The Kingmakers

IT was to Ciro’s that Selden had promised to take the countess that evening, and remembering his resolve to give her the best the place had to offer, he drove there, before going to his room, to reserve a corner table and have a word with the head waiter.

He found that worthy, of course, most anxious to oblige, and fertile in suggestion. There had just arrived a shipment of marennes, vitesse, from La Grève; they would be delicious; yes? good, monsieur. For soup, petite marmite, perhaps; no, that would be too heavy; croûte-au-pot would be better; good. For fish, a sole, perhaps, or a trout prepared in a special way; no—one moment; Jean, bring hither that basket of langouste; behold, monsieur, how fresh, how sweet, and not too large; this one; good; for garniture, trust me, monsieur. And then partridges, perhaps, or a wild duck; no—permit me to suggest pauillac, monsieur, pauillac véritable, very young, very tender, truly fed with milk, delicious; with asperges; good. And for entremet monsieur wishes crêpes susettes; good. For wine, Martinis first, of course; then a little Sauterne with the oysters; and then what would monsieur prefer? Champagne? No. Bordeaux, Burgundy? Permit me, monsieur, to suggest a Chateauneuf du Pape of which we are very proud—1915, the great year—and from the special vineyard just above Avignon; good. At nine o’clock? It shall be ready, monsieur. Au revoir, monsieur; merci bien. And Selden went on to the hotel feeling as though he had assisted at a sacrament.

So at nine o’clock, behold him, seated beside the Countess Rémond on the banquette at a corner table—the langouste, with garniture of pink jelly and ornaments of truffles, proudly displayed near by—ready to talk, to listen, to dine, and to observe the world at its gambols.

For Ciro’s is not only the pleasantest restaurant at Monte Carlo, but the most discreet as well, for there, sitting in view of all the world, one can talk of the most intimate things much more safely than in a private room, with the certainty that one’s voice will be lost in the lively medley of dancing feet and music and other voices with which the place is always filled.

And one can dine well, also; though not quite so well, perhaps, as in the old days, for there is a new proprietor. The former one, a handsome, slim Italian who had kept his youth while his wife had lost hers through excessive libations, suddenly quarrelled with her, sold his business and took train to Paris, where he now manages a restaurant, small and very intime, known only to the elect, two steps from the Avenue de l’Opéra. He is a pleasant fellow, with a record of many conquests; but he goes to see his wife sometimes at the lodging house which she now conducts in the Rue St. Georges, and his two daughters who are very fond of him; and sends them champagne for their réveillon and their fête days; and the chef he took with him now delights his very discriminating Parisian patrons.

The new proprietor is not as handsome as the old, and his chef lacks that indefinable something which distinguishes the great artist; but he is capable and not without imagination, and it is only by comparison that he suffers. The sommelier is the same, so the cellar is all that could be desired. No one can surpass him at a dry Martini. Selden watched him fill the little glasses, then leaned back with a sigh of content and looked at his companion.

She was uncommonly arresting, with her air of distinction, her eyes a little tilted and fatigued—consummate art again! She had chosen a black gown of some filmy material which foamed up over her breast, accentuating its whiteness and delicate contour and the grace of her arms and shoulders. Her only ornament was again that strange stone of greenish-yellow which matched her eyes. She was by all odds the most interesting woman in the room; the eyes of the other men were wandering toward her constantly—yes, and the eyes of the women, too, but with a different expression.

For whom had she arrayed herself, Selden wondered. He was sure it was not for him, and he looked at the other men, but he knew only one of them. That was old Scott, who was dining by himself at a table across the room. He looked at Selden’s companion with marked interest, and bowed elaborately when he caught Selden’s eye. But Selden answered only with a curt nod which warned Scott as clearly as anything could to keep away. Selden had no objection to his meeting Madame Ghita, but there was no reason why he should know the countess.

“Who is your friend?” she inquired, as she drew off her gloves.

“Just a newspaper man.”

“Your bow was not very cordial,” she commented.

“No—I don’t want him interfering with this dinner. I don’t want anybody interfering!”

“Nobody is going to interfere,” she assured him, and picked up her Martini and touched his glass with hers. “To the fulfilment of all our hopes!” she said, and they drank together. “What happened to you this afternoon?”

