Temporal Power by Marie CorelliA Study in Supremacy (page 3)

last few moments,–“Speak on, man! Whoever heard of a dumb Socialist! Rant–rant! Rant and rave!–as I do, when the fit is on me! Do I not, Thord? Do I not move you even to tears?”

“And laughter!” put in Zegota. “Hold your tongue, Zouche! No other man can talk at all, if you once begin!”

Zouche laughed, and drained his glass.

“True!–my genius is of an absorbing quality! Silence, gentlemen! Silence for our new comrade! ‘Pasquin’ stands for the beginning of a jest–so we may hope he will be amusing,–‘Leroy’ stands for the king, and so we may expect him to be non-political!”

CHAPTER VIII

THE KING’S DOUBLE

As Leroy rose to speak, there was a little commotion. Max Graub upset his glass, and seemed to be having a struggle under the table with Axel Regor.

“What ails you?” said Leroy, glancing at his friends with an amazed air–“Are you quarrelling?”

“Quarrelling!” echoed Max Graub, “Why, no–but what man will have his beer upset without complaint? Tell me that!”

“You upset it!” said Regor angrily–“I did not.”

“You did!” retorted Graub, “and because I pushed you for it, you showed me a pistol in your pocket! I object to be shown a pistol. So I have taken it away. Here it is!” and he laid the weapon on the table in front of him.

A look of anger darkened Leroy’s brows.

“I was not aware you carried arms,” he said coldly.

Sergius Thord noticed his annoyance.

“There is nothing remarkable in that, my friend!” he interposed–“We all carry arms,–there is not one of us at this table who has not a loaded pistol,–even Lotys is no exception to this rule.”

“Now by my word!” said Graub, “_I_ have no loaded pistol,–and I will swear Leroy is equally unarmed!”

“Entirely so!” said Leroy quietly–“I never suspect any man of evil intentions towards me.”

As he said this, Lotys leaned forward impulsively and stretched out her hand,–a beautiful hand, well-shaped and white as a white rose petal.

“I like you for that!”–she said–“It is the natural attitude of a brave man!”

A slight colour warmed his bronzed skin as he took her hand, pressed it gently, and let it go again. Axel Regor looked up defiantly.

“Well, I _do_ suspect every man of evil intentions!” he said, “So you may all just as well know the worst of me at once! My experience of life has perhaps been exceptionally unpleasant; but it has taught me that as a rule no man is your friend till you have made it worth his while!”

“By favours bestowed, or favours to come?” queried Thord, smiling,– “However, without any argument, Axel Regor, I am inclined to think you are right!”

“Then a weapon is permissible here?” asked Graub.

“Not only permissible, but necessary,” replied Thord. “As members of this Brotherhood we live always prepared for some disaster,–always on our guard against treachery. Comrades!” and raising his voice he addressed the whole party. “Lay down your arms, all at once and together!”

In one instant, as if in obedience to a military order, the table was lined on either side with pistols. Beside these weapons, there was a goodly number of daggers, chiefly of the small kind such as are used in Corsica, encased in leather sheaths. Pasquin Leroy smiled as he saw Lotys lay down one of those tiny but deadly weapons, together with a small silver-mounted pistol.

“Forewarned is forearmed!” he said gaily;–“Madame, if I ever offend, I shall look to you for a happy dispatch! Gentlemen, I have still to make my speech, and if you permit it, I will speak now,–unarmed as I am,– with all these little metal mouths ready to deal death upon me if I happen to make any observation which may displease you!”

“By Heaven! A brave man!” cried Zouche; “Thord, you have picked up a trump card! Speak, Pasquin Leroy! We will forgive you, even if you praise the King!”

Leroy stood silent for a moment, as if thinking. His two companions looked up at him once or twice in unquestionable alarm and wonderment, but he did not appear to be conscious of their observation. On the contrary, some very deeply seated feeling seemed to be absorbing his soul,–and it was perhaps this suppressed emotion which gave such a rich vibrating force to his accents when he at last spoke.

“Friends and Brothers!” he said;–“It is difficult for one who has never experienced the three-fold sense of Liberty, Equality and Fraternity until to-night, to express in the right manner the sense of gratitude which I, a complete stranger to you, feel for the readiness and cordiality of the welcome you have extended to me and my companions, accepting us without hesitation, as members of your Committee, and as associates in the work of the Cause you have determined to maintain. It is an Ideal Cause,–I need not tell you that! To rescue and protect the poor from the tyranny of the rich and strong, was the mission of Christ when He visited this earth; and it would perhaps be unwise on my part, and discouraging to yourselves, to remind you that even He has failed! The strong, the selfish, and the cruel, still delight in oppressing their more helpless fellows, despite the theories of Christianity. And it is perfectly natural that it should be so, seeing that the Christian Church itself has become a mere system of money-making and self-advancement.”

A burst of applause interrupted him. Eyes lightened with eager enthusiasm, and every face was turned towards him. He went on:–

“To think of the great Founder of a great Creed, and then to consider what his pretended followers have made of Him and His teaching, is sufficient to fill the soul with the sickness of despair and humiliation! To remember that Christ came to teach all men the Gospel of love,–and to find them after eighteen hundred years still preferring the Gospel of hate,–is enough to make one doubt the truth of religion altogether! The Divine Socialist preached a creed too good and pure for this world; and when we try to follow it, we are beaten back on all sides by the false conventionalities and customs of a sacerdotal system grown old in self-seeking, not in self-sacrifice. Were Christ to come again, the first thing He would probably do would be to destroy all the churches, saying: ‘I never knew you: depart from me ye that work iniquity!’ But till He does come again, it rests with the thinkers of the time to protest against wrongs and abuses, even if they cannot destroy them,–to expose falsehood, even if they cannot utterly undo its vicious work. Seeing, however, that the greater majority of men are banded on the side of wealth and material self- interest, it is unfortunately only a few who remain to work for the cause of the poor, and for such equal rights of justice as you–as we– in our present Association claim to be most worthy of man’s best efforts. It may be asked by those outside such a Fraternity as ours,– ‘What do they want? What would they have that they cannot obtain?’ I would answer that we want to see the end of a political system full of bribery and corruption,–that we desire the disgrace and exposure of such men as those, who, under the pretence of serving the country, merely line their own coffers out of the taxes they inflict upon the people;–and that if we see a king inclined to favour the overbearing dominance of a political party governed by financial considerations alone,–a party which has no consideration for the wider needs of the whole nation, we from our very hearts and souls desire the downfall of that king!”

A low, deep murmur responded to his words,–a sound like the snarl of wolves, deep, fierce, and passionate. A close observer might perhaps have detected a sudden pallor on Leroy’s face as he heard this ominous growl, and an involuntary clenching of the hand on the part of Axel Regor. Max Graub looked up.

“Ah so, my friends! You hate the King?”

No answer was vouchsafed to this query. The interruption was evidently unwelcome, all eyes being still fixed on Leroy. He went on tranquilly:

“I repeat–that wherever and whenever a king–any king–voluntarily and knowingly, supports iniquity and false dealing in his ministers, he lays himself open to suspicion, attack, and dethronement! I speak with particular feeling on this point, because, apart from whatever may be the thoughts and opinions of these who are assembled here to-night, I have a special reason of my own for hating the King! That reason is marked on my countenance! I bear an extraordinary resemblance to him, –so great indeed, that I might be taken for his twin brother if he had one! And I beg of you, my friends, to look at me long and well, that you make no error concerning me, for, being now your comrade, I do not wish to be mistaken for your enemy!”

He drew himself up, lifting his head with an air of indomitable pride and grace which well became him. An exclamation of surprise broke from all present, and Sergius Thord bent forward to examine his features with close attention. Every man at the table did the same, but none regarded him more earnestly or more searchingly than Lotys. Her wonderful eyes seemed to glow and burn with strange interior fires, as she kept them steadily fixed upon his face.

“Yes–you are strangely like the King!” she said–“That is,–so far as I am able to judge by his portraits and coins. I have never seen him.”

“I _have_ seen him,”–said Sergius Thord, “though only at a distance. And I wonder I did not notice the strange resemblance you bear to him before you called my attention to it. Are you in any way related to him?”

“Related to him!” Leroy laughed aloud. “No! If the late King had any bastard sons, I am not one of them! But I pray you again all to carefully note this hateful resemblance,–a resemblance I would fain rid me of–for it makes me seem a living copy of the man I most despise!”

There was a pause,–during which he stood quietly, submitting himself to the fire of a hundred wondering, questioning, and inquisitorial eyes without flinching.

“You are all satisfied?” he then asked; “You, Sergius Thord,–my chief and commander,–you, and all here present are satisfied?”

“Satisfied?–Yes!” replied Thord; “But sorry that your personality resembles that of a fool and a knave!”

A strange grimace distorted the countenance of Max Graub, but he quickly buried his nose and his expression together in a foaming glass of beer.

“You cannot be so sorry for me as I am for myself!” said Leroy, “And now to finish the few words I have been trying to say. I thank you from my heart for your welcome, and for the trust you have reposed in me and my companions. I am proud to be one of you; and I promise that you shall all have reason to be glad that I am associated with your Cause! And to prove my good faith, I undertake to set about working for you without a day’s delay; and towards this object, I give you my word that before our next meeting something shall be done to shake the political stronghold of Carl Pérousse!”

Sergius Thord sprang up excitedly.

“Do that,” he said, “and were you a thousand times more like the King than you are, you shall be the first to command our service and honour!”

Loud acclamation followed his words, and all the men gathered close up about Leroy. He looked round upon them, half-smiling, half-serious.

“But you must tell me what to do!” he said. “You must explain to me why you consider Pérousse a traitor, and how you think it best his treachery should be proved. For, remember, I am a stranger to this part of the country, and my accidental resemblance to the King does not make me his subject!”

“True!” said Paul Zouche,–his eyes were feverishly bright and his cheeks flushed–“To be personally like a liar does not oblige one to tell lies! To call oneself a poet does not enable one to write poetry! And to build a cathedral does not make one a saint! To know all the highways and byways of the Pérousse policy, you must penetrate into the depths and gutter-slushes of the great newspaper which is subsidised by the party to that policy! And this is difficult–exceedingly difficult, let me assure you, my bold Pasquin! And if you can perform such a ‘pasquinade’ as shall take you into these Holy of Holy purlieus of mischief and money-making, you will deserve to be chief of the Committee, instead of Sergius! Sergius talks–he will talk your head off!–but he does nothing!”

