Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22)

by Marie Corelli

  No hint of the underworkings of the people’s thought, or the movement of the times was, however, apparent in the aspect of the gay multitudes that poured along the principal thoroughfares of the metropolis on the day appointed for the ceremony in which the King had consented to take the leading part. Poor and rich together, vied with one another to secure the various best points of view from whence the Royal pageant could be seen, winding down in glittering length from the Palace and Citadel, past the Cathedral, and so on to the great open square, where, surrounded by fluttering flags and streamers, a huge block of stone hung suspended by ropes from a crane, ready to be lowered at the Royal touch, and fixed in its place by the Royal trowel, as the visible and solid beginning of the stately fabric, which, according to pictorial models was to rise from this, its first foundation, into a temple of art and architecture, devoted to Melpomene and Thalia.

  It was a glorious day, — the sun shone with vigorous heat and lustre from a cloudless sky, — the sea was calm as an inland pool — and people wore their lightest, brightest and most festive attire. Fair “society” dames, clad in the last capricious mode of ever-changing Fashion, and shading their delicate, and not always natural, complexions with airy parasols, filmy and finely-coloured as the petals of flowers, queened it over the flocking crowds of pedestrians, as they were driven past in their softly-cushioned carriages drawn by high-stepping horses; — all the boudoirs and drawing-rooms of the most exclusive houses seemed to have emptied their luxury-loving occupants into the streets, — and the whole town was, for a few hours at any rate, apparently given over to holiday. As the long line of soldiery preceding the King’s carriage, wound down from the Citadel, groups of people cheered, and waved hats and handkerchiefs, — then, when his Majesty’s own escort came into view, the cheering was redoubled, — and at last when the cumbrous, over-gilded, over-painted “Cinderella” State-coach appeared, and the familiar, but somewhat sternly-composed features of the King himself were perceived through the glass windows, a roar of acclamation, like the thundering of a long wave on an extensive stretch of rock-bound coast, echoed far and near, and again and again was repeated with increased and ever-increasing clamour. Who, — hearing such an enthusiastic greeting — would or could have imagined for one moment that the King, who was the object and centre of these tremendous plaudits, was at the same time judged as an enemy and an obstruction to justice by more than one half of the population! Yet it was so, — and so has often been. The populace will shout itself hoarse for any cause; whether it be a king going to be crowned, or a king going to be executed, the stimulus is the same, and the enthusiasm as passionate. It is merely the contagious hysteria of a moment that tickles their lungs to expansion in noise; — but the real sentiment of admiration for a fine character which might perhaps have moved the subjects of Richard Coeur de Lion to cries of exultation, is generally non-existent. And why? For no cause truly! — save that Lion-Hearts in kings no more pulsate through nations.

  By the time the Royal procession reached its destination the crowd had largely increased, and the press of people round the scene of the forthcoming function was great enough to be seriously embarrassing to both the soldiery and the police. Slowly the gorgeous State-coach lumbered up to the entrance of the ground railed off for the ceremony, — and between a line of armed guards, the King alighted. Vociferous cheering again broke out on all sides, which his Majesty acknowledged in the usual formal manner by a monotonous military salute performed at regular intervals. Received with obsequious deference by all the persons concerned in the Grand National Theatre project, he conversed with one or two, shook hands with others, and was just on the point of addressing a few of his usual suave compliments to some pretty women who had been invited to adorn the scene, when David Jost advanced smilingly, evidently sure of a friendly recognition. For had not the King, when Crown Prince and Heir-Apparent, hunted game in his preserves? — yea, had he not even dined with him? — and had not he, Jost, written whole columns of vapid twaddle about the ‘Royal smile’ and the ‘Royal favour’ till the outside public had sickened at every stroke of his flunkey pen? How came it, then, that his Majesty seemed on this occasion to have no recollection of him, and looked over and beyond him in the airiest way, as though he were a far-off Jew in Jerusalem, instead of being the assumptive-Orthodox proprietor of several European newspapers published for the general misinformation and plunder of gullible Christians? Dismayed at the Royal coldness of eye, Jost stepped back with an uncomfortably crimson face; and one of the ladies present, personally knowing him, and seeing his discomfiture, ventured to call the King’s attention to his presence and to make way for his approach, by murmuring gently, “Mr. Jost, Sir!”

