The Enemies of Women (Los enemigos de la mujer)

The Enemies of Women (Los enemigos de la mujer) Page 11

by Vicente Blasco Ibáñez

  CHAPTER XI

  Two days later, in the morning, Lubimoff saw the Colonel go out dressedin black.

  He was going to the funeral of Martinez. He and Novoa felt it was theirduty, as Spaniards, to accompany the hero on his last earthly journey.

  On his return he told his impressions, with painful conciseness, to thePrince. A few convalescent officers had followed the bier. The Professorand he were the only ones in civilian clothes present. In spite of hisgarb, those kindly heroic boys, seeing that he was a Colonel and acompatriot of the dead man, had obliged him to preside over the funeralservices.

  The Beausoleil Cemetery lay half way up the slope of the mountain on thecrest of which La Turbie is situated. On account of the war, it had beennecessary to enlarge it by several level plots of ground that formed aseries of terraces. From these esplanades the eye embraced a magnificentview: Monte Carlo, Monaco, immediately below that, Cap-Martin advancingout over the waves, finally the infinite expanse of sea that rose androse until it mingled with the sky. A monument with a rooster arrogantand victorious on its summit held the remains of the combatants who haddied for France. Don Marcos was still much moved by the speech he haddelivered, while all stood hushed, at the entrance to this common tomb,which was about to swallow up forever the body of Martinez.

  "It was a speech for men," said Toledo, with pride, "for men who hadbeen crippled in warfare. Nothing but heroes before me! There wasn't asingle woman at the funeral."

  This was the detail that interested the Prince most: "Not a singlewoman." And he asked himself again what could have become of Alicia.

  Toward the end of the afternoon, as he was walking about his gardens, hesaw Lady Lewis coming, preceded by the Colonel.

  The Prince took refuge in his house. The nurse was undoubtedly arrivingwith a group of convalescent Englishmen, and wanted to run about amongthe trees and pick flowers. He did not feel he had the strength tolisten to her chatter, which was like the twittering of a gay butwounded bird and was filled with a happiness that persisted tenaciouslyin the midst of grief, and continued even to the threshold of death.

  The Prince was going up the stairway to retire to the upper rooms, whenthe Colonel overtook him; but before the latter could speak Lubimoffturned on him in a rage. He didn't want to see the nurse! Let her takeher Englishmen over the gardens; she might go about in them as thoughthey belonged to her; but as for himself, he wanted her to leave himalone.

  "Marquis," said Toledo, "the noble woman has come alone and must talkwith your Highness. She has something important to say to you."

  The Prince and the nurse sat down in wicker chairs out of doors in alittle open space surrounded by leafy trees. A fountain was laughing asgreat drops of water scattered from its lazy jet.

  The greenish light reflected through the grove made Lady Lewis appearweaker and more anaemic. What was left of life seemed concentrated in hereyes, before taking flight and vanishing like some volatile fluid, intospace. The Prince was beginning to forget his recent anger. Poor LadyMary! Once more he had a feeling of tenderness and respect for her. Herphysical wretchedness finally changed his pity into the kind ofadmiration that disinterested sacrifice always inspires.

  Accustomed to living amid the deepest sorrows, to witnessing thegreatest catastrophes, Lady Lewis paid little attention to theconventions prevailing in ordinary life and spoke at once, with acertain military abruptness, of the reason for her visit.

  She was coming in behalf of the Duchess de Delille. She had spent thelast two days at Villa Rosa, sleeping there in order not to leave theDuchess a single moment. First, Alicia's wild despair, followed later bya complete collapse, had frightened her. The lady had tried to killherself.

  "Poor woman!... She finally grew calm, seeing the true light, andrealizing the path she must take. I feel satisfied that I'veaccomplished that much by my words."

  Lubimoff's questioning glance remained fixed on the English woman. Whatlight and what path was she talking about? But there was something thatinterested him more: the motive of her visit, the message that theDuchess had given her for him.

  Lady Lewis read his thoughts.

  "She asked me to see you, Prince; that is her last wish as she leavesthe world. She begs you to forget her, never to seek her out, and aboveall to forgive her for the harm she has done you involuntarily.Forgiveness is what she most ardently yearns for. When I tell her thatyou don't hate her, it will restore the serenity she needs for her newlife."

  Michael had been absorbed in deep thought. Forgive her? Alicia had notdone him any harm. From himself, from his own desires anddisillusionments, his sufferings had come. If he had remained faithfulto the principles he had announced some months before when he hatedwomen, he would not have suffered the slightest change in the sensiblelife he had been leading. Besides, where was she? Could he not see her?

  This flood of questions was interrupted by Lady Lewis. She continued tosmile sweetly, but her voice revealed the firmness of an unalterablewill.

  "The Duchess is no longer living in Monte Carlo; I have arrangedeverything in regard to her trip. I am the only one who knows where sheis, and I shall never tell. Do not look for her; let her go away inpeace in her quest for truth; think of her as dead ... as others havedied, as thousands of beings are dying and will continue to die in thisperiod of ours, with each day's sun. Forgive and forget. Poor woman! Sheis so unhappy."

  Lubimoff understood how futile all his questions would be. Hiscuriosity, no matter how strong and subtle, would fail in contact withthat impenetrable reserve. Alicia had disappeared forever ... forever!

  He now felt sadder and lonelier than ever before. As he sat there besidethis Amazon of human sorrow, he had a feeling of confidence similar tothat which the Duchess must have felt during those last few days. It wasa desire to make a confession to her, an instinctive impulse to bare hissoul, as though from that woman who brought to death beds thelight-hearted merriment of a bird, might come the supreme counsel ofwisdom.

  The Prince nodded his head, murmuring his assent: "Yes, I forgive her."He did not wish the other woman to bear the slightest burden of grief onhis account. He would shoulder all that, himself. But immediatelyafterward he could not resist the impulse of that anguish to expressitself. He was himself astonished at the words which, overriding allrestraint, escaped from his lips.

  "I, too, Lady Lewis, am very unhappy."

  The nurse did not show any surprise at such a burst of confidence. Shesimply continued to smile, and said laconically:

  "I know."

  Her smile was changing to a look of sweet pity, of beneficentcompassion, as though the Prince were a child in need of her advice.

  She had guessed his unhappiness long before the Duchess had talked toher in the hours of despairing confession. He believed he was unhappythrough being crossed in love; but actually, this sorrow was only theouter shell of another which was deeper and more real, and whichdepended on himself alone.

  He had tried to live apart from his fellow-beings, ignoring theirtroubles, selfishly withdrawing into a shell. He had wished, byloitering on the margin of humanity which was suffering the greatestcrisis in all its history, to prolong the pleasures of peace into a timeof war. One could understand such aloofness in a coward, dominated bythe instinct of self-preservation; but _he_ was a brave man. One couldtolerate it in a man who was burdened with children, who constantly feltthe imperious duty of supporting them, and was afraid on that account;but he was alone in the world.

  "We are all unhappy, Prince. Who doesn't know grief and death thesedays?"

  And she talked in monotonous tones of her own misfortune, as though shewere reciting a prayer. Her smile, the smile that animated the anaemichomeliness of her features with a vaporous light of dawn, graduallyfaded.

  Six of her brothers had been killed in one afternoon. They belonged tothe same battalion and she had received the news of the six deaths atthe same time. Thirty-two of her relatives were now beneath the groundand very few of them had been sold
iers in the beginning. Before the warthey had lived lives of pleasure. They enjoyed great wealth and titles:Life had been as sweet to them as to Prince Lubimoff.... But when theyheard the call of duty!... "No one chooses the spot where he is born; noone can decide which his country shall be and what his lineage. We comeinto the world according to the whims of chance, in the upper or thelower stories of society, and we mold our lives according to the placedesignated by fate. Neither can any one choose the times he will livein. Happy they who are born in peace times, when humanity is wrapped incalm, and its prehistoric savagery is slumbering within the shell formedby civilization; happy also they who are born into a powerful family andfind themselves exempted from the struggle of life."

  "But when we are born into a period of madness," she continued, "we haveto resign ourselves and adapt ourselves to it, without seeking to avoidthe painful burden that falls on our shoulders. It is our duty to sufferso that others later on may be happy as our forefathers suffered for oursakes."

  What grief she had felt on receiving at a single stroke the news of thedeath of all her brothers! She did not consider herself an extraordinarybeing; she was simply a woman like any other. She had wept. She hadabandoned herself to her despair. Then, an idea kept drifting throughher mind joyously refreshing her drooping spirits. Supposing men wereimmortal in this life! Then despair would be horrible indeed. If youconsidered that the dead might have saved their lives by keeping farfrom every danger! But no one was immortal.

  "Whether you die from a bullet wound or from microbes, makes littledifference. Only the external circumstances vary, and for many peoplethere is a greater fascination in returning to dust in a lightning-likemanner in the full intoxication of battle, with a generous idea in one'smind, than in slowly fading away in confinement between two sheets,defiled and degraded by the filth of a material nature beginning todisintegrate.

  "It is a sort of holy fear necessary, for that matter, to thepreservation of human life, and it troubles people and makes them hidefrom themselves the terrible truth that waits at the end of every life.Sensible people consider it madness to go out in quest of death. It isall very well if death is something motionless which sets hands only onthose who draw near it of their own accord. But if man does not goforward to meet death, death, with its hundred-league boots, runs insearch of man. Who can guess the moment of the meeting? The best thing,then, is to scorn it; and not pay it the tribute of constant thoughtwhich engenders anxiety and fear.

  "Besides, death in bed is an unfruitful and sterile death. To whom couldit be of use, except one's heirs? The other kind of death, death for anidea, even for an erroneous idea, means something positive. It is an actof energy and faith and the aggregate of such acts makes up the noblesthistory of humanity."

  The Prince admired the simplicity with which this woman, who was almostin a dying condition, exalted the heroism of life and scorned death.

  She had placed her ideal very high beyond the selfish desires which formthe warp and woof of ordinary lives. If every one were to suit merelyhis own convenience, humanity as a whole would have no reason toconsider itself superior to animals.

  The noblewoman possessed an ideal: to sacrifice herself for her fellowbeings; to serve them even at the cost of her own life. She was almostglad of the war, which had helped her to find her true path. In peacetimes she would have done the same as every woman, linking her lot withthat of a man, bearing children and building up a family.

  "Amorous affection reduces the world to two beings; a mother's lovefinds nothing of interest beyond her own progeny. Only when old age isreached and the illusory perspectives of life have faded away, is thegreat truth apparent that people must be interested in every livingbeing, ready to sacrifice themselves for every living being. But theexalted sympathy of old age is unfruitful and brief."

  Mary Lewis considered herself fortunate in having rushed forward in theright direction from the first moment, without the long evasions ofother people, who are late in reaching the truth.

  "I have had my romance, like every one else."

  She said this simply, but at the same time what blood was left in herveins animated her features with a faint blush, as though she wereconfessing something extraordinary.

  She had been loved by a scholarly man, a former secretary of her father,the Colonial Governor. Only once had they confessed their love.Afterwards their life continued as before, both of them keeping thesecret, postponing the realization of their dreams to an indefinitefuture.... But the war came.

  He had hastened, among the first, to enlist as a volunteer: "Mary, I ama soldier." And Mary had replied: "That is right." They wrote shortletters to each other at long intervals. They had more important thingsto do. He did not have the handsome features and the strength of a hero,like Lady Lewis' brothers. He even suspected that his bearing wasscarcely military because of the ungainliness that comes from asedentary life, spent in bending over a writing table. But he did hisduty, and more than once he had been cited for his cool audacity.

  Their desires would now never be fulfilled. Even though she mightsucceed in surviving the war, she would continue her present existencein civilian hospitals, in far-off countries scourged by plagues. Heperhaps would marry another, or perhaps would remain faithful to hermemory, devoting himself for his part to relieving the pain and sorrowsof his fellow beings. But they would live apart, going where duty calledthem, thinking constantly of each other, but without meeting, like thecultivated monks and passionate nuns of other centuries, who filledtheir lives with spiritual friendships maintained in widely separatedmonasteries and convents.

  Once more Michael admired her abnegation. Lady Lewis belonged to thatsmall group of the elect, who do not know what selfishness is and longto sacrifice themselves for what is good. She was one of that immortalline of saintly women who existed before the birth of religion and whowill continue to flourish just the same when skepticism has finallyruined all our present beliefs.

  "You are an angel," said the Prince.

  "No," she protested; "I am a lover, a great lover."

  Lubimoff smiled with a certain air of pity.

  "You a lover?"

  She went on talking as though her listener's surprise annoyed her. Whatwas other women's love compared to hers? They fixed their tenderness,their desire for self-sacrifice, on one man only. Beyond him they foundnothing worthy of interest. She loved all men, all of them, even thesoldiers of the enemy whom she had often cared for in the ambulances atthe front. They were mistaken, and if they really were guilty souls andwished to continue being so, all she could see in them was theirphysical condition as, threatened by death, they lay stretched out ontheir beds, with their flesh mangled. They were simply unfortunatebeings, and this was enough to make her forget their nationality.

  She wanted her own side to triumph because the other represented theexaltation of brute strength, the glorification of war, and it was herdesire that there should be no more wars. She longed for the time whenlove would rule the whole world!... It was bad enough that men could notsuppress with like facility, poverty, pain and death, the blackdivinities which seize us at our birth and with whom we struggle up tothe last moment.

  "I love everything that is alive: People, animals, and flowers. Besidesuch love, what is the affection between a man and a woman, which peopleconsider the only love and is simply the selfishness of two beingssetting themselves apart from their fellow beings, and living only forthemselves? My love is likewise a kind of selfishness. I realize it;perhaps it is something worse: pride. If you only knew how gay I feelwhen I have saved from death one of my 'flirts,' one of those poorwounded men whom I shall never see again!... No, don't admire me,Prince, and don't feel sorry for me. I am merely a poor woman! by nomeans an angel! Moreover, I am very bad; I have my repentances, likeevery one else."

  "You, Lady Mary!" the Prince exclaimed again with a look of incredulity.That he should have no doubts about it she hastened to relate the greatsin of her life. Traveling through Andalusia she
had seen some boys on ariver bank who were trying to drown a stray dog, throwing stones at it.Mary fell upon them, mad with rage, striking them with her parasol. Oneof the little fellows wept, and blood spurted from his nostrils. Thisunhappy memory had often troubled her in the night. Now she could notsee a child without caressing it with all the ardor occasioned byremorse.

  Also she had had quarrels in various countries with drivers who werewhipping their work animals and with hotel keepers who would not allowher to keep in her room lost dogs and cats she found in the streets.

  Before the war, her pity had been entirely for animals. Humanity wasable to defend itself. But now, the butchery of beings in uniforms hadturned her sweet tenderness toward mankind. They needed love andprotection more than the poor brutes.

  The mention of her "flirts" suddenly brought her back to her duty. Atthat very moment they were tossing, covered with bandages, in theirbeds, and anxiously calling for her presence. Or else they were sittingon a bench with motionless eyes turned toward the sun, refusing to takea walk until they could feel the gentle support of her arm. "Good-by,Prince!" She must go! Her lovers were waiting for her.

  As she stood up, she thought again of the reason for her visit and spokeonce more in the tone that revealed the firmness of her will.

  It was useless for him to seek the Duchess. The poor woman afterentering so many blind alleys in her life, had finally found the truepath, the one she herself, more fortunate, had discovered while still inher youth. The Virgin Dolorosa spoke in a simple, natural way ofAlicia's past. She knew it all. In the silence of Villa Rosa, the otherwoman had confessed it in despair, without the nurse feeling eitherscandalized or amazed. What did the moral capacity of a mere individualmean, when at every moment the world was beholding the most unheard ofcrimes.

  "She left this morning and is a long way off--a long way!" said thegentle woman. "It is possible that you will never see each other again.I will write her that you forgive her. That will afford her the peace ofmind she needs in her new life."

  The Prince was going with her as far as the entrance to his gardens.During the walk he began once more to lament his fate. He needed torelieve by articulation the despair in which he was left by the refusalof the English woman to tell him where Alicia was staying.

  "I am very unhappy, Lady Mary."

  "I know," she replied. "My misfortunes are greater than yours, but Irise above them better."

  For Mary life was a sort of balance. In one pan of the scales sufferinghad perforce to fall. No one could free himself from that burden. Butthe spirit must re-establish the equilibrium by placing in the other pansomething great, an ideal, a hope. She had found the necessarycounterweight: love for everything alive, sacrifice for one's fellowbeings, and consequent abnegation.

  What did the Prince have to counter-balance the shocks of destiny?...Nothing. He went on living the same as in peace times, thinking only ofhimself. He was still just as the great mass of men had been, before thewar drew them from their selfish individualism, making the virtues ofsolidarity and sacrifice flourish once more in their souls. For thatreason all he needed to feel desperate was a mere obstacle to hisdesires, a disappointment in love, that should really be an afflictiononly in the life of a mere boy. Oh, if only he could get a high ideal!If only he could think less about himself and more about mankind!...

  They shook hands beside the gate.

  "Good-by, Lady Lewis!" said the Prince, bowing.

  If Don Marcos had been present the Prince's voice at that moment wouldhave sounded familiar to him. It was the same as on the afternoon of theduel, when he met the English woman with the two blind men; abeautifully solemn voice which wavered close to tears.

  Toledo did not appear until a few moments later, coming out of thegardener's pavilion, to meet the Prince, who was returning pensivelytoward the villa.