“I do what I can,”–said Thord, patiently. “It is true I have no access to the centres of diplomacy or journalism. But I hold the People in the hollow of my hand!”

He spoke with deep and concentrated feeling, and the power of his soul looked out eloquently from the darkening flash of his eyes. Leroy studied his features with undisguised interest.

“If you thus hold the People,” he said,–“Why not bid them rise against the evil and tyranny of which they have cause to complain?”

Thord shook his head.

“To rouse the People,” he replied, “would be worse than to rouse a herd of starving lions from their forest dens, and give them freedom to slay and devour! Nay!–the time is not yet! All gentle means must be tried; and if these fail–why then–!”

He broke off, but his clenched hand and expressive glance said the rest.

“Why do you not use the most powerful of all the weapons ever invented for the destruction of one’s enemies–the Pen?” asked Max Graub. “Start a newspaper, for example, and gibbet your particular favourite Carl Pérousse therein!”

“Bah! He would get up a libel case, and advertise himself a little more by that method!” said Zegota contemptuously; “And besides, a newspaper needs unlimited capital behind it. We have no rich friends.”

“Rich friends!” exclaimed Lotys suddenly; “Who speaks of them–who needs them? Rich friends expect you to toady to them; to lick the ground under their feet; to fawn and flatter and lie, and be anything but honest men! The rich are the vulgar of this world;–no one who has heart, or soul, or sense, would condescend to seek friendships among those whose only claim to precedence is the possession of a little more yellow metal than their neighbours.”

“Nevertheless, they and their yellow metal are the raw material, which Genius may as well use to pave its way through life,” said Zegota. “Lotys, you are too much of an idealist!”

“Idealist! And you call yourself a realist, poor child!” said Lotys with a laugh; “I tell you I would sooner starve than accept favour or assistance from the merely rich!”

“Of course you would!” said Zouche, “And is not that precisely the reason why you are set in dominion over us all? We men are not sure of ourselves–but–Heaven knows why!–we are sure of You! I suppose it is because you are sure of yourself! For example, we men are such wretched creatures that we cannot go long without our food,–but you, woman, can fast all day, and scorn the very idea of hunger. We men cannot bear much pain,–but you,–woman,–can endure suffering of your own without complaint, while attending to our various lesser hurts and scratches. Wherefore, just because we feel you are above us in this and many other things, we have set you amongst us as a warning Figurehead, which cries shame upon us if we falter, and reminds us that you, a woman, can do, and probably will do, what we men cannot. Imagine it! You would bear all things for love’s sake!–and, frankly speaking, we would bear nothing at all, except for our own immediate and particular pleasure. For that, of course, we would endure everything till we got it, and then–pouf!–we would let it go again in sheer weariness and desire for something else! Is it not so, Sergius?”

“I am glad you know yourself so well!” said Thord gloomily. “Personally, I am not prepared to accept your theory.”

“Men are children!” said Lotys, still smiling; “And should be treated as children always, by women! Come, little ones! To bed, all of you! It is growing late, and the rain has ceased.”

She went to the window, and unbarring the shutters, opened it. The streets were wet and glistening below, but the clouds had cleared, and a pale watery moon shone out fitfully from the misty sky.

“Say good-night, and part;” she continued. “It is time! This day month we will meet here again,–and our new comrades will then report what progress they have made in the matter of Carl Pérousse.”

“Tell me,” said Leroy, approaching her, “What would you do, Madame, if you had determined, on proving the corruption and falsehood of this at present highly-honoured servant of the State?”

“I should gain access to his chief tool, David Jost, by means of the Prime Minister’s signet,” said Lotys,–“If I could get the signet!– which I cannot! Nor can you! But if I could, I should persuade Jost to talk freely, and so betray himself. He and Carl Pérousse move the Premier and the King whichever way they please.”

“Is that so–?” began Leroy, when he was answered by a dozen voices at once:–

“The King is a fool!”

“The King is a slave!”

“The King accepts everything that is set before him as being rightly and wisely ordained,–and never enquires into the justice of what is done!”

“The King assumes to be the friend of the People, but if you ask him to do anything for the People, you only get the secretary’s usual answer– ‘His Majesty regrets that it is impossible to take any action in the matter’!”

“Wait!–wait!–” said Leroy, with a gesture which called for a moment’s silence; “The question is,–_Could_ the King do anything if he would?”

“I will answer that!” said Lotys, her eyes flashing, her bosom heaving, and her whole figure instinct with pride and passion; “The King could do everything! The King could be a man if he chose, instead of a dummy! The King could cease to waste his time on fools and light women!–and though he is, and must be a constitutional Monarch, he could so rule all social matters as to make them the better,–not the worse for his influence! There is nothing to prevent the King from doing his most kingly duty!”

Leroy looked at her for a moment in silence.

“Madame, if the King heard your words he might perhaps regret his many follies!” he said courteously;–“But where Society is proved worse, instead of better for a king’s influence, is it not somewhat too late to remedy the evil? What of the Queen?”

“The Queen is queen from necessity, not from choice!” said Lotys;–“She has never loved her husband. If she had loved him, perhaps he might,– through her,–have loved his people more!”

There was a note of pathos in her voice that was singularly tender and touching. Anon, as if impatient with herself, she turned to Sergius Thord.

“We must disperse!” she said abruptly; “Daybreak will be upon us before we know it, and we have done no business at all this evening. To enrol three new associates is a matter of fifteen minutes; the rest of our time has been wasted!”

“Do not say so, Madame!” interposed Max Graub, “You have three new friends–three new ‘sons of your blood,’ as you so poetically call them,–though, truly, I for one am more fit to be your grandfather! And do you consider the time wasted that has been spent in improving and instructing your newly-born children?”

Lotys turned upon him with a look of disdain.

“You are a would-be jester;” she said coldly; “Old men love a jest, I know, but they should take care to make it at the right time, and in the right place. They should not play with edge-tools such as I am, though I suppose, being a German, you think little or nothing of women?”

“Madame!” protested Graub, “I think so much of women that I have never married! Behold me, an unhappy bachelor! I have spared any one of your beautiful sex from the cruel martyrdom of having to endure my life-long company!”

She laughed–a pretty low laugh, and extended her hand with an air of queenly condescension.

“You are amusing!” she said,–“And so I will not quarrel with you! Good-night!”

“Auf wiedersehn!” and Graub kissed the white hand he held. “I shall hope you will command me to be of service to you and yours, ere long!”

“In what way, I wonder,” she asked dubiously; “What can you do best? Write? Speak? Or organize meetings?”

“I think,” said Graub, speaking very deliberately, “that of all my various accomplishments, which are many–as I shall one day prove to you–I can poison best!”

“Poison!”

The exclamation broke simultaneously from all the company. Graub looked about him with a triumphant air.

“Ah so,–I know I shall be useful,” he said; “I can poison so very beautifully and well! One little drop–one, little microbe of mischief–and I can make all your enemies die of cholera, typhoid, bubonic plague, or what you please! I am what is called a Christian scientific poisoner–that is a doctor! You will find me a most invaluable member of this Brotherhood!”

He nodded his head wisely, and smiled. Sergius Thord laid one hand heavily on his shoulder.

“We shall find you useful, no doubt!” he said, “But mark me well, friend! Our mission is not to kill, but to save!–not to poison, but to heal! If we find that by the death of one traitor we can save the lives of thousands, why then that traitor must die. If we know that by killing a king we destroy a country’s abuses, that king is sent to his account. But never without warning!–never without earnest pleading that he whom the laws of Truth condemn, may turn from the error of his ways and repent before it is too late. We are not murderers;–we are merely the servants of justice.”

“Exactly!” put in Paul Zouche; “You understand? We try to be what God is not,–just!”

“Blaspheme not, Zouche!” said Thord; “Justice is the very eye of God!– the very centre and foundation of the universe.”

Zouche laughed discordantly.

“Excellent Sergius! Impulsive Sergius!–with big heart, big head and no logic! Prove to me this eternal justice! Where does it begin? In the creation of worlds without end, all doomed to destruction, and therefore perfectly futile in their existence? In the making of man, who lives his little day with the utmost difficulty, pain and struggle, and is then extinguished, to be heard of no more? The use of it, my Sergius!–point out the use of it! No,–there is no man can answer me that! If I could see the Creator, I would ask Him the question personally–but He hides Himself behind the great big pendulum He has set swinging–tick–tock!–tick–tock! Life–Death!–Life–Death!–and never a reason why the clock is set going! And so we shall never have justice,–simply because there is none! It is not just or reasonable to propound a question to which there is no answer; it is not just or reasonable to endow man with all the thinking powers of brain, and all the imaginative movements of mind, merely to turn him into a pinch of dust afterwards. Every generation, every country strives to get justice done, but cannot,–merely for the fact that God Himself has no idea of it, and therefore it is naturally lacking in His creature, man. Our governing-forces are plainly the elements. No Divine finger stops the earthquake from engulfing a village full of harmless inhabitants, simply because of the injustice of such utter destruction! See now!– look at the eyes of Lotys reproaching me! You would think they were the eyes of an angel, gazing at a devil in the sweet hope of plucking him out of hell!”

“Such a hope would be vain in your case, Zouche,” said Lotys tranquilly; “You make your own hell, and you must live in it! Nevertheless, in some of the wild things you say, there is a grain of truth. If I were God, I should be the most miserable of all beings, to look upon all the misery I had myself created! I should be so sorry for the world, that I should put an end to all hope of immortality by my own death.”

She made this strange remark with a simplicity and wistfulness which were in striking contrast to the awful profundity of the suggestion, and all her auditors, including the half-tipsy Zouche, were silent.

“I should be so sorry!” she repeated; “For even as a mortal woman my pity for the suffering world almost breaks my heart;–but if I were God, I should have all the griefs of all the worlds I had made to answer for,–and such an agony would surely kill me. Oh,–the pain, the tears, the mistakes, the sins, the anguish of humanity! All these are frightful to me! I do not understand why such misery should exist! I think it must be that we have not enough love in the world; if we only loved each other faithfully, God might love us more!”

Her eyes were wet; she caught her breath hard, and smiled a little difficult smile. Something in her soul transfigured her face, and made it for the moment exquisitely lovely, and the men around her gazed at her in evidently reverential silence. Suddenly she stretched out both her hands:

“Good-night, children!”

