THE JESUIT SETTLEMENT STATEMENT BY HIS MAJESTY THE KING.
And there, plainly set forth, was the Royal and authoritative refusal to grant the lands required, ‘Because of the earnest petition of our loving subjects against the said grant,’—and till ‘our loving subjects’’ objections were removed, the lands would be withheld. This public announcement signed by the King in person, created the most extraordinary sensation throughout the whole country. It was the one topic at every social meeting; it was the one subject of every sermon. Preachers stormed and harangued in every pulpit, and Monsignor Del Fortis, lifting up his harsh raucous voice in the Cathedral itself, addressed an enormous congregation one Sunday morning on the matter, and denounced the King, the Queen, and the mysteriously-departed Crown Prince in the most orthodox Christian manner, commending them to the flames of hell, and the mercy of a loving God at one and the same moment.
Meanwhile, the newspaper that had been permitted to publish the King’s statement got its circulation up by tens of thousands, the more so as certain brilliant and fiery articles on the political situation began to appear therein signed by one Pasquin Leroy, a stranger to the reading public, but in whom the spirit of a modern ‘Junius’ appeared to have entered for the purpose of warning, threatening and commanding. A scathing and audacious attack upon Carl Pérousse, Secretary of State, in which the small darts of satire flew further than the sharpest arrows of assertion, was among the first of these, and Pérousse himself, maddened like a bull at the first prick of the toreador, by the stinging truths the writer uttered, or rather suggested, lost no time in summoning General Bernhoff to a second interview.
“Did I not tell you,” he said, pointing to the signature at the end of the offending article, “to ‘shadow’ that man, and arrest him as a common spy?”
Bernhoff bowed stiffly.
“You did! But it is difficult to arrest one who is not capable of being arrested. I must be provided first with proofs of his guilt; and I must also obtain the King’s order.”
“Proofs should be easy enough for you to obtain,” said Pérousse fiercely; “And the King will sign any warrant he is told. At least, you can surely find this rascal out?—where he lives, and what are his means of subsistence?”
“If he were here, I could,” responded Bernhoff calmly; “I have made all the necessary preliminary enquiries. The man is a gentleman of considerable wealth. He writes for his own amusement, and—from a distance. I advise you—” and here the General held up an obstinate-looking finger of warning; “I advise you, I say, to let him alone! I can find no proof whatever that he is a spy.”
“Proof! I can give you enough—” began Pérousse hotly, then paused in confusion. For what could he truly say? If he told the Chief of Police that this Pasquin Leroy was believed to have counterfeited the Prime Minister’s signet, in order to obtain an interview with David Jost, why then the Chief of Police would be informed once and for all that the Prime Minister was in confidential communication with the Jew-proprietor of a stock-jobbing newspaper! And that would never do! It would, at the least, be impolitic. Inwardly chafing with annoyance, he assumed an outward air of conscientious gravity.
“You will regret it, General, I think, if you do not follow out my suggestions respecting this man,” he said coldly; “He is writing for the press in a strain which is plainly directed against the Government. Of course we statesmen pay little or no heed to modern journalism, but the King, having taken the unusual, and as I consider it, unwise step of proclaiming certain of his intentions in a newspaper which was, until his patronage, obscure and unsuccessful, the public attention has been suddenly turned towards this particular journal; and what is written therein may possibly influence the masses as it would not have done a few weeks ago.”
“I quite believe that!” said Bernhoff tersely; “But I cannot arrest a man for writing clever things. Literary talent is no proof of dishonesty.”
Pérousse looked at him sharply. But there was no satire in Bernhoff’s fixed and glassy eye, and no expression whatever in his woodenly-composed countenance.
“We entertain different opinions on the matter, it is evident!” he said; “You will at least grant that if he cannot be arrested, he can be carefully watched?”
“He is carefully watched!” replied Bernhoff; “That is to say, as far as I can watch him!”
“Good!” and Pérousse smiled, somewhat relieved. “Then on the first suspicion of a treasonable act——”
“I shall arrest him—in the King’s name, when the King signs the warrant,” said Bernhoff; “But he is one of Sergius Thord’s followers, and at the present juncture it might be unwise to touch any member of that particularly inflammable body.”
Pérousse frowned.
“Sergius Thord ought to have been hanged or shot years ago——”
“Then why did not you hang or shoot him?” enquired Bernhoff.
“I was not in office.”
“Why do you not hang or shoot him now?”
“Why? Because——”
“Because,” interrupted Bernhoff, again lifting his grim warning finger; “If you did, the city would be in a tumult and more than half the soldiery would be on the side of the mob! By way of warning, M. Pérousse, I may as well tell you frankly, on the authority of my position as Head of the Police, that the Government are on the edge of a dangerous situation!”
Pérousse looked contemptuous.
“Every Government in the world is on the edge of a dangerous situation nowadays!” he retorted;—“But any Government that yields to the mob proves itself a mere ministry of cowardice.”
