Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli, page 559
part #22 of Delphi Series Series
He broke off abruptly, seeing Von Glauben’s eyes fixed steadfastly upon him, and the colour deepened in his cheek. Then he gave a slight laugh.
“I tell you, Von Glauben, this little love-affair — this absurd toy-marriage is not worth thinking about. Humphry leaves the country at the end of this month, — he will remain absent a year, — and at the expiration of that time we shall marry him in good earnest to a royally-born bride. Meanwhile, let us not trouble ourselves about this sentimental episode, which is so rapidly drawing to its close.”
The Professor bowed respectfully and retired. But not to sleep. He had a glowing picture before his eyes, — a picture he could not forget, of the Crown Prince and Gloria standing with arms entwined about each other under the rose-covered porch of Ronsard’s cottage saying “Good-night” to him, while Ronsard himself, his tranquillity completely restored, and his former fears at rest, warmly shook his hand, and with a curious mingling of pride and deference thanked him for all his friendship— ‘all his goodness!’
“And no goodness at all is mine,” said the meditative Professor, “save that of being as honest as I can to both sides! But there is some change in the situation which I do not quite understand. There is some new plan on foot I would swear! The Prince was too triumphant — Gloria too happy — Ronsard too satisfied! There is something in the wind! — but I cannot make out what it is!”
He pondered uneasily for a part of the night, reflecting that when he had returned from The Islands in the King’s yacht, he had met the Prince’s own private vessel on her way thither, gliding over the waves, a mere ghostly bunch of white sails in the glimmering moon. He had concluded that it was under orders to embark the Prince for home again in the morning; and yet, though this was a perfectly natural and probable surmise, he had been unable to rid himself altogether of a doubtful presentiment, to which he could give no name. By degrees, he fell into an uneasy slumber, in which he had many incompleted dreams, — one of which was that he found himself all alone on the wide ocean which stretched for thousands of miles beyond The Islands, — alone in a small boat, endeavouring to row it towards the great Southern Continent that lay afar off in the invisible distance, — where few but the most adventurous travellers ever cared to wander. And as he pulled with weak, ineffectual oars against the mighty weight of the rolling billows, he thought he heard the words of an old Irish song which he remembered having listened to, when as quite a young man he had paid his first and last visit to the misty and romantic shores of Britain.
“Come o’er the sea
Cushla ma chree! —
Mine through sunshine, storm and snows! —
Seasons may roll,
But the true soul,
Burns the same wherever it goes;
Let fate frown on, so we love and part not,
‘T is life where thou art, ‘t is death where thou art not!
Then come o’er the sea,
Cushla ma chree!
Mine wherever the wild wind blows!”
Then waking with a violent start, he wondered what set of brain-cells had been stirred to reproduce rhymes that he had, or so he deemed, long ago forgotten. And still musing, he almost mechanically went on with the wild ditty.
“Was not the sea
Made for the free,
Land for Courts and chains alone! —
Here we are slaves,
But on the waves,
Love and liberty are our own!”
“This will never do!” he exclaimed, leaping from his bed; “I am becoming a mere driveller with advancing age!”
He went to the window and looked out. It was about six o’clock in the morning, — the sun was shining brightly into his room. Before him lay the sea, calm as a lake, and clear-sparkling as a diamond; — not a boat was in sight; — not a single white sail on the distant horizon. And in the freshness and stillness of the breaking day, the world looked but just newly created.
“How we fret and fume in our little span of life!” he murmured. “A few years hence, and for us all the troubles which we make for ourselves will be ended! But the sun and the sea will shine on just the same — and Love, the supremest power on earth, will still govern mankind, when thrones and kings and empires are no more!”
His thoughts were destined to bear quick fruition. The morning deepened into noon — and at that hour a sealed dispatch brought by a sailor, who gave no name and who departed as soon as he had delivered his packet, was handed to the King. It was from the Crown Prince, and ran briefly thus: —
“At your command, Sir, and by my own desire, I have left the country over which you hold your sovereign dominion. Whither I travel, and how, is my own affair. I shall return no more till the Nation demands my service, — whereof I shall doubtless hear should such a contingency ever arise. I leave you to deal with the situation as seems best to your good pleasure and that of the Government, — but the life God has given me can only be lived once, and to Him alone am I responsible for it. I am resolved therefore to live it to my own liking, — in honesty, faith and freedom. In accordance with this determination, Gloria, my wife, as in her sworn marriage-duty bound, goes with me.”
