the palace of laurania was admirably suited to the discharge of the social ceremonies of the state. the lavish expenditure on public entertainments, which the constitutional practice encouraged, allowed the hospitalities of the republic to be extended upon the most magnificent scale. the opening state ball of the season was in many ways the most important of these affairs. it was at this function that the great men of both parties met, for the first time after the summer heats, before the autumn session, and the brilliant society of the capital reunited after their absence in their country and mountain villas. taste, elegance, and magnificence were equally displayed. the finest music, the best champagne, the most diverse, yet select, company were among the attractions of the evening. the spacious courtyard of the palace was completely covered by a gigantic awning. rows of the infantry of the guard lined the approaches, and with their bright steel bayonets increased the splendour and the security of the occasion. the well-lit streets were crowded with the curious populace. the great hall of the palace, at all times imposing and magnificent, displayed a greater pomp when filled with a gaily dressed company.
at the head of the stairs stood the president and his wife, he resplendent in his orders and medals, she in her matchless beauty. as the guests ascended, an aide-de-camp, a gorgeous thing in crimson and gold, inquired their names and styles and announced them. many and various was the company; every capital in europe, every country in the world, was represented.
the guest of the evening was the king of ethiopia, a mass of silk and jewels framing a black but vivacious face. he came early,—unwisely as, had he come later, there would have been a better audience to watch his arrival; however, to his untutored mind perhaps this was a matter of little importance.
the diplomatic corps followed in a long succession. coach after coach drew up at the entrance and discharged its burden of polite astuteness, clothed in every conceivable combination of gold and colour. arrived at the top of the stairs, the russian ambassador, grey but gallant, paused and, bowing with a stately courtesy, kissed the hand lucile extended.
"the scene is an appropriate setting to a peerless diamond," he murmured.
"would it sparkle as brightly in the winter palace?" inquired lucile lightly.
"assuredly the frosty nights of russia would intensify its brilliancy."
"among so many others it would be lost."
"among all others it would be unrivalled and alone."
"ah," she said, "i hate publicity, and as for solitude, frosty solitude, the thought of it alone makes me shiver."
she laughed. the diplomatist threw her a look of admiration, and stepping into the crowd, that already blocked the head of the stairs, received and returned the congratulations of his numerous friends.
"madame tranta," said the aide-de-camp.
"i am so glad to see you," said lucile. "what a pity your daughter could not come; it has been a great disappointment to many."
the ugly old woman thus addressed beamed with delight, and moving up the stairs pushed her way to the marble balustrade of the balcony. she watched the later arrivals, and commented freely to her acquaintance on their dresses and deportments; she also gave a little information about each one, which would have been ill-natured even had it not been untrue; but though she told her friends many things, she did not mention that she had had to make tranta write and threaten to desert the president's party unless she was asked to the ball, and that even this had failed to procure an invitation for her daughter, an unfortunate girl who added a bad complexion to the family features.
louvet came next, looking anxiously at the crowd of faces which gazed from the landing, and imagining bombs and daggers at every step. he regarded lucile with apprehension, but her smile seemed to give him courage and he mingled with the throng.
then sir richard shalgrove, the british ambassador, whose genial and cheery face displayed an innocence which contrasted with his reputation, advanced to make his bow. the strained relations between laurania and great britain seemed to disappear in that comprehensive salutation. lucile engaged him for a moment in conversation; she pretended to know little or nothing. "and when," she asked merrily, "do we declare war?"
"not until after i have had the pleasure of the third waltz, i hope," said the ambassador.
"how annoying! i wanted so much to dance it with you."
"and you will not?" he asked in great concern.
"dare i plunge two nations into war for the sake of a waltz?"
"had you my inducement you would not hesitate," he replied gallantly.
"what, to precipitate hostilities! what have we done? what is your great inducement to fight?"
"not to fight,—to dance," said sir richard with a little less than his usual assurance.
"for a diplomatist you are indeed explicit. while you are in so good a mood, tell me what has happened; is there danger?"
"danger? no—how could there be?" he selected a formula: "between traditionally friendly powers arbitration settles all disputes."
"you realise," she said earnestly and with an entire change of manner, "that we have to consider the political situation here? a strong despatch improves the position of the government."
"i have felt all through," said the ambassador uncompromisingly, "that there was no danger." he did not however mention that h.m. battleship aggressor (12,000 tons displacement and 14,000 horse power, armed with four 11-inch guns) was steaming eighteen knots an hour towards the african port of the lauranian republic, or that he himself had been busy all the afternoon with cipher telegrams relating to ships, stores, and military movements. he thought that would be only boring her with purely technical details.
while this conversation had been taking place, the stream of people had passed continuously up the stairs, and the throng on the wide balcony that ran round the entire hall had become dense. the wonderful band was almost drowned by the hum of conversation; the perfect floor of the ball-room was only occupied by a few young couples whose own affairs absorbed their minds and excluded all other interests. a feeling of expectancy pervaded the hall; the rumour that savrola would come had spread far and wide throughout laurania.
