The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, August 21, 1904, Page 4

THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. ¥ Prince Arthur if they dared, but T think he is too clever to come back just now. The people will laugh at the Duke if he does not come—some of them laugh already. I shall ryn here at once with the news if there is any—I want to be your friend, dear Esther!” Esther thanked her with a little pressure of the hand and continued to dress herself hastily. She did not dare to tell this child how much those few words of doubt meant to her. Her own belief that Arthur would come could not be denied—at the same time she had but the vaguest ideas of the laws wihich menaced him or of the in- trigue which sought his downfall. Destiny had caught her up in the meshes of the net and nothing but a miracle, she imagined, could set her free. She dressed quickly and breakfasted in a small room of that suite of apart- ments allocated to her in the palace. Little Marguerite had promised her a visit from Madame Julia, and this came about swiftly after breakfast, when a servant announced the arrival of madame herself, and that loquacious personage swept into her room and em- braced her with the ardor of an ef- fusive race. “My dear little Esther!” was her al- most tearful greeting, “that we should meet lfke this—that it positively shdpld be you!™ Esther” suffered herself to be kissed on either cheek; but she was not de- ceived by this clever actress, and she listened to her hysterical chatter with- out emotion. “I thank you very much,” she said. “Of course, I knew that you would come.” Julia began at once to excuse herself. “Ah, my dear child, that we should be the cause of your misfortunes—we who loved you so! I reproach myself bitter- ly! When I look at you and see how greatly you are changed—when I re- member our happy days in Thonon I hate myself for letting you go. But no one would listen to me. I begged Fran- cis not to leave you in Paris—he would not hear me! ‘She will suffer for it," I said; I was wiser than he!” She had contrived in a few short mo- ments to insinuate that Esther must suffer and that she was greatly changed. Malice in the cloak of pre- tentious affection is ever an ugly thing. Julia de Montalvan could not make it pretty. “So you are really his wife—yes, the telegraph told us so. My brother pub- lished it at once in the newspapers. He could not foresee that it would be so dreadfully resented. Cadi is a little kingdom, and its spirit is republican. Imagine, my dear, the stupidity of a free country which does not permit its Prince to choose his own wife! What does it matter if you are not of noble birth or Spanish born! You have en- joyed my brother’s friendship, and that should be enough. The city must be lost to all sense of reason when it behaves as it is doing—mobs in the street all day and such dreadful things done that I dare not tell you of them. And now they talk of sending the Prince to his trial! God help us all, I say, and keep Arthur in the moun- tains! If he comes here he is lost!” Esther turned the subject with an awkward question. “I am relying upon Dr Xavier's in- fluence,” she said. “Since it was through him that I have brought this trouble upon my husband, his honor will compel him to help me. Were it not for that, I should be distressed in- deed! But you must not ask me to for- get that the Duke is my friend.” Madame Julia took her handkerchief from her eves and looked at her a lit- tle suspiciously. “My brother is the soul of honor" she declared. “You owe it to him that you are here in the palace when the Council would have sent you to the prison. What he can do will be done. You forget, my dear, that he has but one voice; and that there are many against him. The Government will hear nothing in the Prince’s favor. It says that his position does not put him above the laws. My brother has worn himself to a shadow in the cause of friendship—it was such a dreadful sur- prise to him! He had left you in Paris believing that you were going to be very happy. You know how much he valued your good opinion of himg—and now it has come to this! Ah, my dear, life is very cruel for some of us!” “None the less,” persisted Esther, “Doctor Xavier can help me if he will. I shall hope to see him here to-day.” “It would be madness for him to come. He must not declare himself— positively must not! What he can do for you will be done when Anthur is tried—for his life, my child; I fear it is for that!™ “Would you have me to believe, then, that marriage is a question of life or death in this country?” ““There are other charges. He has not been true to his position. He spent a whole vear abroad—they accuse him of extravagance—even of treachery. But you shall hear it—I promise you, you shall hear his defense. Ah, you Jove him! and it will be a dreadful thing to hear! But we must learn to be brave: it is all that a woman-~can be!