Chapter I: Am the Lady Trusia (3)

"This," he said, looking up gravely, "purports to be a preliminary report of Calvert Carter and Todcaster Carrick to their immediate superior in the Imperial Secret Police at Warsaw. It contains a further promise of early developments and the coming of a King to Krovitch. It is signed 'Calvert Carter.'"

Sobieska reached so suddenly forward to touch a call bell that Johann jumped. A gray-haired sergeant entered.

"A corporal and file," was Sobieska's command. Carter straightened himself haughtily. Were they going to arrest him for this forgery?

"Count Sobieska," he began indignantly, while Johann's dull eyes brightened.

"Wait, please," was the Minister's only comment.

Carter turned to Her Grace to remonstrate against such an indignity, but her head was turned from him. There were footsteps, rhythmic, orderly, at the door. It opened to admit the corporal and his men. Vividly it recalled to Carter another such scene when he was a judge and----

"Put Johann under arrest," came the curt interruption to his thoughts from the lips of Sobieska. "If you permit any one to communicate with him, it will mean a court martial for all of you," said the Minister.

The sudden and unexpected reversal of the preconceived program was too much for the messenger, as, cursing and struggling, he was hustled toward the door. As the heavy oak panel swung to upon the prisoner, he muttered something which caught the waiting ear of Sobieska, who glanced toward his princess to see if she had heard. Satisfied that she had not, he swept a triumphant look at Carter, who was dumbfounded at the turn affairs had taken. The American stretched out his hand to the Krovitzer.

"Paul Zulka's friends are to be trusted," said Sobieska. "You have already made a personally vindictive enemy," he continued; "have you any idea who it is?" The indolent wink accompanying the inquiry cautioned Carter not to name any one if he had.

"I have," replied Calvert, who had understood the signal.

"Don't name him then, at present," requested the Minister.

"Why not?" queried an indignant Trusia, "as Major Carter is innocent, this wretch must be punished at once."

"Your Highness," respectfully counseled the Privy Counselor, "Major Carter has been in our country too short a time even to be sure of his friends, much less of his enemies. His surmises, therefore, might be unwarranted, and might put a perfectly innocent person under suspicion. Be assured," he asserted vehemently, "I will thoroughly sift out this matter in my official capacity. Whether it confirms his premonitions or not, you will learn in due time. I am inclined to believe that Johann was intended to fall into your hands, but with a different intent. Either that or the message was meant for Russia, the risk to be shouldered upon Carter. May I employ Josef," he requested blandly, "as a messenger to Colonel Sutphen?"

"Certainly," she replied, and the old fellow was sent for.

There was neither tremor nor twitch on his impassive countenance as he responded to the summons, although he must have missed Johann and knew not what had transpired.

"You are to take this note to Colonel Sutphen at once," said Sobieska curtly. "At once," he reiterated with emphasis, "don't even wait for a hat. Your trip and return will be timed," he was fairly warned. "It is of the utmost importance," the Minister remarked impressively as he handed the retainer a hastily scrawled but securely sealed note. Josef might have been carrying the order for his own execution, for all he knew, but he did not permit any outward sign of trepidation to show in his face. With commendable alacrity he left the room on his mission, watched by Sobieska in the doorway. Returning, with hardly concealed impatience, the Minister begged of Her Grace to be excused for the time being and requested the assistance of Carter.

"Yes, Sobieska, go," she said. "I am as anxious as you can be to reach the bottom of this mystery. Somehow, I cannot help feeling that there is something inimical to my country in it all."

"Pray God that it is not so," said the Minister as he bowed her from the office. No sooner was she gone than the two men faced each other, the same thought in their minds, the same name on their lips.

"Josef," they said in the same breath.

"There's not a minute to lose," continued the Minister. "That is why I trumped up that message to get him out of the way. We must search his room immediately, before he has a chance to forestall us. Come," he said, grasping Carter's arm.

Together they mounted stairways, plunged down passages, grim and shadow infested, until the Servitor's room was reached. The barrenness of the place seemed to be sufficient guarantee for the honesty of its usual occupant. A table without a drawer, no closet and some burned-out logs in the large fireplace afforded but scant hiding places. Sobieska carefully tapped each board separately to ascertain if a secret receptacle had been formed in such a fashion, but the floor was perfectly solid. He tried the flagging of the hearth as well as the brick arch of the fireplace with no more success. He was about to acknowledge failure when Carter accidentally turned over one of the charred logs lying at his feet. An exclamation burst from the Minister's lips.

Minute and scattered fragments of paper, saved from the blaze by the bulk of the log above them, lay scattered on the hearth. These Sobieska pounced upon eagerly.

Further search bore no fuller fruit, so with their meagre harvest the pair descended to the office again. Here the Krovitzer, piecing the fragments together, and pasting them on a sheet of paper, laid them before Carter.

"There," said the Minister, "are the experiments in your handwriting. Now wait until he comes back."

"But how did he get a copy?" queried the puzzled American.

"Easy enough," replied Sobieska. "He kept those papers he took from you in the cell yesterday. Your passport furnished your signature. He's a clever rascal. Substituted the forgery for the other letter, while Johann drank. Either that or they're in league together, which I am not prepared to believe, yet. In any event we must get a new messenger."

"Tell me," said the curious Carter, "how came you to suspect Josef, as you read the letter Johann had with him?"

Sobieska smiled indulgently. "A man of your varied metropolitan experience would scarcely write a letter as he would a thesis for a University degree. Whoever wrote that epistle had doubtless a work of rhetoric at his elbow, fearful of mistakes. Look at it yourself," and he pushed the paper over to Carter. It was, indeed, a studied composition of good proportions and well rounded sentences.

