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and undoubtedly he had his code. Many crown princes had sown
abundant wild oats, and yet made excellent kings.
But Selden knew it was none of these things that really troubled
him; it was the uneasy feeling that he had been responsible for that
quick nod of the head which Myra Davis had given her mother. And
that, he told himself, was something he could not be responsible for
—not, at least, until he was sure she understood exactly everything
that nod let her in for. After that, if she wished to keep on nodding,
it would be nobody’s affair but her own.
Therefore it was his duty to see that she did understand. He must go
to her and tell her—tell her very plainly and directly, without
palliating phrases. He squirmed a little at the prospect, but there
was no other way he could square himself with his conscience. She
would probably resent it, and her mother of course would be vastly
outraged. But he must risk it.
He had the feeling that the baron had been a little lacking in
candour the night before; his opinions had been asked without any
hint of their implications. Yet, as he cast his mind back over what he
had said, he did not see where he would have altered it, even if he
had known. Nevertheless it was up to him to enlighten Miss Davis
very thoroughly on the morals and manners of princes.
He was staring moodily out of the window, turning all this over in his
mind, and keeping resolutely submerged a very, very sore spot in his
consciousness whose existence he would not even admit, when a
knock at the door announced a boy with a salver, on which lay a tiny
note.
“I will be on the terrace at eleven,” it said, and it was signed “Vera
de Rémond.”
“There is no answer,” he said to the boy, tipped him, and went back
to the window. What did he care where the countess would be at
eleven! He had not forgotten that moment of revelation the night
before when she had looked at Myra Davis like a beast of prey sure
of its quarry. There had been in her face a kind of gloating, as
though she were revenging herself in some way upon the girl. But
that was nonsense. Yet why had she seemed so triumphant? Could
the quarry be some one else—Jeneski, Madame Ghita?
The name was uttered at last; he had not been able to keep it back.
Yes, there was the sore spot; it was for her he was uneasy, it was
she for whom his heart reproached him, it was she whom he wished
to protect....
He suddenly made up his mind that he would see the countess. If
she really had a secret, he would drag it out of her.
So he arrayed himself rapidly, glad to have something definite to do,
and sallied forth into the bright, cool morning.
He had not noticed the time, but as he left the hotel, the big clock
over the casino entrance told him that he was early, so he strolled
about the camembert, as the little round park just in front of the
casino is derisively called, and looked at the people and tried to
arrange his thoughts.
The crowd here is astonishingly different from that on the terrace,
for these are the people who haunt the public rooms—derelicts, for
the most part, poised as it were before the mouth of the dragon,
searching for an inspiration before plunging in to stake their last
louis; or perhaps with their last louis lost and nothing to do but
watch the feverish procession which continually ascends and
descends the casino steps, and wonder where another louis could be
borrowed or begged or stolen.
It is a motley and sordid crowd, lolling on the benches or loitering
uncertainly about: ridiculous old women, wonderfully arrayed in the
fabrics of 1860, fondly misinterpreting the astonished glances cast at
them; frizzled old men struggling to conceal a bankrupt interior
behind a pompous front; cocottes endeavouring to pretend they are
not for everybody and at the same time to appear not too difficult;
impecunious gamblers trying to pose as men of affairs, but always
betrayed by a loose end somewhere; dowdy old couples to whom
the tables have become a habit more devastating than any drug—a
new Comédie Humaine waiting for another Balzac.
Selden, regarding these people for the hundredth time with an
appreciative eye, wished that he were the Balzac, and sighing a little
because he was not, he turned away to the gayer life of the terrace
—gayer at least on the surface, fascinating as a whirlpool is
fascinating, tempting the onlooker to jump in and be swallowed up,
and seductive, as things dangerous and forbidden have been
seductive since the days of Eve.
The Countess Rémond possessed those qualities of fascination and
intrigue, too—superlatively. He realized it anew as he saw her
coming toward him down the steps, her lithe uncorseted body
faultlessly clad in a grey tailleur, which, conventional and subdued as
it was, seemed somehow exotic as she wore it. Selden thanked his
stars that he had gained immunity the night before by that glimpse
he had had of her soul; it was very pleasant to know himself out of
danger.
“How good of you to come,” she said, as he took her hand. And then
she looked at him more closely, for her instinct felt the change in
him. “Are you annoyed at something? Did it disarrange you to meet
me here?”
“No; not at all.”
“I shall keep you but a moment. But I felt that I must have a little
talk with you before....”
“Before....” he prompted, as she hesitated.
“Before I begin my day’s work. And since the safest place for a
confidential conversation is in the midst of a crowd....”
“So we are going to have a confidential conversation?” queried
Selden, falling into step beside her.
“Yes; on my part, at least. Like the baron, I am going to place all my
cards on the table.”
“It is what I had been hoping,” said Selden, quietly.
She looked at him quickly, smiling a little.
“Yes; I saw in your eyes last night that you were not pleased with
me. Perhaps I had had too much champagne. But I am quite
recovered from that!”
“So am I,” said Selden, grimly. “In fact, I am very sober—I have
even some twinges of remorse.”
“I was afraid you would have. That is one reason I wanted to see
you. We must talk it out.”
“Yes, we must,” he assented.
She led the way to a seat at the end of the terrace facing the
harbour, where they could talk undisturbed.
