It was easy to learn that she was not the Princess. I did that by going into a stationer’s shop and asking for a photograph of the royal lovers. It was not quite so easy to find out who she was, without pinning my new secret on my sleeve; but luckily everyone in Biarritz boasted knowledge of the King’s affairs, and the affairs of the pretty Princess. Christopher Trevenna made himself agreeable after dinner to the lady with the nose, who would probably have shrunk away in fear if she had known that she was talking with the Marqués de Casa Triana.
I, in my character of Trevenna, found out that the Princess had a friend, Lady Monica Vale, daughter of the widowed Countess of Vale-Avon, who, when at home, lived in the Isle of Wight. At present, the two were staying at Biarritz, in a villa; and Lady Monica, a girl of eighteen or nineteen, sometimes had the honour of going out with the Princesses, in the King’s motor.
There were other privileged friends as well; but the description of Lady Monica Vale, though painted with a colourless brush, was unmistakable.
Casually I inquired the name of the house where Lady Vale-Avon and her daughter were staying, and having learned it, I made an excuse to escape from the lady with the nose.
It was half-past ten o’clock, and a night flooded with moonlight. I strolled out, smoking a cigarette, and in ten minutes stood before the garden gate of the Villa Esmeralda.
There were lights in three or four of the windows, sparkling among close-growing trees; and I had not finished my second cigarette, when a carriage drove round the corner and stopped.
I moved into the background. A groom jumped down, unfastened the gate, and having opened the brougham door, respectfully aided a middle-aged lady to descend.
The moonlight showed me a clear, proud profile, and fired the diamonds in a tiara which crowned a head of waved grey hair.
There were billows of violet satin and lace to keep off the ground; and as the groom helped the wearer to adjust them under her chinchilla coat, a girl sprang out of the carriage, her white figure and rippling hair of daffodil gold in full moonlight.
I stood as a man might stand who sees a vision, hardly breathing. I made no sound, yet she turned and saw me, sheltered as I was by the dappled trunk of a tall plane-tree. It was as if I had called, and she had answered.
I knew she remembered me, and that she did not misunderstand my presence. There was no anger in her face, only surprise, and a light which was hidden as she dropped her head, and passed on through the gate.
I could have sung the song of the stars. She had not forgotten me since the afternoon. The look in my eyes then, had arrested some thought of hers, and set me apart in her mind from other men.
It was no stupid conceit which made me feel this, but a kind of exalted conviction.
When the gate was shut, I took off my hat and looked at the lighted windows. I could make her care. I said to myself, “We’re meant for each other. And if that’s true, though all the mountains in the world were piled up as barriers between us, I’d cross them.”
That was a vow. And through the remaining hours of the night I tried to plan how it would be best to begin its fulfilment.
Men who have gone through a campaign as close friends, have few secrets from one another; and I had none from Dick Waring. Nevertheless, I would now have kept one if it were possible; but it was not. If I had not told him, he would have guessed, and then he might have thought that he had the right to chaff me on losing my head.
It is only a happy lover who can bear to be chaffed, however, and a few words were enough to show my tactful American where to set his feet on the slippery path.
He too had seen the girl; therefore he could not be surprised at my state of mind. But he regretted it, and urged that the best I could do was to go away, before the thought of her had taken too deep a hold upon me.
“You see,” he said, “you’re in a hopeless position; and it’s better to look facts in the face. If you’d fallen in love with almost any other girl, except Princess Ena herself, you might have hoped. But as it is, what have you to look forward to? You oughtn’t to have come to Biarritz. In the circumstances, and with the King here, it was bravado. Friends of his, enemies of yours, might even say it was bad taste, which is worse. And then, having come, you proceed to follow the King’s motor-car; you fall head over ears in love with a girl in it, a friend of the bride-elect, to whom your real name, if she’s not heard it already, could easily be made to seem anathema maranatha. But that’s not all. You’re here under a name not your own. If you should by luck or ill-luck get a chance to meet Lady Monica, you couldn’t be introduced to her as Christopher Trevenna; it would be a false pretence; still less could you throw your real name in her face; for between the King of Spain as a friend, and you as an acquaintance, the girl would be in an uncomfortable position, to say the least. No, my dear fellow, you can’t meet this young lady; and the only thing for your peace of mind, if you’ve really fallen in love, is to go away.”
