“I now come to a dark chapter, my young friend. Men work day and night, plan and scheme, bribe and lie—all for fame and their country. The plans seem perfect, their execution faultless, the road to certain success assured—and then a little thing happens, a bolt becomes loosened, some man or woman fails you or steps unexpectedly on the scene—et voilâ!—the perfect structure is but a house of cards—and tumbles.
“And this usually comes when the architect has passed his prime; when the resisting power of the body has been sapped by the wearisome labor. When this crisis comes, instead of a strong man, it finds the statesman at a terrible disadvantage, perhaps with mind still active and resourceful—but oh, feeble and powerless against fate.”
Count Rondell spoke the last words as if in a trance. He had evidently forgotten the existence of his companion. He seemed to be lost in visions and dreams.
Morton’s cigar had gone out; he stared as if fascinated at the noble face before him, looking so sad and forlorn. He, too, had often wandered into the spheres of empire building. He, too, had had his dreams of being a leader of peoples, of opening up those vast desert spaces of his own country to the influences of civilization. Without knowing what tragedy was to be unfolded to him, he looked at the worn old aristocrat across the desk and felt that failure and disappointment, rather than success, were oftener the reward of great ambitions. He essayed a mental guess at what might be further revealed to him and awaited the rest of the tale with bated breath.
After a slight pause the Count relaxed his tightly compressed, bloodless lips and went on:
“My king was getting old; his brother had never been capable or active; he was just a gentleman of leisure—and the promising boy?—I wish it were not necessary for me to go into this chapter of our history. The boy, a lovable, fine young man, the pride of his parents and of his uncle the king, the idol of the country and my hope—the boy fell in love with a heartless and scheming adventuress. She broke his heart, brought our finely wrought plans to naught, and the youth to his end. Four weeks ago I closed the tired eyes of my Prince—closed them in a squalid hut in Madras, where, after an unceasing hunt of months, I found him. I was too late to save him for this world—I hope I preserved his soul for the next—for heaven!”
Count Rondell raised his hand to his brow as if making the sign of the cross. Absent-mindedly he stroked his hair, while a melancholy smile came to his lips. “May God be merciful to him!” he breathed, a tear in his eye.
With deeper feeling and a vibrant voice, he went on:
“Our house of cards had fallen. My labors were all in vain, my mission a failure and, perhaps, my life also. You are still patient, my friend, are you not?”
Morton leaned across the desk, lightly touching the other man’s arm with an encouraging pressure. “You did the best your wisdom dictated, Your Excellency. Regrets are useless now. It may be there is a silver lining to your dark cloud. Please, go on with your tale.”