One by one the would-be-fierce associates of the Revolutionary Committee bent low over those fair hands; and then quietly saluting Sergius Thord, as quietly left the room, like schoolboys retiring from a class where the lessons had been more or less badly done. Paul Zouche was not very steady on his feet, and two of his comrades assisted him to walk as he stumbled off, singing somewhat of a ribald rhyme in _mezza-voce_. Pasquin Leroy and his two friends were the last to go. Lotys looked at them all three meditatively.

“You will be faithful?” she said.

“Unto death!” answered Leroy.

She came close up to him, placing one hand on his arm, and glanced meaningly towards Sergius Thord, who was standing at the threshold watching Zouche stumbling down the dark stairs.

“Sergius is a good man!” she said; “One of the mistaken geniuses of this world,–savage as a lion, yet simple as a child! Whoever, and whatever you are, be true to him!”

“He is dear to you?” said Leroy on a sudden impulse, catching her hand; “He is more to you than most men?”

She snatched away her hand, and her eyes lightened first with wrath, then with laughter.

“Dear to me!” she echoed,–“to Me? No one man on earth is dearer to me than another! All are alike in my estimation,–all the same barbaric, foolish babes and children–all to be loved and pitied alike! But Sergius Thord picked me out of the streets when I was no better than a stray and starving dog,–and like a dog I serve him–faithfully! Now go!”

She stretched out her hand in an attitude of command, and there was nothing for it but to obey. They therefore repeated their farewells, and in their turn, went out, one by one, down the tortuous staircase. Sholto, the hunchback, was below, and he let them out without a word, closing and barring the door carefully behind them. Once in the street and under the misty moonlight, Pasquin Leroy nodded a careless dismissal to his companions.

“You will return alone?” enquired Max Graub.

“Quite alone!” was the reply.

“May I not follow you at a distance?” asked Axel Regor.

Leroy smiled. “You forget! One of the rules we have just sworn to conform to, is–‘No member shall track, follow or enquire into the movements of any other member.’ Go your ways! I will thank you both for your services to-morrow.”

He turned away rapidly and disappeared. His two friends remained gazing somewhat disconsolately after him.

“Shall we go?” at last said Max Graub.

“When you please,” replied Axel Regor irritably,–“The sooner the better for me! Here we are probably watched,–we had best go down to the quay, and from thence—-“

He did not finish his sentence, but Graub evidently understood its conclusion–and they walked quickly away together in quite an opposite direction to that in which Leroy had gone.

Meanwhile, up in the now closed and darkened house they had left behind them, Lotys stood looking at Sergius Thord, who had thrown himself into a chair and sat with his elbows resting on the table, and his head buried in his hands.

“You make no way, poor Sergius!” she said gently. “You work, you write, you speak to the people, but you make no way!”

He looked up fiercely.

“I do make way!” he said; “How can you doubt it? A word from me, and the massed millions would rise as one man!”

“And of what use would that be?” enquired Lotys. “The soldiers would fire on the people, and there would be riot and bloodshed, but no actual redress for wrong. You work vainly, Sergius!”

“If I could but kill the King!” he muttered.

“Another king would succeed him,” she said. “And after all, if you only knew it, the King may be a miserable man enough–far more miserable, perhaps, than any of us imagine ourselves to be. No, Sergius!–I repeat it, you work vainly! You have made me the soul of an Ideal which you will never realise? Tell me, what is it you yourself would have, out of all your work and striving?”

He looked at her with great, earnest, burning eyes.

“Power!” he said. “Power to change the mode of government; power to put down the tyranny of priestcraft–power to relieve the oppressed, and reward the deserving–power to make of you, Lotys, a queen among women!”

She smiled.

“I am a queen among men, Sergius, and that suffices me! How often must I tell you to do nothing for my sake, if it is for my sake only? I am a very simple, plain woman, past my youth, and without beauty–I deserve and demand nothing!”

He raised himself, and stretched out his arms towards her with a gesture of entreaty.

“You deserve all that a man can give you!” he said passionately. “I love you, Lotys! I have always loved you ever since I found you a little forsaken child, shivering and weeping on the cold marble steps of the Temesvar place in Buda. I love you!–you know I have always loved you!–I have told you so a hundred times,–I love you as few men love women!”

She regarded him compassionately, and with a touch of wistful sorrow in her eyes. Her black cloak fell away on either side of her in two shadowy folds, disclosing her white-robed form and full bosom, like a pearl in a dark shell.

“Good-night, Sergius!” she said simply, and turned to go.

He gave an exclamation of anger and pain.

“That is all you say–‘Good-night’!” he muttered. “A man gives you his heart, and you set it aside with a cold word of farewell! And yet–and yet–you hold all my life!”

“I am sorry, Sergius,” she said, in a gentle voice; “very sorry that it is so. You have told me all this before; and I have answered you often, and always in the same way. I have no love to give you, save that which is the result of duty and gratitude. I do not forget!–I know that you rescued me from starvation and death–though sometimes I question whether it would not have been better to have let me die. Life is worth very little at its utmost best; nevertheless, I admit I have had a certain natural joy in living, and for that I have to thank you. I have tried to repay you by my service–“

“Do not speak of that,” he said hurriedly; “I have done nothing! You are a genius in yourself, and would have made your way anywhere,– perhaps better without me.”

She smiled doubtfully.

“I am not sure! The trick of oratory does not carry one very far,–not when one is a woman! Good-night again, Sergius! Try to rest,–you look worn out. And do not think of winning power for my sake; what power I need I will win for myself!”

He made no answer, but watched her with jealous eyes, as she moved towards the door. On the threshold she turned.

“Those three new associates of yours–are they trustworthy, think you?”

He gave a gesture of indifference.

“I do not know! Who is there we can absolutely trust save ourselves? That man, Leroy, is honest,–of that I am confident,–and he has promised to be responsible for his friends.”

“Ah!” She paused a moment, then with another low breathed ‘good-night’ she left the room.

He looked at the door as it closed behind her–at the chair she had left vacant.

“Lotys!” he whispered.

His whisper came hissing softly back to him in a fine echo on the empty space, and with a great sigh he rose, and began to turn out the flaring lamps above his head.

“Power!–Power!” he muttered–“She could not resist it! She would never be swayed by gold,–but power! Her genius would rise to it–her beauty would grow to it like a rose unfolding in the sun! ‘Past youth, and without beauty’ as she says of herself! My God! Compare the tame pink- and-white prettiness of youth with the face of Lotys,–and that prettiness becomes like a cheap advertisement on a hoarding or a match- box! Contrast the perfect features, eyes and hair of the newest social ‘beauty,’–with the magical expression, the glamour in the eyes of Lotys,–and perfection of feature becomes the rankest ugliness! Once in a hundred centuries a woman is born like Lotys, to drive men mad with desire for the unattainable–to fire them with such ambition as should make them emperors of the world, if they had but sufficient courage to snatch their thrones–and yet,–to fill them with such sick despair at their own incompetency and failure, as to turn them into mere children crying for love–for love!–only love! No matter whether worlds are lost, kings killed, and dynasties concluded, love!–only love!–and then death!–as all sufficient for the life of a man! And only just so long as love is denied–just so long we can go on climbing towards the unreachable height of greatness,–then–once we touch love, down we fall, broken-hearted; but–we have had our day!”

The room was now in darkness, save for the glimmer of the pale moon through the window panes, and he opened the casement and looked out. There was a faint scent of the sea on the air, and he inhaled its salty odour with a sense of refreshment.

“All for Lotys!” he murmured. “Working for Lotys, plotting, planning, scheming for Lotys! The government intimidated,–the ministry cast out,–the throne in peril,–the people in arms,–the city in a blaze,– Revolution and Anarchy doing their wild work broad-cast together,– all for Lotys! Always a woman in it! Search to the very depth of every political imbroglio,–dig out the secret reason of every war that ever was begun or ended in the world,–and there we shall find the love or the hate of a woman at the very core of the business! Some such secrets history knows, and has chronicled,–and some will never be known,–but up to the present there is not even a religion in the world where a Woman is not made the beginning of a God!”

He smiled somewhat grimly at his own fanciful musings, and then, shutting the window, retired. The house was soon buried in profound silence and darkness, and over the city tuneful bells rang the half- hour after midnight. Four miles distant from the ‘quarter of the poor,’ and high above the clustering houses of the whole magnificent metropolis, the Royal palace towered whitely on its proud eminence in the glimmer of the moon, a stately pile of turrets and pinnacles; and on the battlements the sentries walked, pacing to and fro in regular march, with regular changes, all through the night hours. Half after midnight! ‘All’s well!’ Three-quarters, and still ‘All’s well’ sounded with the clash of steel and a tinkle of silvery chimes. One o’clock struck,–and the drifting clouds in heaven cleared fully, showing many brilliant stars in the western horizon,–and a sentry passing, as noiselessly as his armour and accoutrements would permit, along the walled battlement which protected and overshadowed the windows of the Queen’s apartments, paused in his walk to look with an approving eye at the clearing promise of the weather. As he did so, a tall figure, wrapped in a thick rain-cloak, suddenly made its unexpected appearance through a side door in the wall, and moved rapidly towards a turret which contained a secret passage leading to the Queen’s boudoir,–a private stairway which was never used save by the Royal family. The sentry gave a sharp warning cry.

“Halt! Who goes there?”

The figure paused and turned, dropping its cloak. The pale moonlight fell slantwise on the features, disclosing them fully.

“T is I! The King!”

The soldier recoiled amazed,–and quickly saluted. Before he could recover from his astonishment he was alone again. The battlement was empty, and the door to the turret-stairs,–of which only the King possessed the key,–was fast locked; and for the next hour or more the startled sentry remained staring at the skies in a sort of meditative stupefaction, with the words still ringing like the shock of an alarm- bell in his ears:

“‘T is I! The King!”