“Yet the mob often wins,—not only by excess of numbers, but by sheer force of—honesty!”—said Bernhoff sententiously; “It has been known to sweep away, and re-make political constitutions before now.”
“It has,”—agreed Pérousse, drawing pens and paper towards him, and feigning to be busily occupied in the commencement of a letter—“But it will not indulge itself in such amusements during my time!”
“Ah! I wonder how long your time will last!” muttered Bernhoff to himself as he withdrew—“Six months or six days? I would not bet on the longer period!”
In good truth there was considerable reason for the General’s dubious outlook on affairs. A political storm was brewing. A heavy tidal wave of discontent was sweeping the masses of the people stormily against the rocks of existing authority, and loud and bitter and incessant were the complaints on all sides against the increased taxation levied upon every rate-payer. Fiercest of all was the clamour made by the poor at the increasing price of bread, the chief necessity of life; for the imposition of a heavy duty upon wheat and other cereals had made the common loaf of the peasant’s daily fare almost an article of luxury. Stormy meetings were held in every quarter of the city,—protests were drawn up and signed by thousands,—endless petitions were handed to the King,—but no practical result came from these. His Majesty was ‘graciously pleased’ to seem blind, deaf and wholly indifferent to the agitated condition of his subjects. Now and then a Government orator would mount the political rostrum and talk ‘patriotism’ for an hour or so, to a more or less sullen audience, informing them with much high-flown eloquence that, by responding to the Governmental demands and supporting the Governmental measures, they were strengthening the resources of the country and completing the efficiency of both Army and Navy; but somehow, his hydraulic efforts at rousing the popular enthusiasm failed of effect. Whereas, whenever Sergius Thord spoke, thousands of throats roared acclamation,—and the very sight of Lotys passing quietly down the poorer thoroughfares of the city was sufficient to bring out groups of men and women to their doors, waving their hands to her, sending her wild kisses,—and almost kneeling before her in an ecstasy of trust and adoration. Thord himself perceived that the situation was rapidly reaching a climax, and quietly prepared himself to meet and cope with it. Two of the monthly business meetings of the Revolutionary Committee had been held since that on which Pasquin Leroy and his two friends had been enrolled as members of the Brotherhood, and at the last of these, Thord took Leroy into his full confidence, and gave him all the secret clues of the Revolutionary organization which honeycombed the metropolis from end to end. He had trusted the man in many ways and found him honest. One trifling proof of this was perhaps the main reason of Thord’s further reliance upon him; he had fulfilled his half-suggested promise to bring the sunshine of prosperity into the hard-working, and more or less sordid life of the little dancing-girl, Pequita. She had been sent for one morning by the manager of the Royal Opera, who having seen the ease, grace, and dexterity of her performance, forthwith engaged her for the entire season at a salary which when named to the amazed child, seemed like a veritable shower of gold tumbling by rare chance out of the lap of Dame Fortune. The manager was a curt, cold business man, and she was afraid to ask him any questions, for when the words—“I am sure a kind friend has spoken to you of me—” came timidly from her lips, he had shut up her confidence at once by the brief answer—
“No. You are mistaken. We accept no personal recommendations. We only employ proved talent!”
All the same Pequita felt sure that she owed the sudden lifting of her own and her father’s daily burden of life, to the unforgetting care and intercession of Leroy. Lotys was equally convinced of the same, and both she and Sergius Thord highly appreciated their new associate’s unobtrusive way of doing good, as it were, by stealth. Pequita’s exquisite grace and agility had made her at once the fashion; the Opera was crowded nightly to see the ‘wonderful child-dancer’; and valuable gifts and costly jewels were showered upon her, all of which she brought to Lotys, who advised her how to dispose of them best, and put by the money for the comfort and care of her father in the event of sickness, or the advance of age. Flattered and petted by the great world as she now was, Pequita never lost her head in the whirl of gay splendour, but remained the same child-like, loving little creature,—her one idol her father,—her only confidante, Lotys, whose gentle admonitions and constant watchfulness saved her from many a dangerous pitfall. As yet, she had not attained the wish she had expressed, to dance before the King,—but she was told that at any time his Majesty might visit the Opera, and that steps would be taken to induce him to do so for the special purpose of witnessing her performance. So with this half promise she was fain to be content, and to bear with the laughing taunts of her ‘Revolutionary’ friends, who constantly teased her and called her ‘little traitor’ because she sought the Royal favour.
