PART V.—FRIDAY
CHAPTER XXIV
AN AFFAIR OF STATE
SELDEN took train for Nice next morning with a sense of impending calamity. He was greatly depressed. The emotional events of the previous evening had overtaxed his nerves. He had slept badly, disturbed by elusively threatening dreams, and his brain was muggy and distraught. He was almost sorry he had not heeded his impulse to run away—to leave his lamp unlit! He doubted more and more whether its feeble rays would ever guide him out of the labyrinth in which he was madly wandering, and from which there seemed to be no way of escape.
The train he had caught was a local, and as it bumped its leisurely way along, he had time to review his position over a contemplative pipe; but the more he considered it, the worse it seemed to grow; turn it as he might, he could discover no bright side. Of one thing only he was certain: his life would never again be the calm and satisfactory thing it had been. A few days had changed it beyond recognition: it was no longer simple: it was incredibly complex. He could scarcely believe that only eighty hours had elapsed since he had walked into the lounge of the Hotel de Paris to meet the Countess Rémond.
At Nice, the passengers were hurried across the tracks, for the Rome-Paris express had been signalled, and as he gave up his ticket to the guard at the exit, Selden’s eye caught a familiar figure. It was Halsey, walking nervously up and down in the waiting-room, pausing now and then to watch the people pouring from the train-shed. His eyes met Selden’s for an instant, but he gave no sign of recognition. He was rather a pitiable figure, his face grey and drawn, his eyes shot with blood—evidently his affair with the countess was not progressing smoothly. Well, he was only getting what he deserved, Selden told himself, as he turned away.
It still lacked fifteen minutes of the hour named by the baron; so, deciding that the walk would do him good, Selden turned briskly down the Avenue des Victoires toward the sea. The street was swarming, as usual, with tourists and winter residents, whose presence there was always an insoluble mystery to Selden. He never could understand why any one would want to spend a winter at Nice, when there were so many other places up and down the coast infinitely more attractive. It was the herd instinct, he decided, which brought these thousands of people here to spend their vacations in an inordinately expensive hotel or a dingy pension, with nothing to do except walk up and down the Promenade des Anglais, or look sadly on at the laboriously manufactured gaieties.
He found the Promenade a solid mass of people moving in two slow currents, one up, one down, for this was the fashionable hour to get out and take the sun and exhibit one’s new gown, which some man somewhere had somehow procured the money for. Truly, human nature is a curious thing!
The gates of the Villa Gloria were open, and he walked through, past the concierge, who recognized him and touched his cap, up the path to the door, where a waiting attendant received him and ushered him at once into the salon.
The king and Lappo were already there and greeted him warmly. Then the baron introduced him to the notary, M. Noblemaire—a true type, with hawk-nose, crinkly beard, and carefully brushed clothes of rusty black—who, with an assistant, was going over the papers to make sure that everything was in order.
The prince came in a moment later, greeted Selden casually, and sat down beside the long table which occupied the centre of the room. He was dressed in irreproachable morning costume and, save for a slight pallor, gave no hint in his appearance of his exciting experiences of the night before. No one looking at him would have suspected that he had lost a fortune! Selden was conscious of a great relief, for he had expected he knew not what—some excitement, some discomposure, at least some vestige of wreckage after the storm. Certainly the prince had consummate self-control!
Then the door opened and Mrs. Davis and her daughter were shown in—the former very warm and voluble, the latter as composed as the prince himself.
Nothing could have been more delicate, more exquisitely attuned to the situation, than the way in which Danilo greeted her, respectful, reserved, but with just a hint of ardency beneath the surface. From the quick glance she shot at the prince’s face, Selden inferred the manner was new to her, but it was evidently not distasteful, and as he turned away to meet Mrs. Davis, who was bearing down upon him, he saw that the baron was contemplating it with satisfaction. The prince had been tamed. He was playing the game, and playing it extraordinarily well!
“How do you do, Mr. Selden?” cried Mrs. Davis. “It was too good of you to consent to be our witness. I should not have dared to ask, but the dear baron assured me that you were very good-natured....”
