CHAPTER XXVTHE COURSE OF HISTORY
FOR a moment no one stirred—just sat and stared at the man who came, swift and resolute, into the room, while the frightened attendant goggled from the door behind him—a man of perhaps forty, with dark, vivid face, outlined by a little beard, and a mop of black hair falling over his forehead, and deep-set eyes gleaming under heavy brows—a man with a bearing indescribably confident and audacious; just sat and stared as he advanced quickly to the table, bowed to Selden and to the Baron Lappo, and then went straight to Myra Davis, took her hand—dashing to the floor the pen he found in it—and drew her to her feet, against his breast.
“Little one,” he said, “I have come for you.”
But she held him away from her—held him away with arms trembling and convulsive, but inflexible; and there was something like terror in her eyes as she looked at him.
“No, no,” she gasped. “You are horrible to come here like this.”
“I love you!”
“It is too late!”
“It is not too late! Why is it too late?”
“Because—I do not—love you any more!”
“No?” he asked calmly, without any motion to release her. “Of course—in that case....”
But by this time the king was on his feet, his face purple.
“What is this farce?” he roared. “Jacopo—Mario—throw this fellow out!”
“One moment, sir,” said the stranger. “Perhaps the Baron Lappo will do me the honour to present me.”
And the Baron Lappo, his face a study, rose in his turn.
“Your Majesty,” he said, “this is M. Jeneski.”
Jeneski. Selden, of course, had recognized him, and Mrs. Davis, too, apparently, from the energy with which she now rushed forward, rescued her daughter from his grasp, and tried to kill him with a look. But to the king it was undoubtedly a blow, and for an instant his hand fumbled at his breast. Yet not for nothing had the old warrior reigned for sixty years in the midst of hate and violence, and his composure was back in a moment. He signed to Jacopo to close the door.
“M. Jeneski,” he said, with a bow, “I have often wished to meet you.”
“I must apologize for my abrupt entrance, sir,” said Jeneski, smiling his appreciation of the king’s aplomb, “but I feared that I should be too late.”
“Too late for what, sir?” asked the king.
“Too late for this ceremony,” explained Jeneski, with a gesture toward the papers on the table.
“Ah,” said the king, “you wish to witness it?”
“I wish to prevent it,” corrected Jeneski quietly.
The king wrinkled his brow incredulously, and his colour heightened a little.
“Really,” he began.
“Believe me, sir,” said Jeneski quickly, “I deeply regret this violent and dramatic procedure. I assure you that it is not at all in my character, but I had no choice. I have strained every nerve to reach here at the earliest possible moment. I should have arrived last night, but was delayed by a series of misadventures which I will not weary you by reciting. So when, twenty minutes ago, at the villa of Madame Davis, I learned of this conference, I could only hasten here and force my way in.”
“You may as well force your way out again,” broke in Mrs. Davis, who had listened to all this with a face even redder than the king’s. “If you think for a minute my daughter will have anything to do with you....”
“Hush, mother,” whispered the girl, her face convulsed.
“I confess,” said the king politely, “that I do not understand. Is it that you profess to have some claim upon this young lady?”
“Only the claim of a man who loves her,” said Jeneski humbly.
“Love!” began Mrs. Davis, violently.
But again her daughter stopped her.
“I am at a very great disadvantage,” went on Jeneski. “It is very difficult to speak—to explain—to say what I have to say thus publicly. If I for one moment might see Miss Davis alone....”
“Never!” cried her mother.
His eyes implored the girl, but she turned her face away.
“Very well,” he said, and drew close to her side. “I must speak to you then, little one, as though we were alone. Forget that there is any one present but you and me.” His voice was trembling with emotion. He paused an instant to collect himself and moistened his lips nervously. “Before I say anything else, I must say this: for the wrong I did you in a moment of madness I have suffered much. Perhaps if you knew the whole story—but no; there is no excuse. I say to you only that I have suffered, that I have done great penance. All that was torn out of my life and cast aside many months ago. Since then I have thought only of my country and of you. The baron can tell you that this is true—since he has used that old affair to secure an accomplice in the plot against me.”
She was staring at him with wide-open eyes, white to the lips, her hands pressed against her heart. He made no motion to touch her, but his eyes never wavered from hers.
“Even then,” he went on rapidly, “I would not have dreamed of coming near you—no, not yet. I would have worked on for my country and cleansed myself with sacrifice—loving you always and hoping that some day you might find me worthy; but this, this alliance—it must not be! Do you know what you are doing? You are riveting again on half a million people the shackles they have just thrown off after a struggle of two centuries....”
“We are willing to leave it to the people themselves, sir,” put in the baron quietly.
“Ah, yes,” cried Jeneski, “after you have corrupted them with I know not what promises! Of course they will choose the easy way!”
“Well, then,” said the baron.
“They are not fit to choose—not yet. Let them learn first what freedom means. Come—I ask nothing for myself—nothing,” he went on, turning back to the girl. “I have no right to ask anything for myself. Do I not know it? Yes—better than any one. But for my country I do ask—I have the right to ask; not much—only this: that you delay this marriage for a year—for six months, even—thenleave it to the people....”
