Delphi Collected Works of Edgar Rice Burroughs (Illustrated) (Series Four Book 26)

by Edgar Rice Burroughs

  For an hour The Rider told them tales of the road — of narrow escapes, of running fights with gendarmes, of rich hauls, and of lean days. When he paused to light another of Ivan’s gold tipped and monogrammed cigarets, Boris leaned back in his chair with a deep sigh.

  “Ah,” he murmured, “such freedom! You have lived. For such as you romance still exists; but for us life is a tame and prosaic thing. I wish that I were a bandit.”

  “And I,” said The Rider, “wish that I were a prince.”

  Boris sat suddenly erect with a half smothered exclamation.

  “Why not!” he cried. “It would be great sport.”

  “Why not what?” asked Nicholas.

  “Be a bandit for a week,” replied Boris.

  The others leaned back in their chairs, shouting in laughter. Ivan, tying a napkin about the lower half of his face, rose and pointed a salt shaker at Alexander menacingly.

  “Stand and deliver!” he cried. “I am Dimmie, the terror of the highways.”

  Boris joined in the good natured raillery; but when the laughter had subsided he turned toward The Rider.

  “You have said that you would like being a prince,” he said. “Well, you shall be, for a week, and I shall borrow your horse and your mask and uphold the honor of your calling upon the roads.”

  “Dimmie, you’re crazy,” cried Alexander, realizing at last that Boris was in earnest.

  The crown prince paid no attention to his friend’s interruption.

  “And you,” he continued, still addressing the bandit, “shall live like a prince while I am gone.”

  “It can’t be done, Dimmie,” broke in Alexander. “How could this man pass as Prince Boris? Except in size you are as unlike as two men can be. Where could he go to play prince where the imposture would not be immediately discovered and exposed?”

  “My hunting lodge,” cried Boris. “It’s just the place.”

  “But, Dimmie,” expostulated Ivan, “within the week you will receive his majesty’s commands to proceed to Demia, for the purpose of paying court to the future crown princess of Karlova — I have had the information in a letter from my father.”

  “Good!” exclaimed Boris. “Now I am unalterably decided, and a setting is provided where our friend here may play prince to his heart’s content and do me a good turn into the bargain.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Nicholas.

  “I mean,” replied Boris, “that I shall send The Rider to Demia to pay court to the Princess Mary of Margoth.

  The three guardsmen gasped.

  “You are my best friends,” continued Boris. “A thousand times have you sworn that you would willingly lay down your lives for me. Now I shall discover how sincere were your protestations of fidelity. I do not wish to marry, yet; and most certainly I do not wish to marry a scrawny-necked, watery-eyed Margoth princess. If she refuses me, I shall be saved; and our friend here can see to it that she refuses. Should she accept him,” and Boris could not restrain a grin of amusement, “I shall still be saved, since she will be married to another.”

  “But Dimmie,” cried Alexander, seriously, “you cannot mean to carry your hoax as far as that! It would mean war, Dimmie.”

  “And which of you would not prefer war with Margoth?” asked Boris.

  The others were silent. Prince Boris had spoken the truth, for the military party of Karlova had for long sought to foment trouble between the two countries. The crown prince, to whom they looked for guidance, had counseled temperance, and though the acknowledged head of the war party he had been the strongest advocate of peace with Margoth. Now, however, that a distasteful marriage was to be thrust upon him he was quite willing to go to any lengths, though the principal appeal of the adventure lay in its levity.

  Chapter Five

  THE CITY OF DEMIA was draped with bunting. The flags of Karlova and Margoth floated from a thousand windows and balconies. They were suspended across the main thoroughfares upon ropes of flowers. The colors of Karlova were twined with those of Margoth upon the coats of the men of Margoth and in the dark hair of the women; yet, notwithstanding these outward symbols of rejoicing, the hearts of the Margothians were heavy, for today a Karlovian prince was coming to pay court to their beloved princess, Mary of Margoth.

  In the palace of the king the object of their devotion stamped back and forth the length of her boudoir. Her little hands were flying in excited gestures as she stormed vehemently to the sympathetic ear of her audience of one. Faithful Carlotta shared her mistress’s aversion to the thought of the impending calamity.

