Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22)

by Marie Corelli

  “Sit down, Roger!” he said, — then, as De Launay obeyed the invitation, he pushed over a box of cigars, and added— “You look exceedingly tired, my friend! Something has bored you more than usual? Take a lesson from those interesting creatures!” and he pointed with the stem of his pipe to the bottled animalculae— “They are never bored, — never weary of doing mischief! They are just now living under the pleasing delusion that the glass tube they are in is a man, and that they are eating him up alive. Little devils! Nothing will exhaust their vitality till they have gorged themselves to death! Just like a great many human beings!”

  “I am not in the mood for studying animalculae,” said De Launay irritably, as he lit a cigar.

  “No? But why not? They are really quite as interesting as ourselves!”

  “Look here, Von Glauben, I want you to be serious—”

  “My friend, I am always serious,” declared the Professor— “Even when I laugh, I laugh seriously. My laughter is as real as myself.”

  “What would you think,” — pursued De Launay— “of a king who freely expressed his own opinions?”

  “I should say he was a brave man,” answered the Professor; “He would certainly deserve my respect, and he should have it. Even if the laws of etiquette were not existent, I should feel justified in taking off my hat to him.”

  “Never from henceforth wear a hat at all then,” said De Launay— “It will save you the trouble of continually doffing it at every glimpse of his Majesty!”

  Von Glauben drew his pipe from his mouth and gazed blankly at the ceiling for a few moments in silence. “His Majesty?” he presently murmured— “Our Majesty?”

  “Yes; our Majesty — our King” — replied De Launay— “For some inscrutable reason or other he has suddenly adopted the dangerous policy of speaking his mind. What now?”

  “What now? Why nothing particular just now, — unless you have something to tell me. Which, judging from your entangled expression of eye, I presume you have.”

  De Launay hesitated a moment. The Professor saw his hesitation.

  “Do not speak, my friend, if you think you are committing a breach of confidence,” he said composedly— “In the brief affairs of this life, it is better to keep trouble on your own mind than impart it to others.”

  “Oh, there is no breach of confidence;” said De Launay, “The thing is as public as the day, or if it is not public already, it soon will be made so. That is where the mischief comes in, — or so I think. Judge for yourself!” And in a few words he gave the gist of the interview which had taken place between the King and the emissary of the Jesuits that morning.

  “Nothing surprises me as a rule,” — said the Professor, when he had heard all— “But if anything could prick the sense of astonishment anew in me, it would be to think that anyone, king or commoner, should take the trouble to speak truth to a Jesuit. Why, the very essence of their carefully composed and diplomatic creed, is to so disguise truth that it shall be no more recognisable. Myself, I believe the Jesuits to be the lineal descendants of those priests who served Bel and the Dragon. The art of conjuring and deception is in their very blood. It is for the Jesuits that I have invented a beautiful new verb,— ‘To hypocrise.’ It sounds well. Here is the present tense,— ‘I hypocrise, Thou hypocrisest, He hypocrises: — We hypocrise, You hypocrise, They hypocrise.’ Now hear the future. ‘I shall hypocrise, Thou shalt hypocrise, He shall hypocrise; We shall hypocrise, You shall hypocrise, They shall hypocrise.’ There is the whole art of Jesuitry for you, made grammatically perfect!”

  De Launay gave a gesture of impatience, and flung away the end of his half-smoked cigar.

  “Ach! That is a sign of temper, Roger!” said Von Glauben, shaking his head— “To lift one’s shoulders to the lobes of one’s ears, and waste nearly the half of an exceedingly expensive and choice Havana, shows nervous irritation! You are angry, my friend — and with me!”

  “No I am not,” replied De Launay, rising from his chair and beginning to pace the room— “But I do not profess to have your phlegmatic disposition. I feel what I thought you would feel also, — that the King is exposing himself to unnecessary danger. And I know what you do not yet know, but what this letter will no doubt inform you,” — and he drew an envelope bearing the Royal seal from his pocket and handed it to the Professor— “Namely, — that his Majesty is bent on rushing voluntarily into various other perils, unless perhaps, your warning or advice may hinder him. Mine has no effect, — moreover I am bound to serve him as he bids.”