  Lubimoff spoke and gave an order in stern tones.

  "I am leaving for Paris. I want to go to-morrow. Make all the necessaryarrangements."

  Then, as he gazed into the Colonel's eyes, he continued in a gentlervoice:

  "I think I shall never return here.... I am going to sell VillaSirena."

  CHAPTER XII

  Don Marcos is descending the slopes of the public gardens toward theCasino Square, in conversation with a soldier.

  He is no longer the ceremonious Colonel who used to kiss the hands ofthe elderly and noble ladies in the gambling rooms, and was present asthe inevitable guest at the luncheons of all the titled familiesstopping at the Hotel de Paris. There is nothing about his person torecall the long velvet lined frock coats, the high white silk hats, andthe other splendors of his eccentric elegance. He is soberly dressed ina dark suit, and there is something rustic about his appearance, whichreveals the man who lives in the country, enjoys cultivating the soil,and feels constraint on returning to city life. He is wearing gloves,just as in the good old days; but now it is out of necessity. His handsremind him of a certain narrow garden around his diminutive villa, withfive trees, twelve rose bushes, and some forty shrubs all of which heknows individually, by names he has given them. He has been caring forthem so fondly, and caressing them so often, that his fingers havebecome calloused.

  The soldier is also walking along like a country man, looking withcuriosity in every direction. A stiff mustache covers his upper lip, oneof those stiff and aggressive mustaches which come out after longperiods of continual shaving. His uniform is old, faded by the sun andrain. The yellowish cloth has the neutral color of the soil. His rightarm hangs inert from the shoulder and moves in rhythm with his step,like a dangling inanimate object. His hand is covered with a glove, therigidity of which reveals the outline of something hard and mechanical.The other hand leans on a knotty cane, and smoke is curling from a pipein his lips. On his sleeves, almost mingling with the color of thecloth, is the one narrow officer's stripe.

  "It has been ten months and twenty days, since your Highness left here.How many things have happened!"

  The soldier is Prince Lubimoff; but Lubimoff seems stronger, more sereneand decided than the preceding year, in spite of his artificial arm.There are the same gray hairs, scattered here and there, on his head;but his mustache, on being allowed to grow, has come out almost white.

  The Colonel's side whiskers are like his mustache. With thedisappearance of his elegance, the touches of the toilet table havelikewise ceased, and the modest gray, obtained by careful dying, hasgiven place to the white of frank old age.

  Don Marcos points to the Square toward which they are both going.

  "If your Highness had only seen it the night of the Armistice!"

  The news of the triumph made every one come running. They descended fromBeausoleil, they came up from La Condamine, and they arrived from therock of Monaco. For the first time in four years, the facades of theCasino, the hotels and cafes, were illuminated from top to bottom.

  The Square was overflowing with people. They all seemed to blink asthough dazzled by the light, after the long darkness in which thesubmarine menace had kept them plunged. Several brass instruments roaredout the Marseillaise, and the crowd following the flags of the Alliedcountries and, unwilling to leave the Square, kept marching about the"Camembert," like moths about a flame.

  Suddenly a long dancing line formed, a _farandole_, and it began to runand leap, growing at each twist and turn. Every one, in the contagion ofenthusiasm, joined out; officers grasped hands with privates; solemnladies kicked up their heels and lost their hats; timid girls shouted,with their hair flying; the faces of the women had the look ofenthusiastic madness which is seen only in times of revolution. The lamehopped and skipped, the blind imagined they could see, and those who hadlost their hands held on with their stumps to the serpentine line. TheMarseillaise seemed like a miraculous hymn, giving every one newstrength. Peace!... Peace!

  In one of its evolutions, the head of the human snake climbed the stepsof the Casino. The _farandole_ was trying to enter the antechamber, andthe gambling rooms, to wr
ap its coils about the crowd, the _croupiers_,and the tables. Every selfish activity should cease in that hour ofgenerous joy.

  "Alas, the gamblers! What a malady gambling is, Your Highness! Onreaching the Square they took off their hats to the flags, and almostwept, as they sang a verse of the Marseillaise. 'Long live France! Longlive the Allies!' And immediately they entered the Casino to bet theirmoney on the same number as the celebrated date, or on othercombinations suggested by peace."

  The gate-keepers, with the air of old gendarmes, concentrated in aheroic body to keep off with their breasts, their bellies and theirfists the turbulent snake dance which was trying to enter the sacrededifice. They seemed indignant. When had such extraordinary insolenceever been seen? Peace was a good thing, and people might well rejoice;but to come into the Casino like a dancing riot, to interrupt thefunctioning of an honorable industry!... And they had finally shoved theline of disheveled women down the steps, and the decorated soldiers whowere suddenly forgetting their infirmities and their wounds were drivenafter it.

  The Prince and Toledo arrive at the Square and turn to the left of theCasino, toward the Cafe de Paris.

  Lubimoff sits down at a table, at a protruding angle of the sidewalkcafe which people nickname "The Promontory." The Colonel remains on hisright. He has spent the afternoon with the Prince, and must return home.He is no longer so free as before; some one is living with him, and hisnew situation imposes unavoidable obligations.

  In his mind's eye he can see, on the heights of Beausoleil, the littlehouse he lives in, surrounded by its little garden. It is all his byregistered public deed. But the fate of his property does not worry theColonel; no one will carry off his walls and trees. What makes himnervous is a certain non-commissioned American officer, young and wellbuilt, who has a mania for walking about the dwelling; and certainbright eyes which from a window follow the soldier with a hungry look;and certain lips red as cherries, that smile at that American; andcertain hands which Don Marcos thinks he has surprised from a distancethrowing down a flower, though their owner shrieks at him in fury everyday to convince him that he has been imagining things.

  Don Marcos is married. A few weeks after the departure of the Prince, agreat change came into his life. Villa Sirena already belonged to thenouveau-riche who was a maker of auto trucks and aeroplanes, and whohad also bought the Paris residence. The Colonel on giving himpossession, remembered only to praise the merits of the gardener and hisfamily.

  Lubimoff, before leaving for the front, had arranged for his"chamberlain's" future, assuring him a pension of ten thousand francs ayear, and also sending him a certain sum with which to buy a house.Since the Colonel had set his mind on dying in Monte Carlo, he ought tohave a little Villa Sirena of his own.

  After digging in the garden on his property for a short time, with anoccasional glance down on the Casino Square, Toledo went in search ofNovoa. The Professor was his best friend; besides, he was a Spaniard,and it was the latter's duty to be of service to him, in the mostimportant event in his life. He needed a best man for his wedding. TheProfessor was dumbfounded on being informed that the Colonel was goingto marry the gardener's daughter. She was young enough to be hisgrandchild! It was tempting fate for a man of his years to exposehimself deliberately to such dangers.

  "You, Don Marcos, as a Spaniard, must remember," said Novoa, "that theSaint whose name you bear has a bull with long horns for his emblem!Besides, youth has its rights."

  "And old age its duties," replied the Colonel, with a kindly air,resigning himself to his future.

  At present, standing beside the Prince, he stammers with timidity andembarrassment. He hates to confess that he must desert him.

  "Mado is waiting for me: you see, the poor girl doesn't go out verymuch. She likes to have me take her to the afternoon concerts on theterraces. It is five o'clock."

  And when the Prince assents, with a slight nod, Toledo rushes offprecipitously. Then, farther on, he begins almost to run up the slope,panting, but without feeling his weariness. He wants to reach home assoon as possible, and yet is afraid of doing so. He is sure of Mado onlywhen he is within range of her shrieks. He shudders when he thinks thathe may be "imagining things" again.

  As the Prince remains alone, the glass that is before his eyes graduallyfades away and with it the adjoining tables, and the people seatedaround the "Camembert." His vision contracts, and buries itself deepwithin his mind to contemplate other images of memory.

  He arrived in Monte Carlo that morning. Only a few hours have passed,and he has seen so much already!

  He recalls certain remarks of his friend Lewis; and remarks, made duringone of the luncheons at Villa Sirena: "Life is strange and uneven as itflows along. Time goes by without anything extraordinary arising, andthen, all of a sudden, hours do the work of months, days are as eventfulas years, and things happen in a few moments which, at other times,would take centuries." How many people have died in the relatively shortspace of time that has elapsed since he last left Monte Carlo!

  Lubimoff recalls the brief and exciting period after his arrival inParis: his enlistment in the Foreign Legion; the Commission of SecondLieutenant granted him in recognition of his former service as Captainin the Imperial Guards; his departure for the front, after distributingor investing the million and a half derived from the sale of VillaSirena, his hard life in action, the battles and slaughter accompanying,with gruesome prodigality, the advances of the triumphant offensive. Herecalls his meeting with a member of the Legion who suddenly called tohim and whom he had some difficulty in recognizing: Atilio Castro!Castro had changed. His ironical smile had vanished. He looked on lifewith greater seriousness, and now seemed convinced of the worth of hisactions. They belonged to different battalions, and they did not seeeach other again, till late one afternoon, after a fight, he came acrosshim. The poor boy was lying stretched out on the ground, among othercorpses. His forehead had been crushed in and his brain was showingunder the wound! On that face the death grin was a smile of serenity.Poor Castro! What could have become of Dona Clorinda?

