girl’s brain as she gazes after the vanishing car?

“Perhaps no thought at all,” said the countess, when Selden put this question to her. “Do not make the mistake of endowing the peasantry with your own mentality, as so many reformers do.”

“I don’t. And I’m not a reformer,” he protested. “Just the same, I suppose they have some feelings.”

“Their feelings are centred in their stomachs. Give them a full stomach and they are happy.”

“You talk like Baron Lappo.”

“Do I? Well, the baron is a very clever man, and he understands the peasantry. Nine-tenths of the people of his country are peasants. Americans cannot understand them because America has no peasants. And so you credit them with noble aspirations—patriotism, liberty!—whereas all they really seek is enough to eat.”

“I suppose,” said Selden, “that you are referring to those articles of mine which annoyed the baron.”

“Yes, I am. I think them altogether mistaken. I admire your optimism, but it carries you too far.”

Selden glanced at her curiously. He was surprised that she should speak so earnestly.

“According to your idea,” he said, “the best government is the one which gives its people the most to eat for the least return in labour.”

“Yes; you put it very well. That is it exactly. How can one believe anything else?”

Selden turned the idea over in his head.

“The best government undoubtedly,” he agreed, “is the one that gives every man a square deal.”

“Yes.”

“And that is where the old despotisms failed. They exploited the people for their own benefit.”

“It is where every government fails. The people are always exploited for somebody’s benefit.”

“At least they have swept away the despotisms—not one is left standing in the length and breadth of Europe. That is why I think Europe—war-torn, bankrupt, disordered as she is—is still better off to-day than she has ever been, because for the first time in history her people are free.”

“But they are not free,” protested the countess impatiently. “They are still slaves to their stomachs—more than ever, indeed, since food is more difficult to get. It is absurd to call them free. What is freedom worth to a starving man? He prefers food. And he must always have a master.”

“At least he can choose his master.”

“But not at all. The peasant can never choose his master. Do you imagine the Russian peasants chose Lenin?”

“No, of course not.”

“Or that the peasants of my own country chose Jeneski?”

There was something in her voice, a strange vibrancy, as she uttered the name, which made him look at her. She was gazing straight ahead, her nostrils distended with passion, her lips quivering—and then suddenly her face changed and she threw up her hand with a little cry.

“Ah, look there!”

They had come to a turn in the road—that marvellous road, so wide, so perfect, hung miraculously against the mountain-side, one of Napoleon’s masterpieces—and below them lay the village of Eze, unaltered since the Dark Ages.

Its founders, whoever they were, must have had the fear of pirates driven deep into their souls; perhaps they came from a town which had been stormed and looted, and were resolved to run no risk the second time. So they had chosen for their new abode the top of a precipitous pinnacle, unapproachable on any side save one, and almost unapproachable on that. With unimaginable labour they had contrived a village there, half dug from the rock, half built of the rock fragments. At the extreme summit they had reared a great citadel, as a last refuge if the town was stormed, and around the whole they had flung a heavy wall pierced by a single gate, flanked with defending towers.

So well they built, so solidly, that the town still stands as it has stood for twenty centuries, the wonder of the twentieth. Only the citadel, no longer needed with the passing of the sea-robber, has fallen into ruin and been despoiled for the repair of the other houses.

Selden and the countess stood spellbound, gazing down upon it and upon the marvellous background against which it is silhouetted—a background of hill and water and curving coast; then by a common impulse they turned into a by-path, and started to clamber down toward it through the vineyards and olive groves, past little houses, to the highway—the Lower Corniche—which runs at the foot of the summit upon which Eze stands; then up again along a steep and narrow road, through the gateway, past the frowning walls, around the little church, and between the dismal houses leaning precariously forward above the steep and narrow passages which serve as streets—passages redolent of the Middle Ages, reeking still with the bloody deeds of Roman and Lombard, Sicilian and Saracen, Guelph and Ghibelline; for each in turn held Eze and made of it the foulest den of thieves in Europe, a haven for the scoundrels of every land....

Up and up they scrambled, Selden and the countess, pausing now for breath, now to look at a traceried window, where once, perhaps, Beatrix of Savoy had leaned to toss a flower to her sweet troubadour, Blacasette—up and up, until they came out upon what had been the floor of the donjon, but was now a wide platform open to the sky.

And as they looked around, it seemed that the whole world lay at their feet.

At one side of the platform, facing the sea, stood a rude bench.

“Let us sit down,” said Selden, then got out his pipe, filled it deliberately, lighted it and took a long puff. “Now,” he added, “I am ready for the story.”

CHAPTER VIII
THE COUNTESS IN ACTION

FOR a moment the Countess Rémond did not speak, and Selden could see that her thoughts were turned inward, as though seeking some starting-point, some end to get hold of in the unravelling of a tangled web. He did not suspect that, realizing her moment was at hand, she was gathering her forces to meet it and casting a final glance over her plan of campaign.

“Why did you send for me last night?” he prompted.

“I wanted to thank you.”

“Yes—but there was something else.”

“I was going to implore your assistance in saving a people’s freedom,” she answered, smiling as if at her own impulsiveness.

“And you no longer need it?”

“I no longer believe their freedom is in danger.”

“You are speaking of your own people, of course.”

“Yes.”

“You mean, then, that this new plot of Lappo’s, whatever it is, will come to nothing?”

“On the contrary, he will succeed; and the country will be better off.”

“He told you last night what his plans are?”

“Yes—some of them.”

“He expects, of course, to put the king back?”

“Of course.”

“It is difficult to take the king seriously,” said Selden. “He has always been a sort of comic-opera king, posing as the primitive chieftain of a splendid primitive race.”

“Perhaps it was not a pose,” the countess suggested.

“Perhaps not—but one can’t help suspecting a man with such a genius for publicity. And he was not always primitive. He was the cleverest intriguer in Europe; even in the war he tried to be on both sides at once.”

“Because he wanted to save his country. How can one serve a little country like that except by intrigue?”

Selden took a few reflective puffs.

“Well, I don’t know,” he said at last. “I’ve never met him, so perhaps I’m prejudiced. But I do know this—while he was on the throne, the country was absolutely his to do as he pleased with. He was good-natured, democratic, interested in his people—even Jeneski admits that!—but he had his evil moments when frightful injustices were done. Anybody who disagreed with him was exiled. But the principal vice of the whole system was that the people had no voice in their government.”

“How much voice have they now?” inquired the countess.

“Not much, I grant you, because they’re too ignorant. But as they grow more fit, they’ll take a larger and larger part.”

“Perhaps—if they do not starve meanwhile.”

“Anyway,” added Selden, “it isn’t merely a question of the old king. Nobody would object if he could gather up a few millions somewhere and go back and spend them on his country. But he won’t live long, and then it will be a question of Danilo. What about him? Is he the sort of man to save a country from starvation?”

“He would have Lappo,” pointed out the countess.

“It’s a shame,” mused Selden, “that Lappo can’t work with Jeneski. What a team that would make!”

“But he cannot,” said the countess. “He would consider himself a traitor.”

Selden nodded.

“Yes, I know.”

The two fell silent, gazing thoughtfully out over the sea.

“You have told me nothing about yourself,” he said at last.

“Do you want to know?” and she cast him a quick glance.

“I can’t help wondering....”

“About that man you discovered signalling to the Germans?”

Selden nodded without looking at her.

“That man was Lappo’s son,” said the countess.

Selden stared.

“Lappo’s son?”

