CHAPTER I
THE
Prince repeated his statement:"Man's
greatest wisdom consists in getting along without women."He
intended to go on but was interrupted. There was a slight stir of
the
heavy window curtains. Through their parting was seen below, as in
a
frame, the intense azure of the Mediterranean. A dull roar reached
the dining-room. It seemed to come from the side of the house
facing
the Alps. It was a faint vibration, deadened by the walls, the
curtains, and the carpets, distant, like the working of some
underground monster; but there rose above the sound of revolving
steel and the puffing of steam a clamor of human beings, a sudden
burst of shouts and whistling."A
train full of soldiers!" exclaimed Don Marcos Toledo, leaving
his chair."The
Colonel is at it again, always the hero, always enthusiastic about
everything that has to do with his profession," said Atilio
Castro, with a smile of amusement.In
spite of his years, the man whom they called the Colonel sprang to
the nearest window. Above the foliage of the sloping garden, he
could
see a small section of the Corniche railroad, swallowed up in the
smoky entrance of a tunnel, and reappearing farther on, beyond the
hill, among the groves and rose colored villas of Cap-Martin. Under
the mid-day sun the rails quivered like rills of molten steel.
Although the train had not yet reached this side of the tunnel, the
whole country-side was filled with the ever-increasing roar. The
windows, terraces, and gardens of the villas were dotted black with
people who were leaving their luncheon tables to see the train
pass.
From the mountain slope to the seashore, from walls and buildings
on
both sides of the track, flags of all colors began to wave.Don
Marcos ran to the opposite window overlooking the city. All he
could
see was an expanse of roofs with no trace of Nature's touch save
here
and there the feathery green of the gardens against the red of the
tiles. It was like a stage setting broken into a succession of
wings:
in the foreground, amid trees, isolated villas with green
balustrades
and flower-strewn walls; next, the mass of Monte Carlo, its huge
hotels bristling with pointed turrets and cupolas; and hazy in the
background, as though floating in golden dust, the rocky cliffs of
Monaco, with its promenades; the enormous pile of the Oceanographic
Museum; the New Cathedral, a glaring white; and the square crested
tower of the palace of the Prince. Buildings stretched from the
edge
of the sea halfway up the mountains. It was a country without
fields,
with no open land, covered completely with houses, from one
frontier
to the other.But
Don Marcos had known the view for years, and at once detected the
unfamiliar detail. A long, interminable train was moving slowly
along
the hillside. He counted aloud more than forty cars, without coming
to the rear coaches still hidden in a hollow."It
must be a battalion ... a whole battalion on a war footing. More
than
a thousand soldiers," he said in an authoritative manner,
pleased at showing off his keen professional judgment before his
fellow guests, who, for that matter, were not listening.The
train was filled with men, tiny yellowish gray figures, that
gathered
at the car windows, doors, and on the running-boards with their
feet
hanging over the track. Others were crowded in cattle pens or stood
on the open flat-cars, among the tanks and crated machine guns. A
great many had climbed to the roofs and were greeting the crowds
with
arms and legs extended in the shape of a letter X. Almost all of
them
had their shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows, like sailors
preparing to maneuver."They
are English!" exclaimed Don Marcos. "English soldiers on
their way to Italy!"But
this information seemed to irritate the Prince, who always spoke to
him in familiar language, in spite of the difference in their ages.
"Don't be absurd, Colonel. Anybody would know that. They are the
only ones who whistle."The
men still seated at the table nodded. Military trains passed every
day, and from a distance it was possible to guess the nationality
of
the passengers. "The French," said Castro, "go past
silently. They have had a little over three years of fighting on
their own soil. They are as silent and gloomy as their duty is
monotonous and endless. The Italians coming from the French front
sing, and decorate their trains with green branches. The English
shout like a lot of boys, just out of school, and in their
enthusiasm, whistle all the time. They are the real children in
this
war; they go with a sort of boyish glee to their death."The
whistling sound drew nearer, shrill as the howling of a witches'
Sabbath. It passed between the mountains and the gardens of Villa
Sirena; and then went on in the other direction, toward Italy,
gradually growing fainter as it disappeared in the tunnel. Toledo,
who was the only one in the room to watch the train pass, noticed
how
the houses, gardens, and
potagers
on both sides of the track were alive with people, waving
handkerchiefs and flags in reply to the whistling of the English.
Even along the seashore the fishermen stood up on the seats of
their
boats and waved their caps at a distant train. The quick ear of Don
Marcos distinguished a sound of footsteps on the floor above. The
servants doubtless were opening the windows to join with silent
enthusiasm in that farewell.When
only a few coaches were still visible at the mouth of the tunnel,
the
Colonel came back to his place at the table."More
meat for the slaughter house!" exclaimed Atilio Castro, looking
at the Prince. "The racket is over. Go on, Michael."Under
Toledo's watchful eye, two beardless Italian boys, unprepossessing
in
appearance, were serving the dessert at the luncheon.The
Colonel kept glancing over the table and at the faces of his three
guests, as though he were afraid of suddenly noticing something
that
would show the lunch had been hastily arranged. It was the first
that
had been given at Villa Sirena for two years.The
master of the house, Prince Michael Fedor Lubimoff, who sat at the
head of the table, had arrived from Paris the evening
before.The
Prince was a man still in his youth, fresh with the well controlled
vigor that is furnished by a life of physical exercise. He was
tall,
robust, and supple, of dark complexion, with large gray eyes, and a
massive face, clean shaven. The scattered gray hairs at his temples
seemed even more numerous in contrast with the blue-black of the
rest. A number of premature wrinkles around the eyes, and two deep
furrows running from his wide nostrils to the corners of his mouth,
were the first indication of weariness in a powerful organism that
seemed to have lived too intensely, in the mistaken confidence that
its reserve of strength was endless.The
Colonel called him "Your Highness," as if Michael Fedor
were a member of a ruling house, instead of a mere Russian prince.
But this was when some one was present. It was a habit Don Marcos
had
adopted in the days of the late Princess Lubimoff, to maintain the
prestige of the son, whom he had known since the latter was a
child.