  The Prince's mind wanders from that memory. Other lost friends claim hisattention. He evokes finally a more recent vision: his arrival after along convalescence in a hospital, in Monte Carlo. On getting out of thetrain, Toledo deeply moved, gazes at his artificial arm, which hides butimperfectly the amputation. He had suffered for several months from theconsequences of a stupid, accidental wound, received ingloriously a fewdays before the armistice.

  He ascends the slope to the delightful little home of Don Marcos, whichwill be his own while he remains here. Down below, projecting into thesea, the promontory of Villa Sirena meets his eye. It now belongs toanother man, and he turns his glance away to keep certain memories fromwelling up. In doing so his eyes chance to meet the eyes of Mado,Toledo's _senora_; eyes which doubtless consider Prince Lubimoff moreinteresting, with his mustache, his elderly appearance, and his uniform,than when he was the elegant master of her parents. Poor Colonel! AndMichael flees the tempting glance, and the full scarlet lips, which seemto challenge him to smile.

  After lunch he follows a path which zigzags up the mountain; he sees astone wall, passes through a door, and briefly contemplates a monumentsurmounted by a huge rooster.

  Toledo bares his head. Peace to the heroes! Then he points to theentrance of the funereal structure.

  "Poor Martinez is there."

  They descend several steps to another part of the cemetery, lying interraces on the mountain slope. On that level plot the tombs are leveledoff even with the soil, with slabs of stone protected by low rectangularfences of chain, or simply bordered with flowers. An aesthetic instinctseems to explain the sparing use of ornaments here. From these mournfulesplanades of death one can see a great expanse of green coast, dottedwith the white of villas and towns; the rose-colored Alps, the capes ofpurple rock, the deep intense blue of the Mediterranean, and the softlimpid blue of a cloudless sky. And the graves seem to smile at all thissplendor of Nature.

/>   The Colonel searches among them, reading the names.

  "Here, Marquis."

  He points to a slab with a simple inscription: "Mary Lewis."

  "Just like a bird, your Highness. One morning at dawn they found herpoor little body dead on the hospital cot. She hadn't cried out, shehadn't complained; she departed as she had lived. The nurses say thatthe face was smiling. Her body was as light as a feather."

  Around the tomb several wreaths were turning black, as though scorchedby fire. Toledo seeks among these offerings of the dead woman'scompanions, until he points to a handful of fresh roses, which arebeginning to decay.

  "They must be from Lord Lewis," he goes on to say. "When things go badlyin the Casino, he comes up to see his niece. Your Highness must know,of course, that with the death of Lady Lewis, he is now a Lord--really aLord."

  The Prince shrugs his shoulders. To think of human vanities in a placelike this, which makes all earthly worries seem grotesque!

  Don Marcos guesses his impatience, and as they descend two moreterraces, he goes on explaining.

  "The English woman died before the other; that is why they buried herfarther up. So many people have died in the last few months!"

  They reach the last terrace of the cemetery, the lowest one, a squarefield of reddish earth in which there are no slabs, no truncatedcolumns, and no fences of chain. Little mounds of earth taking the formof a coffin indicate the location of the graves. Some of them havewooden crosses. From one of the latter hangs the picture of a youngsoldier in the center of a wreath laid there by his parents.

  Two men show their heads and shoulders above the ground and disappearfrom sight again after emptying their shovels. They are opening a gravefor some one who is soon to come. Michael notices floating up from thevibrant, luminous air, the mournful sound of a bell, tolling in anunseen church below.

  The Colonel insists on explaining.

  "It is a temporary grave, without any slab, without any name."

  On account of the war, it was impossible to send the body to Paris. Itwill lie here the length of time the law demands, and then the younglady, who is her heir, will have her taken to the vault in the PassyCemetery where her mother is buried. He hesitates somewhat as heexamines the mounds, and finally stops in front of one of them, andtakes off his hat.

  "Here it is."

  Lubimoff cannot hide his surprise. "Here?..." He sees a heap of earth,without anything to adorn it, without anything to differentiate it fromthe rest, and which inspires in him no emotion at all. He looksanxiously at his companion. Hasn't he made a mistake? Are they notstanding beside the tomb of some poor soldier who died of his wounds?

  The Colonel, somewhat offended by the question, repeats energetically:"Here it is." He remembers that he was the only man present at thefuneral. Three nurses, Senorita Valeria, and he, followed the coffin tothese heights; there was no one else.

  Poor Duchess de Delille! Toledo is moved on remembering her unexpecteddeath. Lady Lewis had sent her to the front. Having been born in theUnited States, it was fairly easy for her to be admitted to a hospitalunit with the American Divisions that were fighting at Chateau-Thierry.

  The Prince, listening to the explanations of Don Marcos, recalls aconfession Alicia once made to him. Her hands were clumsy. Her spirit,anxious to do good, weakened at the moment of action through a lack ofmaterial training. Doubtless for that reason she had been sent back afew weeks later to the Riviera, to give her services in a quieterhospital than the ambulance stations at the front.

  Toledo had not seen her. She was living in the neighborhood of MonteCarlo without his ever suspecting it. The first news he had had of herwas that of her death; a death which leaves the Colonel pensive wheneverhe recalls it. She became infected by a surgical instrument which hadjust been used in an operation. Perhaps it was because of the clumsinessof her hands; perhaps ... who knows! Don Marcos believes that theDuchess was tired of life.

  "A horrible death, Marquis. I did not see her: I am glad I didn't. Theytell me she was black and swollen. Besides, for several hours she was intorture, lifting herself on her head and heels, arching above the bed,with the muscles of her body tense with the most atrocious suffering.Tetanus! How terrible for a great lady, so beautiful, so elegant to dielike that! But in the midst of such pain she found the peace of mind todictate her last testament. Senorita Valeria has inherited Villa Rosa,and several hundred thousand francs: all that she won that night at theSporting Club. As for your Highness...."

  The Prince interrupts him with a gesture. He has known for a long time,from the letters of Don Marcos, that Alicia remembered him in her lastmoments, leaving him heir to her silver mines in Mexico, all that shepossessed on the other side of the ocean; nothing at the present moment,but in the future perhaps a fortune, almost as great as that whichLubimoff formerly held in Russia.

  He remains with his eyes fixed on the grave. On it he sees some finemoss, a miniature forest, opening its branches at the breath of spring,and among the tiny leaves diminutive flowers are stirring. Severalgreenish black butterflies, spotted with red, are fluttering above thismurmuring forest of budding life, much as the monstrous prehistoricbirds fluttered above the first vegetation of the globe.

  Michael sees a relation between these insects and the spirit that dweltin the organism now disintegrating a few feet under the ground beneathhis feet. The varied, clashing colors remind him of the dead woman'ssoul. In the same way a few minutes before, a white butterflyfluttering above the flowers brought by Lewis reminded him of thechild-like and sublime soul of Lady Mary.

  At present, sitting in the cafe, his emotions are greater than in thecemetery. He can see events through a veil of memory, spiritualized, andfree from the sediment of reality.

  Poor Alicia! Poor woman, disillusioned of life! The triumphant Venus,the Helen of the "old men on the wall," the beauty who was the center ofthe Universe, more eager for admiration than for love, is lying in thismiserable cemetery, among the bodies of soldiers. Perhaps shevoluntarily hastened her exit from a world in which she could not findher place, defeated by her own actions.

  Our lives are nothing more than what we will them to be. We create lifein our own image; it is useless for us to complain of fate: we are whatwe want to be. It was impossible for Alicia to end her days save in someextraordinary manner, in harmony with her previous career. He, too, haslived as most men do not live, and he will die a different death fromthem.

  He feels neither grief nor resentment. He is surprised that he couldhave hated Martinez and desired this woman with such vehemence. Atpresent he feels only melancholy and a deep sadness at the memory ofthose dreams that no longer exist and which are beginning to die asecond death, in being forgotten by those who knew of them. They have noimmortality save in the memory of the Prince, a poor memory destined tofade away in turn before many years.

  In his imagination he attempts to pierce the mass of earth that coversthe dead body; he makes an effort to penetrate with his vision into thedensest of the shadows. Only a few months of decomposition have gone by:her personality has not yet wasted away completely. He sees her as shewas in life and at the same time as she is now. Her flesh isdisintegrating in little putrid rivulets that run down the folds of herclothes, blackened and eaten away. She is forced to smile at all timesin the darkness: she no longer has any lips. Her eyes serve as a refugefor the prolific grave flies which engender millions and millions ofdestroyers. And this annihilation of something which existed, thought,and loved, is as yet only in its first stages.

