"Madame," Prince Falkenberg declared, with a formal bow, "I owe you a thousand apologies for this visit."
Madame Christophor looked at him across the room, and in her eyes there was no welcome nor any anger—only surprise.
"You break," she reminded him, "the word of a prince!"
Falkenberg smiled icily.
"There are cataclysms in life," he said, "whirlpools into which one may sometimes be drawn. One's will is overborne. I myself am in that unfortunate position."
Madame Christophor looked steadfastly at her visitor. Was it her fancy or was he really growing older, this man of iron? The story of the last few weeks was written into his face, there were shadows under his eyes, a deep line across his forehead.
"Since you are here, be seated," she invited, sinking herself wearily into a chair. "Tell me as quickly as you can what has brought you?"
"Portel has brought me," Falkenberg answered grimly. "They tell me that he has taken shelter under the shadow of your petticoats."
"Shelter from your assassins!"
"Precisely!" Falkenberg admitted.
"I do not admire your methods," Madame Christophor remarked. "They seem to me not only brutal but clumsy. You killed seven men and injured several others, to no purpose."
"Madame," Falkenberg declared, "to secure the death of that man I would have destroyed a whole quarter of Paris and every person in it."
Madame Christophor shivered.
"Thorough, as usual, my dear Prince," she murmured. "Nevertheless, I find such statements loathsome. We should have outlived the days of barbarity. I do not understand men who deal in such fashion with their enemies."
Falkenberg frowned.
"There is something between us greater than personal enmity," he retorted fiercely. "My personal enemy I would deal with in such a manner as I make no doubt would commend itself to your scruples. Julien Portel is more than that. He is the enemy of my country. Upon him, therefore, I shall have no mercy."
"I will not argue with you," she replied. "There is a plainer issue before us. In passing my threshold you have broken your word of honor. What do you want?"
"I want Julien Portel!"
Madame Christophor shrugged her shoulders.
"You have wanted him for some little time."
"Never so badly as at this instant," Falkenberg declared bitterly. "He has set all Europe in a ferment with those infernal letters. He knows too much. He knows whence came the money which boughtLe Jour. He knows every detail of my campaign here."
"There are surely others," she objected, "who must have guessed—"
"But there was no one else," he interrupted, "who had the special knowledge which Portel has. He came from the Foreign Office, with the records of the last two years in his mind. At Berlin he and I crossed swords. He is the only Englishman who has ever caused me a moment's uneasiness."
"Are you sure," she asked, "that your campaign here has been a wise one?"
"The wisdom of Solomon," he replied grimly, "can be made to look like folly by the accident of failure. There is no doubt as to its wisdom. No one has studied these matters as I have studied them. No one has seen the truth more clearly. An alliance between England and America is a matter of a few years only, and when it comes the progress of Germany is set back for a generation. The one absolute necessity before me was to cut the bonds between England and France and to settle with England alone and quickly—diplomatically, if possible; by force of arms as a last resource. We don't seek war, Henriette. We are not really a bloodthirsty nation. We seek territory. We need new lands—fruitful lands, trade, the command of the seas. If we cannot get what we want by peaceful means, then it must be war. England for the present is weakly governed. She is in the throes of labor troubles. Her political parties are ill-balanced. There is a puppet at the Foreign Office. Now is the time to strike."
"Is it wise to tell me your secrets?" she inquired coldly. "I have no sympathy for you or your country."
"I have a bargain to strike with you and you must understand," he answered. "Twenty-four hours ago we dispatched a gunboat to a certain neutral port which comes under the influence of England. We paid a German to go there and send us word that he was in danger. We have sent an intimation to the French and English Governments. To England it is an insult. I have taken the chance that France has had enough of thisentente. Now you understand why I must have Julien Portel before they can get him back to the Foreign Office, before he can do more mischief. A strong man in Downing Street at this juncture might upset everything."
"I understand well enough why you need Julien Portel," she admitted. "I am still in the dark, however, as to why you imagine that I shall give him up?"
"Because I am going to buy him from you," Falkenberg asserted.
She glanced across the room at him, half curiously, half scornfully.
"Buy him! You!"
"Exactly," he replied. "You smile because you do not understand. I offer you a dispensation for your divorce, and your son."
A little tremor seemed to pass through her whole frame. For a moment she closed her eyes. Then she sprang to her feet and stood quivering before him.
"This is one of your traps!" she exclaimed. "You don't mean it!"
"To prove that I do," he insisted, "I have brought Rudolf with me to Paris. He can be in your arms in a few minutes. Look into the street, if you will."
She crossed the room hastily and lifted the curtain. A low cry broke from her lips. In the tonneau of the great touring car outside a little boy was lying back amongst the cushions, asleep.
"He is tired," Falkenberg said slowly, with his eyes fixed upon the woman. "He has come all the way from Berlin without an hour's rest. Am I to take him back to-morrow? It is for you to decide."
Madame Christophor turned toward the door. Falkenberg barred the way.
"Not yet!" he declared. "Do you accept my terms?"
"But he is hungry!" she cried. "I can see that he is hungry! And he is so pale—let me fetch him in."
"Of course he is hungry," his father agreed. "He has also been asking me questions about you all the way. He believes that he is going to see you. I, too, believe that. You consent?"
"Tell me exactly what it is that you require?" she demanded.
"Take me to Portel," he answered swiftly. "Inform him that you cannot any longer permit him the shelter of your roof."
She sat down and began to laugh, softly but in unnatural fashion.Falkenberg watched her with grim curiosity.
"And then?" she inquired.
He hesitated.
"I have made some plans," he said slowly. "If he passes outside your doors to-night, he will write no more articles!"
"But the whole of the English Press is clamoring for his return to power! There will be no need for his pen—he will take up his old position."
"Precisely!" Falkenberg assented. "It is not my intention that he shall return to that position!"