™ Esther made no reply. The duplicity of which she was the victim could not be hidden either by civil words or by these aimost vulgar protestations of good-will. When Madame Julia went on prvingly to ask her of the wedding ceremony at St. Eustache and of her journey to St. Girons, she answered briefly and without interest. Julia was quite unable to disguise her own mo- tives. She had loved this man. The day of his judgment would be a tri- umph for her. “We had begun to believe that he would never marry,” she said, aping the simpiicity of a child. “He has had £0 many affairs. You must make him tell you of them some day, though. London knows more about his life than you will ever learn. He always ad- mired Englishwomen. At best the court will declare your marriage invalid and keep him a prisoner in the citadel. I hope it will permit you to go to Lon- don and live there. We must always try to put the best face on things! If Arthur were really clever he would not have come to Cadi now.” “Then he has come?” Esther asked wildly. “I wish that I knew. He may and he may not. If he does, u shall be the first to hear of it. Really, my dear Esther, you will need all your cour- age.” She went on to reiterate her own promises and to invent upon the spot quite imaginary events as the witness of her friendship. With tears in her eyes she deplored the absence of the English Consul from Cadi. He had gone to Switzerland upon a holiday and was not expected back until the end of the month. Her brother had visited the consulate directly he received the fateful news. He was both annoyed and distressed at the Consul's absence. “After all,” she protested, “one man can not persuade a nation. Frnncls is " when Madame Julla visited Esther at the palace: but as night wore on, it happened that a messenger rode in to the commanding general’s quarters and thence clattering through the city cried his news, whatever it was, at the houses of the senators and the minis- try. A majority of the inhabitants had gone to its bed by this time, but a few loiterers, hearing the bugle call (“boot and saddle”), in the cavalry barracks, were drawn thither by a waking curi- osity, and these passed the tidings to others, the sleeping populace prenenuy“ aroused itself, and the news went, as upon the wind, that the Prince had crossed the frontier, and was riding down to the northern gate. Such a surprising turn was the very last which the city had expected. Even when cavalry appeared in the great square and messengers passed breath- lessly from house to house, the most sagacious were unconvinced. “They go on a fool's errand!” was the cry. “Some one has hoaxed them— wait and see! They will look foolish® by and by!” But others said: “It is certainly true; for the Duke has rid- dep to the citadel.” The less probable story gained ground every moment. Excited both by the hour and the event, a considerable mob began to gather in the market place and to cry out for torches. Demonstrations were made before the Duke's house AN P (% 0= NI rose and fell like the thunder of ap angry sea; they terrified her, made her afraid of herself, so that she turned out the lights in her room, and, crouching in her bed, tried to be deat to the uproar ahd to shut the plcture of it from her eyes. No realization of its monstrous in- Justice could blind Esther to the folly . of that day upon which she had given herself to Arthur in Paris. This overwhelming, malignant hostility opened her eyes and wrecked the pret- ty logic which had buoyed her up since the gates of a royal prison closed behind her. She began to see now how great a wrong she had done the man she loved by surrendering to his will. These people, she sald, would have been loydl subjects but for that act of theirs, which had so hurt their pride and destroyed their ambitions. And to this was added a great fear, a fear of things unknown and passing experience. Esther be- lieved that the mob would force the palace gates and drag her out. She cowered in the darkness, silent and afraid. Every sound within the pal- ace, the sentry's footfall, the rustle of a curtain, the creaking of a board, would set her heart beating wildly. It occurred to her quick mind that this visit might not be so accidental as it appeared and that her enemies in the city might have sent the people to the NA helmets of the guards, and last of all the figure of one who rode alone upon a chestnut horse, and before whom, meeting him thus face to face, his peo- ple fell to silence. Esther declared af- terward that she was conscious of Ar- thur’s presence even before she saw him. A passionate desire to go to him, to stand at his side, to