PART IV.—THURSDAY
CHAPTER XIX
SELDEN TAKES AN INVENTORY
“I HOPE to find love some day!”
Those words were in Selden’s mind when he went to sleep that night and when he awoke next morning, and he lay for a long time thinking of the woman who had uttered them and of the story she had told him. To find love some day—there was a fit ambition for every human heart! But how often it was pushed aside by greed, by cynicism, by selfishness, by fear—by any number of cold and worldly things!
As it had been with himself. He could not but admit it. Perhaps in some thin and far-off fashion, he still hoped to find love some day; there had been moments haunted by a vision of himself seated cosily before a glowing hearth, and not alone; but somehow, as the years passed, that figure sitting there in slippered ease had grown older and older, grey haired, even a little stiff in the joints from long campaigning. It had remained himself, indeed, but always himself thirty years hence.
For it is not only true that a rolling stone gathers no moss, but wishes to gather none; as time goes on, even grows to fear moss, or anything else that mars the hard smoothness which enables it to keep on rolling.
Selden had been rolling, now, for many years. It was his first assignment to foreign work, to cover one of the Balkan wars, which had enabled him to cast loose his anchors, and he had never been seriously tempted to pick them up again. He had come to love rolling for its own sake. The wandering life of the special writer was congenial to his blood. It was of intense interest, for it enabled him to get past the fire-lines at every holocaust, and it gave him a prestige, a sense of power, impossible to any sedentary job. The thought of being chained to a desk—of being chained even to a house—revolted him. He wanted always to be able to throw his things into a bag and take the road at a moment’s notice, without the necessity of explanations to any one, or anything to hold him back.
For a long time he had told himself that it was his career he was jealous of—that nothing should touch that. It should be his task to interpret Europe to America and America to Europe—to labour night and day to bring the peoples of the old and the new worlds to a mutual comprehension and a common interest. But of late, questionings had crept in, whispered doubts. Was he really accomplishing anything, was he really going ahead?
As he lay there that morning thinking it over, taking such inventory of himself as he could, he realized that it was no longer any thought for his career which drove him on, but merely the force of habit. He had reverted to type. The stone had been rolling so long that rolling had become a second nature.
For in spite of the convention which women sedulously foster and even sometimes believe, man is not by nature a domestic animal. He has been partially tamed by centuries of restraint, his spirit has been broken by the manifold burdens laid upon him; for generation after generation, all the pillars of society have struggled to convince him that the greatest blessings he can hope to win in this world are a wife and children and that his highest privilege is to labour to support them; all the forces of law, of civilization, of public opinion, have conspired to hobble, shackle and coerce him. And yet, in spite of everything, he sometimes manages to break loose; while few women suspect what moments of desperation often overwhelm even the meekest father of a family.
Selden had broken loose. Now, at last, he was beginning to wonder whether freedom was worth the price.
As for his career, he had reached its apex. He could go on writing specials, yes; he could go on casting a feeble light into the dark corners of the earth, dissecting the motives of public men, perhaps influencing public opinion a little—a very little; but he would never be any more powerful, any better known, than he was at that moment. Indeed, his influence and his fame must both diminish—imperceptibly for a while perhaps, but none the less surely, for he could not hope that the future would by any possibility bring such opportunities as the past six years had brought. From this point onward his career could be only a descent.
Besides, he was himself growing weary of the game. The world had gone stale, had gone cold and sceptical. The fine enthusiasms, the wide sympathies, the common brotherhood of war days had waned and vanished. And his own enthusiasms had vanished too. He remembered bitterly the ardour with which he had gone to work to combat the traducers of the League of Nations, and with what certainty of success. He had felt sure of his country, of her generous soul, her instinct for right, her jealousy of her honour, and he had never recovered from the shock when she denied the League. It had left him stunned and incredulous.
He had buckled on his armour again and laboured to set her right, but, so far as he could see, with absolutely no result. He had simply wasted his time. The doctrine of world effort, of world helpfulness, of world responsibility, which he had preached with such conviction, had fallen upon deaf or hostile ears. So he preached it no longer. He was worn out.
But what remained? Nothing that seemed to him worth while. Oh, he could still bring some food to Austria’s starving children; he could still help or hinder the plans of a petty king; he could still take France’s part in her struggle against isolation. But other men could do that just as well as he.
Perhaps it would be better worth while if he could make a woman happy; a woman whom no other man could make happy....
But how imbecile to suppose there was such a woman! And if there were, what had he to offer her? To drag her down with him on his long descent? No—that was a journey which he would make alone!
And at this point he threw off the covers, bounded out of bed, rang for breakfast, and plunged into his bath, which he made much colder than usual.
He needed bracing. He was getting soft.
After breakfast he settled resolutely to work on the last of his Austrian articles—a summary of the situation, not half so desperate as certain financiers had pictured it, for nothing could deprive Vienna of her position at the very centre of the system along which flowed the trade of central Europe. He kept doggedly at work until it was finished, and as he read it over he decided that it was the best of the lot. At least, he told himself, he had not forgotten how to write!
So it was to a composed and apparently normal Selden that the card of Mr. Charles Wharton Davis was presently handed in, with that young gentleman close behind it. It seemed to Selden, as he greeted him, that his air was unusually subdued.
“You didn’t wait for me last night,” Davis began, accusingly.
“No—did you finally break the bank?”
“Damn the bank! I want to talk to you seriously.”
“All right; fire ahead. But sit down, won’t you?”
Davis sat down and looked about the room for a moment, as though trying to find a place to begin.
“I had another talk with mother this morning,” he said finally.
“About Miss Fayard?”
“Yes. She got quite violent—says she has other plans for me—that she’ll tie up all my money.”
“I know,” said Selden, smiling. “She wants you to marry the Princess Anna.”
“My God!” groaned Davis, his face turning pale with horror. “That—that—why, she’s got a moustache, Selden! No; I won’t do it! Look here, you’ve got to help me. I’ve done my part.”
“Suppose you tell me about that first,” Selden suggested.
“Oh, it was just as I thought,” said Davis, disgustedly. “Sis knew all about it. She fired up and told me to mind my own business. None of my family takes me seriously. Mother thinks this is just a boy and girl affair. It’s not—I’m a man and I’m going to be treated as a man!”
“Wait a minute,” said Selden; “you’re getting ahead of your story. Tell me exactly what you said to your sister.”
“I asked her if she knew that Danilo had a morganatic wife, because if she didn’t know it, I thought it was my duty to tell her so.”
“Yes; and what did she say?”
“She said of course she knew it; that that was all arranged, and that she wished I would attend to my own affairs, which certainly required my attention! I said yes, I knew they did, and that if she wanted to be a real sister to me, she’d help me out—that I’d fallen in love with the sweetest girl on earth....”
“Go ahead,” Selden encouraged, as Davis paused. “What did she say to that?”
“She said ‘Piffle!’ or something like that; and then I got mad, and told her that she couldn’t fool me—that I had seen through her from the start—all that fol-de-rol about helping that little stinking country out there—when her whole object was just to get even with Jeneski because he had thrown her over....”
“Wait a minute!” Selden interrupted, sitting bolt upright. “What do you mean by that? Do you mean that Jeneski and your sister were engaged to be married?”
“Oh, no; I was just laying it on a little heavy. But Jeneski and father were always chewing the rag in the library of evenings, and sis used to hang around and pretend she understood, and all she could talk about was Jeneski and the wonderful things he was going to do. She was certainly crazy about him. And then all at once she shut up, and after a while I learned that Jeneski had pulled out for Europe—so I just put two and two together. But I may be all wrong.”