"I have heard you talk," continued his instructor, "and I felt satisfied that Major Carter, if a spy, would hardly have wasted his efforts in such a prim presentation of his facts." He glanced at his watch. "He would have doubtless used cipher. Josef is due in just one minute now. There he comes," he said, as there was a low rap at the door. "Come in."

Punctuality outdone, Josef entered and handed Sobieska a note. Without even glancing at it, the latter tossed it on the table. Picking up the sheet on which were the pasted fragments, he handed it to the Servitor, watching him closely with narrowing eyes. Without a tremor the paper was received, examined, read, and handed back to Sobieska with a smile.

"Well, Excellency?"

"Ever see that before, Josef?"

"I think so, Excellency. Did you find them in my room?" he inquired with quiet effrontery.

"They were found there. I found them," replied Sobieska coolly, not yet despairing of breaking down the impassive wall with which Josef had surrounded his thoughts.

"Then I have seen them before," the Servitor answered as though courteously acknowledging an irrefutable logic. "I took them there to interpret them," he said as if willing to make an explanation though not admitting any necessity. "I found them beneath a certain window last night--in the courtyard of the inn," he concluded with a significant glance at Carter. Then boldly his eyes challenged both men.

"It's a lie," said Carter contemptuously. Josef smiled.

"Your word--the word of a stranger--against mine," he sneered. "Shall I appeal to Her Highness?"

"Her Highness knows everything," hazarded Sobieska. "From Johann," he added deliberately.

There was a start, if you call the slightest flicker of the eyelids such--to show that the shot had told; then Josef, calm as before, inquired,

"Then of what interest can these scraps of paper be?"

"Be careful, Josef," interrupted Carter, whose anger had not yet been appeased, "that you do not pick up something deadly--in the courtyard of the inn, something like a revolver bullet."

The fellow bowed mockingly to the last speaker, then turning to Sobieska said, "May I go, Excellency?" Sobieska nodded assent.

"Wait," said Carter, and Josef paused.

"You say you found these papers--in the courtyard of the inn," said Carter endeavoring to connect the man with the mishap to the auto, "any place near the carriage shed?"

The Servitor smiled and assumed a non-committal aloofness.

"Why," he asked as, turning, he left the room.

Following a short talk with the Minister of Private Intelligence, Carter took his departure, and, as he rode thoughtfully back to the inn, he was startled to see a distraught Carrick arise from a stone by the highway.

"Why, Carrick," he cried with a premonitive feeling of some new evil, "what brings you here?"

"Been huntin' for you for nearly three hours, sir. I could not bide there, sir, till I 'ad seen you."

Carter, dismounting, took the bridle rein over his arm and walked alongside the Cockney, who in detail recited the story of a meeting of Josef and Johann in the wood, which, unseen by them, he had watched, and which in every detail corroborated the recital of Johann and the surmises of Sobieska.

"What do you think of it, sir?" he concluded.

Carter shook his head gravely.

"I can't say, Carrick. Keep your eyes and ears open, but do not say a word to any one but me of this or anything else you happen to notice about Josef. There's some game going on that I have not fathomed yet.

"Tod Carrick," he continued in a burst of affectionate consideration, "you're a good faithful soul. Here's my hand. I do not believe you have had a mouthful to eat to-day. Now, have you?"

The Cockney smiled.

"I forgot, sir," he answered almost shyly, elated with the words of approval he had won.

XV

THE DREAM KISS

The next day in solemn conclave the Counselors decided that the time had come to bring the King to Krovitch.

"All is ready," said the grizzled Sutphen, "to inaugurate his reign with the fall of Schallberg."

"You must come too," said Trusia to Carter, "as a member of my household." The question of expedients was debated. Suspicion might be awakened should such a large party travel together. It was decided that Carter and Sobieska should proceed to Vienna; Muhlen-Sarkey and Trusia with their two attendants were to cross into Germany at the nearest point, thence travel by rail, while Josef and the rest should embark boldly from Schallberg.

Carrick was much depressed at learning he was to be left behind, but extracted some consolation from the fact that he was to be detailed to attend Count Zulka for whom he had always shown a preference.

"The rendezvous is Paris,--Boulevard St. Michel, second house on the left from St. Germain. The time, two days hence, at six o'clock in the evening. That will allow the necessary time for unforeseen hitches," said Sobieska, to which all quietly assented.

Speeded by the entire court coterie, Sobieska and Carter mounted and clattered out of the courtyard, and by ways through the forest, which the Minister of Private Intelligence had learned in a score of hunting trips, the pair, evading the vigilance of Russian sentries, reached the Vistula. They were ferried across by a loyal peasant and landed on Austrian soil without hostile interruption.

While the journey from Vienna to Paris was destined to be without particular incident, it furnished the opportunity for a fuller acquaintance and understanding between Carter and Sobieska.

"I have wanted to have a fuller talk with you anent Josef," said Sobieska when their conversation had reached the confidential stage. "It was manifestly impossible at the castle. I was afraid of eavesdroppers. It may be one of those unreasonable prejudices, but, aside from the fellow's social inferiority, I cannot help feeling that his is a sinister influence in Krovitch."

"I thought his allegiance held him to the side of his exiled master. Has he been in Krovitch all his life?"