“The son of a woman he loved very much. He had made a state marriage—a very unhappy one—and had a legitimate son, so he could not acknowledge the other. But he got for him a little estate and the courtesy title of Count Rémond. Afterwards he had reason to be glad he had not acknowledged him, for Rémond’s mother died, and he developed a streak of madness, became involved in frightful scandals and was finally sent to America. Practically all our people in America had settled in one place—at a little town in Montana where there was a great copper mine. Rémond came there. We met each other and—were married. He was not without fascination of a sort—and I was very young. Then came the war, and Rémond was soon travelling about the country in what he told me was the Allies’ secret service. I saw him very little. When America entered the war, he enlisted. I was very proud of him. I never suspected what he was really doing until I heard....”

“But how could you hear?” asked Selden. “It was a military secret.”

“The baron found out. He had sources of information.”

“Then he knows....”

“That you were the one who denounced Rémond? But of course!”

Selden involuntarily glanced behind him.

“Oh, do not fear,” said the countess with a smile. “He is glad the traitor was caught so soon. He may even speak to you about it.”

Yes, that would be like the baron! Here, then, was one of the skeletons concealed in his private closet! Selden wondered how many more there were.

“Well,” he said, at last, “and afterwards?”

“Afterwards,” the countess paused an instant; “afterwards the baron was very kind to me. He sent me money, he invited me to place myself under his protection—but he himself was soon an exile, for the Austrians overran the country, and he had time to think only of his king. So it was not until Jeneski came back that I could return.”

“You came with Jeneski?” asked Selden curiously, wondering what the baron had thought of that.

The countess nodded, her lip caught between her teeth.

“He and my father had been dear friends,” she explained. “When my father died, Jeneski in a way adopted me. So he took me back with him, and succeeded in having my little estate restored to me.”

A very seductive adopted daughter, Selden thought; a rather disturbing one. The countess’s story had rung true up to this point, but here it was not quite convincing.

“The estate—it is an attractive one, I hope?” he queried.

“It is not bad—but I could not stay there.” The note of passion was in her voice again, and her hands were clenched. “It was impossible. I could not do it. So I came away to Paris—to Monte Carlo—to amuse myself—to forget!”

“One can amuse oneself better here, that is true,” Selden agreed, searching for a clue to her emotion. “But weren’t you interested in seeing how Jeneski’s experiment works out?”

“Jeneski!” she repeated hoarsely. “Ah, you do not know him! He is not a man—he is a machine which crushes people who get in his way. He....”

She stopped abruptly, struggling for self-control.

“Yes,” said Selden, “I suppose all fanatics are more or less like that.”

“I have known some who were human,” said the countess more quietly, and closed her lips tightly, as though determined to say no more.

Selden could only ponder what she meant. How had she got in his way? What had he done to her? To him Jeneski had seemed very human—possessed by his idea, of course, ready to make for it any sacrifice; but full of fire, of sympathy, of understanding. Full of passion, too, unless his full red lips belied him.

“However,” the countess was saying, “we need not concern ourselves about Jeneski. He will soon be replaced.”

“I am not so sure of it.”

“Baron Lappo is sure of it. I do not think you understand, Mr. Selden, what an extraordinary man the baron is. Nothing is concealed from him. He is in his way a great artist.”

“I hope to know him better,” Selden observed.

“And the king—he is not at all what you think. But you will see!”

“Yes—the baron has promised to arrange an interview.”

“It will be to-night; the baron is giving a dinner.”

“How did you know?” asked Selden, looking at her in some astonishment.

“I am to be there. You also are invited, are you not?”

“Yes.”

“Well—you can make your observations! I advise you to keep your eyes very wide open.”

Selden rubbed a reflective hand across his forehead.

“I confess,” he said, “that these intrigues are too subtle for my intelligence. I don’t seem to be able to find the key. However I shall do my best. I don’t suppose you can tell me any more?”

“Only in confidence. You would not want that.”

“No,” agreed Selden slowly, “I wouldn’t want that. I must be free to use whatever I find out, if I think it necessary.”

“I understand, and you are right,” she nodded, and glanced at her watch. “Come, we must be going. This dinner is a most important one for me. I must dress for it carefully.”

“Do you know who will be there?”

“The king, Danilo, Lappo, yourself, myself, and—two or three other women.”

“Madame Ghita, perhaps?” hazarded Selden, and watched her face.

She could not suppress a little start.

“You know Madame Ghita?”

“She was enquiring for the prince at the Sporting Club last night. I happened to hear her.”

“Ah,” said the countess; “then of course you can guess who she is!”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Selden slowly, with a little sinking of the heart. He had hoped against hope that there might be some other explanation. Ah, well, if she were Danilo’s mistress that ended it.

The countess was looking at him curiously.

“Then you knew perfectly well that she will not be at the dinner to-night. Were you setting a trap of some sort?”

“No—but I wondered who she was. I wasn’t sure.”

“Well, you are now!” she said, and held out her hand to him, and he helped her down the rocky descent to the town. She permitted herself to lean against him once or twice, but he was too preoccupied to notice. Madame Ghita—the mistress of the prince!

The countess looked at him occasionally, trying to read his thoughts, but she did not speak again until they were seated in the motor-car which was awaiting them.

“You saw the prince last night?” she asked.

“Yes; I went over to the Sporting Club after I finished my work. The prince was playing.”

“And losing, of course?”

“No, he was winning heavily. He must have won two hundred thousand francs.”

“Was he alone?”

“No, there was a young fellow named Davis with him.”

“An American?”

“Yes—obviously.”

“So it was from him he got the money!” she murmured, half to herself.

“I suppose so,” laughed Selden. “Do you know him?”

“No, I have never met him.”

“He is very young and callow, but I fancy he will get plenty of experience before long. First from the prince, and then from a girl who has him in her net.”

“Did the baron see him?”

“Oh, yes; he seemed to know him quite well.”

“And he was very much annoyed, was he not?”

Selden looked at her.

“How did you know that?”

“Oh, I guessed it! But please go on and tell me what happened.”

“The principal thing that happened,” said Selden, laughing a little at the recollection, “was that the baron made the prince repay the money he had borrowed—a considerable sum. The prince was very much annoyed.”

“He would be,” nodded the countess. “He has always found more amusing uses for his money than paying his debts with it. It must have been a new experience! But in this case it was necessary,” she added, thoughtfully.

“I am glad you understand it so well,” said Selden drily.

The countess laughed and tapped his hand playfully.

“Do not be cross,” she said. “You will find it much more amusing to piece together the puzzle for yourself. And I am sure you will find the key at the dinner to-night!”

“I am not cross; I am only wondering if I shall see you to-morrow.”

She glanced at him from under lowered lashes.

“If you wish,” she said softly.

He moved a little nearer to her. Since Madame Ghita was unattainable, and this amusement offered....

“When will you be free?” he asked.

“All day.”

“Shall we say dinner, then, at Ciro’s?”

“That will be lovely!”

“Thank you,” said Selden. “You are being very nice to me!”

“Ah, I have a good heart!” she laughed. “And perhaps I have some secret reason!”

They were speeding down the slope into the Condamine, when another motor panted past them so rapidly that Selden caught but a glimpse of its occupant. But his companion’s eyes had been quicker.

“Did you see who that was?” she asked.

“No.”

“It was Madame Ghita. And this is the road to Nice.”

“What of it?”

“But it is at Nice the dinner is to take place!” cried the countess. “Surely you are not so stupid as you seem!”

Selden could only look at her. And suddenly the car jerked to a stop.

“We have arrived,” she said. “Till to-night—and thank you for a delightful afternoon!”

And she ran quickly up the steps into the hotel.

CHAPTER IX
A KING’S APOLOGIA

SELDEN dressed for dinner that evening with the same sense of nervous tension that he used to feel in the old days when tumbling out of bed and hustling into his clothes in the middle of the night to witness the jump-off of a big offensive. He had found a note from the baron awaiting him, naming 8:30 as the hour and the Villa Gloria on the Promenade des Anglais as the place, and expressing great pleasure that Selden was to be among the guests. Its perfect wording awakened in Selden fresh admiration for the supreme finish of the old diplomat, who was never at fault for the right word, the right look, the right gesture.

