Part 15 (2/2)

For a long time he carefully reviewed all the facts, at length arriving at the same conclusion as before, that his suicide would only bring increased disaster upon the child he idolised.

”No,” he exclaimed aloud, between his set teeth. ”There is but one way--one way alone. She must become Princess. I must obey Zertho, and compel her to marry him. All these long weeks have I striven against it, knowing that once united to such an unprincipled brute, her days must be full of wretchedness and despair. Nay, I am prepared to sacrifice everything for her sake; nevertheless, if I boldly face my enemies, or take my life to escape them, the result would be the same.

Liane would be left friendless. To me through all these dark days she has been the one joy of my aimless, weary life; hers has been the one bright face that has cheered me times without number when I should have otherwise knocked under. I have striven my best to keep her uncontaminated by the reckless world in which I've been compelled to move, and none can ever charge me with neglect of her. Yet this is the end. She must be torn from me, and be given to this unscrupulous blackmailer whom the possession of wealth has converted from my friend into my enemy.”

Erle Brooker, by profession an adventurer, but at heart generous and tender as a woman, had come to Nice solely on Liane's account, because he had been convinced by Zertho's argument that she was moping sadly at Stratfield Mortimer. Although he had accepted the invitation he had never for one moment intended that Liane should become Princess d'Auzac until his whilom partner had p.r.o.nounced it imperative. Then, hour by hour, day by day, he had sought means whereby Zertho might be dissuaded from pressing his claim, until now he was compelled to acknowledge his hope an utterly forlorn one.

”Alas!” he sighed, leaning his fevered weary head on both his hands.

”All happiness and gaiety must be crushed from her heart; her young life must be wrecked because of my sin. I, her father, must persuade, nay insist upon her taking a step that she must regret her whole life through, and use towards that end arguments which I would rather my tongue were torn out than I should utter. Ah, Liane,” he cried, brokenly, in a voice of despair, ”if you could but realise all that I have suffered these past weeks. But you must not; you, at least, shall never know the cause of this deadly fear which holds me paralysed beneath the relentless thrall of the one man who knows the truth. No, you must marry him, and thereby secure his silence. Your consent to become Princess d'Auzac can alone save me.”

Again he was silent, deep in contemplation of the terrible truth, when suddenly behind him sounded a peal of merry laughter, and turning quickly, he saw he had been joined upon the platform by Liane and two bright English girls who were living at the same pension with them.

They had ascended the long flights of steps, and were entirely out of breath.

”Why, dear old dad!” cried Liane, in surprise, ”whoever would have thought of finding you up here at this hour?”

The Captain laughed uneasily, and made some evasive reply regarding the clearness of the morning and the extent of the view.

”Oh, isn't it magnificent!” cried the other girls in chorus, as they gazed around. Liane, who had been there on many previous occasions, had brought them up, promising them a fine panorama, and they certainly were not disappointed.

Together they wandered about the pretty gardens, watched the artillery at drill working the guns, peered down the old castle well and clambered about the ancient walls which had been torn down nearly two hundred years ago by the Duke of Brunswick; then, after one of the girls had narrowly escaped losing her hat in the high wind, they descended again to the Rue des Ponchettes, where the Captain, excusing himself that he wanted to make a purchase in the town, left them.

The three girls, chatting and laughing, walked round the base of the hill, by the road called the Rauba Capeu, to the port, where the Prince d'Auzac's trim steam yacht was lying, afterwards retracing their steps along the Boulevard du Midi. They had pa.s.sed the Jardin Public, where the band was playing Strauss's _Fesche Geister_, and had just entered the Promenade des Anglais, when Zertho on his fine bay rode past them raising his hat. The trio smiled and bowed, and while he galloped along, his smart groom at some little distance behind, one of Liane's companions remarked--

”Isn't the Prince a handsome fellow? I wonder he does not marry.”

Liane felt her cheeks colouring.

”Oh! I suppose he will very soon,” observed her sister. They were both tall, dark, good-looking girls, daughters of a wealthy widow from London. This was their first season on the Riviera, and all was fresh to them.

”You know the Prince well, don't you?” inquired the first girl who had spoken, turning to Liane.

”Yes,” she answered. ”We knew him long before he became rich.”

”And his wealth has spoilt him, I expect? It does most men.”

”No, I can scarcely say that,” answered Liane. ”At heart he is so thoroughly cosmopolitan and so merry that I don't think he will ever become purse-proud.”

”I've heard he's a millionaire,” observed the other girl. ”Is that true?”

”I believe so. His father was the wealthiest man in Luxembourg; richer even than the reigning Grand Duke Adolphe.”

”And whoever marries him will be Princess d'Auzac,” the girl remarked, contemplatively. ”Rather jolly, I should imagine, to be a Princess with an ancient t.i.tle like that One could then cut a decent figure in society, I envy the fortunate girl who takes his fancy.”

Liane winced. She feared that her cheeks told their own tale, and was thankful when a moment later the girls met their mother amid the crowd of promenaders, and all four commenced to chat upon a different subject.

That evening they did not dine as usual at the Villa Chevrier, but took their meal at the Pension, and afterwards, when Liane was reclining lazily on the couch in their private salon, her handsome head thrown back upon a great cus.h.i.+on of yellow silk, and the Captain was seated in a capacious easy chair, with a cigarette and an English paper, he at last braced himself up for an effort that was to him exceedingly repugnant. He feared that his words must choke him, and for half-an-hour glanced surrept.i.tiously at her, hesitating to approach the subject. The recollection of all that he had to stake, however, goaded him on, and presently, slowly putting down his paper, and striving to remain firm, he uttered her name.

She looked up from her French novel in surprise. The tone in which he spoke was entirely unusual. It was harsh and strained.

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