  “I won’t! I won’t! I won’t!” cried Mary. “I’ll — I’ll die first. I won’t marry a hideous, hateful Karlovian. l don’t care if I am a princess. It isn’t my fault; and I don’t want to be one, anyway.”

  “My dear child,” and Carlotta’s voice was choked with sobs; “if poor old Carlotta could only help you! But there is no help. You were born to the purple, and you must accept the responsibilities of the purple; and, too, dear, you may find that Prince Boris is not entirely impossible — even though he be a Karlovian. He—”

  “Carlotta!” interrupted the Princess Mary, clapping her plams together. “I have it!”

  “Have what?” asked Carlotta.

  “Never mind what I have; but I have it; and, Carlotta, pay no attention to anything that I may say or do while Prince Boris is present. Do you understand?”

  There was a blare of trumpets from far down the broad avenue which leads up to the palace.

  “He is coming!” cried Carlotta.

  “But he won’t stay long,” said Princess Mary, with a shrug and a girlish giggle.

  In the uniform of colonel of The Black Guard, and attended only by three officers of that famous regiment, came Boris, Prince of Karlova to the court of Alexis III. Between lines of royal troops, down a flower-strewn boulevard he rode in the French limousine which had brought him along the Roman road from Sovgrad to Demia. Prince Stroebel, Prime Minister of Margoth had met him at the city gates, and now sat beside him. The crown prince of Karlova seemed ill at ease. He played with the sword knot upon the hilt of the jeweled weapon at his side. He cast apprehensive glances at the long line of soldiery, standing with arms at the present along either hand. To the perfunctory plaudits of the citizens of Demia he made no response.

  Ivan Kantchi, who sat just in front of him, kicked his royal foot and made a surreptitious gesture toward his helmet. The crown prince snatched off his own headgear and waved it frantically at the cheering populace. Ivan Kantchi bit his lip, and a slow flush crept up from beneath his military collar. Prince Stroebel became acutely interested in something straight ahead of him. Alexander Palenski, sitting beside Ivan, gave the latter an almost imperceptible nudge with his elbow. The people packing either side of the avenue gazed wide eyed at the crown prince of Karlova for a moment; then they broke into loud and tumultuous laughter.

  Prince Boris glanced nervously to right and left. He saw the strained expressions upon the faces of his companions, he sensed the jeers in the laughter of the people of Demia. Then he lost his temper. Jamming his helmet down upon his head, the eagles of The Black Guard to the rear instead of in front, he rose to his feet, and shaking his fists at the Margothians unloosed a stream of profane invective upon them.

  A young American, standing upon a balcony of Demia’s principal hotel, witnessed the outbreak.

  “The future husband of your princess appears to have a little temper of his own,” he commented, grinning, to a chance acquaintance at his side. The latter, a very tall young man, broad shouldered and with an unmistakably military bearing, smiled.

  “He doesn’t seem to be making a very good impression, does he?” he asked. “But you are mistaken, M. Main, in thinking me a Margothian. I am not. Just a chance visitor to Demia, like yourself.”

  “Well,” said Hemmington Main, “I hope that whatever your business here may be that you are more successful than I have been. One disappointment after another has b
een my lot since I first reached Europe, and now I have entirely lost track of those I am seeking. They should have arrived in Demia three days since, and I can only account for their absence on the hypothesis that — ahem — one of them discovered that I was following them and has altered their route in order to elude me.”

  “You are an American detective?” asked the stranger.

  Main laughed. “Far from it,” he replied; “though I have often thought, until recently, that I was a natural born sleuth; and now to lose two women and a chauffeur, to say nothing of two maids and an automobile, in the heart of Europe is a severe blow to my egotism.”

  “My dear fellow,” exclaimed the stranger; “can it be that be that you are trailing a convent?”

  “I’m trailing the dearest girl in the world,” replied Main.

  The other raised his eyebrows in partial understanding.

  “Ah,” he said; “a love affair — romance — adventure! My dear M. Main, I think that you are a man after my own heart, with this slight difference — you are seeking to find a love, I to elude one. Possibly we might join forces, eh?”