“What did your sister say when you made this—er—accusation?”
“Oh,” said Davis, with a grin; “the door slammed about then.”
Selden sat for a moment looking at him. Could this be the key to Myra Davis’s conduct? It fitted certainly, or seemed to—and yet....
“So, since I couldn’t get any sympathy at home, I came over here,” Davis concluded.
“Well, you are not going to get much here,” said Selden. “If you want to be treated like a man you’ve got to act like one, and a man doesn’t drink too much champagne whenever he gets the chance, nor fool away his time at a roulette table, nor live off of money somebody else has earned. I think it is a good thing your money is tied up—maybe you will have to go to work. And I’ll never ask your mother to turn it over to you—not till you have proved there is something in you. I might ask her to allow you something to live on till you can find a job, and I might point out to her that Miss Fayard is a darn sight too good for you, but not till you promise to brace up!”
Davis’s face had darkened a little at the beginning of this tirade, but it was radiant before Selden finished.
“I’ll do anything you say,” he protested. “I know I’ve been a good deal of a rotter. Just give me a chance!”
“All right,” said Selden. “That’s exactly what I’m proposing to do.”
“Then I’ll go tell Cicette it’s all settled,” and Davis jumped to his feet.
“How do you mean settled?” Selden demanded.
“I’m going to reform, and you’re going to see Mother. That’s the bargain, isn’t it?”
“I’m going to see your mother after you have reformed.”
“Well, this is after,” Davis pointed out with a grin. “I reformed fully five minutes ago. Look here, old man,” he went on more seriously, “don’t think I’m not eternally grateful—I am.”
“Shut up and get out!” Selden ordered. He was beginning really to like the boy.
“Come and have lunch with me,” Davis suggested. “Maybe Madame Ghita will let me take Cicette, if you’re along.”
“Good Lord! I’ve an engagement for lunch!” and Selden jerked out his watch. “I can just make it. Get out of here!”
“All right,” said Davis. “But remember, my fate is in your hands!”
Half an hour later, Selden and Scott sat down together at a little table on the terrace of Amirauté’s, among the olive trees, high above the sea, and attacked a great dish of tiny sole, browned to a crisp and unbelievably sweet and delicate, which Scott had ordered. And after that there were tournados garnished with slices of foie gras. And finally there was a basket of fruit and nuts—figs from the oases of the Sahara, grapes from Malaga, oranges from Morocco, paper-shelled almonds and walnuts from the Aurès....
They had talked of desultory things, of old experiences, during the meal; but with the coffee and cigars, Scott brought the talk abruptly back to the present.
“Anything new about the restoration?” he asked.
“No—except that I heard last night Jeneski is on his way here.”
Scott whistled softly.
“What do you suppose he expects to do?”
“Heaven knows.”
“He will stir up some excitement, anyway,” said Scott. “I met him once—he’s an electric sort of fellow; you can almost see the sparks flying when he gets excited. And he will be excited all right—but it seems to me the person to be pitied most in this affair isn’t Jeneski or Miss Davis, but Danilo.”
“Why do you pity him?”
“Well, if it was me,” said Scott slowly, “I wouldn’t give up a woman like Madame Ghita—not for any throne on earth. And neither would you,” Scott added, looking at him.
“No, I wouldn’t,” Selden agreed, gazing out across the water; “not if she loved me.”
“You mean she doesn’t love the prince? Well, I suppose not. She is a very extraordinary woman. She got me to talking about you last night,” he added in another tone; “she wanted to know all about you.”
“Yes,” said Selden; “she told me you had been blowing off. I could see what you were trying to do. I appreciate it, old man.”
Scott nodded curtly.
“It is finished, then—her affair with the prince?”
“Yes.”
“That’s fine!” said Scott, and nodded again. “What are you going to do, now you have finished your Balkan stuff?” he asked, after a moment.
“I don’t know. I was thinking about it this morning. The fact is, Scott, I have lost my edge. I’m beginning to go downhill.”
“Nonsense!” Scott protested. “Downhill! You make me tired!” But there was a certain anxiety in his eyes as he looked at Selden.
“It is true, though. You know what I have been working for and how I have failed. The League is dead so far as America is concerned.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Anyway, my people have intimated that I might as well quit writing about it—nobody wants to read that sort of stuff any more, it seems.”
Scott puffed his cigar reflectively for a moment.
“I’m inclined to think you are right, old man, in a certain sense,” he said at last. “As a special correspondent, you have reached the summit—you can’t go any higher because there is no higher place to go to. But that doesn’t mean you are going to give up fighting for the things you believe in. You have a following—I don’t think you realize how large it is; and right now is the time for you to strike out for something bigger.”
“Such as what?” asked Selden sceptically.
“I haven’t thought it out—but what I see at this moment is a great liberal weekly, with you as editor-in-chief and the strongest kind of a staff—the kind you could get together better than any other man I know. I have thought for a long time that the day of the literary monthly—the Scribner, Harper, Century type—is about over, and that the time is ripe for the liberal weekly, dealing in a large way with world affairs and social progress and politics—and art and literature too, of course. I know there are already three or four, but they are all handicapped by some sort of mental bias or astigmatism or spiritual dyspepsia. Now is the time for the real thing. And you are the man to start it.”
Selden laughed a little bitterly.
“I didn’t know you were such a dreamer, Scott!”
“It isn’t a dream.”
“Yes, it is. Apart from all question of myself, where is the money to come from? You don’t imagine it would be self-supporting?”
“Of course not—not for a long time. It must have financial backing—the right sort—strong enough to make it independent in every way.”
“But how can a liberal paper hope to get financial backing? How can any paper get financial backing without mortgaging its opinions? It can’t be done.”
“Yes, it can,” said Scott. “At least, I believe it can. There must be one disinterested millionaire somewhere in the world! I’ll take a look for him. Meanwhile, there is another thing you want to do: get married—to the right woman.”
“I suppose you’ve already got her picked out for me,” remarked Selden, with irony.
“As it happens, I have,” said Scott coolly. “I was talking to her last night.”
Selden stared at him, all his blood in his face.
“Do you mean Madame Ghita?” he asked.
“Of course I do,” Scott answered curtly.
“But look here,” Selden stammered, “you’re joking, of course! Do you suppose I’d have the nerve ... I’m not good enough for her ... I’m not big enough....”
“Of course you’re not,” broke in Scott impatiently. “But that doesn’t matter, if you can make her happy. Think what it would mean to live with a woman like that!”
“Yes,” said Selden, between set teeth; “I have thought....”
“And she could make any man big—if she loved him!”
“Ah, yes,” agreed Selden hoarsely, “if she loved him! She couldn’t love me!”
“I don’t know,” retorted Scott; “women do strange things sometimes. Why not ask her?”
And he threw away his cigar and called for the bill.
CHAPTER XX
A PHILOSOPHER DISCOURSES
IT was not merely, or even principally, to arrange the articles of settlement that the Baron Lappo had gone so hastily to Paris. The terms of the articles had already been agreed upon, after exhaustive debates with Mrs. Davis’s solicitor, tentative drafts had been exchanged, and the final one was even then in the baron’s hands, with but a minor detail or two needing correction—trivial matters, easily arranged by post.
