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The Mischief Maker, a novel by E. Phillips Oppenheim |
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Book 2 - Chapter 16. Falkenberg's Last Effort |
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_ BOOK TWO CHAPTER XVI. FALKENBERG'S LAST EFFORT "Madame," Prince Falkenberg declared, with a formal bow, "I owe you a thousand apologies for this visit." Madame Christophor looked at him across the room, and in her eyes there was no welcome nor any anger--only surprise. "You break," she reminded him, "the word of a prince!" Falkenberg smiled icily. "There are cataclysms in life," he said, "whirlpools into which one may sometimes be drawn. One's will is overborne. I myself am in that unfortunate position." Madame Christophor looked steadfastly at her visitor. Was it her fancy or was he really growing older, this man of iron? The story of the last few weeks was written into his face, there were shadows under his eyes, a deep line across his forehead. "Since you are here, be seated," she invited, sinking herself wearily into a chair. "Tell me as quickly as you can what has brought you?" "Portel has brought me," Falkenberg answered grimly. "They tell me that he has taken shelter under the shadow of your petticoats." "Shelter from your assassins!" "Precisely!" Falkenberg admitted. "I do not admire your methods," Madame Christophor remarked. "They seem to me not only brutal but clumsy. You killed seven men and injured several others, to no purpose." "Madame," Falkenberg declared, "to secure the death of that man I would have destroyed a whole quarter of Paris and every person in it." Madame Christophor shivered. "Thorough, as usual, my dear Prince," she murmured. "Nevertheless, I find such statements loathsome. We should have outlived the days of barbarity. I do not understand men who deal in such fashion with their enemies." Falkenberg frowned. "There is something between us greater than personal enmity," he retorted fiercely. "My personal enemy I would deal with in such a manner as I make no doubt would commend itself to your scruples. Julien Portel is more than that. He is the enemy of my country. Upon him, therefore, I shall have no mercy." "I will not argue with you," she replied. "There is a plainer issue before us. In passing my threshold you have broken your word of honor. What do you want?" "I want Julien Portel!" Madame Christophor shrugged her shoulders. "You have wanted him for some little time." "Never so badly as at this instant," Falkenberg declared bitterly. "He has set all Europe in a ferment with those infernal letters. He knows too much. He knows whence came the money which bought _Le Jour_. He knows every detail of my campaign here." "There are surely others," she objected, "who must have guessed--" "But there was no one else," he interrupted, "who had the special knowledge which Portel has. He came from the Foreign Office, with the records of the last two years in his mind. At Berlin he and I crossed swords. He is the only Englishman who has ever caused me a moment's uneasiness." "Are you sure," she asked, "that your campaign here has been a wise one?" "The wisdom of Solomon," he replied grimly, "can be made to look like folly by the accident of failure. There is no doubt as to its wisdom. No one has studied these matters as I have studied them. No one has seen the truth more clearly. An alliance between England and America is a matter of a few years only, and when it comes the progress of Germany is set back for a generation. The one absolute necessity before me was to cut the bonds between England and France and to settle with England alone and quickly--diplomatically, if possible; by force of arms as a last resource. We don't seek war, Henriette. We are not really a bloodthirsty nation. We seek territory. We need new lands--fruitful lands, trade, the command of the seas. If we cannot get what we want by peaceful means, then it must be war. England for the present is weakly governed. She is in the throes of labor troubles. Her political parties are ill-balanced. There is a puppet at the Foreign Office. Now is the time to strike." "Is it wise to tell me your secrets?" she inquired coldly. "I have no sympathy for you or your country." "I have a bargain to strike with you and you must understand," he answered. "Twenty-four hours ago we dispatched a gunboat to a certain neutral port which comes under the influence of England. We paid a German to go there and send us word that he was in danger. We have sent an intimation to the French and English Governments. To England it is an insult. I have taken the chance that France has had enough of this _entente_. Now you understand why I must have Julien Portel before they can get him back to the Foreign Office, before he can do more mischief. A strong man in Downing Street at this juncture might upset everything." "I understand well enough why you need Julien Portel," she admitted. "I am still in the dark, however, as to why you imagine