“The press has broken loose,” he answered, and told her of his adventures with his fellow correspondents and of the interview with the king. “It went off better than I expected,” he added. “All the boys are inclined to give the old fellow a boost—all, that is, except your friend Halsey.”

She turned upon him quickly.

“Why do you call him my friend?” she demanded.

“Wasn’t it Halsey we met on the terrace the other morning?”

“Yes.”

“And he was waiting for you this morning also.”

“It is true—he is a great nuisance; but he can be useful to me in a certain affair, and so for the moment I tolerate him. That is all.”

Selden was certain she was lying, but the marennes, lying so cool, so fresh, so green on their little shells, demanded his attention. The maître-d’hôtel stood anxiously by until he ate the first one and beamed triumphantly at his approving nod. Yes, they were delicious.

“One reason I like to dine in a French restaurant,” said Selden, “is because every one is so pleased when one finds the food to one’s taste. In other countries nobody really cares, you can take the food or leave it; but here it is a matter of life or death; at least, they make it appear so. And they are wiser than we in another way. When a Frenchman enters a restaurant, he puts his affairs, his worries, out of his head; he thinks only that he is to eat; he is smiling and happy; he allows nothing to hurry him, so he enjoys his food and digests it easily. But the American enters in a rush, thinking of his business, or he brings a paper to read, or he gets out his memoranda and makes computations between the courses; so he not only does not enjoy his food, but he does not digest it, and wonders why he has dyspepsia. It is very foolish! Ah, here is the croûte-au-pot.”

It also was perfect; and then came the serving of the langouste, a solemn ceremony performed by the maître-d’hôtel in person, with two of the waiters as acolytes. It was at this point that Selden tasted the Chateauneuf du Pape, which the sommelier had placed reverently before him, and knew definitely that the dinner was a success.

“But you have told me nothing of your adventures,” he pointed out. Halsey could rest for a while; perhaps, later on, he might find a way to get back to him. “You saw the Davises?”

“Yes,” and she laughed a little. “The family Davis is having for the first time the experience of being internationally important.”

“Do they enjoy it?”

“Oh, yes—at least the mother does, enormously. About the daughter, I am not so sure—she has something at the bottom of her heart—something I do not understand....”

“Yes?” he said, as she paused.

“Ah, well,” she said, with sudden vehemence, “what woman has not something at the bottom of her heart—a little worm which gnaws and gnaws!” She checked herself and touched her napkin to her lips. “Do not heed me—it is nothing!”

At that moment came the pauillac—those tender and delicious ribs of milk-fed lamb from the country below Bordeaux—and again the head waiter beamed at Selden’s approving nod.

“But it was amusing,” went on the countess; “those journalists camped about the place as at a siege. They have a villa at Cimiez, the Davises—a large place which they have taken furnished. They have picked up their servants where they could, and of course the servants are in no way loyal, but are looking only to make all they can out of the rich Americans. They had orders, those servants, to admit none of the journalists, but first this one and then that one would bribe his way in. But it was of no use. It seems that Baron Lappo had impressed upon Madame Davis that she was not to talk—not a word to any one. He must have hinted at terrible consequences, for she was quite awed, and all she would say was ‘Please go away,’ over and over again until the butler would come and lead the journalist away. Indeed, she had rather the air of expecting to be blown up, but she has set her heart upon being the mother of a queen, and nothing will deter her, not even assassination. She has even the idea that it might be well to cement the union doubly by marrying her son to the Princess Anna.”

Selden laughed.

“I fancy she will have some difficulty there!”

“Yes, but she is counting upon your assistance.”

“My assistance?”

“She is going to ask you to talk to him, since it seems he refuses to listen to her.”

“I wonder,” said Selden, “if all this could be the baron’s idea?”

“But of course—his or the king’s. They would like to pluck the family clean.”

“Well, young Davis will never marry the Princess Anna.”

“Do not be too sure,” the countess warned him. “The baron is one of the cleverest men in Europe—a genius at manipulations of this sort. It is true that in this case he has for an opponent a very clever woman. You know very well that I mean Madame Ghita,” she went on, in answer to his look, “and that she destines that young man for this girl she calls her niece.”

“I have seen the girl,” said Selden. “She seems very nice. Is she not her niece?”

The countess shrugged her shoulders.

“How do I know? Cicette Fayard is the name she goes by.”

“And she also will pluck him clean?”