Another event, which was correctly or incorrectly traced to Leroy’s silently working influence, was the sudden meteoric blaze of Paul Zouche into fame. How it happened, no one knew;—and why it happened was still more of a mystery, because by all its own tenets and traditions the social world ought to have set itself dead against the ‘Psalm of Revolution,’—the title of the book of poems which created such an amazing stir. But somehow, it got whispered about that the King had attempted to ‘patronise’ the poet, and that the poet had very indignantly resented the offered Royal condescension. Whereat, by degrees, there arose in society circles a murmur of wonder at the poet’s ‘pluck,’ wonder that deepened into admiration, with incessant demand for his book,—and admiration soon expanded, with the aid of the book, into a complete “craze.” Zouche’s name was on every lip; invitations to great houses reached him every week;—his poems began to sell by thousands; yet with all this, the obstinacy of his erratic nature asserted itself as usual, undiminished, and Zouche withdrew from the shower of praise like a snail into its shell,—answered none of the flattering requests for ‘the pleasure of his company,’ and handed whatever money he made by his poems over to the funds of the Revolutionary Committee, only accepting as much out of it as would pay for his clothes, food, lodging, and—drink! But the more he turned his back on Fame, the more hotly it pursued him;—his very churlishness was talked about as something remarkable and admirable,—and when it was suggested that he was fonder of strong liquor than was altogether seemly, people smiled and nodded at each other pleasantly, tapped their foreheads meaningly and murmured: ‘Genius! Genius!’ as though that were a quality allied of divine necessity to alcoholism.
These two things,—the advent of a new dancer at the Opera, and the fame of Paul Zouche, were the chief topics of ‘Society’ outside its own tawdry personal concern; but under all the light froth and spume of the pleasure-seeking, pleasure-loving whirl of fashion, a fierce tempest was rising, and the first whistlings of the wind of revolt were already beginning to pierce through the keyholes and crannies of the stately building allotted to the business of Government;—so much so indeed that one terrible night, all unexpectedly, a huge mob, some twenty thousand strong, surrounded it, armed with every conceivable weapon from muskets to pickaxes, and shouted with horrid din for ‘Bread and Justice!’—these being considered co-equal in the bewildered mind of the excited multitude. Likewise did they scream with protrusive energy: ‘Give us back our lost Trades!’ being fully aware, despite their delirium, that these said ‘lost Trades’ were being sold off into ‘Trusts,’ wherein Ministers themselves held considerable shares, A two-sided clamour was also made for ‘The King! The King!’ one side appealing, the other menacing,—the latter under the belief that his Majesty equally had ‘shares’ in the bartered Trades,—the former in the hope that the country’s Honour might still be saved with the help of their visible Head.
Much difficulty was experienced in clearing this surging throng of indignant humanity, for though the soldiery were called out to effect the work, they were more than half-hearted in their business, having considerable grievances of their own to avenge,—and when ordered to fire on the people, flatly refused to do so. Two persons however succeeded at last in calming and quelling the tumult. One was Sergius Thord,—the other Lotys. Carl Pérousse, seized with an access of ‘nerves’ within the cushioned luxury of his own private room in the recesses of the Government buildings, from whence he had watched the demonstration, peered from one of the windows, and saw one half of the huge mob melt swiftly away under the command of a tall, majestic-looking creature, whose massive form and leonine head appeared Ajax-like above the throng; and he watched the other half turn round in brisk order, like a well-drilled army, and march off, singing loudly and lustily, headed by a woman carried shoulder-high before them, whose white robes gleamed like a flag of truce in the glare of the torches blazing around her;—and to his utter amazement, fear and disgust, he heard the very soldiers shouting her name: “Lotys! Lotys!” with ever-increasing and thunderous plaudits of admiration and homage. Often and often had he heard that name,—often and often had he dismissed it from his thoughts with light masculine contempt. Often, too, had it come to the ears of his colleague the Premier, who as has been shown, even in intimate converse with his own private secretary, feigned complete ignorance of it. But it is well understood that politicians generally, and diplomatists always, assume to have no knowledge whatever concerning those persons of whom they are most afraid. Yet just now it was unpleasantly possible that “the stone which the builders rejected” might indirectly be the means of crushing the Ministry, and reorganizing the affairs of the country. His meditations on this occasion were interrupted by a touch on the shoulder from behind, and, looking up, he saw the Marquis de Lutera.
“Almost a riot!” he said, forcing a pale smile,—“But not quite!”
“Say, rather, almost a revolution!” retorted the Marquis brusquely;—“Jesting is out of place. We are on the brink of a very serious disaster! The people are roused. To-night they threatened to burn down these buildings over our heads,—to sack and destroy the King’s Palace. The Socialist leader, Thord, alone saved the situation.”
“With the aid of his mistress?” suggested Pérousse with a sneer.
“You mean the woman they call Lotys? I am not aware that she is his mistress. I should rather doubt it. The people would not make such a saint of her if she were. At any rate, whatever else she may be, she is certainly dangerous;—and in a country less free than ours would be placed under arrest. I must confess I never believed in her ‘vogue’ with the masses, until to-night.”
Pérousse was silent. The great square in front of the Government buildings was now deserted,—save for the police and soldiery on guard; but away in the distance could still be heard faint echoes of singing and cheering from the broken-up sections of the crowd that had lately disturbed the peace.
“Have you seen the King lately?” enquired Lutera presently.