“Now,” she said, “why remorse?”
“Well,” began Selden slowly, “you know as well as I do that, while
this flood of American money may be a sort of short-cut to
prosperity for your little country, in the end it will be disastrous for it,
since it brings the old dynasty back.”
“No,” she said, “I know nothing of the sort.”
He looked at her.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“How long do you think the old king has to live?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, not long. He has already had two heart attacks.”
“Ah, I see what you mean,” he murmured; “and after him the
republic again?”
“Certainly. My country would never endure Danilo, nor permit itself
to be governed by an American.”
“But in that case,” he pointed out, “this whole affair is nothing but a
piece of sharp practice.”
“Against whom?”
“Against the Davises.”
“Oh,” she said negligently; “they deserve it. I am not concerned
about them.”
“But I am,” he said. “At least I am concerned for Miss Davis.”
“You need not be,” she assured him, with a flash of the eyes. “She is
by no means the ingénue you seem to suppose; she can take care of
herself. And she can afford to lose a few millions.”
“It isn’t the money—I think the country should have some of it; but
she ought to know exactly what she is letting herself in for.”
“You mean Madame Ghita?”
“Yes.”
“Well, why do you not tell her?” she asked mockingly.
“I’ve about made up my mind that I shall have to,” he said dismally.
“You see I sort of pushed her into it last night.”
She was smiling again as she looked at him.
“And this is the real cause of the remorse?”
“I suppose so.”
“How did you push her into it?”
“I was silly enough to say that I really thought she could do a lot of
good out there.”
“Well—do you not believe it?”
“Of course I believe it. But that isn’t the question. Dash it all, you
know as well as I do what I mean. These women are absolutely
ignorant of European ideas—of the ideas of such fellows as Danilo.
Mrs. Davis poses as worldly-wise, thoroughly initiated, but she is
really as ignorant as a child. She has heard that men have
mistresses, that husbands are sometimes unfaithful, and so has her
daughter, I suppose. But it is all outside their personal experience. It
is always some other woman’s husband. It would never occur to
either of them that their own husbands could be, or that in this
particular instance the husband-to-be is not only unfaithful now, but
hasn’t the slightest intention of being faithful in the future—that he
would laugh at such an idea—that at this moment he is living here
with his mistress....”
“But she is not his mistress,” put in the countess quietly.
Selden, halted in mid-career, could only stare. A dozen conjectures
flashed through his mind.
“Not his mistress?” he stammered.
“It is Madame Ghita you are talking about, I suppose?”
“Of course.”
“She is his wife—she has a right to the name; I have even the idea
that he is faithful to her.”
“His wife!” Selden gasped. “But....”
“Married quite regularly in Paris—morganatically, of course. I do not
know whether you will think that better or worse.”
Selden, his head in a whirl, did not know himself. But of one thing he
was sure—the wrong to Madame Ghita would be far worse than he
had fancied. He tried to explain this to the countess, who listened
with an amused smile.
“You remind me of those silly old knights,” she said, “who were
always riding out to rescue some damsel, without waiting to find out
whether she really wanted to be rescued. Don’t worry about
Madame Ghita. In the first place, she knew perfectly well when she
married the prince that he would have to marry again some day for
the sake of the dynasty. In the second place, I suspect that the
prince is much more in love with her than she is with him. At least,
the baron tells me that she is an unusually clever woman, while, as
you know, the prince is quite stupid.”
“So she can hold him if she wants to?”
“Undoubtedly. And if she wants to, she will stop at nothing.”
“Do you know her?” Selden asked.
“No.”
“So you don’t know....”
“Whether she will want to? No—but I am going to find out. I have
asked her to lunch with me to-day. That is the first part of my day’s
work.”
“Does Miss Davis know about her?”
“Not yet—at least, I do not think so. But she is going to know.”
“You mean you are going to tell her?”
“Yes,” said the countess, with a little grimace. “That is the second
part of my day’s work. I have tea with her and her mother this
afternoon.”
Selden took off his hat and drew a deep breath of relief.
“Then that lets me out,” he said. “I think it’s rather sporting of you.”
“Do not idealize me nor my motives,” protested the countess. “It is a
matter of business. Lappo asked me to. We are going to tell her
because she is certain now to learn it anyway, and it is far better
that she learn it from us than from some malicious newspaper or
anonymous letter. It will not be difficult; as the baron puts it, it will
be almost as though she were marrying a divorced man. That will
not shock her so much.”
“No, I suppose not,” Selden agreed. “Of course you will swing it!”
“Yes, I think so,” agreed the countess with a little smile. “But before
I started to try to swing it, I wanted to have this talk with you, so
that everything would be quite clear between us. I must know where
you stand.”
“All right. Cards on the table. Go ahead,” and he settled back to
listen.
“If Miss Davis has the situation explained to her, so that she knows
what she is letting herself in for, as you put it, and still chooses to go
ahead with it, you will have no further compunctions on that score, I
hope?”
“Certainly not.”
“Well,” said the countess quietly, “I shall be very much surprised if
she does not go on with it. She is neither a child nor a fool—and
there is a compelling impulse driving her on.”
“Yes—she sees herself the benefactress of an impoverished people.”
“The country will have a new saint!” said the countess with a
mocking little laugh. “But perhaps there is still another reason.”
“You think the prince attracts her?”