In their intimate relations, when they were alone, he preferred to
call him "Marquis," Marquis de Villablanca, and the Prince
was never successful in disturbing, by his witticisms on the
subject,
the precedence thus established by Don Marcos in his terms of
respect. The title of Russian Prince was for those who are dazzled
by
the lofty sound of titles, without being able to appreciate their
respective merits, and origins; as for himself, the Colonel
preferred
something nobler, the title of Spanish Marquis, in spite of the
fact
that that title for Lubimoff was quite unknown in Spain, and lacked
official recognition.Toledo
was well acquainted with Prince Michael's three guests.Atilio
Castro was a fellow countryman, a Spaniard who had spent the
greater
part of his life outside his own country. He affected great
intimacy
with the Prince and, on the grounds of a distant blood relationship
between them, even spoke to him with some familiarity. Don Marcos
had
a vague idea that the young Spaniard had been a consul somewhere
for
a short time. Atilio was continually poking fun at him without his
being always immediately aware of it. But the Colonel, seeing that
it
pleased "His Highness" greatly, felt no ill-will on that
account."A
fine fellow, good hearted!" the Colonel often said, in speaking
of Castro. "He hasn't led a model life, he's a terrible
gambler—but a gentleman. Yes, sir, a real gentleman!"Michael
Fedor defined his relative in other terms."He
has all the vices, and no defects."Don
Marcos could never quite understand what that meant, but
nevertheless
it increased his esteem for Castro.The
Prince was only two or three years older than Atilio, and yet their
ages seemed much farther apart. Castro was over thirty-five, and
some
people thought him twenty-four. His face had an ingenuous, rather
child-like expression, and it acquired a certain character of
manliness, thanks solely to a dark red mustache, closely cropped.
This tiny mustache, and his glossy hair parted squarely in the
middle, were the most prominent details of his features, except
when
he became excited. If his humor changed—which happened very
rarely—the luster in his eyes, the contraction of his mouth, and
the premature wrinkles in his forehead gave him an almost ominous
expression, and suddenly he seemed to age by ten years."A
bad man to have for an enemy!" affirmed the Colonel. "It
wouldn't do to get in his way."And
not out of fear, but rather out of sincere admiration did the
Colonel
speak admiringly of Castro's talents. He wrote poetry, painted in
water color, improvised songs at the piano, gave advice in matters
of
furniture and clothes, and was well versed in antiquities, and
matters of taste. Don Marcos knew no limits to that
intelligence."He
knows everything," he would say. "If he would only stick to
one thing! If he would only work!"Castro
was always elegantly dressed, and lived in expensive hotels; but he
had no regular income so far as was known. The Colonel suspected a
series of friendly little loans from the Prince. But the latter had
remained away from Monte Carlo almost since the beginning of the
war,
and Don Marcos used to meet Castro every winter living at the Hôtel
de Paris, playing at the Casino, and associating with people of
wealth. From time to time, on encountering the Colonel in the
gaming
rooms, Castro had asked him for a loan of "ten louis," an
absolute necessity for a gambler who had just lost his last stake
and
was anxious to recoup. But with more or less delay he had always
returned the money. There was something mysterious about his life,
according to Don Marcos.The
two other guests seemed to him to live much less complex lives. The
one who had frequented the house for the longest period, was a dark
young man, with a skin that was almost copper colored, a slight
build, and long, straight hair. He was Teofilo Spadoni, a famous
pianist. Spadoni's parents were Italian—this much was sure. No one
could quite make out where he had been born. At times he mentioned
his birthplace as Cairo, at other times, as Athens, or
Constantinople, all the places where his father, a poor Neapolitan
tailor, had lived. No one was astonished by such vagaries and
absent-minded discrepancies on the part of the extraordinary
virtuoso, who, the moment he left the piano, seemed to move in a
world of dreams and to be quite incapable of adapting himself to
any
regular mode of life. After giving concerts in the large capitals
of
Europe and South America, he had settled down at Monte Carlo,
explaining his residence there by the war, while Don Marcos imputed
it to his love of gambling. The Prince knew him through having
engaged him as a member of the orchestra on board his large yacht,
the Gaviota II, for a voyage around the world.Sitting
beside the host was the last guest, the latest to frequent the
house,
a pale young man, tall, thin, and nearsighted, who was always
looking
timidly around as though ill at ease. He was a professor from
Spain,
a Doctor of Science, Carlos Novoa, who received a subsidy from the
Spanish government to make certain studies in ocean fauna at the
Oceanographic Museum. The Colonel who had spent many years at Monte
Carlo without running across any of his compatriots, other than
those
whom he saw around the roulette tables, had expressed a certain
patriotic pride in meeting this professor two months
previously."A
man of learning! A famous scientist!" he exclaimed in speaking
of his new friend. "They can say all they want now about us
Spaniards being ignoramuses."He
had only the vaguest notion of the nature of his fellow
countryman's
learning. What is more: from his earliest conversations he had
guessed that the professor's ideas were directly opposed to his
own.
"One of those heretics with no other God than matter," he
said to himself. But he added by way of consolation: "All those
learned men are like that: liberals and free-thinkers. What of
it...." As for the professor's fame, in the opinion of Don
Marcos it was unquestionable. Otherwise why would they have sent
him
to the Oceanographic Museum, large and white as a temple, whose
halls
he had visited only once, with a feeling of awe that had prevented
him from ever going back again.On
the occasional evenings when the professor would go to Monte Carlo
and chance to meet Don Marcos, the latter would present him to his
friends as a national celebrity. In this fashion Novoa had made the
acquaintance of Castro and Spadoni, who never asked him more than
how
his luck was going.When
the coming of the Prince was announced, Toledo insisted that his
illustrious friend the Professor should accompany him to the
station
in order to lose no time in introducing him to "His
Highness.""One
of our country's prides.... Your Highness is so fond of everything
Spanish."Michael
Fedor had spent a considerable portion of his life on the sea, and
felt a certain sympathy for the modest young man, on learning of
the
studies in which he specialized.They
talked for a long time about oceanography, and the following day
Prince Michael, who was in the habit of entertaining elaborately at
his table the most divergent kinds of guests, said to his
"chamberlain":"Your
scholar is a very fine fellow. Invite him to luncheon."The
guests all spoke Spanish. Spadoni was able to follow the
conversation, with the little he had picked up while giving piano
recitals in Buenos Ayres, Santiago, and other South American
capitals. He had been there with an impresario, who finally got
tired
of backing him, and struggling with his childish
irresponsibility.As
they were sitting down at the table, the Colonel noticed that the
Prince seemed preoccupied with some absorbing meditation. He made a
point of talking with Professor Novoa, expressing his surprise at
the
slight compensation the scientist received for his studies.Castro
and Spadoni gave their whole attention to their food. The days of
the
famous chef, to whom Prince Michael gave a salary worthy of a Prime
Minister, were over. The "master" had been mobilized and at
that moment was cooking for a general on the French front. However,
Toledo had managed to discover a woman of some fifty years, whose
combinations were less varied, perhaps, than those of the artist
whom
the war had snatched away, but more "classical," more solid
and substantial—and the two men ate with the delight of people who,
forever obliged to eat in restaurants and hotels, at last find
themselves at a table where no economy or falsifications are
practised.About
dessert time the conversation, becoming general, turned, as always