Madame Christophor sat with her eyes fixed upon the wall. Then she began to laugh once more in the same strange manner. Falkenberg was curious.
"You find my intentions amusing?" he asked.
"I find the situation amusing," she replied. "Half an hour ago I offered Sir Julien Portel what is left of my life."
Falkenberg stood perfectly still, watching her closely. Then his eyes filled with a sudden bright light.
"You!" he exclaimed. "You—Princess von Falkenberg—offered yourself to this man and were refused?"
"You are indeed a genius," she admitted. "I was refused."
There was a brief silence. Falkenberg waited. Madame Christophor remained silent. Her attitude puzzled him a little. He was afraid to speak for fear of striking the wrong note. Nevertheless, the onus of speech was thrust upon him.
"Madame," he said at last, "I anticipate your reply. This man has put an intolerable insult upon you. While he lives you could never forget it. There are some privileges still belonging to me. I claim the right of avenging that affront."
"It comes conveniently—the affront!" she remarked, through her clenched teeth.
"Conveniently or not, the affront exists!" he cried. "You cannot refuse me now! You would not have him go unpunished!"
"I am not sure that he was to blame."
"Not to blame?" Falkenberg repeated, with emphasis. "Would you have me believe that you threw yourself at his head unasked, without encouragement—you, the proudest woman in France? One does not believe such folly!"
"Nevertheless, it is the truth," Madame Christophor declared.
Falkenberg smiled incredulously, but he said nothing. Madame Christophor had found her way once more to the window. She stood there, looking down into the car. The boy was still asleep. She gripped the window-curtains with both her hands. He was so pale, so tired, and how he had grown!
"I give you even his heritage," Falkenberg promised. "Make of him a Frenchman or an American, if you will. He is your own son. Take him. I give my firstborn for my country. You will not refuse what I offer?"
Madame Christophor made no answer. Falkenberg, however, saw the longing in her face. It was enough! He suddenly changed his tactics.
"This Julien Portel," he said,—"it is another woman he prefers."
He saw her bosom heave. The storm against which she had been struggling all the time seemed on the point of bursting. The hot blood was singing in her ears, her eyes were aflame. She crossed the room and rang the bell. Falkenberg was content to wait. He felt that he had won! The butler appeared almost immediately.
"You will conduct the Prince von Falkenberg into the winter-garden," she directed. "He desires to speak to Sir Julien Portel."
"And you?" Falkenberg asked, turning towards her.
A swift gesture showed him her disordered countenance. It was reasonable.
"I follow," she announced.
Among the palms of Madame Christophor's conservatory, Julien and Lady Anne were living through a brief new chapter of their history. The wonderful thing had come to them. It was amazing—almost unrealizable! A new glamor enveloped the merest trifles. They spoke in halting sentences, they were at times almost incoherent. The marvel of it was so great!
Lady Anne was the first to hear the sound of approaching footsteps. She listened. It was not Madame Christophor who returned. She laid her hand upon Julien's arm.
"It is Jean, the butler, who comes," she whispered. "He conducts some one."
On the threshold of the winter-garden, only a short distance away, they heard Jean's voice.
"Monsieur le Prince will find Sir Julien Portel a few steps further on."
"Monsieur le Prince!" Anne faltered, with whitening face. "Julien, what does it mean?"
Julien rose to his feet. The footsteps were close at hand now upon the tessellated pavement. Then through the drooping palm boughs they saw him. Julien was standing tense and prepared, his uninjured arm was ready to strike. Falkenberg was there.
"You!" Julien exclaimed. "Well?"
The iron prince had disappeared. It was Herr Freudenberg, maker of toys, suave, genial, fascinating, who bowed before them.
"Why so surprised, Sir Julien?" he asked. "You forget that this is my wife's house. The little difficulties which have existed between us have to-day, I am happy to say, been removed. I have restored her son to Madame la Princesse. We are reunited. Henceforth my wishes are the wishes also of madame. You will present me? It is Lady Anne Clonarty, I believe?"
They were both bewildered. For the moment Falkenberg was supreme. He bowed low upon the hesitating words of introduction.
"Dear Lady Anne," he murmured, "do not be prejudiced against me. Sir Julien believes that I am his enemy. I am not. I am his sincere and heartfelt admirer."
Lady Anne's eyebrows were slowly raised.
"You have surely," she remarked, "a strange manner of showing such sentiments!"
Falkenberg smiled whimsically. He had the expression of a penitent boy who has misbehaved.
"It is at least consistent," he pleaded. "I admire Sir Julien's talents to such an extent that I am perhaps a trifle too anxious that he should not use them against my country."
"You haven't forced your way in here to bandy phrases," Julien asserted a little harshly. "What is it that you want?"
"You!" Falkenberg answered softly. "You, my friend! Madame la Princesse—my wife, whom you have known as Madame Christophor—finds it impossible, against my wishes, to offer you any longer the shelter of her roof. I am here to escort you, if you will, to your new quarters—to follow you, if I cannot reconcile you to my company."
Julien was startled, Lady Anne incredulous.
"I do not believe," the former declared, "that Madame Christophor intends any such act of inhospitality."
"As to that," Falkenberg replied pleasantly, "my wife will be here herself in a few moments. You shall hear what she has to say from her own lips. You must remember that I have paid a price. I have given up the guardianship of my son. You yourself," he continued, looking steadfastly at Julien, "may know if any other cause exists likely to have influenced my wife in granting my request."
Julien set his teeth, but he did not flinch.
"What is it that you want with me, Prince Falkenberg?" he demanded. "Another brutal attempt at massacre? I owe you this," he added, raising his bandaged arm. "Do you imagine that you can continue to use the methods of other generations with impunity? The thing is absurd. There are too many who know already the secret of Herr Freudenberg, maker of toys! There are too many who will know, also, before long, the secret of the explosion in the Rue de Montpelier!"