“Oh, no—though she may get to like him. At present, he is just a
necessary evil, since for children there must be a father! He has one
quality which will appeal to her more and more—he knows how to
be discreet.”
“Which reminds me,” Selden remarked, “that the explosion you
expected last night did not take place.”
“No—the prince prevented it. It was that made him late.”
“He was with her?”
“Yes. He must have promised her something.”
“She knows, then?”
“Of course. Lappo has already had a talk with her.”
“What did she say to him?”
The countess smiled at remembrance of the baron’s face.
“I do not know exactly—except that she spoke of love.”
“Ah, you see!”
“But that does not discourage me,” went on the countess cheerfully.
“On the contrary. Women really in love rarely speak of it. My own
impression is that she is determined to make the best bargain she
can—and she is right. But I shall have it out with her at lunch—that
is, if she comes. She has not yet accepted, but I think she will, if
only out of curiosity. There may be some fireworks, but in the end
she will agree. I am sure of it.”
“Agree to what?” asked Selden.
“Agree to exchange the prince for the annuity which the king is now,
for the first time, able to offer her.”
Selden made a grimace of distaste. All this was a little too cynical—
especially as it touched Madame Ghita.
The countess looked at him, her eyes sparkling with amusement, not
entirely free from malice.
“You do not like it?”
“No.”
“But if she does agree, you will have no compunctions about her
either?”
“No—if she really does.”
“You do not believe she will?” she asked, looking at him with a gaze
suddenly intent, as though for the first time she saw something in
his face she had not before suspected. “Well, come to lunch, too,
and see for yourself.”
Selden stared.
“It is my lunch,” she explained. “I may ask whom I please. You will
enjoy it.”
“I’m not so sure of that!”
“Besides, I shall need your moral support,” she added, laughingly.
“Please come.”
“Will Lappo be there?”
“No—he has gone to Paris to arrange the marriage settlement with
the Davis solicitor. There will be just us three. If she does not come,
we shall be tête-à-tête.”
Selden was distinctly conscious that he had no ardour for a tête-à-
tête with the Countess Rémond, and, though he did his best to keep
it out of his face, she instantly perceived it.
“How American you are!” she said, looking at him with laughing
eyes. “No; I am not offended. But do not be afraid. She will come.”
“But if she resents my presence....”
“She will not. If she does, you can leave before the real discussion
begins.”
“All right,” said Selden, “I’ll come. But I don’t promise to give you
any moral support. You may find me fighting on the other side.”
“Then I shall be sure to win!” said the countess, and looked at him
with a strange smile. “Now I must be going. The luncheon is at one,
in my apartment.” She glanced at her watch and sprang to her feet
in a sudden panic. “Juste ciel! I must fly! No, you are not to come
with me. I am in earnest. Please do not!”
He watched her as she hurried away through the crowd and up the
steps toward the casino.
At the top of the steps a burly man was standing, as though keeping
an appointment, his eyes on the entrance to the hotel just across
the street. The countess approached him swiftly and touched his
arm.
As he started round upon her, Selden caught a glimpse of his face. It
was Halsey, of the Journal.
 CHAPTER XIII
CLEARING THE GROUND
WHAT could be the connection between Halsey and the Countess
Rémond, Selden wondered, as he turned away. He tried to
remember what he knew of Halsey, but it was not very much. They
had met casually in Paris a number of times, and had dinner with
him once at the Cercle Interallié, when they happened to be working
on the same story, but that was all.
He had never liked Halsey’s style. The Journal was a sensational
sheet; always seeking to play up the scandalous, never so happy as
when it was able to uncover a dark corner in the life of some public
man, ever eager to impute unworthy motives to the backers of any
cause—and Halsey rather gave the impression that he liked that sort
of thing. Certainly he was not held in very high esteem by his
associates, and Selden’s own idea was that he had lived so long in a
cynical circle in Paris that he had caught its tone.
Once he got hold of this affair of the prince and Myra Davis, Selden
very well knew what he would make of it—more especially if he
discovered the existence of Madame Ghita. But of that he was
probably already aware, since the marriage had no doubt been
played up by him at the time it occurred.
He wondered if the countess, for some reason of her own, was
keeping Halsey informed. But she could scarcely do that, since
Halsey’s jeers would imperil the whole plan upon which her heart
was so evidently set. Or was she keeping him in order? Or was he
just her lover? But Selden could not imagine why such a woman as
the countess....
And then all thought of Halsey and the countess vanished, for he
saw approaching the woman whom, from the first moment he
reached the terrace, he had hoped to see; the woman about whom
his thoughts were centring more and more; who, in the last half
hour, had taken on for him a new interest and a new meaning.
She saw him at the same instant, and turned and spoke a word to
the man walking beside her, and Selden, looking at him, perceived it
was young Davis, completely immersed in Miss Fayard, who walked
on his other side, and who was certainly not unresponsive. In
another moment Davis was bringing the ladies toward him.
“Selden,” he said, “I want you to meet Madame Ghita. You
remember....”
“Very well,” said Selden; “I am happy indeed to meet madame.”
“I also,” she said, and gave him her hand with a charming smile.
“But let us speak French. To myself I said, who can it be, that man
so distinguished whom I have not seen here before, and later I
inquired of M. Davis. What he told me made me more than ever
curious, so when I saw you just now, I commanded him to present
you.”