happens when men are dining alone, to the subject of women. Toledo
had a feeling that the Prince had gently steered the guests' talk
in
this direction. Suddenly Michael summed up his whole argument by
declaring a second time:"Man's
greatest wisdom consists in getting along without women."And
then had followed the long interruption as the train of English
soldiers, in a whirl of shouts, whistling and hissing, had gone
by.Atilio
Castro waited until the last car had disappeared in the tunnel, and
said with a subtle and somewhat ironical smile:"The
shouting and whistling sound like a mixture of applause and scorn
for
your profound remark. However, please don't bother with such
inexpert
opinion. What you said interests me. You abominate women, you who
have had thousands of them!... Go on, Michael!"But
the Prince changed the conversation. He spoke of his impressions on
returning to Villa Sirena after a long absence. Nothing remained to
recall the former days, before the war, save the building and the
gardens. All the men servants were mobilized: some in the French
army, others in the Italian. The day after his arrival he had
asked,
as a matter of course, for an auto to go to Monte Carlo. There was
no
lack of machines. Three, of the best make, were lying as though
forgotten, in the garage. But the chauffeurs too were at the front;
and moreover there was no gasoline; and a permit was necessary to
use
the roads.... In short, he had been obliged to stand at the iron
gate
of the garden and wait for the Manton electric. It was a novelty
for
him, an interesting means of locomotion. It seemed as if he had
suddenly been transported into a world he had forgotten, as he
found
himself among the common people on the car. The general curiosity
annoyed him. Everyone was whispering his name: and even the
conductor
showed a certain emotion on seeing the owner of Villa Sirena among
his passengers."And
the worst of it all, my friends, is that I'm ruined!"Spadoni
stared with wide opened eyes as though hearing something
extraordinary and absurd. Castro smiled incredulously."You
ruined?... I'd be satisfied with a tenth of the remains."The
Prince nodded. He reminded one of those great transatlantic liners
which, when they are wrecked, make the fortune of a whole
population
of poverty stricken people along the shore. Wealth was of course a
relative thing. He might still have more than many people; but ruin
it was for him, nevertheless."In
view of what I am going to say later, I must not conceal from you
the
situation I am in. A few weeks ago I sold my Paris residence which
my
mother built. It was bought by a 'newly rich.' With this war, I'm
going to become a 'newly poor.' You know, Atilio, how things have
gone with me, since this row among the nations started. From the
time
they fired the first cannon they sent me from Russia only an eighth
of what I received in times of peace; later much less. The
revolution
came and cut down my income still more. And, now under Comrade
Lenin
and the red flag, there is nothing coming through at all,
absolutely
nothing. I have no idea whatsoever of the fate of my houses, my
fields, my mines ... I don't know even what has become of those who
were looking after my fortune there. They have probably all been
killed."The
Colonel raised his eyes to the ceiling: "The revolution!... What
they need is a master.""But
a rich man like you with reserve funds in the bank all the time,
can
always find some one to make him a loan until times are
better.""Perhaps;
but it means practically poverty for me. My administrator told me
when I was leaving Paris, that I ought to limit my expenses, live
according to my present income. How much have I?... I don't know.
He
doesn't even know himself. He is balancing my accounts, collecting
from some people and paying others—I had a lot of debts, it seems.
Millionaires are never asked to pay their bills promptly.... In
short, I shall have to live, like a ruined prince, on some sixty
thousand dollars a year; perhaps more, perhaps less. I really don't
know."Castro
and Spadoni seemed to be stirred with longing at the mention of
such
a sum. Novoa looked with an air of respect at this man who called
himself his friend and thought himself poor with sixty thousand
dollars a year."My
administrator spoke to me of selling Villa Sirena as well as the
Paris residence. It seems that the newly rich would like to get
everything I have. A complete liquidation.... But I wouldn't listen
to it. This is my own little nook; I made it what it is myself.
Besides, life is impossible out in the world. The war has filled it
with bitterness. Living in Paris is very gloomy. There is no one
there. The streets are dark. The 'Gothas' make the people of our
class worried and nervous. It is much better to leave. I thought I
would settle down here and wait till this world madness is
over.""It
is going to be a long wait," remarked Castro."I'm
afraid so. However, this is an agreeable spot, a pleasant refuge,
all
the more delightful because of the selfish feeling that at this
very
moment millions of men are suffering every sort of hardship, and
thousands are dying every day.... But after all, it isn't the same
as
it used to be. Even the Mediterranean is different. The minute the
sun goes down, my good Colonel has to mask with black curtains the
windows and doors looking out on the sea, so that the German
submarines cannot guide themselves by our lights.... Dear me! Where
are those wonderful days we spent here in time of peace, the
festivals we used to have, those nights on the Gaviotta II when she
anchored in the harbor of Monaco?"A
far away look came into Castro's eyes, as though he were in a
dream.
In his imaginings he saw the gardens of Villa Sirena, softly
lighted,
wrapped in a milky haze that settled on the invisible waves like
rays
of reflected moonlight.The
window curtains were crimson, and from them, drifting through the
warm darkness of the night, came the sound of laughter, cries, the
sighing of violins, amorous love songs, that told of women's
throats,
white and voluptuous, swelling with desire and the rapture of the
music. The stars, specks of light lost in the infinite, twinkled in
answer to the electric stars, hidden in the dark foliage. Walking
slowly, couples arm in arm disappeared amid the deep shadows of the
garden. All the women of the day had turned up there sooner or
later:
famous actresses from Paris, London, and Vienna; beauties of the
smart cliques of two hemispheres, women of high society, smiling
the
smile of slaves before the potentate who could banish their debts
with the stroke of a pen. Oh, the Pompeian nights of Villa
Sirena!...Spadoni
saw, rather, the Gaviotta II, a palace with propellers, which, when
anchored in the small harbor of La Condamine, seemed to fill it
completely and to make the yachts of the American millionaires and
the Prince of Monaco look like tiny things indeed. It was an
alcazar,
a palace of the Arabian Nights, topped off with two smoke stacks,
and
parading over every sea of the planet, its private parlors adorned
with fountains and statues, its enormous library, its ball room
with
a raised platform, from which fifty musicians, many of them
celebrated, gave concerts for a single visible auditor, Prince
Michael, who half reclined on a divan, while the tropical breeze
came
through the high windows, caressing the heads of the officers and
chief functionaries of the steamer crowding about the openings. The
pianist could see once more the lonely harbors of dead historic
countries, with flights of seagulls wheeling against the quiet
azure
vault; the mighty bays, filled with the smoke and bustle of North
America; the coasts of the Antilles with groves of cocoanut palms,
black at sunset against the reddish sky; the islands of the
Pacific,
of hard coral, forming a ring about an inner lake.... And that
omnipotent magician confessed the loss of his wealth!...The
Prince, as though he guessed their thoughts, added:"It's
the end of all that: I don't know whether forever or for many
years.... And even if things should be the same some day as they
were
before the war, what a long time we shall have to wait!... I may
die
before then.... That is why I am going to make a proposal to
you."He
paused a moment, to enjoy the curiosity he read in the eyes of his
auditors.Then
he asked Castro:"Are
you satisfied with your present life?"In
spite of Castro's good natured, smiling placidity, he started in
surprise as if indignant at such a question. His life was
unbearable.