But the royal exchequer was low—empty, as a matter of fact; and the need of replenishment was so urgent that the baron had excused himself a few minutes after Selden’s departure from the betrothal dinner, changed hurriedly into travelling clothes while his valet packed his bag, and had managed to catch the Paris express.
He had reached Paris early the following afternoon, had driven straight to the rooms of a private banker in Rue Lafitte, who, forewarned by wire, was awaiting him, and had at once, as was his habit, placed all his cards on the table. These cards had been examined carefully by a fat gentleman with a black curly beard and a type of countenance unmistakably Hebraic, and had proved so satisfactory that the baron was able to get away at the end of an hour, and to catch Mrs. Davis’s solicitor upon his return from a leisurely lunch. The final details of the settlement were soon agreed upon and arrangements made to have the official copies prepared at once.
He had then spent an hour at the Quai d’Orsay, and another half-hour at the British Embassy in Rue du Faubourg St. Honoré; had gone back to Rue Lafitte for a final talk with his banker, and then to the offices of the solicitor in the Avenue de l’Opéra, where the official copies of the agreement were awaiting him, and had arrived at the Gare de Lyon in time to catch the train for Marseilles leaving at 8:50, very tired but triumphant.
It was about the middle of the next afternoon that he stepped out again upon the platform at Nice, entered the car which was awaiting him, and was whirled away to the Villa Gloria, where he found the king recovering from the heart attack of the previous day.
It had been a severe one, brought on, as always, by over-eating. The king was a gourmet, not to say a glutton, with not always the strength to resist temptation. It was one of Baron Lappo’s duties to supply this strength. In his absence, the task usually devolved upon the Princess Anna; but she had been ill the day before, and the chef had been so ill-advised as to prepare a rich pillaff of which the king was very fond—with the consequence that for a time he had been very ill indeed.
The baron uttered no reproaches, but there was that in his look which would have made the king blush, if he had not already been so rubicund.
“Do not be cross with me, my old friend,” he said. “It is the only pleasure I have left.”
“But at this moment,” the baron pointed out, “Your Majesty should be very careful. It would be most unfortunate if the impression got about that you are subject to such attacks.”
“I am not dead yet,” said the king; “though I confess that for a time I was uncertain about it. You have the papers?”
“They are here,” and the baron spread them out. “Everything is as we wished.”
“What are the exact figures?” asked the king.
“The estate, when all the debts had been settled and the taxes paid, amounted to seventy-five millions. Of this a third was left to the daughter, a third to the son, and a third to the wife, the wife’s share to be held in trust, after her death, for any grandchildren. The son’s share is also in trust; the daughter’s is to be paid over to her upon her marriage, but must remain her property, not her husband’s.”
“We cannot object to that,” said the king. “She will have, then, how much?”
“About twenty-five million dollars, Sire.”
“That is how much in the currency of our country?”
“At present rates, nearly three billions.”
“Ah,” said the king thoughtfully, “what cannot be done with such a sum! Half of it will suffice!”
“That is also my opinion,” said the baron.
“And the remainder can be put aside as a foundation for our house. If we could get the boy also....”
“His money will never be really his—it is held in trust for his children.”
“Magnificent!” said the king. “It would make our house the richest in Europe. Yes, we must arrange it. But meanwhile, my good Lappo, as you know, we have nothing. Did you see Hirsch?”
“Yes, Sire; and he is willing to make a loan—three hundred thousand francs, to be repaid one month after the marriage. The terms,” added the baron, “are rather stiff.”
“No matter,” said the king, who was used to stiff terms. “When can we get the money?”
“I have arranged for the notary and an official of Hirsch’s bank to come this evening, prepared to pay it over after Your Majesty and Danilo have signed the necessary papers. Danilo must not fail to be present.”
“Good,” said the king; “I will attend to that. This does more to cure me than all the doctors,” he added. “There is no illness so annoying as lack of money! And the settlement—that also must be signed without delay.”
“I had thought of to-morrow morning,” said the baron.
“Very well,” agreed the king; “you will make the arrangements.”
“I have also to report,” said the baron, “an attitude of benevolent neutrality on the part of the French and British governments. They have no disposition to interfere, so long as there is no bloodshed. Italy, of course, we can count on. Our success, therefore, seems assured, unless the prince....”
“Do not worry about Danilo,” said the king. “He will do as I tell him—he knows his duty. You have provided for his wife?”
“I have caused an offer to be made her.”
“By whom?”
“By the Countess Rémond.”
“Ah, yes,” said the king reflectively. “You think you can trust her?”
“Absolutely, Sire. She has reasons to be grateful to me—and to hate Jeneski.”
“You are right not to count too much upon gratitude,” said the king; “but hate—yes, that is better. She is a clever woman. We must not forget her,” and he turned to the papers on his desk.
The baron retired to his cabinet to look through his mail, and there he found the report from the countess of her interview with Madame Ghita, and of her acceptance. But it contained no reference to the receipt of the telegram from Goritza heralding Jeneski’s arrival.
The baron read the report attentively, especially a long postscript in which Selden’s name occurred, and nodded approval once or twice. Then he ordered his car, made a careful toilet and presently sallied forth to call upon Mrs. Davis in her villa at Cimiez; and, after a most satisfactory conversation with her, directed his chauffeur to proceed by the coast road to Monte Carlo.
Selden had declined Scott’s proffer of a lift back to his hotel.
“No, I’ll walk,” he said. “It will do me good.”
The moment had come when he must arrange his future—when he must decide what he was going to do. He felt that he must be alone, that he could not meet any of the actors in the drama—certainly not Madame Ghita—until that decision had been reached. And he was the prey of many and violent emotions, for he began to perceive that the decision might not rest wholly in his hands. Scott was a fool, of course, in thinking there was any chance for him; but at least he must make up his mind whether he should try to win her or whether he should flee.
It was evident that his only sure safety lay in flight; he could no longer trust himself; and he told himself again and again that he was a fool to hesitate. Yet to flee from such a woman—wasn’t that more foolish still? The thought of life with her turned him giddy, set his blood on fire....
But how could he support her? There was no admiring public ready to pay for the privilege of dining with a newspaper man! Even if he had been willing to accept life on such terms. And she would have to renounce the king’s bounty, for it was equally impossible for him to live on money acquired as that would be. But what right had he to ask her to do that? What had he to offer in return? No, he couldn’t do it! He must go away!
And then the memory of her eyes, of her voice, rent him anew. He was in love! He! In love!
He stood away and looked at himself with a sneer. What a pitiable object he had become!
Yes, he must go away—at once.
When he finally got back to his room, he hauled out his bag and began to pack—slowly, with long periods of abstraction.
It was thus the baron found him. It needed but a glance at Selden’s tortured face to tell that astute old student of human nature what was amiss.
“Yes, I am back, you see,” he said, as he took the proffered chair. “Everything is arranged, and I have come to ask you to do Madame Davis and myself one more favour. I have no shame—I am always asking!”
“What is the favour?”
“The articles of settlement are to be signed to-morrow morning. Mrs. Davis would consider it a very great favour, and so should I, if you would sign as a witness in her behalf.”
Selden hesitated.
“There is nothing in the terms of the settlement to which you could object,” went on the baron. “The entire fortune of Miss Davis remains absolutely in her hands. The prince gets nothing, except a small annuity. We preferred it so. We hope, of course, that she will choose to use a portion of her fortune to rehabilitate our country—which will be her country also—but the bulk of it will be conserved for the benefit of her children.”
Still Selden hesitated.
