CHAPTER XXA PHILOSOPHER DISCOURSES
IT was not merely, or even principally, to arrange the articles of settlement that the Baron Lappo had gone so hastily to Paris. The terms of the articles had already been agreed upon, after exhaustive debates with Mrs. Davis’s solicitor, tentative drafts had been exchanged, and the final one was even then in the baron’s hands, with but a minor detail or two needing correction—trivial matters, easily arranged by post.
But the royal exchequer was low—empty, as a matter of fact; and the need of replenishment was so urgent that the baron had excused himself a few minutes after Selden’s departure from the betrothal dinner, changed hurriedly into travelling clothes while his valet packed his bag, and had managed to catch the Paris express.
He had reached Paris early the following afternoon, had driven straight to the rooms of a private banker in Rue Lafitte, who, forewarned by wire, was awaiting him, and had at once, as was his habit, placed all his cards on the table. These cards had been examined carefully by a fat gentleman with a black curly beard and a type of countenance unmistakably Hebraic, and had proved so satisfactory that the baron was able to get away at the end of an hour, and to catch Mrs. Davis’s solicitor upon his returnfrom a leisurely lunch. The final details of the settlement were soon agreed upon and arrangements made to have the official copies prepared at once.
He had then spent an hour at the Quai d’Orsay, and another half-hour at the British Embassy in Rue du Faubourg St. Honoré; had gone back to Rue Lafitte for a final talk with his banker, and then to the offices of the solicitor in the Avenue de l’Opéra, where the official copies of the agreement were awaiting him, and had arrived at the Gare de Lyon in time to catch the train for Marseilles leaving at 8:50, very tired but triumphant.
It was about the middle of the next afternoon that he stepped out again upon the platform at Nice, entered the car which was awaiting him, and was whirled away to the Villa Gloria, where he found the king recovering from the heart attack of the previous day.
It had been a severe one, brought on, as always, by over-eating. The king was a gourmet, not to say a glutton, with not always the strength to resist temptation. It was one of Baron Lappo’s duties to supply this strength. In his absence, the task usually devolved upon the Princess Anna; but she had been ill the day before, and the chef had been so ill-advised as to prepare a rich pillaff of which the king was very fond—with the consequence that for a time he had been very ill indeed.
The baron uttered no reproaches, but there was that in his look which would have made the king blush, if he had not already been so rubicund.
“Do not be cross with me, my old friend,” he said. “It is the only pleasure I have left.”
“But at this moment,” the baron pointed out, “Your Majesty should be very careful. It would be most unfortunate if the impression got about that you are subject to such attacks.”
“I am not dead yet,” said the king; “though I confess that for a time I was uncertain about it. You have the papers?”
“They are here,” and the baron spread them out. “Everything is as we wished.”
“What are the exact figures?” asked the king.
“The estate, when all the debts had been settled and the taxes paid, amounted to seventy-five millions. Of this a third was left to the daughter, a third to the son, and a third to the wife, the wife’s share to be held in trust, after her death, for any grandchildren. The son’s share is also in trust; the daughter’s is to be paid over to her upon her marriage, but must remain her property, not her husband’s.”
“We cannot object to that,” said the king. “She will have, then, how much?”
“About twenty-five million dollars, Sire.”
“That is how much in the currency of our country?”
“At present rates, nearly three billions.”
“Ah,” said the king thoughtfully, “what cannot be done with such a sum! Half of it will suffice!”
“That is also my opinion,” said the baron.
“And the remainder can be put aside as a foundation for our house. If we could get the boy also....”
“His money will never be really his—it is held in trust for his children.”
“Magnificent!” said the king. “It would make our house the richest in Europe. Yes, we must arrange it. But meanwhile, my good Lappo, as you know, we have nothing. Did you see Hirsch?”
“Yes, Sire; and he is willing to make a loan—three hundred thousand francs, to be repaid one month after the marriage. The terms,” added the baron, “are rather stiff.”
“No matter,” said the king, who was used to stiff terms. “When can we get the money?”
“I have arranged for the notary and an official of Hirsch’s bank to come this evening, prepared to pay it over after Your Majesty and Danilo have signed the necessary papers. Danilo must not fail to be present.”
“Good,” said the king; “I will attend to that. This does more to cure me than all the doctors,” he added. “There is no illness so annoying as lack of money! And the settlement—that also must be signed without delay.”
“I had thought of to-morrow morning,” said the baron.
“Very well,” agreed the king; “you will make the arrangements.”
“I have also to report,” said the baron, “an attitude of benevolent neutrality on the part of the French and British governments. They have no disposition to interfere, so long as there is no bloodshed. Italy, of course, we can count on. Our success, therefore, seems assured, unless the prince....”