suddenly everyone became hushed, and above the strains of the band the distant sound of shouting was heard. louder and louder it swelled, swiftly approaching until it was at the very gate; then it died away, and there was a silence through the hall filled only by the music. had he been hooted or cheered? the sound had seemed strangely ambiguous; men were prepared to wager about it; his face would tell them the answer.
the swing-doors opened and savrola entered. all eyes were turned on him, but his face showed them nothing, and the bets remained undecided. as he leisurely ascended the stairs, his eye travelled with interest round the crowded galleries and the brilliant throng who lined them. no decorations, no orders, no star relieved the plain evening dress he wore. amid that blaze of colour, that multitude of gorgeous uniforms, he appeared a sombre figure; but, like the iron duke in paris, he looked the leader of them all, calm, confident, and composed.
the president walked down a few steps to meet his distinguished guest. both bowed with grave dignity.
"i am glad you have come, sir," said molara; "it is in harmony with the traditions of the state."
"duty and inclination combined to point the way," answered savrola with a smile marked by a suggestion of irony.
"you had no difficulty with the crowd?" suggested the president acidly.
"oh, no difficulty, but they take politics a little seriously; they disapproved of my coming to your palace."
"you are right to come," said molara. "now we who are engaged in matters of state know what these things are worth; men of the world do not get excited over public affairs, nor do gentlemen fight with bludgeons."
"i prefer swords," said savrola reflectively. he had reached the head of the stairs and lucile stood before him. what a queen she looked, how peerless and incomparable among all women! the fine tiara she wore suggested sovereignty, and democrat as he was, he bowed to that alone. she held out her hand; he took it with reverence and courtesy, but the contact thrilled him.
the president selected a fat but famous woman from the aristocracy of laurania, and led the way into the ball-room. savrola did not dance; there were some amusements which his philosophy taught him to despise. lucile was captured by the russian ambassador, and he remained a spectator.
lieutenant tiro saw him thus alone and approached him, wishing to finish their discussion about the "back" of the polo team, which had been interrupted the week before. savrola received him with a smile; he liked the young soldier, as indeed did everyone. tiro was full of arguments; he was in favour of a strong heavy player who should lie back in the game and take no chances. savrola, having remarked on the importance of the lauranian army being properly represented in an international contest, favoured a light weight, playing right up to his forwards and ready to take the ball on himself at any moment. it was an animated discussion.
"where have you played?" asked the subaltern, surprised at his knowledge.
"i have never played the game," answered savrola; "but i have always thought it a good training for military officers."
the subject was changed.
"explain to me," said the great democrat, "what all these different orders are. what is that blue one that sir richard, the british ambassador, is wearing?"
"that is the garter," replied the subaltern; "the most honourable order in england."
"really, and what is this that you are wearing?"
"i! oh, that's the african medal. i was out there in '86 and '87, you know." as savrola had anticipated, he was intensely pleased at being asked.
"it must have been a strange experience for you, who are so young."
"it was damned good fun," said the subaltern with decision. "i was at langi tal. my squadron had a five-mile pursuit. the lance is a beautiful weapon. the english in india have a sport called pig-sticking; i have never tried it, but i know a better."
"well, you may have another chance soon. we seem to be getting into difficulties with the british government."
"do you think there is any chance of war?" asked the boy eagerly.
"well, of course," said savrola, "a war would distract the attention of the people from internal agitation and the reform movement. the president is a clever man. there might be war. i should not care to prophesy; but do you wish for it?"
"certainly i do; it is my profession. i am sick of being a lap-dog in this palace; i long for the camp and the saddle again. besides, these english will be worth fighting; they will give us a gallop all right. there was one of their officers with me at langi tal, a subaltern; he came as a spectator searching for adventure."
"what happened to him?"
"well, you know, we pursued the enemy all the way to the hills and played the devil with them. as we were galloping along, he saw a lot making off towards a wood, and wanted to cut them off. i said there wasn't time; he laid me six to four there was, so i sent a troop,—i was in command of the squadron that day—you know. he went with them and showed them the way straight enough,—but i bore you?"
"on the contrary, i am greatly interested; what then?"
"he was wrong; the enemy got to the wood first and picked him off in the open. our fellows brought him back, shot through the big artery of the leg; that doesn't take long, you know. all he said was: 'well, you've won, but how the deuce you'll get paid, i can't think. ask my brother,—royal lancers.'"
"and then?" asked savrola.