Falkenberg nodded gravely.
"I understand," he admitted. "One moves, of course, always, with the knife at one's heart. Yet, until now, I, personally, am safe. Another man dies to-night, even as we talk here, and confesses himself guilty of the Rue de Montpelier affair. But let that pass. We have crossed swords, Sir Julien, and I frankly admit, although I have gained my end to-night, that I am worsted. The money I spent to purchaseLe Jourhas been thrown away. The months of careful intrigue, the sacrifices and efforts I have made to destroy theentente, have been rendered almost futile by your diabolical pen. Very well, for what you have done I will accept defeat—I will accept defeat without malice. But there is the future."
"What of it?" Julien asked.
"I do not intend," Falkenberg declared, in a low, firm tone, "to have you back, a member of any English Government. I prefer Carraby and such as he."
"You flatter me!" Julien remarked grimly.
"Not in the least," Falkenberg objected. "You know the position as well as I. The political party of which you are a member is in power for a long time. You have got hold of the middle class, you've bought the Irish vote, you've bought labor. In the ranks of your party there isn't a man whom I fear—only you. I will not have you go back."
"But as it happens," Julien announced, "I am going back. I have heard from England this evening. Your friend Carraby is resigning."
Falkenberg shook his head. He remained calm, but there was an ominous flash in his eyes.
"You would make a mistake," he asserted. "No one ever goes back—successfully. Do I not know—I who am twenty years your senior, I who have felt my way into all the corners and crevices of life? Listen to me, please."
He drew a chair towards them and sat down, crossing his knees and looking towards them both in friendly fashion.
"Sir Julien," he said, "and you, my dear young lady, your entire future depends upon this little conversation. Can you not put it out of your minds for a few moments that I am the dangerous Falkenberg, the mischief-maker, the ogre of all respectable Britons? Can you not remember only that I am a well-meaning, not unkindly old gentleman who has some good advice to offer? You at least will listen to me, Lady Anne. Do I look like an assassin by choice? Do I seem like the sort of person to indulge in these dangerous exercises for mere amusement? You are both young, you have both your lives before you. Why do you, Sir Julien, voluntarily put the yoke about your neck? Why do you, my gracious young lady, suffer the man with whom your life is to be linked to deliver himself over voluntarily into a state of bondage? Politics lose all glamor to those who have dwelt within the walls. Sir Julien has dwelt there and so have I. He knows in his heart whether it is worth while. One lives always amidst a clamor of evil tongues, a pestilent trail of poisonous suspicions. One gives up one's life to be flouted and misunderstood, to be accused of evil motives and every imaginable crime. When it is all over, when one has time to think of all that one has missed, one feels that all one has done could have been done just as well by the next man in the street. That is the end of it. And against all that, you two have the world before you. You can be rich—very rich indeed. You can make an idyll of this love of yours. You can travel around the world in your own yacht, you can visit all strange countries, you can wander where you will, and all the time affairs in the world will go on very much the same as if you had stayed and given the best hours of your life to the dusty treadmill. I am an old man, Lady Anne, and I have an evil name in your country. They call me greedy, subtle, and ambitious. I may be all these things, but let me assure you that if I had my time over again my master could find another servant and my country another toiler. There are fairer flowers in life to be plucked than any which can be reached from the high places in Downing Street or Berlin…. Let me, at least, Lady Anne, make sure of your support? Mind, I am not threatening now—I plead."
Lady Anne looked at him gravely.
"Sir Julien," she declared, "will answer you for himself."
"But I want your own decision," Falkenberg insisted. "I want you to see the truth as I see it. I want you to tell me that you agree with me."
She shook her head.
"But I do not!" she exclaimed. "To me you have spoken like a sophist. One does not gain happiness by seeking it. You may be honest in some part of what you say—I cannot tell. Only I think that you have mistaken Sir Julien's ideas—and mine."
"You disappoint me!" Falkenberg murmured.
Sir Julien smiled.
"Not very much, I think," he said. "You always did believe in trying the hundredth chance. Let us come back to the reasonable part of our discussion. Do you propose, then, that I should leave this house at this moment with you?"
"My car is entirely at your service," Falkenberg suggested.
"Do I seem to you so ingenuous?" Julien inquired. "I am wondering what resources are open to me. I might propose to Lady Anne here that she telephone for the gendarmes. Why should I not have an escort to take me to an hotel?"
Falkenberg shrugged his shoulders.
"I like the idea," he admitted. "By all means, do as you say. Only do me the favor to remember that this is my wife's house and with her authority I request that you leave it immediately."
"I wonder," Julien asked, "what may be in store for me?—what pleasant schemes you have hatched?"
Falkenberg shrugged his shoulders.
"Listen," he said,—"if you listen attentively you will hear the murmur of Paris calling you back. Almost you can hear the falling of a thousand feet upon the pavements of the boulevards, the voice of life. You may find an asylum there. Who can tell?"
They heard the soft swirl of a woman's gown passing over the marble floor. They all turned. It was Madame Christophor who stood there.
"Still here?" she remarked.
Julien frowned.
"It is not my intention to linger," he assured her. "Prince vonFalkenberg has given me your message. I am prepared to go."
Lady Anne moved hastily forward.
"Do you know," she cried, "that they will kill him? Do you know that this man," she added, pointing to Falkenberg, "has admitted it? Would you dare to send him out to be butchered in the streets?"
"The young lady exaggerates," Falkenberg protested. "This is a perfectly respectable neighborhood. What possible harm can come to an English gentleman? Besides, I have offered him, if he will, the protection of my car."
Madame Christophor sighed. She waved back Sir Julien.
"Alas!" she exclaimed, "there has been a slight misunderstanding."
She touched a bell which stood on the table by her side. Almost immediately a tall, pale-faced man in dark clothes appeared, followed by Jean, the butler.