“Do not worry about Danilo,” said the king.“He will do as I tell him—he knows his duty. You have provided for his wife?”
“I have caused an offer to be made her.”
“By whom?”
“By the Countess Rémond.”
“Ah, yes,” said the king reflectively. “You think you can trust her?”
“Absolutely, Sire. She has reasons to be grateful to me—and to hate Jeneski.”
“You are right not to count too much upon gratitude,” said the king; “but hate—yes, that is better. She is a clever woman. We must not forget her,” and he turned to the papers on his desk.
The baron retired to his cabinet to look through his mail, and there he found the report from the countess of her interview with Madame Ghita, and of her acceptance. But it contained no reference to the receipt of the telegram from Goritza heralding Jeneski’s arrival.
The baron read the report attentively, especially a long postscript in which Selden’s name occurred, and nodded approval once or twice. Then he ordered his car, made a careful toilet and presently sallied forth to call upon Mrs. Davis in her villa at Cimiez; and, after a most satisfactory conversation with her, directed his chauffeur to proceed by the coast road to Monte Carlo.
Selden had declined Scott’s proffer of a lift back to his hotel.
“No, I’ll walk,” he said. “It will do me good.”
The moment had come when he must arrange his future—when he must decide what he was going todo. He felt that he must be alone, that he could not meet any of the actors in the drama—certainly not Madame Ghita—until that decision had been reached. And he was the prey of many and violent emotions, for he began to perceive that the decision might not rest wholly in his hands. Scott was a fool, of course, in thinking there was any chance for him; but at least he must make up his mind whether he should try to win her or whether he should flee.
It was evident that his only sure safety lay in flight; he could no longer trust himself; and he told himself again and again that he was a fool to hesitate. Yet to flee from such a woman—wasn’t that more foolish still? The thought of life with her turned him giddy, set his blood on fire....
But how could he support her? There was no admiring public ready to pay for the privilege of dining with a newspaper man! Even if he had been willing to accept life on such terms. And she would have to renounce the king’s bounty, for it was equally impossible for him to live on money acquired as that would be. But what right had he to ask her to do that? What had he to offer in return? No, he couldn’t do it! He must go away!
And then the memory of her eyes, of her voice, rent him anew. He was in love! He! In love!
He stood away and looked at himself with a sneer. What a pitiable object he had become!
Yes, he must go away—at once.
When he finally got back to his room, he hauled out his bag and began to pack—slowly, with long periods of abstraction.
It was thus the baron found him. It needed buta glance at Selden’s tortured face to tell that astute old student of human nature what was amiss.
“Yes, I am back, you see,” he said, as he took the proffered chair. “Everything is arranged, and I have come to ask you to do Madame Davis and myself one more favour. I have no shame—I am always asking!”
“What is the favour?”
“The articles of settlement are to be signed to-morrow morning. Mrs. Davis would consider it a very great favour, and so should I, if you would sign as a witness in her behalf.”
Selden hesitated.
“There is nothing in the terms of the settlement to which you could object,” went on the baron. “The entire fortune of Miss Davis remains absolutely in her hands. The prince gets nothing, except a small annuity. We preferred it so. We hope, of course, that she will choose to use a portion of her fortune to rehabilitate our country—which will be her country also—but the bulk of it will be conserved for the benefit of her children.”
Still Selden hesitated.
“Come,” said the baron, “tell me frankly what is in your thought.”
“I am wondering,” said Selden, “whether Miss Davis will be happy. It is evident that she is not in love.”
“Not, at least, with the prince,” supplemented the baron.
“What do you mean?”
“I may be wrong,” said the baron, “because I do not understand your women; but I have observedMiss Davis as carefully as I could—naturally, since I had need to do so!—and I have become more and more convinced that somewhere in her life there has been an unhappy love affair, from which she has never quite recovered. That happens, does it not, even to American girls?”
“Yes, of course,” said Selden.
“I admit it does not seem probable, but it is the only explanation I can find of a thing which has appeared to me very strange. For the only question she has asked herself, apparently, about this marriage is not whether she would be happy, but whether she would be useful.”
“Yes,” said Selden again; “she asked me just that.”
“Not for a moment, so far as I could see, has she thought of love. That, I confess, seemed to me unnatural; though perhaps American girls do not think of love,” and the baron shrugged his shoulders helplessly. “Or perhaps they are ashamed of it. I do not know. As for happiness—are your American marriages always happy?”
“No, not always,” Selden admitted with a smile.