"Although familiar to the older nobles during the lifetime of King Marc, the grandfather of his present Majesty, Josef reappeared last autumn after an absence of several years. He immediately requested the hand of Lady Trusia in marriage for His Majesty." Here Sobieska glanced covertly at Carter to see the effect of this disclosure. The American's face, however, was as stoical as an Indian's. "He produced the historic documents of Stovik's right to the crown--the traditional proof of embassy. He preached a war on Russia and the rehabilitation of Krovitch. Our people were aroused. For our country's sake, our lady yielded. Messages were sent to all parts of the world to the patriots, who, in large numbers, have been returning to their fatherland. Russia, asleep, or lulled into a false sense of security, has made no move to indicate that she is aware of a plot, yet you heard rumors a year ago that at least matters were in a ferment here. It is strange, strange," he said musingly.

Then, marveling at his own irrelevance, Carter told Sobieska for the first time of Carrick's confirmation of their suspicions that Josef was party to the plot of the substituted letter in the forest. "He knew the name and address of Russia's chief spy in Warsaw. How could he, a retainer--a loyal servant of an exiled monarch, know these things? Pitch defiles."

With a laugh which dismissed the subject, Sobieska turned to Carter. "It seems to me," he said, "we're allowing an absent servant to monopolize considerable of our conversation. Let's talk of something else."

"Have you any conception of His Majesty's, the King's, personality?" asked Carter.

"We were shown a photograph by Josef. Certainly a handsome fellow. An artist." This with the faintest shade of contempt that the man of action always holds for the artist, the poet or the dreamer. "I may be deceived in him, God grant I am, but the face is the face of a sensualist, not of a leader of men. What we need now for the throne is an inveterate hater of Russia. We have good leaders, now. We don't want a king who cannot understand and, consequently, may spoil our best plans."

"Wouldn't he be controlled?"

"You mean by his wife, by Trusia? He may, if she takes his fancy. If not, he may lose interest, and fall under other control."

"You mean Josef's?"

"Yes."

"It seems complications are likely to arise."

"It is not too late for you to draw out," replied Sobieska coldly.

"I am no quitter." Carter's jaws set grim and hard. Then catching an elusive humor in the fact that, even as one who might become unfriendly to him, he should have to accompany this man to Paris, he smiled. So did Sobieska and a cordial understanding was reestablished.

Paris was reached. Familiar as New York to Carter, he had no difficulty in guiding his companion directly to the rendezvous near the Quai D'Orsay.

Although their friends were not yet arrived, they found a corps of servants had already arranged the house for their reception. As Sobieska was known to the majestic butler, the travelers had no difficulty in immediately establishing themselves in the quarters intended for them.

As night drew on, the others came trooping in, ready to do justice to anything eatable the chef could purvey.

"We had an unexpected rencontre just as we alighted from the train," said Trusia. She leaned forward from her place at the table to speak to Count Sobieska. In doing so, her eyes met Carter's. They were filled with a gentle regard--a more than friendliness.

"With whom?" asked her Minister of Private Intelligence anxiously, for this city was the centre of international intrigue and espionage.

"You remember General Vladimar, the former Russian commandant at Schallberg? It was he. He was very cordial; as cordial as a dangerous Russian always is."

Sobieska, in assenting, drew in his breath with a sibilant sound through pursed lips.

"I have every reason to believe he has been transferred to the White Police," he commented gravely, as he turned his listless glance toward the girl. "Any one with him--did he give any inkling that he suspected anything?"

"He must suspect something," said Trusia, "he was so very, very pleasant. It is impossible for him to know anything, though." She turned her fine eyes again to her Minister. "There was a man with him. He presented him as Herr Casper Haupt, who the General said was connected with the Russian Consulate here. He did not say in what capacity."

Sobieska aimlessly turned and returned a fork lying before him.

"No?" he inquired listlessly; then he repeated the question more indifferently, "No?" He permitted a distant shadow of a smile to cross his face as he looked up. "He didn't tell you, for instance, that Herr Casper Haupt is the Chief of Imperial Secret Police for the district embracing Poland, Krovitch, Austria and France; a very important personage? What did Vladimar have to say?"

"When I told him I was on a shopping tour, he looked the usual masculine horror and gave the usual masculine prayer for deliverance. He jokingly suggested that I was going to purchase a trousseau." Her cheeks took a faint color from her remark. "When he saw my suite--though he didn't think I noticed it--his face stiffened a trifle and his tone was a trifle less cordial. He remarked dryly we must be shopping for an army. He became very anxious to learn my stopping-place that he might call, as an old neighbor. I told him that I had determined, as yet, neither where I would stay permanently, nor how long I would be in Paris, and he had to be content with that."

Sobieska nodded his approval and laid down his fork.

"Such neighbors become more dangerous the older they grow. We will have to keep a lookout for General Alexis Vladimar. He suspects something."

"He made no attempt to follow us," replied Trusia. "I watched. He appeared to have forgotten our existence."

"He is a clever man, that Vladimar," said Sobieska grudgingly. "He has not forgotten. Perhaps he is so sure of finding you when he wants to that he is not giving himself any trouble. Fortunately we leave to-morrow morning and will give him the slip, for all his cleverness."

Trusia now turned to Carter, and with fine free friendliness asked him of his journey and if it had seemed long.

"Yes, it did," he admitted, but he did not say it was because it took him from her.

"Now, isn't that odd," she laughed, "a journey home seems always the longest to me; no train can get me there quickly enough," she added with an extra note of tender patriotism.

When dinner was spread, Trusia seemed pale and depressed as though the anticipated meeting with her unknown fiance was not fraught with joy. Rallying herself, however, she was soon as much a centre of attraction as a sparkling fountain in a park is to feathered citizens on a sultry summer day.

The wine of Krovitch, unfamiliar to Carter, was quite heady. He felt it coursing through his arteries while his heart beat stronger. In its convivial influence he turned to the jovial Muhlen-Sarkey and touched glasses.

