A WEEK passed, and Lubimoff had not once left Villa Sirena. In his conversations with the Colonel—his only companion in this solitary life—he had avoided making any allusion to what had occurred in Lewis' castle. Toledo, for his part, displayed absolute discretion, as though he had forgotten the duel and the strange ending which the Prince had given it; but the latter guessed that the Colonel's silence concealed many things that might have proved distasteful to himself.

The other seconds had probably told everything. What people must have been saying! And fearing the curiosity of society which was doubtless repeating his name on all occasions, Lubimoff remained in retirement, with the hope of being forgotten. Some one would lose or win an enormous sum in the Casino, and that would be enough to make the gossips stop talking about him.

His loneliness, however, began to weigh upon him like a fate. He was getting tired of walking about his garden all the time. It seemed to him narrow and monotonous. Besides, Lewis' niece, abusing her privilege, came every afternoon, with a constantly renewed escort of wounded Englishmen. She ran about with them through the Avenues, amid the cries of the exotic birds, weaving great garlands of flowers for her soldiers. Meanwhile he was obliged to hide in the upper stories of the villa to escape this child-like joy, which seemed to him to have something gloomy and funereal about it.

The nights seemed endless. He thought with wistful longing of the quiet evenings with the "enemies of women", when Spadoni used to sit at the piano or perform his infinite calculations, always doubling; when Novoa would indulge in his scientific paradoxes, and Castro relate the adventures of his grandfather "the red Don Quixote." Where were they now, those comrades of his dreamy happiness?

Atilio interested him particularly. He had asked Don Marcos about him twice, without the latter being very clear in his explanations. The Colonel never saw Castro any more in the Casino; he doubtless was keeping away out of fear of gambling. The Prince had a feeling that the Colonel knew something more, and was refusing to talk from motives of discretion.

One morning, the weariness of his imprisonment finally galvanized his stupefied will. Why should he not go in quest of those friends? Perhaps if he were to take the first step he would succeed in renewing relations with them, and re-establish his former life.

As he was going out, the Colonel stopped him to speak again about a matter that had occupied their attention the evening before. What reply should he give the Paris business agent? The nouveau riche who had bought the palace on the MonÇeau Park, wanted to buy Villa Sirena also. The Prince's manager was transmitting a final offer; a million and a half. The man would not give any more, and it was necessary to reply in haste, before his caprice should turn toward some other acquisition.

Michael shrugged his shoulders, as though the matter were something of no interest to him.

"Tell him I don't want to sell. No—it would be better still not to reply at all. We shall see later on; I shall think it over."

On getting out of the street car in Monte Carlo he passed to the right of the Casino, and followed the upper Boulevards. First he was going in quest of Spadoni, who lived nearest. Besides, the latter would surely know better than Novoa where Atilio was staying. Perhaps they were living together.

He had a vague idea of the house, through Castro's joking. The pianist was "the guardian of the tomb" above the Sainte DÉvote ravine.

From the summit of a bridge the Prince saw this ravine at his feet. Its sides were covered with gardens, luxurious villas and hotels, and at its outlet stretched the smiling harbor of La Condamine.

Sixty years before, the ravine had been a wild spot. It was visited only by religious processions coming from the walled City of Monaco to pay homage to Sainte DÉvote in a little white church, which to-day seemed still more diminutive beside the arches of the railway bridge.

In the earliest times of Christianity, a bark without oars or sail, guided by the will of God, who had deigned to grant a patron saint to the inhabitants of "Hercules Harbor," had grounded keel on those shores.

The bark contained the miracle working body of a Corsican Christian martyrized by the Romans. Nobody knew her name, and popular devotion called her simply the Sainte DÉvote. Once a year, at nightfall, on her feast day, a large crowd from the Casino left roulette and trente et quarante to watch the sailors of Monaco, to the sound of music, burn an old bark in front of the church, thus cutting off all means of retreat to the Holy Patroness.

The stony fields, once planted with prickly pear and olive trees, were now covered with palaces, as large as barracks. They supported a second lofty city, above, which stretched away along the slopes of the Alps, and united Monaco with Monte Carlo. The land here, now sold at fabulous prices, was a spot so neglected half a century before that any of its owners might arrange without interference to be buried on his own property.

An obscure officer in Napoleon's Army, born in Monaco, and who had succeeded in becoming a General in the days of Louis Philippe, had had his tomb built in an olive grove above the Sainte DÉvote ravine. Later gambling had made Monte Carlo rise above the wild plateau of the Caverns; the elegant, new city was spreading out to join old Monaco, covering all the land of the principality with buildings, and the tomb of the unknown warrior was imprisoned by this wave of great hotels, palaces, and villas. The olive grove around the tomb was sold by the yard, making a fortune for the soldier's heirs. Between the sepulchre and the edge of the ravine there remained a level space, from which one could enjoy a view of the splendid panorama. A millionaire from Paris had been bold enough to construct over the spot a house in "artistic" style, with gardens descending in terraces. He had imagined it would be an easy matter to have the General transferred to the cemetery and the mortuary chapel demolished. But the dead man was on his own land, and could not come to life to cancel the arrangements he had made in his will with so little prescience of the extraordinary growth old Monaco was to make; as a result there was no power on earth that could demolish his last dwelling place.

From the harbor Michael had often, above the heights of the ravine, seen this pantheon which was to serve him now as a place for meeting Spadoni. It was a simple block of masonry, with white-washed walls, four pinnacles at the angles, and a cupola of black tile. From a distance it looked like a Mohammedan hermitage, the tomb of some saint of Islam, and the similarity was carried out by groups of palm trees in the neighboring gardens.

Castro had often made him laugh by telling him the story of the dead General and his wealthy neighbors. The owners of the villa could not sleep with a dead man on the other side of the wall, and moreover, it was a nameless dead man, which made it all the more creepy and mysterious.

Nobody could remember the name of this gentleman, who had commanded thousands of men, and was still exerting his will power on the living. The owners decided to rent the villa with all its elegant furnishings for a modest sum, and at first, the ladies who were gambling in the Casino, quarreled as to who should get it. How wonderful it would be to live in a little palace adorned by famous Parisian decorators, and with a magnificent view, all for five hundred francs a month! But the renters hastened to give up this bargain to others. Imagine having to pass the General's mausoleum at midnight, on returning from the Casino! And think of not being able to open one's window blinds without having to look that corpse in the face. Besides, the spiteful tongues of the women gave each successive tenant the nickname of: "The guardian of the tomb."

Then Spadoni appeared. Castro had a vague idea that the pianist had paid the first month's rent, but he was not sure. What he knew for certain was that he had not paid any more. The owners, living in Paris, had finally accepted the situation, considering the pianist an unpaid caretaker for that house, which had come to inspire them with terror.

The Prince descended the wide road between garden balustrades and walls of rock broken by tufts of flowers hanging from the crevices. On seeing the sepulchre at close hand, he understood why all the tenants had taken flight. The General had known how to do things. The pinnacles, as well as the iron cross which surmounted the cupola, were adorned with skulls and cross-bones; and these funereal symbols, by force of contrast, made a still deeper impression because of the green splendor of the adjoining gardens under the bright blue skies and the dazzling sunlight, with the smiling harbor in the background, and the ruffled surface of the violet sea. The gate of the nameless mausoleum had not been opened for many years, and the wind had heaped the dirt against the underpinnings. Between the iron gate and the walls a thick, wild growth of vegetation had appeared, a diminutive forest, in the dense growth of which insects made war and devoured one another after sending forth endless flying and creeping expeditions against all the neighboring houses.

Lubimoff passed close to the mausoleum in order to reach the entrance of the villa, a handsome building in the Tuscan style of architecture. The gate was a complicated piece of iron work; the windows had stained glass figures; the gray walls were encrusted with marble bas-reliefs, and ancient escutcheons.

He knocked in vain with the iron dragon that served as a knocker. Finally from an adjoining alley-way, between two walls, appeared a woman with dishevelled hair, holding an infant in her arms. It was a neighbor, who acted as a servant for Spadoni, when he stayed in the house. The arrival of a visitor was an event for her.

"Yes, he is in," she said, "don't you hear him?"

As a matter of fact, Michael had heard the sound of a piano, deadened by the thick walls.

The woman, convinced that the artist would never hear the blows of the knocker, disappeared around the corner. Shortly afterward, her head and the child she was carrying in her arms appeared above the edge of the wall.

"Maestro!" she shouted. "A gentleman to see you! A visitor!"

And she came back again, smoothing her skirts as though she had just descended a ladder.

