“I have come for you, Rénee!” he cried.
PAGE [266]

THE KINGMAKERS

BY
BURTON E. STEVENSON
Author of “The Mystery of the Boule Cabinet,”
“The Gloved Hand,” etc.

FRONTISPIECE BY
E. C. CASWELL

NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
1922

Copyright, 1922,
By BURTON E. STEVENSON
The Quinn & Boden Company
BOOK MANUFACTURERS
RAHWAY NEW JERSEY

CONTENTS

PART I.—MONDAY

THE KINGMAKERS

CHAPTER I
THE COUNTESS RÉMOND

SELDEN, entering from the dining-room, saw that the lounge was crowded, and he paused for a moment to look about him. It was the half-hour between dinner and the Sporting Club, and he was pleasantly aware of the odours of good coffee and super-excellent tobacco, mingled with the delicate and very expensive perfumes rising from the clothes, the hair, the shoulders of the women lying indolently back in the deep chairs.

It was the women who dominated the scene. There were men present, to be sure, but they were as unobtrusive to the eye, as strictly utilitarian, as the donor kneeling humbly in the corner of the picture before the madonna he had paid to have painted.

These men were donors, too, of many things besides paint—but the resemblance ended there. For there was nothing madonna-like about the women. They differed in being blonde or brune, of various contours, and of all ages, but some subtle quality of spirit bound them together in a common sisterhood. Their gowns ran the gamut of the rainbow and were of every material and degree of eccentricity, but a common purpose underlay them all. Every neck bore its rope of pearls, every hand its clustered diamonds.

Tributes to beauty, one might suppose—but not at all. The treasures of the Rue de la Paix, the choicest creations of Cartier, had been showered upon beauty and ugliness alike—if there was any difference, beauty had the worst of it. Indeed most of these women were anything but beautiful. There were some who were still slim, who still had youth and a certain charm; there were two or three of an incredible seductiveness, more dazzling than the brilliants on their fingers; but for the most part they were fat, raddled, unspeakably vulgar, gazing out at the world from between darkened lashes with eyes unutterably weary and disillusioned.

They were not all courtesans. The trophies so lavishly displayed were, in part at least, the spoils of marriage; but, virtuous or vicious, their worlds moved in the same orbit, with the same purpose, toward the same end.

Was it one of these women, Selden wondered, who had summoned him to a rendezvous? He told himself that he was foolish to have come, that he should have known better, and he had an impulse to pass on without stopping. Yet something about the note which had been handed in to him as he was dressing for dinner had piqued his curiosity, and piqued it still:

If Mr. Selden will be in the lounge at 9:45 this evening, he will not only give one of his debtors an opportunity to express her gratitude, but will learn something that may prove of interest.

The writing was unusually firm and characteristic. He was quite sure that he had never seen it before. And it was not in the least sentimental, but decidedly of the world. It was this which persuaded him to come. It is pleasant to have one’s services acknowledged, and he was always willing to be interested. More than once he had been started on a profitable trail in some such unusual fashion. On the other hand, should it prove merely an attempt at intrigue, an advance on the part of some impecunious lady who had secured his name from the chasseur, it would be easy enough to withdraw—he had only to explain the state of his finances! So here he was.

He saw that the divan to the right of the fireplace was unoccupied, threaded his way to it among the chairs and tables and over outstretched feet, and asked the waiter for coffee. He lighted a cigarette and glanced at his watch. It was 9:40.

The fire had a welcome warmth, for he had still in his bones the chill of unheated Austria, from which he had arrived only that morning, and he leaned forward, elbows on knees, and stretched out his hands to it. Indeed it was principally to get warm again that he had come to Monte Carlo.

But the chill was in his heart, too; and he shivered a little at thought of the pinched, blue faces, the hopeless eyes....

He was suddenly conscious that some one was standing beside him.

“Mr. Selden?” said a voice.

In an instant he was on his feet, bowing above the hand that was held out to him.

His first impression was of that hand, long, nervous, but giving the assurance of strength in reserve—just the hand to have produced the writing of the note. His next was of the eyes, extraordinarily vivid under level brows; with iris so distended that they seemed quite black, though he was afterwards to see that they were a dark green shot with yellow.

“How happy I am to see you again!” she said in a clear voice, for the benefit of the idly-observant room, withdrew her hand and sank into a corner of the seat. “Please get me some coffee,” she added, “and give me a cigarette.”

Her eyes met his, as he held the match for her, and a twinkle of amusement sprang into them.

“Your sister is well, I hope?” she asked. “Let me see—it has been two years, almost, since I last saw her.”

“She is quite well, thank you,” answered Selden, who by this time had pulled himself together, and was quite ready to accept a hypothetical sister. “She is to be married next month,” he added, as a slight contribution to the game.

“How interesting! To an American? But of course. Tell me about it!” And then, as the waiter served the coffee and passed on, she moved closer to him and dropped her voice. “I do not wonder that you are astonished! Confess that I am not in the least what you expected!”

“I never expected to be so fortunate,” countered Selden, and permitted himself to appraise her.

There could be no question that she was most unusual—she would be striking anywhere with her coal-black hair, her long pale face, her vivid eyes and lips; striking too in the way she was dressed, without ornament, in a narrow Lanvin gown of black which seemed to be part of her, to be moulded to her as a snake’s skin is moulded. Then, at second glance, Selden saw there was one ornament—a queer stone of greenish-yellow, matching her eyes, catching her gown together across the curve of her breasts. But there were no pearls, no brilliants, not a single ring on her long fingers. Selden wondered if there were also no donor.

