As he looked, the man, squatting on his heels, bent forward to touch up one of the letters. If he had been deliberately posing, he could not have assumed a more convenient attitude.
John had been a footballer before he was a prince. The temptation was too much for him. He drew back his foot—
There was a howl and a thud, and John resumed his stroll. The first gun from Fort Sumter had been fired.
Early next morning a window at the rear of the palace was broken by a stone, and toward noon one of the soldiers on guard in front of the Casino was narrowly missed by an anonymous orange. For Mervo this was practically equivalent to the attack on the Bastille, and John, when the report of the atrocities was brought to him, became hopeful.
But the effort seemed temporarily to have exhausted the fury of the mob. The rest of that day and the whole of the next passed without sensation.
After breakfast on the following morning Mr. Crump paid a visit to the Palace. John was glad to see him. The staff of the Palace were loyal, but considered as cheery companions, they were handicapped by the fact that they spoke no English, while John spoke no French.
Mr. Crump was the bearer of another note from Mr. Scobell. This time John tore it up unread, and, turning to the secretary, invited him to sit down and make himself at home.
Sipping a cocktail and smoking one of John’s cigars, Mr. Crump became confidential.
“This is a queer business,” he said. “Old Ben is chewing pieces out of the furniture up there. He’s mad clean through. He’s losing money all the while the people are making up their minds about this thing, and it beats him why they’re so slow.”
“It beats me, too. I don’t believe these hook-worm victims ever turned my father out. Or, if they did, somebody must have injected radium into them first. I’ll give them another couple of days, and, if they haven’t fixed it by then, I’ll go, and leave them to do what they like about it.”
“Go! Do you want to go?”
“Of course I want to go! Do you think I like stringing along in this musical comedy island? I’m crazy to get back to America. I don’t blame you, Crump, because it was not your fault, but, by George! if I had known what you were letting me in for when you carried me off here, I’d have called up the police reserves. Hello! What’s this?”
He rose to his feet as the sound of agitated voices came from the other side of the door. The next moment it flew open, revealing General Poineau and an assorted group of footmen and other domestics. Excitement seemed to be in the air.
General Poineau rushed forward into the room, and flung his arms above his head. Then he dropped them to his side, and shrugged his shoulders, finishing in an attitude reminiscent of Plate 6 (“Despair”) in “The Home Reciter.”
“
A perfect avalanche of French burst from the group outside the door.
“Crump!” cried John. “Stand by me, Crump! Get busy! This is where you make your big play. Never mind the chorus gentlemen in the passage. Concentrate yourself on Poineau. What’s he talking about? I believe he’s come to tell me the people have wakened up. Offer him a cocktail. What’s the French for corpse-reviver? Get busy, Crump.”
The general had begun to speak rapidly, with a wealth of gestures. It astonished John that Mr. Crump could follow the harangue as apparently he did.
“Well?” said John.
Mr. Crump looked grave.
“He says there is a large mob in the market-place. They are talking—”
“They would be!”
“—of moving in force on the Palace. The Palace Guards have gone over to the people. General Poineau urges you to disguise yourself and escape while there is time. You will be safe at his villa till the excitement subsides, when you can be smuggled over to France during the night—”
“Not for mine,” said John, shaking his head. “It’s mighty good of you, General, and I appreciate it, but I can’t wait till night. The boat leaves for Marseilles in another hour. I’ll catch that. I can manage it comfortably. I’ll go up and pack my grip. Crump, entertain the General while I’m gone, will you? I won’t be a moment.”
But as he left the room there came through the open window the mutter of a crowd. He stopped. General Poineau whipped out his sword, and brought it to the salute. John patted him on the shoulder.
“You’re a sport, General,” he said, “but we sha’n’t want it. Come along, Crump. Come and help me address the multitude.”
The window of the room looked out on to a square. There was a small balcony with a stone parapet. As John stepped out, a howl of rage burst from the mob.
John walked on to the balcony, and stood looking down on them, resting his arms on the parapet. The howl was repeated, and from somewhere at the back of the crowd came the sharp crack of a rifle, and a shot, the first and last of the campaign, clipped a strip of flannel from the collar of his coat and splashed against the wall.
A broad smile spread over his face.
If he had studied for a year, he could not have hit on a swifter or more effective method of quieting the mob. There was something so engaging and friendly in his smile that the howling died away and fists that has been shaken unclenched themselves and fell. There was an expectant silence in the square.
John beckoned to Crump, who came on to the balcony with some reluctance, being mistrustful of the unseen sportsman with the rifle.
“Tell ‘em it’s all right, Crump, and that there’s no call for any fuss. From their manner I gather that I am no longer needed on this throne. Ask them if that’s right?”
