“I will tell you when I am seated in my box with my friends,” Cecil answered.
“Dear monsieur,” panted the Directeur, “tell us at once! I give you my word of honour that you shall have your box.”
Cecil bowed.
“Certainly,” he said. “I may remark that I had gathered information which led me to anticipate this difficulty with the Minister of Fine Arts——”
“But Malva, Malva—where is she?”
“Be at ease. It is only nine-twenty-three, and Mademoiselle Malva is less than three minutes away, and ready dressed. I was observing that I had gathered information which led me to anticipate this difficulty with the Minister of Fine Arts, and accordingly I took measures to protect myself. There is no such thing as absolute arbitrary power, dear Directeur, even in a Republic, and I have proved it. Mademoiselle Malva is in room No. 429 at the Grand Hotel, across the road.... Stay, she will not come without this note.”
He handed out a small, folded letter from his waistcoat pocket.
Then he added: “Adieu, Monsieur the Directeur. You have just time to reach the State entrance in order to welcome the Presidential and Imperial party.”
At nine-thirty, Cecil and his friends were ushered by a trinity of subservient officials into their box, which had been mysteriously emptied of its previous occupants. And at the same moment the monarchs, with monarchical punctuality, accompanied by the President, entered the Presidential box in the middle of the grand tier of the superb auditorium. The distinguished and dazzling audience rose to its feet, and the band played the National Anthem.
“You fixed it up then?” Belmont whispered under cover of the National Anthem. He was beaten, after all.