And presently, alone in a compartment of the express which hurtled through innumerable tunnels towards Nice, he had settled himself in a corner and endeavoured to draw such deductions as were possible from his afternoon’s conversation with the countess, and to decide how much of it was grist for his mill.

There was a plot, it seemed, to get the old king back on the throne. But that was nothing new. There had always been such a plot, ever since the day when the king and his family and a few adherents had been forced to flee the country. A plot was taken so much for granted, and seemed so certain to prove futile, that nobody gave it a second thought. Hitherto it had gathered to a head whenever the king was in extraordinary need of funds, and had faded away again as soon as the funds were secured from some too-credulous speculator.

But this time it seemed to be unusually serious, and involved, so the baron had hinted, not only the restoration of the king, but the financing of the country. Heaven knows it needed financing, and no doubt the baron was right—the king would be welcomed back with open arms, if only he brought some money with him. There was no doubt that he had won an immense personal popularity during his half century of power. Most of his subjects had never known any other ruler, and probably desired no other. He had mixed with them as a father with his children—an old-world father, to be sure, whose word was law. He had become a court of last resort to which his subjects were forever appealing to settle their disputes, especially their domestic disputes—a court the more highly esteemed because no fees were exacted, though the gift of a lamb, or a dozen chickens, or a crock of butter, was always appreciated.

He had lived in a state of patriarchal simplicity, carefully contrived and adroitly advertised, so that the peasant woman baked her bread with the pleasant consciousness that the queen baked hers also, and when some shopkeeper or petty farmer compared the time with the king in the public square of the capital, he saw that the king’s watch was of brass like his own. When he went to the bank to make a little deposit, he was as likely as not to encounter the king there, also putting aside a portion of his savings.

Moreover this far-seeing monarch had not relied on popular prestige alone, but had further strengthened his position by marrying his ten children into most of the courts of Europe. For his eldest son he had chosen a Hohenzollern princess; his eldest daughter was now queen of a dominion far larger than her father’s; two other daughters had captured Russian Grand Dukes; and a strange turn of fortune, combined with a bloody tragedy, had brought a grandson to a throne.

So, if any king could be safe, he had seemed to be—and yet all these safeguards had been swept away by the World War. The passion for democracy which emerged from it had decreed that kings must go, and Pietro had found himself cast aside with all the others. But a revulsion had already begun; the feeling was growing that an ordered government, however despotic, was better than a disordered one, however ideal in theory; and kings and princes, exiled in Switzerland or Holland or along the Riviera, were beginning to pick up heart of hope and gather their partisans about them.

Yet, Selden told himself, sitting there and turning all this over in his mind, despite the fact that this revulsion was being sedulously fostered by financiers and aristocrats and every one else who had been despoiled of money or power by the new order, there was not the slightest hope for any of them, except perhaps for this one canny old patriarch. Certainly there was no hope for the pompous coward at Doorn or the perjured neurasthenic at Lucerne. But for this old autocrat—well, perhaps, if he could get hold of enough money to organize an opposition and carry on a campaign. No doubt many of his mountaineers thought he was still ruling over them!

The train creaked to a stop under the great glass-roofed shed at Nice, and Selden clambered down to the platform and made his way through the exit to the street. He saw that it was only a minute or two past eight, so he drew his coat about him and started to walk.

For the first time since the outbreak of the war Nice was experiencing a really prosperous season, and it had gone to the head of that mercurial city. The newly-named Avenue des Victoires hummed with traffic, the side-walks were crowded with chattering people, happy again in having a host of strangers to despoil. The gorgeous shops on either side were a blaze of light, with their choicest wares displayed in their windows. They were devoted almost entirely to articles de luxe, and they seemed to Selden, as he glanced into them, more luxurious and far more expensive than ever.

Where the money came from no one knew, but vaster sums than ever before were being frittered away on articles of vanity and personal adornment. The wealth of the world seemed to have passed suddenly into the hands of women, who were flinging it recklessly to right and left. The season at Deauville had been marked by an extravagance wild beyond parallel, by such gambling as the world had never seen. Now it was here, along the Riviera, that the orgy was continued. And not here only, as he well knew, but in Paris, London, Brussels, Berlin—yes, even in Vienna and Budapest and Warsaw, before the eyes of starving spectators—the dance whirled on. Thoughtful men looked on aghast, but no one was wise enough to foretell how or when it would end. That the end would be disaster Selden did not for a moment doubt. He even looked forward to it with a certain pleasure!

The crowds in the street had delayed him a little, so at the Place Masséna he called a cab and gave the driver the address. In a moment they were clattering along the Promenade des Anglais, before a row of stately white villas and great hotels, looking out across the wide cement promenade upon the magic sea which stretched away to the horizon.

The Villa Gloria proved to be one of the most imposing of these edifices, with entrance barred by high iron gates, which were passed only after Selden had given his name and it had been duly checked upon a list in the hands of the concierge, who took a good look at him, evidently suspicious of any one arriving in a public cab. The establishment was plainly an elaborate one—maintained, so gossip said, from the private purse of the daughter who still retained a throne.

His hat and coat were taken from him by a bearded functionary in the native costume—which, to American eyes, savours so much of the bull-ring!—and another led the way up a wide stair, opened a door and announced him.

The room he entered was evidently the salon, but it was deserted except for the Baron Lappo, who was hastening forward across its empty spaces. Selden, rather taken aback, wondered uneasily if he could have mistaken the hour, but if he had, there was no sign of it in the baron’s greeting.

“It is a great pleasure to see you again,” he was saying. “I have spoken of you to the king, and he is most desirous of meeting you. I shall take you to him at once.”

Selden murmured his thanks and followed the baron down the length of the long room to a door at the other end. The baron knocked and, a voice bidding him enter, opened the door and motioned Selden to precede him. Stepping through, Selden found himself in a little room, blue with tobacco smoke, which was evidently the king’s work cabinet. An imposing figure was seated at a desk near the window, and a secretary with a sheaf of papers was just making his escape through an opposite door.

Lappo led him forward.

“This is M. Selden, Your Majesty,” he said.

The figure at the desk rose to its feet—an impressive height.

“I am glad to meet you, sir,” said the king, in excellent English. “I have heard much of you and congratulate you upon your brilliant achievements.”

Selden, considerably abashed by this greeting, had the impression that he was shaking hands with an institution rather than with a man. The Institution of Royalty. He murmured something and sat down, in obedience to the king’s gesture. The king also reseated himself, his chair creaking loudly, but the baron remained standing.

Selden had seen a good many kings in the course of his career, but none who looked the part as this one did. The tall and dignified King of the Belgians was the closest second, but he lacked the picturesqueness, the air of mastery and profundity, which marked this old man. He sat there as though he ruled the world; he imposed himself.

He wore, as always, the costume of his country, rich and colourful with embroidery, and for head-covering a flat round brimless cap of blood-red satin, with his arms in gold upon the front. It became oddly his dark, semi-oriental countenance, with its hawk-nose, its grizzled moustache drooping on either side the full lips, and its deeply cleft chin. But it was the eyes which impressed Selden most. They were very dark and very large, and had a peculiar cast, or lack of focus, which gave them the effect of looking not at one, but into and through one and out on the other side, distinctly disconcerting until one grew used to it. Indeed, just at first, Selden had the impression that the king was gazing fixedly at some one behind him.

“I hope you will not mind,” went on the king, “if I speak in French. I speak English, it is true, and I have insisted that all of my children should learn that language, though I regret to say that some of them forgot, as they forgot other of my teachings, after they left my house. But I have not in it the precision which I have in French.”

