Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “Nothing will be done publicly, of course, — unless Parliament insists on an enquiry!” The speaker came towards the hall, and the valet sprang up from his bench, and stood ready to show the stranger out.

  Jost replied, and his accents were thick and unsteady.

  “Enquiry cannot be forced! The Marquis himself can burk any such attempt.”

  “But — if the King should insist?”

  “He would be breaking all the rules of custom and precedent,” said Jost,— “And he would deserve to be dethroned!”

  Pasquin Leroy laughed.

  “True! Good-night, Mr. Jost! Can I do anything for you in Moscow?” The two men now came into the full light shed by the great lamp in the hall. Jost looked darkly red in the face — almost apoplectic; Leroy was as cool, imperturbable and easy of manner as a practised detective or professional spy.

  “In Moscow,” Jost repeated— “You are going straight to Russia?”

  “I think so.”

  “I suppose you are in the secret service?”

  “Exactly! A curious line of business, too, which the outside world knows very little of. Ah! — if the excellent people — the masses as we call them — knew what rogues had the ruling of their affairs in some countries — not in this country, of course!” he added with a quizzical smile,— “but in some others, not very far away, I wonder how many revolutions would break out within six months! Good-night, Mr. Jost!”

  “Good-night!” responded Jost briefly. “You will let me know any further developments?”

  “Most assuredly!”

  The servant opened the door, and Pasquin Leroy slipped a gold coin worth a sovereign into his hand, whereupon, of course, the worthy domestic considered him to be a ‘real gentleman.’ As soon as he had passed into the street, and the door was shut and barred for the night, Jost bade his man go to bed, a command which was gladly obeyed; and re-entering his study, passed all the time till the breaking of dawn in rummaging out letters and documents from various desks, drawers and despatch-boxes, and burning them carefully one by one in the open grate. While thus employed, he had a truly villainous aspect, — each flame he kindled with each paper seemed to show up a more unpleasing expression on his countenance, till at last, — when such matter was destroyed as he had at present determined on, — he drew himself up and stood for a moment surveying the pile of light black ashes, which was all that was left of about a hundred or more incriminating paper witnesses to certain matters in which he had more than a lawful interest.

  “It will be difficult now to trace my hand in the scheme!” he said to himself, frowning heavily, as he considered various uncomfortable contingencies arising out of his conversation with his late visitor. “If the thunderbolt falls, it will crush Carl Pérousse — not me. Yes! It means ruin for him — ruin and disgrace — but for me — well! I shall find it as easy to damn Pérousse as it has been to support him, for he cannot involve me without adding tenfold to his own disaster! I think it will be safe enough for me — possibly not so safe for the Premier. However, I will write to him to-morrow, just to let him know I received his messenger.”

  In the meantime, while David Jost was thus cogitating unpleasant and even dangerous possibilities, which were perhaps on the eve of occurring to himself and certain of his associates in politics and journalism, Pasquin Leroy was hurrying along the city streets under the light of a clear, though pallid and waning moon. Few wanderers were abroad; the police walked their various rounds, and one or two miserable women passed him, like flying ghosts in the thin air of night. His mind was in a turmoil of agitation; and the thoughts that were tossing rapidly through his brain one upon the other, were such as he had never known before. He had fathomed a depth of rascality and deception, which but a short month ago, he could scarcely have believed capable of existence. The cruel injury and loss preparing for thousands of innocent persons through the self-interested plotting of a few men, was almost incalculable, — and his blood burned with passionate indignation as he realized on what a verge of misery, bloodshed, disaster and crime the unthinking people of the country stood, pushed to the very edge of a fall by the shameless and unscrupulous designs of a few financiers, playing their gambling game with the public confidence, — and cheating nations as callously as they would have cheated their partners at cards.

  “Thank God, it is not too late!” he murmured; “Not quite too late to save the situation! — to rescue the people from long years of undeserved taxation, loss of trade and general distress! It is a supreme task that has been given me to accomplish! — but if there is any truth and right in the laws of the Universe, I shall surely not be misjudged while accomplishing it!”