“I have never seen one that appeared so,” said the baron; “not as a French marriage is very often happy. To me, American husbands and wives seem merely bored with each other. Why should two people stay together when they would be happier apart?”
“You see only the worst ones over here; and a lot of people are held together by habit, by fear of ridicule or loss of position. We are cowards in that respect.”
“Yes; we are not like that. For one thing, our women try to keep themselves interesting to their men, and they are not ashamed of love. They do not consider a husband merely a source of funds—a bank. Very often they manage his affairs for him, and better than he could. The attitude of the husband, too, is different. With you, women are an ornament; with us, they are a passion.”
“Too much so, perhaps,” commented Selden.
“It may be; yes, no doubt our men are less faithful than yours, but they are also less cruel. They do not outlaw a woman because she has had a lover; they do not regard her as therefore ruined. It was Dumas—was it not?—who pointed out that a woman’s virginity belongs, not to the first man who possesses her, but to the first man she truly loves, to whom for the first time she really surrenders—for it is to him only she gives everything. Well, our men believe that.”
“Yes,” said Selden in a low voice; “yes....”
“And after all,” went on the baron, lighting a cigarette, “it is a much greater compliment to a man—a much more difficult thing to achieve—to be a woman’s last lover than it is to be her first one. To be a woman’s first lover—that is nothing; she is curious, she wishes to know what love is, she has not perfected her defence. A man needs only to be a little good-looking and not too stupid. But to be her last one, that is different. To emerge victorious from the comparisons that she makes, to impress her as no one else has done, to awaken something in her that no one else has been able to awaken, to cause her to say to herself, ‘I will seek no further—I amcontent! I love him!’ To accomplish that, a man must be very clever, very intelligent. It is a triumph. There is no higher tribute.”
“Perhaps it is a tribute Miss Davis will pay the prince,” suggested Selden, with a smile.
“I was not thinking of Miss Davis,” said the baron; “but it is possible. The prince is not without brains. At least, I trust she will be happy as well as useful. I give you my word, as a man of honour, that I shall do everything in my power to make her so.”
“I am sure of it,” said Selden; “and I shall be glad to be present to-morrow morning as Mrs. Davis’s witness.”
“Thank you,” said the baron. “At eleven.”
He made a little motion as if to rise, then, glancing again at Selden’s face, lighted another cigarette and settled back in his chair.
“Tell me about yourself,” he said. “What has been going on here?”
“Nothing has been going on. I have been doing a little work—and annoying myself a great deal.”
“Annoying yourself? About what, if I may ask?”
“About my future.”
“Ah!” said the baron. “Does it not please you—your future?”
“As a matter of fact,” answered Selden, with a crooked grin, “I have suddenly discovered that my future is behind me.”
The baron took a long puff of his cigarette and exhaled the smoke slowly.
“Your Americanisms sometimes puzzle me,” he said. “What you mean, I suppose, is that you donot at this moment see ahead of you any work which seems as important as that which you have already done.”
“Not at this moment, or any moment. Worse still, I am beginning to despair of human nature; I....”
“But you are wrong—very wrong,” broke in the baron. “Here am I, with at least twice your age, my whole life spent in the most cynical of all professions, and my admiration for human nature grows stronger and stronger, day by day. I listen to the pessimists with a smile—the prophets of evil do not frighten me. I grant all their contentions: that man is naturally evil, that he has used such glimmering light of reason as he may possess only to become more bestial than the beasts, that five thousand years of civilization have culminated in five years of atrocity, fiendishness and insanity; yes, but in the midst of it all, in the very worst of it, there were flashes of splendour—flashes of kindliness, and courage and self-sacrifice. There is something of that in all of us—and that is the miracle. It should not astonish us that men are full of ignorance and vice, but that they are capable of the heroisms they sometimes attain. You have been looking at the wrong side of the shield, my friend.”
“Perhaps I have,” agreed Selden, in a low voice.
“Well, turn it over,” said the baron. He paused a moment, evidently in doubt whether to go on. “I am an old man,” he continued at last, “and I have seen a great deal of life; also I esteem you very highly—so you will permit me to say something which in another might seem an impertinence. It isthis: do not fear to seize happiness when it comes your way; do not hesitate, or draw back, or run away. It is a rare thing, happiness—a very rare and fleeting thing; even at best, we can only hope to taste it briefly now and then. How silly, how cowardly to permit a single moment of it to escape! That,” he added, “is all I have learned in the sixty years that I have been on earth. But many men do not learn even that—not until it is too late!”
He sat for a moment longer looking at Selden with his wise old eyes; then he rose abruptly.
“Good-bye, my friend,” he said. “Till to-morrow—at eleven.”