“I love them,” he replied; “they are very beautiful.”
“Perhaps your fate is written there.”
“I have always admired the audacity of man in thinking that a Supreme Power should placard the skies with the details of his squalid future, and that his marriage, his misfortunes, and his crimes should be written in letters of suns on the background of limitless space. We are consequential atoms.”
“You think we are of no importance?”
“Life is very cheap. Nature has no exaggerated idea of its value. I realise my own insignificance, but I am a philosophic microbe, and it rather adds to my amusement than otherwise. Insignificant or not, I like living, it is good to think of the future.”
“Ah,” said Lucile impetuously, “whither are you hurrying us in the future—to revolution?”
“Perhaps,” said Savrola calmly.
“You are prepared to plunge the country in a civil war?”
“Well, I hope it will not come to that extreme. Probably there will be some street-fighting and some people will be killed, but—”
“But why should you drive them like this?”
“I discharge a duty to the human species in breaking down a military despotism. I do not like to see a Government supported only by bayonets; it is an anachronism.”
“The Government is just and firm; it maintains law and order. Why should you assail it merely because it does not harmonise with your theories?”
“My theories!” said Savrola. “Is that the name you give to the lines of soldiers with loaded rifles that guard this palace, or to the Lancers I saw spearing the people in the square a week ago?”
His voice had grown strangely vehement and his manner thrilled her. “You will ruin us,” she said weakly.
“No,” he replied with his grand air, “you can never be ruined. Your brilliancy and beauty will always make you the luckiest of women, and your husband the luckiest of men.”
His great soul was above the suspicion of presumption. She looked up at him, smiled quickly, and impulsively held out her hand. “We are on opposite sides, but we will fight under the rules of war. I hope we shall remain friends even though—”
“We are officially enemies,” said Savrola, completing the sentence, and taking her hand in his he bowed and kissed it. After that they were both very silent, and walking along the terrace reentered the palace. Most of the guests had already gone, and Savrola did not ascend the stairs, but passing through the swing-doors took his departure. Lucile walked up to the ballroom in which a few youthful and indefatigable couples were still circling. Molara met her. “My dear,” he said, “where have you been all this time?”
“In the garden,” she replied.
“With Savrola?”
“Yes.”
The President repressed a feeling of satisfaction. “Did he tell you anything?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she answered, remembering for the first time the object with which she had sought the interview; “I must see him again.”
“You will continue to try and find out his political intentions?” inquired Molara anxiously.
“I shall see him again,” she replied.
“I trust to your wit,” said the President; “you can do it, if anyone can, my dearest.”
The last dance came to an end and the last guest departed. Very weary and thoughtful Lucile retired to her room. Her conversation with Savrola filled her mind; his earnestness, his enthusiasm, his hopes, his beliefs, or, rather, his disbeliefs, all passed again in review before her. What a great man he was! Was it wonderful the people followed him? She would like to hear him speak tomorrow.
Her maid came in to assist her to undress. She had looked from an upper balcony and had seen Savrola. “Was that,” she asked her mistress curiously, “the great Agitator?” Her brother was going to hear him make his speech tomorrow.
“Is he going to make a speech tomorrow?” asked Lucile.
“So my brother says,” said the maid; “he says that he is going to give them such a dressing down they will never forget it.” The maid paid great attention to her brother’s words. There was much sympathy between them; in fact she only called him her brother because it sounded better.
Lucile took up the evening paper which lay on the bed. There on the first page was the announcement, the great meeting would take place at the City-Hall at eight the next evening. She dismissed the maid and walked to the window. The silent city lay before her; tomorrow the man she had talked with would convulse that city with excitement. She would go and hear him; women went to these meetings; why should she not go, closely veiled? After all it would enable her to learn something of his character and she could thus better assist her husband. With this reflection, which was extremely comforting, she went to bed.
The President was going upstairs, when Miguel met him. “More business?” he asked wearily.
“No,” said the Secretary; “things are going on very well.”
Molara looked at him with quick annoyance; but Miguel’s face remained impassive, so he simply replied, “I am glad of that,” and passed on.
IX
The Admiral
The disapproval which Moret had expressed at Savrola’s determination to go to the State Ball was amply justified by the result. Every paper, except those actually controlled by the party organisation, commented severely or contemptuously on his action. The Hour alluded to the groans with which the crowd had received him, as marking the decline of his influence with the masses and the breakup of the Revolutionary party. It also reminded its readers that social distinction was always the highest ambition of the Demagogue, and declared that, by accepting the President’s invitation, Savrola had revealed “his sordid personal aims.” The other Government organs expressed a similar opinion in an even more offensive manner. “These agitators,” said The Courtier, “have at all times in the history of the world hankered after titles and honours, and the prospect of mixing with persons of
