Jacqueline was protesting to a worried personage in Grand Uniform. The personage was the Cerberus of the Emperor’s antechamber, and he barred her way. He was newly a personage, and did not know Jacqueline.

“But, SeÑor Oficial de Ordenes,” she insisted, “don’t you see that if I put my name in your old register there, the man will be shot while your Dignitaries are deciding to grant my audience!”

“Shot?” vaguely repeated the monarchial flunkey. He was a Mexican, and took his unfamiliar responsibilities seriously. He turned to the Book of Court Etiquette on the centre table.

“I tell you,” exclaimed the impatient girl, “you won’t find any precedence for shooting in that thing. A doomed man hasn’t any, take the word of the Dama Mayor.”

“Dama Mayor?” This was more tangible, and the Grand Uniform seized on it gratefully. “But,” and he quoted from the Ritual in triumph, “no Dama can present herself except on matters of service.”

Jacqueline hedged guilefully. “Of course not,” she agreed, “and it’s precisely that why I must see His Majesty. It’s about, about a piece of valencienne he wished me to bring the Empress from Europe.”

The Oficial de Ordenes hesitated. “But the man to be shot?”

141“No matter, the lace is my business.”

With which assurance, the Grand Uniform presumed to announce la SeÑorita Marquesa d’Aumerle. He reappeared at once from the inner apartment. The Emperor’s order to admit her that instant rather disturbed his faith in the Ritual and the leisurely decorum it prescribed.

Hardly had she stepped within the portiÈres than someone caught her hand, and she saw Maximilian bending over it. There was an involuntary warmth in his formal courtier grace. The only other occupant of the hacienda sala was Bebello, the greyhound. He sprang up from a Hungarian bear rug, and frisked about her joyfully. Her greeting to him was equally sincere. Quietly releasing her hand, she patted him fondly, and cooed endearing French. “My little Tou-Tou! Pauvre petite bÊte!” Then, raising her head, she seemed to perceive His Majesty, “Isn’t a bit older, is he, sire?”

“Mademoiselle!” the man exclaimed reproachfully.

All the time he was staring at her. He stared at the tempestuous ruffling of her petticoat, which had a wanton air that was most disturbing, at the rebosa tossed rakishly over her shoulder, with the waistline beneath as languorously suggested as though she were Spanish-born to rebosas, and lastly, at a freckle on the very tip of the creamy nose. He admired extravagantly, but he was no less amazed to see her at all. A moment before he had supposed her demurely breaking hearts at St. Cloud, and Paris under her feet. He knew how capable she was. It had happened to him. How he had sought her, before she left! And how maddening she was! He could recall nothing of encouragement, and yet, blind, susceptible fool, he had never ceased to be encouraged. She was a master craftsman, since her art was hidden. Then she had gone back to France; some said because of a note from Napoleon. But he was of the gloomy opinion that she had simply ceased to amuse herself. Yet for all that, here 142she was again, and the astonished prince was eager to suffer yet more, if it amused her still.

She explained in a word, as though their meeting in the Huasteca were nothing extraordinary. Away from Mexico, she had discovered that she wanted to return to Mexico. The man left in Mexico would have augured much from this, but at her matter-of-fact tone the glad light faded from his eyes. Jacqueline, by the way, was a good manager. She reminded him that she had no mother nor father nor other relative in France–which disposed of France. Then, though he winced, she added that the experiment of a New World court was a novel spectacle and she enjoyed it more than the conventional affairs in Europe. Accordingly she would resume her place as first lady of honor. At Tampico she had wearied of ocean travel, and–well, that was all.

Maximilian shuddered. He imagined the terrors she must have encountered. “But, mademoiselle, the bandits? You did not come alone through that terrible coast country?”

“Of course not, sire. And that’s why I reveal myself to Your Majesty. You are to save the person that brought me.”

“Have mercy, mademoiselle. One must leap too far who hopes to understand you.”

“But there’s nothing to understand. Your Majesty has only to keep Colonel Dupin from shooting him.”

Maximilian frowned heavily at the Frenchman’s name.

“On the porch just now,” Jacqueline explained, “when you finished speaking, he–the man I am speaking of–announced that he wanted to see you, but the Tiger drew his pistols to shoot him if he moved.”