The door groaned on its hinges, as it opened, and Spadoni appeared in the opening.

"Oh, your Highness!"

There was no expression of surprise in his smile. He greeted the Prince as though he had seen him the day before.

Then he guided him through corridors and drawing-rooms, which were sunk in deep multi-colored shadow, and smelled of dust and mold. It had been many months since the stained glass windows had been opened, or the curtains drawn. Spadoni lived his entire life in a single room. Lubimoff collided with furniture and curios, as he advanced, almost upsetting two huge Japanese vases, and nearly impaling himself on the numerous projections in the profuse decoration of a "romantic studio," which had been in style twenty-five years before.

They finally returned to the light, a dazzling light that entered by three open doors overlooking a terrace bordering the ravine. It was the "hall" of the villa, decorated with Hindustanee draperies and divans. The Prince saw that Spadoni had excellent quarters in his "tomb". A large grand-piano was the only piece of furniture kept clean in this dust-invaded room. On the music rack several albums of music in manuscript lay opened.

Seeing that Lubimoff noticed them, the pianist gave a look of despair.

His poverty was very great: he was forced to give concerts in order to live, and found himself obliged to study the new operas.

He spoke of this labor as though it represented the cruelest imposition of inexorable Reality, the greatest degradation in his life.

Various ladies who organized benefits for the soldiers had sought his aid. He played for nothing, "out of patriotism", but the good ladies always found a way of giving him a fair sum. His poverty was tremendous! He was going to the gambling rooms only at long intervals. He hadn't enough money to play even the roulette wheel, where the stakes were but five francs!

The Prince started to read the titles of the scores, but Spadoni covered them up in comic haste.

"Awful rot! You mustn't look at those, your Highness. Here on the Riviera, when the ladies are getting on in years, and do not find any one to fall in love with them any more, they devote themselves to writing love songs or dance music for great spectacles; and the Casino accepts their work in order not to offend them. It results that on certain days the Monte Carlo Theater becomes the Temple of Musical Imbecility. No; it would be better for you to see what we are giving this afternoon. It is the work of a millionairess who writes the whole thing, music and words."

And he read aloud the titles of various "picturesque scenes": Dialogue between the Butterfly and the Rose, What the Palm Tree said to the Century Plant, Prayer of the Grasshopper to Our Father the Sun.

"Fortunately, your Highness, this humiliating situation will not last. I have a way out of it—a way out of it!"

And forgetting the piano, the scores, and his musical degradation, Spadoni suddenly launched into the world of dreams. He knew the secret of the great man, the Greek, who was winning millions at the Sporting-Club. He had guessed it, with his own cunning, after worming certain data out of a man who accompanied the lofty personage. It was a simple combination, like all ideas of genius. For example....

And he reached for a pack of cards which was on the table, lying on a number of albums bound in red: The nine Symphonies of Beethoven.

"Oh no—if you please!" the Prince brusquely restrained him, to keep him from plunging into that mania for demonstrating.

"I hoped to meet Castro here," he said, in a quiet voice, a moment later.

Spadoni seemed to awaken.

"Castro?... Oh, yes! He lived with me for a few days, but he went away."

Still obsessed by his marvelous combination, he talked in an absent-minded manner without showing the slightest interest in what he was saying. Castro had expressed a desire to live with him; he had told him so, late one afternoon in the Casino, and Spadoni had left Villa Sirena to accompany him. It was the least a friend could do!

"But when did he go? Where is he?"

"He went day before yesterday, and must be in Paris. A fool trip! Imagine, your Highness, during the last few days he had an extraordinary run of luck, winning as high as twenty thousand francs. If he had only gone on! But he wouldn't! He was in a hurry. He gave me five hundred francs, and I lost them immediately; it was very little money for my combination. I think he was going to be a soldier; he kept talking to me about the Foreign Legion. You can expect almost any foolishness from him. A man who is winning and runs away!..."

Then, as though the disordered workings of his brain were functioning logically for a few seconds, he added, with a smile of cunning:

"DoÑa Clorinda also went to Paris. She left two days before him.... Oh, your Highness! How I think of what you told us at the lunch once about women! I know them, Prince: They are all enemies to be feared."

And he pointed spitefully to What the Palm Tree said to the Century Plant.

In vain the Prince kept questioning him. The pianist did not know anything more, and Castro's fate did not arouse his curiosity. He had gone to Paris, to be a soldier, and Spadoni had so many friends, already, who were soldiers!

The "General" being a woman, aroused more interest in him; she stimulated his love of gossip.

"I think," he said, with a smile that showed his hate for women, "that she went away out of jealousy, out of pique. The Duchess de Delille took that Lieutenant away from her, though the 'General' had been the one to introduce them. It seems even that this Lieutenant has had a duel...."

The pianist grew pale, looking at Lubimoff with an expression of terror. His look was like that of a person who is talking aloud when he imagines himself alone, and then suddenly notices that some one is listening to him. He sat there embarrassed and stammering:

"I don't know ... people tell so many lies!... Women's gossip!"

Lubimoff felt a like embarrassment on realizing that even Spadoni had taken up his adventure with delight.

He felt there was no use in continuing the conversation with an imbecile like that. He arose, and the pianist, still trembling at his own indiscretion, showed similar signs of haste to end the visit.

"And Novoa?" asked the Prince on reaching the outer door. "Has he also left?"

No; he was still in Monaco, working at the Museum, when he did not have any more urgent business. They met very seldom. How could they see each other if he, Spadoni, on account of his poverty, refrained from entering the gambling rooms?

"He goes on playing, your Highness; but very badly, with the timidity of a novice, and for that reason he loses. He isn't made of the same stuff that we are, we who are true gamblers."

And the pianist drew himself up to his full height as he said this, as though he had never lost and possessed all the secrets of chance.

"I sent him two tickets for this afternoon's concert: one for him and the other for that SeÑorita Valeria, the Duchess's companion. Poor man! Always doing something silly, like a young lover!"

But his smile, which was that of a superior person exempt from such humiliations, disappeared, as he realized that once more he was saying something offensive to the Prince.

The latter passed close to the tomb again, but without seeing it, or even remembering the unknown General. Castro had gone!... Castro wanted to become a soldier!...

After going down along the Monegetti road as far as the parade ground of La Condamine, he ascended once more the gently sloping avenue that leads up to Monaco. After his long seclusion, this walk aroused a certain pleasant tingling in his muscles.

Finding himself between the two turrets that mark the entrance to the gardens, the memory of Alicia flashed across his brain. There, a little farther on, they had gotten out of their carriage; behind the trees was a bench on which he first had told her of his love; below, at the edge of the rocks, lay the solitary path along which they had passed as though treading on air, wrapped in the twilight and with lips joined. Then, had come the tearing of her dress, the sweet comical difficulties in mending it, and the pearl pin of the Princess.... Only a few weeks had passed, and these happenings seemed to belong to another happier race of beings, to have taken place on a different planet, bathed in a light that was different from the light of earth.

He made an effort to forget. At present he was standing on an asphalt square, opposite the steps of the Museum of Oceanography. For the first time he noticed the architectural decorations of the white building. They had adopted as an ornamental motif the cluster of twisting arms of the octopus, the semi-circular striations of sea-shells, the trailing filmy umbrella form of the jelly-fish. He observed the sculptural groups symbolizing the powers of the Ocean, or the arts of the navigators, he read the names carved on the frieze of the edifice, and the titles of ships famous for scientific explorations.

He stood there motionless for a long time, seeking a pretext to justify his visit. Finally he went up the steps of the building, and found himself in a deep, cool shade like that of a Cathedral, but without the stale, musty odor of shut-in places, and with a whiff of salt air coming from the nearby sea. He knew the stately edifice: on one side was the vast hall for the lectures and scientific assemblies, like that of a parliament building, with lamp shades of frosted crystal affecting the different shapes of animals from the ocean depths; in the middle of the vestibule was the statue of Prince Albert, dressed as a sailor and leaning on the rail of the bridge of his yacht; on the opposite side and on the upper floors, were the collections gathered during the voyages of the famous scientific explorer: thousands of fishes and molluscs, gigantic skeletons of whales, some kaiaks and fishing implements from the polar seas. On the lower floors, under his feet, in that second palace which, clinging to the cliff, descended to the sea, were the aquaria, where the mysterious creatures of the depths continued their lives in crystal cages amid the silver bubbles of running water.

The gate-keeper in a long blue coat, and a kepis with red braid, started to offer him a ticket, but paused on seeing that he was stopping at the turn-stile, asking for Novoa.