CHAPTER IX

THE PREMIER’S SIGNET

The next day the sun rose with joyous brightness in a sky clear as crystal. Storm, wind, and rain had vanished like the flying phantoms of an evil dream, and all the beautiful land sparkled with light and life in its enlacing girdle of turquoise blue sea. The gardens of the Royal palace, freshened by the downpour of the past night, wore their most enchanting aspect,–roses, with leaves still wet, dropped their scented petals on the grass,–great lilies, with their snowy cups brimming with rain, hung heavily on their slim green stalks, and the air was full of the deliciously penetrating odour of the mimosa and sweetbriar. Down one special alley, where the white philadelphus, or ‘mock orange’ grew in thick bushes on either side, intermingled with ferns and spruce firs, whose young green tips exhaled a pungent, healthy scent that entered into the blood like wine and invigorated it, Sir Roger de Launay was pacing to and fro with a swinging step which, notwithstanding its ease and soldierly regularity, suggested something of impatience, and on a rustic seat, above which great clusters of the philadelphus-flowers hung like a canopy, sat Professor von Glauben, spectacles on nose, sorting a few letters which he had just taken from his pocket for the purpose of reading them over again carefully one by one. He was a very particular man as regarded his correspondence. All letters that required answering he answered at once,–the others, as he himself declared, ‘answered themselves’ in silence.

“There is no end to the crop of fools in this world,” he was fond of saying;–“Glorious, precious fools! I love them all! They make life worth living–but sometimes I am disposed to draw the line at letter- writing fools. These persons chance to read a book–my book for example,–that particularly clever one I wrote on the possibilities of eternal life in this world. They at once snatch their pens and write to say that they are specially deserving of this boon, and wish to live for ever–will I tell them how? And these are the very creatures I will not tell how–because their perpetual existence would be a mistake and a nuisance! The individuals whose lives are really valuable never ask anyone how to make them so.”

He looked over his letters now with a leisurely indifference. The morning’s post had brought him nothing of special importance. He glanced from his reading now and again at De Launay marching up and down, but said nothing till he had quite finished with his own immediate concerns. Then he removed his spectacles from his nose and put them by.

“Left–Right–Left–Right–Left–Right! Roger, you remind me of my drilling days on a certain flat and dusty ground at Coblentz! The Rhine!–the Rhine! Ah, the beautiful Rhine! So dirty–so dull–with its toy castles, and its big, ugly factory chimneys, and its atrociously bad wine! Roger, I beseech you to have mercy upon me, and leave off that marching up and down,–it gets on my nerves!”

“I thought nothing ever got on your nerves,” answered Sir Roger, stopping abruptly–“You seem to take serious matters coolly enough!”

“Serious matters demand coolness,” replied Von Glauben. “We should only let steam out over trifles. Have you seen his Majesty this morning?”

“Yes. I am to see him again at noon.”

“When do you go off duty?”

“Not for a month, at least.”

“Much may happen in that month,” said the Professor sententiously; “_Your_ hair may grow white with the strangeness of your experiences!”

Sir Roger met his eyes, and they both laughed.

“Though it is no laughing matter,” resumed Von Glauben. “Upon my soul as a German,–if I have any soul of that nationality,–I think it may be a serious business!”

“You have come round to my opinion then,” said De Launay. “I told you from the first that it was serious!”

“The King does not think it so,” rejoined Von Glauben. “I was summoned to his presence early this morning, and found him in the fullest health and highest spirits.”

“Why did he send for you then?” enquired De Launay.

“To feel his pulse and look at his tongue! To make a little game of me before he stepped out of his dressing-gown! And I enjoyed it, of course,–one must always enjoy Royal pleasantries! I think, Roger, his Majesty wishes this entire affair treated as a pleasantry,–by us at any rate, however seriously he may regard it himself.”

De Launay was silent for a minute or two, then he said abruptly:

“The Premier is summoned to a private audience of the King at noon.”

“Ah!” And Von Glauben drew a cluster of the overhanging philadelphus flowers down to his nose and smelt them approvingly.

“And”–went on De Launay, speaking more deliberately, “this afternoon their Majesties sail to The Islands—-“

Von Glauben jumped excitedly to his feet.

“Not possible!”

Sir Roger looked at him with a dawning amusement beginning to twinkle in his clear blue eyes.

“Quite possible! So possible, that the Royal yacht is ordered to be in readiness at three o’clock. Their Majesties and suite will dine on board, in order to enjoy the return sail by moonlight.”

The Professor’s countenance was a study. Anxiety and vexation struggled with the shrewd kindness and humour of his natural expression, and his suppressed feelings found vent in a smothered exclamation, which sounded very much like the worst of blasphemous oaths used in dire extremity by the soldiers of the Fatherland.

“What ails you?” demanded De Launay; “You seem strangely upset for a man of cool nerve!”

“Upset? Who–what can upset me? Nothing! Roger, if I did not respect you so much, I should call you an ass!”

Sir Roger laughed.

“Call me an ass, by all means,” he said, “if it will relieve your feelings;–but in justice to me, let me know why you do so! What is my offence? I give you a piece of commonplace information concerning the movements of the Court this afternoon, and you jump off your seat as if an adder had bitten you. Why?”

“I have the gout,” said Von Glauben curtly.

“Oh!” And again Sir Roger laughed. “That last must have been a sharp twinge!”

“It was–it was! Believe me, my excellent Roger, it was exceedingly severe!” His brow smoothed, and he smiled. “See here, my dear friend!– you know, do you not, that boys will be boys, and men will be men?”

“Both are recognised platitudes,” replied Sir Roger, his eyes still twinkling merrily; “And both are frequently quoted to cover our various follies!”

“True, true! But I wish to weigh more particularly on the fact that men will be men! I am a man, Roger,–not a boy!”

“Really! Well, upon my word, I should at this moment take you for a raw lad of about eighteen,–for you are blushing, Von Glauben!–actually blushing!”

The Professor drew out a handkerchief, and wiped his brow.

“It is a warm morning, Roger,” he said, with a mildly reproachful air; “I suppose I am permitted to feel the heat?” He paused–then with a sudden burst of impatience he exclaimed: “By the Emperor’s head! It is of no use denying it–I am very much put out, Roger! I must get a boat, and slip off to The Islands at once!”

Sir Roger stared at him in complete amazement.

“You? You want to slip off to The Islands? Why, Von Glauben—-!”

“Yes–yes,–I know! You cannot possibly imagine what I want to go there for! You wouldn’t suppose, would you, that I had any special secrets– an old man like me;–for instance, you would not suspect me of any love secrets, eh?” And he made a ludicrous attempt to appear sentimental. “The fact is, Roger,–I have got into a little scrape over at The Islands–” here he looked warmer and redder than ever;–“and I want to take precautions! You understand–I want to take care that the King does not hear of it–Gott in Himmel! What a block of a man you are to stand there staring open-mouthed at me! Were you never in love yourself?

“In love? In love!–you,–Professor? Pray pardon me–but–in love? Am I to understand that there is a lady in your case?”

“Yes!–that is it,” said Von Glauben, with an air of profound relief; “There is a lady in my case;–or my case, speaking professionally, is that of a lady. And I shall get any sort of a sea-tub that is available, and go over to those accursed Islands without any delay!”

“If the King should send for you while you are absent–” began De Launay doubtfully.

“He will not send. But if he should, what of it? I am known to be somewhat eccentric–particularly so in my love of hard work, fresh air and exercise–besides, he has not commanded my attendance. He will not, therefore, be surprised at my absence. I tell you, Roger,–I _must_ go! Who would have expected the King to take it into his head to visit The Islands without a moment’s warning! What a freak!”

“And here comes the reason of the freak, if I am not very much mistaken,” said De Launay, lowering his voice as an approaching figure flung its lengthy shadow on the path,–“Prince Humphry!”

Von Glauben hastily drew back, De Launay also, to allow the Prince to pass. He was walking slowly, and reading as he came. Looking up from his book he saw, them, and as they saluted him profoundly, bade them good-day.

“You are up betimes, Professor,” he said lightly; “I suppose your scientific wisdom teaches you the advantage of the morning air.”

“Truly, Sir, it is more healthful than that of the evening,” answered Von Glauben in somewhat doleful accents.–“For example, a sail across the sea with the morning breeze, is better than the same sort of excursion in the glamour of the moon!”

Prince Humphry looked steadfastly at him, and evidently read something of a warning, or a suggestion, in his face, for he coloured slightly and bit his lip.

“Do you agree with that theory, Sir Roger,” he said, turning to De Launay.

“I have not tested it, Sir,” replied the equerry, “But I imagine that whatever Professor von Glauben asserts must be true!”

The young man glanced quickly from one to the other, and then with a careless air turned over the pages of the book he held.

“In the earlier ages of the world,” he said,–“men and women, I think, must have been happier than they are now, if this book may be believed. I find here written down–What is it, Professor? You have something to say?”

“Pardon me, Sir,” said Von Glauben,–“But you said–‘If this book may be believed.’ I humbly venture to declare that no book may be believed!”

“Not even your own, when it is written?” queried the Prince with a smile; “You would not like the world to say so! Nay, but listen, Professor,–here is a thought very beautifully expressed–and it was written in an ancient language of the East, thousands of years before we, in our quarter of the world, ever dreamt of civilization.–‘Of all the sentiments, passions or virtues which in their divers turns affect the life of a man, the influence and emotion of Love is surely the greatest and highest. We do not here speak of the base and villainous craving of bodily appetite; but of that pure desire of the unfettered soul which beholding perfection, straightway and naturally flies to the same. This love doth so elevate and instruct a man, that he seeketh nothing better than to be worthy of it, to attempt great deeds and valiantly perform them, to confront foul abuses, and most potently destroy them,–and to esteem the powers and riches of this world as dross, weighed against this rare and fiery talisman. For it is a jewel which doth light up the heart, and make it strong to support all sorrow and ill fortune with cheerfulness, knowing that it is in itself of so lasting a quality as to subjugate all things and events unto its compelling sway.’ What think you of this? Sir Roger, there is a whole volume of comprehension in your face! Give some word of it utterance!”

Sir Roger looked up.

“There is nothing to say, Sir,” he replied; “Your ancient writer merely expresses a truth we are all conscious of. All poets, worthy the name, and all authors, save and except the coldest logicians, deem the world well lost for love.”

“More fools they!” said Von Glauben gruffly; “Love is a mere illusion, which is generally destroyed by one simple ceremony–Marriage!”

Prince Humphry smiled.

“You have never tried the cure, Professor,” he said, “But I daresay you have suffered from the disease! Will you walk with me?”

Von Glauben bowed a respectful assent; and the Prince, with a kindly nod of dismissal to De Launay, went on his way, the Professor by his side. Sir Roger watched them as they disappeared, and saw, that at the furthest end of the alley, when they were well out of ear-shot, they appeared to engage in very close and confidential conversation.