“That was very nice of you,” said Selden, making a mental note of
that word “later.” So the prince and Davis had kept the appointment,
as he had supposed they would do.
Her eyes were resting on his with the same frank and
unembarrassed questioning he had noticed the first time he saw her,
as though she were seeking to discover what was passing in his
mind, what he was pondering about. They were a very dark brown,
those eyes, almost black; and again he noted the ivory softness of
her skin, innocent of make-up, and singularly glowing in spite of her
lack of colour.
“This is my niece, Mlle. Fayard,” she added, and Selden bowed to the
young girl. “You two may walk on and continue your French lesson,
while I talk to M. Selden.”
“She is teaching me the first conjugation,” Davis explained, looking
ridiculously happy. “We have started with aimer.”
“Allez, allez!” commanded madame, laughing at the blush which
overspread the girl’s cheek. “With a Frenchman I could not do that,”
she added, looking after them. “But with an American, yes. Why is
it?”
“I don’t know,” said Selden.
“But you agree with me that it is quite safe?”
“Oh, yes,” said Selden; “for the girl, that is.”
She laughed outright.
“Are you really such a cynic?” she asked. Then she grew suddenly
serious. “Do not be mistaken about her—she is a very good girl,
believe me. I have taken good care of her.”
“I can see that,” said Selden, and they walked on for a moment in
silence.
“Are you married?” she asked suddenly. “Forgive me,” she added, as
he stared a little; “but it is something that a woman always wishes
to know about a man. I do not think you are, but I should like to be
sure.”
“Well, I’m not,” said Selden. “A fellow who knocks around the world
as I do has no business to be married.”
“You travel a great deal?”
“I am always looking for trouble. Whenever there is a row anywhere,
I pack my bag and start.”
“Was it for trouble you came to Monte Carlo?”
“Oh, no,” said Selden. “I came here to get warm, after two months
in the Balkans—also to rest a little. And I have had the good fortune
to meet here some very interesting people—one superlatively so,”
and he made her a little bow.
“Thank you. But you have not rested?”
“I usually find some work to do.”
“And then, of course, there are the tables.”
“Yes.”
“And the women.”
“Yes—they are wonderful, aren’t they?” he countered.
“Not all of them. But the one you were with yesterday seemed to me
rather unusual. Who was she?”
“Ah, that,” said Selden, calmly, “was the Countess Rémond.”
He felt that he had scored, although Madame Ghita certainly did not
start. But there was a new expression in her eyes.
“She is an old friend of yours?” she asked.
“No; I met her Monday evening.”
“I have never met her,” said madame; “but I am going to have lunch
with her to-day.”
“Are you?” said Selden. “I am very glad. So am I.”
This time she did start.
“You are sure it is for to-day that you are asked?” she questioned.
“Oh, yes. She told me that she had invited you, but that you had not
as yet accepted.”
“So you are in the plot, too,” she said slowly, and the eyes with
which she scanned his face were quite black. “That is a thing I had
not suspected.”
“No,” answered Selden quickly, “I am not in any plot. But if I were, I
should be on your side, madame; I pray you to believe it.”
She looked at him yet a moment as though striving to read his very
inmost thought. Then she glanced around.
“Let us sit down,” she said, and led the way to a bench. “Now you
must tell me what you know—everything. In the first place, you
know, do you not, that Prince Danilo is my husband?”
“Yes; I know that.”
“As legally my husband as the woman you marry will be your wife.”
“Yes.”
“Except that I have no claim upon his estates or his title, and our
children, if we had any, could not succeed to them.”
“Yes.”
“And there was, of course, the understanding that some day, if he
wished, he would be free to make a marriage of state in order to
carry on the title.”
“Yes.”
“Well, the prince does not wish to marry again. If he consents, it is
only because the king commands it, and he conceives it to be his
duty to his country.”
“I can well believe it, madame,” said Selden.
“Eh bien, I went to Nice last night to stop it; after all, I have some
pride, some rights. I will not be disregarded and cast aside like that!”
“I understand,” said Selden. “You are right. Do you need my help?”
She looked at him suddenly, with curious intentness.
“You are in earnest?”
“Absolutely.”
She smiled at him, almost tenderly.
“I shall not forget that,” she said; “perhaps some day I may even call
upon you. But I did not interfere last night because Danilo gave me
his word that he would leave the matter in my hands to decide one
way or the other, before the settlement is signed.”
“That was fine of him!”
“Oh, Danilo is a gentleman,” said madame; “and he will keep his
word. Besides....”
She stopped and shrugged her shoulders, but to Selden the shrug
was more eloquent than words. She meant, of course, that Danilo
loved her. And she—did she love him? That was the question Selden
would have liked to ask, but he did not dare.
“You have not yet made up your mind?” he asked instead.
“No,” she answered slowly, looking at him with a queer little smile;
“you see there are so many things to consider. Of course, if Danilo
refuses, the king will cast him off—for a time, at least—and there will
be no more money. Danilo could never earn any, and he has
borrowed all that is possible. So his affection for me would grow less
and less day by day—for he is like a cat; he must be comfortable;
and at last the day would come when he could endure it no longer,
and would tell me good-bye.”
“You are saying nothing of yourself,” Selden pointed out.
“Oh, I could endure it no more than he!” laughed his companion.