“No.”
“By his absolute ‘veto’ against our propositions at the last Cabinet Council, the impending war which would have been so useful to us, has been quashed in embryo,” went on the Premier with a frown;—“This of course you know! And he has the right to exercise his veto if he likes. But I scarcely expected you after all you said, to take the matter so easily!”
Pérousse smiled, and shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly.
“However,” continued the Marquis with latent contempt in his tone;—“I now quite understand your complacent attitude! You have simply turned your ‘Army Supplies Contract’ into a ‘Trust’ Combine with other nations,—so you will not lose, but rather gain by the transaction!”
“I never intended to lose!” said Pérousse calmly; “I am not troubled with scruples. One form of trade is as good as another. The prime object of life nowadays is to make money!”
Lutera looked at him, but said nothing.
“To amalgamate all the steel industries into one international Union, and get as many shares myself in the combine is not at all an unwise project,” went on Pérousse,—“For if our country is not to fight, other countries will;—and they will require guns and swords and all such accoutrements of war. Why should we not satisfy the demand and pocket the cash?”
Still the Marquis looked at him steadily.
“Are you aware,”—he asked at last, “that Jost, to save his ‘press’ prestige, has turned informer against you?”
Pérousse sprang up, white with fury.
“By Heaven, if he has dared!—”
“There is no ‘if’ in the case”—said Lutera very coldly—“He has, as he himself says, ‘done his duty.’ You must be pretty well cognisant of what a Jew’s notions of ‘duty’ are! They can be summed up in one sentence;—‘to save his own pocket.’ Jost is driven to fury and desperation by the sudden success of the rival newspaper, which has been so prominently favoured by the King. The shares in his own journalistic concerns are going down rapidly, and he is determined—naturally enough—to take care of himself before anyone else. He has sold out of every company with which you have been, or are associated—and has—so I understand,—sent a complete list of your proposed financial ‘deals,’ investments and other ‘stock’ to—”
He paused.
“Well!” exclaimed Pérousse irascibly—“To whom?”
“To those whom it may concern,”—replied Lutera evasively—“I really can give you no exact information. I have said enough by way of warning!”
Pérousse looked at him heedfully, and what he saw in that dark brooding face was not of a quieting or satisfactory nature.
“You are as deeply involved as I am—” he began.
“Pardon!” and the Marquis drew himself up with some dignity—“I was involved;—I am not now. I have also taken care of myself! I may have been misled, but I shall let no one suffer for my errors. I have sent in my resignation.”
“Fool!” ejaculated Pérousse, forgetting all courtesy in the sudden access of rage that took possession of him at these words;—“Fool, I say! At the very moment when you ought to stick to the ship, you desert it!”
“Are you not ready to run to the helm?” enquired Lutera with a satiric smile; “Surely you can have no doubt but that his Majesty will command you to take office!”
With this, he turned on his heel, and left his colleague to a space of very disagreeable meditation. For the first time in his bold and unscrupulous career, Pérousse found himself in an awkward position. If it were indeed true that Jost and Lutera had thrown up the game, especially Jost, then he, Pérousse, was lost. He had made of Jost, not only a tool, but a confidant. He had used him, and his great leading newspaper for his own political and financial purposes. He had entrusted him with State secrets, in order to speculate thereon in all the money-markets of the world. He had induced him to approach the Premier with crafty promises of support, and to inveigle him by insidious degrees into the same dishonourable financial ‘deal.’ So that if this one man,—this fat, unscrupulous turncoat of a Jew,—chose to speak out, he, Carl Pérousse, Secretary of State, would be the most disgraced and ruined Minister that ever attempted to defraud a nation! His brows grew moist with fever-heat, and his tongue parched, with the dry thirst of fear, as the gravity of the situation was gradually borne in upon him. He began to calculate contingencies and possibilities of escape from the toils that seemed closing around him,—and much to his irritation and embarrassment, he found that most of the ways leading out of difficulty pointed first of all to,—the King.
The King! The very personage whom he had called a Dummy, only bound to do as he was told! And now, if he could only persuade the King that he,—the poor Secretary of State,—was a deeply-injured man, whose life’s effort had been solely directed towards ‘the good of the country,’ yet who nevertheless was cruelly wronged and calumniated by his enemies, all might yet be well.
“Were he only like other monarchs whom I know,” he reflected. “I could have easily involved him in the Trades deal! Then the press could have been silenced, and the public fooled. With five or six hundred thousand shares in the biggest concerns, he would have been compelled to work under me for the amalgamation of our Trades with the financial forces of other countries, regardless of the rubbish talked by ‘patriots’ on the loss of our position and prestige. But he is not fond of money,—he is not fond of money! Would that he were!—for so I should be virtually king of the King!”
