The first American King

“They belonged to the Tenth Dragoons before being transferred to the Imperial Guard?” asked the Baroness Maquehaye.

“Yes,” replied the Countess Brooke, “both Captain Mortimer and Captain Swords belonged to the Tenth and the Regiment was quartered at the Summer Palace at Oldport. However, Lady Hadley-Barton can tell us more about that, as she spent the Summer at Oldport. I was there only toward the close.”

“Ah, yes,” exclaimed Lady Hadley-Barton effusively, “and a delightful season we had, too! The officers of the Tenth were simply too lovely. It was one succession of receptions and balls and excursions and coaching parties. Never had Oldport known such a gay season as while the ‘Fighting Tenth’ was there. They entertained us day and night. Really, they took the place by storm and we surrendered ourselves to them unconditionally.”

“Indeed?” replied the Countess Brooke, with the suspicion of a sneer in the slightly upraised eyebrow and curve of the lip.

“Yes,” continued Lady Hadley-Barton, “never was there a regiment—not even the Imperial Guard—which contained so many handsome, dashing men and such excellent entertainers. As I say, they captured us completely. Of course, you will take me figuratively.”

“There was some little scandal, though, toward the close of the season, if I remember rightly,” commented Countess Brooke.

“Scandal?” questioned Baroness Maquehaye.

“Yes,” replied Countess Brooke, “in connection with the high gaming in the mess-room of the Tenth. Several young men, it’s said, were completely ruined.”

“Oh, yes,” exclaimed Lady Hadley-Barton, “it’s true there was some gossip, but what of it? One expects a little scandalizing whenever a company of gay soldiers is on the ground. Of course, you will take me figuratively.”

“It doesn’t seem so astonishing to me,” remarked Baroness Maquehaye, “that soldiers, especially after a long and arduous campaign, should go in for heavy gaming. The risks and chances of play must replace with them to some extent the risks and chances of war. What particular form of play did they indulge in?”

“Baccarat,” answered Countess Brooke, “and the bids for the bank, I understand, used to run up into thousands of crowns. There was a bank bid in one night under certain peculiar circumstances—circumstances which will, no doubt, be long remembered by the successful bidder, Captain Mortimer.”

At the mention of the name, Dorothy, who had been engaged in conversation with Beatrice, slightly turned her head. Every word that followed, in the distinct, crisp tones of the Countess, fell clearly upon her listening ear.

“Do tell us the story,” exclaimed Baroness Maquehaye. “It sounds as if it were likely to be interesting.”

“Quite a romance, although, perhaps, slightly sordid,” continued the Countess Brooke carelessly. “Well, it seems that on a particular night the play was very heavy—unusually heavy even for the mess-room of the Tenth. Captain Mortimer had been a fairly good winner during the early part of the season, but later encountered a long spell of ill-luck, which often sets in with those who woo the fickle goddess of chance. He had been losing heavily and in the strong play of that night thought he saw a chance to recoup. A bank was put up and under spirited bidding went into the thousands.”

Here the Countess paused, with the dramatic effect of a good raconteuse.

“Your story is quite interesting,” exclaimed Baroness Maquehaye. “Do go on.”

“Oh, yes; do,” added Lady Hadley-Barton, “I love to hear of the wicked doings of those soldiers. In fact, as I told Major Packenham, of the Tenth, the wickeder the soldier the more I seem to worship him.”

“I trust he took you—figuratively,” remarked the Countess.

“Quite so; quite so,” Lady Hadley-Barton hastened to respond.

“Pray proceed,” urged Baroness Maquehaye.

“Well,” continued the Countess Brooke, “the bank which had been bid up into the thousands was finally awarded to the highest bidder—Captain Stanley Mortimer.”

Dorothy Brandon stirred slightly in her seat and her pink-and-white ear veered slightly around in the direction of the narrator.

“The Captain threw down on the table the sum representing the capital of the bank and took his seat in the banker’s chair.”

Again the Countess paused, as if seeking to recall the full details of her story.

“Yes, yes,” exclaimed Baroness Maquehaye, “and then——?”