"He went out a moment ago. Perhaps you may find him in the neighborhood of the palace. Almost every day, before lunch, he makes the rounds of 'the rock'."

"The Rock," for the inhabitants of Monaco, is the nickname of the high promontory on which Monaco is situated, and "to make the rounds" means to follow the circle of gardens and abandoned bulwarks, which, starting from the palace of the Princes, returns to it, after completely embracing the old city.

Lubimoff followed the outer line of the San Martino gardens. He did not dare enter them; he was afraid of coming across the bench where he and Alicia had been that afternoon. He entered the City streets, narrow, without sidewalks, and paved with wide stones, as in many towns in Italy.

The dwellings, which were old and lofty, recalled the time when ground was precious on a peninsula narrowly enclosed by its fortifications. Some of the houses were pierced by tunnels and at the end of the archway, one could see the sunlight and the whiteness of the next street. The largest buildings were convents, or religious schools. Above the roofs, the bells slowly tolled as in a Spanish village; in the streets there were many sacred images lighted by tiny lamps.

When the paving stones resounded with human footsteps, the shutters all opened half way. A carriage caused many heads to appear at the windows. The few passersby were often canons from the cathedral, Barefoot Brothers with a crown of hair about their shaven scalps, or nuns with huge starched butterflies on their heads.

Only a little door separated the old city from the other situated on the heights opposite, with its Casino, its hotels, its orchestras, and its wealthy pleasure-loving crowd. A short ride by street car was sufficient to give one the illusion of having suddenly slipped back two centuries. Lubimoff recalled the expressions of surprise awakened in people by several of these barefoot brothers crossing the Casino Square on their way down to Monte Carlo.

He passed under a covered archway that joined two houses. A large open space, like a plain, opened in front of him. It was the Palace Square. Opposite it rose the lordly dwelling of the Grimaldi, a jumble of buildings dating back to different periods, which recalled the palaces of certain sovereign princes in ancient Italy. It was of a dark rose color, cut by the Archway of the Loggias, and was flanked by towers of white stone surmounted by battlements. He knew this edifice likewise. It was a mere show-place, and quite uninhabited, since the Prince, during his short visits to his domains, preferred to live on board his yacht.

The first thing that attracted his attention was the guard. The soldiers of Monaco, old French gendarmes, had gone to the war, and a national militia was taking the place of the Prince's army. It was composed of actual citizens of the "Rock," where citizens must be descendants of at least four generations resident in Monaco. They alone could contribute to the ideal defense of the principality, since they enjoyed the advantages of belonging to a country, unique in the world, where all who were born there, had bread and work assured them, thanks to the Casino.

Lubimoff admired the warlike guard, an old man with a white mustache, and stooping, almost humped, shoulders, dressed in a dark tan overcoat and a derby hat. A red and white arm band was his entire uniform. On his shoulder he carried an ancient gun which because of its tremendously long bayonet seemed even more enormous and heavy than it was. He might have rested beside a sentry box, painted with the Monaco colors; but he preferred to pace incessantly up and down, like a squirrel in a cage, looking in every direction to see if any one were trying to enter the palace of the absent sovereign. Other men who were fathers and even grandfathers, dressed in their Sunday clothes, were patiently waiting on a bench for their turn to exercise the honorable function.

The most notable thing on this esplanade was the artillery, a collection of XVIII century cannon placed there as an ornament, like the panoplies of a drawing room. On both sides of the entrance to the palace six huge, magnificent cannon, cast in green statue bronze, and chiseled like museum pieces, were drawn up in a row. Around their mouths, the metal curved backward forming a leafy design like that of a capital on a column; the other end was surmounted by a Medusa's head. The barrels of these hollow columns were ornamented with the three fleurs de lis of the ancient French Monarchy; the handles on each cannon were two dolphins, and all the pieces displayed the pretentious motto: Nec pluribus impar of Louis XIV, with another more somber one: Ultima ratio regum.

The Prince smiled at the latter motto.

"These days, artillery," he said to himself, "is no longer 'the last argument of kings', but it is of peoples. We have progressed somewhat."

Each of these green cannon had its own name, just as a ship or a regiment. One was named Nero, another Tiberius; farther on Robust and the Snorer opened their round mouths.

On the parapets enclosing the large square on both sides, other more modest, but equally huge and ancient cannon, thrust their mouths out upon the harbor or the open sea. The solid balls of these cannon formed pyramids, and parasitical vegetation had crept in between these iron spheres.

Behind the palace, like the back-drop on a stage, rose the French Mountain of the Tete du Chien, with the windows in the barracks of the Blue Devils, the Chasseurs Alpins, gleaming on its rounded summit. The Monaco plateau was simply the lowest step in the great stairway which the Alps let fall to the sea. Above, clouds were caught amid the peaks, covering them momentarily with a shadow ominous of storm. Below, amid the rose-colored walls and the white towers of the Grimaldi, rose the tropical palms, the cocoanut and plantain trees, giving this Ligurian castle the luxurious aspect of Brazilian farm.

Lubimoff was seated between the cannon, on the parapet that overlooks the open sea, when he saw Novoa strolling along the bulwarks that rise above the harbor.

On recognizing the Prince, the professor hastened forward with outstretched hands.

How likable the Professor seemed! His frank manners had never been so attractive to Michael as they were then. Novoa was greatly pleased at this meeting, attributing it to chance, and the Prince did not see fit to mention his visit to the Museum, so that Novoa would now know that he had come in search of him.

Mechanically they began to promenade between the row of guns and the trees that cast a pallid shade on one side of the Square.

It was Lubimoff who began to talk, questioning Novoa, showing an interest in his affairs and greeting his laments with a kindly smile.

The Professor appeared unhappy. This place with its gay, pleasant life was fatal for study. To think that back in his own country, he had imagined himself making useful discoveries in the mysteries of the ocean! The Casino spread its influence in every direction, reaching even the Museum of Oceanography. Often, while he was studying the plancton, a new idea would occur to him as to how he might penetrate the mysterious workings of the trente et quarante series. Mornings he worked with his thoughts fixed on Monte Carlo; and no sooner did afternoon come, than he felt an irresistible desire to go there. It was useless for him to invent pretexts to remain there on the "Rock." He had lost sums that for him were enormous, and he needed to get them back. He was worried at the thought of the money he had received from home as an advance payment on the modest fortune inherited from his parents.

"Some days, common sense tells me that I ought to return to Spain, and I immediately want to act on that good advice. Unfortunately there are certain things that keep me here and shatter my will power."

"I know what you mean," said Michael smiling. "First of all, there is love."

Novoa blushed, and then accepted the words of the Prince with a comic look of embarrassment. Yes; there was something in that, but love had its disillusionments, the same as gambling.

Lubimoff suddenly saw in his eyes an expression like that of Spadoni's. He, too, knew what had happened, and in speaking of love immediately recalled that absurd duel. But Novoa was a different person, incapable of feeling the malign pleasure of gossips, who rejoice in other people's shortcomings. Besides, Michael felt that he was very frank, and was immediately convinced of this. Quietly, without thinking whether or not his words might annoy the other man, the Professor alluded to what had occurred at Lewis' castle. He lamented it as something illogical and untimely, but had not ceased to be interested in the affairs of the Prince on that account. If he had refrained from going to Villa Sirena, it was in order not to seem forward. He had often talked with the Colonel, asking him to take his best wishes to the Prince.

Then, as though repenting the severity with which he had judged the duel, he hastened to explain. The image of Castro passed through his mind, causing him to look at his comrade with brotherly tolerance.

"I can understand a great many things. I am not a fighting man like you, and nevertheless, I once felt a desire to fight. At present I laugh when I think of it; but, in similar circumstances, I would do the same again. What power women have over us! How they change us!"

The Prince did not protest on hearing that Novoa supposed him to be in love, attributing the duel to a woman's influence. And he continued to remain silent, while the Professor, through a logical association of ideas, began to talk about Alicia. The kindly simple savant showed a keen satisfaction in telling certain news which he thought would please Lubimoff.

He felt a similar interest in his compatriot, Martinez. He did not hate any one. He had even forgotten the disagreements with Castro, which had caused him to leave the comfort and plenty of Villa Sirena.

