What precipice was it toward which he himself was walking, lured by the vision of a face which grew more vivid with every hour, more dear—a face with calm questioning eyes....
He would have to have it out with himself, the whole question of his relations with this woman—this Madame Ghita—this ballet dancer—this mistress of a prince; what he hoped, what he feared; have it out without evasion or self-deceit. And his face was grim, for he foresaw that he would not emerge with flying colours.
Hope? Pah!
The placid gardien sauntering by was startled to see a man standing by the balustrade suddenly slash viciously at the air with his cane, as though laying it savagely across somebody’s back, and he slackened his pace to observe this madman, who had probably lost all his money, and to intervene if need be. Perhaps he designed to cast himself on the railroad tracks below. That must be prevented, because it would cause a scandal, and scandals are frowned upon most heavily at Monte Carlo.
But there was no need of intervention, for the unknown, after a couple of rapid turns up and down the terrace, ran up the steps, and the gardien, following cautiously, saw him turn into the postoffice, and went back to his beat with a shrug of the shoulders. It was not a madman, then; it was only a fool who, instead of killing himself, was telegraphing for more money!
That moment’s ebullition had relieved Selden; besides, there was nothing to be gained by beating the air. His immediate job was to get off his special to the Times, and during those quick turns up and down the terrace it had taken shape in his mind. First, of course, a paragraph about the sensation which the exclusive announcement in the Times had caused; the crowd at the gates of the Villa Gloria; the call made by the Hon. Percy Buckton and its apparently satisfactory result, Mr. Buckton being the British consul at Nice, and acting under instructions from Lord Curzon, as to the character of which, however, he would say nothing; the reception of the correspondents, picturesque old king and scarcely less picturesque grandson, creating most favourable impression; Baron Lappo in Paris arranging the marriage settlement; wedding to be very soon; frantic efforts of the correspondents to see Miss Davis, who had denied herself to everybody, except a personal friend or two; it had, however, been the good fortune of the Times correspondent to meet her; here follow with short and complimentary description. And then a discreet paragraph or two about the morganatic marriage, quoting the king and treating it as a thing of the past.
But was it?
That was the crucial question. It was upon that point, in Seldon’s mind at least, that the ethics of the whole affair hinged. And it was there, he felt, that he must seek some assurance better than the king’s. There was only one place to get it; there was only one person who really knew. For the matter lay wholly in the hands of Madame Ghita. It was she who would decide. It was from her that assurance must be sought.
Half an hour later, at the booth in the postoffice, he had completed his special and was about to sign his name, when a sudden thought struck him. Well, why not? And he added this final paragraph: