XVI
YOU ARE THE KING OF KROVITCH
At about the same time the Krovitzers were leaving the house on theBoulevard S. Michel, one of those little comedies from real life wasbeing enacted in the attic studio of Eugene Delmotte. Its finale was tobe influenced considerably by their actions. The artist was to betransported by them from Hadean depths of despair to Olympian heights ofrejoicing.
His disordered locks, beret upon the floor, red tie askew, if not histragic, rolling eyes and clenched fists, would have apprised Mlle. Mariethat all was not as it should be with M. Delmotte. With fullappreciation of the effectiveness of the gesture, the artist threwhimself into a large chair before an unfinished canvas of heroicdimensions. He buried his face in his hands. He groaned. This was toomuch for Marie. She approached. Laying a hesitating hand upon hisshoulder, she looked down with real concern at the bowed, curly head.
"And Pere Caros will not wait for the rent?" she queried.
"No, curse him," came from between the locked fingers.
"But 'Gene," persisted the girl as though puzzled, "I thought thatHarjes, the banker, always paid you an income."
"So he did until to-day. I went there, to be told that, to their regret,my unknown benefactor had not sent them the usual monthly remittance.They regretted also that their foolish rules prevented them advancing meas much as a sou. No reasons given, no names disclosed. I haven't acentime. Not a canvas can I sell. I've fasted since yesterday morning."
"Why, 'Gene?" she inquired innocently. Her mind was occupied with thepuzzle of the income which, womanlike, engrossed her entire curiosity.
"Huh," he sniffed bitterly, "because I had to. I haven't even paintswith which to complete my masterpiece."
He turned, the personification of despair, to regard the paintingagainst the wall.
"Have you no clues as to the source of the income?" she asked, her mindclinging tenaciously to that unsettled question. "Have you no relatives?No one you could ask to assist you?"
"Only slight memories dating back to early childhood--the remembrance ofa servant's face. Here is the tale, Marie. A thousand times I have goneover it to myself, only to be disappointed at its meagreness. My parentsmust have died when I was too young to have remembered them, judgingfrom what this attendant seems to have told me. I have that impressionresisting all arguments. My recollections all centre about a gray-hairedman of the confidential-servant class. He was my companion and humoredmy every whim. By and by, though, he left me. I was taken charge of by acharwoman, and only once visited by my infancy's mentor. My new guardianwas authority for the statement that, though not appearing wealthy, thisM. Petros, as she called him, was always able to obtain money as neededfrom M. Harjes. There is nothing more to add."
"Clearly, M. Petros then knew something about the source of yourincome," said Marie.
"Agreed, sweet creature, but since I do not have the slightest ideawhere he is, I can't see how that will help me. I don't even know hisfull name."
"Cheer up, 'Gene, you will yet see that picture hang."
"More likely to hang myself," he said with a return of awful gloom.
"But the great M. Lourney praised the conception, the breadth, of this,your last picture," the girl said, as her hand pushed lightly throughthe shock of curls on the man's head.
"Yes, it is good," he said responsively, both to the hope she inspiredand the caress she bestowed. That girl understood men. "Krovitch theBulwark," he continued. "They were a great people, Marie. Their history,unfamiliar to most, has always interested me strangely." His eyes wereillumined with enthusiasm as he raised an index arm toward the canvas."See those vigorous fellows, each a hero. A single nation flinging backfrom Europe the invasion of the infidel. A heroic subject for apainting, eh, girlie?" He smiled up in her face, his troubles for thenonce forgotten. Get a man talking about his abilities to achieve andyou can dispel the darkest gloom from his brow. It was high time tobring him back to earth again, but she knew how. He had had justsufficient gratulation to take the edge off pretended or real misery.
"It is, 'Gene, but it will not pay the rent. Listen." The timid flushmounted to her cheek as she made the suggestion, "Go to thepawnbroker's. Take these trinkets of mine. Beg him to loan yousufficient for your rent. Now, don't refuse. You may redeem them whenyou can. Besides, you gave them to me." She looked down withaffectionate regret at the bracelets, the bangles, the rings, which useand the donor had made dear to her.
Being weak, he hesitated. His need was great. Then kissing the girllightly, he took them and strode from the room.
"Come right back, 'Gene," she called, happy as only a woman can be in asacrifice.
During his absence, from her own scanty store of edibles across thehall, she prepared a meal for him. Absorbed in this occupation she gavelittle heed to the steady tramp of feet ascending the staircase. Aperemptory knock recalled her from her world of happy thoughts.