  “Ah, indeed!” said the monarch, with calm grey eyes still fixed on vacancy,— “I do not know anyone of that name! Permit me to admire that exquisite arrangement of flowers!” and, smiling affably on the astonished and embarrassed lady, he led her aside, altogether away from Jost’s vicinity.

  Stricken to the very dust of abasement by this direct “cut” so publicly administered, the crestfallen editor and proprietor of many journals stood aghast for a moment, — then as various unbidden thoughts began to chase one another through his bewildered head, he was seized with a violent trembling. He remembered every foolish, imprudent and disloyal remark he had made to the stranger named Pasquin Leroy who had called upon him bearing the Premier’s signet, — and reflecting that this very Pasquin Leroy was now, by some odd chance, a contributor of political leaders and other articles to the rival daily newspaper which had published the King’s official refusal of a grant of land to the Jesuits, he writhed inwardly with impotent fury. For might not this unknown man, Leroy, — if he were, — as he possibly was, — a friend of the King’s — go to the full length of declaring all he knew and all he had learned from Jost’s own lips, concerning certain ‘financial secrets,’ which if fully disclosed, would utterly dismember the Government and put the nation itself in peril? Might he not already even have informed the King? With his little, swine-like eyes retreating under the crinkling fat of his lowering brows, Jost, hot and cold by turns, wandered confusedly out of the ‘exclusive’ set of persons connected with the ‘Grand National Theatre’ scheme, who were now gathered round the suspended foundation-stone to which the King was approaching. He pretended not to see the curious eyes that stared at him, or the sneering mouths that smiled at the open slight he had received. Pushing his way through the crowd, he jostled against the thin black-garmented figure of a priest, — no other than Monsignor Del Fortis, who, with an affable word of recognition, drew aside to allow him passage. Affecting his usual ‘company-manner’ of tolerant good-nature, he forced himself to speak to this ‘holy’ man, who, at any rate, had paid him good money in round sums for so-called ‘articles’ or rather puff-advertisements in his paper concerning Church matters.

  “Good-day, Monsignor!” he said— “You are not often seen at a Royal pageant! How comes it that you, of all persons in the world have brought yourself to witness the laying of the foundation-stone of a Theatre? Does not your calling forbid any patronage of the mimic Art?”

  The priest’s thin lips parted, showing a glimmer of wolfish teeth behind the pale stretched line of flesh.

  “Not by any means!” he replied suavely— “In the present levelling and amalgamation of social interests, the Church and Stage are drawing very closely together.”

  “True!” said Jost, with a grin— “One might very well be taken for the other!”

  Del Fortis looked at him meditatively.

  “This,” he said, waving his lean hand towards the centre of the brilliant crowd where now the King stood, “is a kind of drama in its way. And you, Mr. Jost, have just played one little scene in it!”

  Jost reddened, and bit his lip.

  “I am also another actor on the boards,” continued Del Fortis smiling darkly;— “if only as a spectator in the ‘super’ crowd. And other comedians and tragedians are doubt
less present, of whom we may hear anon!”

  “The King has nasty humours sometimes,” said Jost shortly, looking down at the flower in his buttonhole, and absently flicking off one of its petals with his fat forefinger— “He ought to be made to pay for them!”

  “Ha, ha! Very good! Certainly!” and Del Fortis gave a piously-deprecating nod— “He ought to be made to pay! Especially when he hurts the feelings of his old friends! Are you going, Mr. Jost? Yes? What a pity! But you no doubt have your reporters present?”

  “Oh, there are plenty of them about,” — said Jost carelessly, “But I shall condense all the account of these proceedings into a few lines.”

  “Ha, — ha!” laughed Del Fortis,— “I understand! Revenge — revenge! But — in certain cases — the briefest description is sometimes the most graphic — and startling! Good-day!”

  Jost returned the salute curtly, and went, — not to leave the scene altogether, but merely to take up a position of vantage immediately above and behind the surging crowd, where from a distance he could watch all that was going on. He saw the King lift his hand towards the ropes and pulleys of the crane above him, — and as it was touched by the Royal finger, the foundation stone was slowly lowered into the deep socket prepared for it, where gold and silver coins of the year’s currency had already been strewn. Then, with the aid of a silver trowel set in a handle of gold, and obsequiously presented by the managing director of the scheme, his Majesty dabbed in a little mortar, and declared in a loud voice that the stone was ‘well and truly laid.’ A burst of cheering greeted the announcement, and the band struck up the country’s National Hymn, this being the usual sign that the ceremony was at an end. Whereupon the King, shaking hands again cordially with the various parties concerned, and again shedding the lustre of his smile upon the various ladies with whom he had been conversing, made his way very leisurely to his State equipage, which, with its six magnificently caparisoned horses, stood prepared for his departure, the door being already held open for him by one of the attendant powdered and gold-laced flunkeys. Sir Roger de Launay walked immediately behind his Sovereign, and Professor von Glauben was close at hand, companioned by two of the gentlemen of the Royal Household. All at once a young man pushed himself out of the crowd nearest to the enclosure, — paused a moment irresolute, and then, with a single determined bound reached the King’s side.

  “Thief of the People’s money! Take that!” he shouted, wildly, — and, brandishing aloft a glittering stiletto, he aimed it straight at the monarch’s heart!

  But the blow never reached its destination, for a woman, closely veiled in black, suddenly threw herself swiftly and adroitly between the King’s body and the descending blade, shielding his breast with both her outstretched arms. The dagger struck her violently, piercing her flesh through the upper part of her right shoulder, and under the sheer force of the blow, she fell senseless.

  The whole incident took place in less time than it could be breathlessly told, — and even as she who had risked her life to save the King’s, sank bleeding to the ground, the police seized the assassin red-handed in his mad and criminal act, and wrenched the murderous weapon from his hand. He was a mere lad of eighteen or twenty, and seemed dazed, submitting to be bound and handcuffed without a word. The King, perfectly tranquil and unhurt, bared his head to the wild cries and hysterical cheering of the excited spectators to whom his narrow escape from death appeared a kind of miracle, moving them to frantic paroxysms of passionate enthusiasm, and then bent anxiously down over the prostrate form of his rescuer, endeavouring himself to raise her from the ground. A hundred hands at once proffered assistance; — Sir Roger de Launay, pale to the lips with the shock of sick horror he had experienced at what might so easily have been a national catastrophe, assisted the police in forming a strong cordon round the person of his beloved Royal master, in order to guard him against any further possible attack, — and Professor von Glauben, obeying the King’s signal, knelt down by the unconscious woman’s side to examine the extent of her injury. Gently he turned back the close folds of her enveloping veil, — then gave a little start and cry:

  “Gott in Himmel!” And he hastily drew down the veil again as the King approached with the question —

  “Is she dangerously hurt?”

  “No, Sir! — I think not — I hope not — but — !”

  And the Professor’s eyes looked volumes of suggestion. Catching his expression, the King drew still nearer.

  “Uncover her face, — give her air!” he commanded.

  With a perplexed side-glance at Sir Roger de Launay, the Professor obeyed, — and the sunshine fell full on the white calm features and closed eyelids of “the woman known as Lotys.” Her black dress was darkly stained and soaked with oozing blood — and the deep dull gold of her hair was touched here and there with the same crimson hue; — but there was a smile on her lips, and her face was as fair and placid as though it had been smoothed out of all pain and trouble by the restful touch of Death. Silently, and with a perfectly inscrutable demeanour, the King surveyed her for a moment. Then, raising his plumed hat with grave grace and courtesy, he looked on all those who stood about him, soldiery, police and spectators.

