Part 41 (1/2)
”There was an article this evening in one of Jost's off-shoot journals,”
went on Zouche, ”which must have been paid for at a considerable cost.
It chanted the praises of one Monsignor Del Fortis,--who, it appears, preached a sermon on 'National Education' the other day, and told all the sleepy, yawning people how necessary it was to have Roman Catholic schools in every town and village, in order that souls might be saved.
The article ended by saying--'We hear on good authority that his Majesty the King has been pleased to grant a considerable portion of certain Crown lands to the Jesuit Order, for the necessary building of a monastery and schools'----”
”That is a lie!” broke in Pasquin Leroy, with sudden vehemence. ”The King is in many respects a scoundrel, but he does not go back on his word!”
Axel Regor looked fixedly across at him, with a warning flash in the light of his cold languid eyes.
”But how do you know that the King has given his word?”
”It was in the paper,” said Leroy, more guardedly; ”I was reading about it, as you know, on the very night I encountered Thord.”
”Ah! But you must recollect, my friend, that a statement in the papers is never true nowadays!” said Max Graub, with a laugh; ”Whenever I read anything in the newspaper, unless it is an official telegram, I know it is a lie; and even official telegrams have been known to emanate from unofficial sources!”
By this time supper was nearly over, and the landlord, clearing the remains of the heavier fare, set fruit and wine on the board. Sergius Thord filled his gla.s.s, and made a sign to his companions to do the same. Then he stood up.
”To Lotys!” he said, his fine eyes darkening with the pa.s.sion of his thought. ”To Lotys, who inspires our best work, and helps us to retain our n.o.blest ideals!”
All present sprang to their feet.
”To Lotys!”
Pasquin Leroy fixed a straight glance on the subject of the toast, sitting quietly at the head of the table.
”To Lotys!” he repeated; ”And may she always be as merciful as she is strong!”
She lifted her dark-blue slumbrous eyes, and met his keen scrutinizing look. A very slight tremulous smile flickered across her lips. She inclined her head gently, and in the same mute fas.h.i.+on thanked them all.
”Play to us, Valdor!” she then said; ”And so make answer for me to our friends' good wishes!”
Valdor dived under the table, and brought up his violin case, which he unlocked with jealous tenderness, lifting his instrument as carefully as though it were a sleeping child whom he feared to wake. Drawing the bow across the strings, he invoked a sweet plaintive sound, like the first sigh of the wind among the trees; then, without further preliminary wandered off into a strange labyrinth of melody, wherein it seemed that the voices of women and angels clamoured one against the other,--the appeals of earth with the refusals of Heaven,--the loneliness of life with the fulness of immortality,--so, rising, falling, sobbing, praying, alternately, the music expostulated with humanity in its throbbing chords, till it seemed as if some Divine interposition could alone end the heart-searching argument. Every man sat motionless and mute, listening; Paul Zouche, with his head thrown back and eyes closed as in a dream,--Johan Zegota's hard, plain and careworn face growing softer and quieter in its expression,--while Sergius Thord, leaning on one elbow, covered his brow with one hand to shade the lines of sorrow there.
When Valdor ceased playing, there was a burst of applause.
”You play before kings,--kings should be proud to hear you!” said Leroy.
”Ah! So they should,” responded Valdor promptly; ”Only it happens that they are not! They treat me merely as a _laquais de place_,--just as they would treat Zouche, had he accepted his Sovereign's offer. But this I will admit,--that mediocre musicians always get on very well with Royal persons! I have heard a very great Majesty indeed praise a common little American woman's abominable singing, as though she were a prima-donna, and saw him give a jewelled cigar-case to an amateur pianist, whose fingers rattled on the keyboard like bones on a tom-tom.
But then the common little American woman invited his Majesty's 'cheres amies' to her house; and the amateur pianist was content to lose money to him at cards! Wheels within wheels, my friend! In a lesser degree the stock-jobber who sets a little extra cash rolling on the Exchange is called an 'Empire Builder.' It is a curious world! But kings were never known to be 'proud' of any really 'great' men in either art or literature; on the contrary, they were always afraid of them, and always will be! Among musicians, the only one who ever got decently honoured by a monarch was Richard Wagner,--and the world swears that _his_ Royal patron was mad!”
Paul Zouche opened his eyes, filled his gla.s.s afresh, and tossed down the liquor it contained at a gulp.
”Before we have any more music,” he said, ”and before the little Pequita gives us the dance which she has promised,--not to us, but to Lotys--we ought to have prayers!”
A loud laugh answered this strange proposition.
”I say we ought to have prayers!” repeated Zouche with semi-solemn earnestness,--”You talk of news,--news in telegram,--news in brief,--official scratchings for the day and hour,--and do you take no thought for the fact that his Holiness the Pope is ill--perhaps dying?”
He stared wildly round upon them all; and a tolerant smile pa.s.sed over the face of the company.
”Well, if that be so, Paul,” said a man next to him, ”it is not to be wondered at. The Pope has arrived at a great age!”
”No age at all!--no age at all!” declared Zouche. ”A saint of G.o.d should live longer than a pauper! What of the good old lady admitted to hospital the other day whose birth certificate proved her beyond doubt to be one hundred and twenty-one years old? The dear creature had not married;--nor has his Holiness the Pope,--the real cause of death is in neither of them! Why should he not live as long as his aged sister, possessing, as he does the keys of Heaven? He need not unlock the little golden door, even for himself, unless he likes. That is true orthodoxy!