  He quickened his pace; — and to avoid going up one of the longer thoroughfares which led to the citadel and palace, he decided to cross one of the many picturesque bridges, arched over certain inlets from the sea, and forming canals, where barges and other vessels might be towed up to the very doors of the warehouses which received their cargoes. But just as he was about to turn in the necessary direction, he halted abruptly at sight of two men, standing at the first corner in the way of his advance, talking earnestly. He recognized them at once as Sergius Thord and the half-inebriated poet, Paul Zouche. With noiseless step he moved cautiously into the broad stretch of black shadow cast by the great façade of a block of buildings which occupied half the length of the street in which he stood, and so managing to slip into the denser darkness of a doorway, was able to hear what they were saying. The full, mellow, and persuasive tone of Thord’s voice had something in it of reproach.

  “You shame yourself, Zouche!” he said; “You shame me; you shame us all! Man, did God put a light of Genius in your soul merely to be quenched by the cravings of a bestial body? What associate are you for us? How can you help us in the fulfilment of our ideal dream? By day you mingle with litterateurs, scientists, and philosophers, — report has it that you have even managed to stumble your way into my lady’s boudoir; — but by night you wander like this, — insensate, furious, warped in soul, muddled in brain, and only the heart of you alive, — the poor unsatisfied heart — hungering and crying for what itself makes impossible!”

  Zouche broke into a harsh laugh. Turning up his head to the sky, he thrust back his wild hair, and showed his thin eager face and glittering eyes, outlined cameo-like by the paling radiance of the moon.

  “Well spoken, my Sergius!” he exclaimed. “You always speak well! Your thoughts are of flame — your speech is of gold; the fire melts the ore! And then again you have a conscience! That is a strange possession! — quite useless in these days, like the remains of the tail we had when we were all happy apes in the primeval forest, pelting the Megatherium or other such remarkable beasts with cocoanuts! It was a much better life, Sergius, believe me! A Conscience is merely a mental Appendicitis! There should be a psychical surgeon with an airy lancet to cut it out. Not for me! — I was born perfect — without it!”

  He laughed again, then with an abrupt change of manner he caught Thord violently by the arm.

  “How can you speak of shame?” he said— “What shame is left in either man or woman nowadays? Naked to the very skin of foulness, they flaunt a nudity of vice in every public thoroughfare! Your sentiments, my grand Sergius, are those of an old world long passed away! You are a reformer, a lover of truth — a hater of shams — and in the days when the people loved truth, — and wanted justice, — and fought for both, you would have been great! But greatness is nowadays judged as ‘madness’ — truth as ‘want of tact’ — desire for justice is ‘clamour for notoriety.’ Shame? There is no shame in anything, Sergius, but honesty! That is a disgrace to the century; for an honest man is always poor, and poverty is the worst of crimes.” He threw up his arms with a wild gesture,— “The worst of crimes! Do I not know it!”

  Thord took him gently by the shoulder.

  “You talk, Zouche, as you always talk, at random, scarcely knowing, and certainly not half meaning what you
say. There is no real reason in your rages against fate and fortune. Leave the accursed drink, and you may still win the prize you covet — Fame.”

  “Not I!” said Zouche scornfully,— “Fame in its original sense belonged also to the growing-time of the world — when, proud of youth and the glow of life, the full-fledged man judged himself immortal. Fame now is adjudged to the biped-machine who drives a motor-car best, — or to the fortunate soap-boiler who dines with a king! Poetry is understood to be the useful rhyme which announces the virtues of pills and boot-blacking! Mark you, Sergius! — my latest volume was ‘graciously accepted by the King’! Do you know what that means?”

  “No,” replied Thord, a trifle coldly; “And if it were not that I know your strange vagaries, I should say you wronged your election as one of us, to send any of your work to a crowned fool!”

  Zouche laughed discordantly.

  “You would? No, you would not, my Sergius, if you knew the spirit in which I sent it! A spirit as wild, as reckless, as ranting, as defiant as ever devil indulged in! The humility of my presentation letter to his Majesty was beautiful! The reply of the flunkey-secretary was equally beautiful in smug courtesy: ‘Sir, I am commanded by the King to thank you for the book of poems you have kindly sent for his acceptance!’ I say again, Thord, do you know what it means?”

  “No; I only wish that instead of talking here, you would let me see you safely home.”