"A short life and a merry one," he said.

"A strong blade and a noble one," replied the elderly noble with unexpected martial ardor. The incident had not escaped the notice of Trusia. She arose, glass held high above her head.

"Gentlemen," she cried, "the King of Krovitch!"

"The King! The King!" came the ready response. Each toaster crashed his glass in token that no less worthy sentiments should ever be drunk from it. When the loyal cries had faded into a ghostly silence, the tall, pale girl spoke again.

"This night, my lords and gentlemen, you go, after two centuries, to call him back unto his own. As you kneel before him, you will hold your sword hilts to his hand in token that at his call, alone, they'll be drawn. Remember, this man is your king, whatever the state in which you find him. Reverence must be shown as though upon his ancestral throne. In full regalia, then, you must present yourselves.

"He may be in rags, but purple never made a king. He may be alone, but royal birth gave him dominion over millions. He may be poor in purse, but is rich in your--in Krovitch's devotion. You must bring him here to-night, guarded with your naked breasts if need be. God save His Majesty!"

When, resplendent in their uniforms, glittering with noble orders, the party reappeared before Her Grace, her face was still pale and her eyes shone from startled depths. Each man kissed her hand and, leaving, received her whispered--"Godspeed." Carter was last.

With his hand upon the knob, he felt that the closing of that door was like sealing the death warrant of his hopes. He was going to find a husband among strangers for the girl he loved. Obeying an irresistible impulse he looked back.

Trusia was standing by the table in the middle of the room. Her left hand leaned on its edge, supporting a weariness shown in the relaxed lines of her figure. Her lips were parted as if in pain, while her eyes seemed searching for Carter as he met her gaze. The others had already passed from the hall. With a bound he was before her, kneeling, his face, turned upward to hers, pleading the love he dared not speak.

Whether he imagined what he wished the most, or whether she, bending, actually touched her lips to his, he could not have said, but satisfied that she loved him, he arose and staggered blindly from the room.

XVI

YOU ARE THE KING OF KROVITCH

At about the same time the Krovitzers were leaving the house on the Boulevard S. Michel, one of those little comedies from real life was being enacted in the attic studio of Eugene Delmotte. Its finale was to be influenced considerably by their actions. The artist was to be transported by them from Hadean depths of despair to Olympian heights of rejoicing.

His disordered locks, beret upon the floor, red tie askew, if not his tragic, rolling eyes and clenched fists, would have apprised Mlle. Marie that all was not as it should be with M. Delmotte. With full appreciation of the effectiveness of the gesture, the artist threw himself into a large chair before an unfinished canvas of heroic dimensions. He buried his face in his hands. He groaned. This was too much for Marie. She approached. Laying a hesitating hand upon his shoulder, she looked down with real concern at the bowed, curly head.

"And Pere Caros will not wait for the rent?" she queried.

"No, curse him," came from between the locked fingers.

"But 'Gene," persisted the girl as though puzzled, "I thought that Harjes, the banker, always paid you an income."

"So he did until to-day. I went there, to be told that, to their regret, my unknown benefactor had not sent them the usual monthly remittance. They regretted also that their foolish rules prevented them advancing me as much as a sou. No reasons given, no names disclosed. I haven't a centime. Not a canvas can I sell. I've fasted since yesterday morning."

"Why, 'Gene?" she inquired innocently. Her mind was occupied with the puzzle of the income which, womanlike, engrossed her entire curiosity.

"Huh," he sniffed bitterly, "because I had to. I haven't even paints with which to complete my masterpiece."

He turned, the personification of despair, to regard the painting against the wall.

"Have you no clues as to the source of the income?" she asked, her mind clinging tenaciously to that unsettled question. "Have you no relatives? No one you could ask to assist you?"

"Only slight memories dating back to early childhood--the remembrance of a servant's face. Here is the tale, Marie. A thousand times I have gone over it to myself, only to be disappointed at its meagreness. My parents must have died when I was too young to have remembered them, judging from what this attendant seems to have told me. I have that impression resisting all arguments. My recollections all centre about a gray-haired man of the confidential-servant class. He was my companion and humored my every whim. By and by, though, he left me. I was taken charge of by a charwoman, and only once visited by my infancy's mentor. My new guardian was authority for the statement that, though not appearing wealthy, this M. Petros, as she called him, was always able to obtain money as needed from M. Harjes. There is nothing more to add."

"Clearly, M. Petros then knew something about the source of your income," said Marie.

"Agreed, sweet creature, but since I do not have the slightest idea where he is, I can't see how that will help me. I don't even know his full name."

"Cheer up, 'Gene, you will yet see that picture hang."

"More likely to hang myself," he said with a return of awful gloom.

"But the great M. Lourney praised the conception, the breadth, of this, your last picture," the girl said, as her hand pushed lightly through the shock of curls on the man's head.

"Yes, it is good," he said responsively, both to the hope she inspired and the caress she bestowed. That girl understood men. "Krovitch the Bulwark," he continued. "They were a great people, Marie. Their history, unfamiliar to most, has always interested me strangely." His eyes were illumined with enthusiasm as he raised an index arm toward the canvas. "See those vigorous fellows, each a hero. A single nation flinging back from Europe the invasion of the infidel. A heroic subject for a painting, eh, girlie?" He smiled up in her face, his troubles for the nonce forgotten. Get a man talking about his abilities to achieve and you can dispel the darkest gloom from his brow. It was high time to bring him back to earth again, but she knew how. He had had just sufficient gratulation to take the edge off pretended or real misery.