"My dear Prince," she said to her husband, "I do assure you that you need have no special anxiety. Let me present to you Monsieur Bourgan of the French Detective Service. Monsieur Bourgan—the Prince von Falkenberg—Sir Julien Portel!"
Monsieur Bourgan saluted. The two men looked at him,—as yet they scarcely understood.
"I suppose," Madame Christophor continued, "that I am a somewhat nervous woman, but you see I can always plead the privilege of my sex. I was delighted to have Sir Julien here with me, but in a sense it was a responsibility. It occurred to me then to send a message to the Minister of the Police, who happens to be a great friend of mine, and at his suggestion Monsieur Bourgan here, who is, as I have no doubt you both well know, very distinguished in the Service, has taken up his residence in my house. He has occupied, as a matter of fact, the next room to Sir Julien's. Forgive me," she added, smiling at them all, "if I kept this little matter secret, but I know that men hate a fuss. I propose, dear Prince," she added, turning to her husband, "that Monsieur Bourgan accompanies you to your rooms. You need not fear then any molestation."
There was an absolute silence. It was broken at last by the Prince vonFalkenberg.
"I must confess," he said slowly, "that I do not altogether understand."
Madame Christophor faced him with a faint smile upon her lips. The smile itself told him all that he desired to know.
"But, my dear Prince," she declared, "it is my anxiety for your safety which induces me to propose this. Only a few minutes ago you were telling me that you feared that you had become an extremely unpopular person in Paris, and that the very streets were not safe for you. Under the circumstances, one can scarcely wonder at it! The French Government, however, is above all small feelings. A private citizen in Paris, even though he be an enemy of France, is a person to be respected. The protection of the detective force of Paris is at your service. Monsieur Bourgan, you will do me the great favor of conducting my husband to his rooms. Afterwards you will return here to continue your watch over Sir Julien."
"I am entirely at your command, madame," Monsieur Bourgan replied.
Falkenberg hesitated for one single moment. He seemed to be measuring the distance between Julien and himself. Under the pretense of picking up a match, Monsieur Bourgan was almost between them. Falkenberg laughed softly, then most graciously he made his adieux.
"Lady Anne," he said, bowing, "one is permitted to wish you every happiness? Sir Julien, let me assure you," he continued, "that it has been a pleasure to renew our acquaintance. Dear Henriette," he added, "this care for my safety touches me! And the boy?"
"He is safe in my room," she assured him. "It is absurd of me, no doubt, but I have turned the key upon him and placed a footman outside the door. Take care of yourself, dear Rudolf. Monsieur Bourgan, I know, will watch over you well. Yet you are one of those who take risks always."
Falkenberg raised her fingers to his lips.
"Almost, dear Henriette," he murmured, "you make me regret that I ever have to leave Paris at all."
She leaned a little towards him.
"I bear you no ill-will, Rudolf," she said softly. "Take my advice.Leave Paris quickly."
His eyes held hers as though seeking for some meaning to her words. She only shook her head. He turned and followed Jean. Monsieur Bourgan brought up the rear. Madame Christophor shrugged her shoulders.
"Really," she declared, with a sigh, "life is becoming altogether too complicated. Never mind, I have got rid of Prince Falkenberg for you, Sir Julien. Between ourselves, I think that he will receive a hint to leave Paris, and before very long. Listen—there goes his car."
"Dear Madame Christophor," Lady Anne whispered, "you are wonderful!"
Madame Christophor was already moving away.
"Not really wonderful," she replied. "Only a little human. I must go to my boy."
Estermen started up from his chair. In the unlit room the figure of his master seemed to have assumed a portentous, almost a threatening shape.
"Who's that?" he cried out.
Falkenberg calmly turned on the electric light.
"Still here, my friend?" he remarked significantly.
Estermen began to tremble.
"There is plenty of time," he faltered. "I am not sure about the man opposite. It may be some one else he is watching."
Falkenberg walked to the window and stood there in the full glare of the light. The man opposite was still sipping his eternal coffee. He glanced casually at Falkenberg and back at his paper.
"You fool!" the latter said to Estermen. "Can't you see that he is waiting only to draw the others in? Do you know that I—I, Von Falkenberg, Chancellor of Germany, have received what they are pleased to call a hint from the French Minister of Police that it would be advisable for me to leave Paris? This is your blundering, Estermen!"
"Not mine only," the man muttered. "Do you know that there are those who wait for you in your rooms?"
Falkenberg turned away.
"Stay here till I return," he ordered.
He turned the key of his own apartments and entered. His servant hurried up to him.
"There waits for Your Highness," he announced, "the Baron vonNeudheim."
Falkenberg started.
"Here?" he exclaimed.
"In His Excellency's private apartment. There waits also—"
Falkenberg had already departed. He opened the door of his room. His secretary rose hastily to his feet.
"What do you here, Neudheim?" Falkenberg demanded. "What has happened?"
"Excellency," the young man replied, "there is trouble. Within half an hour of your leaving, I had important news. I dared not telegraph. I have followed you. I took a special train from the frontier."
"Go on," Falkenberg said calmly. "It is something serious?"
"Indeed, yes, Your Excellency!" the Baron continued. "It is concerning the Agdar matter."
Falkenberg's face lit up.
"An ultimatum!" he exclaimed. "So much the better!"
Baron von Neudheim shook his head.
"For once, I am afraid," he said, "we have been trapped. His Excellency himself sent for me. The reply from Downing Street has been received."
"Well?" Falkenberg interrupted impatiently.
"Your Excellency, the reply to our note is exceedingly courteous. It states that the unrest referred to had already been reported to the British Government, and a warship which left Portsmouth under sealed orders some months ago was instructed to proceed to the port last week. The note goes on to state that no intimation was given to Germany, as the British Government was not aware that Germany had any interests, but it further contains an assurance that the welfare of all white men will receive equal attention." Falkenberg set his teeth.