"well, i couldn't find the artery to compress it, and none of the doctors were about. he died,—a gallant fellow!"
the subaltern paused, rather ashamed at having talked so much about his military adventures. savrola felt as if he had looked into a new world, a world of ardent, reckless, warlike youth. he was himself young enough to feel a certain jealousy. this boy had seen what he had not; he possessed an experience which taught him lessons savrola had never learned. their lives had been different; but one day perhaps he would open this strange book of war, and by the vivid light of personal danger read the lessons it contained.
meanwhile the dances had succeeded each other and the night was passing. the king of ethiopia, horrified at the low dresses of the unveiled women and dreading the prospect of eating with odious white people, had taken his departure. the president, approaching savrola, invited him to take his wife down to supper; a procession was formed; he offered lucile his arm and they descended the stairs. the supper was excellent: the champagne was dry and the quails fat. a profusion of rare and beautiful orchids covered the table; savrola's surroundings were agreeable, and he sat next the most beautiful woman in laurania, who, though he did not know it, was exerting herself to captivate him. at first they talked amusing frivolities. the president, whose manners were refined, showed himself a pleasant companion and an accomplished talker. savrola, who delighted in sparkling conversation, found it difficult to keep to the part of a purely official visitor which he had determined to observe. the influence of wit, wine, and beauty were combined to break his reserve; before he knew it, he had joined in a discussion, one of those half cynical, half serious discussions which are characteristic of an age which inquires because it doubts, and doubts the more because it has inquired.
the russian ambassador had said that he worshipped beauty, and had told his partner, the youthful countess of ferrol, that he regarded taking her into dinner as a religious observance.
"i suppose that means you are bored," she replied.
"by no means; in my religion the ceremonies are never dull; that is one of the principal advantages i claim for it."
"there are few others," said molara; "you devote yourself to an idol of your own creation. if you worship beauty, your goddess stands on no surer pedestal than human caprice. is it not so, princess?"
the princess of tarentum, who was on the president's right, replied that even that foundation was more secure than that on which many beliefs repose.
"you mean that in your own case human caprice has been sufficiently constant? i can well believe it."
"no," she said; "i only mean that the love of beauty is common to all human beings."
"to all living things," corrected savrola. "it is the love of the plant that produces the flower."
"ah," said the president, "but, though the love of beauty may be constant, beauty itself may change. look how everything changes: the beauty of one age is not the beauty of the next; what is admired in africa is hideous in europe. it is all a matter of opinion, local opinion. your goddess, monsieur, has as many shapes as proteus."
"i like change," said the ambassador. "i regard variability of form as a decided advantage in a goddess. i do not care how many shapes i look at, so long as all are beautiful."
"but," interposed lucile, "you make no distinction between what is beautiful and what we think is beautiful."
"there is none," said the president.
"in her excellency's case there would be none," interposed the ambassador politely.
"what is beauty," said molara, "but what we choose to admire?"
"do we choose? have we the power?" asked savrola.
"certainly," answered the president; "and every year we alter our decisions; every year the fashion changes. ask the ladies. look at the fashions of thirty years ago; they were thought becoming then. observe the different styles of painting that have succeeded each other, or of poetry, or of music. besides, monsieur de stranoff's goddess, though beautiful to him, might not be so to another."
"i regard that also as a real advantage; you make me more enamoured with my religion each moment. i do not worship my ideals for the reclamé," said the ambassador with a smile.
"you look at the question from a material point of view."
"material rather than moral," said lady ferrol.
"but in the spirit-worship of my goddess the immorality is immaterial. besides, if you say that our tastes are always changing, it seems to me that constancy is the essence of my religion."
"that is a paradox which we shall make you explain," said molara.
"well, you say i change each day, and my goddess changes too. to-day i admire one standard of beauty, to-morrow another, but when to-morrow comes i am no longer the same person. the molecular structure of my brain is altered; my ideas have changed; my old self has perished, loving its own ideal; the renovated ego starts life with a new one. it is all a case of wedded till death."
"you are not going to declare that constancy is a series of changes? you may as well assert that motion is a succession of halts."
"i am true to the fancy of the hour."
"you express my views in other words. beauty depends on human caprice, and changes with the times."
"look at that statue," said savrola suddenly, indicating a magnificent marble figure of diana which stood in the middle of the room surrounded by ferns. "more than two thousand years have passed since men called that beautiful. do we deny it now?" there was no answer and he continued: "that is true beauty of line and form, which is eternal. the other things you have mentioned, fashions, styles, fancies, are but the unsuccessful efforts we make to attain to it. men call such efforts art. art is to beauty what honour is to honesty, an unnatural allotropic form. art and honour belong to gentlemen; beauty and honesty are good enough for men."
there was a pause. it was impossible to mistake the democratic tone; his earnestness impressed them. molara looked uneasy. the ambassador came to the rescue.
"well, i shall continue to worship the goddess of beauty, whether she be constant or variable"—he looked at the countess; "and to show my devotion i shall offer up a waltz in that sacred fane, the ball-room."
he pushed his chair back, and, stooping, picked up his partner's glove, which had fallen to the floor. everyone rose, and the party separated. as savrola walked back to the hall with lucile, they passed an open doorway leading to the garden. a multitude of fairy lights marked out the flower-beds or hung in festoons from the trees. the paths were carpeted with red cloth; a cool breeze fanned their faces. lucile paused.
"it is a lovely night."
the invitation was plain. she had wanted to speak to him, then, after all. how right he was to come,—on constitutional grounds.
"shall we go out?" he said.
she consented, and they stepped on to the terrace.