"It is, 'Gene, but it will not pay the rent. Listen." The timid flush mounted to her cheek as she made the suggestion, "Go to the pawnbroker's. Take these trinkets of mine. Beg him to loan you sufficient for your rent. Now, don't refuse. You may redeem them when you can. Besides, you gave them to me." She looked down with affectionate regret at the bracelets, the bangles, the rings, which use and the donor had made dear to her.

Being weak, he hesitated. His need was great. Then kissing the girl lightly, he took them and strode from the room.

"Come right back, 'Gene," she called, happy as only a woman can be in a sacrifice.

During his absence, from her own scanty store of edibles across the hall, she prepared a meal for him. Absorbed in this occupation she gave little heed to the steady tramp of feet ascending the staircase. A peremptory knock recalled her from her world of happy thoughts.

"_Entrez_," she added, thinking it was one of 'Gene's jokes.

The door opened. Into the room trooped a throng of men, resplendent in black and gold, silver and gray. Her eyes opened in astonishment; so did theirs. Her lips, parted to speak, could only gasp; so could theirs. The surprise was apparently mutual. With true Parisian humor she laughed heartily at the paralysis, and speech was thawed. Colonel Sutphen stood forward and bowed courteously.

"Your pardon, mademoiselle. We were informed that a young man, Eugene Delmotte, resided here. Pardon our mistake, accept our most humble apology and permit us to depart." He moved toward the door as a signal for a general exodus.

"But 'Gene--but M. Delmotte does live here," she cried, in apprehension of the departure of these lordly and apparently affluent strangers who might aid poor 'Gene. The elderly gentleman stopped on hearing this. He regarded her with more chilling politeness.

"And you," he asked, "are Mme. Delmotte?"

"Oh, no, monsieur," she replied simply.

"His--his companion?" The Colonel flushed at his own audacity. The girl smiled forgivingly, though a little wanly.

"Oh, no, monsieur. I am only his friend and occasional model. He is in trouble, messieurs. I came to cheer him up. I live across the hall."

Colonel Sutphen, scanning the far end of the room, failed to find the object of his inquiry. The girl came forward with an explanation as the elderly noble turned a questioning face toward hers.

"He has gone out, monsieur," she said. "He will soon return. He is in debt." She hung her head in distress. Colonel Sutphen turned to Josef in surprise. The latter whispered something in his ear, which apparently satisfied him. The girl closely watched this little by-play.

"Oh, then you know about him, messieurs?" she said. "You will help him? You are his friends?" She was happy for her neighbor.

"Only a few of a great many thousands," replied Sutphen ponderously. "Tell me, mademoiselle, have you any--er--er claims upon M. Delmotte? Are you betrothed? Any claims of er--er sentiment?"

The girl's eyelids dropped as she answered,

"Not that he is aware of, monsieur." Then her eyes blazed at the sudden realization of the indignity put upon her. "Who are you, though, and by what right do you question me? He is an artist and I--I am a friend. That is all, monsieur."

She had little spirit, after all, for a contest; but a door in her heart had been opened, a door that a girl generally keeps closed to mankind, and she naturally resented the intrusion. Look, too, where she would she could not escape the eyes of encircling masculinity.

Carter, appreciating her embarrassment and feeling an American gentleman's compassion for her predicament, undertook a divertisement.

"Fine picture, that," he said, loud enough to be heard by the others. "Those chaps are wearing the Krovitch Lion, too. Coincidence, isn't it?" Involuntary curiosity called all eyes toward the painting. The effect was magical. Astonishment showed in every Krovitch face. They, one and all, uncovered their heads as they recognized in the subject the unconscious expression of their sovereign's patriotism.

"Is that the work of M. Delmotte?" inquired the Colonel with voice softened by what he had just seen.

The girl nodded; she was proud of her friend's ability to move these strangers to reverence.

"Gentlemen--an omen," said the grizzled veteran, pointing to the picture. "History repeats itself."

"Mademoiselle," Carter said gently under cover of the general buzz of excited comment aroused by the picture, "mademoiselle, M. Delmotte is destined to a high place among the great men of the world. While to some is given the power to portray famous events, to a very few indeed it is given to create such epochs. Such men are necessarily set apart from their fellows. Despite the promptings of their hearts, they must forego many friendships which would otherwise be dear to them. M. Delmotte is both fortunate and unfortunate in this." As with careful solicitude for her feelings he strove to prepare her for the separation from the artist, the girl's color came and went fitfully as gradually the truth began to dawn upon her.

"I think I understand, monsieur," she said, grateful for his consideration. Then she continued slowly, deliberately, letting the acid truth of each word eat out the joy in her heart, "You mean that M. Delmotte must no longer know Marie, the model."

The Colonel, who had approached, had overheard this last thing spoken.

"It is possible," the latter hinted, "that he might desire to spare you the pain of leave taking, as he goes with us from Paris--from your world."

"Oh, monsieur," she turned appealingly to Carter, her eyes wide in their efforts to restrain their tears, "is this true?"

Carter nodded his head gravely. Sutphen pressed a fat, black wallet upon her, which she declined gently.

"As a gift," he insisted.

"Oh, monsieur," she cried reproachfully, and with averted face fled from the room.

Sheepishly guilty in feeling as only men can be, the party in the studio awaited expected developments. In a few minutes they heard the approach of a man's footsteps upon the stairs. All eyes turned curiously toward the doorway. Nearer came the sounds, nearer, while with increasing volume their hearts beat responsively. The steps stopped. The waiting hearts seemed to stand still in sympathy. Then the door opened.