“Can you doubt it?” asked the countess, a malicious light in her eyes.

“Well,” said Selden, philosophically, “since it seems he is certain to be plucked, why worry? At any rate, he will find the process more amusing at the hands of Mlle. Fayard than at those of the baron and the Princess Anna. It will do him good to get some hard knocks. But what about his sister? Are you free to tell me about your interview?”

“Oh, yes; it is as I thought. She has made up her mind to carry it through. She was not astonished or offended that the prince should have had a mistress. In fact, I think she already knew it.”

“You told her straight out?”

“But of course—why should I use équivoque? She is not a child. I explained that I was speaking, not because I considered the matter of great importance, but because I wanted her to be treated fairly and to understand everything.”

“What did she say?”

“She thanked me, entirely without warmth,” said the countess, smiling. “She does not like me—I seem to remind her of some one she dislikes very much. Nor, to be frank, do I like her. It is instinct, I suppose. We find ourselves antagonistic.”

Selden decided that it was time to gather his forces for the attack.

“Did you know her, out there in Montana?” he asked.

“I saw her, of course, but only a few times. She was away at school a great deal.”

“Last night she was looking at you as though wondering where she had seen you before.”

“Yes, I noticed it. But I have changed a great deal from the girl she saw occasionally; and a little care in make-up changes me still more.”

“I noted the oriental twist you gave yourself,” commented Selden, with a smile.

“I repeated it, of course, this afternoon, so she could not place me.”

“And you did not recall yourself to her memory?”

“No,” said the countess, and her face darkened. “I had a special reason for not doing so.”

Selden would have liked to know the reason, but the countess did not explain it, and he could scarcely ask. One thing was clear, however—the person Miss Davis disliked very much, and of whom the countess reminded her, was the countess herself.

His attention was distracted for the moment by the solemn ceremonial attending the preparation of the crêpes susettes. This too required the finished touch of the head waiter, for whom an alcohol lamp surmounted by a silver platter had been prepared. He lighted the wicks of the lamp, filled the platter with a sauce over which he had been working, whose basis was fine champagne, and, as it began to simmer, immersed in it one of the thin pancakes which had been brought from the kitchen. He turned the pancake over and over, sprinkled it with powdered sugar, folded and refolded it, gave it a dash of kümmel, powdered it again, and popped it to a plate in the hands of the attendant waiter, who hastened to place it piping hot before the countess.

“Please eat it at once, madame,” he implored.

And the countess ate it, while Selden’s was in course of preparation. There were three for each of them—three indescribably delicious morsels, such as only a French chef could conceive.

There had been a little bustle of new arrivals at the door, which Selden was too preoccupied to heed. And then he looked up to find Madame Ghita smiling down at him—that peculiar little smile which always puzzled him. She was perfectly gowned and fully as arresting as the countess—more so, perhaps—though on a different note; and with her were two companions, Miss Fayard and young Davis.

Selden thought for a moment that she was going to stop; but she did not—just nodded to them and drifted past in the wake of the obsequious patron, with the little fish-tail in which her clinging gown terminated sliding noiselessly at her heels, and making her look absurdly like a mermaid, a siren....

Selden could not help smiling as he looked after her—the deep spiritual smile with which one regards a masterpiece.

“Yes, she is very striking,” the countess agreed; “and very intelligent; do you not think so?” and she looked at him curiously.

“Of course I think so,” said Selden, with a heartiness a shade artificial.

“She is too good for the prince,” the countess went on. “She should have for her lover a great artist, a poet, a dramatist—a great journalist like yourself; she would arouse him, keep him awake, furnish him with endless themes, and make his future. With the prince her talents are wasted.”

“Perhaps,” Selden suggested with elaborate carelessness, “after this annuity business is settled, and she has further consolidated her position by marrying that girl to Davis, she will drop the prince and look about her. I certainly hope so.”

“Why?” asked the countess quickly, still looking at him.

“Because,” Selden explained, “the whole point of the situation is not whether the prince has had a mistress—but mistress isn’t the right word. After all, he married her.”

“With the left hand,” said the countess. “There is a difference.”

“Well, the question is not what the prince has done, but what he is going to do. You will remember, she hasn’t promised to give him up—only not to make a scene.”

Involuntarily he looked across at the other table. Davis and Miss Fayard had their heads together over the menu. Madame Ghita was sitting with folded hands gazing calmly across at Selden and the countess. The latter had looked at her too, and so she knew of course that they were talking about her.