"What battleship was sent?" he asked.
"The 'Aida,'" the young man replied slowly,—"a first-class cruiser, twenty-six thousand tons."
Falkenberg was silent for a moment. His face had grown dark.
"And ours," he muttered, "was a third-rate gunboat! Who in all DowningStreet could have planned a coup like this?"
"It was Sir Julien Portel—his last official action," the Baron answered. "The papers to-morrow will be full of this. The Press of Germany and England and France have the whole story."
"Which is to say," Falkenberg exclaimed, "that we are to be the laughing-stock of Europe! Anything else?"
"There is an imperial summons commanding your presence at Potsdam at once," Neudheim acknowledged reluctantly.
"I start for the frontier in a quarter of an hour," Falkenberg decided. "I shall drive to Châlons and telegraph for a special train from there."
"You will let me accompany you?" the young man begged.
Falkenberg hesitated, then he shook his head.
"No, it is my wish that you return by train. Take a day's holiday, if you will. You will be back in time."
The young man's expression was clouded. He was obviously disappointed.
"But, Excellency," he pleaded, "there is trouble in Berlin. It is best, indeed, that I should be by your side."
Falkenberg held out his hand.
"My dear Fritz," he replied, "you will obey my orders, as you always have done. It is my wish that you return by the ordinary train to-morrow night."
"There is nothing I can do—no message—"
"Nothing!" Falkenberg interrupted. "Look after yourself. Leave me now, if you please."
The young man moved reluctantly towards the door.
"Excellency," he protested, "I do not desire a day's holiday. Things in Berlin are bad. Let us talk together on our way north. You have never yet known defeat. We can plan our way through, or fight it. Don't tell me to leave you, dear master!" he wound up, with a sudden change of tone. "There are still ways."
Falkenberg laid his hand upon the young man's shoulder.
"Fritz," he said, "my orders, if you please! Remember that I never suffer them to be disputed. Goodbye!"
The young man left the room. As he passed down the stairs he shivered. Falkenberg passed into an inner apartment. Already he had guessed who it was waiting for him. Mademoiselle rose to her feet with a little cry.
"At last!" she exclaimed. "Dear maker of toys, how long you have been!How weary it has been to wait!"
She came into his arms. He patted her head gently.
"Dear little one!"
"You are taking me to supper?" she begged.
He shook his head. Her face fell, the big tears were already in her eyes.
"But you are troubled!" she cried. "Oh, come and forget it all for a time! Isn't that what you told me once was my use in the world—that I could chatter to you, or sing, or lead you through the light paths, so that your brain could rest? Let me take you there, dear one. To-night, if ever, you have the look in your face. You need rest. Come to me!"
He looked at her steadfastly, looked at her feeling as one far away gazing down upon some strange element in life. Then a thought came to him.
"Little one," he whispered, "you are irresistible. Wait, then. It may be as you desire. Only, after supper I pass on."
"And I with you?" she implored.
He shook his head.
"Wait here."
Once more he returned to Estermen's apartments. Estermen was still there, smoking furiously. The room was blue with tobacco smoke. Falkenberg regarded him with distaste.
"Make yourself presentable, man," he ordered. "We sup in the Montmartre and we leave in a few minutes."
"What, I?" Estermen exclaimed, springing up.
"You and I and mademoiselle," Falkenberg told him. "I have made plans.You may perhaps escape—who can tell?"
Estermen, with a little sob of relief, hurried into his sleeping apartment. Soon they were all three in the big car, gliding through the busy streets. It was getting towards midnight and they took their place among the crowd of vehicles climbing the hill, only wherever the street was broad enough they passed always ahead. At the Rat Mort they came to a stand-still. Falkenberg led the way up the narrow stairs, greeted Albert with both hands, nodded amiably to thechef d'orchestre, the flower girl and the head waiter, who crowded around him.
"For as many as choose to come!" he declared. "The round table! The best supper in France! It is a gala night, Albert. Serve us of your best. Mademoiselle will sing. We are here to taste the joys of life."
Albert led the way.
"Ah, monsieur," he said, "it is good, indeed, to hear your voice! There is no one who comes here who enters more splendidly into the spirit of the place. When you are here I know that it will be a joyful evening for all. They catch it, too, those others," he explained. "Sometimes they come here stolid, British. They look around them, they eat, they drink, they sit like stuffed animals. Then comes monsieur—dear monsieur! He talks gayly, he laughs, he waves salutes, he drinks wine, he makes friends. The thing spreads. It is the spirit—the real spirit. Behold! Even the dull, once they catch it, they enjoy."
Falkenberg took the cushioned seat in the corner. Close to his side was mademoiselle, her hand already clasping his. Estermen, gaunt, red-eyed, still haggard with fear, sat a few feet away.
"Wine!" Falkenberg ordered. "Pommery—bottles of it! Never mind if we cannot drink it. Let us look at it. Let us imagine the joys that come, added to those we feel."
Already the wine was rushing into their glasses. Falkenberg raised his glass.
"To our last supper, dear Marguerite!" he whispered.
She shivered all over. She looked at him, her face was suddenly strained.
"You jest!"
"Jest? But is it not a night for jests!" he answered. "Why not? Ah, Marguerite, I take it back! To our first supper! Let us say to ourselves that to-night we stand upon the threshold of life. Let us say to ourselves that never before have I seen how blue your eyes shine, how sweet your mouth, how soft your fingers, how dear the thrill which passes from you to me. Close to me, Marguerite—close to me, little one! Our first evening!"
"Dearest," she whispered, "first or last, there could never be another. It is you who make my life. It is you who, when you go, leave it desolate."
He held her hand more tightly.