She took the coffee that he offered her and leaned back again in her corner. As she sipped it slowly, she looked across at him with level eyes, and Selden realized that she was also appraising him. He had known at once, of course, that he had never seen her before, and her glance seemed to indicate that he was equally unknown to her. A dozen questions sprang to his lips, but he held them back. It was for her to begin. And he was not quite sure of her status. A woman of position, evidently; but as he looked at her he wondered whether the vividness of eyes and lips, the even pallor of the face, owed something—a very tiny something!—to art. If so, it was consummate art, such as one meets nowhere outside of France. As for her age,—but he hesitated even to venture a guess.

“I have wanted to know you for a long time, Mr. Selden,” she said softly at last.

“You honour me!”

“The historian of the war, the interpreter of the peace conference, the champion of the League of Nations, the saviour of Central Europe!” she went on.

Selden stiffened a little, on guard against this irony. There was upon her lips the merest shadow of a smile which might mean anything.

“You seem extraordinarily well informed,” he said.

“Oh, I hear people talk, and you would be surprised, I think, to know how often your name is mentioned. I have even read some of your articles. You write rather well.”

“Thank you,” said Selden. “I am always striving to improve.”

“Besides,” she added, “you are, in a way, a curiosity.”

“Oh, in many ways!” he protested.

“You are the only man I know,” she went on, leaning toward him, “who has not lost hope. Every one else sees only shipwreck and disaster, but you do not seem to see that at all.”

“No,” agreed Selden, “I don’t. I see three hundred million people freed of century-old shackles and struggling toward the light.”

She was silent a moment—then she glanced around the room.

“You can see that even here?” she asked.

“It is rather difficult,” he admitted, following her glance. “But after all, these people are of no importance—they are just wasters, slackers, headed for death. Just the same,” he added, and stopped.

She laughed a little at the way he shut his jaws.

“Swear if you wish to!”

“I was thinking of some things I saw in Vienna and southern Poland not long ago.”

Again she gave him a long glance, as though wondering whether she could trust him. He was rather a queer-looking fellow, with a long, smooth-shaven face, weather-beaten and deeply lined, but the steel-grey eyes looked out steadily from under the heavy lashes, and there was something in the set of the jaw that won confidence. It was a powerful jaw, with muscles that bunched up into little ridges on either side.

“Have you been to Goritza recently?” she asked.

“I was there last month.”

“Did you meet the new ruler?” The question was asked indolently, almost carelessly, but there was in the voice a little quiver which struck Selden’s ear.

“You mean the president—Jeneski? Yes; he gave me an interview.”

“What did you think of him?”

“I thought him a remarkable man,” said Selden, looking at her and wondering if it was to ask these questions she had summoned him here.

“But impractical, a dreamer, I have been told,” she supplemented.

“Impractical in some ways, perhaps,” Selden conceded; “a little of a fanatic, as all reformers must be, to get anything done. But an electrical man—full of fire and energy, discouraged by nothing. He is greatly handicapped by the poverty of the country and the ignorance of the people. They are having a hard time to get along, but at least they have got rid of the mediæval dynasty which kept them in slavery for two hundred years.”

“Was it as bad as that?” she asked.

“The old king meant well enough, and had his good moments, but he was an absolute despot. Nobody could question his will—there was nothing to hope for. Now they are free.”

“And happy of course?” she commented, her lip curling a little.

“It is difficult to be happy on an empty stomach. If Jeneski had two or three million dollars....”

“But since he has not?”

“Well, they must go to work and earn it, and be glad they have something to work for and look forward to. There are a lot of royalists left, of course,” Selden added, “who lament the good old days, and would like to see Jeneski overthrown. There is the old nobility and all the hangers-on who made money out of the court, and who are now as poor as anybody.”

“So some day, perhaps, there will be a restoration?”

“No, I don’t think so. Restorations are expensive. The royalists haven’t any money, and the old king is quite bankrupt. I admire him for one thing, though.”

“What is that?”

“Jeneski told me they had offered him half a million dollars to renounce the throne, and he refused it—said that no king could renounce his throne, any more than he could renounce his right hand or the colour of his hair—not those words, of course, but that was the idea. Good old mediæval, divine right stuff!”

“I like him for that.”

“So do I, and I’m going to try to see him. He’s staying somewhere along the Riviera, isn’t he?”

“Yes, at Nice.”

“Jeneski spoke also of the former prime minister—a very able man.”

“Yes—the Baron Lappo. He is with the king, I believe.”

“So Jeneski said. He tried to detach him, but it was no use. Lappo is devoted to the dynasty. And of course they have some plot in hand. Well, if it amuses them,” and Selden shrugged his shoulders. “But they would better make haste. In six months it will be too late—Jeneski will have his people with him. Does the king keep up a court over here?”

“I do not know, but I have been told he lives very simply.”

“Do you happen to know his grandson, the crown prince Danilo?”

“I have seen him—he is often at the Sporting Club.”

“A great gambler, I have heard?”

“It is in the blood,” said the girl, with a little shrug. “His father was killed in a duel that followed a night of play.”

Selden looked at her again. She seemed well informed about other things besides himself.

“Have you ever been to Goritza?” he asked.

“I was born there,” she answered quietly.

“Born there?” he echoed. “But you—you....”

“Well?” she asked, smiling at his astonishment.

“You look like a Parisienne, and you talk like an American!”

“I was taken to America when I was a child, and grew up there,” she explained.

