Savrola read these criticisms with disdain. He had recognised the fact that such things would be said, and had deliberately exposed himself to them. He knew he had been unwise to go: he had known that from the first; and yet somehow he did not regret his mistake. After all, why should his party dictate to him how he should rule his private life? He would never resign his right to go where he pleased. In this case he had followed his own inclination, and the odium which had been cast upon him was the price he was prepared to pay. When he thought of his conversation in the garden, he did not feel that he had made a bad bargain. The damage however must be repaired. He looked over the notes of his speech again, polished his sentences, considered his points, collected his arguments, and made some additions which he thought appropriate to the altered state of public feeling.
In this occupation the morning passed. Moret came in to luncheon. He refrained from actually saying “I told you so,” but his looks showed that he felt his judgment was for the future established on unshakable foundations. His was a character easily elated or depressed. Now he was gloomy and despondent, regarding the cause as already lost. Only a forlorn hope remained; Savrola might express his regret at the meeting, and appeal to the people to remember his former services. He suggested this to his leader, who laughed merrily at the idea. “My dear Louis,” he said, “I shall do nothing of the sort. I will never resign my own independence; I shall always go where I like and do what I like, and if they are not pleased, they can find someone else to discharge their public business.” Moret shuddered. Savrola continued: “I shall not actually tell them so, but my manner will show them that I fear their reproaches as little as Molara’s enmity.”
“Perhaps they will not listen; I hear reports that there will be some hostility.”
“Oh, I shall make them listen. There may be some howling at first, but they will change their note before I have gone very far.”
His confidence was contagious. Moret’s spirits revived under its influence and that of a bottle of excellent claret. Like Napoleon the Third, he felt that all might yet be regained.
Meanwhile the President was extremely well satisfied with the first result of his schemes. He had not foreseen that Savrola’s acceptance of the invitation to the ball would involve him in so much unpopularity, and, although it was a poor compliment to himself, it was an unexpected advantage. Besides, as Miguel had remarked, everything was going on very well in other directions. He had hardened his heart and dismissed his scruples; stern, bitter necessity had thrust him on an unpleasant course, but now that he had started he was determined to go on. In the meantime affairs pressed on all sides. The British Government were displaying an attitude of resolution on the African Question. His violent despatch had not settled the matter, as he had hoped and even anticipated; it had become necessary to supplement his words by actions. The African port must not be left undefended; the fleet must go there at once. It was not a moment when he could well afford to be without the five ships of war whose presence in the harbour overawed many of the discontented; but he felt that a vigorous foreign policy would be popular, or at least sufficiently interesting to keep the public mind from domestic agitation. He also knew that a disaster abroad would precipitate a revolution at home. It was necessary to be very careful. He recognised the power and resources of Great Britain; he had no illusions on the subject of the comparative weakness of Laurania. In that indeed lay their only strength. The British Government would do all in their power to avoid fighting (bullying, polite Europe would call it) so small a State. It was a game of bluff; the further he could go, the better for the situation at home, but one step too far meant ruin. It was a delicate game to play, and it taxed to the utmost the energies and talents of a strong, able man.
“The Admiral is here, Your Excellency,” said Miguel entering the room, followed immediately by a short, red-faced man in naval uniform.
“Good morning, my dear de Mello,” cried the President, rising and shaking the newcomer’s hand with great cordiality. “I have got some sailing-orders for you at last.”
“Well,” said de Mello bluntly, “I am sick of lying up waiting for your agitators to rise.”
“There is work of a difficult and exciting nature before you. Where’s that translation of the cipher telegram, Miguel? Ah, thank you—look here, Admiral.”
The sailor read the paper, and whistled significantly. “It may go further than you wish, Molara, this time,” he said unceremoniously.
“I shall place the matter in your hands; you will be able to save this situation, as you have saved so many others.”
“Where did this come from?” asked de Mello.
“From French sources.”
“She is a powerful ship, the Aggressor—latest design, newest guns, in fact all the modern improvements; I have nothing that she could not sink in ten minutes; besides, there are some gunboats there as well.”
“I know the situation is difficult,” said the President; “that is why I am entrusting it to you! Now listen; whatever happens I don’t want fighting; that would only end in disaster; and you know what disaster would mean here. You must