"It is he," whispered Josef. All heads uncovered and each man bowed low. Delmotte stood petrified with astonishment.

"Messieurs," he said at last, recovering his speech, "messieurs, I am honored." Then as his eyes lighted on Josef, they sparkled with unexpected recognition. "You are Petros," he said, puzzled by the brilliant throng surrounding him.

"Josef Petros Zolsky, Your Majesty. I am your childhood's retainer and hereditary servitor. Yes, I am he you call Petros," and the white head bowed low as a gratified light kindled in the crafty eyes.

"Majesty! What the devil--am I crazy? I am not drunk," he added regretfully.

"Sire," stammered Colonel Sutphen, "sire, you are the King of Krovitch."

"The devil I am," came the prompt response. Nevertheless the artist threw an affectionate glance at the painting as one might in saying, "You were my people." The piquancy of the situation caused him to smile. "Gentlemen," he said, "if this is some hoax, believe me it is in very poor taste. Taste? Yes, for I haven't eaten in two days. What's your game? I've just come from a pawnbroker's, where I had gone with the paltry jewels of a model, to try and secure enough to pay my rent. You offer me a crown. Corduroys and blouse," he pointed to his garb, "you tempt me with visions of ermine. A throne to replace my stool, and pages of history are given for my future canvases. I am starving, gentlemen," he said half turning away suffused in his own self-pity, "do not trifle with me." He appealed to Josef. "Is this true--what they say, Josef-Petros, or whatever your name is?"

"It is true, Your Majesty."

"A King! A King!" exclaimed the astonished artist. "But still a King without a kingdom--a table without meat. A mockery of greatness after all. Why do you come to tell me this?" he cried turning fiercely on them. "Was I too contented as I was? It is not good to taunt a hungry man. To tell me that I am a crownless King without six feet of land to call my realm, is but to mock me."

"The remedy is at hand, Your Majesty," Sutphen asserted confidently. "Eighty thousand men await your coming, all trained soldiers. We will raise the battle cry of Krovitch and at Schallberg crown you and your Queen."

"My Queen," almost shouted the astonished Delmotte, "have I a Queen, too? Are you all crazy, or am I? Pray heaven the Queen is none other than Marie, else I'll have no supper to-night. Who is my queen?" He asked as he saw the expression of disapproval which appeared on more than one face present.

"The noblest woman under heaven, sire," said Sutphen reverently. "One who well could have claimed the crown herself. She wished a man to lead her people in the bitter strife and waived her claims for you. It is therefore but meet that she who has wrought all this for you should share your throne."

"Why was I chosen?"

"You are descended from Stovik--she from Augustus, the last King of Krovitch, Stovik's rival." So step by step they disclosed their plans, their hopes and ambitions to the dazzled Parisian. Finally, his mind was surfeited with the tale of this country which was claiming him; he turned and, with sweeping gesture, indicated those present.

"And you?" he asked. "And these? I know your rightful name as little as I am sure of my own."

"Your Majesty's rightful name is Stovik Fourth." Then Sutphen presented each in turn. Carter came last. The eyes of these two, so near an age, instinctively sought out the other and recognized him as a possible rival. Probably the first there to do so, Carter admitted that this so-called heir to a throne was nothing but an ordinary habitue of cafe and boulevard; a jest-loving animal, with possibly talents, but no great genius.

The artist, with an assertion of his novel dominance, arose. "I am ready, gentlemen," he said. "My baggage is on my back. I understand that the rendezvous is on the Boulevard S. Michel. Proceed."

Without one backward glance or thought he passed from the attic home, his foot in fancy already mounting his throne. Marie was forgotten in the dream of a royal crown and visions of a distant kingdom.

XVII

AT THE HOTEL DES S. CROIX

Some distance back from its fellows on the Boulevard S. Michel, not far from its intersection with S. Germain, stands the one-time palace of the Ducs des S. Croix.

Time, the leveler, seemed to have no more effect upon the princely pile than to increase its hauteur with each passing year. Its every stone breathed the dominant spirit of its founders, until at last it stood for all that was patrician, exclusive and unapproachable.

Its eight-foot iron fence, wrought in many an intricate design, formed a corroding barrier to the over-curious, while its spiked top challenged the foolish scaler. A clanging gate opened rebelliously to the paved way which led unto the wide balustraded steps. The windows, each with its projecting balcony, seemed thrusting back all cordial advances. Along that side toward the Quai D'Orsay, a cloistered porch joined the terrace from the steps to rear its carven roof beneath the windows of the upper floors. Each rigid pillar was lifted like a lance of prohibition. The walls of either neighbor, unbroken, windowless and blank, were flanking ramparts of its secrecy.

The casual pedestrian, after dusk, was tempted to tiptoe lightly across the palace front, so pervasive was its air of mystery. No more fitting place could be found for plots of deposed monarchies and uncrowned kings. The last S. Croix, impoverished in the mutations of generations, reluctantly, half savagely, had swallowed his pride a few years previously and had consented to rent his ancestral halls. The ideal locality and its immunity from the over-curious had appealed to one who, gladly paying the first price asked, had held the place against the day of need. The lease was in the name of Josef Zorsky, none other than the Hereditary Servitor.

Behind the mask of night, the new-found king, with his gentlemen, was driven to the Hotel des S. Croix, where three ordinary Parisian _fiacres_ discharged the royal party who had come directly from the attic studio. His Majesty was the last to alight. Taking Colonel Sutphen's proffered arm, he proceeded toward the entrance, followed by his suite. The place was dark and grim, no light came through the heavily curtained windows and only by a gleam through the transom above the door could the closest observer have discovered that it was inhabited.