“Come,” said the baron, “tell me frankly what is in your thought.”
“I am wondering,” said Selden, “whether Miss Davis will be happy. It is evident that she is not in love.”
“Not, at least, with the prince,” supplemented the baron.
“What do you mean?”
“I may be wrong,” said the baron, “because I do not understand your women; but I have observed Miss Davis as carefully as I could—naturally, since I had need to do so!—and I have become more and more convinced that somewhere in her life there has been an unhappy love affair, from which she has never quite recovered. That happens, does it not, even to American girls?”
“Yes, of course,” said Selden.
“I admit it does not seem probable, but it is the only explanation I can find of a thing which has appeared to me very strange. For the only question she has asked herself, apparently, about this marriage is not whether she would be happy, but whether she would be useful.”
“Yes,” said Selden again; “she asked me just that.”
“Not for a moment, so far as I could see, has she thought of love. That, I confess, seemed to me unnatural; though perhaps American girls do not think of love,” and the baron shrugged his shoulders helplessly. “Or perhaps they are ashamed of it. I do not know. As for happiness—are your American marriages always happy?”
“No, not always,” Selden admitted with a smile.
“I have never seen one that appeared so,” said the baron; “not as a French marriage is very often happy. To me, American husbands and wives seem merely bored with each other. Why should two people stay together when they would be happier apart?”
“You see only the worst ones over here; and a lot of people are held together by habit, by fear of ridicule or loss of position. We are cowards in that respect.”
“Yes; we are not like that. For one thing, our women try to keep themselves interesting to their men, and they are not ashamed of love. They do not consider a husband merely a source of funds—a bank. Very often they manage his affairs for him, and better than he could. The attitude of the husband, too, is different. With you, women are an ornament; with us, they are a passion.”
“Too much so, perhaps,” commented Selden.
“It may be; yes, no doubt our men are less faithful than yours, but they are also less cruel. They do not outlaw a woman because she has had a lover; they do not regard her as therefore ruined. It was Dumas—was it not?—who pointed out that a woman’s virginity belongs, not to the first man who possesses her, but to the first man she truly loves, to whom for the first time she really surrenders—for it is to him only she gives everything. Well, our men believe that.”
“Yes,” said Selden in a low voice; “yes....”
“And after all,” went on the baron, lighting a cigarette, “it is a much greater compliment to a man—a much more difficult thing to achieve—to be a woman’s last lover than it is to be her first one. To be a woman’s first lover—that is nothing; she is curious, she wishes to know what love is, she has not perfected her defence. A man needs only to be a little good-looking and not too stupid. But to be her last one, that is different. To emerge victorious from the comparisons that she makes, to impress her as no one else has done, to awaken something in her that no one else has been able to awaken, to cause her to say to herself, ‘I will seek no further—I am content! I love him!’ To accomplish that, a man must be very clever, very intelligent. It is a triumph. There is no higher tribute.”
“Perhaps it is a tribute Miss Davis will pay the prince,” suggested Selden, with a smile.
“I was not thinking of Miss Davis,” said the baron; “but it is possible. The prince is not without brains. At least, I trust she will be happy as well as useful. I give you my word, as a man of honour, that I shall do everything in my power to make her so.”
“I am sure of it,” said Selden; “and I shall be glad to be present to-morrow morning as Mrs. Davis’s witness.”
“Thank you,” said the baron. “At eleven.”
He made a little motion as if to rise, then, glancing again at Selden’s face, lighted another cigarette and settled back in his chair.
“Tell me about yourself,” he said. “What has been going on here?”
“Nothing has been going on. I have been doing a little work—and annoying myself a great deal.”
“Annoying yourself? About what, if I may ask?”
“About my future.”
“Ah!” said the baron. “Does it not please you—your future?”
“As a matter of fact,” answered Selden, with a crooked grin, “I have suddenly discovered that my future is behind me.”
The baron took a long puff of his cigarette and exhaled the smoke slowly.
“Your Americanisms sometimes puzzle me,” he said. “What you mean, I suppose, is that you do not at this moment see ahead of you any work which seems as important as that which you have already done.”
“Not at this moment, or any moment. Worse still, I am beginning to despair of human nature; I....”
“But you are wrong—very wrong,” broke in the baron. “Here am I, with at least twice your age, my whole life spent in the most cynical of all professions, and my admiration for human nature grows stronger and stronger, day by day. I listen to the pessimists with a smile—the prophets of evil do not frighten me. I grant all their contentions: that man is naturally evil, that he has used such glimmering light of reason as he may possess only to become more bestial than the beasts, that five thousand years of civilization have culminated in five years of atrocity, fiendishness and insanity; yes, but in the midst of it all, in the very worst of it, there were flashes of splendour—flashes of kindliness, and courage and self-sacrifice. There is something of that in all of us—and that is the miracle. It should not astonish us that men are full of ignorance and vice, but that they are capable of the heroisms they sometimes attain. You have been looking at the wrong side of the shield, my friend.”
“Perhaps I have,” agreed Selden, in a low voice.
“Well, turn it over,” said the baron. He paused a moment, evidently in doubt whether to go on. “I am an old man,” he continued at last, “and I have seen a great deal of life; also I esteem you very highly—so you will permit me to say something which in another might seem an impertinence. It is this: do not fear to seize happiness when it comes your way; do not hesitate, or draw back, or run away. It is a rare thing, happiness—a very rare and fleeting thing; even at best, we can only hope to taste it briefly now and then. How silly, how cowardly to permit a single moment of it to escape! That,” he added, “is all I have learned in the sixty years that I have been on earth. But many men do not learn even that—not until it is too late!”
He sat for a moment longer looking at Selden with his wise old eyes; then he rose abruptly.
“Good-bye, my friend,” he said. “Till to-morrow—at eleven.”
CHAPTER XXI
THE UNLIT LAMP
IT was a decidedly nervous and shaken Selden who dressed for dinner that evening. For the first time in his life he had committed what is for a journalist the unpardonable sin—he had permitted his feelings to become involved in an affair which he had set himself to watch from the outside. He had ceased to be an observer and had become a participant.
Yet permitted was scarcely the word, for he seemed to have had no volition in the matter. He had been drawn in against his will. But, he told himself grimly, it was because his struggles to escape had been half-hearted. He might have saved himself had he heeded the first signals of danger. It was his cursed inability to make up his mind that had brought him to his present pass. He had dabbled with temptation—and now it was too late: the whirlpool had him!
No; that was not true either. Let him at least be man enough to be candid with himself: he could escape, even now, if he really wanted to. He had only to finish packing his bag, go to the station, get aboard the first train, and permit it to carry him away. But that was such a cowardly thing to do.
“Oh, own up, you idiot!” he groaned between his teeth. “It’s not because it is cowardly you don’t do it! Own up! It’s because you don’t want to escape!”
And, staring at himself in the glass, he realized that this was the truth—he had got down to it at last. He didn’t want to escape. It was finished. He might still struggle a little in an instinctive sort of way, but unless some power outside himself seized him and threw him clear....
Yes, and in that event he had the horrid consciousness that he would fight with all his strength against that power!
“What is it I am afraid of?” he asked himself. “The baron is right. A man is a fool not to seize happiness when it comes his way!”
If he could only have happiness without capitulation! If he could have love fighting at his side for some great ideal! That were to be blessed indeed. But if love should drag him down—well, even then, he would have love!
Why had the baron talked to him like that? Was it, perhaps, that he had some inkling.... And old Scott, too....