  After the devourers of the soft parts will come the irresistibleartisans of the bones. Myriads of micro-scopical workers will plow theskeleton, cleaning away the last impurities clinging to the framework,undoing the marvelous articulations, scraping away the cement whichholds the vertebrae together. Some day the lower jaw will loosen, fallingtoward the abdominal cavity, leaving the upper jaw bone, the teeth ofwhich knew the splendor of smiles and the caress of kisses. Some otherday, the skull, as the pivot on w
hich it rests comes apart, will fall inturn and mingle with the dust of the ribs and the little bones of thefeet which mark the rhythm of an undulating walk. Within a few centuriesrevolutions and wars will perhaps bring this skull to the surface. Whynot? Lubimoff has just seen at the front numerous cemeteries swept awayby gunfire, with the dead emerging from the earth, raised thus by thebursting shells. And when some one, in the future, with the eternalcuriosity of the Shakespearean Prince takes Alicia's skull in his hand,he will not be able to tell whether it belonged to a lady or a servant,whether it belonged to a beauty or to a drab.

  Michael recalls with ironical sadness all the illusions, all thedesires, he had in the past, concentrated on this nothingness. He beginsto feel the need of forgetting the corpse. His eyes, looking within, seethe diminutive foliage, the gaudy butterfly, and all that nature hasplaced on a nameless tomb. This is what a life which considered itselfsuperior to all others has left as the only trace of its existence.Perhaps in the corolla of one of the little flowers there is somethingof Alicia's soul, the butterflies sip it, and continue in an intoxicatedflight above the tombs.

  Springtime! The Prince lifts his thoughts above the sorrows ofindividuals. He recalls what he has seen in a corner of the world ruinedby man's bestiality: cities in ruins; villages that raise their wallsonly a yard above the soil, like towns which have been excavated after acataclysm; barns set on fire; endless fields made sterile, torn apartand turned topsy turvy by five years of bombardment; manygraves--thousands of graves--millions of graves. Women, dressed inblack, stagger along the roads through the ruins and the funnel-shapedchasms opened by the monstrous projectiles. They have lost theirchildren, they have seen their husbands executed, and now they areexploring the soil in search of their homes that were....

  But the Winter-time of war is over; and now the Spring of Peace is here.The same hand, touching all things with green, puts little flowers andbutterflies on the nameless graves, hangs fragrant garlands on thefire-blackened walls, spreads a velvet carpet of emerald on the sides ofthe shell holes, makes the birds warble and the insects stir above thetombs, and guides the curling creepers over the black wood of thecrosses, as though trying to change them into thyrsi.

  Alas! The earth knows nothing of our sorrows.

  The Prince comes out of his abstraction, and sees the Colonel greetinghim from a distance.

  Don Marcos is already back, and with him is _Madame_ Toledo, whose headscarcely reaches his shoulder. On the way she looks back several times,with the hope of finding herself followed by the American soldier.

  On recognizing the Prince in the cafe, however, she forgets the otherman, and seems to be entreating him with her eyes to leave his seat andto go out with her to the terraces.

  The Colonel and his minx disappear in the direction of the terraces, andagain Michael plunges into meditation. He recalls his talk with DonMarcos, shortly before, as they were descending from the cemetery.

  Toledo seems inconsolable. According to him the war has not endedproperly. He appears scandalized at the absurd manner of its conclusion!What terrible times these are! The fugitive of Amerongen disconcerts andirritates him.

  "And imagine me doing him the honor of comparing him to a Lieutenant! Iconsidered him man enough at least to blow his brains out!

  "For thirty years he has been frightening the world with the rattle ofhis saber, and with his boastful mustache; for thirty years he has beencalling himself war lord, making whole races tremble at his frown, hisheroic attitudinizing, and his melodramatic speeches; for thirty yearshe has been preparing millions of men for slaughter, obliging peoples ofthe world to live under arms in the midst of peace. And now, whenmisfortune seeks him for her own, when he considers his life in danger,he shamefully flees to a foreign country and deserts his supporters,like a merchant going into a fraudulent bankruptcy."

  "It is the greatest lie humanity has ever known," the Colonel shoutsindignantly. "The greatest swindle in history."

  It does not prove anything to kill one's self; Don Marcos is well awareof that. But in this life there are so many things that do not proveanything and which nevertheless are beautiful and logical! The despairof those who commit suicide through love does not prove anything either,and yet it has inspired the greatest works of poetry and other arts. Thesailor, who wrecks his ship, kills himself; every man of honor whoconsiders his fault irreparable appeals to death, in order that when hefalls, he may fall in a dignified manner.

  "And that Emperor," Toledo continued, "who planned an organizedslaughter of ten million men, wants to live to a ripe old age. It's themost shameless thing I ever heard of!

  "Military honor, such as it had come to be understood through thevarious centuries, was unknown likewise to his generals. Thosespecialists in burning towns, those technicians in executing peasants,those artisans of terror, on seeing disaster coming, tranquilly returnedto their castles, like office boys leaving their work.

  "Of all these companions of the 'war lord,' the only one worthy ofrespect was a civilian, a manufacturer, a Jew, the munition makerBallin, of Hamburg, who on seeing the Empire ruined, did not want tosurvive it and shot himself. In the meantime the Marshals of thestrategy that failed, tranquilly begin to devote themselves to trainingtheir dogs, writing their memoirs, and looking after their health.

  "Napoleon, in one of his last battles, stopped his horse over a lightedbomb; later he tried to poison himself at Fontainebleau. He courteddeath, and resigned himself to living, like a fatalist, only on becomingconvinced that death would have nothing to do with him. The otherNapoleon, the one of Sedan, may have taken refuge in Belgium, abandoninghis troops much as the sad German Caesar had done; but ill and fainting,on his horse, he nevertheless preferred to gallop along a high roadswept by gun fire, hoping that a shell would tear him to pieces."

  That is the way Toledo understands military honor. That is the way ithas been accepted in all ages.

  Against the Imperial generals, recreants, ready to run in the hour ofdanger, like comedians thinking only of their reputations, his anger isimplacable. Hemmed in by the Allies, with their lines broken, they mighthave fallen nobly fighting until the last moment. But they preferred tobeg for an armistice and hand over their weapons, in order that theimbeciles who had admired them so greatly might go on believing in theirdivine invincibility, and be sure that if they were retiring to theirestates it was only out of consideration for internal politics.

  "Sorry comedians, like their master, up to the very last moment!" AndDon Marcos, thinking of the fear these men have made the whole worldfeel for thirty years, cries out in anger:

  "Swindlers! Swindlers!"

  Once more the Prince comes out of his reverie. Somebody has stopped infront of him, and he hears a well known voice.

  "Your Highness, what a joy to see you! The Colonel has just told me ofyour arrival."

  It is Spadoni: the same old Spadoni, as though but a few hours have goneby since his last interview with the Prince; as though it is onlyyesterday that he bellowed with indignation, as he studied at the piano_What the Palm Tree Said to the Century Plant_.

  He doesn't want to sit down: he is in a hurry; he came just to shakehands with his Highness. He will make a point of seeing him later whenhe has more time, in the Casino. He takes it for granted that the Princeis going into the Casino. Where else could a decent person go in MonteCarlo?

  He gives Lubimoff's uniform a rapid glance, and admires his roughsoldierly appearance.

  "I have heard of the great deeds of your Highness; I always used to askthe Colonel about you ... a hero!"

  Lubimoff has scarcely time to shake his head at this praise. Spadonistarts to talk about something more interesting. The war, heroes, andall that, are nebulous, meaningless things. He is for reality, andbegins to talk about a new personage whom he admires, a Portuguese whoplays big stakes, and whose name, because of his winnings, during thelast few days, has been filling the gambling rooms.

  "I am studying him; besides, he is a friend of mine
and I think I havehis secret. Imagine, Prince...."

  The Prince grows uneasy, guessing that he is going to describe in allits details the combination of the Portuguese, which he alreadyconsiders his own. But the pianist looks towards the Casino, stammers,and finally interrupts his account. Some one is coming and he wants toshare his secret only with the Prince. He takes his leave with thepromise that some time he will reveal the precious combination.

  Lubimoff thinks of his life during the last few months, his adventuresas a soldier, of his wound, of all that has happened to him and to theentire world, while that musician has remained stationary in MonteCarlo, admitting nothing as real save the hovering flight of the GreatDelusion.

  His friend Lewis holds out his hand to the Prince. It is he who, by hisapproach, has stopped the pianist's flow of eloquence. Gamblers, out ofprofessional rivalry, avoid telling one another their secrets. Time,which seems to have forgotten Spadoni, leaving him the same as whenMichael last saw him in his "Villa of the Tomb," has laid its claws onLewis, making him older, as though months for him have been years.