“It astonishes me, sir, that you speak English so well,” said Selden. “I found very few people in the Balkans who could speak it at all, unless they had lived in America.”

“Ah, monsieur,” said the king, a little sadly, “when one’s kingdom is so small that from its centre one can see almost to its borders, and when beyond those borders are age-old enemies searching ceaselessly for an avenue of attack, one must take care to neglect nothing. As you perhaps know, I have had six daughters and four sons. Yes, I believe in large families,” he added, with a smile. “I once had a most interesting discussion upon that subject with your great Roosevelt. We found ourselves in entire accord. I wish I could have married one of my girls to one of his boys—it would have been for the good of the race!”

Selden nodded his agreement. Yes, that would have been a new strain! He was more and more fascinated by this astonishing old man.

“But what I wished to say,” went on the king, “was this—that since my kingdom was such a small one—small, you understand, monsieur, in size, but very great in spirit, in tradition and in pride—it was necessary that I strengthen myself wherever possible by alliances. So my children were taught many languages, English among them, and since I could not permit them to be wiser than their father, I was forced to learn them too, though of course I learned them much less readily. But the effort they cost me has been many times repaid by the ability they gave me to converse with men of many nations, whose minds would otherwise have remained closed to me, and to read many things of which otherwise I should have been ignorant—your interesting articles upon my country, for example, and upon Austria and central Europe in general. I congratulate you again upon them—their point of view is not always mine, but I can see that they have been based upon an accuracy of observation and breadth of sympathy altogether unusual. Will you have a cigarette? No? Tobacco is my one dissipation—I am getting too old for any other.”

He took a fat Turkish cigarette from a case on his desk, lighted it carefully, and blew an immense gust of smoke toward the ceiling.

“When my good Lappo told me this morning of having met you yesterday,” he went on, “and suggested that you be asked this evening half an hour in advance of the other guests, I thought it a most happy idea. Lappo has many happy ideas,” with a smile at the baron. “I should be lost without him. Having read your articles, I welcomed the opportunity to explain to you something of my point of view. It is no secret that I am trying to regain my kingdom, of which I have been unjustly deprived. I shall continue to try until I succeed, or until I die. It is a point of honour with me. But I infer from your articles that you would not be sympathetic toward such a restoration?”

“It seems to me, sir,” Selden answered, “that the republican form of government is best for any people, because it opens the way for opportunity and self-development. And I do not believe in the hereditary right to rule—to dispose of people’s lives and fortunes, and to control their happiness.”

“I do not see,” said the king, “that the hereditary right to rule differs in principle from the hereditary right to property. Because this right is sometimes abused, I do not suppose that you would abolish it altogether?”

“No,” said Selden, “I have not yet got quite as far as Communism. But I think hereditary fortunes—all wealth, indeed—should be limited and controlled.”

“So should the hereditary right to rule be limited and controlled—as it is in England, perhaps. Ah, I can see what you are thinking,” added the king, with a smile. “You are thinking that deposed monarchs are always democrats; that I am a new convert to this idea—but there you are wrong. I gave my people a constitution long ago. It was not as liberal as England’s, true; but one cannot scale a mountain at a single bound. One must climb step by step. Even republics are not always perfect!”

“Oh, they never are!” Selden agreed. “They sometimes do disgraceful things—unaccountable things—ours has in turning its back on Europe. But however ignorant and selfish they may appear, they are nevertheless a step forward toward the liberation of mankind.”

“Perhaps so; but I repeat that it may sometimes be too long a step to take safely all at once. My argument, monsieur, is this: One cannot suddenly give complete liberty to a people who for centuries have been accustomed to guidance and control without running the risk of very grave disaster. Civilization is the result of people working together, of a vast co-ordination. When government fails, and the people fall apart into little groups, each working for itself, civilization fails too. Rather than take such a risk, the wise man proceeds slowly and with caution—he seeks to lead the people upward gradually, a small step at a time.”

“That is true, sir,” agreed Selden. “The trouble is that in the past they have often not been led upward at all, but kept ground down in the mud at the bottom of the pit by the fear and the greed of their rulers. If they have progressed, it has been in spite of their rulers.”

“In the past, perhaps; not in the future. That day, monsieur, will never return. The war has liberated the world from slavery to old forms and old ideas.”

“I believe so with all my heart,” said Selden. “Our task is to keep it from sliding back again.”

“But the war was not able to make men wise all at once,” said the king. “So we must also take care not to become the slaves of new ideas which are worse than the old ones, or which are really only the old ones cleverly disguised with a new name. There will always be in the world, monsieur, men who seek wealth and power for unscrupulous and selfish ends. As I look about me at the present state of Europe, I fear sometimes that it is falling into the hands of such men. I fear....”

There was a tap at the door. The king glanced at a little clock on his desk.

“The other guests are arriving,” he said, and rose. “I have enjoyed our talk very much, M. Selden, and especially your frankness. We must continue it sometime. Meanwhile I confide you to the good Lappo,” and he bowed with the most engaging cordiality.

CHAPTER X
THE BOMB BURSTS

SELDEN was conscious of a distinct liking and admiration for the old monarch as he watched him hasten forward to meet the new arrivals, two women and a man.

“It is M. Davis, with his mother and his sister,” explained the baron, who had remained behind a moment until the king’s greetings were over.

Selden saw with some astonishment that it was indeed the same young Davis whom he had met at the Sporting Club the night before. Why should the king invite these Americans to dinner? And especially why should he welcome them so warmly—with such graciousness combined with patriarchal dignity? Why should he pat Miss Davis’s hand as though he were her father? What was the meaning of the baron’s faultless deference? Who were these Davises, anyway?

These questions flashed through his head in the moment during which the king bent over the hands of the ladies and inquired solicitously about their health. Then it was the baron’s turn; and then Davis turned and saw Selden.

“Why, hello,” he said, and came over and shook hands. “Sis will be tickled to death to see you.”

“Yes,” said the king, whom nothing escaped, and who had evidently been coached by his good Lappo, “I felt certain that Miss Davis would be glad to meet so distinguished a countryman—and you also, madame,” and he brought Selden forward and introduced him.

The elder woman surveyed him through her lorgnette, evidently wondering who he was, and her greeting was perfunctory in the extreme, but when he shook hands with her daughter, he found himself looking into a pair of eyes fairly dancing with excitement.

“Yes, indeed,” she said, “I am glad to meet you. Your articles seem to me perfectly wonderful. I have read them all!”

“That is a great compliment,” said Selden, laughing a little at her enthusiasm. “I doubt if there is any one else who has read them all! You are interested in politics, then?”

“Oh, there was much more than politics—but I liked them especially because they were so—so brave, so optimistic.”

The baron had drawn near and was listening smilingly.

“Too much so perhaps,” said Selden, with a glance at him. “That, at least, is the opinion of M. le Baron.”

“No, no; you do me wrong!” protested the baron. “I think merely that there is a safer road up the mountain than the one you indicate—at least up the mountains of my country, which is very mountainous indeed!”

“And perhaps you are right, M. le Baron,” agreed Selden, amiably.

Miss Davis had been listening with an intensity which puzzled him.

“I want to be quite sure that I understand,” she said. “M. le Baron and I have talked a great deal about your point of view. His idea is that the old régime could do much more for his country than is possible under the new one.”

“If the old régime adopted some new ideas, and could arrange to finance the country, he is probably right,” Selden conceded.

“Ah, mademoiselle, you see!” cried the baron, obviously elated. “It is as I told you! But come, the king has something to say to you.”

What the king had to say seemed of a semi-confidential, not to say romantic, nature; at least Miss Davis laughed and blushed and shook her head. Left to himself for a moment, Selden had an opportunity to examine the two women.

