“It's what they want—things to go from bad to worse. The worse things get, the more certain they are of revolution. They're afraid your food would postpone it.”
“Afraid! Why on earth?”
“Because they hope to snatch more out of the catastrophe of revolution than you can offer them. These ministers with whom you've been dealing are the tools of the exiled monarchists. They belong to the party in all countries which made the last war possible and all wars before it. What do they care for the people? They never have cared. Let the brutes starve,' they say, 'if it suits our purpose. We can always breed more.' They regard the people as their serfs, to be fooled with patriotism when danger threatens and to be kept in chains to toil for them when peace has been restored. If the people go hungry long enough, they'll reason that the loss of their kings is the cause. They'll rise up and recall them. They'll start to die for them afresh. It'll happen in all the outcast countries. In the wholesale scramble, it'll be every nation for itself. The strong will struggle to expand their frontiers, and the weak will go to the wall. The deluge of blood—” She sank to her knees, seizing his hands imploringly. “If you'll sacrifice your stores of food, you can stop it.”
“But if I do that, without guaranties, I'm bankrupt. I get nothing.”
“You'll get more than I got when, to accomplish the same purpose, I murdered Prince Rogovich. I'll get the scaffold. You'll earn the thanks of humanity. You'll go down to the ages....”
He could see only the wide greyness of her eyes, pleading, coercing, unbalancing his judgment.
He jumped to his feet, shaking off their spell. “I'm no dreamer—no Varensky,” he said gruffly. “I have to make a profit.” Then, defending himself from her unspoken accusation, “We're only guessing. We have no facts. There are other famished countries—Hungary and Poland. What Austria refuses, they may accept.” He dug his hand into his pocket. “That reminds me. Here's a telegram from Budapest. I can't understand it. It's in German.”
She was crouched on the floor. As he stooped to give it to her, she caught sight of the signature.
“From Anna. Varensky must be with her. Then the crisis is nearer than I thought.”
“Read it. Tell me what it says,” he urged.