I had no arguments with which to meet Dick’s. I listened in silence, but—I made no preparation for departure. If there was nothing to be gained by staying, at least there was as little to be gained by going; for I knew that I should not forget the girl. If I were struck blind, her face would still live for my eyes, white and pure against a background of darkness.
We stayed on at Biarritz, but I behaved with circumspection, and made no further attempts to put myself in the King’s Way, though he arrived at the Villa Mouriscot every morning from San Sebastian. Dick approved my conduct and, pitying my depression, perhaps repented his hardness. He found several Parisian friends at Biarritz, and when we had been there for three days, he came back to the hotel from the Casino one night with an important air.
“Strange how one’s tempted to do things one knows one oughtn’t to do,” said he. “Now, it’s unwise to tell you I’ve met a man who knows Lady Monica Vale, yet I’m doing it.”
“What did the man say?” I asked.
“A number of things—charming, of course. She’s not engaged, if that’s any consolation.”
“Oh, I knew that.”
“How?”
“By her eyes.”
“Apparently she observed yours also.”
“What? She’s spoken of—she—”
“The sister of my man is a friend of Lady Monica’s. She told the sister about the motor-car adventure.”
“For goodness sake don’t force me to ask questions.”
“I won’t. I’ve a soft heart, which has often been my undoing. She said she’d seen the most interesting man in the world. Don’t faint.”
“Don’t be an ass.”
“I’m not chaffing. She did say that—honest Injun. At least, I’ve Henri de la Mole’s word for it. His sister was at school at the convent of the Virgin of Tears with Lady Monica Vale. Lady Monica supposed the other day that we were both French, which is a compliment to your accent. She said she wished she could find out ‘who was the brown man with the eyes.’ I’m a fool to have told you that though, eh? It can’t do you any good, and will probably make you worse.”
“But it has done me good.”
“Flattered your vanity. However, I haven’t told you all yet. De la Mole says the mother’s a dragon, hard as iron, cold as steel, living for ambition. She was left poor, on her husband’s death, as the Vale-Avon estates went with the title to a distant relative, and the girl’s been brought up to make a brilliant match. She’s been given every accomplishment under Heaven, to add to her beauty; and as the family’s one of the oldest in Great Britain, connected with royalty in one way or another, in Stuart days, Lady’s Monica’s expected to pull off something from the top branch, in the way of a marriage. De la Mole’s heard that the present Lord Vale-Avon has been first favourite with the mother up till lately, though he’s next door to an idiot. Princess Ena’s engagement to the King of Spain has changed everything. You see, Lady Vale-Avon and her daughter live not far from the Princess, in the Isle of Wight. When the King came a-courting to England, came also, though not exactly in his train, another Spaniard, the Duke of Carmona, and—”
“Don’t,” I cut in; “I won’t hear his name in connection with her’s. That half Moorish brute!”
“He may have a dash of Moorish blood, but he’s not half Moorish; and if he’s a brute, he’s a good-looking brute, according to de la Mole, also he’s one of the richest young men in Spain. Lady Vale-Avon—”
I jumped up and stopped Dick. “I’m in earnest,” I said. “I can’t bear to listen. I know the sort of things you’d say. But don’t. If you do, I think I’ll kill the fellow.”
“Ever met him?”
“No. The men of my house and of his have been enemies for generations. But I’ve heard of certain exploits.”
“He’s coming here to stop with his mother, the old Duchess, who’s been spending the winter at Biarritz. Another reason for you to vamose.”
“You mean, to stay. At least, he shan’t have a clear coast.”
