CHAPTER XIX
ADRIAN'S DAY
Brilliant in blue-and-gold the dawn opened over the capital. Scarcely a breath of wind rippled the warm clear air of the spring morning, a morning designed for a country bridal among the scented fields or the waking of wild furry creatures in the woods, and which man was seizing for such different use.
From the first deafening salute of cannon that ushered in the Emperor's seventeenth birthday, the city was in a tumult indescribable. Cavalry officers galloped through the swarming, flag-draped streets, gorgeous carriages blocked the avenues, marching regiments filled the air with military music. Congratulatory messages, visits from foreign ambassadors, enforced audiences and preparations for the one great event, kept both palaces in kaleidoscopic movement and color.
The old sense of unreality held Allard from the moment when Vladimir awakened him three hours earlier than usual to don a costume hitherto considered reserved for evening. His usual duties were temporarily missing, the Emperor being formally attended to-day by those who had the hereditary right to that honor. Not that he was forgotten, at which he was surprised and touched, but it was very strange to be summoned to Adrian's bedside through an assembly of grave nobles and to speak a few brief words of felicitation under a fire of observation none too friendly. So often he had leaned against the foot of that pillared, curtained bed and amused with light chat of court or club the serene occupant who took his chocolate while listening interestedly.
"Thank you, Allard," the Emperor returned only in reply to his slightly confused speech, and the American was aware of the diverted, malicious comprehension of his embarrassment under the ordeal.
But later he found his place carefully appointed in all the occurrences of the day, and realized the forethought with a gratitude and sense of obligation harder to bear than neglect. Very difficult Adrian was making his determination to follow Stanief; Allard knew now the pain of serving two masters.
The morning proceeded, the events pacing on in dignified order. At noon fell a pause, city and court poised on tiptoe, and the magnificent procession moved from the palace toward the cathedral.
It was all of mirage-like unsubstantiality to Allard: Adrian, strangely young and collected in his superb medieval robes, surrounded by his glittering nobles; Stanief, hardly less dazzling than the Emperor, with gemmed orders and cordons under which his white uniform almost disappeared; Iría in her fairy royalty, these were the central figures of the pageant. The cheering crowds, the excitement and clamor, were merely a background. But once he met Dalmorov's cruel, exultant eyes as the baron smiled across the unconscious Stanief, and there was no more beauty in the scene.