Miss Davis came forward and gave him her hand.
“It was nice of you,” she said; “and it relieves my mind.”
“Relieves your mind?”
She smiled a little at his tone.
“I regard it as the seal of your approval,” she explained.
“Do you still need the seal of my approval?” he asked.
“It is very comforting to have it. That is what your being here means, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so; but you must remember that I am looking at it from the outside, while you....”
“I know what you mean,” she said, as he hesitated. “There is no reason why you should beat around the bush—I am not a child!”
“Of course—but it has bothered me.”
“It needn’t bother you any longer. It is all right. I had a letter from her this morning—a very splendid letter. Some day I should like to know her.”
Mrs. Davis, to whom M. Noblemaire had been presented, was announcing that Charley had stopped for their notary, since it was necessary they have their own notary.
“But surely, madame,” said M. Noblemaire, who had some English. “Otherwise it would be most irregular.”
Well, so Charley had gone around for him, and should arrive at any moment. And, sure enough, at that moment Charley did arrive with another notary in tow.
The two men of the robe greeted each other with punctilious politeness. To look at them, no one would have suspected that they played dominoes together every evening at the café on the corner.
“We are all here, I think,” said the king, and took his place at the head of the table. Baron Lappo conducted Miss Davis and her mother to the seats at the king’s right. The prince took his place at his grandfather’s left, and their partisans ranged themselves on either side below them. Selden found himself near the foot of the table, facing M. Noblemaire’s assistant.
For some minutes, there was a great rustling of papers on the part of the notaries. Then they bent their heads together across the table in earnest conversation, while M. Noblemaire explained two or three of the clauses to his colleague, who seemed to be objecting to something, as a matter of form, no doubt, to give the appearance of earning his fee, but who finally nodded his head as though satisfied, and settled back in his chair.
Then M. Noblemaire cleared his throat and rose to his feet.
“Mesdames et messieurs,” he began, speaking in French, with a pronounced accent of the Midi, and dwelling upon every syllable after the manner of an orator, “we have come here to-day to sign and to acknowledge certain articles of agreement between the royal house of Ghita and the American family Davis, which envisage the marriage of a prince of that house with a daughter of that family. With your permission, I will proceed to read those articles.”
He adjusted his glasses and began to read, with great care and solemnity, while his fellow-notary followed on a duplicate copy, checking off the articles one by one. Selden listened with deep interest. He was gratified to hear the baron’s assertion verified: Miss Davis’s fortune was to remain absolutely in her hands, and was to descend to her children. The necessity of children was recognized quite frankly, and their status, rights, and privileges were provided for in great detail. During the lifetime of the king, he was to be their guardian jointly with their mother. After his death, this duty was to devolve upon the Baron Lappo. The prince was to have a yearly allowance of two hundred thousand francs and his present debts were to be paid. In return, he engaged to reside within the borders of his country for ten months of every year, unless his presence elsewhere was necessitated by reasons of state approved by the king.
Selden glanced up and down the board, as Noblemaire read slowly on. The king and Lappo were listening attentively, careful to let no word escape them; the prince sat with arms folded and eyes downcast and face inexpressive, like a prisoner listening while sentence was pronounced; Miss Davis sat quietly attentive, her hands folded in her lap. Her attitude seemed to say that, since this document concerned her so closely, it behooved her to be familiar with all its provisions, but it was a matter of business, not of sentiment. Selden recalled the baron’s words about her. Was it really some old trial, some cruel disillusion, which had given her this serene self-control? Had she really suffered some disastrous adventure? It scarcely seemed possible.
And then Selden remembered a sentence which her brother had uttered, apparently at random, the night before. It had passed unheeded then, but Selden found that it had somehow stuck in his memory. What was it he had said? “It’s pretty tough that it should happen twice!” Something like that.
That what should happen twice? That she should be twice deserted? For another woman? Was it that old affair with Jeneski he referred to? Had Jeneski deserted her for another woman—the Countess Rémond? But the Countess Rémond hated him too! She also was seeking to be revenged.