“Less perhaps! So it may be the part of wisdom, for his sake and for
my sake, to make the best bargain I can, now, while there is a
chance. Does that seem very cynical?”
“No; just sensible.”
“But one is not supposed to be sensible in affairs of the heart—is it
not so? Well, I may not be sensible in this affair—I cannot tell. But I
am willing to listen to what they have to say. The Countess Rémond
is an emissary from the king, is she not?”
“Yes.”
“And she is inviting me to lunch in order to discuss this affair?”
“Yes.”
“I thought so,” and again she looked at him, with her strange little
smile. “What I do not understand is that you also should be there.”
“Ah, madame,” said Selden quickly, “I pointed out to her that you
would not like it. I shall not come.”
“But I did not say I did not like it. On the contrary, I wish you to
come. Only, if you are an ally of the countess, I must be prepared
for you.”
“I am not an ally of the countess,” Selden protested; “not in any
sense. I should like to be your ally, madame, if you will have me.”
She glanced at him quickly, then turned her head away for a
moment, as though looking for her niece and Davis. Then she looked
back at him, and her face was very tender.
“Of course I will have you!” she said, her voice a little thick.
Selden was deeply moved; he looked away, out over the sea, and for
a moment there was silence between them—but it was a silence
which said many things.
“Have you met her,” she asked at last, “this Miss Davis?”
“Yes.”
“Does she resemble her brother?”
“Oh, no,” said Selden; “not in the least. She is much stronger and
finer.”
“You admire her then?”
“Yes—in a way.”
“Is she fond of Danilo?”
“No, I don’t think so—not especially.”
“Then it is just ambition—ambition to be a queen!”
“Her mother is ambitious, and of course urges her on. But I think
what Miss Davis cares for most is the opportunity to do good with
her money.”
“No, no,” said Madame Ghita quickly; “a man might believe that, but
not a woman! There is something beside that—there must be—
something more personal, more passionate. I am sure of it. If I
could only see her! Well, it may be possible—why not? I would invite
her to open her heart to me, as I should open mine to her, and
together we would decide. Yes, yes—that would make it easy!”
A donkey-engine which had been unloading coal from a steamer
beside the quay gave a shrill shriek with its whistle and abruptly
stopped. There came a tinkle of bells from the ships in the harbour.
“Twelve o’clock!” cried Madame Ghita. “Can it be? I must be going!
Where are those children? Come, we must look for them.”
The children were discovered not far away, leaning over the
balustrade, watching a low Italian destroyer which was steaming
rapidly along the coast, and working assiduously at their languages
—French for Davis, English for Cicette. They seemed to be
progressing very satisfactorily among the tenses of “aimer”—though
Cicette found it difficult to get exactly the correct sound of the “o” in
love, and Davis thought the way she said it much prettier than the
right way—as, indeed, on her lips it was.
Madame Ghita broke in upon them without compunction.
“Come, Cicette,” she said. “Bid adieu to the gentlemen—we must be
going. It is very late.”
Selden, looking at her more carefully than he had taken the trouble
to do before, found her much less ordinary than she had seemed at
first glance. Her face was yet a girl’s, but it gave promise of
character as well as beauty. Davis might well do worse!
“But look here,” Davis protested, “I won’t see you again till evening,
then! Why can’t I take Cicette to lunch?”
“Impossible!” said madame firmly. “I have her reputation to
consider,” and she led her charge away.
The two men watched them as they went up the steps—the elder
woman so straight, so graceful, so full of ease; the younger
fluttering beside her like a butterfly, her feet scarce touching the
ground. It was difficult to realize that the actual difference in their
ages was probably not more than five or six years, and that the
impression of maturity which Madame Ghita gave was due almost
wholly to her finish, her ease, her perfect poise. As they passed from
sight, Davis took off his hat and wiped his forehead and breathed a
deep sigh.
“Is it as bad as that?” inquired Selden, with a smile.
“Oh, I’m in love all right,” Davis answered, “and I’m going to marry
her—I don’t give a damn what anybody says. I’ve never met a girl
who could hold a candle to her.”
“Look here,” said Selden, “if you can get your mind off that young
woman for a minute or two, I’d like to talk to you about something
else. What about this engagement between your sister and Danilo?”
“Well, what about it?” asked Davis, a little truculently.
“Does she know about Madame Ghita?”
“I don’t know—probably not.”
“Don’t you think she ought to know?”
“What for? When the prince marries again, Madame Ghita becomes
his widow, that’s all.”
“Perhaps so,” assented Selden, scenting the baron’s teaching. “Just
the same she ought to know there is a widow. It would be squarer.”
“Oh, well, I can tell mother,” said Davis.
“I think she already knows.”
“Well then, it’s none of my business,” said Davis, impatiently. “And
don’t you worry about sis; she’s perfectly able to take care of herself,
and always has been. If you think she would take any advice from
her loving brother you’re greatly mistaken—she looks down upon me
as a kind of insect to be pitied but not respected. Also, if she has
made up her mind to marry Danilo, she’ll marry him just the same if
she knew he had ten widows! See here, though—I’ll tell her if you
want me to, provided you’ll do something for me.”
“What is it?” asked Selden.
“Help me to get mother’s consent to marry Cicette. I’m of age, and I
can marry anybody I want to—but dad never had much confidence
in me, and my money is all tied up so I can’t touch it. Beastly, I call
it. Of course I’d have enough to live on, but if I married Cicette, I’d
want to show her the time of her life. Will you?”