A single wayfarer--the neighborhood boasted but few pedestrians after dark--was approaching. As he drew nearer the group about the King he slackened his pace. Probably actuated by some slight natural curiosity aroused by the unaccustomed sight of many men alighting from cabs before a mansion traditionally, and apparently, empty, he could be excused for gazing inquiringly at each of the party in turn. Accident may have made Josef the last to be noticed, but to Carter's watchful eyes it seemed that some lightning recognition passed between the two. Certainly he saw Josef extend two fingers and as rapidly withdraw them. The passer-by acknowledged the signal, if such it was, by the slightest of smiles and passed on toward the Quai D'Orsay. Carter mentally determined to speak to Sobieska at the first opportunity and regretted that his duties to His Majesty for the present prohibited the consultation.

A species of stage-fright, seizing upon the King, sent a quiver through his limbs, causing his knees to quake, his hands to tremble.

"Who will be here?" he asked in a tone he strove desperately to hold natural and easy. He had already received this information, but speech seemed a refuge from his trepidation. If Sutphen had noticed how his king's voice quavered he was too loyal a subject to comment. With the patience of iteration he answered his sovereign.

"The Duchess of Schallberg, the Countess Muhlen-Sarkey, together with the remaining gentlemen of the household, are all anxiously waiting to welcome Your Majesty."

In response to a signal from Sutphen, the doors were flung wide to admit His Majesty, Stovik Fourth, King of Krovitch. An hundred electric lights, doubled and trebled a score of times by pendant crystals and glistening sconces, greeted the eyes of the man who a few short hours before had been a struggling artist.

Half blinded by the brilliance, he hesitated, his foot already upon a way strange to him. He realized numbly how symbolic of his future that present moment might be. New conditions arose suddenly to confront him, only to find him halting, incompetent. He took a step forward. In his embarrassment his foot caught beneath a rug's edge. Calvert Carter's hand, alone, kept the king from sprawling frog-wise on the polished floor. A sudden pallor at the untimely accident came to the face of Sutphen.

"What is it?" Carter whisperingly inquired of the veteran.

"A bad omen, coming as it does as he enters the house," replied the soldier in the same low tone, tinged with the superstition of his race. "I pray God," he continued, "that he turn out no weak-kneed stumbler."

The incident naturally enough had not served to increase the King's self-confidence. After a glance into the impassive faces of the waiting servants, he gathered sufficient grace to proceed and look about him, with eyes more accustomed to the light. With an assumption of ease foreign to his turbulent heart, he took his way along the splendid hall. He was soon lost in a professional appreciation of the evidence of royal circumstance, the glories the succeeding years had generously spared, and which now were enriched and ripened by Times' deft touch.

From their coigns the priceless portraits of the S. Croix gazed complacently down upon him. Royalty had aforetimes been of daily habit to them. Their scornful brows with sombre eyes, their thin curling lips, appeared to be of some alien race. They seemed to hold themselves aloof as though he was a child of their one-time serfs, having no claim upon their bond of caste. Even to himself he felt an impostor, a peasant in a royal mask. That he was really a king had not yet come home to him. He felt no embryo greatness struggling to possess him. Upon his face abode the look of one who dreams of pleasant, impossible things. Half smiling, he was yet reluctant of the awakening he was sure would come and scatter forever the wondrous glories of his slumbers. Unwilling that these creations of pigment, brush and canvas should, by exposing him, dissipate his fancies, he dropped his gaze to find himself approaching the entrance of a brilliantly lighted salon.

What lay beyond?

A new world, a new life, an existence such as he had never dreamed of might be waiting on the thither side. He paused again involuntarily. Beside the richer scene, with all its priceless relics of another age, its warmth, its lights, its rows of bowing flunkeys and his new-found friends, its dream of a crown and distant throne, arose a passing vision of a life he had laid aside. There the plenty of yesterday melted in the paucity of to-day. There cringing cold had crept forlornly in and hunger had been no unexpected guest. There hope and ambition on their brows had ever borne the bruising thorns of defeat and failure. There wealth was a surprising stranger and poverty a daily friend. Friends! Friends! Yes, friends leal and true, a crust for one had meant a meal for all. Such had been real friends. Their jests had banished every aching care and solaced each careless curse of fate. Would this new life give as much? Could the new life give him more? Would even the "glory that was Greece and the splendor that was Rome" repay him for the sleepless nights, the watchful anxious days of him who fought, who ruled, who trembled upon an uncertain throne?

Having chosen he feared to turn back, lest men should call him a craven and coward. Sensual visions of a greater luxury than this around him came to console him as the picture of the attic life slipped from him.

He stepped beyond the boundaries of regret into the radiant portals of the salon.

A woman stood before him.

Unconsciously his fingers itched for the abandoned brush while his thumb crooked longingly for the discarded palette. Here was a subject fit for his Muse, a Jeanne d'Arc whose soul was beaming from her luminous eyes. Not that maid of visions and fought fields, but as she hung flame-tortured in the open square of Rouen. No peasant soul this, rather a royal maiden burning on the altars of her country. Awkward and speechless he stood before her. Instinct apprised him that this was no other than Trusia, waiting to receive her King.

Her head was held high in regal pride, but her eyes were the wide dark eyes of a fawn, fear-haunted, at the gaze. Her throat and shoulders gleamed white as starlight while her tapering arms would have urged an envious sigh from a Phidias or a David. Her gown of silk was snow white; the light clung to its watered woof waving and trembling in its folds as though upon a frosted glass. Diagonally from right to left across her breast descended a great red ribbon upon whose way the jeweled Lion of Krovitch rose and fell above her throbbing heart. This with her diamond coronet were her only jewels. The high spirited, whole-souled girl was face to face at last with the man she had vowed to marry to give her land a king.