The war had upset his habits and pleasures, scattering his
friendships to the four winds. He did not know the fate of hundreds
of persons of various nationalities, who had filled his life before
the war, and without whom he would then have thought it impossible
to
live."Besides,
I have less money than ever. I am staying at Monte Carlo just for
the
gambling; and even if I always lose in the end, like everyone else,
I
always keep a tight grip on a little something to live on!... But
what a life!"He
glanced at Novoa as though the recency of his acquaintance inspired
a
certain suspicion, but immediately he went on, with an air of
assurance:"There
is no reason why I should not speak quite plainly. A little while
ago
the Professor told us how much he earned: some hundred dollars a
month; less than any employee at the Casino. I am going to be as
frank as he. I live in the Hôtel de Paris: Atilio Castro cannot
afford to live anywhere else; he must keep up his connections. But
there are many weeks when I have the greatest difficulty in paying
for my room, and I eat in cheap restaurants and Italian wine shops,
when no one invites me out to dine. I pay three or four times as
much
for my bed as I do for my board. Evenings when luck is against me,
and I lose everything to the last chip, I get along with a ham
sandwich at the Casino bar. I belong to the same school as the
Madrid
gambler we nicknamed the 'Master,' and who used to say to us:
'Boys,
money was made for gambling; and what's left, for eating.'""And
in spite of that, you like good food," said the Prince.Castro's
laments took on a comical seriousness. With the war the good old
customs had been forgotten. No one kept house; everyone lived in
hotels, and the proprietors of the luxurious palaces took the
scarcity of food as a pretext to serve the sort of meals one gets
in
third rate restaurants, scanty and poor. An invitation merely gave
one a chance to fool one's hunger."It
has been months, maybe years, since I've eaten as I have to-day,
and
I've sat at the tables of all the big hotels on the Riviera. I had
ceased to believe that such chicken as you have just served existed
in the world any longer. I imagined they were dream birds,
mythological fowl."The
Colonel smiled, bowing as if that were a tribute to him."And
you, Spadoni?" the Prince went on inquiringly. "How are you
enjoying life?""Your
Highness—I—I," stammered the musician, at the sudden
question.Castro
intervened, coming to his rescue."Our
friend Spadoni can always get a free meal at the villas of a number
of invalid ladies, who live at Cap-Martin and who are mad about
music. Besides some English people at Nice often invite him. He
doesn't need to bother about paying hotel bills either. He has at
his
disposal a whole big villa, large and well-furnished: it goes with
his job, as watchman over a corpse."Novoa
started with surprise at the news."Don't
be astonished," continued Atilio. "He has the benefit of a
magnificent house in exchange for looking after a tomb.""Oh,
Professor!... Don't mind him," groaned the musician with the air
of a martyr."But
with all these advantages," Castro went on saying, "there
is one terrible drawback: he is a worse gambler than I. He has a
nickname in the Casino 'the number five gentleman.' He never plays
any other number. Anything he can get hold of he puts on five, and
loses it. I am the 'number seventeen gentleman' and it turns out as
badly with me as with him.... Besides, he has his English friends.
Queer ducks! They come from Nice every day in a two horse landau,
and
just as if they didn't get enough gambling with the Casino, they
set
up a green table on their knees and take out a deck of cards. They
play poker with the Corniche landscape, that people come from all
over the world to see, right before their eyes. And our artist,
when
he takes a fourth hand with the two Englishmen and an old maid,
there
within the sight of the Mediterranean, golden in the setting sun,
loses everything he took in at some concert at Cannes or Monte
Carlo."Spadoni
started to say something, but stopped, seeing that the Prince
turned
to Novoa:"I
shan't ask you," said the Prince; "I know your situation.
You live in the old part of Monaco, in the house of an employee of
the Museum; and his lodgings can't be much. Besides, as Atilio was
saying, you receive much less than a croupier at the
Casino."And
looking at his guests he added:"What
I want to propose to you is that you live with me. The invitation
is
a selfish one on my part; I'm not denying that. I intend to stay
here
until the world quiets down, and life is pleasant once more. If my
Colonel and I were here alone we would end by hating each other.
You
will keep me company in my retreat."All
three remained dumbfounded at such an unexpected proposal. Novoa
was
the first to regain the use of his tongue."Prince,
you scarcely know me. We saw each other for the first time three
days
ago.... I don't know whether I ought...."The
Prince interrupted him with the sharp tone and imperious manner of
a
man who is not accustomed to considering objections."We
have known each other for many years; we have known each other all
our lives." Then he added soothingly:"It
isn't much that I'm offering you. Servants are scarce. There are no
men except my old valet and those two Italian monkeys that the
Colonel managed to recruit somewhere. The rest of the service is
done
by women.... But even so, our life will be pleasant. We shall
isolate
ourselves from a world gone crazy. We will not mention this war. We
shall lead a comfortable existence, as the monks did in the
monasteries of the Middle Ages, which were refreshing oases of
tranquillity in the midst of violence and massacres. We shall eat
well; the Colonel guarantees me that. The Library from the yacht is
here. When I sold the boat, I had Don Marcos install all my books
on
the top floor. Our friend Novoa will find some volumes there which
perhaps he does not know. Everyone will do what he pleases; free
monks all of us, with no other obligation than to repair to the
refectory at the proper hour. And if the 'number five gentleman'
and
the 'number seventeen gentleman' want to drop in at the Casino,
they
can do so, and someone will see to it that their pockets are kept
filled. We must give something to vice, what the devil! Without
vices, life wouldn't be worth living."A
silent approbation greeted these words of the master of Villa
Sirena."The
one thing I insist on," continued the Prince after a long pause,
"is that we live alone, as men among men. No women! Women must
be excluded from our life in common."The
pianist opened his eyes in astonishment; Castro stirred in his
chair;
Novoa removed his glasses with a mechanical gesture of surprise,
immediately adjusting them once more to his nose.There
was another silence."What
you propose," said Atilio, at last, with a smile, "reminds
me of a comedy of Shakespeare. No women! And the hero in the end
gets
married.""I
know that play," replied the Prince, "but I am not in the
habit of governing my life according to comedies, and I don't
believe
in their teachings. You can rest assured that I shan't marry, even
if
it gives the lie to Shakespeare and the French king from whose
chronicle he got the material for his work.""But
what you're attempting is absurd," Castro went on: "I don't
know what the rest think, but prevent me from...!"With
a gesture he ended his protest.Then
seeing that the Prince had remained thoughtful, he added:"It
is quite evident that you have had your fill!... You have gotten
all
you wanted, and now you want to force on us...."The
Prince, although absorbed in his own train of thought, he had not
heard him, interrupted."Seeing
that you can't get along without it.... All right! I have no fixed
intention of making a martyr of you. Go on being a slave to a
necessity that is a result more of the imagination than of desire.
Now that I really know life, I am astonished that men do so many
foolish things for the sake of a passing pleasure. While you are
here
you may satisfy your whims whenever you like ... but no
women."The
three listeners looked at one another in astonishment; and even the
Colonel, who never betrayed his feeling when his "lord" was
speaking, showed a certain surprise on his countenance. What did
the
Prince mean?"You
are not ignorant, Atilio, of what a woman is. In the great majority
of peoples on this earth there are only females. There are young
females and old females; but there are no 'women.' Woman, as we
understand the word, is the artificial product of civilizations
which, somewhat like hot-house flowers, have reached their maturity
with a complex perverse beauty. Only in the large cities that have
come to be decadent because they have reached their limits, do you
find 'women.' Not being mothers like the poor females, they give up
all their time to love, prolong their youth marvelously, and scheme
to inspire passions at an age when the others live like
grandmothers.
There you have the creatures that, personally, I am afraid of! If
they come in here, it's the end of our society, our tranquil, even
life."The
Prince arose from the table, and they all followed suit. Lunch
being
over they all passed into the great hall adjoining, where coffee
was
served. The Colonel looked about anxiously, examining the boxes of
Havanas, and the large liquor chest with its varied cut glass and
colored flasks, placed in a row.While
cutting the tip of his cigar, the Prince continued, speaking all
the
while to Castro:"When
you want ... anything like that, all you need do is to choose in
the
vicinity of the Casino. A hundred or two francs; and then,
good-by!... But the other ones! The women! They work their way into
our lives, and finally dominate us, and want to mold our ways to
suit
their own. Their love for us after all is merely vanity, like that
of
the conqueror who loves the land that he has conquered with
violence.
They have all read books—nearly always stupidly and without
understanding, to be sure, but they have read books—and such
reading leaves them determined to satisfy all sorts of vague
desires,
and absurd whims, that succeed only in making slaves of us, and in
moving us to act on impulses we have acquired in our own early
romantic readings.... I know them. I have met too many of them in
my
life. If women from our social sphere mingle with us here, it means
an end to peace. They will seek me out through curiosity on
remembering my past life, or greed in thinking of my wealth; as for
you men, they will come between you, making you jealous of one
another and the life that I desire here will be impossible....
Besides, we are poor."Atilio
protested, smilingly: "Oh! poor!""Poor
when it comes to the follies of the old days," continued the
Prince, "and for love one needs money. All that talk about love
being a disinterested thing was made up by poor people, who are
satisfied with imitations. There is a glitter of gold at the bottom
of every passion. At first we don't think of such things; desire
blinds us. All we see is the immediate domination of the person so
sweetly our adversary. But love invariably ends by giving or taking
money.""Take
money from a woman!... Never!" said Castro, losing his ironic
smile."You
will end by taking it, if you are poor, and frequent the society of
women. Those of our times think of nothing but money. When their
love
is a rich man, they ask him for it, even if they have a large
fortune
of their own. They feel less worthy if they don't ask. When they
are
fond of a poor man, they force him to receive gifts from them. They
dominate him better by degrading him. Besides, in doing so they
feel
the selfish satisfaction of the person who gives alms. Woman,
having
always been forced to beg from man, has the greatest sensation of
pride, and thinks she in turn can give money to some one of the sex
that has always supported her."Novoa,
cup in hand, listened attentively to the Prince. Lubimoff was
speaking of a world quite unknown to him. Spadoni, as he sipped his
coffee, with a vague look in his eyes, was thinking of something
far
away."Now
you know the worst, Atilio," the Prince went on. "No
women!... That way we will lead a great life. All the morning,
free!
We shan't see one another until lunch time. Down below is the cove,
there are still a number of boats. We can fish, while it's sunny;
we
can go rowing. In the afternoon you will go to the Casino;
occasionally I shall go, too, to hear some concert. Spring is
drawing
near. At night, sitting on the terrace, watching the stars, our
friend Novoa, the man of learning of our monastery, will expound
the
music of the spheres; and Spadoni, our musician, will sit down at
the
piano, and delight us with terrestrial music.""Splendid!"
exclaimed Castro. "You are almost a poet in describing our
future life, and you have persuaded me. We are going to be happy.
But
don't forget your permission for the 'female,' and your prohibition
of 'women.' No skirts in Villa Sirena! Nothing but men; monks in
trousers, selfish and tolerant, coming together to live a pleasant
life, while the world is aflame."Atilio
remained thoughtful a few moments, and continued:"We
need a name; our community must have a title. We shall call
ourselves
'the enemies of women'."The
Prince smiled."The
name mustn't go any farther than ourselves. If people outside
learned
of it, they might think it meant something else."Novoa,
feeling honored by his new intimacy with men so different from
those
with whom he had previously associated, accepted the name with
enthusiasm."I
confess, gentlemen, that according to the distinction made by the
Prince, I have never known a 'woman'. Females ... poor ones, to be
sure, a very few perhaps! But I like the name, and agree to join
the
'enemies of women' even though a woman is never to enter my
life."Spadoni,
as though suddenly awakening, turned to Castro, and continued his
thought aloud."It's
a system of stakes invented by an English lord, now dead, who won
millions by it. They explained it to me yesterday. First you
place....""No,
no, you satanic pianist!" exclaimed Atilio. "You can
explain it to me in the Casino, providing I have the curiosity to
listen. You've made me lose a lot, with all your systems. I had
better go on playing your 'number five.'"The
Colonel, who had listened in silence to the conversation in regard
to
women, seemed to recall something when Castro mentioned
gambling."Last
evening," he said to the Prince, in a mysterious voice, "I
met the Duchess in the Casino"....A
look of silent questioning halted his words."What
Duchess is that?""The
question is quite in point, Michael," said Atilio. "Your
'chamberlain' is better acquainted in society than any man on the
Riviera. He knows princesses and duchesses by the dozen. I have
seen
him dining in the Hôtel de Paris with all the ancient French
nobility, who come here to console themselves for the long time it
takes to bring back their former kings. In the private rooms in the
Casino, he is always kissing wrinkled hands and bowing to some
group
of disgusting mummies loaded down with the oldest and most famous
names. Some of them call him simply 'Colonel'; others introduce him
with the title of 'aide de camp of Prince Lubimoff'."Don
Marcos stiffened, offended by the waggish tone in which his high
estate was being mentioned, and said haughtily:"Señor
de Castro, I am a soldier grown old in defense of Legitimacy; I
shed
my blood for the sacred tradition, and there is nothing remarkable
about my association with...."The
Prince knowing by experience that the Colonel did not know what
time
was, when once he began to talk about "legitimacy" and the
blood he had shed, hastened to interrupt him."All
right; we know that very well already. But who was this Duchess you
met?""The
Duchess de Delille. She often asks about your Highness, and upon
hearing that you had just arrived, she gave me to understand that
she
intended paying you a call."The
Prince replied with a simple exclamation, and then remained
silent."We
are starting well," said Castro, laughing. "'No women!' And
immediately the Colonel announces a visit from one of them, one of
the most dangerous.... For you will admit that a Duchess like that
is
one of the 'women' you described to us.""I
won't receive her," said the Prince resolutely."I
have an idea that this Duchess is a cousin of yours.""There
is no such relationship. Her father was the brother of my mother's
second husband. But we have known each other since childhood, and
we
each have a most unpleasant memory of one another. When I was
living
in Russia she married a French Duke. She had the same desire as the
majority of wealthy American girls: a great title of nobility in
order to make her friends among the fair sex jealous and to shine
in
European circles. A few months later she left the Duke, assigning
him
a certain income, which is just what her noble husband wanted
perhaps. This woman Alicia never appealed to me particularly....
Besides, she has lived life just as she pleased.... She has seen
almost as much of it as I have. She has as much of a reputation as
I.
They even accuse her, just as they do me, of love affairs with
people
she has never seen.... They tell me that in recent years she has
been
parading around with a young lad, almost a child ... dear me! We
are
getting old!""I
saw her with him in Paris," said Castro. "It was before the
war. Later in Monte Carlo I met her, all by herself, without being
able to find a trace of her young chap anywhere. He must have been
a
passing fancy of hers.... She has been here three years now. When
summer comes she moves to Aix-les-Bains, or to Biarritz, but as
soon
as the Casino is gay and fashionable again, she is one of the first
to return.""Does
she play?""Desperately.
She plays high stakes and plays them badly, although we who think
we
play well always lose just the same, in the end. I mean, she puts
her
money on the table without thinking, in several places at a time,
and
then even forgets where she placed it. The 'leveurs des morts' are
always hanging around to pick up the pieces that no one claims and
when she wins, they always manage to get something of it. She
gambled
for two years with nothing less than chips of five hundred and a
thousand francs. At present her chips are never for more than a
hundred. It won't be long before she is using the red ones, the
twenties, the favorites of your humble servant.""I
shall refuse to receive her," affirmed the Prince.And
doubtless in order not to talk any more about the Duchess de
Delille,
he suddenly left his friends, and walked out of the room.Atilio,
in a conversational mood, turned and asked a question of Don
Marcos,
who was speaking with Novoa, while Spadoni went on dreaming, with
eyes wide open, of the English lord's system."Have
you seen Doña Enriqueta lately?""Are
you asking me about the Infanta?" replied the Colonel gravely.
"Yes, I met her yesterday, in the courtyards of the Casino. Poor
lady! If it isn't a shame! The daughter of a king.... She told me
that her sons haven't anything to wear. She owes two hundred francs
for cigarettes, at the bar of the private play rooms. She can't
find
anyone who will lend her money. Besides, she has frightful bad
luck;
she loses everything. These are fatal days for people of royal
blood.
I almost wept when I heard all her poverty and troubles, and felt
that I couldn't give her anything more. The daughter of a
king?""But
her father disowned her, when she eloped with some unknown artist,"
said Atilio. "And besides, Don Carlos wasn't a king
anywhere.""Señor
de Castro," replied the Colonel, drawing himself up, like a
rooster, "let's not spoil the party. You know my ideas: I have
shed my blood in the cause of Legitimacy, and the respect that I
have
for you should not...."Novoa,
wishing to calm Don Marcos, intervened in the conversation."Monte
Carlo here is like a beach, where all sorts of wreckage, living and
dead, is washed up sooner or later. In the Hôtel de Paris there is
another member of the family, but of the successful branch, the one
that is ruling and taking in the money.""I
know him," said Atilio, laughing. "He's a young man of
calipigous exuberance and wherever he goes his handsome gentleman
secretary goes with him. He always meets some venerable old lady
who,
dazzled by his royal kinship, takes it upon herself to keep up his
extravagant mode of living.... Don't know what the devil he can
possibly give her in return! As for the secretary, he gives him a
slap from time to time just to assert his ancient rights."Don
Marcos remained silent. He was not interested in the members of
that
branch, not he."Also,"
Castro continued mischievously, "in the Casino before the war, I
met Don Jaime, your own king at present. A great fellow for
gambling!
He risked thousand franc chips by the handful. He had a lot of
money
coming from somewhere. In the Casino they all used to say that it
was
sent him from Madrid, on condition that he should have no children
and allow his claims to the throne to die out with him.""And
just to think," murmured Novoa, without realizing that he was
speaking aloud, "that for both of these families, back there, so
many men have killed one another. To think, that for a question of
inheritance among people like that we have gone back a century in
European life!""You
too!" exclaimed the Colonel, provoked again. "A scholar,
saying a thing like that! I can hardly believe my ears!"
CHAPTER II
AT the end of the second Carlist war a Spanish officer,
Don Miguel Saldaña, had found himself, as a result of the defeat,
banished forever from his own country and condemned to a life of
poverty and obscurity. The Madrid papers, without prefixing his
name with any slanderous adjectives, called him simply "the rebel
chief Saldaña." This courtesy, doubtless, was intended to
distinguish him from the other party chiefs who in Aragon,
Catalonia, and Valencia, had waged a campaign of pillage and
executions for five years. Among his own people he was known as
General Miguel Saldaña, Marquis of Villablanca. The pretender, Don
Carlos, had given him that title because Villablanca was the name
of the town where Saldaña had practically annihilated a column of
the Liberal army. The topographical information of Saldaña's Chief
of Staff—a local priest who had spent his whole life in doing
nothing except saying mass on Sundays and spending the rest of the
week hunting in the mountains with his dog and gun—gave him an
opportunity to take the enemy by surprise, and he won a notorious
victory.
When he crossed the
frontier as a fugitive, through refusing to recognize the Bourbons
as the constitutional rulers, "the rebel chief Saldaña" was
twenty-nine years of age. A second son in a proud and ruined
family, he had been obliged to resist the traditions of his house
which presented for him an ecclesiastical career. When his studies
at the Military School at Toledo were just finishing, the
Revolution of 1868 caused him to renounce a commission to escape
being under orders from certain generals who had participated in
overthrowing royalty. When Don Carlos took up arms, Saldaña was one
of the first to volunteer his services; and having gone through a
military school, and received a good education, he at once became
conspicuous among the guerrillas of the so-called Army of the
Center, made up, for the most part, of country squires, village
clerks, and mountain priests.