answer the peo- ple for him, mocked her helplessness and fillled her eyes with tears. Her pride in him declared that he was a worthy figure for the homage of a pop- ulace. Tall and manly, sitting his horse to perfection, his white uniform catching the golden light, his demeanor fedrless and unconcerued, even the multitude had the will to forget, and many a voice which erstwhile had cursed now blessed him. Cheers broke out and were with difficulty suppressed by an obedient soldiery. Those who had gathered stones dropped them shamefacedly. Young men cried “Viva!"” and cared nothing for the con- sequences. The cavaicade swept by unaccused by the citizens; but Esther lingered still at her window as though some miracle of the night would carry her message to him she loved. . . . . . . R Some one knocked upon her door a little timidly and she opened it, know- ing that help had come to her at last. Her astonishment was great when she discovered that her visitor was Colonel Varez, anxious to apologize for that which she had suffered. “Madame,” he said with unaccus- tomed eloquence, “I can not find words in which to express my regret.” Esther had not liked this man, but he had the air of an honest soldier, and she would not do him the injustice to VENTURESS A Highly Diverting and Spirited Love Story by E. o 3 YOO Phillips Oppenheim Will Follow “Dr. Xavier” much beloved here, but love does not rob a people of their pride. The Span- ish faction chose Arthur’s wife for him a year ago; they wished him to marry into the royal house. We knew that they would be disappointed. If this were a great European country, all the nonsense they talk would be intelligi- ble; but it is only a province, child, not much larger than one of your English counties, and they are making them- selves ridiculous.. The worst of it is that while they are ridiculous they are not the less dangerous. We are true Spaniards in pride and temper, as Ar- thur will find if he puts his head into the lion's mouth. I do not believe he will do any such thing. Francis has sent messengers to the hills, and they will stop him. That was my prayer be- fore the altar this morning—that our friends may be in time. I dare not think what would happen if he should come.” It was all a rodomontade, false and sham. Madame Julia had not been to church that morning, and no messen- gers had ridden out to the hills; indeed, the deception was as childish as it was unnecessary, although it achieved its baser purpose of inflicting pain upon its victim. Had Esther known her own mind less well, she might have suf- fered a certain humiliation in remem- bering how little worthy she was of that station to which marriage had lifted her. But this was far from be- ing the case. “Doctor Xavier must come to me,” she said firmly, “and I shall then be able to explain everything to him. I do mot think you will prevent Arthur riding in. What happens to me does not matter at all. I shall try to do my duty, Julia; it would be no com- pliment to your country to believe that its men are cowards—at least, until they prove themselves so. There are other ways of telling people in London —perhaps I shall find one of them.” Julia could believe no such thing. “You poor child!” she sald, “how little you know—how very little!” ‘With this and other vague consola- tions she took her farewell. Esther saw no one else that day, not even little Marguerite. The night found her searching the distant hills with anxious eyes. Would Arthur come? Had they warned him? What would to-morrow bring? She could not tell. Slowly but surely the ordeal was robbing her of her will and resolution. She drew the curtains reluctantly at last and shut out that dim vista of the range and pass which stood up so formidably be- tween herself and liberty. The palace, itself, was as silent as the grave. She might have believed, but for the sen- try’s footfall, that she was the one living being within it. A CHAPTER XVIIL Night had fallen upon the sleeping city, a glorious night of a southern winter, with an azure heaven of stars above and the gentle breath as of a summer eve upon the shrouded earth below. In Cadi itself the unrest which had troubled the capital for many days appeared to have subsided. The va- garies of parties ended for a moment in a truce of doubt. None believed that the Prince would return. A higher tribute was paid to his wisdom. This had been the state of things and at the gates of the citadel. The cafes took down their shutters and lighted their lamps; throngs went hither, thither, singing national airs or crying for the Duke; the tocsin bell in the cathedral tower boomed out its deep and hedvy note. 