He waited for her to go on, to elucidate the atmosphere of Paris, but she seemed lost in thought. Once he fancied her eyes wandered toward the door, as though she were expecting some one. There was some work he had planned to do that evening—work he really ought to do. Besides, an explanation was undoubtedly due him, and it was time she made it. In spite of himself, he stirred nervously.

“Sit still a moment longer,” she laughed, perceiving the movement.

“I beg your pardon.”

“Oh, I am not offended—I know how restless Americans are. And I know what is in your mind: you have some work to do. It is always so with an American. But I have not yet told you why I wished to see you. In the first place, I desired to thank you for a very great service—the greatest service a man can render a woman.”

Was she in earnest, Selden wondered? She certainly seemed so, and he tried to think what the greatest service was a man could render a woman. There were so many services—besides, it depended on the woman—and also on the man.

“If it is a riddle, I give it up,” he said. “How could I render you a service? I have never seen you before.”

“No—nor I you.”

“What was the service?”

“You rid me of a husband I hated.”

Selden leaned back in his corner and put the thought of work definitely behind him. He had not expected anything like this.

“That is interesting,” he commented. “You mean I—ah—put him out of the way?”

She nodded, her lips quivering.

“Of course,” said Selden, “it would be foolish for me to deny that I have a long list of assassinations to my credit. But I do not seem to recall this particular one.”

“I think the date will bring it back to your mind.”

“What was the date?”

Her face was ashen, and her eyes burned into his. Could it be that she was in earnest?

“The sixth of June, 1918,” she said hoarsely.

Selden contracted his brows in an effort to remember where he had been on the sixth of June, 1918. That was two years and a half ago, and so much had happened; the sixth of June—yes, of course—that was a day he would remember all his life. At dawn, he had watched the Marines straighten out their line toward Torcy, and late in the afternoon he had seen them go forward against Belleau Wood and Bouresches. He remembered the thrill with which he had learned of the order for the attack—we were going in at last! And he had hurried out of headquarters and clambered up to a little red-roofed farm-house looking down on Belleau....

But what connection could all this have with the woman beside him?

And then his face stiffened at a sudden recollection.

“You don’t mean,” he stammered, “you can’t possibly mean that you were the wife....”

She nodded, white to the lips. Then suddenly her face changed, the blood rushed back into it, and she was smiling gaily.

Selden, more astonished than ever, looked around to see two men approaching, one old and rather fat, but with a keen, distinguished face, embellished by a monocle; the other young and slim, thirty at the most, perhaps less than that....

“Dear countess!” cried the elder man, in French, and raised her hand and kissed it. “I have been searching for you everywhere. Permit me to present to you Prince Danilo. My prince,” he added, turning to the young man, “this is the Countess Rémond, of whom you have heard me so often speak.”

CHAPTER II
A TRAGIC MEMORY

AS the prince bowed, with much empressement, above the slim hand extended to him, Selden was conscious of a rapid but penetrating scrutiny on the part of the older man. It was as if an X-ray had been plunged into the innermost recesses of his being, photographed everything that was to be seen there, and been instantly withdrawn. He had never seen more remarkable eyes—which was perhaps why their owner ambushed one of them behind a glass; nor a more remarkable face, alert, high-nosed, finely coloured, with a mouth at once forceful and good-humoured, and an air that bespoke wide knowledge and deep experience.

“Enchanted to meet you, madame,” the prince was murmuring in the most approved fashion. “It is true that the baron has spoken often of you.”

“M. le Baron does me too much honour,” protested the countess.

“Impossible, madame,” countered the baron. “To prove to you how much in earnest I am, I have come all the way from Nice expressly to pay you my respects, having learned only this morning, quite by accident, that you were here. Why did you not inform me?”

“Ah,” murmured the countess, “I know how busy you always are!”

“So it remained for me to learn it I know not how—a voice on the Promenade des Anglais, a bit of gossip at the casino, a line in the Petit Niçois,—‘The Countess Rémond is at the Hotel de Paris.’ At least, I lost no time. I had my man confirm it over the telephone; unhappily you were out, so I could make no engagement. But I came just the same, and brought the prince with me, hoping to be so fortunate as to find you free for the evening.”

“What is it you propose?” asked the countess, who had listened to all this laughingly, yet with a certain curious intentness, as though seeking to find in it somewhere a code, a key, a hidden meaning.

“I was going to propose the opera—‘Tosca’—you have, of course, heard it many times; but there is a new tenor, an American. Afterwards the club, Ciro’s—what you wish. But if you are engaged,” and his eyes rested fleetingly upon Selden.

“This is M. Selden,” said the countess; “an old friend of mine in America, whom I found sitting here a moment ago, quite by accident. M. Selden, this is Prince Danilo of Goritza, and the Baron Lappo, counsellor of kings, and also an old friend of mine.”

“Counsellor of one king, only, monsieur,” corrected the baron; “I find it enough.”

“You have heard of M. Selden,” added the countess; “you, at least, baron, who read everything. It was he who wrote those articles in the London Times about our new republic. They must have annoyed you deeply!”

“Ah, they did!” agreed the baron, smiling. “I liked the ones on Austria much better—you must permit me, monsieur, to congratulate you on a splendid piece of work. There we see eye to eye. And let me add that I am happy indeed to meet you. You will perhaps give me an opportunity to expose my point of view.”

“It is exactly what I hoped, M. le Baron,” said Selden. “I was saying to madame but a moment since that I must try to see the king.”