"_Entrez_," she added, thinking it was one of 'Gene's jokes.
The door opened. Into the room trooped a throng of men, resplendent inblack and gold, silver and gray. Her eyes opened in astonishment; so didtheirs. Her lips, parted to speak, could only gasp; so could theirs. Thesurprise was apparently mutual. With true Parisian humor she laughedheartily at the paralysis, and speech was thawed. Colonel Sutphen stoodforward and bowed courteously.
"Your pardon, mademoiselle. We were informed that a young man, EugeneDelmotte, resided here. Pardon our mistake, accept our most humbleapology and permit us to depart." He moved toward the door as a signalfor a general exodus.
"But 'Gene--but M. Delmotte does live here," she cried, in apprehensionof the departure of these lordly and apparently affluent strangers whomight aid poor 'Gene. The elderly gentleman stopped on hearing this. Heregarded her with more chilling politeness.
"And you," he asked, "are Mme. Delmotte?"
"Oh, no, monsieur," she replied simply.
"His--his companion?" The Colonel flushed at his own audacity. The girlsmiled forgivingly, though a little wanly.
"Oh, no, monsieur. I am only his friend and occasional model. He is introuble, messieurs. I came to cheer him up. I live across the hall."
Colonel Sutphen, scanning the far end of the room, failed to find theobject of his inquiry. The girl came forward with an explanation as theelderly noble turned a questioning face toward hers.
"He has gone out, monsieur," she said. "He will soon return. He is indebt." She hung her head in distress. Colonel Sutphen turned to Josef insurprise. The latter whispered something in his ear, which apparentlysatisfied him. The girl closely watched this little by-play.
"Oh, then you know about him, messieurs?" she said. "You will help him?You are his friends?" She was happy for her neighbor.
"Only a few of a great many thousands," replied Sutphen ponderously."Tell me, mademoiselle, have you any--er--er claims upon M. Delmotte?Are you betrothed? Any claims of er--er sentiment?"
The girl's eyelids dropped as she answered,
"Not that he is aware of, monsieur." Then her eyes blazed at the suddenrealization of the indignity put upon her. "Who are you, though, and bywhat right do you question me? He is an artist and I--I am a friend.That is all, monsieur."
She had little spirit, after all, for a contest; but a door in her hearthad been opened, a door that a girl generally keeps closed to mankind,and she naturally resented the intrusion. Look, too, where she would shecould not escape the eyes of encircling masculinity.
Carter, appreciating her embarrassment and feeling an Americangentleman's compassion for her predicament, undertook a divertisement.
"Fine picture, that," he said, loud enough to be heard by the others."Those chaps are wearing the Krovitch Lion, too. Coincidence, isn't it?"Involuntary curiosity called all eyes toward the painting. The effectwas magical. Astonishment showed in every Krovitch face. They, one andall, uncovered their heads as they recognized in the subject theunconscious expression of their sovereign's patriotism.
"Is that the
work of M. Delmotte?" inquired the Colonel with voicesoftened by what he had just seen.
The girl nodded; she was proud of her friend's ability to move thesestrangers to reverence.
"Gentlemen--an omen," said the grizzled veteran, pointing to thepicture. "History repeats itself."
"Mademoiselle," Carter said gently under cover of the general buzz ofexcited comment aroused by the picture, "mademoiselle, M. Delmotte isdestined to a high place among the great men of the world. While to someis given the power to portray famous events, to a very few indeed it isgiven to create such epochs. Such men are necessarily set apart fromtheir fellows. Despite the promptings of their hearts, they must foregomany friendships which would otherwise be dear to them. M. Delmotte isboth fortunate and unfortunate in this." As with careful solicitude forher feelings he strove to prepare her for the separation from theartist, the girl's color came and went fitfully as gradually the truthbegan to dawn upon her.
"I think I understand, monsieur," she said, grateful for hisconsideration. Then she continued slowly, deliberately, letting the acidtruth of each word eat out the joy in her heart, "You mean that M.Delmotte must no longer know Marie, the model."
The Colonel, who had approached, had overheard this last thing spoken.
"It is possible," the latter hinted, "that he might desire to spare youthe pain of leave taking, as he goes with us from Paris--from yourworld."
"Oh, monsieur," she turned appealingly to Carter, her eyes wide in theirefforts to restrain their tears, "is this true?"