'And this bell waked Esther in the palace. She lay for a long time wondering if it were the morning call to prayer, or why, if it were not, she had not heard it yesterday. She was not conscious at first of other events, nor did the omens reach her ears. That deep, booming bell, reverberating and meurnful, prevailed, above all other sound; and it was riot until she had listened for many min- utes, her eyes shut and sleep still wrestling with curiosity, that she dis- tinguislied the greater uproar, and be- came aware that the city waked. From this moment a medley of alarms pene- \ trated to her silent room. Now it would be a ciatter of hoofs, a jangling of arms in the square before the pal- ace; or again the bugle's blast and the rolling of the drums. By and by she began to distinguish the fervid cries of the senseless mob. She heard her husband’s name, uttered in deri- sion. She could distinguish the shouts following many a minister on his way to the citadel. She was aware that many cried for the Duke, and that he vas the hero of the night. If the palace had accustomed her to the hys- terical attitude of this passionate peo- ple, nevertheless the hour and the cir- cumstance mystified one freshly waked from sleep and forbade her to guess the truth. She rose from her bed under the idea, it 'may be, that she had slept over long and that curtains shut out the day. When she drew them back the distant panorama of peak and pass was enveloped in darkness, and she could net dis- tinguish even the icefields on the summit. But the city fitself was like a great caldron, whence tongues of golden light cast their iri- descence upon the curtain of the sky, A thousand torches now blazed in the hands of the rioters. So brightly was the sky {lluminated that you could follow the moving throngs from place to place and say when they halted and when they marched on. And loud above all the unroar one name was to be heard. Esther turned quickly from the window when she hearq it. Her dread of this had sur- passed all. She knew that Arthur had come to the citv—she believed that he was already a prisoner. The mob ran hither, thither, for fully an hour, oftentimes without pur- pose or again rallied by the hibulous eloquence of half-intoxicated dema- gogues. In the end, one of these led a multitude to the palace, and, defying the sentries by numbers, the rioters pressed in to the quadrangle and grouped themselves beneath Esther's very windows. There, when they ‘were not crying insults upon her name they fell to cursing her husband ana clamoring that she should show her- self to them., She had no knowledge of the Spanish lgnguage nor of that patois, half French, half Spanish, which was spoken in Cadi; but the demeanor ‘of those who Insulted her wag not to be mistaken. Their voices gate. Circumstances justified her worst apprehensions. If the mob broke into the palace she did not doubt that it would kill her without pity. She quailed before the outburst, scarce daring to breathe or move. Anon words were not sufficient for her ac- cusers and the mob ceased to be con- tent with curses and deflance. Some one cried out that the palace would be taken and upon this a volley of stones smashed the heavy glass of the windows and sent debris of jagged glass and splintered woodwork in a shower about her bed. For a moment, perhaps, she did not quite realize what had happened so loud was the uproar when the windows were bro- ken, but the crashing sounds, the cur- rent of cold air, the cloud of dust within the room quickly undeceived her. She had the idea that men were climbing up the veranda and would burst in upon her presently to take her life. Stones rattled upon the case- ments liké hail which a - tempest drives; she could hear the thunder of voices, raging and fearful, and this ferocious hate affrighted her more than the dread of death. Had the mob been accusing an oppressor it could not have roused f{tself to a greater fury than that which it now vented upon a defenseless girl. Es- ther suffered” a torture of doubt so enduring that she did not believe any mere physical pain would be com- pared with it. When the clamor ceased as suddenly as it had begun she hid her face in the pillow and would not believe that such a miracle had come to pass. Her limbs were cold and trembling. She thought still to hear the voices; the darkness shap- ed new mysteries for her. . . . . . . . . The mob had fled; reluctant as she was to credit her ears, this miracle was the truth. Drawn away by some sudden and more 'potent appeal to curiosity, the rioters flocked like sheep toward the doors of the cathedral and there, gathering in serried ranks, they uttered a dew name and walted for a new face. It was that of their Prince, then riding to the northern gate and proceeding under escort to the citadel. and, asking why the people had gone away, she rose at last from her bed and put on her dressing-gown. It was