“Then naturally your friend did not move?”

“Your Majesty does not know him. But he stopped for me.”

“Were you so afraid Dupin would lose his prisoner?”

143“I had no desire to see the prisoner commit suicide. But I had to promise him that he should see Your Majesty later.”

“To beg––”

“He is not one to whine for his life, sire. It is other business he means. But Your Majesty need not hear his business. Your Majesty need only see him. Besides, it would hardly be court usage, granting him an audience so informally, would it?”

“N-o, but if I am not to hear him, why should I see him?”

“To save his life, parbleu!”

“And why, since he is not concerned about that?”

“But I am, sire, and I count on Your Majesty to help me repay an obligation.”

Maximilian was quick at clemency, but no one likes to have his weaknesses played upon.

“Mademoiselle, who is this man? What has he done?”

“An American, sire.” Maximilian frowned. “A Confederate, I believe.” The frown vanished. “And Colonel Dupin believes him to be an accomplice of Rodrigo GalÁn. But he is not. He fought Rodrigo GalÁn, in–in my behalf.”

Maximilian frowned again. “And so,” he said, trying to do it lightly, “I have this unknown American to thank for the pleasure of seeing you, mademoiselle? Otherwise, I should not have known that you were here, and––”

He stopped. The gray eyes were laughing at him. Was his jealousy then so apparent? And was it jealousy? Evidently, since she had discovered it. And that vexed him, because he had supposed that he was hiding his pique under a great self control. Angrily he stepped toward her, but the saucy eyes only grew merrier. Then his mood changed. He resolved grimly on open fighting. He meant to have either decisive honors or a decisive repulse. For it was his tantalizing doubts of her that made her laugh at him. Yet, 144when he spoke, he could not help the quaver of entreaty in his voice.

“Mademoiselle, tell me, why have you returned?”

The question was so abrupt and so stern, she thought in a flash that he must have penetrated that Napoleonic intrigue which had flung her back upon the Western shores. But Maximilian believed he knew another reason for her pallor, and was encouraged.

“You have already given one answer, mademoiselle,” he hurried on, “and in too great a humility to dare hope it otherwise, I took you at your word. But now that you mock me–ah, you shall confess, you are back in Mexico on my account!”

“And would that merit this august displeasure, sire?”

Her words sprang from relief; he suspected nothing of her secret mission. So the color might flood to her cheeks again, the mischief to her eyes, and with it a most perilous daring.

For the Hapsburg, it was coy surrender.

“Mademoiselle–Jacqueline!”

Her name! The old nickname fondly given her in childhood, when she was a torment, and an anarchist to all law, and got innumerable scoldings, and basked unperturbed in love and adoration! Her name, that only Mexico had tainted! For the first time it passed his lips. But the sweet, quaint syllables had long been in his thoughts, with something, too, of the early worship in their bestowal.

Curiously enough, a whimsical hardy figure in homespun gray took acute shape in her mind’s eye. The features were oddly sharp and clear. There was even the rough trooper’s disdain, which had been in his expression when first he saw her, but which she had not noticed at the time. She brushed the vision aside haughtily, as she would have done had the man himself intruded. But she could not stem so easily the wave of self disgust that swept her back from this other man, a prince of Europe. And when she smothered that self-abasement, 145it was a matter of will. She recalled her interview with the Sphinx in the Tuileries. She recalled her country, and the empire she meant to win, a gift to France, worthy of Napoleon, of the Great Napoleon. Then her will became as a master outside of self, and horrid in its iron cruelty. She half lifted her hand, and allowed the royal prince to possess it.

The tapestry behind them parted and fell. A light step crossing the room was suddenly arrested, and a low bewildered cry, half stifled in the utterance, arrested them.

“Fernando!”

The Emperor straightened and wheeled. Turning round, Jacqueline placidly surveyed a young girl, and her brows arched. She was not deceived. There was recognition in the startled gaze of the newcomer, and of Maximilian too. Only for Jacqueline did the situation hold aught that was amusing.