“I wonder,” he mused, “I wonder what it all means? Von Glauben is evidently mixed up in some affair that he wishes to keep secret from the King. Can it concern Prince Humphry? And The Islands! What can Von Glauben want over there?”

His brief meditation was interrupted by a soft voice calling.

“Roger!”

He started, and at once advanced to meet the approaching intruder, his sister, Teresa de Launay, a pretty brunette, with dark sparkling eyes, one of the favourite ladies of honour in attendance on the Queen.

“What were you dreaming about?” she asked, as he came near, “And what is the Prince doing with old Von Glauben?”

“Two questions at once, Teresa!” he said, stooping his tall head to kiss her; “I cannot possibly answer both in a breath! But answer me just one–What are you here for?”

“To summon _you_!” she answered. “The Queen desires you to wait upon her immediately.”

She fixed her bright eyes upon him as she spoke, and an involuntary sigh escaped her, as she noted the touch of pallor that came on his face at her words.

“Where is her Majesty?” he asked.

“Here–close at hand–in the arbour. She spied you at a distance through the trees, and sent me to fetch you.”

“You had best return to her at once, and say that I am coming.”

His sister looked at him again, and hesitated–he gave a slight, vexed gesture of impatience, whereupon she hurried away, with flying footsteps as light as those of a fabled sylph of the woodlands. He watched her go, and for a moment an expression came into his eyes of intense suffering–the look of a noble dog who is suddenly struck undeservedly by an unkind master.

“She sends for me!” he muttered; “What for? To amuse herself by reading every thought of my life with her cold eyes? Why can she not leave me alone?”

He walked on then, with a quiet, even pace, and presently reaching the end of the alley, came out on a soft stretch of greensward facing a small ornamental lake and fountain. Here grew tall rushes, bamboos and flag-flowers–here, too, on the quiet lake floated water-lilies, white and pink, opening their starry hearts to the glory of the morning sun. A quaintly shaped, rustic arbour covered with jasmine, faced the pool, and here sat the Queen alone and unattended, save by Teresa de Launay, who drew a little apart as her brother, Sir Roger, approached, and respectfully bent his head in the Royal presence. For quite a minute he stood thus in dumb attention, his eyes lowered, while the Queen glanced at him with a curious expression, half of doubt, half of commiseration. Suddenly, as if moved by a quick impulse, she rose–a stately, exquisite figure, looking even more beautiful in her simple morning robe of white cashmere and lace, than in all the glory of her Court attire,–and extended her hand. Humbly and reverentially he bent over it, and kissed the great jewel sparkling like a star on the central finger. As he then raised his eyes to her face she smiled;–that smile of hers, so dazzling, so sweet, and yet so cold, had sent many men to their deaths, though she knew it not.

“I see very little of you, Sir Roger,” she said slowly, “notwithstanding your close attendance on my lord the King. Yet I know I can command your service!”

“Madam,” murmured De Launay, “my life—-“

“Oh, no,” she rejoined quickly, “not your life! Your life, like mine, belongs to the King and the country. You must give all, or not at all!”

“Madam, I do give all!” he answered, with a look in his eyes of mingled pain and passion; “No man can give more!”

She surveyed him with a little meditative, almost amused air.

“You have strong feelings, Sir Roger,” she said; “I wonder what it is like–to _feel_?”

“If I may dare to say so, Madam, I should wish you to experience the sensation,” he returned somewhat bitterly; “Sometimes we awaken to emotions too late–sometimes we never awaken. But I think it is wisest to experience the nature of a storm, in order to appreciate the value of a calm!”

“You think so?” She smiled indulgently. “Storm and calm are to me alike! I am affected by neither. Life is so exceedingly trivial an affair, and is so soon over, that I have never been able to understand why people should ever trouble themselves about anything in it.”

“You may not always be lacking in this comprehension, Madam,” said Sir Roger, with a certain harshness in his tone, yet with the deepest respect in his manner; “I take it that life and the world are but a preparation for something greater, and that we shall be forced to learn our lessons in this preparatory school before we leave it, whether we like it or no!”

The slight smile still lingered on her beautiful mouth,–she pulled a spray of jasmine down from the trailing clusters around her, and set it carelessly among the folds of her lace. Sir Roger watched her with moody eyes. Could he have followed his own inclination, he would have snatched the flower from her dress and kissed it, in a kind of fierce defiance before her very eyes. But what would be the result of such an act? Merely a little contemptuous lifting of the delicate brows–a slight frown on the fair forehead, and a calm gesture of dismissal. No more–no more than this; for just as she could not be moved to love, neither could she be moved to anger. The words of an old song rang in his ears:–

She laughs at the thought of love– Pain she scorns, and sorrow she sets aside– My heart she values less than her broidered glove, She would smile if I died!

“You are a man, Sir Roger de Launay,” she said after a pause, “And man- like, you propound any theory which at the moment happens to fit your own particular humour. I am, however, entirely of your opinion that this life is only a term of preparation, and with this conviction I desire to have as little to do with its vile and ugly side as I can. It is possible to accept with gratitude the beautiful things of Nature, and reject the rest, is it not?”

“As you ask me the question point-blank, Madam, I say it is possible,– it can be done,–and you do it. But it is wrong!”

She raised her languid eyelids, showing no offence.

“Wrong?”

“Wrong, Madam!” repeated Sir Roger bluntly; “It is wrong to shut from your sight, from your heart, from your soul the ugly side of Nature;– to shut your ears to the wants–the pains–the tortures–the screams– the tears, and groans of humanity! Oh, Madam, the ugly side has a strange beauty of its own that you dream not of! God makes ugliness as he makes beauty; God created the volcano belching forth fire and molten lava, as He created the simple stream bordered with meadow flowers! Why should you reject the ugly, the fierce, the rebellious side of things? Rather take it into your gracious thoughts and prayers, Madam, and help to make it beautiful!”

He spoke with a force which surprised himself–he was carried away by a passion that seemed almost outside his own identity. She looked at him curiously.

“Does the King teach you to speak thus to me?” she asked.

De Launay started,–the hot colour mounting to his cheeks and brow.

“Madam!”

“Nay, no excuse! I understand! It is your own thought; but a thought which is no doubt suddenly inspired by the King’s actions,” she went on tranquilly; “You are in his confidence. He is adopting new measures of domestic policy, in which, perchance, I may or may not be included–as it suits my pleasure! Who knows!” Again the little musing smile crossed her countenance. “It is of the King I wish to speak to you.”

She glanced around her, and saw that her lady-in-waiting, Teresa de Launay, had discreetly wandered by herself to the edge of the water- lily pool, and was bending over it, a graceful, pensive figure in the near distance, within call, but certainly not within hearing.

“You are in his confidence,” she repeated, drawing a step nearer to him, “and–so am I! You will not disclose his movements–nor shall I! But you are his close attendant and friend,–I am merely–his wife! I make you responsible for his safety!”

“Madam, I pray you pardon me!” exclaimed De Launay; “His Majesty has a will of his own,–and his sacred life is not in my hands. I will defend him to the utmost limit of human possibility,–but if he voluntarily runs into danger, and disregards all warning, I, as his poor servant, am not to blame!”

Her eyes, brilliant and full of a compelling magnetism, dwelt upon him steadfastly.

“I repeat my command,” she said deliberately, “I make you responsible! You are a strong man and a brave one. If the King is rash, it is the duty of his servants to defend him from the consequences of his rashness; particularly if that rashness leads him into danger for a noble purpose. Should any mischance befall him, let me never see your face again! Die yourself, rather than let your King die!”

As she spoke these words she motioned him away with a grand gesture of dismissal, and he retired back from her presence in a kind of stunned amazement. Never before in all the days of her social sway as Crown- Princess, had she ever condescended to speak to him on any matter of confidence,–never during her three years of sovereignty as Queen- Consort had she apparently taken note, or cared to know any of the affairs connected with the King, her husband. The mere fact that now her interest was roused, moved De Launay to speechless wonderment. He hardly dared raise his eyes to look at her, as she turned from him and went slowly, with her usual noiseless, floating grace of movement, towards the water-lily pool, there to rejoin her attendant, Teresa de Launay, who at the same time advanced to meet her Royal mistress. A moment more, and Queen and lady of honour had disappeared together, and De Launay was left alone. A little bird, swinging on a branch above his head, piped a few tender notes to the green leaves and the sunlit sky, but beyond this, and the measured plash of the fountain, no sound disturbed the stillness of the garden.

“Upon my word, Roger de Launay,” he said bitterly to himself, “you are an ass sufficiently weighted with burdens! The love of a Queen, and the life of a King are enough for one man’s mind to carry with any degree of safety! If it were not for the King, I think I should leave this country and seek some other service–but I owe him much,–if only by reason of my own heart’s folly!”

Impatient with himself, he strode away, straight across the lawn and back to the palace. Here he noticed just the slightest atmosphere of uneasiness among some of the retainers of the Royal household,–a vague impression of flurry and confusion. Through various passages and corridors, attendants and pages were either running about with extra haste, or else strolling to and fro with extra slowness. As he turned into one of the ante-chambers, he suddenly confronted a tall, military- looking personage in plain civilian attire, whom he at once recognized as the Chief of the Police.

“Ah, Bernhoff!” he said lightly, “any storms brewing?”

“None that call for particular attention, Sir Roger,” replied the individual addressed; “But I have been sent for by the King, and am here awaiting his pleasure.”

Sir Roger showed no sign of surprise, and with a friendly nod passed on. He began to find the situation rather interesting.

“After all,” he argued inwardly, “there is nothing to hinder the King from being a social autocrat, even if he cannot by the rules of the Constitution be a political one. And we should do well to remember that politics are governed entirely by social influence. It is the same thing all over the world–a deluded populace–a social movement which elects a parliament and ministry–and then the result,–which is, that this or that party hold the reins of government, on whichever side happens to be most advantageous to the immediate social and financial whim. The people are the grapes crushed into wine for their rulers’ drinking; and the King is merely the wine-cup on the festal board. If he once begins to be something more than that cup, there will be an end of revelry!”