"That poor Lieutenant is less fortunate than you, Prince: this duel has been rather hard on him. I enjoy a certain intimacy with people who are close to the Duchess de Delille.... I do not need to say any more: you understand that I am in a position to know what is going on in the Villa Rosa. Well, then; since the duel, I don't know what has happened, but Martinez calls at that house less frequently. Whole days go by without his daring to ring at the door. Sometimes he goes there, and a person whom you know tells me that the Duchess refuses to see him. At present he is a mere visitor, a friend like any other. The Duchess is anxious to avoid their former intimacy; she continues to send him little gifts at the Officers' Hotel, and to look after his comfort. She sends the young lady who is a friend of mine to find out if he needs anything, but she receives him only at rare intervals. The lunches and dinners each day have come to an end, with that life in common, which would have been complete if he had slept in the house. And the poor boy seems sad, and full of despair at this change."

The Professor was encouraged in his confidences on noting the pleasure with which the Prince received them.

"A certain person," he continued, after some hesitation, "who has spent several nights in the street where the Duchess lives—the deuce, a certain person! Why shouldn't I tell the whole truth—I, who sometimes spend hours in the neighborhood of Villa Rosa, waiting for the young lady in question, have surprised Martinez near the house, slinking by close to the gate, looking at the windows. Poor boy! And they tell me that during the day time, when he is afraid that the Duchess won't receive him, he goes by there, just the same."

Lubimoff was stirred by a double feeling: one of rage, at the conviction that he had made no mistake: that little soldier boy was in love with Alicia; and one of delight on learning that he was not received in the house, as before, and was hovering about the neighborhood in vain. It was a negative sort of joy for him, but joy at any event, to see that youth in a situation like his own.

Novoa, being a man of simple tastes, could not understand love except under conventional circumstances, and between people of similar ages; and he laughed at this passion of the officer, as though it were something exceedingly amusing.

"How absurd! To fall in love like that with a woman old enough to be his mother!"

The Prince started on hearing this, looking fixedly at his companion. No; the Professor had discovered nothing. He was laughing at his own reflections, without any indirect insinuations. No one but Lubimoff himself could possibly know Alicia's real secret.

They walked back and forth several times between the cannon and the trees. Suddenly, the bells of the churches and convents in Monaco, began to ring, answering, through the luminous atmosphere, those of the Monte Carlo frontier.

Twelve o'clock! Novoa became restless. He was a man of fixed habits, and besides, the Monaco people at whose house he was living were absolutely punctual in their meal hours. To think that there was not a restaurant in Monaco, where for once he could be extravagant and invite the Prince! The latter proposed that he accompany him to the far-off Villa Sirena to lunch together. It was so pleasant to be in his company! He gave him such interesting news!

"Impossible!" the Professor hastened to say. "I must see some one in Monte Carlo as soon as I finish my lunch. They will wait for me."

And the Prince did not insist, guessing that the person referred to was Valeria.

A single carriage had taken refuge in the pale shade of the trees. It had remained there after bringing some tourists who, on coming out of the Museum, preferred to return on foot by the ancient path along the fortifications.

Michael got into it, and drove to Villa Sirena.

The rest of the day and a great part of the night passed very pleasantly for him. He was going over and over in his memory the news he had just heard. It had not been a bad day. He scarcely remembered Castro. Castro was in Paris; that was the one thing certain. On the other hand, the misfortune of Martinez made him hum gaily to himself, and this unusual good humor quite deceived the Colonel.

"All I say is, Your Highness ought to go out, and see people. I was sure that to-day's walk would do you a world of good."

The following day, the Prince had an even pleasanter surprise. He had finished his lunch, when his valet announced ceremoniously: "Dr. Novoa, the professor, to see you, sir."

Michael, having a presentiment that it meant something very interesting for him, received the Spaniard with extraordinary effusion, such as Toledo had never seen before. "Awfully good of you to come, Novoa! You don't mean to say you have had your lunch already? What a regular life you Monaco bachelors lead! Well, at least, you'll have coffee with me?"

And the Prince hastily finished his lunch and went into the salon, where coffee and liqueurs were waiting. The impatience of the visitor to talk with him privately was so obvious, that Lubimoff hastened to invent an excuse for Don Marcos to go away.

When they were alone, Novoa left his cup on the little table, took several puffs at his cigar, as though to summon all his strength of will, and finally said in a resolute voice:

"I have a message to give you: a certain person sent me here ... and I suspect that I am playing a rather cheap rÔle. A man like myself doing such errands as this!... Besides, men ought to help one another. You who are a real gentleman, may perhaps consent to do something for me...."

And the good Professor talked as though he felt himself united with the Prince by a sort of professional comradeship, by being in the same condition.

Lubimoff, anxious to know the message, gave a look of acquiescence. Yes: it was true; he was capable of doing anything for him that he might ask. At that moment he felt the savant his best friend. But what was the message?

Novoa continued, with a certain hesitation. The day before, after his meeting with the Prince, he had seen that young lady ... that young lady who is a companion to the Duchess. He had told her everything; a bad habit he had, but lovers cannot always talk about themselves.

"We were together at a concert, and this morning she came to the Museum to tell me to see you immediately. I refused at first to take the message, but you know what women are. Besides, the young woman has a mind of her own. To make it short, here I am repeating what I was told."

He was silent for a moment, and after looking all around, he added, in a mysterious voice:

"This afternoon, at St. Charles."

On his way there Novoa had been worried by the obscurity of the message. What St. Charles was it? A hotel? A promenade? As a resident of Monaco, the Professor knew only the Casino in Monte Carlo. The one thing certain in his mind was that Valeria's message came from the Duchess.

Michael made an effort to hide the joy which these words gave him. Alicia was looking for him! In spite of his satisfaction he felt a need of asking for fresh details. Hadn't Novoa been told the time?

"No, Prince. 'This afternoon, at St. Charles'; not another word more. The young lady almost became angry because I asked her to make it clearer. I told you that when we are by ourselves she can be cross—like all the rest. She told me that you would understand the message at once."

Lubimoff nodded in affirmation; yes, he understood. What a nice fellow the scientist was! At that moment he wished him every sort of happiness that men can enjoy. If he had not known Novoa's scruples and his pride, he would have asked Don Marcos for all the money there was in the house, to hand it to him in handfuls. But since a material gift was quite out of the question, he expressed the hope that Valeria, whom he had always considered an ambitious climber, would bring happiness and beauty into the Professor's life. His satisfaction made him so optimistic that he even believed that he had been mistaken in regard to her, and he endowed the Duchess' companion with a great number of hidden virtues.

Toledo had returned, and the Prince, who wanted to please Novoa, talked to him about Oceanographic explorations, displaying a lively curiosity in his questions, though his thoughts were far away.

But this attempt at flattery was wasted. The Professor replied to his questions with hesitation. He was in a hurry; some one was waiting for him ... doubtless Valeria needed to know the result of his errand at once. And the Prince also displayed a certain haste in accompanying him to the gate, with the greatest possible show of friendliness. He must return often to Villa Sirena; he was his one real friend. What a pity he refused to live there, as he had formerly!

When Lubimoff found himself alone, he went upstairs to his rooms on the second floor. He was afraid the Colonel would guess the cause of his satisfaction. A sensation of pride and triumph mingled now with the joy of the first moment.

He thought of his situation, Don Marcos had remained silent since the duel, and he, himself, a prey to loneliness, had been in the depths of despair, imagining himself the laughing-stock of every one.

Now he could see things clearly, Alicia wanted to come back to him. She had fallen in love with him again. Everything showed that: the Lieutenant practically expelled from the house, which two weeks before he had considered as his own; and his former protectress avoiding him, so that his visits were becoming rare. Doubtless, on learning through Valeria that her former lover had voluntarily left his retirement in Villa Sirena, she was hastening to make an immediate appointment with him in haste to resume their former relations.

He congratulated himself on his unexplainable aggressiveness which had impelled him to offend Martinez. He, who, in the last few days had repented of that mad affair! What had weighed upon him like remorse, was perhaps the most sensible and opportune act of his life. Alicia, seeing that, mad with jealousy, he was doing something which many people considered absurd, fighting for her sake, doubtless felt flattered in her vanity, and was looking upon him now with new interest.

"Oh, these women!" thought Lubimoff. "You've got to know them. They have an instinctive admiration for the strong. There is nothing like an act of brutality at the right moment to conquer them. They take a certain joy in yielding to a man who impresses them by violence."

This had been his first happy moment in many, many days. Once more he was the Prince Lubimoff who had always had his way, triumphing on obstacles, sometimes with his money, but more often with his imperious pride.

Satisfied with his rough strength, he felt the need of making himself handsome before keeping the engagement. He was thinking of the males of the animal kingdom, who in addition to teeth, claws, and spurs, have combs, manes, and plumage to fall back on when it comes to inspire a sort of mystic slavish admiration in the females. It was the same among human beings. Education, laws, and traditions do nothing but disguise the barbaric foundations of human nature.