  He is sad because of the losses he has been suffering, and because ofhis memories. That niece of his was all the family he had! Lubimoffknows through the Colonel that he has not inherited anything from her.The nurse spent her entire fortune on ambulances and hospitals. Hertitle is the one thing that has gone to Lewis. His prophecy has cometrue: he is now the third Lord Lewis, surnamed "the Worthless," the namehe gave himself.

  He gazes on the Prince for a long time, notices the rigid arm and thenshakes his left hand effusively.

  "You're a man, Lubimoff. You know how to do things."

  And in these words there is a reproach for himself. Unable to tearhimself away from Monte Carlo, he will live here and die here, doing thesame things over and over.

  Nevertheless, this is a great day for him. In the morning he received avisit from a friend who is coming to live with him, he does not know forhow long, perhaps for two days, perhaps for two years; a great friendfrom whom he had had no news and whom he had often imagined dead; theCount, the famous Count.

  He has come as far as the cafe with Lewis, who refuses to be separatedfrom him; he has shaken hands with the Prince as though he had seen himthe day before, without noticing his uniform or his mutilation. He sitssilently in a chair, running his hand through his white, curly hair,fixing his round eyes, with a nocturnal fire, on the people who arewalking about the "Camembert."

  Lewis believes he ought to feel happy. What a day of surprise it hasbeen! First the Count, and then the Colonel telling him of Lubimoff'sarrival.

  He avoids talking about his niece: he sinks his sadness in the sadnessof all the rest.... Peace has surprised him: who could have imagined itwould come so soon, following immediately on the most anxious phase ofthe war?

  The Count comes to life at this query.

  "Every one," says he. "The great soothsayers, the great ones, announcedat the very beginning, that the war would end in the Fall of 1918. Itwas well known to everybody. I have always said so. You have heard mesay so many times yourself, Lewis."

  Lewis makes a gesture of surprise. But he cannot doubt the science ofhis learned friend, and prefers to admit that it is he who hasforgotten. He has such a bad memory! Perhaps, even, he may havemisunderstood. These guardians of a knowledge of the future neverexpress their truths clearly: they refuse to talk like ordinary mortals.

  The conversation begins to lag. The Englishman is thinking of theCasino. He was just going in when Don Marcos gave him the news of thePrince's arrival. He keeps the Count by his side. The Count has justreturned from a mysterious trip and has the devil's rosary safe in acertain pocket of his trousers, constantly feeling in it with his righthand.

  "Later on we shall see each other at the Casino. I suppose you'll comein for a moment. We'll see if luck treats me well to-day after suchpleasant meetings."

  And he goes off with the Count in the direction of the _Palace_ where heis destined, as though in prison, to spend the rest of his life.

  Lubimoff notices two Italian soldiers who are looking at him from thesidewalk around the "Camembert." They are a couple of _bersaglieri_,dressed in gray, with little round hats decked out in cock's plumes.Noticing that the Prince is looking at them they become embarrassed,turn their backs as though ashamed, and walk away, but not withoutsmiling first and raising their hands to their much beplumed hats.

  The Prince recalls what Don Marcos told him. Oh, yes! They are Estolaand Pistola, changed into soldiers! They have come on leave to see theirfamilies. They are going up to the Colonel's house in the evening to paytheir respects to their former "Lord." They seem taller, and morevigorous. A few months of war have been sufficient to transport themfrom adolescence into maturity. In every man there is a soldier!

  Just as he is getting up to take a walk around the terraces, he seeshurrying toward the cafe a gentleman who is violently waving to him, andthen has to stop to fasten his glasses more securely on his nose.

  It takes some time for the Prince to recognize him. He guesses who it ismore by the tone of his voice than by his features. Dear old Novoa! Themonths that have gone by have left a deeper imprint on him than on therest. He is no longer the young man preoccupied with worldly pomp, whoused to consult the Colonel about the merits of various tailors andhatters. He has returned to the slavery of baggy-kneed trousers andready-made neckties. His beard is full grown and bushy. He is still asyoung as ever in his voice, his eyes, and his lively and clumsygestures; but he is dressed, not to say disguised, as an old man.

  The Professor is more effusive than the rest on seeing the Prince. Hekeeps blessing the happy chance, which brought Lubimoff to him, throughhis meeting with Don Marcos shortly before.

  "If you had waited two days longer, Prince, I wouldn't have had thepleasure of seeing you. I am going back to my country day afterto-morrow. I have had enough now of Monte Carlo. When I think of whatI've lost here!... Money, dreams, everything."

  Michael shows discretion. He suspects his friend has had some unexpecteddisillusionment, some deception, such as one must forget not to becontinually tormented by it. He remembers Valeria, and sees nothing inthe Professor's appearance to indicate the slightest trace of contactwith that lady. He is a ruin, a dry dead tree; the bird that formerlysang in the branches must have flown away long since.

  Novoa is equally discreet. He looks at the other man's uniform, and thesleeve with the artificial arm; but he speaks in a general way, withvague regrets, only of what has taken place during the last few months.

  "What extraordinary things have taken place! How many friends of ourshave died! Life has finally become one of those dramas in which one diesat the end of the last act."

  The Prince guesses that Novoa is thinking of Alicia and in order not togive him pain, is refraining from mentioning her. As a matter of fact heis indeed thinking of the Duchess, but she is merely a point ofdeparture before he comes to the other woman with whom his memory isconstantly occupied.

  At last he speaks, giving full rein to his melancholy. He can tell thePrince everything because he is the only man who knows his secret. (Hehas told the Colonel and even Spadoni the same thing, on lamenting hismisfortune.) And he breaks into despairing recriminations againstValeria.

  She has become a different woman. She is no longer interested in "landsof love," where women marry without dowries. Since the Duchess's deathshe has become a candidate for marriage. Her hand will bring with itmore than three hundred thousand francs. The Professor has found himselfjilted and forgotten. How he had grovelled before her when the truth wasknown; what shameful efforts he had made to remedy what he hadconsidered at the outset a woman's passing whim! He hates to remembermoments such as those.

  "It is all ended, Prince. At present she is crazy about an Americanofficer and will finally marry him. No one counts here except theAmericans. Everything is for them: even love. The humblest littlemilliner considers herself disgraced if she hasn't a soldier from theUnited States to
promenade with in the evening. Every afternoon she andthe other man dance in the hotels of La Condamine, or right here in theCafe de Paris."

  He stops, as though some one had touched him on the shoulder. He doesnot see any one behind him, but his eyes, wandering over the groupssitting at the tables meet something which makes his voice tremble.

  "It is she, Prince."

  Michael would not have recognized her. He sees two ladies, escorted bytwo American officers, entering the Cafe. One of them is Valeria,dressed with gay and showy elegance, as though anxious to compensate ina moment for years of frugality and privation.

  Against the soft twilight the cafe windows begin to gleam with a reddishglow. One after another, the large lamps within are lighted. To thePrince's ears come the voluptuous wailings of violins.

  "Life has changed very greatly since you went away, Prince. Every onefeels a desperate hunger for amusement. The first thing that peacebrought back to life was the tango."

  Then Novoa begins to think about himself:

  "What can I do here? I am poor. Everything I possessed in my country Ihave dropped here in the Casino. I have studied the mysteries of theocean enough. How dearly it has cost me! I have had my little dream, andnow I am going to resume my ill-paid work back there as a day laborer inscience."

  He thinks once more of her.

  "Did you notice?... The poor Duchess, who made her what she is now, islying up there in her grave, and here she is dancing, only a few monthsafter her death."

  He feels the harsh indignation, the sense of outraged morality, that allwho have been scorned experience.

  His anger grows so strong that he gets up from his chair. He cannotremain there. The woman has seen him, and might think that he ispursuing her, that he is waiting for her to come out, in order toentreat her. Never; he has had enough of certain humiliations which hedoes not care to remember.

  He hurriedly says good-by. They will see each other again soon. DonMarcos has invited him to dinner at the little house in Beausoleil. TheColonel was sure that his visit would please the Prince.

  He grasps Lubimoff's hand and does not seem to notice it is the woodenone. His eyes and his thoughts are on the cafe windows, ablaze in midafternoon. Through them the cadenced murmur of the violins is passing.As he walks away he still repeats his protest.

  "The poor Duchess up there forgotten.... And the other woman. What ascandal! I am glad I'm going away soon, and will never see her again."

  * * * * *

  On remaining alone, the Prince leaves his table. Don Marcos is doubtlesstelling the news of his arrival to every one he meets, and Michael isafraid that other less interesting persons will appear.