His ideas were not without good foundation in fact. Throughout all history, where a strong man has ruled a nation, whether for good or ill, he has left his mark; and where there has been no strong man, the annals of the time are vapid and uninteresting. Governments emanate from social influences. The social rule of the Roman Emperors bred athletes, heroes, and poets, merely because physical strength and courage, combined with heroism and poetic perception were encouraged by Roman society. The social rule of England’s Elizabeth had its result in the brilliant attainments of the many great men who crowded her Court– the social rule of Victoria, until the death of the Prince Consort, bred gentle women and chivalrous men. In all these cases, the reigning monarchs governed society, and society governed politics. Politics, indeed, can scarcely be considered apart from society, because on the nature and character of society depend the nature and character of politics. If society is made up of corrupt women and unprincipled men, the spirit of political government will be as corrupt and unprincipled as they. If any King, beholding such a state of things, were to suddenly cut himself clear of the corruption, and to make a straight road for his own progress–clean and open–and elect to walk in it, society would follow his lead, and as a logical consequence politics would become honourable. But no monarchs have the courage of their opinions nowadays,–if only one sovereign of them all possessed such courage, he could move the world!

The long bright day unwound its sunny hours, crowned with blue skies and fragrant winds, and the life and movement of the fair city by the sea was gay, incessant and ever-changing. There was some popular interest and excitement going on down at the quay, for the usual idle crowd had collected to see the Royal yacht being prepared for her afternoon’s cruise. Though she was always kept ready for sailing, the King’s orders this time had been sudden and peremptory, and, consequently, all the men on board were exceptionally hard at work getting things in immediate readiness. The fact that the Queen was to accompany the King in the afternoon’s trip to The Islands, where up to the present she had never been, was a matter of lively comment,–her extraordinary beauty never failing to attract a large number of sight- seers.

In the general excitement, no one saw Professor von Glauben quietly enter a small and common sailing skiff, manned by two ordinary fishermen of the shore, and scud away with the wind over the sea towards the west, where, in the distance on this clear day, a gleaming line of light showed where The Islands lay, glistening like emerald and pearl in the midst of the dark blue waste of water. His departure was unnoticed, though as a rule the King’s private physician commanded some attention, not only by reason of his confidential post in the Royal household, but also on account of certain rumours which were circulated through the country concerning his wonderful skill in effecting complete cures where all hope of recovery had been abandoned. It was whispered, indeed, that he had discovered the ‘Elixir of Life,’ but that he would not allow its properties to be made known, lest as the Scripture saith, man should ‘take and eat and live for ever.’ It was not advisable–so the Professor was reported to have said–that all men should live for ever,–but only a chosen few; and he, at present, was apparently the privileged person who alone was fitted to make the selection of those few. For this and various other reasons, he was generally looked at with considerable interest, but this morning, owing to the hurried preparations for the embarking of their Majesties on board the Royal yacht, he managed to escape from even chance recognition,–and he was well over the sea, and more than half-way to his destination before the bells of the city struck noon.

Punctual to that hour, a close carriage drove up to the palace. It contained no less a personage than the Prime Minister, the Marquis de Lutera,–a dark, heavy man, with small furtive eyes, a ponderous jaw, and a curious air of seeming for ever on an irritable watch for offences. His aspect was intellectual, yet always threatening; and his frigid manner was profoundly discouraging to all who sought to win his attention or sympathy. He entered the palace now with an easy, not to say assertive deportment, and as he ascended the broad staircase which led to the King’s private apartments, he met the Chief of the Police coming down. This latter saluted him, but he barely acknowledged the courtesy, so taken by surprise was he at the sight of this administrative functionary in the palace at so early an hour. However, it was impossible to ask any questions of him on the grand staircase, within hearing of the Royal lackeys; so he continued on his way upstairs, with as much dignity as his heavily-moulded figure would permit him to display, till he reached the upper landing known as the ‘King’s Corridor,’ where Sir Roger de Launay was in waiting to conduct him to his sovereign’s presence. To him the Marquis addressed the question:

“Bernhoff has been with the King?”

“Yes. For more than an hour.”

“Any robbery in the palace?”

De Launay smiled.

“I think not! So far as I am permitted to be cognisant of events, there is nothing wrong!”

The Marquis looked slightly perplexed.

“The King is well?”

“Remarkably well–and in excellent humour! He is awaiting you, Marquis,–permit me to escort you to him!”

The carved and gilded doors of the Royal audience-chamber were thereupon flung back, and the Marquis entered, ushered in by De Launay. The doors closed again upon them both; and for some time there was profound silence in the King’s corridor, no intruder venturing to approach save two gentlemen-at-arms, who paced slowly up and down at either end on guard. At the expiration of about an hour, Sir Roger came out alone, and, glancing carelessly around him, strolled to the head of the grand staircase, and waited patiently there for quite another thirty minutes. At last the doors were flung open widely again, and the King himself appeared, clad in easy yachting attire, and walking with one hand resting on the arm of the Marquis de Lutera, who, from his expression, seemed curiously perturbed.

“Then you will not come with us, Marquis?” said the King, with an air of gaiety; “You are too much engrossed in the affairs of Government to break loose for an afternoon from politics for the sake of pleasure? Ah, well! You are a matchless worker! Renowned as you are for your studious observation of all that may tend to the advancement of the nation’s interests–admired as you are for the complete sacrifice of all your own advantages to the better welfare of the country, I will not (though I might as your sovereign), command your attendance on this occasion! I know the affairs you have in hand are pressing and serious!”

“They will be more than usually so, Sir,” said the Marquis in a low voice; “for if you persist in maintaining your present attitude, the foreign controversy in which we are engaged can scarcely go on. But your action will be questioned by the Government!”

The King laughed.

“Good! By all means question it, my dear Marquis! Prove me an unconstitutional monarch, if you like, and put Humphry on the throne in my place,–but ask the People first! If they condemn me, I am satisfied to be condemned! But the present political difference between ourselves and a friendly nation must be arranged without offence. There does not exist at the moment any reasonable cause for fanning the dispute into a flame of war.”–He paused, then resumed–“You will not come with us?”

“Sir, if you will permit me to refuse the honour on this occasion—-“

“The permission is granted!” replied the King, still smiling; “Farewell, Marquis! We are not in the habit of absenting ourselves from our own country, after the fashion of certain of our Royal neighbours, who shall be nameless; and we conceive it our duty to make ourselves acquainted with the habits and customs of all our subjects in all quarters of our realm. Hence our resolve to visit The Islands, which, to our shame be it said, we have neglected until now. We expect to derive both pleasure and instruction from the brief voyage!”

“Are the islanders aware of your intention, Sir?” enquired the Marquis.

“Nay–to prepare them would have spoilt our pleasure!” replied the King. “We will take them by surprise! We have heard of certain countries, whose villages and towns have never seen the reigning sovereign,–and though we have been but three years on the throne, we have resolved that no corner of our kingdom shall lack the sunlight of our presence!” He gave a mirthful side-glance at De Launay. Then, extending his hand cordially, he added: “May all success attend your efforts, Marquis, to smooth over this looming quarrel between ourselves and our friendly trade-rivals! I, for one, would not have it go further. I shall see you again at the Council during the week.”

As the premier’s hand met that of his Sovereign, the latter exclaimed suddenly:

“Ah!–I thought I missed a customary friend from my finger; I have forgotten my signet-ring! Will you lend me yours for to-day, Marquis?”

“Sir, if you will deign to wear it!” replied the Marquis readily, and at once slipping off the ring in question, he handed it to the King, who smilingly accepted it and put it on.

“A fine sapphire!” he said approvingly; “Better, I think, than my ruby!”

“Sir, your praise enhances its value,” said De Lutera bowing profoundly; “I shall from henceforth esteem it priceless!”

“Well said!” returned the King, “And rightly too!–for diplomacy is wise in flattering a king to the last, even while meditating on his possible downfall! Adieu, Marquis! When we next meet, I shall expect good news!”

He descended the staircase, closely attended by De Launay, and passed at once into a larger room of audience, where some notable persons of foreign distinction were waiting to be received. On the way thither, however, he turned to Sir Roger for a moment, and held up the hand on which the Marquis de Lutera’s signet flashed like a blue point of flame.

“Behold the Premier’s signet!” he said with a smile; “Methinks, for once, it suits the King!”

CHAPTER X

THE ISLANDS

Surrounded by a boundless width of dark blue sea at all visible points of view, The Islands, lovely tufts of wooded rock, trees, and full- flowering meadowlands, were situated in such a happy position as to be well out of all possibility of modern innovation or improvement. They were too small to contain much attraction for the curious tourist; and though they were only a two-hours’ sail from the mainland, the distance was just sufficiently inconvenient to keep mere sight-seers away. For more than a hundred years they had been almost exclusively left to the coral-fishers, who had made their habitation there; and the quaint, small houses, and flowering vineyards and gardens, dotted about in the more fertile portions of the soil, had all been built and planned by a former race of these hardy folk, who had handed their properties down from father to son. They were on the whole, a peaceable community. Coral-fishing was one of the chief industries of the country, and the islanders passed all their days in obtaining the precious product, cleansing, and preparing it for the market. They were understood to be extremely jealous of strangers and intruders, and to hold certain social traditions which had never been questioned or interfered with by any form of existing government, because in themselves they gave no cause for interference, being counted among the most orderly and law- abiding subjects of the realm. Very little interest was taken in their doings by the people of the mainland,–scarcely as much interest, perhaps, as is taken by Londoners in the inhabitants of Orkney or Shetland. One or two scholars, a stray botanist here and there, or a few students fond of adventure, had visited the place now and again, and some of these had brought back enthusiastic accounts of the loveliness of the natural scenery, but where a whole country is beautiful, little heed is given to one small corner of it, particularly if that corner is difficult of access, necessitating a two hours’ sail across a not always calm sea. Vague reports were current that there was a strange house on The Islands, built very curiously out of the timbers and spars of wrecked vessels. The owner of this abode was said to be a man of advanced age, whose history was unknown, but who many years ago had been cast ashore from a great shipwreck, and had been rescued and revived by the coral-fishers, since when, he had lived among them, and worked with them. No one knew anything about him beyond that since his advent The Islands had been more cultivated, and their inhabitants more prosperous; and that he was understood to be, in the language or dialect of the country, a ‘life-philosopher.’ Whereat, hearing these things by chance now and then, or seeing a scrappy line or two in the daily press when active reporters had no murders or suicides to enlarge upon, and wanted to ‘fill up space,’ the gay aristocrats or ‘smart set’ of the metropolis laughed at their dinner-parties and balls, and asked one another inanely, “What is a ‘life-philosopher’?”