She was Mexican, a beautiful Mexican. She might have been Spanish too, or Moorish even, or perhaps to say that she seemed a gentle, drooping Egyptian would give the better idea of her dark loveliness. Under her skin, under a faintest tinge of brown, the rich blood drove its color through, and blending with that other shade, made the cheeks a dusky ruby, and seemingly softer and warmer. Her figure had prettily rounded curves, and her wine-red dress and the filmy black shawl over her shoulders deepened the tender, trusting depths of two large black eyes. The long lashes were wet with tears. She looked once at the calm French woman, as though afraid of her, and then at Maximilian, and at Maximilian alone. Her gaze was vacant, groping, non-comprehending, yet with a something of heartbreak in the beginning of comprehension.

To the Hapsburg came the dignity of proud generations, exalted above mere human scrutiny. He turned to Jacqueline, “As you see, mademoiselle,” he said coldly, “the stupid lackeys outside have admitted a second visitor. If you will excuse us––”

146“But Fernando––”

This time the girl’s moan throbbed with questioning. She was as far from understanding as before. But she noted unconsciously his princely bearing, his European dress, and the luxury about him in the transformed hacienda sala. Her eyes, in spite of grief and doubts, shone with timid, admiring love. “Que elegante!” she breathed. “Oh, is he not, truly, a caballero!”

“Fernando?” murmured Jacqueline. “BontÉ divine, this is bucolic!”

“But Fernando,” the girl persisted, “who is there to–to admit me? I only come from my room.” With a tremulous gesture she indicated a door which the imperial scene shifters had covered with portiÈres. Maximilian’s surprise at the existence of such a door was genuine. “And I find,” she cried, “I find you here, you, Fernando?”

“There, there, seÑorita,” said Jacqueline kindly, “His Majesty, I imagine, can explain––”

“Majesty?” exclaimed the girl. “Don Fernando–Majesty?” Yet a third time she repeated it, as by rote; and, very slowly, understanding grew into the words, and with understanding, terror. The dark innocent eyes went appealingly from one to the other, and the lids began to flutter wildly in a kind of spasm. “Majesty? Majesty?” Then, suddenly, she flung both hands to her face, and a piteous shivering racked her body.

“Catch her, stupid!” cried Jacqueline. “Don’t you see, the child is fainting!”

But it was into Jacqueline’s readier arms that she fell, and it was Jacqueline who let her slip gently into the high-back chair that was the imperial throne en voyage, under the claws of the oaken Hapsburg griffins.

“Get water! quick–Majesty, you–your cologne flasks!”

147A mist was in the prince’s eyes. “Pobrecita, pobrecita,” he muttered helplessly.

On Jacqueline depended what was next to be done. She ran to the door by which the girl had entered. “See, there’s a corridor here,” she cried, “and that must be her room, there at the end, where the door is open. Help me carry her–unless,” and she deliberately punctuated her scorn, “unless Your Majesty desires to call for aid?”

But His Majesty was so far from desiring anything of the kind that he nodded gratefully, impatiently. So to her own room they bore her between them, and laid her on the bed there. A pewter waiter with napkin and coffee service was on a little table. But the tiny loaf of pan de huevo lay untouched. Her thoughts rather than appetite had possessed the girl when she awoke that morning, and they had kept her until she emerged to stumble upon an emperor in her father’s house.

“Out of here,” ordered Jacqueline. “I am going to call the servants.” She had no sympathy for his wistful, forlorn gazing.

“It’s the end, the end of my idyl,” he murmured.

“Are you going?”

He came nearer instead, and looked in profound melancholy at the girl. The ruby flush was no longer there, and the face was olive and waxen. The lips were parted, baring teeth that were marvelously white. The shawl had fallen to the floor, and an ivory cross on a chain about her neck caught his eye. He turned it over in his hand, and on the gold, where the chain was attached, he saw an inscription.

“MarÍa de la Luz,” he read. “So, that is her name. But I never asked it. Identity would have blighted the idyl.”

“Sire,” Jacqueline protested angrily, “this poor child needs help. I shall––”

148“One moment, mademoiselle, I wish to say that I still do not know who she is.”

Then, with a last sorrowful look, he turned back to his apartment of state.

Jacqueline’s lip curled as she watched him go.

“And you wish me to find out who she is?” she apostrophized his back. “But I shall not tell you. And she–no, she is not the kind that would, knowing who you are.”