And suddenly the pieces of the puzzle fell together in his mind like the bits of coloured glass in a kaleidoscope, and he understood.
Jeneski was to be overthrown because two women hated him; the destiny of a people was to be changed, the course of history altered, to gratify their vengeance.
Ah, well, that had happened a thousand times; women were always altering the course of history to suit their whims or their passions; damming it up, throwing it into strange channels....
Or perhaps it was only his too-fervid imagination magnifying a chance remark. Myra Davis certainly did not look like a girl to seek adventure, to court disaster. At any rate, whether or not she had been deserted once, she was not being deserted twice. Presently she would be a princess, and after that queen-regent. Her son would be a king—the first king in history to be born of an American woman. That, also, would alter its course!
M. Noblemaire’s voice droned on, and each of them sat and listened and dreamed his dream; and Mrs. Davis’s, perhaps, was the sweetest of all—of a place on the steps of a throne....
Then suddenly the voice ceased and startled them awake.
“You find it correct, I trust, monsieur?” inquired M. Noblemaire of his fellow-notary.
“Yes, monsieur; in every detail.”
“Then we have only to sign,” said M. Noblemaire, and turned to his assistant for the pens, ink and blotter.
Selden was amused to see that the pens were long quills.
M. Noblemaire dipped one of them in the ink, picked up the paper, and approached the king.
“If you will sign here, Your Majesty,” he said, and laid the paper before him, indicated the place, and handed him the pen.
The king scrawled a great PIETRO across the page.
It was the prince’s turn next, and the baron witnessed the signatures.
“Now, mademoiselle,” said M. Noblemaire, and laid the document in front of Miss Davis.
She took the pen from him with a hand that shook a little.
“No, no!” cried a voice outside. “It is impossible, monsieur; you cannot enter! Monsieur....”
“But I must enter!” cried another voice, and the door was thrown open with a crash.
CHAPTER XXV
THE COURSE OF HISTORY
FOR a moment no one stirred—just sat and stared at the man who came, swift and resolute, into the room, while the frightened attendant goggled from the door behind him—a man of perhaps forty, with dark, vivid face, outlined by a little beard, and a mop of black hair falling over his forehead, and deep-set eyes gleaming under heavy brows—a man with a bearing indescribably confident and audacious; just sat and stared as he advanced quickly to the table, bowed to Selden and to the Baron Lappo, and then went straight to Myra Davis, took her hand—dashing to the floor the pen he found in it—and drew her to her feet, against his breast.
“Little one,” he said, “I have come for you.”
But she held him away from her—held him away with arms trembling and convulsive, but inflexible; and there was something like terror in her eyes as she looked at him.
“No, no,” she gasped. “You are horrible to come here like this.”
“I love you!”
“It is too late!”
“It is not too late! Why is it too late?”
“Because—I do not—love you any more!”
“No?” he asked calmly, without any motion to release her. “Of course—in that case....”
But by this time the king was on his feet, his face purple.
“What is this farce?” he roared. “Jacopo—Mario—throw this fellow out!”
“One moment, sir,” said the stranger. “Perhaps the Baron Lappo will do me the honour to present me.”
And the Baron Lappo, his face a study, rose in his turn.
“Your Majesty,” he said, “this is M. Jeneski.”
Jeneski. Selden, of course, had recognized him, and Mrs. Davis, too, apparently, from the energy with which she now rushed forward, rescued her daughter from his grasp, and tried to kill him with a look. But to the king it was undoubtedly a blow, and for an instant his hand fumbled at his breast. Yet not for nothing had the old warrior reigned for sixty years in the midst of hate and violence, and his composure was back in a moment. He signed to Jacopo to close the door.
“M. Jeneski,” he said, with a bow, “I have often wished to meet you.”
“I must apologize for my abrupt entrance, sir,” said Jeneski, smiling his appreciation of the king’s aplomb, “but I feared that I should be too late.”
“Too late for what, sir?” asked the king.