“Yes, that can be arranged. He will welcome the opportunity. I will let you know.” The baron paused a moment and looked him over with a quizzical smile. “You are a great republican, hein?” he asked. “I also, in theory, though perhaps you will not believe it. It is true—but not for my country; no, there I am a monarchist. I do not believe our people are ready for a republic. In another generation, perhaps, but not now. They require education—but we will talk of all that some other time. Perhaps you would care to hear ‘La Tosca’ once again? I have a box—I should be most happy.”

“Thank you,” said Selden; “but I have some work to do. Even at Monte Carlo I try to do a little.”

“Ah, you Americans!” murmured the baron. “It is no wonder you own the world! I will speak to the king to-morrow. You shall hear from me. You are staying at this hotel?”

“Yes, M. le Baron. And thank you.”

“Au revoir,” said the countess, and held out her hand. “I am so glad to have seen you again, and I shall not forget our engagement for to-morrow. At twelve, shall we say?”

Selden was quick to bow assent.

“At twelve,” he agreed.

“Till to-morrow, then,” said the countess, and moved away, the plump but altogether distinguished baron on one side and the tall, rather commonplace prince on the other.

A strange trio, Selden told himself, as he stood for a moment looking after them—at the graceful lines of the woman’s figure; at the baron’s head, with its grey hair parted down the back after the ancient manner; at the prince’s negligent walk and careless air—a little too careless, perhaps, to be quite genuine. And yet perhaps not, for the face was careless too, with its dark skin and shining eyes and sensuous mouth; not a bad face, but rather a weak one, as of a man who no longer found any cause worth fighting for.

They had paused a moment to get some wraps from the vestiaire, and the countess looked back at him and smiled. Then they passed through the door together, and Selden, shaking himself out of his thoughts, betook himself to his room. There he changed into an old dressing-gown and disreputable slippers, got his pipe to going, sat down at his desk and plunged resolutely into the article he was finishing for the Times. Long practice had perfected his ability to switch his mind at will from one subject to another, and for the hour that followed he was not at Monte Carlo but at Neustadt in central Austria, witnessing the loading of a long Red Cross train with half-starved children to be taken away into Switzerland to be fed. It was the only way to save them—no one realized that better than their mothers—but there had been scenes.... For to many of the women these pale little wraiths were all that the war had left them.

He leaned back at last with a sigh of satisfaction; then got his manuscript together, looked it over, made a correction here and there, sealed it up, addressed it, summoned the porter and sent it off. That done, he filled his pipe again, stretched out on the chaise-longue and allowed his mind to wander back over the events of the evening.

A strange trio. Each remarkable—especially the baron. To talk with him would be worth while. His point of view was certain to be interesting—and might, after all, be the right one. As for the prince, he seemed to be little more than a puppet in the baron’s hands—he had certainly given the impression of being led around—led up to the countess to be introduced, led to the opera. Perhaps that was the price he paid for freedom in other directions—and crown princes were destined to be puppets, more or less! As for the countess, evidently a woman of the world, wise in its ways, refined in its furnace—but also a little hardened. Curious how, when the baron was speaking, she seemed always to be watching for her cue.

Perhaps it was really a drama that was preparing, with these three for the protagonists. And perhaps he too would have a part—a minor one, of course; but to be behind the scenes would be something. That was where he loved to be, behind the scenes, not involved in the action but free to watch the strings that worked the puppets and to try to trace them to their controlling source. It was great luck—too good to be true! He was letting his imagination run away with him. But how else explain the sudden interest of the Countess Rémond? To suppose that she had summoned him to a rendezvous merely to thank him—that was absurd! She would not waste her time like that. No; there was some other purpose, and the baron and the prince had arrived at a most inopportune moment, for she was just upon the verge of explanation. Or had she been expecting them all the while? Was that why her eyes had sought the door?

And this engagement for to-morrow which she had suddenly evolved? What did that mean?

Well, to-morrow would tell!

But he realized that he had need to be on guard. He recalled her strange face, her burning eyes, her vivid mouth. Who was she? What was she? A woman with a furnace inside her. No novice, certainly. But neither was he a novice! A fierce woman—how her face had hardened when she had mentioned that date—the sixth of June, 1918!

Selden’s hardened, too, for he was not likely ever to forget the happenings of that day—one happening in particular.

At two o’clock in the afternoon, in the old farm-house which had been the home of some quiet peasant family for a hundred years, but which was now the headquarters of General Harbord, commanding the Marine brigade of the Second Division, he had seen an order typed off which marked the beginning of the American offensive. It was an order that at five o’clock the Marines should advance against Belleau Wood and the village of Bouresches. The Marines had taken over their present positions from the French only a few hours before, and the Germans would count on their waiting to get settled before doing any attacking. Therefore there was every reason to expect the advantage of surprise. In any event, as General Harbord remarked, the way to act in an active sector was to be active.

Copies were made of the order and a minute later two dispatch bearers were pounding away toward the lines to convey them to the regimental commanders. Selden, tingling with excitement, resolved to watch the advance from the very best position discoverable, and for the next hour scouted up and down behind the lines. He found, at last, a place which seemed ideal, a tiny farm-house with red-tiled roof partially blown away, looking down from a little knoll upon both wood and village. He assured himself that the place was deserted and that there was a ladder by which he could reach the roof, then walked over to the little orchard and lay down in the shade to rest.

