All men, from such moods and reflections, are recalled to earth by hard matters of fact. He remembered the proclamation he had to write, and rising plunged into the numerous details of the business of living, and thus forgot the barrenness of life. So he sat and wrote, while the pale glimmer of the dawn glowed into the clear light of sunrise and the warm tints of broad day.
XIII
The Action of the Executive
The private breakfast-room of the Presidential palace was a small but lofty apartment. The walls were hung with tapestries; over the doors weapons of ancient type and history were arranged in elaborate patterns. The great French windows were deeply set in the wall, and the bright light of the morning was softened by heavy crimson curtains. Like the rest of the house it wore an official aspect. The windows opened on to the stone terrace, and those who passed through them experienced a feeling of relief in exchanging the severe splendours of the palace for the beautiful confusion of the garden, where between the spreading trees and slender palms the sparkling waters of the harbour were displayed.
The table, which was set for two, was comfortably small and well arranged. The generous revenue which it had long been the principle of the Lauranian Republic to bestow on her First Magistrate enabled the President to live in a style of elegance and luxury, and to enjoy the attractions of good silver, fresh-cut flowers, and an excellent cook. But it was with a clouded brow that Molara met his wife at breakfast on the morning after the events which have just been chronicled.
“Bad news—tiresome news again, dear,” he said as, sitting down and depositing a handful of papers on the table, he signed to the servants to leave the room.
Lucile experienced a feeling of intense relief. After all she would not have to tell him the secret she had learned. “Has he started?” she asked incautiously.
“Yes, last night; but he will be stopped.”
“Thank heaven for that!”
Molara looked at her in amazement.
“What do you mean? Why are you glad that the Admiral and the fleet are prevented from carrying out my orders?”
“The fleet!”
“Good gracious! What did you think I meant?” he asked impatiently.
A loophole of escape presented itself. She ignored his question. “I am glad the fleet is stopped because I think they will be wanted here, now that the city is so unsettled.”
“Oh,” said the President shortly—suspiciously, she thought. To cover her retreat she asked a question. “Why are they stopped?”
Molara pulled out a Press telegram slip from among his papers.
“ ‘Port Said, September 9th, 6:00 a.m.,’ ” he said, reading; “ ‘British steam-collier Maude, 1,400 tons, grounded this morning in canal, which is in consequence blocked for traffic. Every effort is being made to clear the fairway. Accident is believed to be due to the silting up of channel caused by extreme draught of H.B.M.S. Aggressor which passed through last night.’ ” He added: “They know their business, these English pigs.”
“You think they have done it on purpose?”
“Of course.”
“But the fleet is not there yet.”
“It will be there tomorrow night.”
“But why should they block the channel now—why not wait?”
“Characteristic dislike of coups de théâtre, I suppose. Now the French would have waited till we were at the entrance of the channel, and then shut the door in our faces neatly. But British Diplomacy does not aim at effects; besides, this looks more natural.”
“How abominable!”
“And listen to this,” said the President, as giving way to keen irritation he snatched another paper from his bundle and began to read. “From the Ambassador,” he said: “ ‘Her Majesty’s Government have instructed the officers commanding the various British coaling-stations south of the Red Sea, to render every assistance to the Lauranian fleet and to supply them with coal at the local market-rate.’ ”
“It is an insult,” she said.
“It is a cat playing with a mouse,” he rejoined bitterly.
“What will you do?”
“Do? Sulk, protest—but give in. What else can we do? Their ships are on the spot; ours are cut off.”
There was a pause. Molara read his papers and continued his breakfast. Lucile came back to her resolution. She would tell him; but she would make terms. Savrola must be protected at all costs. “Antonio,” she said nervously.
The President, who was in a thoroughly bad temper, went on reading for a moment and then looked up abruptly. “Yes?”
“I must tell you something.”
“Well, what is it?”
“A great danger is threatening us.”
“I know that,” he said shortly.
“Savrola—” She paused uncertain and undecided.
“What of him?” said Molara, suddenly becoming interested.
“If you were to find him guilty of conspiracy, of plotting revolution, what would you do?”
“I should shoot him with the greatest pleasure in the world.”
“What, without a trial?”
“Oh no! He should have a trial under martial law and welcome. What of him?”
It was a bad moment. She looked round for another loophole.
“He—he made a speech last night,” she said.
“He did,” said the President impatiently.
“Well, I think it must have been very inflammatory, because I heard the crowds cheering in the streets all night.”
Molara looked at her in deep disgust. “My