Cogitating various problems on his return to his own house that evening, he remembered that despite numerous protests and petitions, the King had, up to the present, paid no attention to the appeals of his people against the increasing inroads of taxation. The only two measures he had carried with a high and imperative hand, were first,—the ‘vetoing’ of an intended declaration of war,—and the refusal of extensive lands to the Jesuits. The first was the more important action, as, while it had won the gratitude and friendship of a previously hostile State, it had lost several ‘noble’ gamblers in the griefs of nations, some millions of money. The check to the Jesuits was comparatively trivial, yet it had already produced far-reaching effects, and had offended the powers at the Vatican. But, beyond this, things remained apparently as they were; true, the Socialists were growing stronger;—but there was no evidence that the Government was growing weaker.
“After all,” thought Pérousse, as a result of his meditations; “there is no immediate cause for anxiety. If Lutera has sent in his resignation, it may not be accepted. That rests—like other things—with the King.” And a vague surprise affected him at this fact. “Curious!” he muttered,—“Very curious that he, who was a Nothing, should now be a Something! The change has taken place very rapidly,—and very strangely! I wonder what—or who—is moving him?”
But to this inward query he received no satisfactory reply. The mysterious upshot of the whole position was the same,—namely, that somehow, in the most unaccountable, inexplicable manner, the wind and weather of affairs had so veered round, that the security of Ministers and the stability of Government rested, not with themselves or the nature of their quarrels and discussions, but solely on one whom they were accustomed to consider as a mere ornamental figure-head,—the King.
Some few days after the unexpected turbulent rising of the mob, it was judged advisable to give the people something in the way of a ‘gala,’ or spectacle, in order to distract their attention from their own grievances, and to draw them away from their Socialistic clubs and conventions, to the contemplation of a parade of Royal state and splendour. The careful student of History cannot fail to note that whenever the rottenness and inadequacy of a Government are most apparent, great ‘shows’ and Royal ceremonials are always resorted to, in order to divert the minds of the people from the bitter consideration of a deficient Exchequer and a diminishing National Honour. The authorities who organize these State masquerades are wise in their generation. They know that the working-classes very seldom have the leisure to think for themselves, and that they often lack the intelligent ability to foresee the difficulties and dangers menacing their country’s welfare;—but that they are always ready, with the strangest fatuity, patience, and good-nature, to take their wives and families to see any new variation of a world’s ‘Punch and Judy’ play, particularly if there is a savour of Royalty about it, accompanied by a brass band, well-equipped soldiers, and gilded coaches. Though they take no part in the pageant, beyond consenting to be hustled and rudely driven back by the police like intrusive sheep, out of the sacred way of a Royal progress, they nevertheless have an instinctive (and very correct) idea that somehow or other it is all part of the ‘fun’ for which they have paid their money. There is no more actual reverence or respect for the positive Person of Royalty in such a parade, than there is for the Wonderful Performing Pig who takes part in a circus-procession through a country town. The public impression is simple,—That having to pay for the up-keep of a Throne, its splendours should be occasionally ‘trotted out’ to see whether they are worth the nation’s annual expenditure.
Moved entirely by this plain and practical sentiment, the popular breast was thrilled with some amount of interest and animation when it was announced that his Majesty the King would, on a certain afternoon, go in state to lay the foundation-stone of the Grand National Theatre, which was the very latest pet project of various cogitating Jews and cautious millionaires. The Grand National Theatre was intended to ‘supply,’ according to a stock newspaper phrase, ‘a long-felt want.’ It was to be a ‘philanthropic’ scheme, by which the ‘Philanthropists’ would receive excellent interest for their money. Ostensibly, it was to provide the ‘masses’ with the highest form of dramatic entertainment at the lowest cost;—but there were many intricate wheels within wheels in the elaborate piece of stock-jobbing mechanism, by which the public would be caught and fooled—as usual—and the speculators therein rendered triumphant. Sufficient funds were at hand to start the building of the necessary edifice, and the King’s ‘gracious’ consent to lay the first stone, with full state and ceremony, was hailed by the promoters of the plan as of the happiest augury. For with such approval and support openly given, all the Snob-world would follow the Royal ‘lead’—quite as infallibly as it did in the case of another monarch who, persuaded to drink of a certain mineral spring, and likewise to ‘take shares’ in its bottled waters, turned the said spring into a ‘paying concern’ at once, thereby causing much rejoicing among the Semites. The ‘mob’ might certainly decline to imitate the Snob-world,—but, considering the recent riotous outbreak, it might be as well that the overbold and unwashen populace should be awed by the panoply and glory of earthly Majesty passing by in earthly splendour.
Alas, poor Snob-world! How often has it thought the same thing! How often has it fancied that with show and glitter and brazen ostentation of mere purse-power, it can quell the rage for Justice, which, like a spark of God’s own eternal Being, burns for ever in the soul of a People! Ah, that rage for Justice!—that divine fury and fever which with strong sweating and delirium shakes the body politic and cleanses it from accumulated sickly humours and pestilence! What would the nations be without its periodical and merciful visitations! Tearing down old hypocrisies,—rooting up weedy abuses,—rending asunder rotten conventions,—what wonder if thrones and sceptres, and even the heads of kings get sometimes mixed into the general swift clearance of long-accumulated dirt and disorder! And vainly at such times does the Snob-world anxiously proffer golden pieces for the price of its life! There shall not then be millions enough in all the earth, to purchase the safety of one proved Liar who has wilfully robbed his neighbour!