He must have dozed, for he was roused suddenly by a clatter of explosions. The beginning of the attack, he told himself, and then, as he started to rise, saw a motor-cycle wheel swiftly into the yard beside the house and stop. The rider, whom he recognized as one of the couriers from headquarters, sprang to the ground, and, after a quick look around, entered the house. He was out again in a moment, gathering up some bits of wood and dried grass, which he took back into the house. Then he drew a cupful of gasolene from the tank of his motor-cycle and hurried into the house again.

Selden, watching motionless, told himself bitterly that he would have to seek another vantage point—evidently this place was going to be used by the army. He would inquire—and he was just rising to his feet when he was astounded to see a thin column of smoke rising from the chimney. The day was windless and the smoke rose straight into the air. Then suddenly it stopped—started again—stopped—started again. Five distinct puffs floated upward toward the sky, then the smoke stopped for good, and a moment later the dispatch rider emerged, flung himself into the saddle and was off.

Selden lay staring after him, trying to understand. It had been a signal, of course, but to whom? To our men? But why use so clumsy a method, when there were telephones everywhere? To the Germans? The thought brought him bounding to his feet, and in another moment he was racing down the hill. But he lost his way in a strip of woods; he ran into a deep ravine, which delayed him; and then into a stretch of bog, around which he had to work his way, and even as he panted up the road toward headquarters, the earth burst asunder with the thunder of the artillery preparation.

General Harbord listened to the gasped-out story with a face of granite, and called his chief of staff.

“Have we time to stop the attack?” he asked.

“Impossible, sir,” said the chief. “There is just a minute and a half. We should only disorganize it.”

So they sat and waited—through a minute which seemed like an hour—and then the reports came pouring in—of the massed machine-gun fire which had greeted the attack at the very outset, of the rifles waiting in the woods; oh, yes, our men had gone on, but the casualties were very heavy, especially among the officers—yes, Colonel Catlin too. The Germans had seemed to know the very minute to expect them....

There was a brief trial, late that night, and a swift conviction. The accused had denied nothing, admitted nothing—merely shrugging his shoulders as he listened to Selden’s story and realized the game was up—asking only that he might write a letter to his wife; and at dawn a firing-squad had ended the affair.

Selden had, of course, not seen the letter, but it shocked him now to think that the woman to whom the man wrote that night was the lovely being who had summoned him to a rendezvous. He had made no inquiries—indeed, had sought to drop the whole sordid incident out of his consciousness. But now he began to wonder who the man really was. How had he managed to win this gorgeous woman? What had he said in the letter?

The censor, of course, would permit him to say little except good-bye; certainly he would not permit him to mention Selden’s name, or even to refer to him indirectly. Most probably the letter had never been sent at all—had been simply turned over to the intelligence department. But, in that case, how had she known? In any case, how had she known?

The thought brought him bolt upright. It would have been wiser to keep that strange trio under observation. He had been wrong to yield to the feeling that he was in the way. That the baron had come to Monte Carlo merely to pay his respects and introduce the prince Selden did not for an instant believe—and what place better than an opera box for a discreet talk? Decidedly he should have gone along!

Perhaps it was not yet too late. He glanced at his watch—yes, eleven forty-five—the opera was over. But there remained Ciro’s and the Sporting Club....

In another instant, he was kicking off his slippers and reaching for his shoes.

CHAPTER III
A DUO AT THE OPERA

THE opera at Monte Carlo is housed in the end of the Casino building nearest the Hotel de Paris, so that the Countess Rémond and her two companions had only to cross the street. It was to the private entrance that the baron led the way. Here the prince paused.

“Do you require me any longer?” he asked.

“Perhaps you would better go in and be seen with us for a moment,” said the baron.

The prince nodded curtly, and the three followed a deferential, gold-laced flunkey up the red-carpeted stair, and into a box.

It is a masterpiece of its kind, this opera house, the work of that Charles Garnier who built the Paris opera, and whose style, if too gay and florid for a temple dedicated to the classics, is admirably suited to the frivolous atmosphere of Monte Carlo. Outside it is a medley of columns, mosaics, lyres, masks and minarets; inside, of gilding, garlands, friezes and frescoes. Vigorous young women support the domed ceiling, naked youths perch precariously on the cornices; one is confused and intimidated by the riot of colour and decoration. But gradually one gets used to it, and the auditorium itself is admirable—a single floor of comfortable seats stretching below the boxes down to the stage.

There are three large boxes, the central one, with gilded canopy, being reserved for Monaco’s Prince. It was into one of the others that the baron’s party was shown; and the baron, after assisting the countess to a seat, himself sat down and looked out across the audience toward the stage. The prince refused the chair proffered by the attendant, and stood leaning against the side of the box as though poised for flight.

The play had proceeded to the second act, and Scarpia was explaining his evil designs to Tosca, while her lover was being melodiously tortured off-stage. The baron looked only long enough to see that Della Rizza was singing Tosca and Dinh-Gilly Scarpia, and then, having heard them many times, he turned his attention from the stage to the audience.

This audience, with the reputation of being the most blasé in the world, was lolling in its seats, listening perfunctorily to the music, and almost visibly digesting a too-generous dinner. Not until Scarpia had died, with a last convulsion, and Tosca had placed the candles on either side of his head, and the curtain had come down and the lights gone up, did it stir. Then it rose to its feet as by a common impulse and surged forth into the pillared atrium to walk up and down and get a little gentle exercise and look itself over.

But the baron did not rise. Instead he drew his chair further back into the recesses of the box.

“Go, my prince,” he said, “and take a look at the ladies. Only, I pray you, do not enter the rooms. I have an affair of importance to discuss with our dear countess.”