  “Equally am I also bound to serve him;” — said Von Glauben, “And gladly and faithfully do I intend to perform my service wherever it may lead me!” Whereupon, shaking himself out of his recumbent position, like a great lion rolling out of his lair, he stood upright, and breaking the seal of the envelope he held, read its contents through in silence. Sir Roger stood opposite to him, watching his face in vain for any sign of astonishment, regret or dismay.

  “We must do as he commands,” — he said simply as he finished reading the letter and folded it up for safe keeping— “There is no other way; not for me at least. I shall most assuredly be at the appointed place, at the appointed hour, and in the appointed manner. It will be a change; certainly lively, and possibly beneficial!”

  “But the King’s life—”

  “Is in God’s keeping!” said Von Glauben,— “Believe me, Roger, no harm comes undeservedly to a brave man with a good conscience! It is a bad conscience which invites mischief. I am a great believer in the law of attraction. The good attracts the good, — the bad, the bad. That is why truthful persons are generally lonely — because nearly all the world’s inhabitants are liars!”

  “But the King—” again began Sir Roger.

  “The King is a man!” said Von Glauben, with a flash of pride in his eyes— “Which is more than I will say for most kings! Who shall blame him for asserting his manhood? Not I! Not you! Who shall blame him for seeking to know the real position of things in the country he governs? Not I! Not you! Our business is to guard and defend him — with our own lives, if necessary, — we shall do that with a will, Roger, shall we not?” And with an impulsive quickness of action, he took a sword from a stand of weapons near him, drew it from its scabbard and kissing the hilt, held it out to De Launay who did the same— “That is understood! And for the rest, Roger my friend, take it all lightly and easily — as a farce! — as a bit of human comedy, with a great actor cast for the chief role. We are only supers, you and I, but we shall do well to stand near the wings in case of fire!”

  He drew himself up to his great height and squared his shoulders, — then smiled benevolently.

  “I believe it will be all very amusing, Roger; and that your fears for the safety of his Majesty will be proved groundless. Remember, Court life is excessively dull, — truly the dullest form of existence on earth, — it is quite natural that he who is the most bored by it should desire some break in the terrible monotony!”

  “The monotony will certainly be broken with a vengeance, if the King continues in his present humour!” — said De Launay grimly.

  “Possibly! And let us hope the comfortable self-assurance and complacency of a certain successful Minister may be somewhat seriously disturbed!” rejoined Von Glauben,— “For myself, I assure you I see sport!”

  “And I scent danger,” — said De Launay— “For if any mischance happen to the King, the Prince is not ripe enough to rule.”

  A slight shadow darkened the Professor’s open countenance. He looked fixedly at Sir Roger, who met his gaze with equal fixity.

  “The Prince,” — he said slowly— “is young—”

  “And rash—” interposed De Launay.

  “No. Pardon me, my friend! Not rash. Merely honest. That is all! He is a very honest young man indeed. It is unfortunate that he is so; a ploughman may be honest if he likes, but a prince — never!”

  De Launay was silent.

  “I will now destroy a
world” — continued Von Glauben, “Kings, emperors, popes, councillors and common folk, can all perish incontinently, — as — being myself for the present the free agent of the Deity concerned in the matter, — I have something else to do than to look after them,” — and he took up the glass vessel containing the animalculae he had been watching, and cast it with its contents into a small stove burning dimly at one end of the apartment,— “Gone are their ambitions and confabulations for ever! How easy for the Creator to do the same thing with us, Roger! Let us not talk of any special danger for the King or for any man, seeing that we are all on the edge of an eternal volcano!”

  De Launay stood absorbed for a moment, as if in deep thought. Then rousing himself abruptly he said: —

  “You will not see the King, and speak with him before to-morrow night?”