Besides, Saldaña
distinguished himself for a reckless though rather unfortunate
bravery. He always led the attack at the head of his men and
consequently was wounded in the majority of his fights. But his
wounds were "lucky wounds" as the soldiers say. They left marks of
glory on his body without destroying his vigorous
health.
Finding himself alone in
Paris, where his only resource was the admiration of a few elderly
"legitimist" ladies of the aristocratic Faubourg Saint Germain, he
left for Vienna. There his king had friends and relatives. His
youth and his exploits gained him admission as a hero of the old
monarchy to the circle of archdukes. The war between Russia and
Turkey tore him away from his pleasant life as an interesting
hanger-on. Being a fighting man and a Catholic, he felt it his duty
to wage war against the Turks; and with recommendations as a
protégé of some influential Austrians, he went to the Court at
Saint Petersburg. General Saldaña became a mere Commander of a
Squadron in the Russian Cavalry. The officers conversed with him in
French. His horsemen understood him well enough when he placed
himself in front of his division, and, unsheathing his sword,
galloped ahead of them against the enemy.
Various successful
charges and two more "lucky wounds" won him a certain celebrity. At
the end of the war he had gained numerous friends among officers of
the nobility, and was presented in the most aristocratic drawing
rooms. One evening at a ball given by a Grand Duchess, he saw close
at hand the most fashionable and most talked of young woman of the
season: the Princess Lubimoff.
She was twenty-two, an
orphan, with a fortune said to be one of the largest in Russia. The
first to bear the title of Prince Lubimoff, a poor but handsome
Cossack, unable to read or write, succeeded in winning the
attention of the Great Catherine, who made him the favorite among
her lovers of second rank. During the years that her imperial
caprice lasted, the new Prince was forced to seek his fortune far
from the Court, since the favorites before him had gained
possession of all that was near at hand. The Czarina allowed him to
make his selection on the map of her immense Empire; distant
territories beyond the Urals, which the new proprietor was, like
the majority of his successors, never to see. With the introduction
of the railroad, enormous riches came to light in these lands
chosen by the Cossack; in some, veins of platinum were discovered;
in others, quarries of malachite, deposits of lapis lazuli, and
rich oil wells. Besides, tens of thousands of serfs, recently freed
by the Czar, continued to work the land for the Lubimoff heirs,
just as they had before the emancipation. And all this immense
fortune, which nearly doubled each year with new discoveries,
belonged entirely to one woman, the young Princess, who considered
herself as one of the Imperial family owing to the relationship of
her ancestor, and had more than once given the sovereign cause for
worry through the eccentricities of her
character.
She was an aggressive
young woman, capricious and inconsistent in both words and deeds, a
puzzle to everyone through the sharp contradictions in her conduct.
She mingled with the officers of the Guard, treating them as
comrades, smoking and drinking with them and taking a hand in their
exercises in horsemanship; and then suddenly she would shut herself
up in her palace for whole weeks, on her knees most of the time,
before the holy ikons, absorbed in mystic fervor, and loudly
imploring the forgiveness of her sins. She looked on the Emperor
with veneration, as the representative of God. At the same time she
was known to sympathize with the Nihilists.
The courtiers were
scandalized whenever they told how she had accompanied a girl, whom
the police were watching to a wretched house on the outskirts of
the capital, and had there mingled with the revolutionary rabble
composed of workmen and students. With them she had entered a
narrow room, and joined the line passing before a coffin that was
constantly in danger of being upset by the pushing of the gloomy
curious crowd. The dead man's name was Fedor Dostoiewsky. The
princess had scattered a bouquet of the most costly roses on the
protruding forehead and monkish beard of the
novelist.
And in her moments of
anger this same Nadina Lubimoff beat the servants in her Palace, as
though they were still serfs, and forced her maids to grovel at her
feet. Her irritability and fiery temper turned everything upside
down, to such an extent that a certain elderly Prince, who by
Imperial order had been chosen as her guardian, desired, in spite
of the fact that it would mean to him loss of the management of an
immense fortune, to see her married as soon as
possible.
Nadina Lubimoff inspired
a feeling of dread in her suitors. They were all afraid that she
would answer their request for her hand with a cruel jest. Twice
she had announced her engagement to gentlemen of the Court, and at
the last moment she herself had begged the Czar to refuse his
consent. By this time no one dared propose, for fear of laughter
and comment. Yet in spite of the freedom and unconventionality of
her conduct, no one doubted the uprightness of her
character.
On seeing her, Saldaña
thought of a naiad of the North, rising from an emerald river, in
which cakes of ice were floating. She was tall and majestic, with a
somewhat massive figure, like the divinities painted in frescos for
ceilings. Her skin was of radiant whiteness. The pupils of her gray
eyes gave out a greenish light, and her silky hair was a faded
washed-out red. Owing to the marvelous whiteness of her complexion,
her flesh appeared somewhat soft, but a fresh fragrance emanated
from it, "the fragrance of running brooks," to use the words of her
admirers. Her nostrils were rather wide, and in the stress of
emotion they quivered, like those of a horse, thus recalling her
glorious ancestor, the virile Cossack of the
Czarina.
The ball was nearly over
before she noticed the Spaniard. There were so many officers
constantly at her heels, greeting her cruel jokes and vulgar
expressions with a smile of gratitude!—Suddenly Saldaña, who was
standing between two doorways, was startled by a clear but
commanding female voice.
"Your arm,
Marquis."
And before he could offer
it to her the young Princess took it, and led him off to the buffet
in the drawing room.
Nadina drank a good sized
glass of vodka, preferring this liquor of the people to the
champagne which the servants were pouring out in large quantities.
Then smiling at her companion she drew him into the embrasure of a
window where they were almost hidden by the
curtains.
"Your wounds!... I want
to see your wounds!"
Saldaña was dumfounded at
the command of this great lady accustomed to carrying out her most
whimsical ideas. Blushing like a soldier, who had lived all his
life among men, he finally drew up the left sleeve of his uniform,
revealing a brown, hairy forearm, with large tendons, and deeply
furrowed by the scar of a bullet wound received back in
Spain.
The Princess admired his
athletic arm, with its dark skin, cut by the jagged white of the
new tissue.
"The other—the others! I
want to see the rest of them!" she commanded, gazing at him
fiercely, as though she were ready to bite, while her lips, moist
and shining, curved sharply downward.
She had seized his arm
with a hand that trembled, while with the other she tried to undo
the gold cords on the officer's breast.
Saldaña drew back,
stammering. "Oh! Princess!" What she desired was impossible. It was
impossible to show the other wounds to a lady....
He felt on the one
visible scar the contact of two lips. Nadina, bowing her proud
head, was kissing his arm.