The prince disappeared in an instant and the baron leaned back with a sigh.

“If he were only more serious,” he said; “but he resembles that great-great-uncle for whom he was named—intelligent, generous, but entirely mad when it comes to women and games of chance.”

“His father was also a little like that, was he not?” asked the countess, with a smile.

“Yes—it is true,” and the baron sighed again; “but he was also more earnest, more interested in affairs of state. It was a great blow to the king when he was killed—suddenly—like that—his eldest son. He knew nothing about it until they came bringing the body. Now all his hopes are centred in this boy, who causes us so many anxieties.”

“He is still young,” the countess pointed out; “and he is at least discreet—one hears nothing of his love affairs.”

“Ah, there at least we have been fortunate,” said the baron. “For some years now there has been only one. It has grown more serious than I like, yet it is far better than the ruinous affairs in which he might have been involved. But to the gambling there is no end as long as he can find a sou in his pocket. He has a sort of vertigo when he sees the tables, with the wheels going round and the banknotes falling here and there and the croupiers calling the numbers—a vertigo, that is how he describes it. Fortunately at present he has no money and I know no one of whom he can borrow. His debts, I think, have reached the limit. There is perhaps some comfort in that!” he added grimly.

During this discourse, as before that evening, the countess listened as though waiting for a cue and finding none.

“Why did you send for me?” she asked abruptly.

“Because I have need of you.”

“Of course—but in what way?”

“We are preparing to place the king back on his throne.”

She shrugged sceptically.

“And I take it for granted,” went on the baron, with a sudden unveiling of his eyes, “that you would not be sorry to see Jeneski punished—his work undone, his dream broken.”

Her face was livid as she returned his look.

“Yes,” she said thickly, “I should be glad of that.”

“I thought so,” said the baron, and polished his glass abstractedly.

“But it is impossible.”

“It is not impossible—it is all but arranged. One little impulse more and it is done. You will supply that impulse.”

“I warn you,” said the countess, “that I shall have to know everything before I consent.”

“You shall know everything,” agreed the baron; “and furthermore I can promise you, if we succeed, not only—shall we say satisfaction?—but a material reward—a substantial one.”

“We can speak of that later,” said the countess, “after I have consented. But why do you come to me? What is it I can do?”

“I come to you,” replied the baron, “in the first place because you are a clever woman, and in the second place because you have lived in America for a long time, and I suppose you understand that people. As for me, I confess I never do.”

“You mean the women?”

“But naturally. The men—they are not difficult to understand. Though I sometimes wonder if they can really be as simple as they appear.”

“They are,” said the countess. “Children. Bad ones, sometimes, but still children, good at heart.”

“They seem so to me,” agreed the baron.

“Then it is not this M. Selden?”

“No—though he is important also. Unfortunately at this moment it is the question of a woman—two women—perhaps even three women! It is a difficult matter—very difficult; but there is one thing that simplifies it—one of these women is very ambitious and very ignorant.”

“That goes without saying,” commented the countess, “if she is a rich American. But if you will cease speaking in riddles....”

The baron laughed.

“Here is the history,” he said; “it is a peculiar one, such as could happen nowhere but in America. This woman, when she was quite young, worked as a waitress in a public restaurant at a place in the western part of the United States called Denver. She met there one day a young man who was a miner, married him and went back with him into the mountains to search for gold. That was admirable, was it not? They kept searching for a long time, and they did not find any gold, but at last they found copper—a mountain of it. My informant tells me that this is not an exaggeration—that it was really a mountain, though it is there no longer.

“This young man had no money, and to develop a mine of copper, even when you have it all together in one mountain, takes a great deal. For a long time nobody believed his story about this mountain, but at last he secured enough money from some men in Denver to build a little mill. But it was not profitable, partly because it was far from the market and the railroad would not extend itself for such a small mill, but principally because it was necessary to pay so high wages to the men who worked the mill. It was very hard to get any men at all, and they could charge what they pleased. So the mill had to be closed, and it looked as though the man had failed—that he would have to sell his mountain for a very small sum. The years were passing; neither the man nor the woman were as young as they had been—especially the woman. She had had two children. She was discouraged. She wanted him to sell. But he would not.

“Now regard how strange are the ways of providence. One day a young man came to him and said, ‘I hear you cannot work your mill because labour is so dear.’

“‘That is so,’ said the other.

“‘Then I have a proposal to make. I have some friends in the country from which I come, strong, active young men like myself, who wish to come to America, but who have no money. If you will bring them to America, they will work for you for two years and you will give them but to eat and sleep. After that, we will arrange a fair wage.’

“Eh bien, the man raised money enough to bring to America twenty of these young men, and they went to work for him. They worked well, and soon twenty more were brought over, and then fifty more, and then a hundred more. At the end of five years, a little city had grown up at the foot of that mountain of copper, and the man who had made the proposal to bring over the first ones governed it. And all the men in that city came from my country.”

The baron paused for a moment to enjoy the start of surprise which the countess could not wholly repress.

“So it is that story you are telling me!” she said.

“Shall I go on?”

She nodded and settled a little farther back into the shadow.

“The people were well treated,” continued the baron. “They lived better than they had ever lived; they saved money and sent it home that their families might join them. But beyond everything, they piled up a great, an enormous fortune for the man who had discovered the mountain. And his wife soon forgot that she had at one time worked in a restaurant.”

“Ah, yes,” murmured the countess, with a strange smile; “and her children never knew it!”