Unswervingly her fearless eyes probed to the soul of Stovik and dragged it forth to weigh it in the balance with her own. Fate had denied her heart the right of choosing, so she had prayed that at least her King should be great and strong of soul. Fate in mockery had placed before her an ordinary man to rule her people and her future life.

As though to gain courage from the contact, her hand sought and rested upon the jeweled Lion of her race. Slowly she forced her lips into a little smile, which one observer knew was sadder than tears.

Carter, standing behind the King, was madly tempted to dash aside the royal lout to take her in his arms where she might find the longed-for solace of her pent-up tears.

Colonel Sutphen with a courtly bow took her hand and turned to the monarch.

"Your Majesty," he said gravely, "this is Trusia, Duchess of Schallberg, than whom the earth holds no sweeter, nobler woman. To God and Trusia you will owe your throne. She has urged us, cheered us, led us, till this day has grown out of our wordy plans. See that she has her full measure of reward from you. Though our swords be for your service, our hearts we hold for her in any hour of her need."

Sutphen's keen eyes had never left the sovereign's face while speaking. If the words were blunt his manner had been courtly and deferential. With a courtesy which was superbly free from her inmost trepidation, Trusia swept up the King's reluctant hand, pressing it to lips as chill as winter's bane.

"Sire," she said in a voice scarcely audible, "sire, I did no more than many a loyal son of Krovitch. I--we all--will give our lives for our country and her rightful king."

"Duchess! Lady Trusia," stammered the flushing, self-conscious king embarrassed by the kiss upon his hand, "I fear I am unworthy of such devotion. Unused to courtly custom I feel that I should rather render homage unto you. They tell me, these friends who say that they are my subjects, that I am your debtor. My obligations may already be beyond discharge. Add no more by obeisance." The poorly turned speech awoke a slight defiance in Trusia's heart. It was oversoon, she thought, for her King to patronize her.

"Your Majesty mistakes," was the quick retort, "my homage is to Krovitch. We are equals--you and I."

"I could ask no greater distinction than equality with you." Stovik's answer was a pattern of humility, which Trusia in her loyalty was quick to see. Her face softened.

"If Your Majesty will deign to come, I have something over there I think will interest you," and she indicated the far end of the room where stood a velvet draped table guarded by two gentlemen in hussar uniform. With her hand upon his arm Stovik sedately approached the place. Here he saw nothing but the bulk of objects covered by a silken cloth. This Trusia removed.

The act disclosed a crown, a sceptre and a jeweled sword. Before them on the cushion also lay the grand badge of the Order of the Lion with a fine chain of gold.

"As the hereditary head of the Order, sire," Trusia remarked as she raised the glittering insignia, "you are entitled to assume the mark at once." Without further words she drew the chain over his head letting the Lion depend upon the breast of his artist's blouse.

Lifting up the crown he turned to her mischievously. "Why not this?" He made a gesture to put it on his head.

"It will be a burden, sire. That's why they are all made so pleasing to look upon; gemmed and jeweled, just as sugar coats a bitter pill. A crown means weariness and strife. Are you so anxious to take up its cares? They will come soon enough." She spoke in a sweetly serious voice that was not without its effect upon him. "Besides," she said, "the Bishop of Schallberg has waited many years to perform that office. Would you rob him of it?"

Although Stovik replaced the glittering loop upon the velvet pall, he smiled to think how little the Church had entered into his former scheme of life. Trusia seemed to divine his thoughts, for, as his ascending eyes met hers, she continued speaking of the aged prelate.

"He is a dear old man, sire, kindly and gentle. The beggars and little children call him their patron saint. Well past the allotted span of years, he has prayed to be spared until the day when he can anoint the head of the King of Krovitch. Then, he says, he will die joyously."

The King murmured his hopes for a longer life for the Bishop, and Trusia turned to present her chaperon, the Countess Muhlen-Sarkey, with the remaining gentlemen of the Court.

After the formalities had been attended to, and he had received the sincere good wishes of his nobles, the King turned to the beautiful girl at his side.

"Do you leave with us to-morrow?" he asked. "Of our future plans I have had necessarily only a sketch. So little time has elapsed since Colonel Sutphen visited Eugene Delmotte that King Stovik can readily be forgiven for some slight ignorance."

"If it meets with Your Majesty's approval, we will start to-morrow for Vienna," Trusia said. "There we will await Colonel Sutphen's summons from your capital, Schallberg. Major Carter, Josef, myself and the Countess Muhlen-Sarkey will accompany Your Majesty. The other gentlemen will attend the Colonel. They precede us to ascertain if all is in readiness."

"Will the gentlemen travel in uniform?" The King's glance about the room had not been free from an apprehension that such a course might awaken inquisitive questions from officials.

"Oh, certainly not, Your Majesty," the girl reassured him. "Your Majesty will procure a passport made out to Eugene Delmotte, artist. You will be traveling to Krovitch for studies for the painting I hear you are making. The uniforms will be a part of your paraphernalia."

"Will there be no risk?"

"Is Your Majesty unwilling to take the least? Your subjects must indeed seem reckless to you." Trusia's tone indicated the depth of her reproof.

"I suppose that did sound rather selfish," he hastened to confess, "but the truth is that I do not yet realize that I am actually a king. That I, a few hours ago a penniless artist, should be plunging into a national movement as its leader, its king, seems nothing short of a dream. But tell me, Duchess, from whom we should fear detection?"