Selden looked appraisingly into the pleading face. Perhaps Davis
wasn’t such a bad sort, after all. The right kind of wife might make a
man of him. Even a big brother might do something. Selden had
never had a kid brother, and the thought rather appealed to him.
“I won’t promise,” he said. “I want to look you both over a bit more
first—I haven’t spoken two words to Cicette and not many more to
you.”
Davis must have seen a certain sympathy in Selden’s eyes, for he
caught his hand and wrung it delightedly.
“All right!” he shouted. “I agree. The more you see of Cicette, the
more you will like her. I’m not afraid of that. But you’ve got to
convince mother that she’s good enough for me.”
“Oh, I wasn’t thinking of that!” Selden retorted. “The only question
in my mind is whether you are good enough for her! Now I’ve got to
go,” and he left Davis staring after him in delighted amazement.
 CHAPTER XIV
PLACE AUX DAMES
SELDEN went up to his room and got ready for lunch with a clearer
conscience than he had had since he opened his eyes that morning.
At last he knew where he was—he was definitely aligned—not on
the king’s side, or the prince’s side, or Miss Davis’s side, or the
countess’s side, but on Madame Ghita’s side. And there, he was
quite sure, he would remain until the end, whatever the end might
be. Whatever help he could give her was hers to command. Not that
she seemed to need any help! Just the same, there he was, and the
consciousness of that fact might be some comfort to her.
And as the first step, he decided to be promptly on time, so that
Madame Ghita might find him—her ally!—on the spot when she
arrived. So, at one o’clock precisely, he was knocking at the door of
the countess’s suite.
It was opened by a heavy-set woman of middle age, Slav or Italian,
discretion personified. Evidently the countess chose her maid not for
looks but for qualities more useful, and one glance at this woman
confirmed him in the opinion that the countess was a born intriguer.
She took his hat and ushered him into the salon, where the countess
joined him in a moment.
“I know you will be greatly disappointed,” she said a little
maliciously, “but it is not to be a tête-à-tête, after all. Madame Ghita
is coming. You see I was right.”
“Yes—and I feel like the second at a duel,” Selden commented.
“Oh, do not be alarmed,” said the countess lightly. “There will be no
bloodshed—a few feints at the most. Then she will surrender. What
else can she do?”
“I am inclined to think she can upset the whole affair if she wants to
—so don’t be too confident. And I warn you that my sympathies are
entirely on her side.”
“I know it,” said the countess, looking at him with a strange little
smile. “That is one reason I wanted you here.”
And before he had a chance to ask her what she meant by that, the
maid ushered in Madame Ghita.
More than ever Selden was reminded of the field of honour by the
way the two ladies shook hands, each measuring the other, and he
breathed a sigh of relief, for it was instantly evident that Madame
Ghita had nothing to fear from her antagonist. She was, as always,
calm, smiling, perfectly at ease, while there was in the cheeks of the
countess an unwonted flush of colour which betrayed a profound
excitement.
“It was too good of you to offer me lunch, madame,” Madame Ghita
was saying. “I have heard so much of you from the prince, my
husband.”
Certainly, Selden thought, the lady was losing no time, for the last
words had been flung at the feet of the countess like a gage of
battle. But the countess chose for the moment to disregard them.
“Yes,” she said sweetly, “I had the pleasure of meeting Monsieur le
Prince a few nights ago. Permit me to present to you a friend of
mine, M. Selden.”
“Enchanted,” said madame; “it is always a pleasure to meet
Americans,” and she gave Selden her hand, her eyes shining with
amusement, with a quick little pressure of the fingers which
recognized him as an ally with a secret between them.
The countess had given a signal to her maid, who drew apart the
curtains before an alcove looking down upon the public gardens and
disclosed the waiting table.
“Come,” she said, and led the way to it, placing Selden on her right
and Madame Ghita on her left, facing each other across the centre-
piece of feathery mimosa.
“It is delightful here,” said Madame Ghita, looking out across the
gardens as she drew off her gloves and tucked them back out of the
way. “My apartment is on the other side, facing the south, with a
little too much sun. Here you have the sun only in the morning. Are
you staying in this hotel also, M. Selden?”
“Yes, madame,” said Selden, “and my room also faces the south; but
I do not complain, for I cannot soak up sun enough after two
months in the Balkans.”
“You have been in the Balkans? I have never been there. Strange, is
it not, when one considers that my husband is prince of a Balkan
country. But he himself has not been there for a long time—through
no fault of his,” she added with a smile.
“It appears he will be going back before long,” remarked the
countess.
She had nodded to the maid, who served the hors d’œuvres, taking
the dishes from a table near the outer door, where the waiters left
them—a discreet arrangement, to which she was apparently well
accustomed.
“Yes, I have heard that Baron Lappo has another plot in hand,” said
Madame Ghita negligently, and glanced at the maid.
“Ah, you can trust Anita,” said the countess quickly, noticing the
glance. “For one thing, she is very deaf.”
Madame Ghita laughed.
“Deafness is very convenient sometimes, is it not? And I can see she
is discreet. An old family servant, perhaps?”
“She has been with me for a long time,” said the countess. “She has
but one fault—a weakness for gambling. In Paris, she wastes her last
sou on the races; here the tables take everything.”