"Hero!... Oh! my
hero!"
Immediately afterward she
drew herself up again, cold and distant, with no other sign of
emotion than a slight quivering of her nostrils. No longer was she
tormented by the desire to see immediately those frightful scars of
which she had heard from some of the comrades of the brave
adventurer. She was sure of being able to see them to her heart's
content whenever she pleased.
In a few days the rumor
began to circulate that the Princess Lubimoff was to be married to
the Spaniard. She herself had started the news going, without
bothering to ascertain beforehand the inclination of her future
husband.
The arguments with which
she justified her decision could not have been more weighty. She
was blond and Saldaña was dark. They had both been born at
outermost limits of Europe. These considerations were sufficient to
make a happy marriage. Besides, the Princess was convinced that she
had always been fond of Spain, although she would not have been
able to place it accurately on the map. She recalled certain verses
of Heine mentioning Toledo, and others by Musset addressing
Andalusian Marquises of Barcelona; and she used to hum a love song
about the oranges of Seville.... Her hero must surely be from
Toledo, or, better yet, an Andalusian from
Barcelona.
In vain certain people of
the court spoke of the Czar's not allowing the match. A great
heiress marrying a foreign soldier banished from his country!...
But the Princess by her very conduct, gave the sovereign to
understand her will.
"Either I marry him, or I
start out as a dancer in a Paris theater."
It was rumored that
Saldaña was about to be deported.
"So much the better: I
will go and join him, and be his sweetheart."
The old Prince, her
guardian, lamented this obstinacy on the part of the Court. If it
had not been for this opposition, Nadina's caprice for Saldaña,
like so many of her whims, would have lasted only a few days. It
was said that perhaps the Emperor, in order to break her will,
would dispossess her of her vast estates in Siberia. The grandchild
of the Cossack shrieked in reply that she would kill herself rather
than obey.
At last the ruler
prudently allowed her to fulfil her desire. In getting married she
would give up her eccentricities perhaps, and the Russian court, so
rich in scandals, would have one less.
The wedding journey of
the Princess Lubimoff lasted all her life. Only twice, for reasons
relating to her great fortune, did she return to Russia. Western
Europe was more favorable than the court of an autocrat to her love
of freedom. In the first year of her marriage, while in London, she
had a son, who was to be the only child. She allowed him to be
called Michael, like his father, but insisted that he should have a
second name, Fedor, perhaps in memory of Dostoiewsky, her favorite
novelist, whose character inspired in her a feeling of sympathy,
through a certain resemblance to herself.
No one succeeded in
ascertaining with certainty whether or not Don Miguel Saldaña felt
happy in his new position as Prince Consort, which permitted him to
enjoy all the pleasure and magnificence of immense wealth.
According to Spanish customs, he started out to impose his will as
a husband and a man of character, to curb the eccentricities of his
wife. Vain determination! The very woman who at times could be
sentimental and moan at the thought of social inequalities and the
suffering of the poor, could, by her fiery impetuosity, reduce the
stoutest and most firmly steeled will.
In the end Saldaña
relapsed into silence, fearing the aggressiveness of the daughter
of the Cossack. To keep his prestige as a great noble, anxious for
the respect of the servants and for the consideration of his
guests, he feared violent scenes that filled the drawing rooms and
even the stairways of his luxurious residence with feminine
shrieks. He did not care more than once to see the Princess with
one kick send the oaken table flying against the dining room wall,
while all the porcelain and crystal service smashed into bits with
one catastrophic crash.
When the Paris architects
had carried out the orders of the Princess, the family left the
castle they were occupying in the vicinity of London. A group of
rich Parisians, Jewish bankers for the most part, were covering the
level grounds around the new Park Monçeau, with large private
dwellings. The Princess Lubimoff had an enormous palace, with a
garden of extraordinary size for a city, built in this quarter. She
even set up a tiny dairy behind a grove of trees, and without
leaving her place she could enjoy the rôle of a country woman,
whipping cream and churning butter, in imitation of Marie
Antoinette, who likewise played at being a shepherdess in the Petit
Trianon.
At times a wave of
tenderness swept over her, and she adored and obeyed her husband,
pushing her humility to extremes that were alarming. She told her
visitors about the General's campaigns, and his daring exploits
back in Spain, a land which inspired in her a romantic interest,
and which for that very reason she did not care ever to see.
Suddenly she would cut her eulogies short with a
command:
"Marquis, show them your
wounds."
As proof of her
tenderness, she refrained from getting angry when her husband
refused.
She always called him
"Marquis," perhaps in order to keep the princely title for herself
alone, perhaps because she felt that he should not be deprived of a
rank he had gained with his blood. The Marquis never paid any
attention to this breach of etiquette. His wife had already
committed so many!
A year after their
marriage, when the news reached London that Alexander II had been
killed by the explosion of a Nihilist bomb, the Princess ran about
her apartments like a mad woman, and took to her bed after an
extraordinary fit of anger.
"The wretches! He was so
good!... They've killed their own father."
And thereafter when
Saldaña entered the luxurious dwelling in Paris, he often came
across strange visitors, at whom the lackeys in breeches stared in
amazement. They were uncouth girls with spectacles, and cropped
hair, carrying portfolios under their arms; men with long hair and
tangled beards, whose eyes contained the startled expression of
visionaries; Russians from the Latin Quarter under police
surveillance, terrorists, who appealed not in vain to the
generosity of the Princess, and used her money perhaps to make
infernal machines which they sent back to their country and
hers.
When the Prince Michael
Fedor recalled his childhood memories, he could see his father
holding him on his knees and caressing him with his firm hands. The
child would gaze up at the dark face and large mustache that joined
Saldaña's closely cropped mutton chop whiskers. He could not be
sure whether the moisture in those black, commanding eyes came from
tears; but after he learned Spanish he was sure that the Marquis
had often murmured, as he smoothed the tiny brow:
"My poor little boy!...
Your mother is mad!"
When Michael reached the
age of eight, the problem of his education caused the Princess to
show her motherly concern for a few weeks. One of those visitors,
who so greatly worried the servants, brought his books and his
frayed garments from a narrow street near the Pantheon, and took up
his abode in the lordly dwelling of the Lubimoffs. He was a silent
young man, given to the study of chemistry, and forbidden to return
to his country. The very day of his arrival, a secret service agent
came and questioned the porter of the palace.
"I want my son to know
Russian," said the Princess. "Besides, he will learn a great deal
from Sergueff. Sergueff is a real man of learning, and worthy of a
better fate."
Saldaña insisted that he
should likewise have a Spanish teacher, and she raised no
objections. All the members of her family had possessed to an
unusual degree the talent of the Slavs for learning languages
easily.
"Prince Michael Fedor,"
said his mother, "is the Marquis of Villablanca, and ought to know
the language of his second country."