He had raised his arms in his excitement, and as he brought them down with an impassioned gesture, there was a spatter of blood across the papers on the table, and a steady drip, drip from under his sleeve and across his left hand to the floor.
He seized his left arm near the shoulder and held it tight.
“What is that?” asked Myra Davis, taking a quick step toward him. “Are you hurt?”
“It is nothing,” said Jeneski impatiently; “less than nothing; just one of the misadventures which delayed me.” Then a little smile flitted across his lips, and he looked at the baron. “I confess, however, that I did not suppose the Baron Lappo would descend to methods so—so primitive.”
“What do you mean, sir?” demanded the baron.
“Was it not you,” asked Jeneski, still smiling, “who posted that big Englishman on the platform up yonder to shoot me as I left the train?”
The baron’s face was livid.
“M. Jeneski,” he began, “I swear to you....”
“It was not the baron,” put in Selden quickly. “It was the Countess Rémond. I knew she was driving Halsey on to something—but I never guessed....”
“Ah, well, I should have guessed,” said Jeneski. “I apologize to you, M. le Baron. After all, it is nothing—a scratch across the arm. I had time to bandage it but hastily, so it bleeds a little. I am sorry.”
There was a moment’s pause. Then Myra Davis released herself from her mother’s grasp and turned to Baron Lappo.
“Is it true,” she asked, “what he said about that—that affair?”
“Yes, mademoiselle,” answered the baron grimly. “It is true.”
The colour had come back into her face and her eyes were shining.
“And is it true that you have suffered?” she asked of Jeneski.
He made a little motion with his hands, more expressive than any words.
“I have suffered, too,” she said simply.
“Oh, my love,” said Jeneski, humbly, “some day I hope you will find it in your heart to pardon me!”
She stood yet an instant looking at him, then she held out her hands.
“I pardon you now!” she said.
It was over. The Davises were gone, and Selden too had tried to go, but the baron had asked him to remain.
The king had behaved magnificently. Well he knew the folly of trying to argue with a woman’s heart, and he had uttered no word of disappointment or reproach. Instead, having thrown and lost, he took defeat like a sportsman and a gentleman, faced ruin, exile, tragic failure, with a smile; had even wished her happiness and kissed her hand in farewell. With Jeneski he had been almost cordial.
Selden had never admired him so much, though he told himself it was this very habit of dissimulation which rendered the king least admirable. Perhaps he had not yet lost hope—some fanatic with a better aim than poor, fuddled Halsey might take a shot at Jeneski—or there was the countess herself, presumably raging somewhere at the failure of her plot. There was still that possible alliance between young Davis and the Princess Anna. Finally there was always that huge sum which had been offered for his abdication; which he had once refused, but which he could still accept whenever it seemed wise, and upon which he could live comfortably for the remainder of his life. No doubt it was such considerations as these which enabled the king to bear up so well.
Selden was surprised to note that Danilo seemed far more deeply affected. He was like a man stunned; slouched forward in his chair, staring at the papers with the dash of blood across them, his face ghastly in its pallor.
“We must consider,” said the baron, “how best to announce this to the world. M. Selden, I am sure, will not wish to do us any unnecessary injury.”
“Certainly not,” said Selden. “I shall use only the official version.”
“I will not conceal from you,” went on the baron, “that this—débâcle I think I can call it—has left us in a somewhat delicate position. We had made certain financial arrangements, based on this alliance, which will have to be cancelled, or at least reconsidered. Fortunately....”
He hesitated, glancing at the king.
“Yes,” the king nodded, “I have not touched the money since I placed it in my bureau last night. It can be returned if Hirsch demands it.”
“It is that fact alone,” the baron pointed out, “which saves us from the most painful embarrassment.”
The prince stirred uneasily, passed his hand across his haggard forehead, and rose unsteadily to his feet.
“You will excuse me,” he said.
The king nodded and the prince went slowly out.
“I did not suppose it would be such a blow to him,” said the king, as the door closed behind Danilo. “I do not understand it. Unless he has been losing again—but he has no money.”
“No,” agreed the baron; “and I know of no way he could secure any.”
Selden managed to keep an impassive face, but he was smiling inwardly. Evidently the prince had sources of supply unknown to the baron.
“Whatever it is,” said the king, “let us hope it will make him more serious. Continue, baron.”
The baron paced up and down for a moment, his chin in his hand.
“Of course she will marry Jeneski,” he said, at last, and glanced at his master.
“Yes, I understand, Lappo,” said the king quietly. “You would say that it is finished—that the game is up. Well, we shall see—I have confidence in my star! At least ... what was that?”
From somewhere in the house had come a muffled report as of a door slamming—or a pistol-shot....
A sudden pallor swept over the king’s face.
“Danilo!” he cried, and started to rise, then sank back clutching at his breast. “Danilo!”
But Danilo lay sprawled across his bed, a bullet through his heart.
He had managed to escape, after all!