The sharp ringing of his telephone bell startled him out of his thoughts.
“This is Davis,” said the voice at the other end. “What are you doing to-night?”
“Nothing in particular,” Selden answered; the only thing he had definitely planned was to go to the club in the hope of finding Madame Ghita there.
“Then come up and have dinner with us.”
“Who is ‘us’?”
“Madame Ghita, Miss Fayard and myself. We are having a dinner to celebrate a very special event—one in which you are particularly interested.”
“Where is the prince?” asked Selden.
“He can’t come until later—he just telephoned us not to wait for him—he has to sign some papers of some sort. Three would be deadly, and madame suggested that I ask you.”
Selden’s heart was beating like a drum. It was the Rubicon.
“Where is the dinner?” he asked, in a voice muffled by emotion.
“In madame’s apartment, here in the hotel—third floor. Will you come?”
“Please come, M. Selden!” said madame’s voice softly.
It was all over—he took the plunge.
“Of course I will come,” he said. “Thank madame for me.”
“Oh, you can thank her yourself,” said Davis, with a chuckle. “We will give you fifteen minutes.”
“All right,” Selden agreed, and placed the receiver back on its rack.
He gave a last critical look at himself, retied his tie, then caught up coat and hat, descended to the lobby and hurried out to the florist’s at the corner, where he bought two preposterously expensive bunches of roses. He paid for them with a thrill of satisfaction—for the first time in his life he was being foolish; he had cut loose from the moorings of common-sense; he had let himself go!
Flowers in hand, he hurried back to the hotel and presented himself at the door of Madame Ghita’s apartment.
He was entirely cool, now; quite himself; and was able to present the flowers to the ladies and exchange the usual greetings without a tremor. Only he suspected an uncanny discernment in the long look Madame Ghita gave him as she thanked him for the roses.
She was looking incredibly lovely in a clinging gown of dark, wine-coloured velvet, without ornamentation, and as she moved away from him to place the roses in a vase and order dinner to be served, he drank in again the exquisite grace of her figure, the queenly pose of her head, the regal way in which she moved. And a sudden shaft of fear struck through him. How could he hope to win a woman like that!
She came back in a moment, and motioned them to table.
“Let us sit down,” she said. “You here at my left, M. Selden; you at my right, M. Davis; you there, Cicette.”
As they took their seats Selden saw that she had placed one of his roses in her bosom, and his hands began to tremble a little, in spite of his efforts to control them. He was grateful that Davis was babbling away excitedly.
“It was great for you to come, old man,” he said; “perfectly gorgeous. Imagine a dinner with an empty place!”
Selden chilled at the words. Yes, it was true; he was there in another man’s place; this apartment was another man’s apartment; this woman....
He had an impulse to rise—to run away. It was not at table only he was seeking to take another man’s place. The thought was almost more than he could bear.
“I had a premonition the place would be empty unless M. Selden consented to come,” said Madame Ghita softly.
Davis stared at her.
“But you were doubtful if he would....”
“I knew that M. Selden had many engagements,” said madame, her colour mounting a little. “Nevertheless, I permitted myself to hope.”
Selden felt his heart revive. So the place was really his!
“You are very good to me, madame,” he murmured, and then he caught Cicette’s eyes on him, very round and shining. Well, let the whole world see; he did not care!
But Davis was too engrossed in his own affairs to notice anything.
“I told you, you know,” he rattled on, “that this was a very special occasion. Confound it, I can’t keep it any longer!” he added, as Cicette made a motion to silence him, and he caught her hand and held it. “Waiter, fill the glasses! Selden, old man, I want you to drink to the health of the sweetest girl in the world—the future Madame Davis!” and he raised Cicette’s hand to his lips with more grace than Selden imagined he possessed.
“With all my heart!” cried Selden, deeply moved. “I congratulate you, Davis; and you also, mademoiselle.”
“Thank you,” said Davis, and held out his hand across the board. “You said that as though you meant to do it!”
“I do mean it. She is charming. She will make you a good wife. Take care that you make her a good husband.”
At that, the bride-to-be gave him her hand to kiss. “You also are very charming,” she said in rapid French, “and I hope that some day it will be my turn to wish you good fortune.” She glanced at Madame Ghita’s face, and suddenly sprang to her feet and ran around the table and kissed her. “You are a darling!” she whispered in her ear; “a big, big darling, the dearest of the world!”
Madame held her close for a moment, and then sent her back to her seat.
“You must be sensible,” she said.
“Oh, yes, I shall be sensible, do not fear,” Miss Fayard assured her. “And I shall try to be, as you say, monsieur, a good wife. But he has need of control, has he not? A strong hand, hein?”
“Truly,” agreed Selden; “a very strong hand. Do not hesitate to apply it, mademoiselle, right from the beginning!”
“See here,” protested Davis, “don’t talk so fast. Or speak English.”
“I also learn ze Eengleesh,” laughed Miss Fayard. “Oh, already I spik heem verree well. But ees eet not ridicule, ce nom-la—Madame Davees!”
“Well, it is going to be yours,” said Davis grimly, “so you’ll have to make the best of it. You understand,” he went on to Selden, “this is between ourselves as yet. We’ve got to square things with Mother before it’s announced.”
“She will never consent, never!” cried Miss Fayard, lapsing into her native tongue.
“Oh, yes, she will,” said Davis. “Old Selden has promised to help me. And if she doesn’t, it won’t make any difference. I’m of age. We won’t starve.”
Selden looked at him with interest; already he detected in him a new spirit. He was more of a man.
“Yes, I will help,” he said; “but whether your mother consents or not, you were right not to wait. There is a very great English poet,” he went on to Madame Ghita, “named Robert Browning—perhaps you have heard of him—and he was a great poet because he was first of all a great philosopher. One of his poems is about a man who loved the wife of another man, and she also loved him, and they decided to go away together and be happy. But first one thing intervened, and then another; the days slipped by, and the months and the years—before they knew it, age was upon them, their blood grew cold—it was too late.”
“Yes—and then?” asked Madame Ghita, who had been listening with shining eyes.
“Browning points out that their indecision, their cowardice, was far worse, far more damning, than if they had seized their happiness, though that was a crime, and he adds that a man should contend to the uttermost for his life’s set prize, be it what it will—vice or virtue—for the worst sin of all is ‘the unlit lamp and the ungirt loin.’”
“And he is right,” said madame in a low voice.
“Of course he is right—that is why I tell Davis he is wise to seize his happiness while it is within reach. Whether his mother consents or not—that does not matter.”
“Is it true, then, monsieur,” asked the girl, who had been listening to all this with great eyes, “that in America one can marry without the consent of the parents?”
“But yes,” Selden assured her. “With us it makes no difference whether or not the parents consent. Many times they do not even know about it until after their children are married.”
“It is scarcely to be believed!”
“America, mademoiselle,” said Selden, whose spirit had suddenly lifted its wings within him, “is the land of youth, for youth, about youth. We are young; we permit our young people to tyrannize over us; our literature, our theatre, concerns itself only with their love affairs, which are always innocent and always end in a happy marriage. And in that marriage it is always the woman who dominates. The man is tolerated, because to a marriage a man is necessary; but he has only one function—to provide a pedestal upon which the woman may stand; and but one duty, to worship her all his life. He has promised to do so, and he must keep that promise, no matter how silly and useless he may find her to be. That is the convention, the proper thing, to which all good Americans subscribe.”