  “Home! I have no home! Since she died—” He paused, and a grey shadow crossed his face like the hue of approaching sickness or death. “I killed her, poor child! Of course you know that! I neglected her, — deserted her — left her to die! Well! She is only one more added to the list of countless women martyrs who have been tortured out of an unjust world — and now — now I write verses to her memory!” He shivered as with cold, still clinging to Thord’s arm. “But I did not tell you what great good comes of sending a book to the King! It means less to a writer than to a boot-maker. For the boot-maker can put up a sign: ‘Special Fitter for the ease of His Majesty’s Corns’ — but if a poet should say his verse is ‘accepted’ by a monarch, the shrewd public take it at once to be bad verse, and will have none of it! That is the case with my book to-day!”

  “Why did you send it?” asked Thord, with grave patience. “Your business with kings is to warn, not to flatter!”

  “Just so!” cried Zouche; “And if His Most Gracious and Glorious had been pleased to look inside the volume, he would have seen enough to startle him! It was sent in hate, my Sergius, — not in humility, — just as the flunkey-secretary’s answer was penned in derision, aping courtesy! How you look, under this wan sky of night! Reproachful, yet pitying, as the eyes of Buddha are your eyes, my Sergius! You are a fine fellow — your brain is a dome decorated with glorious ideals! — and yet you are like all of us, weak in one point, as Achilles in the heel. One thing could turn you from man into beast — and that would be if Lotys loved — not you — she never will love you — but another!” — Thord started back as though suddenly stabbed, and angrily shook off his companion, who only laughed again, — a shrill, echoing laugh in which there was a note of madness and desolation. “Bah!” he exclaimed; “You are a fool after all! You work for a woman as I did — once! But mark you! — do not kill her — as I did — once! Be patient! Watch the light shine, even though it does not illumine your path; be glad that the rose blooms for itself, if not for you! It will be difficult! — meanwhile you can live on hope — a bitter fruit to eat; but gnaw it to the last rind, my Sergius! Hope that Lotys may melt in your fire, as a snowflake in the sun! Come! Now take the poor poet home, — the drunken child of inspiration — take him home to his garret in the slums — the poet whose book has been accepted by the King!”

  Pulling himself up from his semi-crouching position, he seized Thord’s arm again more tightly, and began to walk along unsteadily. Presently he paused, smiling vacantly up at the gradually vanishing stars.

  “Lotys speaks to our followers on Saturday,” he said; “You know that?”

  Thord bent his head in acquiescence.

  “You will be there, of course. I shall be there! What a voice she has! Whether we believe what she says or not, we must hear, — and hearing, we must follow. Where shall we drink in the sweet Oracle this time?”

  “At the People’s Assembly Rooms,” responded Thord; “But remember, Zouche, she does not speak till nine o’clock. That means that you will be unfit to listen!”

  “You think so?” responded Zouche airily, and leaning on Thord he stumbled onward, the two passing close in front of the doorway where Pasquin Leroy stood concealed. “But I am more ready to understand wisdom when drunk, than when sober, my Sergius! You do not understand. I am a human eccentricity — the result of an amour between a fiend and an angel! Believe me! I will listen to Lotys with all my devil-saintly soul, — you will listen to her with all your loving, longing heart — and with us two thus attentive, the opinions of the rest of the audience will scarcely matter! How the street reels! How the old moon dances! So did she whirl pallidly when Antony clasped his Egyptian Queen, and lost Actium! Remember the fate of Antony, Sergius! Kingdoms would have been seized and controlled by men such as you are, long before now — if there had not always been a woman in the case — a Cleopatra — or a Lotys!”

  Still laughing foolishly, he reeled onwards, Sergius Thord half-supporting, half-leading him, with grave carefulness and brotherly compassion. They were soon out of sight; and Pasquin Leroy, leaving his dark hiding-place, crossed the bridge with an alert step, and mounted a steep street leading to the citadel. From gaps between the tall leaning houses a glimpse of the sea, silvered by the dying moonlight, flashed now and again; and in the silence of the night the low ripple of small waves against the breakwater could be distinctly heard. A sense of holy calm impressed him as he paused a moment; and the words of an old monkish verse came back to him from some far-off depth of memory:

  Lord Christ, I would my soul were clear as air,

  With only Thy pure radiance falling through!

  He caught his breath hard — there was a smarting sense as of tears in his eyes.