As for the mother, her origin, character and ambitions were written large all over her—in her plump face with its insignificant features and bright little eyes like a bird’s; in the figure, too fat, too tightly corseted; in the voice, too loud and not quite sure of its grammar; in the gown, too elaborate, and the jewels, too abundant—a woman who had once, no doubt, been a good sort with a certain dignity and genuineness, but who had been spoiled by prosperity and also, perhaps, by a careless and too-indulgent husband—an American husband. Selden could see him, in company with countless others, labouring away at home to make the money which his wife and family were frittering away on the pleasure-grounds of Europe!

The boy was curiously like her, but the daughter was of a different and much finer type, and Selden guessed that she carried on the father’s strain. Not strikingly beautiful, but fresh-skinned and wholesome, with a face delicately chiselled and touched just the slightest, when in repose, by sadness or disillusion—just a little too old and too reserved for its years; in this respect more of Europe than of America. Perhaps it was the mother who had disillusioned her....

But why should the king listen to them both with such attention? Why should the baron be so deferential? Could it be possible that these people had something to do with the plot?

The baron, seeing Selden standing alone, managed to guide him back to Mrs. Davis, whose cool greeting he had noted, and for which he proceeded at once to atone.

“It is not often we have with us a man of such wide influence as M. Selden,” he began.

“The baron exaggerates,” Selden hastened to assure her. “I am just a newspaper man, Mrs. Davis.”

“Oh!” said Mrs. Davis, using her lorgnette again. Her experiences with newspaper men had not always been fortunate, and she distrusted them.

“But a newspaper man, as you call it, the most distinguished,” the baron persisted. “Perhaps you have heard your daughter and myself discussing some of his theories.”

“Perhaps I have,” she agreed uncertainly.

“M. Selden is a democrat the most pronounced,” went on the baron, no whit discouraged; “but we are trying to convince him that a monarchy also may have its virtues.”

“I am sure there is little to be said for democracies,” said Mrs. Davis severely, as one lecturing a small child, “when one sees their horrible blunders. And such men!”

“They do blunder,” Selden agreed; “but at least it is their own blunders they suffer from, so there is a sort of poetic justice in it.”

“No, it is other people who suffer,” said Mrs. Davis. “They rob every one. When I think that my income tax this year....”

She was interrupted by the announcement of the Countess Rémond, and was instantly so absorbed in contemplation of that unusual woman that she quite forgot to go on.

The Countess Rémond had said that she was going to dress with care, but Selden had foreseen no such finished perfection, and moreover it was at once apparent that she was as much at home in a king’s drawing-room as in any other. Nothing could have been more correct, more perfect, than the way she acknowledged the introduction to the king which the baron made. The king himself regarded her with an appreciative eye, for he had always been a connoisseur of women, holding her hand the tiniest fraction of a second longer than was necessary, and took advantage of the moment when the baron was continuing the introductions to motion the major-domo to him and give him some brief instructions in an undertone. As that solemn functionary bowed and hastened away, Selden guessed that the king had suddenly decided upon a rearrangement of the places at table.

The way in which the countess greeted the ladies was also a work of art, it was so charming, so cordial, so gracious, without a trace of that arrogance which alas! too often marks the bearing of ladies of the old world toward ladies of the new, and which indeed one might well expect of a countess. Her indifference to the men was almost as marked; she acknowledged their presence with the coolest of nods, and turned back at once to the women as far more interesting. The elder, flattered, almost inarticulate, was already at her feet, and the younger was visibly impressed. The countess was confiding to them something about her gown—the clumsiness of maids....

Selden noted the satisfied smile which the baron could not wholly repress, the energetic way in which he polished his glass. Evidently the countess was playing the game—whatever the game might be—very much to his liking.

“I have heard so much of you and of your daughter from my old friend, Baron Lappo,” the countess continued to the enraptured Mrs. Davis, speaking with a pronounced and very taking accent which Selden had not heretofore noted in her speech. “Permit me to say that your daughter is lovely—the true queenly type!”

Mrs. Davis sputtered her delight. Her daughter blushed crimson. Selden gaped a little at the adjective. Queenly—now what did she mean by that? And looking at the countess more closely, he saw that in some way she had subtly altered her appearance; her face seemed longer, her eyes had a little slant, her lips were not so full....

“I see you are not accustomed to such frankness,” she rattled on; “but I am frank or nothing. If I think nice things about people, I believe in saying them—yes, even to their faces; ugly ones, also, sometimes!”

“But you talk almost like an American!” cried Mrs. Davis.

“It was in America I learned my English,” the countess explained. “I was there with my parents as a girl. At Washington.”

Mrs. Davis had a vision of the countess’s father as a great diplomat. But Selden had another start. She had not mentioned Washington to him that afternoon; she had spoken only of Montana.

Miss Davis had been looking at the countess intently, with startled eyes, as though striving to recall some memory.

“I should be so glad to talk to you about it,” added the countess. She had noticed the girl’s intent look, and turned full face to her, so that she got all the benefit of the slanting eyes and the thin, arched brows. “Perhaps you will have tea with me....”

“You must have tea with us!” cried Mrs. Davis. “To-morrow?”

“If you wish,” assented the countess with a gracious smile, which included the younger woman.

Meanwhile the king and the baron had been consulting together in undertones; from their aspect it was evident that something had gone amiss.

“I was forced to send Danilo on an important errand this afternoon,” said the king finally, “and he has not yet returned. He has had an accident perhaps.”

“Oh, I hope not!” cried Mrs. Davis. “That would be too terrible!”

“If any one was injured,” said the king with a smile, “it was undoubtedly some one else, in which case he would be detained only until he had satisfied the police. But I do not think we shall wait any longer. Baron, will you summon the Princess Anna?”

The baron disappeared and presently returned with a tall young lady on his arm. She was perhaps twenty-five, very dark, with a perceptible moustache, and very thin.

“This is my youngest daughter, Anna,” said the king, “named, as all my daughters were, for one of the great saints of my country.”

The Princess Anna bowed to the guests without taking her hand from the baron’s arm. She, at least, seemed to have no reason to ingratiate herself with the rich Americans!

The king nodded, and the doors at the end of the room swung back, disclosing the gleaming table beyond.

“May I have the honour, madame?” and he offered his arm to Mrs. Davis.

Selden permitted young Davis to take the countess, and followed with the sister.

“Were you really in earnest a moment ago?” she inquired in a low voice.

“In earnest?”

“Yes—in saying the baron might be right?”

“Why, yes; entirely so,” he answered, puzzled by the intensity of her look.

She took a deep breath and turned her head away for an instant.

And then they were at the table.

When they were seated, he found himself still at her right. Beyond her was a vacant place, evidently for Danilo, while beyond that, and to the right of the king, sat the countess. Selden smiled to find his surmise correct—even at eighty, the king had not lost interest in pretty women!

Mrs. Davis was at the king’s left, while beyond her, the baron, the Princess Anna and young Davis, who had been adroitly detached from the countess, completed the company.

The king, with patriarchal dignity, asked grace in his native tongue, somewhat to the confusion of his guests. Selden could see Mrs. Davis regarding with a startled eye the red cap which the king made no motion to remove. Then came the soup, and she was startled again to see the Princess Anna rise and serve her father.

“In our country,” the king explained, with a smile, seeing her glance, “it is the custom for the daughters to serve their parents. I consider it a very good custom, and my daughters have always followed it. As you know,” he went on, tasting the soup with an approving smack of the lips, “I have a daughter who is a queen, but when she comes to visit her father, she still gives him to eat.”

The picture of a queen ladling out the soup was too much for Mrs. Davis, and she gasped audibly. Or perhaps it was the soup, which she at that moment tasted. The king had brought his native chef with him from Goritza, and this soupe à l’oignon was one of his masterpieces, but it was rather a shock to the unaccustomed palate, especially if the cheese was a little strong. But since it came from a royal kitchen, Mrs. Davis battled with it manfully. The king asked for a second serving.

