dear madame, it is no trick. The men below are in sober earnest. You have but to see their faces to know that theirs is no wild adventure. I believe sincerely that they have the power to implement their promise.”
“But it is madness. He is old and worn and sick. His day is long past for winning a crown.”
“All this I have said, but it does not move them.” And I told her rapidly Mr. Galloway’s argument. She fell into a muse. “At the eleventh hour! Nay, too late, too late. Had he been twenty years younger, what a stroke of fortune! Fate bears too hard on us, too hard!”
Then she turned to me fiercely. “You have no doubt heard, sir, the gossip about my father, which is on the lips of every fool in Europe. Let us have done with this pitiful make-believe. My father is a sot. Nay, I do not blame him. I blame his enemies and his miserable destiny. But there is the fact. Were he not old, he would still be unfit to grasp a crown and rule over a turbulent people. He flees from one city to another, but he cannot flee from himself. That is his illness on which you condoled with me yesterday.”
The lady’s control was at breaking-point. Another moment and I expected a torrent of tears. But they did not come. With a great effort she regained her composure.
“Well, the gentlemen must have an answer. You will tell them that the Count, my father—nay—give him his true title if you care—is vastly obliged to them for the honour they have done him, but would decline on account of his age and infirmities. You know how to phrase a decent refusal.”
“Pardon me,” said I, “but I might give them that answer till doomsday and never content them. They have not travelled many thousand miles to be put off by hearsay evidence. Nothing will satisfy them but an interview with your father himself.
“It is impossible,” she said sharply.
“Then we must expect the renewed attentions of our American friends. They will wait till they see him.”
She rose and paced the room.
“They must go,” she repeated many times. “If they see him sober he will accept with joy, and we shall be the laughingstock of the world. I tell you it cannot be. I alone know how immense is the impossibility. He cannot afford to lose the last rags of his dignity, the last dregs of his ease. They must not see him. I will speak with them myself.”
“They will be honoured, madame, but I do not think they will be convinced. They are what we call in my land ‘men of business.’ They will not be content till they get the Count’s reply from his own lips.”
A new Duchess seemed to have arisen, a woman of quick action and sharp words.
“So be it. They shall see him. Oh, I am sick to death of fine sentiments and high loyalty and all the vapouring stuff I have lived among for years. All I ask for myself and my father is a little peace, and, by Heaven! I shall secure it. If nothing will kill your gentlemen’s folly but truth, why, truth they shall have. They shall see my father, and this very minute. Bring them up, Mr. Townshend, and usher them into the presence of the rightful King of England. You will find him alone.” She stopped her walk and looked out of the window.
I went back in a hurry to the Americans. “I am bidden to bring you to the Count’s chamber. He is alone and will see you. These are the commands of madame his daughter.”
“Good!” said Mr. Galloway, and all four, grave gentlemen as they were, seemed to brace themselves to a special dignity as befitted ambassadors to a king. I led them upstairs, tapped at the Count’s door, and, getting no answer, opened it and admitted them.
And this was what we saw. The furniture was in disorder, and on a couch lay an old man sleeping a heavy drunken sleep. His mouth was open and his breath came stertorously. The face was purple, and large purple veins stood out on the mottled forehead. His scanty white hair was draggled over his cheek. On the floor was a broken glass, wet stains still lay on the boards, and the place reeked of spirits. The four looked for a second—I do not think longer at him whom they would have made their king. They did not look at each other. With one accord they moved out, and Mr. Fish, who was last, closed the door very gently behind him.
In the hall below Mr. Galloway turned to me. “Our mission is ended, Mr. Townshend. I have to thank you for your courtesy.” Then to the others, “If we order the coaches now, we may get well on the way to Verona ere sundown.”
An hour later two coaches rolled out of the courtyard of the Tre Croci. As they passed, a window was half-opened on the upper floor, and a head looked out. A line of a song came down, a song sung in a strange quavering voice. It was the catch I had heard the night before:
“Qu’est-ce qui passe ici si tard,
Compagnons de la Marjolaine‑e!”
It was true. The company came late indeed—too late by forty years. …
A Lucid Interval
I
To adopt the opening words of a more famous tale, “The truth of this strange matter is what the world has long been looking for.” The events which I propose to chronicle were known to perhaps a hundred people in London whose fate brings them into contact with politics. The consequences were apparent to all the world, and for one hectic fortnight tinged the soberest newspapers with saffron, drove more than one worthy election agent to an asylum, and sent whole batches of legislators to Continental cures. “But no reasonable explanation of