“Perhaps so,” agreed the baron, searching her face with his keen eyes. “I do not know. But at last we began to suspect that we had been wrong to permit so many of our young men to go to America to work for this man of copper, though we had been glad enough at the time, since we had no work for them at home. But they were always writing back about America, about how well things were there—about liberty! Some of them came back from time to time and talked too much and too wildly. The climax which we should have foreseen came at last. A bomb was thrown at the king.”

The baron paused as though to contemplate—to say a prayer before—an act so terrible, so sacrilegious.

“Continue, my friend,” encouraged the countess. “I find this history immensely entertaining.”

“No doubt you already know most of it,” suggested the baron.

“Even if I do, it gains new interest from your manner of telling. Please go on.”

“As for the rest, I will be brief. We found that that bomb had been thrown by a man who had come back from America expressly for that purpose. He said so, quite frankly. He told us that another would succeed where he had failed—that our country was to be made a republic like America. We laughed and hanged him—but it gave us to think. So we sent agents to America. They unearthed for us the history which I have just recounted, and they found it was indeed true that over there they were plotting against us. Their leader—the man who ruled them, who organized them, who collected their money, who furnished all the brains—was a radical, an anarchist, who, fifteen years before, had been forced to flee from Goritza for his life.”

“And who is now the president of the new republic,” broke in the countess. “In a word, Jeneski.”

“It is true; the world sometimes seems to me to be upside down,” and the baron rubbed a puzzled hand over his head. “I do not yet know how it happened—but in those last days of the war, when everything was falling to pieces, but when we thought ourselves firmly re-established, he suddenly appeared, won over what was left of the army, and in an hour we were fleeing for the frontier.”

“With the crown jewels and the contents of the treasury,” said the countess.

The baron smiled a deprecatory smile.

“The treasury was all but empty, and as for the jewels, they belonged to the king. Besides, their value has been much exaggerated. Most unfortunately. If they had been worth more, my task would be an easier one.”

The countess smiled. It was impossible to be annoyed with the baron.

“Please finish the story,” she said.

The audience was beginning to filter back into its seats for the last act.

“There is but a word more. As I said just now, I am going to place the king back on his throne.”

“Then the jewels are not all sold?”

“Alas—long since!”

“Well?”

The baron’s eyes were burning as he leaned forward toward her.

“Well—do you know what I propose? The most ironic coup in history! I propose to use for our king the millions heaped up for that king of copper by the very men who are now ruling in our stead. Superb, is it not?”

She was staring at him, striving to understand.

But before she could speak, the lights went out, there came a sharp rap from the conductor, and the orchestra began.

CHAPTER IV
ALLIANCE

THIS time it was the baron who attended and the countess who was distraught. The story he had told her had awakened memories and emotions deeper, more violent, than he suspected, and though she managed to keep her face serene, she was on fire within. Whereas the baron, assured that he was making progress, could abandon himself to a new sensation, the pleasure of hearing “E lucevan le stelle” incomparably sung by a voice as smooth, as soft, as iridescent as the satin in old Flemish paintings. For John McCormack was making his début as Mario that evening, and it was not until this moment that he found himself.

And the audience sat spellbound and listened.

There was no resisting the wild applause, which refused to be silenced. Perhaps the singer, after the shortcomings of the earlier acts, welcomed the opportunity to show what he could do. At any rate, he nodded to M. Lauweryns, who was waiting expectantly with raised baton.

“It is not possible for him to sing it again like that!” cried an excited woman’s voice; but he did, perhaps even a shade more perfectly.

“Come, let us go,” said the baron, when it was over. “Let us keep that voice fresh in our ears. It is a pity he is so uncouth,” he added, as he laid the countess’s wrap about her shoulders. “It must annoy him very much. Now let us look for that scapegrace of mine.”

They descended together to the atrium, but the prince was not among the people loitering there. The public gaming rooms beyond were jammed with the usual sordid crowd—shabby old men and women to whom the tables were the breath of life, who spent week after week, month after month, watching the wheel and recording every play, in the hope of discovering a system; cheap adventurers, striving to pick up a few francs; half-starved shop-girls, risking their last little notes with trembling hands; harpies of the underworld, trying to attach themselves to any man who seemed to be winning; all the ugly, tattered, repulsive fringes of society....

“He would not be here,” said the baron, and hastened through the tainted atmosphere to the private rooms beyond.

But neither was the prince there, and after a vain look around, the baron had a word with the chief inspector.

“M. le Prince was here,” said the inspector, “but only for a moment. He met some one he knew—a young man, a newcomer, an American apparently, not yet known to the attendants. They went away together—perhaps to the Sporting Club.”

“Thank you; we shall see,” said the baron.

As he turned away, the countess, who had listened to all this with the utmost indifference, suppressed a slight yawn.

“If you will see me to my hotel,” she suggested.

The baron came back with a start to the obligations of the moment.

“You see how it is!” he protested. “I am no longer myself. These affairs grow too much for me—it is a sign that I am getting old. You will forgive me, will you not?”

“But, yes—run along and search for your prince.”

“Confound the prince,” said the baron. “Let us go to Ciro’s—I am sure you are thirsty. Besides, I have still much to say to you.”

The countess hesitated. It would not do to be too docile to this Lappo—a little discipline might strengthen her position.

“Prove that you forgive me,” he urged.

“Very well,” she agreed. After all, she wanted to hear what he had still to tell her.