  As he walks along he notices something which he had not seen before whenhe was with the Colonel. The United States flag is floating above allthe buildings. In the city streets there are as many signs in English asin French. There are American soldiers everywhere. Lubimoff's uniformand that of the other French fighters are lost in the great flood of mendressed in mustard color. The light automobiles of the American armypass incessantly. They are everywhere. One meets them in the streets, onthe roads along the coast and climbing the slopes of the Alps likebuzzing, snorting ants. Everything seems animated by a robust, gay,self-confident life, the life of a twenty-year-old boy. The concert onthe terraces is being given by an American band. The people walking inthe streets absent-mindedly whistle dance tunes from across the oceanand marching songs of the soldiers from the States. People stop in thesquares to admire the skill of the Americans in shirt sleeves throwing aball and sending it back again after catching it in a kind of fencingglove.

  Monaco seems to have been conquered by the troops of the Great Republic;a good-natured and kindly conquest, which makes the conquered smile. Itis the same in Nice and everywhere on the Riviera. The Prince recallshis brief stay in Paris a few days before. There he saw Americans justas here. How many are they? What superhuman power has been able tocreate in a few months this army which though of recent birth, seems tofill all space?

  A people has just risen above all the peoples of the earth. Never inhistory has such a rise been known. It dominates through friendliness,through its generous acts, and by the beneficent strength of itsactivities; not through terror, the base of all greatness in the past.

  Lubimoff recalls his doubts of the year before. No one would havebelieved that a people without armies could improvise a military forceequal to those of old Europe. And in only a few months the United Stateshad organized and transported two million men to decide the outcome ofthe struggle, and the world's fate.

  Arriving at the last moment, they had liberally given their share ofdead. In five months of campaign a hundred and twenty thousand Americanshad perished, a huge proportion compared to the losses of the othernations during five years of fighting.

  Michael, in his silent enthusiasm, enumerates what has just been donefor humanity by this great people, which shortly before was consideredutilitarian and selfish, and which now reveals itself as the mostromantic and generous.

  Two great wars are the most striking incidents in its history: onewithin, for the suppression of slavery; the other, without, to preventthe glorification of war, the brutal hegemony of one people over all,the exaltation of a mystic imperialism.

  For the first time in history, a democracy has intervened in the fate ofa world through the centuries subjected to the rule of kings. The modernrepublics had until now lived an inner and retiring life. The wars ofthe French Revolution were defensive. The Republic of the Conventionfought to exist, since all the monarchs wanted to suppress it. TheAmerican Republic had voluntarily entered the struggle, without beingthreatened by any immediate danger, because of a mandate of itsconscience, indignant at German crimes, because of the responsibilitydeveloping upon its greatness, its democratic strength.

  Before arming, before intervening in the European crash while living inpatient neutrality, battles were being won for it. This war wasdifferent from others. Against Germany, ready through long years ofpreparation for the struggle, and with all its industrial and commercialstrength mobilized for war purposes, the Allies fought during the firstfew months, as a brave but backward people fights against a modernnation. They showed much bravery, and great heroism, sometimes in vain,against the blind mechanical force of industrial invention applied todestruction.

  If this inequality kept diminishing, it was thanks in large part to theRepublic beyond the sea. Its money barons made enormous loans to theAllies; its captains of industry facilitated the manufacture of thegigantic equipment demanded by the demon-like progress of militaryscience; its ships defying the submarine menace, brought bread which hadgrown scarce in Europe through the war.

  And when, its patience finally exhausted, it directly intervened, whatgenerosity it showed!

  The American combatants fought for simple and robust ideals: the rightsof the weak to live, the dignity and freedom of mankind, the eliminationof wars, understanding between peoples, sovereign right ruling the lifeof nations; things which shortly before had made the Old World skepticssmile.

  All the countries of Europe had frontiers to reestablish, strips of landto claim. The United States of America was not asking for anything, itdid not want anything.

  Each one of the contestants, on thinking of victory, calculated theindemnities it should collect to compensate for its endeavors andsacrifices. The American Republic spent more than all the other nations.The maintenance of each of its soldiers cost it as much as sevensoldiers from the other countries, and nevertheless, it entered the warand withdrew from the war without demanding any particularreimbursement.

  Lubimoff admired its enormous strength in victory: Never had any Empirein the past reached such greatness; not even Rome.

  It was the only country, at once both industrial and agricultural, onearth. It formed a world apart within the world. It might, withoutsuffering, isolate itself from the rest of the Globe; but the worldwould feel a sensation of emp
tiness if the Great Republic were to turnits back upon the other nations.

  Its armed citizens were retiring without boasting and without commotion,just as they had come, and without asking anything for their greatendeavor. They would disappear like the fairies and enchanters inancient legends who, after doing good, need to return to theirmysterious domains.

  Years would pass: history would speak of this endeavor, unique in itsintensity and its generous character, and on the Riviera and in otherplaces there would remain of this great world a memory disfigured bytime. The boys of to-day, grown old, would remember how they learned toplay baseball from the soldiers who had come from a land of marvelsbeyond the sea, the girls, becoming grandmothers, would yearninglyrecall the American lovers they once had.

  The Prince calculates again the greatness of this people, the only onecapable of still working the miracles, that religions sometimes work inthe early period of their exaltation.

  The Great Republic is the world's creditor. All the victorious nationsowe it fabulous sums; England is its debtor by thousands of millions,and France the same. The smaller countries, Belgium, Serbia, and therest, have been able to live, thanks to its enormous loans. It is notall known as yet, years must pass before the full extent of thesegenerosities is brought to light. This country, which likesadvertisement and loud propaganda in its commercial affairs, is modestand concise in speaking of its disinterested acts.

  "To go on freely living after the cataclysm, humanity is going to needAmerica's support, or America's benevolence," thinks the Prince. "Thepolitical center of the world has shifted. It is no longer in Paris, noris it in London. It remained for a while, trembling unsteadily on itsbase, in Berlin; but now it has leaped across the ocean."

  The man, as yet unknown, who in the future is to take his place in theWhite House for four years, professor, lawyer, merchant, or farmer, ashe may be, will sway the destiny of the world more than all the rulerswho fill history with the din of warlike glory. His power will be basedon something more permanent and solid than the strength of armies. Itwill have behind it industry and wealth, which create armies; democraticpower, which the power of public opinion creates.

  The irresistible strength of this power is clearly seen by the Prince.

  Germany, in spite of her continual military triumphs in the first fewyears of the war, has finally fallen in defeat. Public opinion wasagainst her. The democratic spirit of the entire world rose against thespirit of Empire.

  This triumph of democracy is beginning to be manifest everywhere.

  "There is no longer a single emperor left in Europe," Michael goes onthinking. "The vanquished empires want to be republics. All the kingsare forgetting their ancestors with their divine rights, and are tryingto have their crowns forgiven them, that they may imitate the simplelife of a president."

  This unexpected attitude of the world gives it a new love of life.

  He has realized, for the last few months--since he gave up VillaSirena--that Prince Michael Fedor Lubimoff has become an unfashionablepersonage. Perhaps, with the lapse of years, others will be as he was.History repeats itself. Times of peace and plenty inevitably produce mensuch as he had been. But at present humanity has been restored by griefand sacrifice, humanity is anxious to live, and longs for something new,without knowing exactly what, and is working to secure it.

  Michael looks on himself with pity. What is he going to do? What can menlike himself do for their fellow men?

  He recalls the luncheon in the little house of Don Marcos. He is stilloffended by the attentions the Colonel shows him at table, cutting hismeat, looking after him like a child, trying to make up for the absenceof his arm. It is something disgraceful!

  Farewell to Prince Lubimoff!... Even if he still wanted to continue hisselfish existence, entirely given up to pleasure, it would be impossiblefor him. He is a cripple; he considers himself quite old. No one butMado, who doesn't really know what she wants, would ever notice him.

  Besides, he feels poor. For the first time he recalls with a certainsatisfaction the heritage left him by Alicia. It was not worth anythingat that moment, but who knows but what some day...! He dreams thatperhaps those Mexican mines may replace his lost fortune in Russia; andthen...! He feels a strong desire to regain his wealth in order to dogood; a longing which is something like remorse. He knows theinefficiency of individual effort in remedying human misery: a mere droplost in the ocean, a grain of sand on the beach. But what differencedoes that make? He is satisfied in giving happiness to some fiftyunfortunate beings, among the hundreds of millions who people the earth.

  Then he thinks of his present situation. That very morning he determinedon his mode of life. He will flee from the poor Colonel, because ofMado. Others may take it upon themselves to bring misfortune to DonMarcos, but not he! He will take up his residence in Nice, in a Russian_pension_ run by an impoverished noblewoman. In the evenings they willtalk of the days when she was rich, beautiful, and desired; of thedances at the Petersburg Court, in which they danced together so often.Lubimoff even has a suspicion that one of his duels was over thisboarding-house keeper.

  The remnants of his fortune will bring him a sufficient income to livein modest comfort. He will swell the number of wrecks retiring to theRiviera, to recall, under the palm trees, their forgotten triumphs. Hisold valet will accompany him in his dethronement.