“Too late for this ceremony,” explained Jeneski, with a gesture toward the papers on the table.
“Ah,” said the king, “you wish to witness it?”
“I wish to prevent it,” corrected Jeneski quietly.
The king wrinkled his brow incredulously, and his colour heightened a little.
“Really,” he began.
“Believe me, sir,” said Jeneski quickly, “I deeply regret this violent and dramatic procedure. I assure you that it is not at all in my character, but I had no choice. I have strained every nerve to reach here at the earliest possible moment. I should have arrived last night, but was delayed by a series of misadventures which I will not weary you by reciting. So when, twenty minutes ago, at the villa of Madame Davis, I learned of this conference, I could only hasten here and force my way in.”
“You may as well force your way out again,” broke in Mrs. Davis, who had listened to all this with a face even redder than the king’s. “If you think for a minute my daughter will have anything to do with you....”
“Hush, mother,” whispered the girl, her face convulsed.
“I confess,” said the king politely, “that I do not understand. Is it that you profess to have some claim upon this young lady?”
“Only the claim of a man who loves her,” said Jeneski humbly.
“Love!” began Mrs. Davis, violently.
But again her daughter stopped her.
“I am at a very great disadvantage,” went on Jeneski. “It is very difficult to speak—to explain—to say what I have to say thus publicly. If I for one moment might see Miss Davis alone....”
“Never!” cried her mother.
His eyes implored the girl, but she turned her face away.
“Very well,” he said, and drew close to her side. “I must speak to you then, little one, as though we were alone. Forget that there is any one present but you and me.” His voice was trembling with emotion. He paused an instant to collect himself and moistened his lips nervously. “Before I say anything else, I must say this: for the wrong I did you in a moment of madness I have suffered much. Perhaps if you knew the whole story—but no; there is no excuse. I say to you only that I have suffered, that I have done great penance. All that was torn out of my life and cast aside many months ago. Since then I have thought only of my country and of you. The baron can tell you that this is true—since he has used that old affair to secure an accomplice in the plot against me.”
She was staring at him with wide-open eyes, white to the lips, her hands pressed against her heart. He made no motion to touch her, but his eyes never wavered from hers.
“Even then,” he went on rapidly, “I would not have dreamed of coming near you—no, not yet. I would have worked on for my country and cleansed myself with sacrifice—loving you always and hoping that some day you might find me worthy; but this, this alliance—it must not be! Do you know what you are doing? You are riveting again on half a million people the shackles they have just thrown off after a struggle of two centuries....”
“We are willing to leave it to the people themselves, sir,” put in the baron quietly.
“Ah, yes,” cried Jeneski, “after you have corrupted them with I know not what promises! Of course they will choose the easy way!”
“Well, then,” said the baron.
“They are not fit to choose—not yet. Let them learn first what freedom means. Come—I ask nothing for myself—nothing,” he went on, turning back to the girl. “I have no right to ask anything for myself. Do I not know it? Yes—better than any one. But for my country I do ask—I have the right to ask; not much—only this: that you delay this marriage for a year—for six months, even—then leave it to the people....”
He had raised his arms in his excitement, and as he brought them down with an impassioned gesture, there was a spatter of blood across the papers on the table, and a steady drip, drip from under his sleeve and across his left hand to the floor.
He seized his left arm near the shoulder and held it tight.
“What is that?” asked Myra Davis, taking a quick step toward him. “Are you hurt?”
“It is nothing,” said Jeneski impatiently; “less than nothing; just one of the misadventures which delayed me.” Then a little smile flitted across his lips, and he looked at the baron. “I confess, however, that I did not suppose the Baron Lappo would descend to methods so—so primitive.”
“What do you mean, sir?” demanded the baron.
“Was it not you,” asked Jeneski, still smiling, “who posted that big Englishman on the platform up yonder to shoot me as I left the train?”
The baron’s face was livid.
“M. Jeneski,” he began, “I swear to you....”
“It was not the baron,” put in Selden quickly. “It was the Countess Rémond. I knew she was driving Halsey on to something—but I never guessed....”