No hint of the underworkings of the people’s thought, or the movement of the times was, however, apparent in the aspect of the gay multitudes that poured along the principal thoroughfares of the metropolis on the day appointed for the ceremony in which the King had consented to take the leading part. Poor and rich together, vied with one another to secure the various best points of view from whence the Royal pageant could be seen, winding down in glittering length from the Palace and Citadel, past the Cathedral, and so on to the great open square, where, surrounded by fluttering flags and streamers, a huge block of stone hung suspended by ropes from a crane, ready to be lowered at the Royal touch, and fixed in its place by the Royal trowel, as the visible and solid beginning of the stately fabric, which, according to pictorial models was to rise from this, its first foundation, into a temple of art and architecture, devoted to Melpomene and Thalia.
It was a glorious day,—the sun shone with vigorous heat and lustre from a cloudless sky,—the sea was calm as an inland pool—and people wore their lightest, brightest and most festive attire. Fair “society” dames, clad in the last capricious mode of ever-changing Fashion, and shading their delicate, and not always natural, complexions with airy parasols, filmy and finely-coloured as the petals of flowers, queened it over the flocking crowds of pedestrians, as they were driven past in their softly-cushioned carriages drawn by high-stepping horses;—all the boudoirs and drawing-rooms of the most exclusive houses seemed to have emptied their luxury-loving occupants into the streets,—and the whole town was, for a few hours at any rate, apparently given over to holiday. As the long line of soldiery preceding the King’s carriage, wound down from the Citadel, groups of people cheered, and waved hats and handkerchiefs,—then, when his Majesty’s own escort came into view, the cheering was redoubled,—and at last when the cumbrous, over-gilded, over-painted “Cinderella” State-coach appeared, and the familiar, but somewhat sternly-composed features of the King himself were perceived through the glass windows, a roar of acclamation, like the thundering of a long wave on an extensive stretch of rock-bound coast, echoed far and near, and again and again was repeated with increased and ever-increasing clamour. Who,—hearing such an enthusiastic greeting—would or could have imagined for one moment that the King, who was the object and centre of these tremendous plaudits, was at the same time judged as an enemy and an obstruction to justice by more than one half of the population! Yet it was so,—and so has often been. The populace will shout itself hoarse for any cause; whether it be a king going to be crowned, or a king going to be executed, the stimulus is the same, and the enthusiasm as passionate. It is merely the contagious hysteria of a moment that tickles their lungs to expansion in noise;—but the real sentiment of admiration for a fine character which might perhaps have moved the subjects of Richard Coeur de Lion to cries of exultation, is generally non-existent. And why? For no cause truly!—save that Lion-Hearts in kings no more pulsate through nations.
By the time the Royal procession reached its destination the crowd had largely increased, and the press of people round the scene of the forthcoming function was great enough to be seriously embarrassing to both the soldiery and the police. Slowly the gorgeous State-coach lumbered up to the entrance of the ground railed off for the ceremony,—and between a line of armed guards, the King alighted. Vociferous cheering again broke out on all sides, which his Majesty acknowledged in the usual formal manner by a monotonous military salute performed at regular intervals. Received with obsequious deference by all the persons concerned in the Grand National Theatre project, he conversed with one or two, shook hands with others, and was just on the point of addressing a few of his usual suave compliments to some pretty women who had been invited to adorn the scene, when David Jost advanced smilingly, evidently sure of a friendly recognition. For had not the King, when Crown Prince and Heir-Apparent, hunted game in his preserves?—yea, had he not even dined with him?—and had not he, Jost, written whole columns of vapid twaddle about the ‘Royal smile’ and the ‘Royal favour’ till the outside public had sickened at every stroke of his flunkey pen? How came it, then, that his Majesty seemed on this occasion to have no recollection of him, and looked over and beyond him in the airiest way, as though he were a far-off Jew in Jerusalem, instead of being the assumptive-Orthodox proprietor of several European newspapers published for the general misinformation and plunder of gullible Christians? Dismayed at the Royal coldness of eye, Jost stepped back with an uncomfortably crimson face; and one of the ladies present, personally knowing him, and seeing his discomfiture, ventured to call the King’s attention to his presence and to make way for his approach, by murmuring gently, “Mr. Jost, Sir!”
“Ah, indeed!” said the monarch, with calm grey eyes still fixed on vacancy,—“I do not know anyone of that name! Permit me to admire that exquisite arrangement of flowers!” and, smiling affably on the astonished and embarrassed lady, he led her aside, altogether away from Jost’s vicinity.