His thoughts were interrupted by something which worried him. At what time should he appear at the place indicated. It occurred to him, that as no hour was mentioned, it must be the same as that of the previous meeting at the door of St. Charles. But he finally was convinced that the Professor had forgotten something, and his uneasiness made him keep the engagement much earlier.

He spent more than three hours waiting anxiously, wandering about the streets in the neighborhood of the church, standing motionless at the corners, and changing from one place to another on noticing the curiosity of the passersby. He entered St. Charles several times, and was always greeted by the same sight: the multi-colored stained glass windows growing paler and paler, as the daylight waned, the clusters of flags, the altar pieces breaking the shadow with the dull splendor of their gold background, and women kneeling and motionless; women who seemed the same as on the other occasion, as though weeks had been minutes.

With the superstitious feeling of those who wait, he said to himself that Alicia surely would not appear until nightfall, and the day seemed endless to him.

As night came on he began to doubt.

"She won't come. She must have repented."

He was standing on the corner of a curved and sloping street adjoining the church. From there he could observe the steps leading to the little square with the sunken boulevard. No one climbed them; all the carriages passed without stopping.

Suddenly, he had a sensation that some one was approaching from behind. He heard a light step, and on turning his head, he saw a woman in mourning.

Suddenly recovering his triumphant joy, he forgot everything: his long wait, his doubts and the fatigue of standing there in endless expectation. He was so sure of the motive which had induced her to ask for this interview, that he went forward to meet her with chivalrous cordiality.

"Oh, Alicia!" he said, holding out both hands at once.

But his hands clutched unavailingly at empty space, without finding anything to take hold of, and finally dropped in dismay.

Lubimoff felt disconcerted at the expression on the woman's face. All the ideas that had been with him until that moment were so many illusions. They vanished in an instant, leaving him dismayed face to face with reality. Of that reality there could be no doubt. There was a look of hardness in the eyes that surveyed him fixedly.

Alicia spoke rapidly, as though she had come on a matter of business with a person rather distasteful to her and wanted to end it as soon as possible, and be rid of his presence.

There was a money matter between them which had to be settled. She had not written to him because, since certain recent happenings, she felt a letter was inadvisable. Besides, she could neither go to Villa Sirena, nor receive him at her home. For that reason, on hearing the day before that Michael, whom she imagined ill, had been seen taking a walk, she had boldly made an appointment with him there, so that they might see each other for a few moments. That was all.

"Let us talk like business men; business men who are in a hurry and do not waste words. I owe you some money and it is impossible for me to have any peace of mind until I return it to you: three hundred thousand francs which your mother gave me, and what you lent me in the Casino—perhaps something more. I have enough to pay you. If you don't care to take the matter up, send me Toledo."

Lubimoff stood there dumbfounded at these unexpected words. After making this proposal, she seemed anxious to get away. Now she had said all she had to say; it annoyed her to remain there with the Prince; she had nothing to add.

"No!" said Michael energetically.

So that was why she had called him? And that was all she had to say to him, after they had been separated for so long?

His refusal was so resolute, and his pained surprise was reflected in his features in such a manner, that Alicia felt it useless to insist.

"Very well; let's not say anything more. I know your character, and I know that we would stay here arguing for hours without any result. I shall try and find a way to return what belongs to you. Good-by, Michael!"

The Prince tried to stop her by gently taking one of her hands, but she withdrew it with a nervous gesture of repulsion.

"And you are going away!" he said in a tone of deep discouragement.

The humility in his voice seemed to irritate the Duchess, causing her to stop as she was turning away.

"What did you think?" she asked indignantly. "I am surprised at your self-absorption, your failure to think of other people. Michael! Michael! You'll always be the same; you don't consider any one but yourself: nothing counts but your own desires. You've hurt me so much! And now you say like a child: 'And you are going away, ...' What, pray, did you expect after your despicable conduct? I want you to realize it once for all: I despise you. Your presence is odious to me. I despise you!"

Poor Lubimoff saw his conduct once more as he had during his days of voluntary confinement. Alas! Where were the deceitful dreams that had cheered him until then? His sadness, and his repentance were so obvious that Alicia softened the tone of her words.

"Perhaps despise is not the word; but I am sure that you fill me with pity; pity much like that which I feel for myself. We are two poor, mad creatures, Michael: our misfortunes have followed us a long way."

Recalling their lives, Alicia thought of builders who make a serious mistake in putting in the foundation of a building, and go on raising it, imagining that their work is in a straight line, without observing that it is entirely out of plumb, owing to the defect in its base.

"We began wrong. If the world had gone on the same as before, perhaps we would have been able to keep on our feet and be triumphant. Our surroundings sustained us: we were like children."

But the Universal cataclysm had made them lose their balance forever. They were toppling over, with gaps that could never be brought together, ready to fall in a heap.

"We belong to another period, and no one can protect our frailty. I feel pity for you, Michael; and you must feel the same for me, for me, whom you have wronged so deeply!"

The Prince, in spite of his dejected humility, protested. He had been imprudent: that was sure. His aggression in the Casino and the miserable duel had caused a stupid scandal to be sure. But what irreparable harm did she mean, that caused her such profound sorrow? How could his madness, which injured him only, making him the object of comments and laughter, cause her such despair?

Alicia interrupted him with a gesture of impatience, as though she felt it impossible to make him understand her thoughts.

"Look," she said pointing to the church door. "Before, I could go in there. Remember the last time that we saw each other on this spot. I had just been praying, and talking with my son; it was an illusion perhaps; but illusions help us to live. And now it is impossible for me; I feel remorse where before I found hope. And I have you to thank for this, you who took away the last consolation that I had invented for myself."

She no longer looked at the Prince with hostile gaze. Her trembling voice, and her moist eyes, were those of a poor woman making an effort to hide her emotion. Michael stammered in embarrassment, not knowing what to do or say. Had he really been able to do her such an evil turn? When? How?

Alicia, deaf to his questions, was thinking only of herself and her misfortune.

"I had a son, and I lost him," she went on saying. "He was my hope, my one reason for living. The suffering made me look for consolation. What would become of us if we did not have the power of deceiving ourselves by creating new illusions? And I had a second son, a son whom I invented, sad, condemned to die, but young like the other, unfortunate like the other, and lacking a mother to bring joy to his last days. I wanted to be that mother. I can feel only the sweet, protecting joy of maternity; my rÔle as a woman is over: all I can see in a man is a son, and you take away this last consolation! You robbed me of my poor joy!"

Lubimoff began to understand. Alicia was talking about Martinez; and he felt once more the sting of jealousy.

"When we saw each other here the last time I had sought a quiet refuge within my sorrow. I was praying for my son in the church, talking with him, and telling him how he was a brother in misfortune to one who was still alive, but who perhaps would soon go to join him. Then, on returning home I found the other, and my illusion was so great, that I was able to fuse them into a single person, imagining that time and the war were all a dream, and that my son was still alive, and had returned from his captivity and was by my side. They do not look alike, I am sure, although I avoid looking at George's pictures—but they seem to me the same; it is the uniform, misfortune, and nearness to death. Besides, the poor boy was so good! He was so timid, satisfied with anything, looking at me with the sweet look of a gentle little creature: he who is so proud! He venerated me like a being descended from an upper world. I was his mother. His words and looks breathed a feeling of deep respect. I wasn't a woman to him: I was something like the angels. And you, with your crazy interference, have spoiled it all. He is no longer my son: my dream has ended. I am obliged to do without his presence, and it is only at rare intervals that he finds open to him a house which I had taught him to consider his home. Through your fault, this boy, in whom I saw a son, is now merely a man, and I, his mother, have become once more a woman."

Lubimoff's features became dark and gloomy with an earthly cast, as on the afternoon of the duel. He was beginning to understand.

"What did you do, Michael!" she continued in a tearful voice. "You aroused the poor boy by your madness. On fighting you, he imagined he was fighting for me, and that I was simply a woman. He saw me suddenly in a new light, as though he had been asleep until then. I might almost be his mother; for women of my class prolong their youth, preserve it artificially, and we are still desirable when women of the lower classes are already coming to old age. Besides, I understand the element of vanity in his admiration, that vanity which exists in all our sentiments. To him I am the unknown, the mysterious, a great lady, a Duchess, brought by these topsy-turvy days within his reach. Poor boy! A few weeks ago he used to laugh in my presence with childlike simplicity, and look at me placidly, without the shadow of an evil thought in his eyes. He was happy, and so was I; while now...!"