“Ah, well, I should have guessed,” said Jeneski. “I apologize to you, M. le Baron. After all, it is nothing—a scratch across the arm. I had time to bandage it but hastily, so it bleeds a little. I am sorry.”
There was a moment’s pause. Then Myra Davis released herself from her mother’s grasp and turned to Baron Lappo.
“Is it true,” she asked, “what he said about that—that affair?”
“Yes, mademoiselle,” answered the baron grimly. “It is true.”
The colour had come back into her face and her eyes were shining.
“And is it true that you have suffered?” she asked of Jeneski.
He made a little motion with his hands, more expressive than any words.
“I have suffered, too,” she said simply.
“Oh, my love,” said Jeneski, humbly, “some day I hope you will find it in your heart to pardon me!”
She stood yet an instant looking at him, then she held out her hands.
“I pardon you now!” she said.
It was over. The Davises were gone, and Selden too had tried to go, but the baron had asked him to remain.
The king had behaved magnificently. Well he knew the folly of trying to argue with a woman’s heart, and he had uttered no word of disappointment or reproach. Instead, having thrown and lost, he took defeat like a sportsman and a gentleman, faced ruin, exile, tragic failure, with a smile; had even wished her happiness and kissed her hand in farewell. With Jeneski he had been almost cordial.
Selden had never admired him so much, though he told himself it was this very habit of dissimulation which rendered the king least admirable. Perhaps he had not yet lost hope—some fanatic with a better aim than poor, fuddled Halsey might take a shot at Jeneski—or there was the countess herself, presumably raging somewhere at the failure of her plot. There was still that possible alliance between young Davis and the Princess Anna. Finally there was always that huge sum which had been offered for his abdication; which he had once refused, but which he could still accept whenever it seemed wise, and upon which he could live comfortably for the remainder of his life. No doubt it was such considerations as these which enabled the king to bear up so well.
Selden was surprised to note that Danilo seemed far more deeply affected. He was like a man stunned; slouched forward in his chair, staring at the papers with the dash of blood across them, his face ghastly in its pallor.
“We must consider,” said the baron, “how best to announce this to the world. M. Selden, I am sure, will not wish to do us any unnecessary injury.”
“Certainly not,” said Selden. “I shall use only the official version.”
“I will not conceal from you,” went on the baron, “that this—débâcle I think I can call it—has left us in a somewhat delicate position. We had made certain financial arrangements, based on this alliance, which will have to be cancelled, or at least reconsidered. Fortunately....”
He hesitated, glancing at the king.
“Yes,” the king nodded, “I have not touched the money since I placed it in my bureau last night. It can be returned if Hirsch demands it.”
“It is that fact alone,” the baron pointed out, “which saves us from the most painful embarrassment.”
The prince stirred uneasily, passed his hand across his haggard forehead, and rose unsteadily to his feet.
“You will excuse me,” he said.
The king nodded and the prince went slowly out.
“I did not suppose it would be such a blow to him,” said the king, as the door closed behind Danilo. “I do not understand it. Unless he has been losing again—but he has no money.”
“No,” agreed the baron; “and I know of no way he could secure any.”
Selden managed to keep an impassive face, but he was smiling inwardly. Evidently the prince had sources of supply unknown to the baron.
“Whatever it is,” said the king, “let us hope it will make him more serious. Continue, baron.”
The baron paced up and down for a moment, his chin in his hand.
“Of course she will marry Jeneski,” he said, at last, and glanced at his master.
“Yes, I understand, Lappo,” said the king quietly. “You would say that it is finished—that the game is up. Well, we shall see—I have confidence in my star! At least ... what was that?”
From somewhere in the house had come a muffled report as of a door slamming—or a pistol-shot....
A sudden pallor swept over the king’s face.
“Danilo!” he cried, and started to rise, then sank back clutching at his breast. “Danilo!”
But Danilo lay sprawled across his bed, a bullet through his heart.
He had managed to escape, after all!