In the same way, when a small volume of poetry, burning as lava, wild as a storm-wind, came floating out on the top of the seething soup of current literature, bearing the name of Paul Zouche, and it was said that this person was a poet, they questioned smilingly, “Is he dead?” for, naturally, they could not imagine these modern days were capable of giving birth to a living specimen of the _genus_ bard. For they, too, had their motor-cars from France and England;–they, too, had their gambling-dens secreted in private houses of high repute,– they, too, had their country-seats specially indicated as free to such house-parties as wished to indulge in low intrigue and unbridled licentiousness; they, too, weary of simple Christianity, had their own special ‘religions’ of palmistry, crystal-gazing, fortune-telling by cards, and Esoteric ‘faith-healing.’ The days were passing with them– as it passes with many of their ‘set’ in other countries,–in complete forgetfulness of all the nobler ambitions and emotions which lift Man above the level of his companion Beast. For the time is now upon us when what has formerly been known as ‘high’ is of its own accord sinking to the low, and what has been called the ‘low’ is rising to the high. Strange times!–strange days!–when the tradesman can scorn the duchess on account of her ‘dirty mind’–when a certain nobleman can get no honest labourers to work on his estate, because they suspect him of ‘rooking’ young college lads;–and when a church in a seaport town stands empty every Sunday, with its bells ringing in vain, because the congregation which should fill it, know that their so-called ‘holy man’ is a rascal! All over the world this rebellion against Falsehood,–this movement towards Truth is felt,–all over the world the people are growing strong on their legs, and clear in their brains;–no longer cramped and stunted starvelings, they are gradually developing into full growth, and awaking to intelligent action. And wherever the dominion of priestcraft has been destroyed, there they are found at their best and bravest, with a glimmering dawn of the true Christian spirit beginning to lighten their darkness,–a spirit which has no race or sect, but is all-embracing, all-loving, and all-benevolent;–which ‘thinketh no evil,’ but is so nobly sufficing in its tenderness and patience, as to persuade the obstinate, govern the unruly, and recover the lost, by the patient influence of its own example. On the reverse side of the medal, wherever we see priestcraft dominant, there we see ignorance and corruption, vice and hypocrisy, and such a low standard of morals and education as is calculated to keep the soul a slave in irons, with no possibility of any intellectual escape into the ‘glorious liberty of the free.’

The afternoon was one of exceptional brilliance and freshness, when, punctually at three o’clock, the Royal yacht hoisted sail, and dipped gracefully away from the quay with their Majesties on board, amid the cheers of an enthusiastic crowd. A poet might have sung of the scene in fervid rhyme, so pretty and gay were all the surroundings,–the bright skies, the dancing sea, the flying flags and streamers, and the soft music of the Court orchestra, a band of eight players on stringed instruments, which accompanied the Royal party on their voyage of pleasure. The Queen stood on deck, leaning against the mast, her eyes fixed on the shore, as the vessel swung round, and bore away towards the west;–the people, elbowing each other, and climbing up on each other’s shoulders and on the posts of the quay, merely to get a passing glimpse of her beauty, all loyally cheering and waving their hats and handkerchiefs, were as indifferent to her sight and soul as an ant-heap in a garden walk. She had accustomed her mind to dwell on things beyond life, and life itself had little interest for her. This was because she had been set among the shams of worldly state and ceremonial from her earliest years, and being of a profound and thoughtful nature, had grown up to utterly despise the hollowness and hypocrisy of her surroundings. In extenuation of the coldness of her temperament, it may be said that her rooted aversion to men arose from having studied them too closely and accurately. In her marriage she had fulfilled, or thought she had fulfilled, a mere duty to the State–no more; and the easy conduct of her husband during his apprenticeship to the throne as Heir-Apparent, had not tended in any way to show her anything particularly worthy of admiration or respect in his character. And so she had gone on her chosen way, removed and apart from his,–and the years had flown by, and now she was,–as she said to herself with a little touch of contempt,–‘old–for a woman!’–while the King remained ‘young,–for a man! ‘This was a mortifying reflection. True, her beauty was more perfect than in her youth, and there were no signs as yet of its decay. She knew well enough the extent of her charm,–she knew how easily she could command homage wherever she went,–and knowing, she did not care. Or rather–she had not cared. Was it possible she would ever care, and perhaps at a time when it was no use caring? A certain irritability, quite foreign to her usual composure, fevered her blood, and it arose from one simple admission which she had been forced to make to herself within the last few days, and this was, that her husband was as much her kingly superior in heart and mind as he was in rank and power. She had never till now imagined him capable of performing a brave deed, or pursuing an independently noble course of action. Throughout all the days of his married life he had followed the ordinary routine of his business or pleasure with scarce a break,– in winter to his country seat on the most southern coast of his southern land,–in spring to the capital,–in full summer to some fashionable ‘bath’ or ‘cure,’–in autumn to different great houses for the purpose of shooting other people’s game by their obsequious invitation,–and in the entire round he had never shown himself capable of much more than a flirtation with the prettiest or the most pushing new beauty, or a daring ride on the latest invention for travelling at lightning speed. She had noticed a certain change in him since he had ascended the throne, but she had attributed this to the excessive boredom of having to attend to State affairs.

Now, however, all at once and without warning, this change had developed into what was evidently likely to prove a complete transformation–and he had surprised her into an involuntary, and more or less reluctant admiration of qualities which she had never hitherto suspected in him. She had consented to join him on this occasion in his trip to The Islands, in order to try and fathom the actual drift of his intentions,–for his idea that their son, Prince Humphry, had yielded to some particular feminine attraction there, piqued her curiosity even more than her interest. She turned away now from her observation of the shore, as it receded on the horizon and became a mere thin line of light which vanished in its turn as the vessel curtsied onward; and she moved to the place prepared for her accommodation–a sheltered corner of the deck, covered by silken awnings, and supplied with luxurious deck chairs and footstools. Here two of her ladies were waiting to attend upon her, but none of the rougher sex she so heartily abhorred. As she seated herself among her cushions with her usual indolent grace, she raised her eyes and saw, standing at a respectful distance from her, a distinguished personage who had but lately arrived at the Court, from England,–Sir Walter Langton, a daring traveller and explorer in far countries,–one who had earned high distinction at the point of the sword. He had been presented to her some evenings since, among a crowd of other notabilities, and she had, as was her usual custom with all men, scarcely given him a passing glance. Now as she regarded him, she suddenly decided, out of the merest whim, to call him to her side. She sent one of her ladies to him, charged with her invitation to approach and take his seat near her. He hastened to obey, with some surprise, and no little pleasure. He was a handsome man of about forty, sun-browned and keen of eye, with a grave intellectual face after the style of a Vandyk portrait, and a kindly smile; and he was happily devoid of all that unbecoming officiousness and obsequiousness which some persons affect when in the presence of Royalty. He bowed profoundly as the Queen received him, saying to him with a smile:–

“You are a stranger here, Sir Walter Langton!–I cannot allow you to feel solitary in our company!”

“Is it possible for anyone to feel solitary when you are near, Madam?” returned Sir Walter gallantly, as he obeyed the gesture with which she motioned him to be seated;–“You must be weary of hearing that even your silent presence is sufficient to fill space with melody and charm! And I am not altogether a stranger; I know this country well, though I have never till now had the honour of visiting its ruling sovereign.”

“It is very unlike England,” said the Queen, slowly unfurling her fan of soft white plumage and waving it to and fro.

“Very unlike, indeed!” he agreed, and a musing tenderness darkened his fine hazel eyes as he gazed out on the sparkling sea.

“You like England best?” resumed the Queen.

“Madam, I am an Englishman! To me there is no land so fair, or so much worth living and dying for, as England!”

“Yet–I suppose, like all your countrymen, you are fond of change?”

“Yes–and no, Madam!” replied Langton.–“In truth, if I am to speak frankly, it is only during the last thirty or forty years that my countrymen have blotted their historical scutcheons by this fondness for change. Where travelling is necessary for the attainment of some worthy object, then it is wise and excellent,–but where it is only for the purpose of distracting a self-satiated mind, it is of no avail, and indeed frequently does more harm than good.”

“Self-satiated!” repeated the Queen,–“Is not that a strange word?”

“It is the only compound expression I can use to describe the discontented humour in which the upper classes of English society exist to-day,” replied Sir Walter. “For many years the soul of England has been held in chains by men whose thoughts are all of Self,–the honour of England has been attainted by women whose lives are moulded from first to last on Self. To me, personally, England is everything,–I have no thought outside it–no wish beyond it. Yet I am as ashamed of some of its leaders of opinion to-day, as if I saw my own mother dragged in the dust and branded with infamy!”

“You speak of your Government?” began the Queen.

“No, Madam,–I have no more quarrel with my country’s present Government than I could have with a child who is led into a ditch by its nurse. It is a weak and corrupted Government; and its actual rulers are vile and abandoned women.”

The Queen’s eyes opened in a beautiful, startled wonderment;–this man’s clear, incisive manner of speech interested her.

“Women!” she echoed, then smiled; “You speak strongly, Sir Walter! I have certainly heard of the ‘advanced’ women who push themselves so much forward in your country, but I had no idea they were so mischievous! Are they to be admired? Or pitied?”

“Pitied, Madam,–most sincerely pitied!” returned Sir Walter;–“But such misguided simpletons as these are not the creatures who rule, or play with, or poison the minds of the various members who compose our Government. The ‘advanced’ women, poor souls, do nothing but talk platitudes. They are perfectly harmless. They have no power to persuade men, because in nine cases out of ten, they have neither wit nor beauty. And without either of these two charms, Madam, it is difficult to put even a clever cobbler, much less a Prime Minister, into leading strings! No,–it is the spendthrift women of a corrupt society that I mean,–the women who possess beauty, and are conscious of it,–the women who have a mordant wit and use it for dangerous purposes–the women who give up their homes, their husbands, their children and their reputations for the sake of villainous intrigue, and the feverish excitement of speculative money-making;–with these–and with the stealthy spread of Romanism,–will come the ruin of my country!”

“So grave as all that!” said the Queen lightly;–“But, surely, Sir Walter, if you see ruin and disaster threatening so great an Empire in the far distance, you and other wise men of your land are able to stave it off?”