The Prince pictured Martinez pursuing Alicia with his amorous desires. "I'll kill him: I must kill him," he said to himself. But this homicidal anger lasted only an instant. The various scenes of the duel passed through his mind: a vision of himself kissing the officer's hand, in a sudden burst of unexplainable humility, which kept returning to torment him like remorse. What could he do now? After what had happened there was something sacred about the man. And once more he gave himself up to his despair, while Alicia went on talking.

"My dream is dead. My son has become my son once more, and Martinez is a man like any other. At present it is impossible for me to pray; I am ashamed to hold imaginary conversation with my real son. I am assailed by thoughts of what I told him; I am overwhelmed when I think that I go on talking with the other boy, in spite of what he has said to me, of what I read in his glances, and of what I know of his real desires. What a wrong you have done me! I lost one son, and can think of him only with remorse; I invented another, and you have taken him away from me."

Then, as though complaining of some superior force that had presided over her destiny, she added:

"What torture! Not to be able to know quiet friendship, and the tranquil days of maternity. Always to have love looming up in front of one! In my younger days I considered that the one aim of life was to inspire admiration and desire, and now I am punished for that indeed. I sought in you a sustaining friendship, and you immediately desired me. I tried to deceive my maternal longings by caring for an unfortunate boy who may die very soon, and this son of my affections talked to me of love. Is it true that women are never able to enjoy the peace and confidence that come to men quite naturally?"

The Prince expressed his wishes, with eagerness and hatred in his voice.

"Don't see him: break with him; close your door to him forever. In that way you will recover your peace of mind, and I ... I shall be your friend, I shall be anything you desire, it will be enough for me that I see you."

She greeted his last words with a look of incredulity. Men had promised her so often to be friends! Besides, she knew Michael very well, and did not take the trouble to reply. The one thing that interested her was his advice that she definitely reject the wounded man, and not see him any more. Once more her eyes grew moist.

"Imagine driving the poor boy away! There are certain things you can't understand; you try to order affections about in the same arrogant way that you formerly disposed of people. Do you think I can abandon him? I am his mother in spite of everything, and you know very well how a mother tolerates and forgives things. The poor boy is not to blame for his evil thoughts; it was you who suggested them to him. Besides, it won't last; I have hopes that his foolish desires will die out."

The idea of deserting the crippled soldier aroused her pity, giving an amorous tone to her words.

"What would become of him! He doesn't know any one: he is alone in the world; the other officers are living, in their native land, they have families. Before, he could go and see Clorinda; now 'the General' has gone away, and I am the only one who remains, the only one! And you want me to forget him? You don't know him very well; you are an enemy of his. It is such a delight for me to recall the period of his innocence. He was like my son; no; there was something more about him; a thankfulness, a capacity for veneration concentrated entirely on me, such as I had never known before. You forget how his life hangs on a thread. Nor does he realize it himself; he does not know the real situation he is in; he has illusions of healthy youth; he thinks he will live for many years. Poor fellow! How hard it is for me to pretend that I am angry, to reject him with indignation because of the desires he feels for me ... me, who only want to be his mother!"

This tone of sweet pity wounded her listener. Alicia seemed to feel the remorse of a death watch obliged to deny a condemned criminal the satisfaction of his last whim. She was lamenting like a nurse who cannot give a dying man what he asks for in his last gasps.

Michael felt that he guessed the secret of the last interviews between this pseudo-mother and her adopted son. Perhaps she talked to him about his health, momentarily refusing to flatter him in his illusions of health, revealing to him the danger to which his life was exposed; and he, in a suicidal ardor of passion, was perhaps entreating her like a child who has placed all his dreams in a toy: "once, just once."

He was convinced that this was the truth of the matter. He read it in her eyes, which in turn seemed to guess what the Prince was thinking, and she blushed slightly.

"What harm you have done me," she repeated. "I must send him away from me, and I can't bear to desert him. It would be a crime if I abandoned him to his fate. You don't know what this constant struggle means to me. At times I see him hovering around my house; hidden behind the window blinds, I look at him, and I can hardly repress my tears. He seems so sad! I remember my son, who also lived alone, even more friendless than he, and who perhaps became interested in some woman, anxiously desiring many things without succeeding in possessing them, and I feel a desire to call to him, to shout: 'Since that is your dream, my dear child, your last wish in life, take it! Take it, and be happy!' Yet I think of his health, I think of many other things, and I restrain my impulse, and weep, letting him wander about near my house, imagining himself forgotten, though I am thinking of him all the time. Alas! May God give me strength! May I not lose my self control! May I continue to resist my absurd charitableness! Sometimes I fear I won't."

"Oh, Alicia!"

The Prince uttered the words in a tone of desperation. His presentiment was becoming a reality; he could already see that dying youth possessing what he had not been able to obtain. There was a look of homicidal anger in his eyes.

This hostile expression annoyed Alicia, making another woman of her. The harsh look and the cutting tones which had accompanied her arrival appeared in her once more.

"Enough said. I came here to return your money. You refuse to take it? You refuse? Very well, I will find a way to make you. Good night, Michael!"

As a matter of fact, night had fallen, and the Prince saw her disappear in the shadows of the street whence she had come: a street dimly lighted by a single blue street lamp.

For a moment, he thought of heading her off, humble and entreating. He would never see her again: he was sure of that. But at the same time he perceived the uselessness of insisting. She wanted him to forget her; the interview had merely been to suppress all traces of the past still existing between them. And he allowed her to pass out of his sight.

From that day on, the life of the Prince lacked a purpose. Something had broken within him: his will had crumbled to dust, enveloping his senses in a sort of fog. What was to be done? Not even the narrowest of paths remained open to his initiative. Alicia hated him as though he were an enemy. It meant good-by for all time! There still remained the other man, but the Prince was invulnerable as far as Martinez was concerned.

It was enough for him to think of what had happened in Lewis' castle to lose all intention of violence. He cursed his Slavic sentimentality, so confused and incoherent, like his mother's, which prevented him from going to the end in malice, and causing him to fall, when he least expected it, into exaggerated submission. Alas, for his tears of repentance! Alas for that kiss on his adversary's hand! If he avoided returning to the Casino, it was in order not to meet Martinez and those two Captains who had witnessed the incomprehensible conclusion of the duel. He no longer had the energy to impose his will; his former harshness of character had melted with the catastrophe of his desires.

He shut himself up once again in Villa Sirena, in order not to see any one. He hated people, and at the same time he thought with a certain terror of the ill-concealed smiles that might greet his passing, and the remarks that might be exchanged behind his back.

Don Marcos was the one companion of his loneliness; and Lubimoff, who during the first few days exchanged but a few words with him, finally came to wish that he would hurry back from Monte Carlo, at nightfall, in order to hear the news, which in other days he would have considered insignificant. They entered into long conversations on what was going on in the Casino, or on the happenings of the world. It was the curiosity of a prisoner or an invalid, who takes an exaggerated interest in things, as he loses his sense of values, owing to his inability to move about in his confinement.

The Colonel was giving less and less importance to the events of daily life. All his attention had been focused on the Atlantic Coast and the opposite shores of the ocean.

"They keep on coming!" he said, after greeting the Prince. "The Americans keep on coming: a regular crusade. There are hundreds of thousands of them; there are millions. And to think that a lot of people considered the talk of sending armies from America mere bluff!"

He was really indignant at such ignorance, quite forgetting his skepticism of a few months before.

"A great country! And that fellow Wilson, what a man!"

At present he believed the American people capable of accomplishing anything they set out to do, no matter how extraordinary; but his old-fashioned ideas prevented him from feeling sustained enthusiasm for anything collective and abstract, without human physiognomy. The former partisan of absolute monarchy, preferred individuals: one man to think for the rest, and give them orders. And after a few words, his enthusiasm for the American democracy began to shrink in scope until it rested in concentrated form on the head of Wilson.

"The greatest man in the world!"

His eyes moistened with idolatrous fervor as he read the President's speeches; he exhausted all his vocabulary of superlatives in expressing his admiration for the personage who had made a great people unsheath their swords, disinterestedly, in defense of justice and liberty, and who prophesied at the same time a future of peace for mankind, with no greedy nations to menace the life of the humble and the weak.

One evening he found a new phrase to express his admiration.

"What a poet!" Lubimoff, in spite of his melancholy, began to laugh. President Wilson a poet!