very cold in her room, and when she turned up the electric nght, but three globes of twenty were left unshattered. The long windows opening upon the veranda had been utterly wrecked by the stones. Curtains were torn; tables, chairs and carpet powdered with the glass the volleys had crushed; but the broken casement gave her a clear view of gate and courtyard, and from that place she beheld her husband upon his way to the citadel, and, seelng him, she understood the miracle. It was a weir picture, distinct and unforgetable. Countless torches, cast- ing their bountiful rays upon upturned faces and looming buildings, and all those serried ranks of expectant people gave a scene to whien night lent its cloak of mystery. The tocsin of the cathedral still rang mournfully; cries rose and fell in the moments of waiting like the murmurings of storm. But clear above the figures of the multitude were the horsemen in their gold cui- rasses, the pennons of the lancers, the believe that his regrets were unreal. A man of few words, he continued to re- peat his apologies, and so earnestly that she accepted them without ques- tion. “I have been more frightened than hurt,” she admitted candidly. “Of course it was very alarming. It will be time enoygh to-morrow morning to ask what I am to do. Please be careful or you will cut yousself with the glass; it seems to be everywhere.” He flung the door wide open and in- vited her into the antechamber. “I will order them to prepare another room at once,” he said; “meanwhile, since we are all so very much awake, perhaps you would allow the Duke to add his apologies to mine. He is wait- ing in the salon, madame. He drove here at once when he learned what had happened.” The news was the best that Esther could have heard. Her desire to meet Doctor Xavier face to face had been ‘with her since she crossed the frontier. Rightly or wrongly, she hoped much from that friendship by which both fortune and troubles had come to her. Francisco Xavier would never range himself finally upon the side of her en- emies, she argued; and so she followed the colonel with confidence, not a little excited and not a little glad. The sa- lon to which he conducted her was light enough for her quick eyes, and she recognized her benefactor at once— a cloaked figure in the shadows. He dld not rise to greet her, did not for the moment appear aware of her pres- ence; but, instructing the colonel brief- .1y, desired him to withdraw. “I am engaged for an hour, Varez— admit no one.” The soldler saluted and withdrew, and when the door was shut and Es- ther had advanced a little way into the room, the Doctor put his hand upon a switch by his chair and instantly flooded the room with a blaze of light. “Come here, camarade; come here and let me have a look at you!” Esther had never known what it was to disobey him, and, despite the some- what brutal masterfulness of his de- meanor, she crossed the room and stood before him, while he, throwing himself back in his chalr, regarded her closely. “Yes,” he sald slowly, “as I thought —the petals fall but the flowers remain. Do you know that a month has greatly changed you, camarade? Time laughs at our little schemes, I see, and yet time Is sometimes wiser than we. ‘Whén politics give me time to return to my laboratory, I will set down time and trouble among my enemies.” He appeared to muse upon it, clasp- ing his hands and upclasping them several times before he could bring his mind to the present circumstantes. “Let me see; it is not twenty days since I left you in Paris!"” he resumed at length; “much has happened since then, camarade—for one thing you have been very foolish; for another, I have been premature.” Esther protested; the first word she had spoken to him. “Why did you leave me?” she asked, a little passionately; “why did you bring this trouble upon me when I be- lieved you to be my friend?” He had expected her reproach, but it did not distress him. After all she was but a pawp in the great game he had played. He had still use for her, how- ever. “I left you in Paris because my own people had need of me. Do me the jus- tice to admit that it was an excellent reason. I saw my country neglected by the man in whom she had put her trust, the victim of charlatans, the tool of France, and I knew that I could save her. So I returned to Paris—the occupations of my leisure were forgot- ten. If I am to-day, as yesterday, the servant of science, devoted heart and soul to the tasks which nature sets me, duty has a greater claim. You, last of all, will blame me for that; I am here as a patriot—I have no other interests. That is my story in a word. It is a simple story, camarade—as simple as the story of your own misfortune, which I am waiting to hear. Please sit down and tell me all about it; I