“Do you think there is any chance of war?” asked the boy eagerly.
“Well, of course,” said Savrola, “a war would distract the attention of the people from internal agitation and the Reform movement. The President is a clever man. There might be war. I should not care to prophesy; but do you wish for it?”
“Certainly I do; it is my profession. I am sick of being a lapdog in this palace; I long for the camp and the saddle again. Besides, these English will be worth fighting; they will give us a gallop all right. There was one of their officers with me at Langi Tal, a subaltern; he came as a spectator searching for adventure.”
“What happened to him?”
“Well, you know, we pursued the enemy all the way to the hills and played the devil with them. As we were galloping along, he saw a lot making off towards a wood, and wanted to cut them off. I said there wasn’t time; he laid me six to four there was, so I sent a troop—I was in command of the squadron that day—you know. He went with them and showed them the way straight enough—but I bore you?”
“On the contrary, I am greatly interested; what then?”
“He was wrong; the enemy got to the wood first and picked him off in the open. Our fellows brought him back, shot through the big artery of the leg; that doesn’t take long, you know. All he said was: ‘Well, you’ve won, but how the deuce you’ll get paid, I can’t think. Ask my brother—Royal Lancers.’ ”
“And then?” asked Savrola.
“Well, I couldn’t find the artery to compress it, and none of the doctors were about. He died—a gallant fellow!”
The Subaltern paused, rather ashamed at having talked so much about his military adventures. Savrola felt as if he had looked into a new world, a world of ardent, reckless, warlike youth. He was himself young enough to feel a certain jealousy. This boy had seen what he had not; he possessed an experience which taught him lessons Savrola had never learned. Their lives had been different; but one day perhaps he would open this strange book of war, and by the vivid light of personal danger read the lessons it contained.
Meanwhile the dances had succeeded each other and the night was passing. The King of Ethiopia, horrified at the low dresses of the unveiled women and dreading the prospect of eating with odious white people, had taken his departure. The President, approaching Savrola, invited him to take his wife down to supper; a procession was formed; he offered Lucile his arm and they descended the stairs. The supper was excellent: the champagne was dry and the quails fat. A profusion of rare and beautiful orchids covered the table; Savrola’s surroundings were agreeable, and he sat next the most beautiful woman in Laurania, who, though he did not know it, was exerting herself to captivate him. At first they talked amusing frivolities. The President, whose manners were refined, showed himself a pleasant companion and an accomplished talker. Savrola, who delighted in sparkling conversation, found it difficult to keep to the part of a purely official visitor which he had determined to observe. The influence of wit, wine, and beauty were combined to break his reserve; before he knew it, he had joined in a discussion, one of those half cynical, half serious discussions which are characteristic of an age which inquires because it doubts, and doubts the more because it has inquired.
The Russian Ambassador had said that he worshipped beauty, and had told his partner, the youthful Countess of Ferrol, that he regarded taking her into dinner as a religious observance.
“I suppose that means you are bored,” she replied.
“By no means; in my religion the ceremonies are never dull; that is one of the principal advantages I claim for it.”
“There are few others,” said Molara; “you devote yourself to an idol of your own creation. If you worship beauty, your goddess stands on no surer pedestal than human caprice. Is it not so, Princess?”
The Princess of Tarentum, who was on the President’s right, replied that even that foundation was more secure than that on which many beliefs repose.
“You mean that in your own case human caprice has been sufficiently constant? I can well believe it.”
“No,” she said; “I only mean that the love of beauty is common to all human beings.”
“To all living things,” corrected Savrola. “It is the love of the plant that produces the flower.”
“Ah,” said the President, “but, though the love of beauty may be constant, beauty itself may change. Look how everything changes: the beauty of one age is not the beauty of the next; what is admired in Africa is hideous in Europe. It is all a matter of opinion, local opinion. Your goddess, Monsieur, has as many shapes as Proteus.”
“I like change,” said the Ambassador. “I regard variability of form as a decided advantage in a goddess. I do not care how many shapes I look at, so long as all are beautiful.”
“But,” interposed Lucile, “you make no distinction between what is beautiful and what we think is beautiful.”
“There is none,” said the President.
“In Her Excellency’s case there would be none,” interposed the Ambassador politely.
“What is beauty,” said Molara, “but what we choose to admire?”
“Do we choose? Have we the power?” asked Savrola.
“Certainly,” answered the President; “and every year we alter our decisions; every year the fashion changes. Ask the ladies. Look at the fashions of thirty years ago; they were thought becoming then. Observe the different styles of painting that have succeeded each other, or of poetry, or of music. Besides, Monsieur de Stranoff’s goddess, though beautiful to him, might not be so to another.”
“I regard that also as a real advantage; you make me more enamoured with my religion each moment. I do not worship my ideals for the réclame,” said the Ambassador with a smile.
“You look at