that I shall give him up?" "Because I am going to buy him from you," Falkenberg asserted. She glanced across the room at him, half curiously, half scornfully. "Buy him! You!" "Exactly," he replied. "You smile because you do not understand. I offer you a dispensation for your divorce, and your son." A little tremor seemed to pass through her whole frame. For a moment she closed her eyes. Then she sprang to her feet and stood quivering before him. "This is one of your traps!" she exclaimed. "You don't mean it!" "To prove that I do," he insisted, "I have brought Rudolf with me to Paris. He can be in your arms in a few minutes. Look into the street, if you will." She crossed the room hastily and lifted the curtain. A low cry broke from her lips. In the tonneau of the great touring car outside a little boy was lying back amongst the cushions, asleep. "He is tired," Falkenberg said slowly, with his eyes fixed upon the woman. "He has come all the way from Berlin without an hour's rest. Am I to take him back to-morrow? It is for you to decide." Madame Christophor turned toward the door. Falkenberg barred the way. "Not yet!" he declared. "Do you accept my terms?" "But he is hungry!" she cried. "I can see that he is hungry! And he is so pale--let me fetch him in." "Of course he is hungry," his father agreed. "He has also been asking me questions about you all the way. He believes that he is going to see you. I, too, believe that. You consent?" "Tell me exactly what it is that you require?" she demanded. "Take me to Portel," he answered swiftly. "Inform him that you cannot any longer permit him the shelter of your roof." She sat down and began to laugh, softly but in unnatural fashion. Falkenberg watched her with grim curiosity. "And then?" she inquired. He hesitated. "I have made some plans," he said slowly. "If he passes outside your doors to-night, he will write no more articles!" "But the whole of the English Press is clamoring for his return to power! There will be no need for his pen--he will take up his old position." "Precisely!" Falkenberg assented. "It is not my intention that he shall return to that position!" Madame Christophor sat with her eyes fixed upon the wall. Then she began to laugh once more in the same strange manner. Falkenberg was curious. "You find my intentions amusing?" he asked. "I find the situation amusing," she replied. "Half an hour ago I offered Sir Julien Portel what is left of my life." Falkenberg stood perfectly still, watching her closely. Then his eyes filled with a sudden bright light. "You!" he exclaimed. "You--Princess von Falkenberg--offered yourself to this man and were refused?" "You are indeed a genius," she admitted. "I was refused." There was a brief silence. Falkenberg waited. Madame Christophor remained silent. Her attitude puzzled him a little. He was afraid to speak for fear of striking the wrong note. Nevertheless, the onus of speech was thrust upon him. "Madame," he said at last, "I anticipate your reply. This man has put an intolerable insult upon you. While he lives you could never forget it. There are some privileges still belonging to me. I claim the right of avenging that affront." "It comes conveniently--the affront!" she remarked, through her clenched teeth. "Conveniently or not, the affront exists!" he cried. "You cannot refuse me now! You would not have him go unpunished!" "I am not sure that he was to blame." "Not to blame?" Falkenberg repeated, with emphasis. "Would you have me believe that you threw yourself at his head unasked, without encouragement--you, the proudest woman in France? One does not believe such folly!" "Nevertheless, it is the truth," Madame Christophor declared. Falkenberg smiled incredulously, but he said nothing. Madame Christophor had found her way once more to the window. She stood there, looking down into the car. The boy was still asleep. She gripped the window-curtains with both her hands. He was so pale, so tired, and how he had grown! "I give you even his heritage," Falkenberg promised. "Make of him a Frenchman or an American, if you will. He is your own son. Take him. I give my firstborn for my country. You will not refuse what I offer?" Madame Christophor made no answer. Falkenberg, however, saw the longing in her face. It was enough! He suddenly changed his tactics. "This Julien Portel," he said,--"it is another woman he prefers." He saw her bosom heave. The storm against which she had been struggling all the time seemed on the point of bursting. The hot blood was singing in her ears, her eyes were aflame. She crossed the room and rang the bell. Falkenberg was content to wait. He felt that he had won! The butler appeared almost immediately. "You will conduct the Prince von Falkenberg into the winter-garden," she directed. "He desires to speak to Sir Julien Portel." "And you?" Falkenberg asked, turning towards her. A swift gesture showed him her disordered countenance. It was reasonable. "I follow," she announced. _ |
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