For one moment the King stood transfixed and astounded; a cloud of anger darkened his brows. Crumpling up the document in his hand, he was about to fling it from him in a fury. What! This mere boy and girl had baffled the authority of a king! Anon, his anger cooled — his countenance cleared. Smoothing the paper out he read its contents again, — then smiled.
“Well! Humphry has something of me in him after all!” he said. “He is not entirely his mother! He has a heart, — a will, and a conscience, — all three generally lacking to sons of kings! Let me be honest with myself! If he had given way to me, I should have despised him!— ‘but for Love’s sake he has opposed me; and by my soul! — I respect him!”
CHAPTER XXIII. — THE KING’S DEFENDER
Rumour, we are told, has a million tongues, and they were soon all at work, wagging out the news of the Crown Prince’s mysterious departure. Each tongue told a different story, and none of the stories tallied. No information was to be obtained at Court. There nothing was said, but that the Prince, disliking the formal ceremony of a public departure, had privately set sail in his own yacht for his projected tour round the world. Nobody believed this; and the general impression soon gained ground that the young man had fallen into disgrace with his Royal parents, and had been sent away for a time till he should recognize the enormity of his youthful indiscretions.
“Sent away — you understand!” said the society gossips; “To avoid further scandal!”
The Prince’s younger brothers, Rupert and Cyprian, were often plied with questions by their intimates, but knowing nothing, and truly caring less, they could give no explanation. Neither King nor Queen spoke a word on the subject; and Sir Roger de Launay, astonished and perplexed beyond measure as he was at this turn in affairs, dared not put any questions even to his friend Professor von Glauben who, as soon as the news of the Prince’s departure was known, resolutely declined to speak, so he said, “on what did not concern him.” Gradually, however, this excitement partially subsided to give place to other forms of social commotion, which beginning in trifles, swiftly expanded to larger and more serious development. The first of these was the sudden rise of a newspaper which had for many years subsisted with the greatest difficulty in opposition to the many journals governed by David Jost. It happened in this manner.
Several leading articles written in favour of a Jesuit settlement in the country, had appeared constantly in Jost’s largest and most widely circulated newspaper, and the last of these ‘leaders,’ had concluded with the assertion that though his Majesty, the King, had at first refused the portion of Crown-lands needed by the Society for building, he had now ‘graciously’ re-considered the situation, and had been pleased to revoke his previous decision. Whereat, the very next morning the rival ‘daily’ had leaped into prominence by merely two headlines:
THE JESUIT SETTLEMENT STATEMENT BY HIS MAJESTY THE KING.
And there, plainly set forth, was the Royal and authoritative refusal to grant the lands required, ‘Because of the earnest petition of our loving subjects against the said grant,’ — and till ‘our loving subjects’’ objections were removed, the lands would be withheld. This public announcement signed by the King in person, created the most extraordinary sensation throughout the whole country. It was the one topic at every social meeting; it was the one subject of every sermon. Preachers stormed and harangued in every pulpit, and Monsignor Del Fortis, lifting up his harsh raucous voice in the Cathedral itself, addressed an enormous congregation one Sunday morning on the matter, and denounced the King, the Queen, and the mysteriously-departed Crown Prince in the most orthodox Christian manner, commending them to the flames of hell, and the mercy of a loving God at one and the same moment.
Meanwhile, the newspaper that had been permitted to publish the King’s statement got its circulation up by tens of thousands, the more so as certain brilliant and fiery articles on the political situation began to appear therein signed by one Pasquin Leroy, a stranger to the reading public, but in whom the spirit of a modern ‘Junius’ appeared to have entered for the purpose of warning, threatening and commanding. A scathing and audacious attack upon Carl Pérousse, Secretary of State, in which the small darts of satire flew further than the sharpest arrows of assertion, was among the first of these, and Pérousse himself, maddened like a bull at the first prick of the toreador, by the stinging truths the writer uttered, or rather suggested, lost no time in summoning General Bernhoff to a second interview.