Selden abruptly changed the subject.

“Did you know young Davis’s father?” he asked.

“Yes—he came to see my father quite often. They were good friends. He was a very genuine, human man. He and my father and Jeneski used to sit for hours talking about all sorts of things.”

“Jeneski also?”

“Yes. He was a sort of deputy for Mr. Davis in keeping the people in order. They were together a great deal.”

The waiter had cleared the table and placed the coffee before them. The sommelier, at a nod from Selden, filled two tiny glasses with golden Benedictine.

“Jeneski is a remarkable man,” said Selden slowly. “I found him very fascinating. I should think he would be especially so to women.”

“He is,” agreed the countess quietly; “the more so because he finds women less fascinating than politics. Oh, how do you do, Mr. Halsey,” she added, in another tone.

It was indeed Halsey, who passed on with a curt nod, sat down at a table facing them and ordered coffee and liqueur. And looking at his sardonic face, Selden began to glimpse the countess’s motive in insisting on this dinner; she had need of Halsey—she herself had said so—and she was disciplining him when he proved recalcitrant. Well, one thing was certain; he wasn’t going to be used as a stalking-horse for Halsey. If he could only fathom the game the countess was playing....

“He doesn’t seem very happy,” he remarked.

“Who?”

Selden nodded in Halsey’s direction.

“Oh, he is never happy,” said the countess. “He is one of those unfortunate men who never know what they want—or when they do, are afraid to pay the price. Come—I will not sit here with him glaring at me. Besides, I have work to do—my reports to make!”

“To Lappo?”

“Yes.”

She was drawing on her gloves nervously. Selden asked for the bill and paid it.

“I also have a telegram to send,” he said, as they went out together. Over his shoulder he saw that Halsey was paying his bill. He glanced at Madame Ghita—she was looking after them with that little ironical smile, which deepened for an instant as she caught his eye.

“M. Selden,” said the countess, when they were on the esplanade outside, “I have to thank you for a lovely dinner—but more than that, for consenting to take me. I shall not forget it. Perhaps I can do something for you some day.”

“You can do something for me now,” said Selden.

“What is it?”

“Persuade Halsey to be decent about this affair of the prince.”

“But I do not....” She checked herself. “Very well,” she said quietly. “I will see what I can do.”

They were at the hotel entrance.

“Thank you,” Selden said. He did not look over his shoulder, but he was certain that Halsey was not far away. “I am not coming in—I’ll go over to the postoffice and get my story off.”

“Good night.” She held out her hand. “It is nice of you not to ask any questions. And if I do not see you again....”

“You are going away?”

“I may be called away very suddenly. So if I do not see you again, remember that I am your friend and wish you good fortune!”

“Thank you,” Selden answered. “Good night!”

For an instant she permitted him to retain her hand, then she drew it away and walked quickly up the steps. She waved at him from the top, and was gone.

As he turned the corner, he could not resist glancing back. A heavy figure was running up the steps to the hotel entrance—unmistakably Halsey.

Selden turned, with a sudden impulse, sped back and up the steps into the hotel. He must solve this mystery—at least he must establish beyond a doubt the connection between Halsey and the countess. He raced up the stair and reached the upper corridor just as Halsey paused before the door of the countess’s suite. It was evidently ajar, for he walked straight in without knocking, leaving it open behind him.

In an instant Selden was peering through the crack between door and jamb. The countess was taking a telegram from the hand of her maid.

“All right!” said Halsey roughly, as he burst in upon her. “I agree—to anything....”

“Wait!” said the countess, without even glancing at him, and ripped open the message with shaking fingers. Her eyes devoured its contents at a glance. Then she turned to him with a strange smile. “So you agree?”

“Yes.”

“You swear it?”

“Yes.”

“It was time!” she said. “Look at this,” and she thrust the sheet of paper beneath his eyes.

Halsey stared at it blankly.

“‘Registered parcel wings mailed Nice this morning okrim,’” he read. “What does that mean?”

“It is from Mirko, Jeneski’s minister,” she said, her whole body quivering, “and it means that Jeneski started for Nice this morning by airplane.” Then, looking past him, she saw the open door. “You fool!” she began....

But Selden was safely around the turn in the corridor before the door slammed.