It was at that moment the prince appeared.

Selden was sure he had never looked more handsome. His eyes were shining; his dark skin, usually a little sallow, was most becomingly flushed. He seemed in the gayest possible mood—even a reckless mood.

“No, do not rise,” said the king to his guests, motioned the prince to his side and put to him a stern question in his native tongue. The prince replied expansively; for an instant a scowl of displeasure threatened the king’s countenance, then he smiled blandly round upon the company.

“It was as I thought,” he said. “Fortunately no one was killed. Make your apologies, sir, to the ladies.”

The prince, with a mocking light in his eyes, bent over Mrs. Davis, and raised her plump hand to his lips.

“It was really impatience to be with you, madame, which caused the accident,” he said gaily. “A speed too swift—a road slippery from the rain....”

“Oh, what a fib!” broke in the lady, tapping him playfully with her lorgnette. But never for an instant did she suspect how great a fib it was!

The prince made his other greetings swiftly, then dropped into the seat beside Miss Davis, kissed her fingers as he had her mother’s, and spoke a low sentence into her ear. And Selden, noting the quick flush which swept across her cheek, noting the baron’s attentive eyes, noting the king’s benignant good-humour, understood in that instant the whole plot.

For a flash his eyes met those of the Countess Rémond, who was smiling cynically, maliciously, as though at some long-cherished vengeance about to be accomplished. Then he turned back to his plate, his heart hot with resentment. It was horrible that a girl like that should be sacrificed to the ambitions of a worldly mother! No wonder she was disillusioned! And to a libertine like the prince! Of that, of course, she could have no suspicion, and she would find it out too late. Of happiness there was not the slightest possibility.

Yet—was there not? He looked again at Myra Davis—there was something in her face that said she was not a fool, that she had had some experience of the world, so she must know something of the ways of princes. And it would be exciting to be the wife of a man like that—to be compelled to hold one’s place against all the other women....

And he would teach her many things.

Of love, as the average American understood it—mutual trust, mutual respect, common interests, fidelity, placid affection—nothing at all; but there would be bursts of passion, shattering experiences, and if she were strong enough to survive being cast down from the heights from time to time, she might win through, might in the end even hold him. At least she might find such a life more interesting than the placidity of the meadows. There was always that choice in life between emotion and tranquillity, and Selden had never been able to make up his mind which was the wiser.

To be a queen—even an unhappy one—even of a tiny kingdom....

But what of Madame Ghita? Did she know of this? Was that why they had met her driving toward Nice? Did she intend to interfere?

And was it conceivable that any man would leave a woman like that?

Probably the prince had no intention of leaving her—and again Selden glowed with indignation. But he was conscious, deep down in his heart, that his indignation was not so much for the girl at his side as for that other woman, about to be deserted, or, worse still, compelled to share....

He awoke abruptly to the knowledge that Miss Davis was addressing him.

“You have been there quite recently, have you not, Mr. Selden?”

“Oh, yes,” he answered, guessing instinctively where she meant. “Only a couple of months ago.”

“Are the people happy?”

“Yes, in a way. Of course life is very hard among those bleak mountains. But then it has always been. They are used to it.”

“It is more hard than ever now, is it not?” put in the baron, from across the table.

“It is harder than ever all over Europe,” said Selden. “This generation will never know the old ease.”

“That is true,” agreed the baron; “yet, with proper guidance, some nations will emerge more quickly than others. What our little country needs is, first of all, a firm and experienced hand at the helm, and, secondly, capital to revive its industries, repeople its pastures and fertilize its fields. With those, it will be the first nation in Europe to find its feet again.”

“Undoubtedly,” said Selden; “but where is the capital to come from?”

“Do you really think he is right?” asked Myra Davis, in a low voice.

Selden was conscious that the eyes of the whole table were on them, and that the whole table was waiting for his answer.

“Yes, I really believe so,” he said.

“And that the people would be happier?” she persisted.

Then he understood. Here at least was one of the forces urging her forward. But it would take millions—she should understand that.

“Yes,” he said slowly, with a strange sense of responsibility. “They would be stronger, perhaps, if compelled to work out their own destinies. But not happier. Certainly they would be glad to have the way cleared for them. But to do it effectively would take a large sum—a very large sum—many millions.”

There was no secret about it any longer—they were all sitting there waiting for her decision.

“And, mademoiselle,” pursued the baron, “our little kingdom would be like home to you; since you have already lived so long among our people.”

Selden looked the question he scarcely felt at liberty to utter.

“Nearly all of our people who went to America settled in one place,” explained the baron, “in the town founded by the father of mademoiselle and named after him. There they assisted the development of an enormous property—a mountain of copper.”

A great light burst upon Selden. So it was that Davis—the copper king! Well, there would be millions enough!

But those were the people who had come back from America to make their own country a republic also—Jeneski had told him the story; it was their labour which had amassed those millions which were to be used to rivet back upon them the chains they had broken! He did not know whether to laugh or weep at the savage irony of it!

The king had bent over toward Mrs. Davis and asked her a swift question, his face purple with excitement; she had glanced toward her daughter and a long look had passed between them. Selden could see the baron’s mesmeric gaze upon the girl. She looked down, she looked up; then her cheeks went crimson, and she nodded her head.

The king, with beaming face, signed to the attendants to fill the glasses.

“Mesdames et messieurs,” he said, rising, glass in hand, “I have in my life, which has been a long one, had many happy moments, but none so happy as this, when it is my privilege to announce the betrothal of my grandson and successor, Prince Danilo, and the fair young lady who sits beside him. Let us drink to their happiness and to that of my beloved country!”

He drained his glass, sent it crashing over his shoulder, trundled around the table, caught the girl in his arms, and kissed her resoundingly upon each cheek.

“My dear,” he said, “the young rascal shall make you happy—I promise it. Otherwise, I will disinherit him, and you shall reign alone!”

CHAPTER XI
SELDEN MAKES HIS CHOICE

IT was difficult to quiet down, after that, and go on with the dinner.

The whole house was buzzing with the great news, and Selden was sure that champagne was being consumed even more liberally below stairs than above. Probably the king knew it too, but for once he did not care. Looking at him sitting there triumphant and benignant, Selden was reminded of nothing so much as of some Biblical patriarch—Abraham, perhaps. Certainly at this moment the king’s bosom seemed wide enough to contain the whole world. He was ready to forgive all his enemies!

The baron fairly scintillated, for this was his great hour of triumph. Even the dark, immobile face of the Princess Anna was illumined as by some inward light. She had come around the table and kissed the bride-to-be solemnly on the forehead, as though consecrating her to a sacred cause.

Mrs. Davis was radiant, and more inarticulate than ever—which was of small importance since nobody listened to her. Here was the greatest marriage which any American family had ever achieved: there had been dukes and counts, perhaps an earl or two, and in one case the brother of a king (also deposed); but never before a Crown Prince. Her daughter would be the first American girl to sit upon a throne! No wonder she was overcome, a little hysterical, very warm with excitement and champagne, dabbing her eyes now and then and looking altogether ridiculous. She had never really believed it would happen—Myra was such a strange girl; yet here it was. And she had a vision of Myra sitting on her throne, with an ermine robe and crown of diamonds, very regal, and she herself, considerably thinner than in life, standing a little to one side but very near, also with ermine and brilliants; and diplomats and statesmen in white satin knee breeches coming up to be presented, as she had seen them in a picture of one of Queen Victoria’s receptions, and the crowd bowing, very happy and loyal....