“Did I not tell you,” he said, pointing to the signature at the end of the offending article, “to ‘shadow’ that man, and arrest him as a common spy?”
Bernhoff bowed stiffly.
“You did! But it is difficult to arrest one who is not capable of being arrested. I must be provided first with proofs of his guilt; and I must also obtain the King’s order.”
“Proofs should be easy enough for you to obtain,” said Pérousse fiercely; “And the King will sign any warrant he is told. At least, you can surely find this rascal out? — where he lives, and what are his means of subsistence?”
“If he were here, I could,” responded Bernhoff calmly; “I have made all the necessary preliminary enquiries. The man is a gentleman of considerable wealth. He writes for his own amusement, and — from a distance. I advise you—” and here the General held up an obstinate-looking finger of warning; “I advise you, I say, to let him alone! I can find no proof whatever that he is a spy.”
“Proof! I can give you enough—” began Pérousse hotly, then paused in confusion. For what could he truly say? If he told the Chief of Police that this Pasquin Leroy was believed to have counterfeited the Prime Minister’s signet, in order to obtain an interview with David Jost, why then the Chief of Police would be informed once and for all that the Prime Minister was in confidential communication with the Jew-proprietor of a stock-jobbing newspaper! And that would never do! It would, at the least, be impolitic. Inwardly chafing with annoyance, he assumed an outward air of conscientious gravity.
“You will regret it, General, I think, if you do not follow out my suggestions respecting this man,” he said coldly; “He is writing for the press in a strain which is plainly directed against the Government. Of course we statesmen pay little or no heed to modern journalism, but the King, having taken the unusual, and as I consider it, unwise step of proclaiming certain of his intentions in a newspaper which was, until his patronage, obscure and unsuccessful, the public attention has been suddenly turned towards this particular journal; and what is written therein may possibly influence the masses as it would not have done a few weeks ago.”
“I quite believe that!” said Bernhoff tersely; “But I cannot arrest a man for writing clever things. Literary talent is no proof of dishonesty.”
Pérousse looked at him sharply. But there was no satire in Bernhoff’s fixed and glassy eye, and no expression whatever in his woodenly-composed countenance.
“We entertain different opinions on the matter, it is evident!” he said; “You will at least grant that if he cannot be arrested, he can be carefully watched?”
“He is carefully watched!” replied Bernhoff; “That is to say, as far as I can watch him!”
“Good!” and Pérousse smiled, somewhat relieved. “Then on the first suspicion of a treasonable act — —”
“I shall arrest him — in the King’s name, when the King signs the warrant,” said Bernhoff; “But he is one of Sergius Thord’s followers, and at the present juncture it might be unwise to touch any member of that particularly inflammable body.”
Pérousse frowned.
“Sergius Thord ought to have been hanged or shot years ago — —”
“Then why did not you hang or shoot him?” enquired Bernhoff.
“I was not in office.”
“Why do you not hang or shoot him now?”
“Why? Because — —”
“Because,” interrupted Bernhoff, again lifting his grim warning finger; “If you did, the city would be in a tumult and more than half the soldiery would be on the side of the mob! By way of warning, M. Pérousse, I may as well tell you frankly, on the authority of my position as Head of the Police, that the Government are on the edge of a dangerous situation!”
Pérousse looked contemptuous.
“Every Government in the world is on the edge of a dangerous situation nowadays!” he retorted;— “But any Government that yields to the mob proves itself a mere ministry of cowardice.”
“Yet the mob often wins, — not only by excess of numbers, but by sheer force of — honesty!” — said Bernhoff sententiously; “It has been known to sweep away, and re-make political constitutions before now.”
“It has,” — agreed Pérousse, drawing pens and paper towards him, and feigning to be busily occupied in the commencement of a letter— “But it will not indulge itself in such amusements during my time!”