“I don’t see how you can hope to block it.”
“I will—somehow.”
“No doubt you’re a hundred times the man he is, but—fate’s handicapped you for a show place in the matrimonial market. You are—”
“A man countryless and penniless. Don’t hesitate to state the case frankly.”
“Well, you’ve said it. While the other’s rich, and a grandee of Spain. And, though de la Mole says the King doesn’t care for him, on account of something or other connected with the Spanish-American War, he’s bound to become a persona grata at Court if he marries a friend of the young Queen; and, no doubt, that influences his choice.”
“Thank Heaven, Lady Monica isn’t Spanish.”
“Ah, but Spain’s the fashion now. And you haven’t heard all my news. Henri de la Mole says Lady Monica is asked to be a maid of honour for the young Queen of Spain, the one Englishwoman she’s to have in attendance.”
“At least the wedding won’t be till June. It’s only the end of February now. I’ve got more than three months.”
“You haven’t got one. Soon after the Princesses leave Biarritz, Lady Vale-Avon and Lady Monica are going to visit the old Duchess of Carmona in Spain.”
“What, they’re going to Seville?”
“If her house is there. I’m telling you what I’ve been told.”
“The principal house of the Duke is in Seville, though he has a place near Granada, and a flat in Madrid as a substitute for a fine house that was burned down.”
“Then Seville’s where they’ll be. Anyhow, they’re to see the great show in Holy Week there.”
It was as if Dick had suddenly drenched me with iced water.
For a few seconds I did not speak. Then I said, “Are you trying to break it to me that the match is arranged?”
“I told you Lady Monica wasn’t engaged.”
“And I told you I knew she wasn’t. But that isn’t to say the mother, the woman ‘as hard as iron and cold as steel,’ hasn’t planned her daughter’s future, a girl so young, and always kept under control.”
“It looks as if the wind was setting in that quarter. A person of Lady Vale-Avon’s type would hardly accept such an invitation if she didn’t intend something to come of it.”
“You’re certain the invitation’s been accepted?”
“Certain. Angèle de la Mole has been with her brother in Spain, and Lady Monica’s been asking her advice about what to take and what to wear. The Duke himself is in Paris, buying a new automobile; at least, so his mother says; but other people say he’s at Monte Carlo. Anyhow, he’s expected here in time for the ball.”
“What ball?”
“Didn’t I tell you? A masked ball the old Duchess is giving in honour of Princess Ena. A grand affair it will be, says de la Mole. There’s been jealousy about the invitations, which have been carefully weeded.”
“You and I’ll accept,” said I.
“We’re not likely to have the chance.”
“Sometimes a man must make a chance. I shall meet Lady Monica at the Duchess’s ball.”
“All right. Suppose you go in the garb of a palmer?”
“Eh?”
“I was thinking of another first meeting, case not dissimilar, you know, Romeo and Juliet. My poor, mad friend, there’s more hope for a Montague with a Capulet than for a Casa Triana with a friend of the future Queen of Spain, and the daughter of a Lady Vale-Avon.”
“Romeo won Juliet.”
“It wasn’t exactly a fortunate marriage. See here, if you’re going in for the part of Romeo, it’s no good asking me to play Mercutio.”
I looked at Dick and smiled. “I shall ask nothing,” I said. “Yet—”
“Yet, you know mighty well, if you want a Mercutio, I’ll be ready to take up the rôle at a moment’s notice all for the sake of your beaux yeux. Well, you’re right. There’s something queer about you, Ramón, which makes us others glad to do what we can, even if it were to cost our lives. If you’d been a king in exile, you’d have had no trouble in finding followers. From your French valet to your Russian soldiers; from your English chauffeur to your American friend, it’s pretty well the same. I expect you’ll get to that masked ball.”
“If I don’t, it won’t be for lack of trying,” said I.
“But—”
“But what—”
“This affair of yours is going to end in tragedy—for someone,” said Dick.