The Countess Rémond was also deeply moved, though in a dark and threatening way that puzzled Selden. Her eyes were gleaming exultantly, her lips were drawn back in a smile that was almost a snarl, as she bent her gaze upon Myra Davis, and a spasm of nervous emotion ran across her face from time to time, in spite of her efforts to repress it. There was something bloodthirsty and wolf-like about her, which gave Selden a little shiver of repulsion, for he felt that he was looking at the real woman, with all her veils torn aside, and it seemed almost indecent. She had the veils up in a moment, and was again the calm and smiling woman of the world, but Selden never forgot the shock of that moment’s revelation, and any feeling of tenderness he may have had for her died then and there. He felt only that she was a woman to be watched and to be feared.

Young Davis had gone suddenly morose, but that may have been because of his high alcoholic content; and the look he bent upon his sister had something ironic and mocking in it, as though he alone understood her, and found her far from admirable. Few girls, however, are altogether admirable to their brothers!

Of the whole company, the affianced pair were by far the most composed. The prince had, indeed, kissed the girl’s hand at the end of the king’s speech, but his demonstration had ended there. As for Myra Davis, except that her eyes were larger and darker than usual, there was no outward evidence that she was in any way excited. Selden wondered where she had gained such self-control.

The dinner came to an end, at last, the bride-to-be was carried away by the other women, Danilo bowing over her hand at the door, and the men were left together to discuss the great event.

It was the king who opened the discussion.

“I trust that you are pleased, M. Selden,” he said. “I was hoping that the announcement might be made to-night, but I was not sure. I am very happy that you were present.”

“If I am not mistaken,” put in the baron, “M. Selden himself had something to do with bringing about the decision.”

“Perhaps so,” said Selden. “I had no suspicion what it was leading to, but I only said what I thought.”

“You said it admirably,” commented the baron.

“But I confess,” Selden continued, “that I am astonished you should care so much for my opinion. After all, what does it matter?”

The baron glanced at the king, who nodded.

“I have been expecting that question,” said the baron, “and I am going to answer it frankly. We have nothing to conceal, therefore let us place all the cards on the table. It is, then, not yet entirely clear ahead. To restore the dynasty—yes, that will not be difficult. But to win the approval of the public opinion of the world, that will not be so easy. This is a day when republics, however inefficient, are in favour, and when kings, however enlightened, are looked at askance. There was a time when public opinion outside of one’s own country could be disregarded, but that is so no longer. There is the League of Nations, to which Jeneski sends a delegate; there is the Supreme Council, claiming wide powers as the organ of public opinion. We have witnessed recently the spectacle of a king called back to his country by a majority of his people, and yet likely at any time to lose his throne a second time because the public opinion of the world is against him, and no important country will recognize him. We wish to avoid that mistake.”

Selden nodded; it was his own opinion that Constantine would find it very difficult to cling to his throne.

“That our country will be vastly benefited by this restoration I do not for a moment doubt,” went on the baron. “You have yourself perceived how deeply this great opportunity appeals to Miss Davis. Nevertheless, we shall have to maintain our position at first against great prejudice. It will be said at once that we have bought our way back to power, our enemies will dig up old scandals and invent new ones; there will be a bitter campaign against us. Well, we want you on our side. Wait,” he added, as Selden made a gesture of negation; “hear me out. What we are asking you to do is this: to observe us, to question us, to dissect our motives, and to report faithfully what you see and learn; to be present at the restoration and to examine our conduct. We do not fear public opinion, monsieur, if it is correctly informed. I am sure that we may count upon you to do so much.”

“Why, yes,” said Selden; “of course I shall be glad to do that—I should have done that anyway—only....”

“Only you must be free to say what you wish—but certainly! What we hope is to convince you, and through you the world—especially England and America. America will have a deep interest in this restoration; there has never before been an American queen.”

“We have a convention that they are all queens!” laughed Selden. “But of course there will be tremendous interest in a real one. May I begin asking questions at once?”

“Please ask as many as you wish!”

“How do you propose to accomplish this restoration? Not by force, I hope?”

“Certainly not! We shall first approach Jeneski and his ministers, lay before them our plans for the country, and invite them to withdraw. I am hoping that they will do so. After all, Jeneski is a patriot.”

“But should they still foolishly persist?”

“The Assembly is to be elected in March. We will carry the elections and the new Assembly will recall the king.”

“You will bribe the electors?”

“Not at all. We will explain to them, as we did to Jeneski and his ministers, our plans for the development and enrichment of the country; we will organize our friends and spend some money in propaganda—yes. But that is legitimate—even in America, I understand.”

“Yes,” said Selden; “nobody can object to that.”

“Do not forget, M. Selden, as I have already pointed out to you, that the king is very popular with his people. He could have appealed to them before this with every hope of success; but before he did so, he wished to be in position to assure their future.”

“You are sure that Miss Davis will wish to use her millions in this way?”

“But, yes—have you not yourself seen it? She is on fire at the great opportunity—such as comes to very few women. And there is a certain justice, it seems to me, in the fact that the millions wrung from that mountain of copper by the labour of our young men are to be used for the succour and rejuvenation of their country.”

“That is one way of regarding it, certainly,” Selden conceded. He glanced at young Davis, who, more morose than ever, was tracing patterns with his glass on the cloth. Had he no interest in his sister’s future? Well, there was one question which must be asked, and he himself would ask it. “What about Miss Davis herself—her happiness, her well-being? Is she going to be just a tool in your hands?”

Davis looked up, his eyes a little bloodshot, an ironical smile upon his lips, as though wondering how Selden could be so silly.

“I thank you for that question, sir,” put in the king, with the utmost earnestness. “As for Miss Davis, I charge myself with her. She shall be my daughter. Have no fear. I was entirely serious in what I said just now about the succession. I shall have the necessary papers executed and passed by the Assembly so that, in case of my death, my wishes can be carried out if there is need.”

Danilo shrugged his shoulders. After all, he seemed to say, there were many places in the world more amusing than his bleak little capital. And there was Madame Ghita....

The king regarded him sombrely.

“Young people to-day are lacking in reverence,” he said, speaking in French. “They have no sense of responsibility. It was not so in my time. I had only nineteen years when my uncle died—Danilo, after whom this young man is named—and I was proclaimed Prince. It was not until fifty years later that the Powers accorded me the title of King. During all that time I had laboured ceaselessly; I had driven pestilence and famine from my country; I had organized an army and defeated the Turk; I had founded a system of education, which still remains the best in the Balkans; I had granted my people a Constitution and an Assembly, and was leading them along the path of self-government.

“Then the war came and without hesitation I chose the side of the Entente against the Turk and the Prussian. My little country was seized and overrun, my army was captured, everything seemed lost; but in my exile I waited patiently, certain that my allies would win and would restore me to my throne. That would seem to be simple justice, would it not, monsieur?”

Selden nodded. Undoubtedly there was a good deal to be said on the king’s side—and the king was an excellent advocate!

“I was aware,” went on the king with dignity, “that certain old enemies of mine were seeking to defame me, but I despised them. It is true that my eldest son had married a German woman, but that was nearly forty years ago. It is true that another son took refuge in Vienna and fought with the Austrians, but it was not with my consent—there was nothing I could do. It is a lie that my army surrendered unnecessarily; it was on the verge of starvation. It is a lie that I intrigued against my allies. Nevertheless there were some who believed these lies.”

His eyes were flashing and he was pounding the table with his fist.

“What happened, sir, at the end?” Selden asked. “I have heard many stories—I should like to know the true one.”

“And you shall, sir,” said the king. “I want the world to know it. This is what happened: When we entered the war, some hundreds of our people who had lived in America returned to fight for their country. That was their duty. Nevertheless I salute them for coming back! Many had gone to America because they had some grievance against me—it is impossible to please every one!—and over there those grievances had magnified. Also some of our young men had gone to Vienna or to Belgrade to study and had brought back with them ideas so dangerous that we were compelled to forbid them the country. These also for the most part had gone to America, and among them there had grown up a sentiment of revolution. They even sent back, from time to time, an emissary to assassinate me. I did not mind that,” the king added with a smile. “It rendered life less dull. But it enraged my people.”