  “Why should I?” queried the Professor. “His wish is a command which I must obey. Besides, my good Roger, all the arguments in the world will not turn a man from having his own way if he has once made up his own mind. Advice from me on the present matter would be merely taken as an impertinence. Moreover I have no advice to give, — I rather approve of the plan!”

  Sir Roger looked at him; and noting the humorous twinkle in his eyes smiled, though somewhat gravely.

  “I hope, with you, that the experiment may only prove an amusing one,” he said— “But life is not always a farce!”

  “Not always, but often! When it is not a farce it is a tragedy. And such a tragedy! My God! Horrible — monstrous — cruel beyond conception, and enough to make one believe in Hell and doubt Heaven!”

  He spoke passionately, in a voice vibrating with strong emotion. De Launay glanced at him wonderingly, but did not speak.

  “When you see tender young children tortured by disease,” he went on,— “Fair and gentle women made the victims of outrage and brutality — strong men killed in their thousands to gain a little additional gold, an extra slice of empire, — then you see the tragic, the inexplicable, the crazy cruelty of putting into us this little pulse called Life. But I try not to think of this — it is no use thinking!”

  He paused, — then in his usual quiet tone said:

  “To-morrow night, then, my friend?”

  “To-morrow night,” rejoined De Launay,— “Unless you receive further instructions from the King.”

  At that moment the clear call of a trumpet echoing across the battlements of the palace denoted the hour for changing the sentry. “Sunset already!” said Von Glauben, walking to the window and throwing back the heavy curtain which partially shaded it, “And yonder is Prince Humphry’s yacht on its homeward way.”

  De Launay came and stood beside him, looking out. Before them the sea glistened with a thousand tints of lustrous opal in the light of the sinking sun, which, surrounded by mountainous heights of orange and purple cloud, began to touch the water-line with a thousand arrowy darts of flame. The white-sailed vessel on which their eyes were fixed, came curtseying over the waves through a perfect arch of splendid colour, like a fairy or phantom ship evoked from a poet’s dream.

  “Absent all day, as he has been,” said De Launay, “his Royal Highness is punctual to the promised hour of his return.”

  “He is, as I told you, honest;” said Von Glauben, “and it is possible his honesty will be his misfortune.”

  De Launay muttered something inaudible in answer, and turned to leave the apartment.

  Von Glauben looked at him with an affectionate solicitude.

  “What a lucky thing it is you never married, Roger! Otherwise you would now be going to tell your wife all about the King’s plans! Then she, sweet creature, would go to confession, — and her confessor would tell a bishop, — and a bishop would tell a cardinal, — and a cardinal would tell a confidential monsignor, — and the confidential monsignor would tell the Supreme Pontiff, — and so all the world would be ringing with the news started by one little pretty wagging tongue of a woman!”

  A faint flush coloured De Launay’s bronzed cheek, but he laughed.

  “True! I am glad I have never married. I am still more glad — of circumstances” — he paused, — then went on, “which have so chanced to me that I shall never marry.” He paused again — then added— “I must be gone, Von Glauben! I have to meet Prince Humphry at the quay with a message from his Majesty.”

  “Surely,” said the Professor, opening his eyes very wide, “The Prince is not to be included in our adventure?”

  “By no means!” replied De Launay,— “But the King is not pleased with his son’s frequent absences from Court, and desires to speak with him on the matter.”

  Von Glauben looked grave.

  “There will be some little trouble there,” he said, with a half sigh— “Ach! Who knows! Perhaps some great trouble!”

  “Heaven forbid!” ejaculated Sir Roger,— “We live in times of peace. We want no dissension with either the King or the people. Till to-morrow night then?”

  “Till to-morrow night!” responded Von Glauben, whereupon Sir Roger with a brief word of farewell, strode away.

  Left to himself, the Professor still stood at his window watching the approach of the Prince’s yacht, which came towards the shore with such swift and stately motion through the portals of the sunset, over the sparkling water.

  “Unfortunate Humphry!” he muttered,— “What a secret he has entrusted me with! And yet why do I call him unfortunate? There should be nothing to regret — and yet — ! Well! The mischief was done before poor Heinrich von Glauben was consulted; and if poor Heinrich were God and the Devil rolled into one strange Eternal Monster, he could not have prevented it! What is done, can never be undone!”