“I can imagine the scene,” declared Lady Hadley-Barton impulsively; “the green table, the stacks of money, the high players. How I wish I had been there. How much we women miss! I have so often wished I wore trousers. Of course, you will take me figuratively.”

“Captain Mortimer took his seat in the banker’s chair,” resumed the Countess, “and as he did so he looked upon those about him. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘luck has been to me lately a sorry jade. Let’s see if she will now mend her ways. If she doesn’t and you succeed in breaking this bank, there’s nothing left to me but to surrender the freedom and the joys of happy bachelorhood, accept the offer which I have of a command in the Imperial Guard, go to Court and—marry an heiress. Now, gentlemen, proceed and do your worst.’”

“How delightfully dramatic,” exclaimed Lady Hadley-Barton.

“Well, and what happened next?” eagerly inquired Baroness Maquehaye.

“Fortune favored the gallant Captain at one time and it looked as if he might escape the dire fate of having to sell his prized liberty to the God of Mammon, as represented in the person of an heiress. But the luck veered and set in heavily against the bank. The right tableau won steadily; but the left—the one nearest the banker’s heart, you will observe—did the mischief. There came a heavy coup, both tableaux winning, and the bank was broken.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Baroness Maquehaye with tense interest.

“The poor Captain!” remarked Lady Hadley-Barton.

“Captain Mortimer showed not the least perturbation,” resumed Countess Brooke. “He rose from the table, lighted a cigar and, turning to those about him, said: ‘I congratulate you, gentlemen, but that settles it for me. Now for the Court and—the heiress!’”

“I call that an interesting story,” exclaimed Lady Hadley-Barton. “Strange I hadn’t heard it before.”

“Interesting, perhaps, but decidedly mercenary,” commented Baroness Maquehaye with some show of disdain.

“Mercenary!” echoed Countess Brooke, “surely you’re severe. Call it un mariage de convenance—or of necessity, if you will—it sounds more pretty! Isn’t the Captain a decidedly presentable man and one famed for his bravery in the war? Won’t the heiress who buys him with her gold secure her money’s worth?”

A little man—dapper and smiling—dressed in the uniform of the French diplomatic corps, the red ribbon of the Legion d’Honeur at his buttonhole, presented himself at that moment before Dorothy. To his profound bow and extended arm she returned a dazed stare. Her face was strangely strained and pale. The little man was fairly taken aback.

“You promised me zis dance, you know, Mees Brandon,” he stammered. “I am quite sure I have not made mistake as to ze numbaire. I——”

Mechanically she arose, accepted the proferred arm and went toward the dancing-floor.

“You are not indisposed, I trust,” he inquired solicitously.

“Count D’Arville,” she exclaimed impulsively, with a pressure ever so slight upon his gold-laced sleeve, “I know how gallant are the gentlemen of France and that you are le plus galant des galants. You’ll do me a favor, won’t you?”

The Count’s face reddened in a pleasurable flush.

“Ah, mademoiselle,” he exclaimed excitedly, and almost losing command of his limited stock of English, “if I shall do you a favor? It will give me pleasure, as you know, to lay down ze life for you. I await ze honor of your commands.”

“Thank you, Count,” said Dorothy simply, her blue eyes flashing upon him a grateful smile, “I knew you would. I want you to forego this dance. You won’t mind, will you?”

A look of disappointment came into Count D’Arville’s face.

“It is a great deprivation, mademoiselle, but I am your slave.”

“Instead,” continued Dorothy, “you will take me to the conservatory.”

“Yes.”

“And there you’ll leave me alone—entirely alone—for a few moments, returning for me at the end of the dance.”

“You are ill, mademoiselle?”

“No, no; I assure you.”

“Is there nothing I can do?”

Another light pressure on the Count’s resplendent sleeve.

“Remember, monsieur le comte,” she said, “that he who would serve well must yield blindly. You wish to serve well?”

The speech was accompanied by another adroit smile, before which the Count retired utterly routed—horse, foot and dragoons.

“Pardi! mademoiselle,” he answered with effusion, “to hear you is for me to obey. It shall be as you will.”