  “How?”

  “I do not know — we must leave that to fate; and while fate is mustering her forces let us find a table here on the balcony and investigate again that incomparable ‘bronx’ which you taught the bar boy to concoct before we were interrupted by the coming of His Royal Highness, Prince Boris of Karlova.”

  “You’re on,” cried Hemmington Main. “His royal nibs has passed. The troops are going. Hoi polloi are dispersing. The circus parade is over — now for red lemonade and peanuts.

  “You Americans don’t entertain a great deal of respect for royalty,” commented the stranger, with a good natured laugh.

  “Oh, but we do,” replied Main. “We deride the gods even while we tremble at their feet. We poke fun at kings, for whose lightest favor we would barter our souls. We are a strange race, monsieur. Europeans do not know us; nor is it strange, for, as a matter of fact, we do not know ourselves.”

  The two men had seated themselves at a small table near the balustrade, overlooking the avenue beneath. Traffic was once more assuming its normal condition, though many pedestrians still lingered in idle gossip upon the narrow walks. An automobile, a large touring car, honked noisily out of a side street and crossed toward the hotel entrance. Main chanced to be looking down into the street at the time. With an excited exclamation he half rose from his chair. “There they are!” he whispered. “There she is, now.”

  “Who?” asked the stranger.

  “The convent,” explained Main.

  “Good! You are something of a detective, after all.”

  The car drew up before the hotel and stopped two maids alighted, followed by a young girl and a white haired woman.

  “I am interested, my friend,” said the stranger. “Tell me something of your romance — it is possible that I may be of assistance to you.”

  Main looked the other squarely in the eyes. He had been attracted to the man from the first by that indefinable something which inspires confidence and belief even in total strangers.

  “My dear Kargovitch,” he said, “I do not know you from the side of a barn; but I like you. You are what my friend Garrigan of the late Chicago Press Club would call ‘a regular fellow.’ I think I’ll tell you my troubles; but I’ll promise not to weep on your shoulder — the bronx is far too mild for that.”

  M. Kargovitch leaned across the table and laid a hand on the American’s shoulder.

  “I am glad that you like me, my friend,” he said; “and I can assure you that I return the compliment. Tell me no more than you care to; and if I can help you, I will.

  Hemmington Main let his eyes return from the walk below, from which the little party had disappeared from the automobile into the interior of the hotel.

  “It is this way,” he said. “The young lady whom you just saw leaving the machine is Miss Gwendolyn Bass, daughter of Abner J. Bass the multi-millionaire American. I — er — ah — we, well, you understand; she is perfectly willing to become Mrs. Hemmington Main; and her father is with us, strong; but Mamma Bass has aspirations. She wants a title in the family. Money, of course, is no object to them. The fact that I am poor means nothing to Mrs. Bass one way or another; but, you see, being a plain American, I am absolutely titleless and, therefore, impossible. Gwendolyn would marry me in a minute if we could get her away from her mother long enough to have the ceremony performed; but mamma has Argus backed through the ropes in the first round when it comes to watchfulness. If I could only find some way to separate Gwen from mamma for about an hour it would all be over but the shouting.”

  M. Kargovitch smiled pleasantly at his American friend.

  “Let’s have another of those delicious ‘bronx’ inspirations,” he suggested; “it may inspire a solution of your problem.”

  When the waiter had brought the two drinks and set them upon the table, M. Kargovitch raised his glass to the American.

  “My regards, my friend,” he said. “I have been thinking, and I believe that I have found a way — listen;” and leaning across the table he bent close to Hemmington Main’s ear, into which he whispered a heaven born plan.

  When he had done Hemmington Main leaned back in his chair and laughed.

  “I would never take you for that sort,” he said; “and I don’t give two whoops in Hades if you are. You’re right, Kargovitch — you’re a right one; I’d trust you with my life and my pocket book too; but I can promise you, on the credit and the word of Abner J. Bass that you’ll be well paid if you can pull this thing off as you have outlined it. You won’t have to depend on what we’ve got in our pockets — just name your price and it’ll be paid.”