Stricken to the very dust of abasement by this direct “cut” so publicly administered, the crestfallen editor and proprietor of many journals stood aghast for a moment,—then as various unbidden thoughts began to chase one another through his bewildered head, he was seized with a violent trembling. He remembered every foolish, imprudent and disloyal remark he had made to the stranger named Pasquin Leroy who had called upon him bearing the Premier’s signet,—and reflecting that this very Pasquin Leroy was now, by some odd chance, a contributor of political leaders and other articles to the rival daily newspaper which had published the King’s official refusal of a grant of land to the Jesuits, he writhed inwardly with impotent fury. For might not this unknown man, Leroy,—if he were,—as he possibly was,—a friend of the King’s—go to the full length of declaring all he knew and all he had learned from Jost’s own lips, concerning certain ‘financial secrets,’ which if fully disclosed, would utterly dismember the Government and put the nation itself in peril? Might he not already even have informed the King? With his little, swine-like eyes retreating under the crinkling fat of his lowering brows, Jost, hot and cold by turns, wandered confusedly out of the ‘exclusive’ set of persons connected with the ‘Grand National Theatre’ scheme, who were now gathered round the suspended foundation-stone to which the King was approaching. He pretended not to see the curious eyes that stared at him, or the sneering mouths that smiled at the open slight he had received. Pushing his way through the crowd, he jostled against the thin black-garmented figure of a priest,—no other than Monsignor Del Fortis, who, with an affable word of recognition, drew aside to allow him passage. Affecting his usual ‘company-manner’ of tolerant good-nature, he forced himself to speak to this ‘holy’ man, who, at any rate, had paid him good money in round sums for so-called ‘articles’ or rather puff-advertisements in his paper concerning Church matters.
“Good-day, Monsignor!” he said—“You are not often seen at a Royal pageant! How comes it that you, of all persons in the world have brought yourself to witness the laying of the foundation-stone of a Theatre? Does not your calling forbid any patronage of the mimic Art?”
The priest’s thin lips parted, showing a glimmer of wolfish teeth behind the pale stretched line of flesh.
“Not by any means!” he replied suavely—“In the present levelling and amalgamation of social interests, the Church and Stage are drawing very closely together.”
“True!” said Jost, with a grin—“One might very well be taken for the other!”
Del Fortis looked at him meditatively.
“This,” he said, waving his lean hand towards the centre of the brilliant crowd where now the King stood, “is a kind of drama in its way. And you, Mr. Jost, have just played one little scene in it!”
Jost reddened, and bit his lip.
“I am also another actor on the boards,” continued Del Fortis smiling darkly;—“if only as a spectator in the ‘super’ crowd. And other comedians and tragedians are doubtless present, of whom we may hear anon!”
“The King has nasty humours sometimes,” said Jost shortly, looking down at the flower in his buttonhole, and absently flicking off one of its petals with his fat forefinger—“He ought to be made to pay for them!”
“Ha, ha! Very good! Certainly!” and Del Fortis gave a piously-deprecating nod—“He ought to be made to pay! Especially when he hurts the feelings of his old friends! Are you going, Mr. Jost? Yes? What a pity! But you no doubt have your reporters present?”
“Oh, there are plenty of them about,”—said Jost carelessly, “But I shall condense all the account of these proceedings into a few lines.”
“Ha,—ha!” laughed Del Fortis,—“I understand! Revenge—revenge! But—in certain cases—the briefest description is sometimes the most graphic—and startling! Good-day!”
Jost returned the salute curtly, and went,—not to leave the scene altogether, but merely to take up a position of vantage immediately above and behind the surging crowd, where from a distance he could watch all that was going on. He saw the King lift his hand towards the ropes and pulleys of the crane above him,—and as it was touched by the Royal finger, the foundation stone was slowly lowered into the deep socket prepared for it, where gold and silver coins of the year’s currency had already been strewn. Then, with the aid of a silver trowel set in a handle of gold, and obsequiously presented by the managing director of the scheme, his Majesty dabbed in a little mortar, and declared in a loud voice that the stone was ‘well and truly laid.’ A burst of cheering greeted the announcement, and the band struck up the country’s National Hymn, this being the usual sign that the ceremony was at an end. Whereupon the King, shaking hands again cordially with the various parties concerned, and again shedding the lustre of his smile upon the various ladies with whom he had been conversing, made his way very leisurely to his State equipage, which, with its six magnificently caparisoned horses, stood prepared for his departure, the door being already held open for him by one of the attendant powdered and gold-laced flunkeys. Sir Roger de Launay walked immediately behind his Sovereign, and Professor von Glauben was close at hand, companioned by two of the gentlemen of the Royal Household. All at once a young man pushed himself out of the crowd nearest to the enclosure,—paused a moment irresolute, and then, with a single determined bound reached the King’s side.