“Ah! I wonder how long your time will last!” muttered Bernhoff to himself as he withdrew— “Six months or six days? I would not bet on the longer period!”
In good truth there was considerable reason for the General’s dubious outlook on affairs. A political storm was brewing. A heavy tidal wave of discontent was sweeping the masses of the people stormily against the rocks of existing authority, and loud and bitter and incessant were the complaints on all sides against the increased taxation levied upon every rate-payer. Fiercest of all was the clamour made by the poor at the increasing price of bread, the chief necessity of life; for the imposition of a heavy duty upon wheat and other cereals had made the common loaf of the peasant’s daily fare almost an article of luxury. Stormy meetings were held in every quarter of the city, — protests were drawn up and signed by thousands, — endless petitions were handed to the King, — but no practical result came from these. His Majesty was ‘graciously pleased’ to seem blind, deaf and wholly indifferent to the agitated condition of his subjects. Now and then a Government orator would mount the political rostrum and talk ‘patriotism’ for an hour or so, to a more or less sullen audience, informing them with much high-flown eloquence that, by responding to the Governmental demands and supporting the Governmental measures, they were strengthening the resources of the country and completing the efficiency of both Army and Navy; but somehow, his hydraulic efforts at rousing the popular enthusiasm failed of effect. Whereas, whenever Sergius Thord spoke, thousands of throats roared acclamation, — and the very sight of Lotys passing quietly down the poorer thoroughfares of the city was sufficient to bring out groups of men and women to their doors, waving their hands to her, sending her wild kisses, — and almost kneeling before her in an ecstasy of trust and adoration. Thord himself perceived that the situation was rapidly reaching a climax, and quietly prepared himself to meet and cope with it. Two of the monthly business meetings of the Revolutionary Committee had been held since that on which Pasquin Leroy and his two friends had been enrolled as members of the Brotherhood, and at the last of these, Thord took Leroy into his full confidence, and gave him all the secret clues of the Revolutionary organization which honeycombed the metropolis from end to end. He had trusted the man in many ways and found him honest. One trifling proof of this was perhaps the main reason of Thord’s further reliance upon him; he had fulfilled his half-suggested promise to bring the sunshine of prosperity into the hard-working, and more or less sordid life of the little dancing-girl, Pequita. She had been sent for one morning by the manager of the Royal Opera, who having seen the ease, grace, and dexterity of her performance, forthwith engaged her for the entire season at a salary which when named to the amazed child, seemed like a veritable shower of gold tumbling by rare chance out of the lap of Dame Fortune. The manager was a curt, cold business man, and she was afraid to ask him any questions, for when the words— “I am sure a kind friend has spoken to you of me—” came timidly from her lips, he had shut up her confidence at once by the brief answer —
“No. You are mistaken. We accept no personal recommendations. We only employ proved talent!”
All the same Pequita felt sure that she owed the sudden lifting of her own and her father’s daily burden of life, to the unforgetting care and intercession of Leroy. Lotys was equally convinced of the same, and both she and Sergius Thord highly appreciated their new associate’s unobtrusive way of doing good, as it were, by stealth. Pequita’s exquisite grace and agility had made her at once the fashion; the Opera was crowded nightly to see the ‘wonderful child-dancer’; and valuable gifts and costly jewels were showered upon her, all of which she brought to Lotys, who advised her how to dispose of them best, and put by the money for the comfort and care of her father in the event of sickness, or the advance of age. Flattered and petted by the great world as she now was, Pequita never lost her head in the whirl of gay splendour, but remained the same child-like, loving little creature, — her one idol her father, — her only confidante, Lotys, whose gentle admonitions and constant watchfulness saved her from many a dangerous pitfall. As yet, she had not attained the wish she had expressed, to dance before the King, — but she was told that at any time his Majesty might visit the Opera, and that steps would be taken to induce him to do so for the special purpose of witnessing her performance. So with this half promise she was fain to be content, and to bear with the laughing taunts of her ‘Revolutionary’ friends, who constantly teased her and called her ‘little traitor’ because she sought the Royal favour.