The baron nodded solemnly.

“There were two attempts,” he said; “it was not a thing to jest about.”

“Ah, well,” said the king, with a wave of his hand, “all that was long ago! But these men came back. We could not inquire then as to their sentiments; the times were desperate—we had need of all of them. But they brought their ideas into the army, and, after the surrender, during the long months in the prison camps of Austria, they had the opportunity to propagate their poison. It spread everywhere.

“Then came the end. Austria withdrew her troops for a last stand against Italy; was defeated and surrendered. I was already back in my capital, with Lappo here, striving to restore order, when the prison camps were opened and the army came streaming back. Jeneski, who had been waiting for that moment, met them at the frontier, called together a number of his partisans, declared for a republic, and marched against me. I had no forces to oppose him, and again was driven into exile. In spite of my representations, he persuaded the conference at Paris to confirm this so-called republic. But he was ill at ease; he knew that I had still some power; and he offered me a huge sum if I would abdicate. I refused. A king cannot abdicate. Only cowards abdicate. And I would not further impoverish my country. No, monsieur, I am still king!”

Majesty—it was a word befitting that memorable figure, which had been buffeted by the storms of eighty years and was still unconquered. There was something epic about it—Homeric—so that one forgot its follies and its sins, and remembered only its gallantry.

“Yes, and my grandson shall be king after me,” he went on, with an irate eye upon Danilo; “and after him my great-grandson. Whether they reign or not, that is in the hands of providence; but they shall be kings none the less. For kingship is not a thing that one can lay down at will; it is something that one is born, as one is born a man. It is one’s blood.”

A certain anxiety might have been discerned in the attentive Lappo’s eye. He knew his king—he knew the smallest corner of his mind—and he feared perhaps that he might become too expansive with the warmth of the wine—might go on to Divine Right and heaven-sent prerogative. At any rate he coughed rather markedly.

And the king, who also knew his Lappo, understood. He emptied his glass and rose.

“It is time we joined the ladies,” he said.

“One moment, sir,” interjected Selden. “I realize that I am a guest here to-night; I appreciate very deeply the confidence you have shown me and the candour with which you have spoken. I ask you, therefore, how much of this you would wish me to use.”

“Why, all of it, my friend!” cried the king. “How little you understand me! All of it!”

“Thank you, sir,” said Selden, and glanced at his watch. “In that case, I must be making my adieux.”

“Certainly,” said the king; “but I count upon seeing you soon again. You wish to speak to me?” he added to Danilo, for the prince, who had grown more and more distrait during this apologia, had risen and come close to his side.

He spoke for a moment earnestly in the king’s ear, and again Selden saw overspreading the royal features the same cloud he had noticed once before that evening. Nevertheless the king listened patiently until the prince had finished, then, with an impatient shake of the head, waved him away.

“Come, messieurs,” he said, and led the way into the salon.

There was an ugly look in the prince’s eyes—the baron stepped to his side and fell behind with him, talking earnestly....

The ladies were seated before a wood fire crackling pleasantly on a wide hearth, and it was at once evident that the Countess Rémond was not only the centre of the scene, but completely dominated it. Mrs. Davis and her daughter sat close on either side of her, and the Princess Anna, her dark face unusually animated, bent above an embroidery-frame near by. And they were talking very, very confidentially.

The king paused for an instant on the threshold to contemplate this picture, so delightful and domestic, and then, as its occupants started to their feet, came forward with a benignant smile.

“No, no, do not rise,” he said, and himself sat down in a great chair which had been placed for him at a corner of the fireplace. “How many old scenes this brings back to me—evenings of long ago—you remember, Anna?—when we sat together around the fire, my family and I. We were very much out of the world, you understand, mesdames, there in that bleak corner of the earth, but at least we could have books and the critiques from Paris and our own lessons in the languages. I even wrote a poem now and then; yes, and a play, which was pronounced not too bad—celebrating one or another of our great patriots and martyrs. For even a small people, M. Selden, may have its great legends! Which reminds me that I must not detain you. M. Selden,” he added to the company, “goes to announce to the world the memorable event which has taken place here to-night.”

Selden’s eyes were on Myra Davis. He knew she would look at him and he wanted to see that look. But when it came it told him nothing. Already, it appeared, she was learning to wear the mask which all queens must wear!

So he made his adieux quickly. Only, when he came to the countess, she held his hand close for an instant and give him a long look, as though seeking to read his mind; but he was sure that she had not succeeded.

The baron, detaching himself from the prince, accompanied him to the door.

“I shall not see you for a few days,” he said. “It is necessary that I go to Paris at once to arrange certain matters. As soon as I return, I will let you know. I shall then be able to tell you more about our plans.”

“You are giving me a great scoop,” Selden pointed out; “an exclusive piece of news,” he added, as the baron stared. “If you wish that I should share it with others....”

The baron stopped him with a gesture.

“No, no, no,” he protested. “We wish it to be yours only; we shall be very happy if you can win some glory out of it. It will make certain chancelleries sit up, hein? this news? Shall I call a car for you?”

“No, thank you,” said Selden; “I prefer to walk,” and left him chuckling on the steps.

The great gates were clanged open for him and he passed through into the Promenade des Anglais. The night was soft and warm, with the rising moon painting a path of silver across the sea, and all the world was out to drink its beauty. He would have to go to the main postoffice to get his wire off promptly, and he walked on as rapidly as the crowd permitted.

Yes, the baron was right; this news would upset some of the chancelleries, especially those of other little republics, delicately balanced, not yet sure of existence. How would Jeneski take it? Time had not been able to dim the impression left upon him by that vivid enthusiast—a dreamer, if there ever was one, with a haunted look, as of a man with something gnawing at his heart; yet not entirely a dreamer—capable, at least, of turning into a man of action when some desperate crisis demanded it, and of giving and taking hard knocks. That hasty meeting at the frontier, that declaration of a republic—he had been a man of action then, and might be again!

Yet, even as he talked with him, Jeneski had seemed too much of another world, and that impression was deepened now. Jeneski’s visions were all of toil and conflict, of scaling the heights in search of human brotherhood; but very few people cared to scale heights. By far the most of them preferred to sit quietly at home, before a good fire, with hands folded complacently over a full belly. And that was precisely what the king would offer.

Should he, Selden, help or hinder?

It was too much, perhaps, to say that he could stop it; but the king was right in thinking that no dynasty could now endure unless the public opinion of the world approved. It would be easy to win that approval, there was so much to be said on the king’s side. It was only necessary to take him seriously.

And yet he was also singularly open to satire and to irony, as the Viennese had perceived when they built their comic operas about him. He could be painted—and perhaps with equal justice!—either as the patriotic and devoted father of his people, or as a senile survival of the Middle Ages, with a degenerate grandson for his heir.

There was the weak spot in his armour—his Achilles’ heel; Danilo, with his amours—with Madame Ghita....

But, after all, as the king had said, Danilo could be swept aside—would be swept aside, if necessary. He had the king’s word.

Why not, for the present at least, give the king the benefit of the doubt?

And, this point decided, Selden felt his special falling into shape in his brain, so that, when he reached the telegraph office, showed his credentials, and drew the first form from the box, it was ready to his pen.

Half an hour later, with a sigh of relief and satisfaction, he pushed the last sheet in to the impressed attendant, and started to put away his pen. Then, with a little smile, he drew out another form and wrote a hasty message.

“I will pay for this one,” he said, and waited until the attendant counted the words.

“This name, monsieur,” suggested the attendant, “perhaps you would better spell it.”

“J-e-n-e-s-k-i,” said Selden; “Jeneski.”