“I know! I know!” cried Cicette. “I have seen them—the man following his wife like a footman—a beast of burden.”
“Yes,” said Selden, laughing. “It is only in America the woman walks in front.”
“But there is one thing I cannot understand,” went on Cicette, “that there are so many American women who leave their husbands at home when they come to Europe.”
“Why not?” Selden demanded. “What need has the husband of culture or relaxation? His function is to earn the living.”
“But is it not dangerous? Those deserted husbands—do they not find some one....”
“Some of them do—but most of them just keep on toiling away. The American husband is incredibly docile and incredibly faithful.”
“So I do well to marry an American?”
“Undoubtedly!”
“And he does well to marry a Frenchwoman,” said Madame Ghita, “for, in spite of her gay manner, in spite of her apparent thoughtlessness, she is good and very serious at bottom. She will give herself to her husband utterly, without reservation; she will live only for his career; she will be ceaselessly vigilant for his interests; if he is ill, she will nurse him; if he has bad fortune, she will console him; she will herself prepare the dishes he likes to eat, happy to serve him....”
“Yes,” agreed Selden; “men are more precious over here, more cherished. You have always had more women than men. With us, as with every frontier nation, it has been the other way—and we still preserve the frontier tradition—it is the women who are at a premium!”
“It is deeper than that!” protested madame; “it is in the heart.”
“We also have women like that,” said Selden quietly; “women who would do anything for the man they love. You do not see them over here—not often; they are too busy raising their children. They do not figure in the papers, for their life is spent in their homes. Only they demand more of a man than you do. They do not realize what half-tamed creatures we are, and sometimes they demand too much. I think you understand men better.”
“Ah, yes,” laughed Miss Fayard, shaking her finger at Davis. “We understand them! Never believe that I will not understand you! When you lie to me, I shall know it—but you will never suspect that I know—not until long, long afterwards. And then you will be very, very much ashamed!”
“All right,” said Davis, gazing at her in rapt adoration. “I am not afraid! Isn’t she a peach?” he added to Selden.
“Exquisite!” Selden agreed, suddenly sober. “Be good to her, old man!”
“You don’t need to tell me that!” said Davis quickly.
“Perhaps not. What are you going to do after you are married?”
“We’re going to take a trip around the world.”
“Yes—and after that?”
“Oh, settle down somewhere, I guess, and raise a family.”
“That will keep your wife busy, but not you. What are you going to do?”
“He will be a great politician!” cried Cicette.
Davis groaned.
“Not in America!”
“He is right,” said Selden, with a smile. “With us it is not the same thing. Well, you must choose a career for him, mademoiselle, after you know him better; something to keep him busy part of the time, so that he won’t be annoying you all day long. I wish I had some one to choose a career for me!” he added.
Madame Ghita looked at him quickly, struck by something in his voice.
“You have your career,” she said; “a very wonderful one!”
“Do you think so?”
“But of course! Every one thinks so!” She was looking at him searchingly now, deeply concerned at what she saw in his face. “Do you mean it does not satisfy you?”
“It seems rather empty at times,” he confessed.
“Empty? But how is that possible? Oh, you are jesting!”
“I wish....”
A sudden commotion at the outer door interrupted him—the sound of a raised voice; and then the curtains were swept aside and Danilo burst into the room.
“I have come for you, Rénee!” he cried, with a wild gesture. “Hasten—I take you away to-night!”
CHAPTER XXII
A WOMAN’S DECISION
THERE was a moment’s stupefied silence, while the prince looked triumphantly at each of them in turn, his gaze lingering upon Selden an instant longer than upon the others, as though asking what he did there. His eyes were shining strangely, and there was something defiant in his face, something reckless in his air, as of a man who had started forth upon some desperate venture and burned his boats behind him.
“Come!” he said again, as Madame Ghita made no move.
“But I do not understand!” she protested.
“I have had enough of it!” said the prince, and he filled himself a glass of champagne and gulped it down. “I am treated as of no importance, as just a pawn in a game which does not interest me. I am told to do this, not to do that; to marry a woman for whom I care nothing—that would not be so bad; it was what I expected; to that I have agreed. But to leave the woman I love—no, to that I did not agree, and when they tell me I must do it, I say no, it is not possible; it is asking too much! I rebel—yes, I thrust it all aside, and I come to take you away!”
Madame Ghita’s face was ghastly.
“But the dynasty—your grandfather; it will kill him,” she said, in a voice hoarse with emotion.
“I cannot help it. That is no reason why I should be miserable all my life.”
“And your country?”
“Jeneski will rule it better than I. Come! What is it?” he demanded, seeing that she still stared at him as though fascinated, and made no move. “What is it you fear? That I have no money? See here,” and he plunged his hand into his pocket and brought forth a bulky purse. “I have three hundred thousand francs—enough for two years!”
“Where did you get it?” she asked.
“No matter where I got it!” he cried, and a little spasm crossed his face, distorting it for an instant. “I have it—that is enough. Come!”
“No, no!” she protested. “No, no! You cannot do this!”
“Look here,” put in Davis, who had caught the drift of things, “what about my sister?”
“Your sister will be far happier if she does not marry me,” said the prince. “I am not in the least the man for her.”
“Still,” protested Davis, “to be deserted like this....”
“She may make any explanation she pleases—that it was she who broke off the match—and I will confirm it I have no wish to injure your sister, monsieur, and she will not be injured.”
“Just the same,” Davis muttered, “it’s pretty tough that it should happen twice!”
“If monsieur wishes any other satisfaction,” said the prince haughtily, “I am at his service.” Then he swung back to Madame Ghita. “Alors, Rénee!”
The blood was coming back into her face and she was regaining her self-control.
“Sit down, Danilo,” she said, “and do not be so ridiculous. One cannot go away like that. What about my packing?”
“Your maid can do it.”
“And you—you are going away like that, with just the clothes you have on?”
“My man will send my things after me.”
“No,” she said; “you are too silly. You must keep your word to this girl.”
“But you told me to-day that, when I marry her, everything is over between us.”
“Yes; everything is over between us now, Danilo,” she said gently.
His face flushed a fiery red and he strode toward her threateningly.
“Then it is not because of this marriage that you leave me—it is because you no longer love me!”
She made no answer, only looked at him, smiling slightly, a bright spot of colour in either cheek.
“You love some one else!” he shouted. “Who is it?” and his eyes roved for an instant back to Selden’s face.
“Ah, Danilo,” she said sadly, “do not spoil everything at the end in this way. Do not make me regret that I have known you!”
“Then it is true! Who is it?”
“Monsieur,” said Madame Ghita coldly, “I am not to be shouted at, even by you. You are not yourself to-night. If you are going to behave in this manner, I must ask you to withdraw.”
For an instant, Selden, tense and ready to spring, thought the prince was going to strike her.
“Withdraw!” he repeated, staring at her and then about the apartment, as though doubting his own senses. “You tell me to withdraw!”
And then he burst into a roar of laughter, pulled up a chair and sat down.
“Come,” he said, lighting a cigarette with trembling hand, “it is over. I was a fool, hein? What a joke! Give me some wine!”
Davis, much relieved, filled his glass.
“Do you often have these fits?” he asked.
“Not often, monsieur,” said the prince drily, sipping his wine. “Madame there can testify that I am usually of the most equable. But sometimes—yes, sometimes I think I am a little mad,” and he rubbed his hand across his forehead. “Yet we are all of us a little mad, are we not, M. Selden?” and he looked at Selden with a sardonic smile.