  “So proudly throned, and so unloved!” he muttered. “Yet, — has not the misprisal and miscomprehension been merited? Whose is the blame? Not with the People, who, despite the prophet’s warning, ‘still put their trust in princes’ — but with the falsity and hollowness of the system! Sovereignty is like an old ship stuck fast in the docks, and unfit for sailing the wide seas — crusted with barnacles of custom and prejudice, — and in every gale of wind pulling and straining at a rusty chain anchor. But the spirit of Change is in the world; a hurrying movement that has wings of fire, and might possibly be called Revolution! It is better that the torch should be lighted from the Throne than from the slums!”

  He went on his way quickly, — till reaching the outer wall of the citadel, he was challenged by a sentinel, to whom he gave the password in a low tone. The man drew back, satisfied, and Leroy went on, mounting from point to point of the cliff, till he reached a private gate leading into the wide park-lands which skirted the King’s palace. Here stood a muffled and cloaked figure evidently watching for him; for as soon as he appeared the gate was noiselessly opened for his admittance, and he passed in at once. Then he and the person who had awaited his coming, walked together through the scented woods of pine and rhododendrons, and talking in low and confidential voices, slowly disappeared.

  CHAPTER XIV. — THE KING’S VETO

  The Marquis de Lutera was a heavy sleeper, and for some time had been growing stouter than was advisable for the dignity of a Prime Minister. He had been defeated of late years in one or two important measures; and his colleague, Carl Pérousse, had by gradual degrees succeeded in worming himself into such close connection with the rest of the members of the Cabinet, that he, Lutera, felt himself being edged out, not only from political ‘deals,’ but from the profits appertaining thereto. So, growing somewhat indifferent, a
s well as disgusted at the course affairs were taking, he had made up his mind to retire from office, as soon as he had carried through a certain Bill which, in its results, would have the effect of crippling the people of the country, while helping on his own interests to a considerable degree. At the immediate moment he had a chance of looming large on the political horizon. Carl Pérousse could not do anything of very great importance without him; they were both too deeply involved together in the same schemes. In point of fact, if Pérousse could bring the Premier to a fall, the Premier could do the same by Pérousse. The two depended on each other; and Lutera, conscious that if Pérousse gained any fresh accession of power, it would be to his, Lutera’s, advantage, was gradually preparing to gracefully resign his position in the younger and more ambitious man’s favour. But he was not altogether comfortable in his mind since his last interview with the King. The King had shown unusual signs of self-will and obstinacy. He had presumed to give a command affecting the national policy; and, moreover, he had threatened, if his command were not obeyed, to address Parliament himself on the subject in hand, from the Throne. Such an unaccustomed, unconstitutional idea was very upsetting to the Premier’s mind. It had cost him a sleepless night; and when he woke to a new day’s work, he was in an extremely irritable humour. He was doubtful how to act; — for to complain of the King would not do; and to enlighten the members of the Cabinet as to his Majesty’s declared determination to dispose amicably of certain difficulties with a foreign power, which the Ministry had fully purposed fanning up into a flame of war, might possibly awaken a storm of dissension and discussion.

  “We all want money!” said the Marquis gloomily, as he rose from his tumbled bed to take his first breakfast, and read his early morning letters— “And to crush a small and insolent race, whose country is rich in mineral product, is simply the act of squeezing an orange for the necessary juice. Life would be lost, of course, but we are over-populated; and a good war would rid the country of many scamps and vagabonds. Widows and orphans could be provided for by national subscriptions, invested as the Ministry think fit, and paid to applicants after about twenty years’ waiting!” He smiled sardonically. “The gain to ourselves would be incalculable; new wealth, new schemes, new openings for commerce and speculation in every way! And now the King sets himself up as an obstacle to progress! If he were fond of money, we could explain the whole big combine, and offer him a share; — but with a character such as he possesses, I doubt if it would work! With some monarchs whom I could name, it would be perfectly easy. And yet, — for the three years he has been on the throne, he has been passive enough, — asking no questions, — signing such documents as he has been told to sign, — uttering such speeches as have been written for him, — and I was never more shocked and taken aback in my life than yesterday morning, when he declared he had decided to think and act for himself! Simply preposterous! An ordinary man who presumes to think and act for himself is always a danger to the community — but a king! Good Heavens! We should have the old feudal system back again.”