Don Marcos, stammering at the laughter of his Prince, tried to explain himself. Perhaps "poet" was not just the word to express his thought accurately. But poet he would call him nevertheless, and with good reason. A poet for the Colonel was a seer, who says very beautiful things about the future of mankind; a prophet who dreams upon his heights, embracing with his glance all that the common crowd swarming below cannot see; a being who, on speaking, in whatever form he may choose, succeeds in making people who are listening blink their eyes with emotion, while a shiver runs down their spines.

His tongue became twisted as he said this but above his stammering, arose a firm unshakable conviction.

"After all, I know what I mean. For me, he is a poet: a man who has wings ... very long wings."

The Prince began to laugh again. Wilson with wings! He imagined the President with his high hat, his glasses, and his kindly smile, and growing out from each shoulder of his long coat two enormous feathery triangles like those of the angels in religious paintings. What an amusing fellow the Colonel was!

Then suddenly he became thoughtful, while his features took on an expression of great seriousness.

"You are right," he said. "I can see him with wings, wings that are too long perhaps. A great thing when it comes to flying, but when one is obliged to live among men, and has to walk along on the ground!... I am afraid he will drag his wings; I am afraid they will be stepped on some day, and that people will find them a great nuisance...."

And they dropped the subject.

The Prince wanted to break the confinement which he had voluntarily imposed upon himself. Why should he stay there at Villa Sirena, near certain people who constantly occupied his thoughts yet whom he did not wish to see? The best thing would be for him to return to Paris as soon as possible. The long range cannon was continuing to fire on the Capital; almost every week squads of German aeroplanes made night excursions about it, dropping explosives. Such a trip offered the inducement of danger and excitement to the lonely man, tormented in his perfect health by an inactive and monotonous life, which offered nothing more stimulating than the irritations to be derived from his recent experiences.

Every morning, when he got up, he formulated the same plan: "I am going to Paris." But the trip kept being put off from week to week. It was a case of abulia, the loss of will power of an invalid, who makes projects of active life, and no sooner attempts to carry them out, than he loses his strength again, and postpones them indefinitely.

The most insignificant details loomed gigantically before his diseased will. He had to go to Nice to make reservations at the Sleeping-car Office. He thought of sending Don Marcos; then refrained, considering it preferable to go himself. And days went by without his taking the short ride preliminary to his Paris trip. Both of them seemed equally long. He, who had thrice circumnavigated the globe, wearily shrunk at the thought of the slowness of travel due to the war. Just imagine sixteen hours on a train!

One afternoon, bored by his splendid gardens,—now so monotonous!—by the silence of his house,—now so deserted!—and by the increasing absent-mindedness of the Colonel, who was always having something to do either in Monte Carlo, or in the gardener's pavilion, Lubimoff started out on foot toward the City. And he met some one.

He had turned quite mechanically and without thinking in the direction of the upper boulevards, near the street in which Villa Rosa was situated. When he realized this, he decided to turn back. Just then he saw Lieutenant Martinez coming along on the opposite sidewalk, in the direction that he himself had been going a few moments before.

The soldier seemed to him taller, stronger, and as it were, surrounded by a halo of glory. His uniform was the same, frayed and old looking after some years of service; but to the Prince it seemed entirely new, even dazzling in its freshness. Everything about the Lieutenant looked magnificent and he seemed to illumine the objects about him by mere contact. His features perhaps were paler and more angular; but Michael imagined that he radiated a certain inner splendor, composed of pride and satisfaction. A sort of ethereal mask, enveloping him in astral light, made him appear handsome and gave him a new physiognomy, Apollo-like and triumphant.

They passed without speaking. The Lieutenant pretended not to see him, as Lubimoff's eyes followed him with a questioning glance. What was there that was new in this man? The Prince doubted that lack of sound health, that perilous condition which worried the doctors so much. It was all a lie made up to impress the ladies! He noticed the proud firmness of the soldier's step, the jaunty, boyish air with which he swung the rattan he used as a cane.

On losing him from sight, he could see him even more clearly. His imagination kept vividly recalling certain details over which his eyes had wandered carelessly. There was something that stood out in painful relief in his memory: a few roses, a little bunch of roses, which the soldier was wearing on his breast, between two buttons of his uniform. An officer with flowers seemed rather strange! That was what had shocked the Prince at the first glance, shocked him so violently that his whole vision had been deeply disturbed. Yes, those flowers!...

He spent the rest of the day thinking about them. As he stretched out in his bed that night, darkness clarified the maze of thoughts and doubts whirling in his brain. He could see it all in a cold clear light. "It has happened already!"

He jumped out of bed and turned on the light, pacing up and down his bedroom in a fury.

"It has happened already!"

He kept repeating the words with anguished obsession; he repented his generosity, as though it were a crime. "Why didn't I kill him?" Then in plaintive tones he would repeat his original affirmation, concluding that what had happened was irreparable. Then he put out the light again; and for a long time, in the darkness, which once more filled the bedroom, the curses of the Prince resounded, alternating with fierce exclamations of wounded pride and sobs of rage.

The following day his conviction still persisted. The childlike beauty of the morning, which always inspires optimism, meant nothing to him. How was he to know the truth about that thing which he had suspected and feared, but which he never imagined would really come to pass?

A desperate curiosity caused him to spend the entire day in Monte Carlo. He met Martinez again. The officer kept on walking, turning his glance away in order not to see him; but the Prince imagined he caught a fleeting look of generous pity in his eyes, an expression of compassion for an unfortunate and inoffensive rival. Again he was wearing flowers; doubtless different from those of the day before.

Lubimoff repeated to himself the laments of the previous night: "Yes, it had already happened." It was impossible to doubt it. But the thought of killing him did not recur, nor did he repent of his generosity. That was all so useless now! He merely thought with envy of people in the submerged classes of society, who feel the impulses of passion very simply, without any disturbing sense of honor and solemn promises. They were men who could act regardless of laws and customs. When they wanted to kill some one, they went and did so!

He saw that Martinez was thinner than ever, with a feverish look in his eyes. Oh, that indefinable something, that suggestion of youthful vanity, of triumph and satisfaction, which seemed to radiate from his features like a halo of glory!

That evening, Toledo found himself brusquely repelled by his Prince, when he tried to tell him about a letter which he had received from Paris. The Administrator of the Prince's estate was getting impatient; he was asking for a reply from his Highness in regard to the sale of Villa Sirena.

"I don't know; leave me alone. The best thing is for me to arrange the matter myself. I'll go to Nice to-morrow and see about my trip to Paris.... No, not to-morrow: day after to-morrow."

He could not explain to himself why he had conceded that additional day to his idleness: it was an instinctive postponement, without any motive whatsoever. The following day, after breakfast, he regretted it; but it was already too late to find the chauffeur he had gotten the afternoon of the duel, and whom Don Marcos had just promoted to the rank of "purveyor to his Highness."

Where could he go, and be sure of not coming across the persons present so bitterly in his thoughts? Toward the end of the afternoon he went to the Casino terraces. There was an open air concert which was attracting a huge crowd. It was improbable that Martinez and the woman should show themselves in such a gathering.

It seemed as though he were living in peace times; as though he had gone back to one of those rare winters which used to attract all the wealthy people of the globe to the Riviera. Both terraces were filled with well-dressed people. The bombardment of Paris and the attacks of the German Gothas were keeping a great many elegant ladies in Monte Carlo who formerly would have felt they were losing caste if they stayed on the warm coast when winter was over.

Chairs were lacking. A large part of the audience was seated on the balustrades and steps. Around the orchestra kiosque there was a mass of pleasant colors, formed by women's hats, spring dresses, and fluttering fans. Opposite the terraces the sea stretched away between the rose-colored promontories. The far-away sails reddened by the setting sun seemed like so many flames. Across the violet surface of the Mediterranean and the crystal opalescence of the evening sky the music fell voluptuously.

Nobody was thinking about the war: that was a calamity that belonged to another world, to other skies. Even the convalescent soldiers in uniform, who were living entirely in the present moment, breathing the salt air, listening to the wail of the violins, and surrounded by gayly dressed women, did not seem to remember it. Many eyes were following the progress, along the horizon line, of a string of ships strangely painted like fabulous monsters, and escorted by several torpedo boats. But the lulling music that rang in the ears of the idlers took all significance away from the fearful disguise of the boats, and from the cautious slowness with which they were gliding along off the Shores of Pleasure.

When, after seven o'clock, the concert was over, the terraces gradually emptied. On the benches only a few couples remaining, putting off the time of parting by conversing quietly in the silence of the blue twilight.

The Prince succeeded in walking from one end to the other of the lower promenade without once having to submit to contact with the crowd.