  He already has an occupation to fill his hours. He wants to be acontemplator of life. He is glad to have been born in the mostinteresting of periods.

  Something is going to happen; something new in history.

  The smoke has not yet cleared away from the battlefields. It is a mistin which people lose their way and which does not allow them to see thecomplete outline of things. The very actors in the recent drama areblind. Years will pass, before the mist rises and vanishes, leaving thenew world visible.

  Will it be the same stage setting as of yore, merely with a few lineschanged? Will all these bloody efforts to suppress violence,selfishness, and pre-historic ferocity as the chief bases of society,turn out to have been in vain?

  The Prince thinks bitterly of the possible disillusionment. How terribleto see primitive bestiality rise again unharmed after a cataclysm whichhas been accepted as a regeneration! How terrible to contemplate thefailure of so many generous spirits, of so many noble minds, aspiringtoward the triumph of good, anxious for peace among men, and the sweetassociation of people, working against war as medical societies labor toexterminate diseases!

  Faith in the future suddenly animates him. The world cannot always bethe same; great convulsions, when they have passed, never leave the soilthe same as they found it. Will children always be annihilating eachother just because their fathers and grandfathers did so? Must they lookon each other with hostility because they were born on different sidesof a mountain, a river, or a wood, which politics calls a frontier?

  We all have two native lands! The place where we were born, and theState to which we belong. Why not generously broaden this conception toinclude a third country? Will not a blessed time come in which men willtalk as fellow being to fellow being, without thinking whether or notHistory commands them to hate and kill each other? With deep love forone's land of birth, cannot they be at the same time citizens of theworld?

  The Prince is leaning on the balustrade, above the terraces and theharbor. His pensive walk has brought him thither, without his realizingit.

  He turns his back on the sea and on the crowd which, after the concert,is beginning to thin out there below. The American musicians are passingclose to him, followed by a swarm of small boys accompanying theirretirement.

  He looks at a gap on the horizon, between the Alps and the promontory ofMonaco, where the sun has just gone down. Above the reddish expanse astar is shining with the brilliancy and luminous facets of a preciousstone.

  Lubimoff is thinking of the ancient fathers of poetry who sang about itthree thousand years ago. Homer called it _Kalistos_. Sometimes themorning star and at other tim
es the evening star, Lucifer, Vesperus, orthe "Shepherds' Star," it finally received the name of Venus, because ofits shining whiteness, like that of a diamond on a woman's breast.

  The Prince feels the sweet caress in his eyes as he gazes on the softglow of the planet. Its name symbolizes beauty and love. He imagines thepeople who inhabit that celestial point of light lost in space. Theymust be of a purer essence than ours, entirely free from a past ofprimitive animality--ethereal beings, like the angels of all religions.

  Then he smiles bitterly.

  There is another star shining in the sky, more beautiful and larger thanthat one. It is blue instead of white, a soft blue: the color of poetryand dreams. It sparkles, in the dark depths of space, with themysterious glow of the enormous bluish diamonds which Oriental monarchsplace in their tiaras. Those who contemplate it feel in their eyes thevelvety dew of divine mystery. Perhaps the poets of other worlds sing ofit as a chosen refuge and a place of eternal beauty, where only thesouls of the pure and the elect may go to rest. Perhaps it has givenrise to religions and is the object of cults, having its altars, as thesun had in former times.

  And this blue diamond of space, this world of soft light, which thepopulations of other planets contemplate as a poetic star, and as one inwhich all creatures lead a purely spiritual life, is the Earth, our poorglobe, where twelve millions of men have just died on the battlefield,where as many more millions died of the emotion and plagues, which arethe consequence of war; and where six hundred thousand millions offrancs have been consumed in smoke, fire, and bursting steel.

  Lubimoff remembers his impressions, a few hours before, standing besidea tomb which was beginning to be changed at the first halting words ofSpring. The Infinite does not know us, nor does the very earth whichmaintains us know us either.

  We are alone in the infinite, without other support than that of our ownlives, our own illusions, and our own hopes. Man can rely only on man.

  And he repeats what he had said of the earth that morning.

  The sky knows nothing of our sorrows.

  * * * * *

  He slowly turns toward the square.

  From all the cafes, restaurants, and hotels, comes the musical rise andfall of the cadenced violins. Behind the great windows, reddened by aninner light, he see couples passing intertwined, following the rhythm ofthe music. They are dancing, dancing, dancing.

  Youth does nothing else. Dancing is a sort of sacred rite, prohibitedduring the war; and people are all devoting themselves in dancing now,with the fervor of zealots finally celebrating the triumphs of theirpersecuted religion.

  The Prince recalls his recent passage through Paris. He had never seenthe women better dressed, with so manifest a hunger for pleasure andluxury. The tango of the violins on the Boulevard is answered like anecho by the tango of the violins all along the Riviera, and at thesummer resorts which are beginning to open. Woman's dearest wish, at themoment, is to dance the latest dance with a fighter from the UnitedStates!

  The nightmare of war has vanished; everything has been forgotten. Formany people nothing remains to recall the conflict save the uniforms,more numerous than formerly in the _thes dansants_.

  Michael confines his meditation to this coast, which was always thedomain of the blessed! For four long years war has turned Monaco upsidedown and filled it with darkness.

  His imagination runs up and down the gulfs and promontories. There is acemetery on each. In Mentone thousands and thousands of negroes lieunder the earth. The combatants from Africa, whose fathers knew only thelance and the breech-clout, have chanced to perish like gladiators onthis shore of European millionaires. In Cap-Martin the English have lefttheir dead; in Monaco, there are some of every nationality; inCap-Ferrat, the Belgians sleep, under wreaths already old; in Nice, arethe bodies of the Americans; and everywhere, from Esterel to the Italianfrontier, there are Frenchmen, Frenchmen, Frenchmen.

  The dead are innumerable. Were they all to rise together, those who cometo prolong their lives under the palm tree and the olive on the shoresof the Violet Sea, would flee aghast.

  But the aim of life is to live. Life is an endless Springtime, andcovers everything it touches with the eager moss of pleasure, with theswiftly creeping ivy of dreams.

  The cemeteries, strikingly white, seem to take on a duller tone, and arelost in the smiling landscape, like an unessential note in a song. Thesoftness of the skies and the surrounding country changes them togardens. A body occupies so little space and the earth is so large!...The hotels which were hospitals, are regilding their signs, disinfectingtheir rooms and sending advertisements to the great newspapers of theworld. Already people may come and dream between the walls which justnow shook with cries of pain, or the rattle of death agonies. Music isbeginning sweetly to moan along the happy coast, amid the murmur of thewaves and the rustling of the orange trees, of epithalamial perfume. Theold shepherd of the Alps, who, after sixty years, has not yet recoveredfrom his amazement at the Monte Carlo which has arisen there below onthe once deserted tableland, will see it grow with new palaces and newtowers, further expanding its opulence like a city of dreams.

  The passage of death has made love of life more keen. Every one, seeingthe black banner of the Adversary vanish in the darkness, finds new zestin pleasure.

  Lubimoff stops in the middle of the square. It is beginning to growdark. With one ear he hears the musical swing of a dance invented by thenegroes of North America for the enjoyment of the whites; and with theother he hears other negro music, the South American tango. In theadjoining streets new orchestras are playing wherever there is a publicplace, cafe, hotel, or restaurant--with a sign in English at the door,to attract the heroes of the hour: _Dancing_.

  He gazes at the mountain which forms a background for the square andwatches over the graves on its slopes. Then he looks on high....

  The earth and the sky know nothing of our sorrows.

  And neither does life.

  THE END

  * * * * *

  The following typographical errors have been corrected by the etexttranscriber:

  slanderous abjectives=>slanderous adjectives

  Don Marcos remainel silent.=>Don Marcos remained silent.

  confined in the Champ-Elysee=>confined in the Champs-Elysee

  rebelliouslly curse the being=>rebelliously curse the being

  I suddenly felt as thought I were=>I suddenly felt as though I were

  clamly displayed brass ornaments=>calmly displayed brass ornaments

  It was all a mazagine yarn=>It was all a magazine yarn

  dilate, the indigation and envy=>dilate, the indignation and envy

  that that will be his end, in case of a defeat.=>that will be his end,in case of a defeat.

  eying one another discreetly=>eyeing one another discreetly

  changing from sadness to gaity.=>changing from sadness to gaiety.

  benificent strength of its activities=>beneficent strength of itsactivities

  Michael amost envied him, because he had seen=>Michael almost enviedhim, because he had seen

  train was lowly passing=>train was slowly passing

  It was so peasant to be in his company=>It was so pleasant to be in hiscompany

  reality there coud be no doubt=>reality there could be no doubt

  * * * * *

 

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