  CHAPTER V.— “IF I LOVED YOU!”

  A singular pomp is sometimes associated with the announcement that my Lord Pedigree, or Mister Nobody has ‘had the honour of dining’ with their Majesties the King and Queen. Outsiders read the thrilling line with awe and envy, — and many of them are foolish enough to wish that they also were Lords Pedigree or Misters Nobody. As a matter of sad and sober fact, however, a dinner with royal personages is an extremely dull affair. ‘Do not speak unless you are spoken to,’ is a rule which, however excellent and necessary in Court etiquette, is apt to utterly quench conversation, and render the brightest spirits dull and inert. The silent and solemn movements of the Court flunkeys, — the painful attitudes of those who are not ‘spoken to’; the eager yet laboured smiles of those who are ‘spoken to ‘; — the melancholy efforts at gaiety — the dread of trespassing on tabooed subjects — these things tend to make all but the most independent and unfettered minds shrink from such an ordeal as the ‘honour’ of dining with kings. It must, however, be conceded that the kings themselves are fully aware of the tediousness of their dinner parties, and would lighten the boredom if they could; but etiquette forbids. The particular monarch whose humours are the subject of this ‘plain unvarnished’ history would have liked nothing better than to be allowed to dine in simplicity and peace without his conversation being noted, and without having a flunkey at hand to watch every morsel of food go into his mouth. He would have liked to eat freely, talk freely, and conduct himself generally with the ease of a private gentleman.

  All this being denied to him, he hated the dinner-hour as ardently as he hated receiving illuminated addresses, and the freedom of cities. Yet all things costly and beautiful were combined to make his royal table a picture which would have pleased the eyes and taste of a Marguerite de Valois. On the evening of the day on which he had determined, as he had said to himself, to ‘begin to reign,’ it looked more than usually attractive. Some trifling chance had made the floral decorations more tasteful — some amiable humour of the providence which rules daily events, had ordained that two or three of the prettiest Court ladies should be present; — Prince Humphry and his two brothers, Rupert and Cyprian, were at table, — and though conversation was slow and scant, the picturesqueness of the scene was not destroyed by silence. The apart
ment which was used as a private dining-room when their Majesties had no guests save the members of their own household, was in itself a gem of art and architecture, — it had been designed and painted from floor to ceiling by one of the most famous of the dead and gone masters, and its broad windows opened out on a white marble loggia fronting the ocean, where festoons of flowers clambered and hung, in natural tufts and trails of foliage and blossom, mingling their sweet odours with the fresh scent of the sea. Amid all the glow and delicacy of colour, the crowning perfection of the perfect environment was the Queen-Consort, lovelier in her middle-age than most women in their teens. An exquisite figure of stateliness and dignity, robed in such hues and adorned with such jewels as best suited her statuesque beauty, and attended by ladies of whose more youthful charms she was never envious, having indeed no cause for envy, she was a living defiance to the ravages of time, and graced her royal husband’s dinner-table with the same indifferent ease as she graced his throne, unchanging in the dazzling light of her physical faultlessness. He, looking at her with mingled impatience and sadness, almost wished she would grow older in appearance with her years, and lose that perfect skin, white as alabaster, — that glittering but cold luminance of eye. For experience had taught him the worthlessness of beauty unaccompanied by tenderness, and fair faces had no longer the first attraction for him. His eldest son, Prince Humphry, bore a strong resemblance to himself, — he was tall and slim, with a fine face, and a well-built muscular figure; the other two younger princes, Rupert and Cyprian, aged respectively eighteen and sixteen, were like their mother, — beautiful in form and feature, but as indifferent to all tenderness of thought and sentiment as they were full of splendid health and vigour. And, despite the fact that the composition and surroundings of his household were, to all outward appearances, as satisfactory as a man in his position could expect them to be, the King was intellectually and spiritually aware of the emptiness of the shell he called ‘home.’