He accordingly conducted her to the conservatory—an immense structure of great length and breadth, resembling more a miniature park than a place ordinarily designated under the name of conservatory. Here and there tropical trees and massive plants stretched their foliage in wide, overhanging branches; there were by-paths and niches and bowers in the winding gardens; and at intervals fountains, under whose limpid waters flashed golden fishes, gushed forth amid the violets and the roses. It was a dream of floral splendor—such opulence and magnificence as had never been dreamed even by luxurious Eastern potentates of the olden days. It was the Western world saying to the Eastern: “You bragged in the old days of your Oriental sumptuousness and luxury, but yours was only a poor affair, after all! See what we can do, with modern money and modern methods!”

Into this great garden of the King, Count D’Arville led Dorothy. He escorted her to a secluded spot under the branches of a Taribou tree and with numerous bows and protestations left her.

When, at the close of the dance a few minutes later, he returned to her side, she rewarded him with a gracious smile.

“You’ve been of great service to me, monsieur le comte,” she said. “Now, please take me back. I am engaged for the next waltz—the fourth, you know. Ah, I have one other service to ask of you!”

“It is, mademoiselle?”

“The dance after that—after the fourth waltz, I mean—I have promised to Lord Ashley. Will you kindly tell Lord Ashley that he will find me in the conservatory—at this spot?”

Count D’Arville bowed.

“I will bear your commands to Milord Ashley,” he said, “but after zat—later on—may I not have my lost dance?”

A weary look came into her face.

“After that—after Lord Ashley—I’ll dance no more to-night,” she said. “But,” she hastened to add, “I’ll make it up to you. At the ball next week you shall have two.”

Quite elated with this promise, the gallant Count reluctantly surrendered her to her partner for the fourth waltz, Captain Stanley Mortimer.

Again he held her in his arms, as he skilfully guided her amid the whirling dancers; again he felt her breath upon his cheek; again her upturned eyes met his—smiling, ecstatic, dreamy—and into their depths he looked with tenderness. He was vaguely conscious of her warm and yielding form pressed to his; of the rise and fall of her firm, white bosom and throat; of a strange, rare perfume, that seemed to exhale from her dress, from amid the glittering gold of her hair, intoxicating him.

His heart beating wildly, his whole being filling, thrilling, with a wild ecstasy of hope and of love, on and on they danced until the last bars of the waltz had been played out and the dance came to an end.

For a moment they stood silent. Then, with a murmured suggestion as to the warmth of the ball-room, he led her to the conservatory. Slowly they wandered along the winding paths until—unconsciously as it seemed—they reached a secluded seat under the outstretched branches of a wide-leafed Taribou tree.

For some moments they sat there—speechless, almost motionless. A great wave of emotion surged within him. Never in the wildest charges into the gray-coated Russian ranks, nor in the bloody night attack upon Varshava, nor when he had spiked the great gun on the heights of Vladivik, had his heart beat so wildly. He longed to speak and yet a species of dread—a coward fear—overawed him.

With an effort, he drew himself together and turned to her. She raised her eyes to his. Then the pent-up words suddenly rushed to his lips and in a mad, wild torrent of eloquence and love he poured forth to her the hope of his soul.

With his first words her eyes sank and with drooped head she listened, without sign or movement, to the very end. Then, as with hope and doubt—doubt and hope—tearing at his heart, he waited one breathless moment, she slowly rose to her feet and turned her eyes full upon his face. He caught a light in them which brought him, staggering, to his feet. He faced her with straining eyes and features tense and rigid—as a man awaiting his death blow. As last she spoke:

“You certainly play the part well, Captain Mortimer—so well one might almost believe it true. Really, I congratulate you.”

“Play—a part! What can you mean?”

“That the Tenth has indeed lost in Captain Mortimer a great player, alike in amateur theatricals and at—baccarat.”

A man appeared, the light flashing from the decorations upon his breast, as he came slowly along the garden path.

“What do you mean?” he repeated blankly. “I—do—not—understand.”

“Indeed? Ah! here comes Lord Ashley. Pray excuse me. My next dance is his.”