“It is a terrible vice,” agreed Madame Ghita. “Have you been having
good luck, M. Selden?”
“Really, madame,” said Selden, “I have never played seriously—I lack
the gambler’s instinct. When I am winning, I never dare to push my
good luck far enough, and when I am losing, I always stop just too
soon. I always hear my number come as I leave the table! To my
mind, the only way to play is to sit down certain of winning—
resolved to win, or to lose one’s last franc in the effort. But I have
not the temperament—I am too cautious.”
“Yes,” said Madame Ghita, “it is so my husband plays—and he
always loses his last franc.”
Again it seemed to Selden that there was a trace of defiance in the
way she uttered those words—“mon mari”—my husband. It was the
third time she had used them since she entered the room.
“He does not always lose, madame,” Selden corrected. “I saw him
winning the bank’s last franc a few nights ago.”
“But by this time the bank has them all back again. I sometimes
think it is even worse for a gambler to win than to lose. He is
encouraged to go on—to commit new follies. You should be thankful
you have not the temperament, M. Selden.”
“And you, madame?” he asked.
“Ah, I too gamble sometimes, it is true, not because I have the
temperament but because I have great need to distract my
thoughts. What would you, monsieur! Here am I the wife of a
prince, but not recognized because I have no money; in a position
the most equivocal, knowing that schemes are constantly afoot to
marry him to some other woman. Is it strange that I become a little
mad sometimes and do foolish things? I tremble myself at the things
I think of doing—plan out to the last little detail as I lie awake at
night staring at the ceiling. I have been to him a faithful wife—I
have been discreet—I have asked nothing—I have worked for his
interest whenever I could. And what is my reward? That fat Lappo
comes to me and insults me!”
“Surely he did not insult you, madame!” protested the countess.
“Is it not an insult to offer a woman a price for her love?” demanded
Madame Ghita. “And such a price!”
“If it is only a question of price,” began the countess.
“It is not!” broke in Madame Ghita. “After all, I have my pride! And I
have also perhaps more power than they think.”
“But you have always known, madame,” pointed out the countess,
“that some day the prince would marry.”
“Yes,” said madame; “but if I wish, I will take him away from his wife
on his wedding-night, as I did on the night of his betrothal!” and she
attacked her salade viciously. “Oh, I am not a fool,” she went on. “I
know what is planned—Danilo confides in me. I know what occurred
last night. I had made up my mind to prevent it, but....”
“But your better sense prevailed,” said the countess. “You said to
yourself, since a marriage must take place, it may as well be now as
any time, more especially since now it will give the dynasty its
throne again, while, in another six months, it will be too late.”
“That makes nothing to me!” sniffed Madame Ghita.
“And since it will also give you an annuity,” went on the countess,
undisturbed, “on which you can live in comfort—luxury even.”
“I warn you that luxury is expensive.”
“One can live very well,” said the countess, “even in these days, on a
hundred and fifty thousand francs a year.”
There was a moment’s silence. Selden was deeply moved to see a
tear roll slowly down Madame Ghita’s cheek and splash into her
plate. But there was one tear only; she was herself again in a
moment.
“Come,” she said, “I must understand where I am. Is it Lappo who
sent you to me?”
“Yes; he asked me to see you, since he had failed himself.”
“I am afraid I was not very polite to the good Lappo,” admitted
Madame Ghita, “though I am rather fond of him. But I was annoyed
that day, and it seemed to me that he took things too much for
granted—as though I had nothing to do but to accept whatever he
was pleased to allow me. He is in some ways a great man, and I
think he even has a certain fondness for me, but....”
“He has told me as much,” put in the countess.
“But beside this old king of his, this dynasty to which he is a slave,
nothing else matters. I am certain he would not hesitate to murder
his son, to kill his wife, if he had one, if they stood in its way. He is a
fanatic on that subject. It would be a good thing for him if the
dynasty perished. There is another thing I do not understand,” she
went on, more calmly. “Why is M. Selden present at this discussion?
Is he a witness?”
Selden, suddenly crimson, started to rise, but Madame Ghita waved
him imperatively back into his seat.
“I am not objecting to your presence, monsieur,” she said quickly.
“Pray do not take offence. But I should like to understand it.”
“M. Selden is not here of his own choice,” explained the countess.
“He is here because I asked him to come. As a witness, perhaps; but
a witness for you, madame, not for me.”
“I do not understand,” said Madame Ghita slowly, her eyes full upon
Selden’s.
“Madame,” said the countess, weighing each word and watching its
effect, “M. Selden is, as perhaps you do not know, a very great
journalist. Unfortunately he has always been an admirer of republics,
but the baron has, I think, convinced him that in this case the
monarchy can do more for our country than is possible for the
present republic. M. Selden’s support will mean a great deal to the
monarchy, and the baron has laboured hard to get it; but one
scruple remained in M. Selden’s mind—the fear that you would be
wronged too much—that you would not be treated fairly. So I asked
him to be present to-day in order that he might see for himself what
your feeling is. He has warned me more than once that he is here as
your ally.”
It was wonderful to see the change which came into Madame Ghita’s
eyes as this explanation proceeded—the tenderness, the happiness
of the look she turned on Selden. And when it was ended, she held
out her hand to him across the table.