“Some more than others,” Selden answered.
“Ah, you mean me!” said the prince. “Yes, it is so—I more than others. Sometimes I am quite, quite mad. To-night, par example, I thought I had discovered a way of escape from all the things that worried me. That was mad, yes? Because one can never escape!”
“You are right,” Selden agreed. “One can never escape—not by running away.”
“I see what you mean,” and the prince nodded. “To overcome one’s troubles, one must not run away; one must face them, yes? Besides, it is cowardly to run away, and a gentleman must not be a coward. You see I can be a philosopher at times—I am at this moment, very philosophique. I remain—I face my troubles. Monsieur Davis, you will yet have me for a beau-frère! Madame, I ask your pardon!”
“It is granted,” she said. “I am happy to see you reasonable again.”
“Yes, I am reasonable,” he agreed. “Another glass!”
Madame, who had been watching him with evident anxiety, shook her head, but Davis did not see the gesture and filled the glass.
“Wait,” said Davis, and refilled all the glasses. “You remember I told you that I had a surprise for you to-night?”
“Ah, yes,” smiled the prince. “What is it?”
“It is that I am going to marry Miss Fayard,” answered Davis, unconsciously falling into his idiom. “This is my betrothal dinner.”
“Is it true?” cried the prince, and sprang to his feet. “Monsieur—madame—let us drink to the happy pair—to their health, to their happiness, to everything that is good!” He drained his glass, then walked around the table and took the girl’s hand. “Mademoiselle,” he said, “I have always admired you, for you are good. I pray you to accept this little gift for good luck,” and he drew a ring from his finger and slipped it upon hers, then kissed her hand and released it.
“It is beautiful!” she cried, holding it to the light. “But it is your good-luck ring—you should not give me your good-luck ring!”
“I shall not need it any more,” he said; “as père de famille, I shall not tempt fortune. I shall just grow fat and lazy.” He drew his coat about him.
“You are going?” asked madame.
“Yes—I must be getting back.”
“But is it true, Danilo, that you have all that money in your purse?”
“Yes, it is true.”
“It is very foolish—and very dangerous.”
“Dangerous? In Monte Carlo, where one meets a gendarme at every ten steps? Besides—do not worry—I shall place it in the bank as soon as possible. Unless—have you need of some?” and he thrust his hand in his pocket.
“Ah, no!” she said quickly, with a gesture of repugnance.
“It is yours if you want it,” he persisted, his hand still in his pocket, a strange smile on his lips.
“I do not want it,” she answered quietly.
“Then good night,” said the prince. “You have been very good to me, madame; I shall never forget it, and shall wish you happiness always. And you, monsieur,” he continued to Selden, “I regret that it has not been my privilege to know you better—I feel that we might have been friends. But I wish you all good fortune.” He hesitated, his eyes on Selden’s, as though debating whether to say something more; then, with a little shake of the head, turned to Miss Fayard. “And to you, mademoiselle, again I say good luck. I am sure you will bring good luck to others. How old are you?” he added, as though struck by a sudden thought.
“I am nineteen, M. le Prince.”
“Nineteen—a good age—a lucky age!” he said, and kissed her hand. “And you, M. Davis—but I do not need to wish you good fortune—you have it there,” and he nodded toward the girl. “Do not worry, my friend—I will do my best to make your sister happy. I can promise, at least, not to annoy her. Good-bye!”
And with a wave of his hat, he was gone.
They all sat for a moment without speaking, staring at the door through which he had vanished. Then Davis reached for his glass.
“Yes, he is mad,” he gulped. “But what does he mean, going away like that? He—he frightens me!”
Again there was a moment’s silence. Perhaps he frightened all of them. Madame Ghita touched her eyes gently with her handkerchief.
“He reminds me of a man about to go over the top,” said Selden, pensively; “in a sort of ecstasy. I have seen them like that many times, as they stood waiting for the word.”
“Yes,” cried Miss Fayard, with a catch in her throat, “the word to go forward to their death!”
“It is not always death,” said Selden gently, his heart very tender for the lovely sad woman beside him. “Sometimes it is victory!”
CHAPTER XXIII
THE PRINCE PLAYS
THEY still tell, at the Sporting Club, of the last visit of Prince Danilo. There have been other visits more spectacular, ending with a pistol-shot on the terrace or a draught of poison in the wash-room; but of them no one speaks. There have been many persons who won more or lost more—and were promptly forgotten. But there was something about the prince that night, an air of mystery and unreality, which the onlookers never forgot; and his style was so exquisite, his bearing so perfect, that they have ever since served as a model by which the attendants measure each new aspirant for the honours of the rooms. And all are agreed that they have never been approached.
That visit, indeed, has not only been remembered, but is rapidly passing into legend. Already it has been richly embroidered, and reasons the most fanciful have been advanced as to why the prince chose to play a certain number, or why he chose to play at all, and dazzling stories have been woven of what would have happened if he had played at any other table in the room, instead of the one he actually selected. All of which is, of course, inevitable, because the great diversion of the habitués of Monte Carlo, aside from trying to devise a system to beat the bank, is explaining what would have happened “if!” How many times daily the bank would be broken but for that little word!
As a matter of fact, when the prince left the Hotel de Paris, he probably did not expect to play at all, for he asked the giant be-medalled negro who keeps the door to call his car. The negro explained respectfully that it was his infinite regret to be obliged to inform M. le Prince that a slight accident had happened to the car; a careless chauffeur, in turning, had backed into it and damaged the front axle slightly. Already it was being straightened in the hotel garage, and would be ready in twenty minutes. If M. Le Prince wished another car?
“No,” said the prince. “I will wait,” and he walked slowly down to the terrace and stood for a moment looking out to sea. A gardien saw and recognized him, and saluted respectfully as he passed.
He might have stood there until the car was ready but for a violent gust of rain which swept suddenly in from the sea and drove him back up the steps. At the top he hesitated. The lights of the Sporting Club gleamed on his left, and at last he turned slowly toward them. Perhaps it was in his mind that, since the Goddess of Fortune had dealt him one staggering blow that night, she might now, like a true woman, relent and smile upon him.
At any rate, he mounted the steps to the entrance and passed in.
The rooms were crowded, as always, and all the tables were in play, but he passed through without pausing or looking at any one, and walked on into the buffet, where he ordered a whiskey and soda and drank it standing at the bar. Then, as though his resolution was taken, he walked quickly back into the gaming rooms, stopped at the nearest table, changed a thousand-franc note for ten plaques, and placed them around the number nineteen.
The chef de partie, sitting in his high chair behind the croupiers and surveying the whole board, must have sensed something unusual in the prince’s manner, for he watched him intently, but no one else paid any attention to him. Every one was absorbed in the play.
An attendant asked him if he wished a chair, but he shook his head and remained standing.
“Faites vos jeux, messieurs; faites vos jeux!” called the croupier, and bets were placed up and down the board, but the prince alone was on nineteen. “Les jeux sont faits?” and the croupier leaned forward, picked the little ivory ball out of the compartment into which it had fallen the previous play, gently reversed the motion of the wheel, and with a quick snap of his middle finger sent the ball circling around and around the cupped rim of the wheel—around and around, six times, seven times, eight times, and then its pace began to slacken.
“Rien ne va plus!” called the croupier sharply, and the ball fell with a rattle into the middle of the wheel, coasted up its raised centre, hesitated for the merest instant, and settled with a quick snap into one of the compartments.