“Madam, I have no power!” he returned bitterly. “Those who have thought and worked,–those who are able to see what is coming by the light of past experience, are seldom listened to, or if they get a hearing, they are not seldom ridiculed and ‘laughed down.’ Till a strong man speaks, we must all remain dumb. There is no real Government in England at present, just as there is no real Church. The Government is made up of directly self-interested speculators and financiers rather than diplomatists,–the Church, for which our forefathers fought, is yielding to the bribery of Rome. It is a time of Sham,–sham politics, and sham religion! We have fallen upon evil days,–and unless the people rise, as it is to be hoped to God they will, serious danger threatens the glory and the honour of England!”

“Would you desire revolution and bloodshed, then?” enquired the Queen, becoming more and more interested as she saw that this Englishman did not, like most of his sex, pass the moments in gazing at her in speechless admiration,–“Surely not!”

“I would have revolution, Madam, but not bloodshed,” he replied;–“I think my countrymen are too well grounded in common-sense to care for any movement which could bring about internal dissension or riot,– but, at the same time, I believe their native sense of justice is great enough to resist tyranny and wrong and falsehood, even to the death. I would have a revolution–yes–but a silent and bloodless one!”

“And how would you begin?” asked the Queen.

“The People must begin, Madam!” he answered;–“All reforms must begin and end with the People only! For example, if the People would decline to attend any church where the incumbent is known to encourage practices which are disloyal to the faith of the land, such disloyalty would soon cease. If the majority of women would refuse to know, or to receive, any woman of high position who had voluntarily disgraced herself, they would soon put a stop to the lax morality of the upper classes. If our builders, artisans and mechanics would club together, and refuse to make guns or ships for our enemies in foreign countries, we should not run the risk of being one day hoisted with our own petard. In any case, the work of Revolution rests with the people, though it is quite true they need teachers to show them how to begin.”

“And are these teachers forthcoming?”

“I think so!” said Sir Walter meditatively. “Throughout all history, as far back as we can trace it, whenever a serious reform has been needed in either society or government, there has always been found a leader to head the movement.”

The Queen’s beautiful eyes rested upon him with a certain curiosity.

“What of your King?” she said.

“Madam, he is my King!” he replied,–“And I serve him faithfully!”

She was silent. She began to wonder whether he had any private motive to gain, any place he sought to fill, that he should assume such a touch-me-not air at this stray allusion to his Sovereign.

“Lèse-majesté is so common nowadays!” she mused;–“It is such an ordinary thing to hear vulgar _parvenus_ talk of their king as if he were a public-house companion of theirs, that it is somewhat remarkable to find one who speaks of his monarch with loyalty and respect. I suppose, however, like everyone else, he has his own ends to serve!–Kings are the last persons in the world who can command absolute fidelity!”

She glanced dreamily over the sea, and perceiving a slight shade of weariness on her face, Sir Walter discreetly rose, craving her permission to retire to the saloon, where he had promised to join the King. When he had left her, she turned to one of her ladies, the Countess Amabil, and remarked:

“A very personable gentleman, is he not?”

“Madam,” rejoined the Countess, who was very lovely in herself, and of a bright and sociable disposition;–“I have often thought it would be more pleasant and profitable for all of us if we had many such personable gentlemen with us oftener!”

A slight frown of annoyance crossed the Queen’s face. The Countess was a very charming lady; very fascinating in her own way, but her decided predilection for the sterner sex often led her to touch on dangerous ground with her Royal mistress. This time, however, she escaped the chilling retort her remark might possibly, on another occasion, have called down upon her. The Queen said nothing. She sat watching the sea,–and now and again took up her field-glass to study the picturesque coast of The Islands, which was rapidly coming into view. Teresa de Launay, the second lady in attendance on her, was reading, and, seeing her quite absorbed in her book, the Queen presently asked her what it contained.

“You have smiled twice over that book, Teresa,” she said kindly;–“What is it about?”

“Madam, it speaks of love!” replied Teresa, still smiling.

“And love makes you smile?”

“I would rather smile than weep over it, Madam!” replied Teresa, with a slight colour warming her fair face;–“But as concerns this book, I smile, because it is full of such foolish verses,–as light and sweet– and almost as cloying,–as French _fondants_!”

“Let me hear!” said the Queen; “Read me a few lines.”

“This one, called ‘A Canzonet’ is brief enough for your Majesty’s immediate consideration,” replied Teresa;–“It is just such a thing as a man might scribble in his note-book after a bout of champagne, when he is in love for ten minutes! He would not mean a word of it,–but it might sound pretty by moonlight!” Whereupon she read aloud:–

My Lady is pleased to smile,
And the world is glad and gay;
My Lady is pleased to weep;–
And it rains the livelong day!

My Lady is pleased to hate,
And I lose my life and my breath; My Lady is pleased to love,–
And I am the master of Death!

I know that my Lady is Love,
By the magical light about her;
I know that my Lady is Life,
For I cannot live without her!

“And you do not think any man would truly mean as much love as this?” queried the Queen.

“Oh, Madam, you know he would not! If he had written such lines about the joys of dining, or the flavour of an excellent cigar, they might then indeed be taken as an expression of his truest and deepest feeling! But his ‘Lady’! Bah! She is a mere myth,–a temporary peg to hang a stray emotion on!”

She laughed, and her laughter rippled merrily on the air.

“I do not think the men who write so easily about love can ever truly feel it,” she went on;–“Those who really love must surely be quite unable to express themselves. This man who sings about his ‘Lady’ being pleased to do this or do that, was probably trying to obtain the good graces of some pretty housemaid or chorus girl!”

A slight contemptuous smile crossed the Queen’s face; from her expression it was evident that she agreed in the main with the opinion of her vivacious lady-in-waiting. Just at that moment the King and his suite, with Sir Walter Langton and one or two other gentlemen, who had been invited to join the party, came up from the saloon, and the conversation became general.

“Have you seen Humphry at all to-day?” enquired the King aside of De Launay. “I sent him an early message asking him to join us, and was told he had gone out riding. Is that true?”

“I have not seen his Royal Highness since the morning, Sir,” replied the equerry; “He then met me,–and Professor von Glauben also–in the gardens. He gave me no hint as to whether he knew of your intention to sail to The Islands this afternoon or not; he was reading, and with some slight discussion on the subject of the book he was interested in, he and the Professor strolled away together.”

“But where is Von Glauben?” pursued the King; “I sent for him likewise, but he was absent.”

“I understood him to say that you had not commanded his attendance again to-day, Sir,” replied Sir Roger;–“He told me he had already waited upon you.”

“Certainly I did not command his attendance when I saw him the first thing this morning,” replied the King; “I summoned him then merely to satisfy his scruples concerning my health and safety, as he seemed last night to have doubts of both!” He smiled, and his eyes twinkled humourously. “Later on, I requested him to join us in this excursion, but his servant said he had gone out, leaving no word as to when he would return. An eccentricity! I suppose he must be humoured!”

Sir Roger was silent. The King looked at him narrowly, and saw that there was something in his thoughts which he was not inclined to utter, and with wise tact and discretion forbore to press any more questions upon him. It was not a suitable time for cross-examination, even of the most friendly kind; there were too many persons near at hand who might be disposed to listen and to form conjectures; moreover the favouring wind had so aided the Royal yacht in her swift course that The Islands were now close at hand, and the harbour visible, the run across from the mainland having been accomplished under the usual two hours.

The King scanned the coast through his glass with some interest.

“We shall obtain amusement from this unprepared trip,” he said, addressing the friends who were gathered round him; “We have forbidden any announcement of our visit here, and, therefore, we shall receive no recognition, or welcome. We shall have to take the people as we find them!”

“Let us hope they will prove themselves agreeable, Sir,” said one of the suite, the Marquis Montala, a somewhat effeminate elegant-looking man, with small delicate features and lazily amorous eyes,–“And that the women of the place will not be too alarmingly hideous.”

“Women are always women.” said the King gaily; “And you, Montala, if you cannot find a pretty one, will put up with an ugly one for the moment rather than have none at all! But beauty exists everywhere, and I daresay we shall find it in as good evidence here as in other parts of the kingdom. Our land is famous for its lovely women,”–and turning to Sir Walter Langton he added–“I think, Sir Walter, we can almost beat your England in that one particular!”

“Some years ago, Sir, I should have accepted that challenge,” returned Sir Walter, “And with the deepest respect for your Majesty, I should have ventured to deny the assertion that any country in the world could surpass England for the beauty of its women. But since the rage for masculine sports and masculine manners has taken hold of English girls, I am not at all disposed to defend them. They have, unhappily, lost all the soft grace and modesty for which their grandmothers were renowned, and one begins to remark that their very shapes are no longer feminine. The beautiful full bosoms, admired by Gainsborough and Romney, are replaced by an unbecoming flatness–the feet and hands are growing large and awkward, instead of being well-shaped, white and delicate– the skin is becoming coarse and rough of texture, and there is very little complexion to boast of, if we except the artificial make-up of the women of the town. Some few pretty and natural women remain in the heart of the forest and the country, but the contamination is spreading, and English women are no longer the models of womanhood for all the world.”

“Are you married, Sir Walter?” asked the King with a smile.

“To no woman, Sir! I have married England–I love her and work for her only!”

“You find that love sufficient to fill your heart?”

“Perhaps,” returned Sir Walter musingly–“perhaps if I speak personally and selfishly–no! But when I argue the point logically, I find this– that if I had a wife she might probably occupy too much of my time,– certes, if I had children, I should be working for them and their future welfare;–as it is, I give all my life and all my work to my country, and my King!”

“I hope you will meet with the reward you merit,” said the Queen gently; “Kings are not always well served!”

“I seek no reward,” said Sir Walter simply; “The joy of work is always its own guerdon.”

As he spoke the yacht ran into harbour, and with a loud warning cry the sailors flung out the first rope to a man on the pier, who stood gazing in open-mouthed wonder at their arrival. He seemed too stricken with amazement to move, for he failed to seize the rope, whereat, with an angry exclamation as the rope slipped back into the water, and the yacht bumped against the pier, a sailor sprang to land, and as it was thrown a second time, seized it and made it fast to the capstan. A few more moments and the yacht was safely alongside, the native islander remaining still motionless and staring. The captain of the Royal vessel stepped on shore and spoke to him.

“Are there any men about here?”

The individual thus addressed shook his head in the negative.

“Are you alone to keep the pier?”