Suddenly he stopped, with a feeling of surprise and pain, as though he had just received a blow in the breast. Down the wide steps which joined the two terraces, a couple were descending. His instinct recognized them even before he could see them clearly. It was a soldier. It was Lieutenant Martinez ... and she!

Alicia was dressed in mourning, just as he had seen her near the church; but she was walking less resolutely, shrinking and timid, on finding herself on that spot which shortly before had been occupied by all her neighbors from the city.

They were talking as they slowly descended. Absorbed in the view out upon the sea, they did not turn their eyes toward the spot where Lubimoff was standing motionless. At the bottom of the stairs they chose to walk in the opposite direction, and the Prince was able to follow them.

He felt that some extraordinary power of divination was sharpening his faculties; a sort of second sight which was enabling him to see and study both their faces, in spite of the fact that their backs were turned toward him.

Alas, that walk! It was the desire for light and open air, which people feel after a sweet confinement. It was the insolent need lovers have of displaying their happiness in public, when the joyous hours, through monotonous repetition, begin to weigh on them. It was the desire of prolonging in the sight of every one the sweet intimacy enjoyed in secret and now spiced with the added incentive of being obliged to feign, and to hide all real feelings.

Michael considered his intuitions as beyond all question. Of course! It was the officer who had proposed that walk. How proud he would be to walk in a public place with a celebrated lady, and in full consciousness of the new rights he had acquired over her! It was no longer possible for him to question the visualization which had made him groan in the silence of the night.... It had taken place! It had taken place!

Alicia's appearance dispelled all doubts in advance. She was walking along with a certain dismay like a person obliged to go on in spite of herself. He could see her invisible features. They were sad, profoundly sad, with a melancholy look of the woman who has fallen and is conscious of her abasement, but considers it irremediable, the result of an irresistible destiny, of a cause beyond the radius of the will's action.

Her head kept bending down to one side toward her companion, for her eyes to gaze on him. It must have been the gaze of a willing prisoner anxious to forget the pangs of remorse and taking a sensuous satisfaction in her shameful slavery. While her soul shrank away at the memory, her body was bending under physical attraction to that other body, instinctively seeking the contact that was causing her youth to bloom again in a new spring-time; a sad spring-time, like all the surprises of fate, but sweeter far than the dull gray hours of solitude.

Hate, repugnance, and indignant jealousy caused the Prince to stop. Why should he follow them? They might turn their heads and see him. He was ashamed at the thought of meeting them. The wretches! There must be Some One above to punish such things!

And he left them, walking toward the other end of the promenade in order to descend to the harbor of La Condamine.

He was just leaving the terrace when something happened behind his back which brought him to a stop. The couples seated on the benches suddenly rose and ran shouting in the direction whence he had come. He could hear people calling to one another. Some news seemed to be circulating through both levels of the garden, bringing people forth from the walks, from the clusters of palm trees, and the walls of vegetation.

Lubimoff allowed himself to be carried along by this alarm, and retraced his steps. He saw in the distance a noisy mass of people ever increasing in size, a group which was being joined by the winding lines of curiosity seekers running down the steps. The garden, which a moment before had been deserted, was pouring forth people from every opening.

As he drew near the crowd, he could hear the comments of various detached onlookers, who were telling the news to the new arrivals.

"A convalescent officer.... He was taking a walk with a lady.... Suddenly he fell in a heap, as though struck by lightning. There he is."

Yes; there was Martinez, in the center of that human mass, a pitiful object, lying on the ground, with his body bent into the shape of a Z: his head made a right angle with his breast, and his legs were doubled, making another angle. Lubimoff came forward until he could look over the shoulders of the first row of stupefied onlookers. A constant sound of hard breathing, a rattle like that of some poor beast in the death agony kept coming from his foaming lips. In his motionless body, the only sign of life was that moan, repeated with clock-like regularity, with no change in the tone.

Officers were leaving their women companions to force their way into the center of the crowd. On recognizing Martinez, their surprise assumed a caressing brotherly expression.

"Antonio! Antonio!"

They bent over him to talk in his ear, as though he were asleep; but Antonio did not hear them. One of his eyes was hidden in the dirt of the walk; a small pebble was clinging to the eyelid of the other. All one side of his uniform was white with dust. The terrible harsh breathing was the only reply to their words of endearment.

A military doctor stepped through the crowd. He took hold of Martinez's hands, and felt his pulse. A look of helplessness came over the doctor's face. The Lieutenant had had many attacks like this one. They could only hope that it was not to be his last....

Lubimoff could see Alicia kneeling on the ground, stunned by the shock, showing the sinuous curves of her back, under her mourning garments, oblivious of everything about her, with her eyes fixed on the man who a few minutes before had been walking at her side, talking and smiling, convinced that life is happiness, and who now lay stretched in the dust, convulsed and inert, a pitiable vessel slowly emptying itself in dying gasps.

Suddenly she stood up, with an instinctive sense of danger. She did not care to remain in that posture before everybody's gaze. Her large eyes, with a blank, frightened look, began to move about over the crowd, without however recognizing any one. For a moment they rested on Michael and her gaze met his with an expression of anguished entreaty. But the Prince, lowering his head, concealed himself behind the front row of onlookers, and her eyes went on in their search about the circle, with a look that became dull and gray again. She believed, doubtless, that it had been an hallucination.

As Alicia remained standing there, people began to point her out. That was the lady who was with the officer. Some of them recognized her, and repeated her name: "The Duchess de Delille." Through an instinctive feeling of repulsion, or a cowardly desire not to get mixed up in any "affair," no one spoke to her. She was left alone in the center of the crowd, with a look of stupefaction in her eyes, that seemed to ask for help, though without knowing just what help.

Willing souls began to take the initiative with an air of authority.

"Air! Give him air!" They began to shove the crowd back in order to increase the circle around the fallen man. But the people immediately pushed forward again with useless suggestions of aid; and once more the space was narrowed, until the feet of the nearest spectators grazed the panting lips of the dying man.

A young girl had run of her own accord to the bar at the entrance of the Casino and was coming back with a glass of water.

"Antonio! Antonio!" his kneeling comrades vainly called the Lieutenant, using all their strength to open his jaws and force him to drink. His lips repelled the liquid, and went on repeating the painful moans.

Ladies, attracted by the news, began to arrive from the gambling rooms. They all knew the Duchess; and looked at her with a certain hostility, after gazing at the dying man. The Prince heard fragments of their comment: "A poor fellow rescued from death by a miracle.... The slightest emotion.... That woman...."

Beyond the group, park policemen were running about giving orders. The stretcher bearers had arrived; the same ones who, according to public rumor, were passed by magic through the walls of the Casino to carry away the gamblers dying in the play-rooms.

This time the stretcher was absent. The onlookers were separating to open the way for an extraordinary novelty. A hired carriage was coming across the terraces, which were forbidden to vehicles.

Suddenly Lubimoff saw the Duchess rise above the heads of the crowd. She had just gotten into the carriage and was standing in it, with a dazed look and the inexpressive features of a person walking in her sleep. Perhaps she had done it without thinking; perhaps the military doctor had invited her to get in, thinking she was a relative of the patient. Several men in uniform lifted the inert body of the officer.

The harsh breathing that rent his chest continued.

And then, in the presence of the crowd, whose eyes were sightless with stupefaction, the Duchess proceeded as though she were alone. She had just dropped to the seat. She had them lay the corpse-like body across her knees, and she herself, as she held Martinez with one arm, laid his panting head against one of her shoulders.

The carriage slowly started off in the direction of the officers' hotel, followed by a large part of the crowd. The doctor went along on foot, telling the driver to go slowly.

Michael saw Alicia pass, upright and rigid in her seat, her eyes wide open, with terror, her mouth tense with grief, and holding the dying man on her knees. Her attitude reminded him of the Divine Mother at the foot of the cross; but there was something impure and shameful in Alicia's sorrow that made the comparison inadmissible.

"Oh, Venus Dolorosa."

The Prince was interrupted in his reflections. He felt himself rudely shoved aside by a woman in uniform. It was Mary Lewis, running, as fast as her legs could carry her, to overtake the carriage. The Amazon of Good Deeds always arrived in time to catch up with suffering.

Lubimoff saw how the vehicle slowly drove away with its embroidery of people. Its journey as far as the hotel would be endless; all Monte Carlo would see it go by.

He felt sad, very, very sad. That officer was his enemy; but death!...

He was not so sorry for Alicia. He smiled a malicious smile as he looked for the last time at the carriage and its following, which was constantly increasing.

In the line of scandals there was nothing commonplace about this latest of the Duchess de Delille.