“You will forgive me, monsieur,” she said softly. “I am very proud to
have such an ally!”
And whether he raised her hand to his lips, or whether it raised
itself, he never knew—but as he kissed those long, delicate fingers,
he felt them flutter shyly against his mouth, like the wing of a bird.
“Come,” said the countess, who had lost nothing of all this—who had
watched it indeed with the satisfaction of a general who sees his
plan of battle succeed; “tell me you accept. There is nothing else to
be done—your good sense tells you so. What would you gain by
making a scene? You might prevent this marriage—though even that
is by no means certain. But would that compensate you for ruining
the prince, upsetting the dynasty, and condemning yourself to a life
of poverty? There will never again be a chance like this. If this is
lost, all is lost. You are still young....”
“Yes,” said Madame Ghita with a little smile, “so there is no reason
why I should lead a life of poverty, unless I choose it.”
“That is true; but accept now, and you will have something very few
women have—independence. You will be free to look for love—to
wait for it!”
For an instant Madame Ghita’s eyes rested pensively upon Selden.
“Independence; yes, that is very nice,” she said. “But it is a pleasure
to be dependent upon a man when one loves him!” Then she looked
at the countess curiously. “I am astonished to find you on this side—
so eloquent! I had always understood that you were Jeneski’s
friend.”
Selden knew that the countess flushed, though his eyes were on the
table. But her hand was in the range of his vision, and he saw that it
was trembling.
“That is long since finished,” she said, a little thickly. “The baron is a
much older friend—and I am doing what I think best for my
country.”
“And for me also?” asked Madame Ghita, with a strange smile.
“Yes; for you also. Can you doubt it?”
Again there was a moment’s silence. Then Madame Ghita looked
across at Selden.
“Come, M. Selden,” she said, “since you are my friend and my ally,
what do you advise?”
“Ah, madame,” protested Selden, with a gesture of helplessness,
“how can I advise? I do not know what is in your heart!”
“But if my heart is not concerned?”
“In that case,” said Selden, a little coldly, “I should by all means
advise you to accept!”
He was looking at her now—at the vivid, mobile mouth with its little
mysterious smile; at the eyes curiously intent, as though experience
had taught her that she must look into people’s minds as they talked
in order to get their full meaning. And suddenly she burst into a peal
of laughter.
“How serious you are!” she cried. “And how shocked if, by any
chance, a woman tells the truth! Come, it is settled! I accept! The
prince shall have his little American with her millions, the king shall
have his throne again, Lappo shall have his heart’s desire, and I—I
shall have a hundred and fifty thousand francs a year, and shall be
free to look for love! So we shall all be happy! It is understood of
course that the hundred and fifty thousand will be mine to do with
as I please?”
“But certainly!” said the countess, looking at her curiously. “There
are no restrictions.”
“And you, Madame la Comtesse, what do you get? A new title? To
serve one’s country, yes, that is very noble; men have died for their
country; but for a woman it is not enough!”
“Ah,” said the countess, sombrely, “that is my secret! Perhaps you
will know some day!”
Madame Ghita looked at her for a moment with that clear and
penetrating gaze; then she pushed back her chair.
“Our business is arranged, then,” she said, “and I must be going. I
have a niece to look after. I promised her that I would not be long.
Madame, I have to thank you for a most delightful luncheon.”
“I also,” began Selden, but the countess stopped him.
“If you will remain for a moment,” she said.
Madame Ghita flashed an ironic glance into Selden’s face. What she
saw there seemed to amuse her.
“Au revoir, alors,” she said, and in a moment she was gone.
“So you see I was right,” commented the countess, as the door
closed behind her.
“Yes,” agreed Selden, a wry smile upon his lips. “Yes; she is, as you
said, a sensible woman!”
“Every woman in her position has to be sensible,” the countess
pointed out. “She may treat herself to nerves occasionally, but she
must never lose her head. And she is right—absolutely right!”
“Oh, of course she is right!” agreed Selden, a little bitterly. “But
sometimes it is better to be wrong—gloriously wrong!”
“Do not misjudge her,” said the countess quickly. “She may not be at
all sensible in the way you think. It was not because of the money
she accepted—I am sure of it. I doubt if she will even use it for
herself—you heard her stipulate that she might use it as she
pleased.”
“Yes,” said Selden; “but that would be very—ah—unusual.”
“She is an unusual woman. And if she ever loves a man—really loves
him—that man will be very fortunate; do you not think so?”
“Undoubtedly,” agreed Selden, trying to speak lightly. “I only hope
she finds the right one!”
“So do I,” said the countess. “I am sure she will!” she added, with a
little smile.
She was silent for a moment, looking at Selden’s troubled face, as
though hesitating whether or not to say something more.
“At least,” she went on, at last, “your compunctions in that direction
are at an end?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“I go to Nice this afternoon, as you know, to see Miss Davis. Then
my work will be finished.”
“You are going away?”
“Yes; I shall not stay here. But I shall tell you to-night how my
mission succeeded.”
“To-night?”
“Have you forgotten,” she asked, with a smile, “that you invited me
to dinner?”
“Pardon me!” he said, confused. So much had happened since that
invitation was given! “Of course!”
“At Ciro’s,” she went on.
“Yes, at Ciro’s,” he assented.
There was an ironic light in her eyes as she looked at him.