“Le dix-neuf!” announced the croupier. “Rouge, impair et passe.”
Breaths that had been held were released, and there was a murmur of voices lamenting that they had not been on nineteen. For the prince had won.
It was not very much—perhaps fifteen thousand francs—but he seemed to regard it as a sign, for he too took a quick breath and nodded to an attendant, who hastened to find a chair for him. The prince sat down, placed his winnings in front of him, and began to play with absorbed attention, always on or around or in connection with the number nineteen.
There have been many stories of desperate persons who risked an entire fortune on a single turn of the wheel and lost, or of lucky individuals who won enormous sums by permitting their stakes to accumulate as the same number came out again and again. Neither of these things is possible, for the bank sets arbitrary limits to the play, running from a hundred and eighty francs on a number, which pays thirty-five for one, to six thousand francs on the simple chances, odd or even, red or black, high or low, which wins an equal amount. So that, if one plays the maximum on all the chances, it is possible—though rather difficult—to lose about thirty thousand francs, or to win a little over a hundred thousand. But that is the limit.
So the prince, playing cautiously and confining himself at first to the cheveaux and carrés, took a long time in losing the fifteen thousand francs he had won, even though nineteen did not come again. Twenty, seventeen and twenty-three came, which helped to recoup his losses, and it was at least an hour after he had sat down that the last of his fifteen thousand francs were swept away.
He glanced at his watch and made a motion as if to rise, then decided to wait for the next play.
The ball fell into nineteen.
There was an outcry of sympathy and indignation on the part of the spectators. What a shame, what a crime, that his number should come at the very moment he had ceased playing!
Quietly, as though moved by some power stronger than himself, the prince drew his purse from his pocket, opened it and laid it on the table before him. And this time he staked the maximum.
It is not often that any one stakes the maximum at Monte Carlo. Even in this day thirty thousand francs is a considerable sum. So an electric whisper ran around the room that something unusual was going forward at the prince’s table, and the crowd around it became thicker and thicker. The chef de partie, scenting a battle royal, sent hastily to the cashier for an extra supply of funds.
The hand of the croupier was perhaps a shade less steady than usual as he picked up the marble and started it on its run. It spun, faltered, rattled, clicked....
“The twenty-seven,” announced the croupier. “Red, odd and low.”
The prince had won six thousand and lost twenty-four. Imperturbably he placed his bets again. It was at this moment that Selden entered the room.
The prince’s abrupt departure had left a constraint upon the dinner-party, which was not to be shaken off. They had gone from the dining-room into the salon, and there, after one or two ineffectual attempts at gaiety, Davis and his fiancée had withdrawn to a corner sofa to discuss certain strictly intimate affairs, and Selden had smoked a cigarette with Madame Ghita and talked of desultory and unimportant things—of anything, indeed, except the one thing which had been in his mind to say when he was buying the roses.
Impossible to say that now—impossible even to hint at it. It would be indecent—like wooing a woman whose husband was dying in the next room! Besides, she was in no mood for such confidences; she was distrait and sad. The conversation faltered and died away; and presently he summoned up courage to take his departure. She had been obviously grateful that he should go.
He was too depressed and agitated to think of sleep, so he slipped into his coat, left the hotel and descended to the terrace, just as the prince had done half an hour before.
The rain-squall earlier in the evening had swept the terrace bare, and he found himself alone there, except for the gardien. Masses of slaty clouds were fleeing across the sky before the gusty wind, with the moon peeping between them now and then and sending fugitive gleams of light over the white-capped waves, which hissed and moaned dolefully as they were driven in upon the rocky shore. More doleful still was the rustle of the palms and the clatter of the rubber trees flapping in the wind like a flock of ghostly night-birds. And above him gleamed the lights of the casino, standing like a courtesan, white and gilt and laboriously gay, but at heart most dismal of all!
Selden gave himself up for a time to the luxury of self-pity—to that most dangerous of all dissipations, a fit of the blues. What was the use of going on? What was the use of having ideals or of fighting for them? The world paid no heed. What, indeed, was the world but a huge casino, where every one was struggling to win his neighbour’s gold?
Why, above all, should he worry himself about a woman who was sad because another man was leaving her?
But here his sense of justice asserted itself. The man was not leaving her—she was sending him away. He had come seeking her and she had refused to go. She had made her choice; but how could she help being sad at the thought that one epoch of her life was ended? She had lived with this man in closest intimacy; he had no doubt been kind and generous. He had loved her. At the end he had come offering everything he had—and she had sent him away. Where had he gone?
A sudden thought startled Selden out of his moodiness. What had the prince meant when he promised to give his money to the bank? Why had he smiled so ironically? Which bank?
In a moment Selden was hurrying toward the Sporting Club, and the instant he entered the rooms he knew that his suspicion was correct. That dense crowd around a single table could mean only one thing—somebody was playing the limit.
“He is playing nineteen—always nineteen,” said a man beside him to his neighbour.
Nineteen! Then of course it was the prince.
It was some time before Selden could get near enough to see what was going on, but meanwhile the marble had been spun twice and he heard the croupier announce two and eleven. Then he managed to worm himself into a position from which he could see the prince.
Danilo seemed entirely cool, nonchalant—listless, even. He was smoking a cigarette and tossing his notes into place upon the board as though they were so many bits of worthless paper. He appeared equally indifferent as to whether he won or lost, and totally unconscious of the gaping crowd that watched him. Selden recognized in his bearing the cold fury of the confirmed gambler, which stops at nothing. There had been in his head the idea that he might intervene, but he saw that it was useless. To speak to the prince now would be to insult him.
“The thirty-five!” announced the croupier. “Black, odd and low.”
Well, that was not so bad—six thousand on low and six on odd. But the next number was six and the board was swept clear again.
The prince proceeded calmly to renew his bets.
Nineteen must come sometime, Selden told himself. If it came once, the prince would win back all he had lost. If it came twice, he would be a hundred thousand francs ahead.
Sixteen! That was good—thirty thousand francs, nearly—a gain. But the next numbers were fifteen, thirty-three, three and again six, and the prince had lost another hundred thousand.
Nobody else was playing; it was a battle between the prince and the bank. M. le Directeur des Jeux had come out from his little office to watch it, and to take command if necessary. The prince lighted another cigarette and placed his money again.
Nineteen!
There was a little cheer from the crowd as the croupier counted out the various bets one after the other, and pushed the notes across to the prince.
Again now! And every one pulled for nineteen as the little ball spun gaily around. But it fell into eight, and again the board was swept clean.
That was the beginning of a bad run; six—there was a fatality about that six!—eight again—thirty-three—twelve—two—twenty-four—a little gain there!—fifteen. And then there was a short rally: sixteen—twenty—twenty-three; but never again nineteen. Then another bad run, and the pile of notes under the prince’s hand diminished rapidly. He did not hesitate—always nineteen.
The crowd was beginning to get impatient with him. Why nineteen? Why keep it up when he saw it was not a good number? And as if to mock him, the croupier at the next table could be heard announcing nineteen! But certainly he should change—if not the number, then the table. It was imbecile to keep on like that!
But the prince did not change.
It was nearly two o’clock when he finally put his empty purse away and rose to his feet.
“Messieurs,” he said, with a little bow to the directeur and the chef de partie, “I have to thank you for a very pleasant evening.”
And he walked calmly to the door, got his hat and coat from the vestiaire, and went out into the night.