"Ah, little friend," he murmured, "you spoil me with your sweet phrases! You set the music playing in my heart—the witch music, I think. Come, we must speak to Estermen," he continued, looking resolutely away from her. "We cannot have him sitting there glum, a death's-head at our feast. Estermen, drink, man! Is this a funeral party? Wake up. Mademoiselle who dances there looks towards you. Why not? You see, she waves her hand. You have waltzed with her before. Ask her to sit down with us. I have ordered supper. See, mademoiselle approaches, Estermen. More glasses, waiter. Open more wine. There is champagne here for everybody. Mademoiselle does us great honor. Permit me!"
The little dancing girl obeyed his invitation. She sat by Estermen's side, but she cast a longing glance at Falkenberg. Their glasses were filled. Estermen drank quickly, all the time looking about him with the furtive air of a whipped dog.
"To-night," Falkenberg cried, as he lifted his glass, "I have but one command—be joyful. Why not? To-night I have Marguerite by my side, and you—you can choose from the world of Marguerites. There is nothing in life like this—the hour of midnight, the music of the moment, the wine of the hour, the woman we love. Drink, Estermen, once more. Fix your thoughts upon the present. Mademoiselle looks around her. She finds you dull. She will seek for another admirer. Ah, mademoiselle!" he added, leaning across the table, "if the sweetest girl in Paris were not here already by my side, do you think that I would permit you to be for an instant the companion of a dumb admirer?"
Mademoiselle laughed back into his eyes.
"If monsieur's friend were but as gallant as monsieur himself!"
"He is depressed," Falkenberg declared, "but it passes. Behold! Another glass like that, Estermen! Drink till you feel it bubbling in your veins. Look at him now!"
Falkenberg leaned back in his place and pressed his companion's arm.Indeed, the wine was working its magic. The terror was passing fromEstermen's face. Already he was becoming more natural.
"Leave them alone," Falkenberg said softly. "He will have no relapse. The wine is in his blood. Ah, Marguerite! never did you seem so sweet to me as tonight, when my face is set for the cold north! Have you joy in remembering, little one? Have you sentiment enough for that?"
"I have sentiment enough," she whispered, "to suffer every time you leave me. To-night I am afraid to let you go. Oh! dear—my dear—take me with you! I have begged you before, but to-night I beg you in a different manner. I am afraid to be left alone. I care not where or whatever the end of your journey may be. Take me with you, dear one. It is because I love that I ask this!"
He looked at her for a moment and there were wonderful things in his eyes.
"Ah, little girl," he murmured, "you teach one so much! One passes through life too often with one's eyes closed, one finds the great things in strange places, the rarest flowers even by the roadside. Drink your wine, press my fingers—like that. See, it is thechef d'orchestrewho approaches. You shall sing—sing to me, little one."
He motioned to the musician, who with a smile of delight held up his hand to the orchestra. Mademoiselle hummed a few bars. The man who listened nodded his head. Then he raised his violin, he passed his bow across the strings. With the touch of his fingers he drew from them a little melody. Mademoiselle assented. Her head was back against the wall, her eyes half closed. Then she began to sing; sang so that in a few moments the passionate words which streamed from her lips held the room breathless. It was no ordinary music. It was the love prayer of a woman, starting in sadness, passing on to passion, ending in wild entreaty. As she finished she turned her head towards her companion.
"You shall not go alone!" she cried, and her words might well have been the text of her song.
Falkenberg shook his head.
"Something gayer," he begged,—"something more like the wine which foams in our glasses."
She obeyed him after only a moment's hesitation, yet in the first few bars her song came to an abrupt end, her voice choked. She leaned suddenly forward in her place, her face was hidden between her hands. They all gazed at her curiously.
"Nerves!" one declared.
"Hysterics!" another echoed.
"It is the life they lead, these women," an American explained to a little party of guests. "They weep or they laugh always. Life with them quivers all the time. They pass from one emotion to another—they seldom know which. Look, it is over with her."
It was over, indeed. She raised her head and sang, sang ravishingly, charmingly, a gay love-song. Falkenberg was the first to applaud her.
"To-night, dear," he murmured, "you are wonderful. You sing from the heart, your voice has feeling, you bring to one the exquisite moments…. Behold, the supper arrives! Estermen has made friends now with his littledanseuse. Sit closer to me, dear. These are the golden hours. Give me your hand, look into my eyes, drink with me…. How the minutes pass! There is magic in this place."
Towards four o'clock Falkenberg and his companions came down the narrow stairs, out into the morning. A fine rain was falling, the pavements were already wet. Falkenberg was still gay, still laughing and talking. Behind, a little company—thechef d'orchestre, the chiefmaître d'hôtel, the flower girl—wondering at his generosity, stood at the head of the stairs to bid him godspeed. He gave a louis to thecommissionaireand called for a special carriage. He had almost to lift Marguerite inside.
"Dear child," he said, holding her hands, "here we must part for a time—not for so long, perhaps. Who can tell? It is a comfortable carriage, this. Here is a handful of money for the fare. It is of no use to me."
He emptied his pockets into her lap as she sat there. She made no effort to pick up the shower of gold and silver.
"What do you mean—that it is of no use to you?"
"We drive for home," he answered. "We shall need no money to take us there. Listen."
He drew her face very close to his.
"When you arrive at your apartment," he said, "you will find there a little packet from me. Be wise, dear. If chance will have it that we do not meet again very soon, may it help you to take all out of life that you can find. Only sometimes when the heart is joyous, when the wine flows and your feet are keeping time to the music of life, think for a moment—of one who dwells, alas! in a quieter country. Dear Marguerite!"
He kissed her, first upon the lips and then lightly on the forehead. Then gently he thrust away the arms which she had wound around his neck. He waved to the coachman to drive off. With a little shrug of the shoulders he took his own place in the great touring car. Estermen, too, clambered into the tonneau.