  “I promise you,” said M. Kargovitch, “that my charge shall not be exorbitant. I have taken a fancy to you and your bronxes, and it may be that I shall not ask a kopek of reward. Promise me that you will let me name my own price when the thing is done, and accept the word of a gentleman that no advantage will be taken of you or your friends.”

  “Done!” cried Hemmington Main; and he extended his hand across the little round table to the tall young man who faced him.

  “Now go,” said Kargovitch, “and learn if you can when Argus and Io leave Demia, and the road that they will take.”

  Chapter Six

  WHEN PRINCE BORIS OF KARLOVA stepped from his limousine before the palace of Alexis III of Margoth, Ivan Kantchi was close at his elbow. “Turn your helmet around,” he whispered into the royal ear, “and keep it on. In the name of Heaven, don’t take it off and wave it again. When you’re saluted, return the salute.”

  “Shut up,” growled the crown prince, “and don’t forget that I’m a highness. You ought to have your head chopped off. When we get back to Karlova I’ll see to it; but, Kantchi, my friend, if ever I do get back you’ll never make a prince of me again — I’d rather hang to the nearest gibbet.”

  “Which would suit your highness’s peculiar style of beauty far better than the purple,” replied Ivan.

  “Purple?” asked the crown prince. “I don’t see no purple in this uniform. It’s black and yellow.”

  “Hst!” warned Ivan; “Prince Stroebel is awaiting your highness. Trip along with him, and when you’re presented to the king don’t act like a swineherd — remember that you’re a prince.”

  The pseudo Prince Boris turned quickly to follow the instructions of his mentor. He took two or three rapid strides in the direction of the prime minister of Margoth, forgetful, for the instant, of the unaccustomed sabre which dangled at his side. The perverse weapon swung between his long legs, he tripped, stumbled, and lunged headlong upon the bemedalled breast of Prince Stroebel. His helmet tumbled from his head and rolled along the marble pavement; and one of his huge hands, grasping wildly for support jammed the helmet of the prime minister over that dignified official’s ears, extinguishing him, momentarily.

  From an upper window of the palace a pair of girlish eyes
looked down upon the scene. A girlish giggle broke from a pair of red lips, and Princess Mary of Margoth threw herself upon the window seat and shook with laughter.

  “Oh, Carlotta!” she cried. “Did you see him? And poor old Stroebel! It serves him right. It is he who is at the bottom of this ridiculous scheme to marry me to that hideous and impossible boor. He is even worse than I had imagined — from here I could see his red nose and his little, close-set eyes; but, Carlotta, we must hasten — the moment of the ordeal approaches. Oh, but won’t Da-da be mad!”

  “Yes, your highness, I think that he will,” agreed Carlotta, with an unmistakable shudder.

  “Come!” cried the Princess Mary, and seizing Carlotta by the hand she dragged that unhappy lady toward the door to the royal dressing room where behind bar and bolt, the two worked assiduously with pencil and paste, and comb and brush for the better part of an hour.

  The meeting between Alexis III of Margoth, and Crown Prince Boris of Karlova had passed off without any untoward incidents to greatly mar the felicity of the occasion. It is true that the royal Karlovian had seemed often at a loss as to just where to dispose his hands or feet to the best advantage; and that for a while he had sat with one long leg thrown in careless disorder over the arm of the great throne chair in which he sat beside his illustrious father-in-law-to-be, but on the whole he had gotten through the ordeal with much greater credit than he had won upon the streets of the capitol.

  The great functionaries of the state, the little functionaries, the nobles, the ambassadors from foreign courts, and the high officers of the Margothian army had been presented to the royal visitor. The absence of Baron Kantchi, the Karlovian minister, was duly explained by the Karlovian military chargé d’affaires — Baron Kantchi had received only that morning an urgent command from his royal master to present himself at court in Sovgrad without delay. The charge d’affaires looked rather frightened, uncomfortable and scandalized; but Ivan Kantchi, Alexander Palensk, and Nicholas Gregovitch supported him with such frightful glares that he managed to look almost happy as he kissed the large, red hand of Prince Boris of Karlova — happier by far than the prince.