can see that you are very tired.” She sat, as he directed, in a high- backed chair upon the opposite side of the table. The light shone down upcn her face and declared its pallor. He thought her beautiful even in her dis- tress; but the beauty was her own and owed nothing now to his art. “Since you know that my story is a simple one, why do you ask me to tell it?” she exclaimed, a little petulantly. “We are not children, and do not wish to deceive ourselves. When you left me in Paris you knew that I should be- come Arthur's wife. Your sister told me as much—" “Then my sister had done better to hold her tongue—let us begin with that. It is the misfortune of women that their economies do not concern their confidences. They should be seen and not heard, camarade. There should be a decree of silence for them. My sister had no right lo tell you any such thing—" “Then you did not wish it, Doctor Xavier.” He rested his arm upon the table and searched her eyes with his own as though to catch her closest thoughts. “I answer neither ‘yes’ nor ‘no,’ he said frankly; “with any other than a Medina Celi, I would have said ‘ves.’ But I know men, and I am beginning to know women. Let me read your thoughts for you, camarade. You are saying that I inveigled you to my house that this intrigue might help me. Is it not so—ah, see how your sex be- trays you! Behold the conspirator against whom such things are charged.” He laughed softly at his own humor, and, the bright light appearing to trouble him, he turned out the lamps again until but one was burning. “No,” he resumed, “it was not that, my friend—I pledge you my honor. I tcok you to my house that I might gratify a curiosity with which my la- boratory troubled me. I found you a willing worker—let it be admitted. You have helped me to say that, under cer- tain conditions, what we call beauty lies within the reach of every woman. To-night I go & step further and dis- cover how elusive that possession is. I say that twenty hours of trouble will undo the work of many months. I find you, camarade, as I found you in London; but I am honest enough to al- low that you are still a beautiful wo- man, perhaps more beautiful because you are yourself. So does grief play its part; but my secrets are yours, and when grief is forgotten the gift will rq- main. Whether that day is near or distant depends largely upon your own common sense. It would be unflatter- ing to your sagacity to remind you that your precipitate haste has wrought great mischief both for your husband and yourself. Had I foreseen it I certainly should not have left you with him in Paris. As it is, I say that there is no time to be lost. We must save him, you and I, camarade—save him from himself!” He appeared to rouse himself to some warmth of regard for the friend who was in danger, and Esther, reciproca- ting his interest gladly, did not fear to be grateful. “I was sure from the first it would be that,” she said, excited already by his implied promise. “You did not come here to speak of his past; you came to tell me that you are his friend. Every- thing else is waste of time. Arthur has always such faith in you. I know it will be justified! You can save him it you will, Doctor Xavier!™ She iooked him straight in the face like one who would trust him without question; but he could .not meet the gaze of her ardent eyes, and she knew then that she had been premature. “I did not come here to speak of your husband’'s past—true,” he said slowly; “that will speak for itself, and it must be heard, camarade. Let us continue with our confessions; they may guide us to a better understand- ing. When I first perceived, in London, that you had interested a man whom many women had tried to Interest and failed, I dismissed the observation as a fallacious one. The circumstances, I said, were unreal, the impression false. You ask me why, and I will teil you as bluntly. We are a superstitious people and the vulgar among us find our consolation In a lfe. Oun religion, which is the people’s life, conveys many truths of human nature; one of them is the truth of womanhood and maternity which we embody in that gentle figure we call ‘The Virgin of Cadi’ From the earliest days until this nineteenth century our painters have vied with each other in beautify- ing that figure and perpetuating it. I, myself, stand apart from superstitions. I believe that they have their place in the human scheme. I neither mock them nor accept them. And yet I will confess that there was a day in London when, had I been a superstitious man, I should have found an omen for my guidance. R was the day upon which [ met Esther Venn in the manager's room at the Casino Theater.” He paused as though waiting for her question, but she answered nothing, and he resumed: Concluded Next Sunday.