Carter nodded his head gravely. Sutphen pressed a fat, black wallet uponher, which she declined gently.
"As a gift," he insisted.
"Oh, monsieur," she cried reproachfully, and with averted face fled fromthe room.
Sheepishly guilty in feeling as only men can be, the party in the studioawaited expected developments. In a few minutes they heard the approachof a man's footsteps upon the stairs. All eyes turned curiously towardthe doorway. Nearer came the sounds, nearer, while with increasingvolume their hearts beat responsively. The steps stopped. The waitinghearts seemed to stand still in sympathy. Then the door opened.
"It is he," whispered Josef. All heads uncovered and each man bowed low.Delmotte stood petrified with astonishment.
"Messieurs," he said at last, recovering his speech, "messieurs, I amhonored." Then as his eyes lighted on Josef, they sparkled withunexpected recognition. "You are Petros," he said, puzzled by thebrilliant throng surrounding him.
"Josef Petros Zolsky, Your Majesty. I am your childhood's retainer andhereditary servitor. Yes, I am he you call Petros," and the white headbowed low as a gratified light kindled in the crafty eyes.
"Majesty! What the devil--am I crazy? I am not drunk," he addedregretfully.
"Sire," stammered Colonel Sutphen, "sire, you are the King of Krovitch."
"The devil I am," came the prompt response. Nevertheless the artistthrew an affectionate glance at the painting as one might in saying,"You were my people." The piquancy of the situation caused him to smile."Gentlemen," he said, "if this is some hoax, believe me it is in verypoor taste. Taste? Yes, for I haven't eaten in two days. What's yourgame? I've just come from a pawnbroker's, where I had gone with thepaltry jewels of a model, to try and secure enough to pay my rent. Youoffer me a crown. Corduroys and blouse," he pointed to his garb, "youtempt me with visions of ermine. A throne to replace my stool, and pagesof history are given for my future canvases. I am starving, gentlemen,"he said half turning away suffused in his own self-pity, "do not triflewith me." He appealed to Josef. "Is this true--what they say,Josef-Petros, or whatever your name is?"
"It is true, Your Majesty."
"A King! A King!" exclaimed the astonished artist. "But still a Kingwithout a kingdom--a table without meat. A mockery of greatness afterall. Why do you come to tell me this?" he cried turning fiercely onthem. "Was I too contented as I was? It is not good to taunt a hungryman. To tell me that I am a crownless King without six feet of land tocall my realm, is but to mock me."
"The remedy is at hand, Your Majesty," Sutphen asserted confidently."Eighty thousand men await your coming, all trained soldiers. We willraise the battle cry of Krovitch and at Schallberg crown you and yourQueen."
"My Queen," almost shouted the astonished Delmotte, "have I a Queen,too? Are you all crazy, or am I? Pray heaven the Queen is none otherthan Marie, else I'll have no supper to-night. Who is my queen?" Heasked as he saw the expression of disapproval which appeared on morethan one face present.
"The noblest woman under heaven, sire," said Sutphen reverently. "Onewho well could have claimed the crown herself. She wished a man to leadher people in the bitter strife and waived her claims for you. It istherefore but meet that she who has wrought all this for you shouldshare your throne."
"Why was I chosen?"
"You are descended from Stovik--she from Augustus, the last King ofKrovitch, Stovik's rival." So step by step they disclosed their plans,their hopes and ambitions to the dazzled Parisian. Finally, his mind wassurfeited with the tale of this country which was claiming him; heturned and, with sweeping gesture, indicated those present.
"And you?" he asked. "And these? I know your rightful name as little asI am sure of my own."
"Your Majesty's rightful name is Stovik Fourth." Then Sutphen presentedeach in turn. Carter came last. The eyes of these two, so near an age,instinctively sought out the other and recognized him as a possiblerival. Probably the first there to do so, Carter admitted that thisso-called heir to a throne was nothing but an ordinary habitue of cafeand boulevard; a jest-loving animal, with possibly talents, but no greatgenius.
The artist, with an assertion of his novel dominance, arose. "I amready, gentlemen," he said. "My baggage is on my back. I understand thatthe rendezvous is on the Boulevard S. Michel. Proceed."
Without one backward glance or thought he passed from the attic home,his foot in fancy already mounting his throne. Marie was forgotten inthe dream of a royal crown and visions of a distant kingdom.
Trusia: A Princess of Krovitch Page 16