“Thief of the People’s money! Take that!” he shouted, wildly,—and, brandishing aloft a glittering stiletto, he aimed it straight at the monarch’s heart!
But the blow never reached its destination, for a woman, closely veiled in black, suddenly threw herself swiftly and adroitly between the King’s body and the descending blade, shielding his breast with both her outstretched arms. The dagger struck her violently, piercing her flesh through the upper part of her right shoulder, and under the sheer force of the blow, she fell senseless.
The whole incident took place in less time than it could be breathlessly told,—and even as she who had risked her life to save the King’s, sank bleeding to the ground, the police seized the assassin red-handed in his mad and criminal act, and wrenched the murderous weapon from his hand. He was a mere lad of eighteen or twenty, and seemed dazed, submitting to be bound and handcuffed without a word. The King, perfectly tranquil and unhurt, bared his head to the wild cries and hysterical cheering of the excited spectators to whom his narrow escape from death appeared a kind of miracle, moving them to frantic paroxysms of passionate enthusiasm, and then bent anxiously down over the prostrate form of his rescuer, endeavouring himself to raise her from the ground. A hundred hands at once proffered assistance;—Sir Roger de Launay, pale to the lips with the shock of sick horror he had experienced at what might so easily have been a national catastrophe, assisted the police in forming a strong cordon round the person of his beloved Royal master, in order to guard him against any further possible attack,—and Professor von Glauben, obeying the King’s signal, knelt down by the unconscious woman’s side to examine the extent of her injury. Gently he turned back the close folds of her enveloping veil,—then gave a little start and cry:
“Gott in Himmel!” And he hastily drew down the veil again as the King approached with the question—
“Is she dangerously hurt?”
“No, Sir!—I think not—I hope not—but—!”
And the Professor’s eyes looked volumes of suggestion. Catching his expression, the King drew still nearer.
“Uncover her face,—give her air!” he commanded.
With a perplexed side-glance at Sir Roger de Launay, the Professor obeyed,—and the sunshine fell full on the white calm features and closed eyelids of “the woman known as Lotys.” Her black dress was darkly stained and soaked with oozing blood—and the deep dull gold of her hair was touched here and there with the same crimson hue;—but there was a smile on her lips, and her face was as fair and placid as though it had been smoothed out of all pain and trouble by the restful touch of Death. Silently, and with a perfectly inscrutable demeanour, the King surveyed her for a moment. Then, raising his plumed hat with grave grace and courtesy, he looked on all those who stood about him, soldiery, police and spectators.
“Does anyone here present know this lady?” he demanded.
A crowd of eager heads were pushed forward, and then a low murmur began, which deepened into a steady roar of delighted acclamation.
“Lotys! Lotys!”
The name was caught up quickly and repeated from mouth to mouth—till away on the extreme outskirts of the crowd it was tossed back again with shouts—“Lotys! Lotys!”
Swiftly the news ran like an electric current through the whole body of the populace, that it was Lotys, their own Lotys, their friend, their fellow-worker, the idol of the poorer classes, that had saved the life of the King! Half-incredulous, half-admiring, the mob listened to the growing rumour, and the general excitement increased in intensity among them. David Jost, from his point of observation, caught the infection, and realizing at once the value of the dramatic “copy” for his paper, to be obtained out of such a situation, jumped into the nearest vehicle and was driven straight to his offices, there to send electric messages of the news to every quarter of the world, and to endeavour by printed loyal outbursts of “gush” to turn the current of the King’s displeasure against him into a more favourable direction. Meanwhile the King himself gave orders that his wounded rescuer should be conveyed in one of the Royal carriages straight to the Palace, and there attended by his own physician. Professor von Glauben was entrusted with the carrying-out of this command,—and the monarch, then entering his own State-equipage, started on his homeward progress.
Thundering cheers now greeted him at every step;—for an hour at least the populace went mad with rapture, shouting, singing and calling alternately for “The King!” and “Lotys!” with no respect of persons, or consideration as to their differing motives and opposite stations in life. Two facts only were clear to them,—first an attempt had been made to assassinate the King,—secondly, that Lotys had frustrated the attempt, and risked her own life to save that of the monarch. These were enough to set fire to the passionate sentiments of a warm-blooded, restless Southern people, and they gave full sway to their feelings accordingly. So, amid deafening plaudits, the Royal procession wended its way back to the Citadel, the State-coach moving at a snail’s pace in order to allow the people to see the King for themselves, and make sure he was uninjured, as they cheered, and followed it in surging throngs to the very gates of the Palace,—while in another and reverse direction the wretched youth whose miserable effort to commit a dastard crime had so fortunately failed, was marched off, under the guard of a strong body of police to the State-Prison, there to await his trial and condemnation. A small crowd, hooting and cursing the criminal, pursued him as he went, and one personage, austere and dignified, also followed, at a distance, as though curious to see the last of the would-be murderer ere he was shut out from liberty,—and this was Monsignor Del Fortis.