In one of these balconies sat round a table some officers, who, though of youthful aspect, were more interested in politics than in the charms of the ladies. Their talk, which was extremely animated, turned chiefly upon the question whether their sovereign lord, Frederick William III., would permit himself to be drawn into the confederacy formed by the four Powers, France, Russia, Sweden, and Denmark—a confederacy whose object was to resist by armed force the right claimed by Great Britain of searching on the high seas all vessels suspected of carrying contraband of war.
As these fire-eaters talked, they cast cautious glances in the direction of Viscount Courtenay, an Englishman, who sat alone at a table sipping his wine. A member of a famous historic house and patriotic to the backbone, the quick-spirited viscount was not the man to allow any disparagement of his country to pass unchallenged, and as his reputation for swordsmanship was such as not to be disputed even by “Fighting Fitzgerald,” then in the height of his glory, the Prussian officers took good care that any remark uncomplimentary to his native land should be spoken in a low tone.
Wilfrid Courtenay’s life should have been cast in the Middle Ages. He was a romantic freelance, whose ideas were more akin to the age of chivalry than to the nineteenth century. The spirit that finds a zest in danger, the spirit that made the vikings the terror of all coasts from the North Cape to Sicily, the spirit that sent the Crusaders forth to do battle with the Paynim beneath the blazing sun of Syria, the spirit that has caused Englishmen to plant colonies in the very teeth of hostile savages—that spirit still ran strong in the blood of the Courtenays. Accordingly, on the attainment of his majority, Wilfrid, leaving to his widowed mother the care of his patrimonial acres, had set out like a knight-errant to wander over Europe in search of adventure, in which quest he had fleshed his sword in more than one campaign, earning thereby from no less a personage than the Count d’Artois, himself a pattern of chivalry, the proud title of Le Bayard de l’Angleterre.
To this taste for fighting was added another, in singular contrast with it. Just as Frederick the Great, in the intervals of campaigning, found a strange pleasure in writing what his admirers called poetry, so Wilfrid was wont to devote some of his leisure to the study of painting, but whereas Frederick in his art never rose above mediocrity, Wilfrid, in his, succeeded in attaining a high degree of excellence.
For the rest he was tall, with fair hair, blue eyes, and that indefinable air that is always the accompaniment of aristocratic birth: shapely and muscular in limb; a giant in strength; a stranger to fear; chivalrous in his dealings. Among his faults was that of acting upon impulse rather than upon the cooler dictates of reason. But where would be the great deeds of history if their authors had always paused to weigh consequences?
Now as Viscount Courtenay sat alone toying with his wine glass, a familiar voice suddenly broke in upon his reverie.
“Wilfrid, that our respective countries, or shall we say our stupid cabinets, are at war with each other, is surely no ground for breaking off our personal friendship?”
“Prince Ouvaroff! You in Berlin!” exclaimed Wilfrid, his face brightening; and, somewhat apprehensive lest the other should salute him, continental-fashion, with a hearty kiss, he quickly extended his hand, and was relieved to find Ouvaroff content with the English mode of greeting.
“‘Prince’ do you say?” returned Ouvaroff in a tone of quasi-reproach. “It was ‘Serge’ in the old days.”
“Then let it be Serge still. I am glad to see a familiar face.”