  “Does anyone here present know this lady?” he demanded.

  A crowd of eager heads were pushed forward, and then a low murmur began, which deepened into a steady roar of delighted acclamation.

  “Lotys! Lotys!”

  The name was caught up quickly and repeated from mouth to mouth — till away on the extreme outskirts of the crowd it was tossed back again with shouts— “Lotys! Lotys!”

  Swiftly the news ran like an electric current through the whole body of the populace, that it was Lotys, their own Lotys, their friend, their fellow-worker, the idol of the poorer classes, that had saved the life of the King! Half-incredulous, half-admiring, the mob listened to the growing rumour, and the general excitement increased in intensity among them. David Jost, from his point of observation, caught the infection, and realizing at once the value of the dramatic “copy” for his paper, to be obtained out of such a situation, jumped into the nearest vehicle and was driven straight to his offices, there to send electric messages of the news to every quarter of the world, and to endeavour by printed loyal outbursts of “gush” to turn the current of the King’s displeasure against him into a more favourable direction. Meanwhile the King himself gave orders that his wounded rescuer should be conveyed in one of the Royal carriages straight to the Palace, and there attended by his own physician. Professor von Glauben was entrusted with the carrying-out of this command, — and the monarch, then entering his own State-equipage, started on his homeward progress.

  Thundering cheers now greeted him at every step; — for an hour at least the populace went mad with rapture, shouting, singing and calling alternately for “The King!” and “Lotys!” with no respect of persons, or consideration as to their differing motives and opposite stations in life. Two facts only were clear to them, — first an attempt had been made to assassinate the King, — secondly, that Lotys had frustrated the attempt, and risked her own life to save that of the monarch. These were enough to set fire to the passionate sentiments of a warm-blooded, restless Southern people, and they gave full sway to their feelings accordingly. So, amid deafening plaudits, the Royal procession wended its way back to the Citadel, the State-coach moving at a snail’s pace in order to allow the people to see the King for themselves, and make sure he was uninjured, as they cheered, and followed it in surging throngs to the very gates of the Palace, — while in another and reverse direction the wretched youth whose miserable effort to commit a dastard crime had so fortunately failed, was marched off, under the guard of a strong body of police to the State-Prison, there to await his trial and condemnation. A small crowd, hooting and cursing the criminal, pursued him as he went, and one personage, austere and dignified, also followed, at a distance, as though curious to see the last of the would-be murderer ere he was shut out from l
iberty, — and this was Monsignor Del Fortis.

  CHAPTER XXIV. — A WOMAN’S REASON

  When Lotys recovered from her death-like swoon, she found herself on a sofa among heaped-up soft cushions, in a small semi-darkened room hung with draperies of rose satin, which were here and there drawn aside to show exquisite groupings of Saxe china and rare miniatures on ivory; — the ceiling above her was a painted mirror, where Venus in her car of flowers, drawn by doves, was pictured floating across a crystal sea, — the floor was strewn with white bearskins, — the corners were filled with palms and flowers. As she regarded these unaccustomed surroundings wonderingly, a firm hand was laid on her wrist, and a brusque voice said in her ear: —

  “Lie still, if you please! You have been seriously hurt! You must rest.”

  She turned feebly towards the speaker, and saw a big burly man with a bald head, seated at her side, who held a watch in one hand, and felt her pulse with the other. She could not discern his features plainly, for his back was set to the already shaded light, and her own eyes were weak and dim.

  “You are very kind!” she murmured— “I do not quite remember — Ah, yes!” and a quick flash of animation passed over her face— “I know now! The King! Is — is all well?”