“Alors,” he went on, half to himself, as they moved together back through the rooms, “the worst that he can do is to borrow some money from this new friend. One debt more—that is nothing; there are already so many!”

The countess looked at him with a little smile.

“Why do you do it?” she asked.

“Do what?”

“Annoy yourself in this way. If your country chooses to be a republic, why not go and amuse yourself somewhere else? Paris is much livelier than Goritza.”

“It is in my blood,” said the baron, with a shrug of helplessness. “My great-grandfather placed the first Ghita on the throne and established the kingdom; my grandfather enlarged it; my father consolidated it. It was left for me to see it fall to pieces, in company with so many others. I cannot go away and leave it; something inside me, something stronger than myself, compels me to labour, to expend myself, to set it up again. It is a duty I cannot escape.”

“A curse, rather!” corrected the countess.

“Perhaps so. Yes, perhaps it is a curse. Yet I have had my moments,” and he fell silent, smiling at recollection of some of them.

The attendants saluted respectfully as they passed through the doors and down the steps, out into the night. To the right, Ciro’s great electric sign flamed high against the sky, dimming the stars. The countess glanced at it with a shiver of repulsion at thought of the crowded restaurant.

“Let us not go to Ciro’s,” she said, impulsively. “I prefer the terrace.”

“Certainly,” assented the baron. “We shall be taken for lovers. If I were ten years younger....”

“Do not be silly.”

“You will be warm enough?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, and together they turned to the left, around the end of the building, and down the steps to the terrace which overlooks the sea. They found a seat just back of the balustrade, and sat for a moment without speaking, looking out into the night, warm, jewelled, scented like a woman.

To the right glowed the green and red beacons marking the harbour entrance, and above them a string of lights mounted along the road to the summit of the rock where the Prince of Monaco has his palace and his great museum. In front of them stretched the Mediterranean, faintly phosphorescent, breaking into white here and there, and lapping rhythmically against the rocky beach. To the left, another row of lights marked the road along the shore, stretching far out into the water along the western edge of Cap Martin.

The beauty, the silence, the repose, fell like a balm upon the baron’s troubled spirit. He exhaled slowly from his lungs the fetid air of the casino, and took a long breath of the perfumed night. Some of his years fell from him—his memory, at least, turned back to another night, long ago, when he had sat, with the only woman he had ever loved beside him, on the terrace at Montreaux, looking out across Lake Leman. Love and the baron—one could smile, now, to find those words together; but there had been a time....

And perhaps Vera, Countess Rémond, also had her momentary vision; but she was younger and so less sentimental than the baron—she, also, had her pressing problems!—and it was she who broke the spell.

“You were saying you needed my help,” she said. “Is it to bewitch this American copper king into giving you his money? In that case, I warn you that I shall try first to get it for myself!”

The baron, who had come back to the present with a start, looked about him to make sure they could not be overheard; but the terrace was deserted save for a few other couples snuggled together on the benches and a blue-coated gardien pacing solemnly up and down.

“No,” he said; “it is not that at all. This king, like all kings, was mortal. You had not heard?”

“I have heard nothing.”

“He has been dead nearly a year.”

“Ah,” said the countess, understanding suddenly; “it is the widow.”

“Yes—a terrifying woman.”

The countess smiled at his tone.

“Is it she who is ambitious?”

“Immeasurably!”

“So you are going to marry her to the king!”

“No,” said the baron, rubbing his ear thoughtfully. “I had considered that—the lady would not be difficult; but the king rebelled. He pointed out that he had married once for the good of his kingdom, and that once was all that could be demanded of any man. Besides, that would be a little too—a little too—well, not exactly in the best taste. And finally, the Ghitas have a law that never shall the head of the house marry a widow. Of course, in an affair of this importance, these fine-drawn questions of taste might be disregarded, and the king could always abrogate the law. But he is inexorable—not even to regain his throne will he marry a middle-aged American widow.”

“No doubt he fears to appear ridiculous,” suggested the countess.

“Oh, the good Pietro never cared much about appearances,” said the baron. “What he fears is to lose his freedom. I do not blame him,” he added impartially.

“Well, then,” asked the countess, “what is it you propose?”

“There is the prince,” said the baron.

“But surely you do not suppose that he will marry a middle-aged American widow!”

“Oh, no,” said the baron; “he will marry the daughter.”

He was gazing out across the water and so did not see the sudden wave of colour which flooded the woman’s face, and then receded, leaving it deadly white. She sat very still, as though holding herself with iron bands, and turned her head away, and took a slow, deep, tremulous breath. Then she touched her handkerchief to her lips, and when she took it away, there was a tiny stain of blood upon it.

“Will she consent?” she asked in a muffled voice.

“I am not sure,” said the baron; “it is there I am baffled. It is there I count upon you.”

“Yes—go on.”

“Her mother does all she can to persuade her, but unfortunately it seems that in America girls are permitted to choose for themselves.”

“Yes,” said the countess, a little breathlessly; “what does she say?”

“She says very little; she sits and listens, looking very far away. She is an unusual girl; she could be charming if she wished. For some reason, she does not wish. It is strange in one so young. Also she has brains—perhaps her father’s; certainly not her mother’s.”

“The alliance has been proposed to her then?”

“Yes; it is arranged. It waits only upon her consent. And she hesitates. It is very strange. There seem to be two forces at work in her, one urging her on, one holding her back. It is not ambition that urges her on, I am sure of that; and it is not love—the prince leaves her indifferent. But whatever it is, I feel that it will win—unless something happens.”

“What can happen?” asked the countess.