"You have supped well, I trust, Henri?" the Prince asked the chauffeur.
"Without a doubt, Excellency," the man replied.
"Then drive for the frontier," Falkenberg ordered. "We will stop you when we need a rest."
They left Paris in the semi-darkness. They were away in the country before the faintest gleam of daylight broke through the eastern clouds. Even then the way was still obscured. It was a stormy morning, and banks of murky clouds were piled up where the sun should have risen. The rain still fell. Soon they commenced to ascend a range of hills. At the summit Falkenberg pulled the check-string.
"Henri," he said, "come in behind here. I will drive for a time—it will amuse me."
The man descended. Falkenberg took his place at the wheel. Estermen, obeying his gesture, scrambled into the seat by his side.
"Go to the signpost," his master ordered the chauffeur. "Tell me exactly, how many miles to Rheims?"
The man clambered up the bank. The gray morning twilight was breaking now through a sea of clouds. From where they were the vineyards sloped down to the bank. A thin, curving line of silver marked the course of the river. Here and there a little gleam of sunlight fell upon the country below them. Estermen closed his eyes.
"It makes me giddy," he muttered. "I hope that you will drive slowly down the hill!"
Falkenberg glanced to the left—the chauffeur was still peering at the milestone. He slipped in the clutch and the car glided off, gathering speed as though by magic.
"You have left Henri!" Estermen cried. "He is running after us. Stop the car! Can't you stop it?"
Falkenberg turned his head only once. The stone walls now on either side seemed flying past them. Estermen looked into his face and quaked with fear.
"This ride is for you and me alone, my friend!" Falkenberg replied. "Sit tight and say your prayers, if it pleases you. This is better, after all, than poison, or the cold muzzle of a revolver at your forehead. Close your eyes if you are afraid; or open them, if you have the courage, and see the world spin by. We start on the great journey."
Estermen shrieked. He half rose to his feet, but Falkenberg, holding the wheel with his right hand, struck him across the face with his left so that he fell back in his place.
"If you try to leave the car," he said, "I swear that I will stop and come back. I will shoot you where you lie, like a dog. Be brave, man! Be thankful that you are going to your death in honorable company and in honorable fashion! It's better, this, than the guillotine, isn't it? Look at the country below, like patchwork, coming up to us. Listen to the wind rushing by. You see the trees, how they bend? You feel the rain stinging your cheeks? Sit still, man, and fix your thoughts where you will. Think of mademoisellela danseuse, think of her kisses, think of the perfume of the violets at her bosom! You see, we arrive. Watch that corner of the viaduct."
They were traveling now at a terrific speed, falling fast to the level country. Before them was a high bridge, crossing the river. On the left, a portion of it was being repaired and a few boards alone were up for protection. Falkenberg, recognizing the spot for which he had been looking, settled down in his seat. A grim smile parted his lips.
"Jean Charles will never place his hand upon your shoulder now!" he cried. "Can you hear the wind sob, Estermen? Soon you'll hear the water in your ears! Hold fast. Don't spoil the end!"
They were going at sixty miles an hour, and with the slightest swerve of the steering wheel they turned to the left on entering the bridge and struck the boards. Henri, in his account of the accident, declared that although the car turned over before it reached the river, Falkenberg never left his seat. Estermen, on the other hand, was thrown violently out, and struck the water head foremost. From the condition of his body it would seem that death was instantaneous. Falkenberg was found with his arms locked around the steering wheel, his head bent forward. He, too, seemed to have been drowned almost immediately. The steering wheel was jammed, the car wrecked….
The authorities, who had left only a temporary protection while they repaired the viaduct on the bridge, were severely censured. The makers of the car were subjected to a very searching cross-examination. The brakes and the uncertain light were blamed. Henri, who from the hillside a mile or more back had watched with ghastly face, was the only one who understood the accident, and he kept silent!
The Duchess of Clonarty was famous for doing the right thing. Three weeks after the return of Julien and Lady Anne to London, she gave a large dinner-party in their honor. At a quarter past eight, a telephone message from the House of Commons was received, explaining that Sir Julien would be ten minutes late, owing to his having to speak at greater length than he had first intended upon the Agdar question. Lady Anne was waiting for him, and they would arrive together certainly within a quarter of an hour. The Duchess made every use of her opportunity. She was at her very best during that brief period which ensued while they waited for the delayed guests.
"You know, my dear Lady Cardington," she explained, raising her voice a little to indicate that this was not entirely a confidence, "I never dreamed that dear Anne had so much self-confidence and resolution. Even now I have scarcely given up wondering at it. If she had only told me that she was so sincerely attached to Julien, I would never have listened for one moment to that Harbord affair. It was a mistake, of course," she rippled on, "but then one learns so much by one's mistakes. Notwithstanding their wealth, they were most terrible and impossible people. I am sure the association would have been most distasteful to the Duke. Poor Henry used to lock himself in his study when any of them were about the place, and what it would have been if they were really able to call themselves connections, I cannot imagine. You were speaking of the Carraby woman a few minutes ago. My dear Eva! Of course, you have heard about her? Her husband, when he resigned, gave out that he was obliged to go abroad for his wife's health. My dear, his wife had already left him, three days before! She was seen in Paris with Bob Sutherland. I hear the divorce suit is filed. What a terrible woman!"
"A great escape, I am sure, for Sir Julien," Lady Cardington declared.
The Duchess drew a little breath.
"Poor Julien was always so chivalrous," she murmured. "How thankful your dear husband must be to think that at last he has one person in his Cabinet who does command some sort of a following in the country!"
The Duchess delivered her little shaft and moved to the door. Sir Julien and Lady Anne Portel had just been announced. It was almost a family dinner. The Duchess took Julien's arm and drew him into a corner while the others filed past.
"Is it true," she whispered, "that the Carraby woman has bolted?"
Julien nodded.
"I am afraid there isn't a doubt about it," he admitted.
"How are things to-night? Anything new?" she asked.
"Quite calm again," he replied. "The trouble seems to have passed over. Falkenberg's death upset the whole scheme which was brewing against us, whatever it may have been. All the notes which are being interchanged at the present moment are perfectly pacific."
The Duchess sighed.
"After all," she said, "my little visit to Paris was not so wild. I don't think you would ever have found out about Anne but for me."
Julien smiled.
"If I really believed that," he assured her, "and I shall try to, thenI should feel that I owed you more than any person upon the earth."
The dinner was a success. Lady Anne seemed certainly to have developed. She was looking wonderfully handsome, and though her eyes strayed more than once to the end of the table where her husband was sitting, she carried on her share of the conversation with just that trifle of assurance which marks the transition from girlhood to the dignity of marriage. After the women had left, conversation for a few moments was necessarily political. The Duke, who read theTimesand theSpectator, and attended every debate in the House of Lords, spoke with some authority.
"I believe," he said firmly, "that we have passed through a crisis greater than any one, even those in power, know of. It is my opinion that Falkenberg was the bitter enemy of this country—that it was he, indeed, who kept alive all that suspicious and jealous feeling of which we have had constant evidences from Berlin. He was dying all the time to make mischief. I am sorry, of course, for his tragical end. On the other hand, I am inclined to believe that his departure from the sphere of politics was the best thing that has happened to this country for many years."
"There is no doubt," Lord Cardington declared, "that he was working hard to estrange France and England. Your letters, Sir Julien, made that remarkably evident."
"'The good that men do lives after them,'" some one quoted, "also the evil. I am afraid it will be some time before France and England are on exactly the same terms."
"I would not be so sure," Julien interposed, setting down his glass. "The politics of Paris are the politics of France, and the spirit of the Parisian is essentially mercurial. Besides, the days of the great alliance draw nearer—the next step forward after the arbitration treaty. Who can doubt that when that is completed, France will embrace the chance of permanent peace?"
The Duke rose to his feet.
"Five minutes only I am allowed, gentlemen," he said. "My wife wants some of us, some of us have to go back to Westminster. I shall ask you, therefore, before we separate, as this is in some respects an occasion, to drink to the health of my son-in-law, Sir Julien Portel. Though a politician of the old type, I do not fail to appreciate what we owe to the new school. I am a reader of the old-fashioned newspapers, but I recognize the fact that the modern Press sometimes exercises a new and wonderful function in politics. It is my opinion that by means of this modern journalism Sir Julien Portel has maintained the peace of the world. I ask you, therefore, not only as my private friends and relatives, but as politicians, to drink to-night to the health of my son-in-law."
They all rose.
"And with that toast," Lord Cardington added, as he bowed toward Julien, "let me associate the fervent pleasure felt by all of us in welcoming back once more the colleague to whom we have so many reasons to be thankful."
The party broke up soon afterwards. Lady Anne drove back with her husband to Westminster. She sat by his side in the closed car which had been her father's wedding present. Her hands, linked together, were passed through his arm. She was a very well satisfied woman.
"Julien," she declared, "it's lovely to be back here, but I wouldn't have been without those few weeks in Paris for anything in the world. I don't think we can ever get back down into the bottom of the ruts, do you?"
"If ever we feel like it," he answered, smiling, "we'll cross the Channel again, and take Mademoiselle Janette with us and seek for more adventures."
"Lovely!" she exclaimed. "I shall hold you to that, mind."
"No need," he replied. "Kendricks is going to stay there as correspondent for thePost. We must go and see him occasionally. There is no one who understands better the temperament of the Parisian than he."
"There will be no more Herr Freudenberg to circumvent," she remarked.
"Paris always has its problems," he answered. "Kendricks realizes that.The plotting of the world takes place within a mile of Montmartre."
They were nearing Westminster. Julien drew his wife towards him and kissed her.
"I shall only be about twenty minutes, dear," he suggested. "Why not wait?"
"Of course," she replied. "I have a little electric lamp here, and a book. I'd love to."
Julien walked blithely into the House. Lady Anne turned on the lamp, drew out her book, and leaned back among the cushions with a deep sigh of content.
* * * * *
That same night, wandering around Paris, Kendricks met Monsieur,Madame, and Mademoiselle.
"It is the gallant Englishman!" mademoiselle exclaimed.
"It is the gentleman who ate both portions of chicken!" madame cried, clapping her hands.
It was a veritable meeting. Kendricks willingly joined their little party and sat down with them in the brightly-lit cafe. Monsieur ordered wine.
"The business affairs of monsieur are prospering, I trust?" he said."After all, theententeremains."
Kendricks lifted his glass.
"I drink to it!" he exclaimed. "It is the sanest thing to-day in European politics. Drink to it yourself, monsieur, and you, madame, and you, mademoiselle. You shall accuse us no longer, we English, of selfishness or stupidity. For what reason, think you, did we order a warship to Agdar and brave the whole wrath of Germany?"
Monsieur held out his hand.
"My friend," he declared, "it was a stroke of genius, that. It was what we none of us expected from any English Minister. It was magnificent. I confess it—it has altered my opinions. I drink with you now, cordially and heartily. I drink to theentente. I believe in it. I am a convert."
Kendricks shook hands with every one solemnly. He shook hands last with mademoiselle, and forgot to release her little fingers for several moments.
"Tell us of your friend, monsieur?" madame asked politely.
But Kendricks did not hear! He was whispering in mademoiselle's ear. Her dark eyes were fixed upon the tablecloth, her pretty lips were parted, a most becoming flush of color was in her cheeks. Monsieur looked at madame and winked. Madame smiled, well pleased.
"L'entente!" monsieur murmured.
Madame nodded.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Mischief Maker, by E. Phillips Oppenheim