Prosper Ronsard, the French minister to Tokio, had formed very early in life the ambition to be a Far Eastern diplomat. His way to the goal was made in regular steps of enjoyment. First there had been Morocco, scarcely more to him now than a far-off memory of yellow sands and white cubes of houses, both emphasized, at effective intervals, by theatrical groups of palms. Then came Cairo,—gay entrancing Cairo! His life there held experiences that old age might lick its chops over. Leaving all else aside, the one flame-tree near his hotel window in Cairo would have burned that memory deep. Then there were French Siam, Tonquin, Nagasaki, and, at last, Tokio.

The hot blood of the East flowed now, as native, in Ronsard's veins; but the keen, calculating, questioning judgment of the European statesman kept cool tenure of his brain. In Tokio he found all past Eastern trickery to be useless chaff. Here were no inferior Orientals to browbeat, threaten, or cajole. From Tonquin to Nagasaki he had crossed more than the Yellow Sea; he had sailed over three submerged centuries and landed on a green cliff. Here, in Japan, were men with reasons as clear as his own, and methods that often proved themselves more effective. In the mission to Tokio he soon realized that his full ambition had been won. Every faculty, trained through long apprenticeship, was here needed; and it was part of his intelligence that at times he realized them all as insufficient. That span of "Mysterious Asia" stretched between Algiers and Tonquin, brilliant and pleasurable indeed, was, from the diplomatic standpoint, a mere dank subway coming up at the central station, Tokio.

The fascinations of the East, potent as they were, could not quite wean the Parisian from love of his native home. Visits to France were made with strict regularity. It was his wont to declare, and with much show of verity, that the perpetual resident of Paris could never know its real charm. To live there always, paying bills, meeting disappointments, enduring illnesses with the inartistic accompaniments of medicine boxes and physicians, was like having an inexhaustible supply of one's favorite vintage kept in a water-cooler on the back gallery. Ronsard had the true sensualist's gift of extracting flavors.

On these home visits he was eagerly sought after by his friends and club fellows, and by the more intelligent among fashionable women. In this latter category shone pre-eminent the widowed Princess Olga Le Beau. Rumor often had it that his next return to the East would be brightened by the wedded companionship of this lady, but each time Rumor hid her face.

The princess had married while yet a schoolgirl. Pierre, her only child, was born within the year of the marriage. Before the boy was ten, his father, Gaston Le Beau, died by accident. Slander called it suicide, and hinted that the princess was the cause. Nothing, however, could have been more decorous or more becoming than the mourning of the princess. As slowly she came back to the world of fashion, Pierre was sent away to England to be educated. A growing stripling of a boy is a fatal gauge to his mother's waning youth. He was seldom pressed to come home during the holidays, Princess Olga preferring to visit him in England (a country which she loathed), or sometimes to take small tours with him through infrequented parts of Europe.

After his very creditable career at an English university, she urged him tenderly further to improve his mind by travel, and hinted that she would prefer a diplomatic career for him. As she spoke, she was thinking of Ronsard, but doubtless had her reasons for not mentioning him. It was not until the young man's year of residence in America, and his own choice of Tokio as a place at which to open his diplomatic primer, that the power of this intimate family friend had been invoked. As we have seen, Princess Olga gave the name, by letter, to her son. Pierre wrote promptly, but the hastened departure of the Todds, and his determination to sail with them and Yuki, would have given him no time to receive a long and thoughtful answer, even had such been written.

Count Ronsard's motto, more or less rigidly adhered to in dealings with his own sex, was "never to write a letter or to destroy one." Knowing that the young man was soon to appear, he calmly waited the event. In official life the French minister was, of course, designated by the simple republican title of "Monsieur." With his friends, the old aristocratic "Count" was permitted and enjoyed. To have slipped Pierre into a second, third, or fourth secretaryship would have been a simple matter. Count Ronsard, however, wisely determined to judge the character of the applicant before admitting him into the bachelor comradeship of the Legation. This square white residence, set in the midst of a fine, walled, daimyo garden left over from feudal days, had never, during the count's long term of service, known feminine sway. High orgies, balls, and state dinners were held there in plenty, but the only women who appeared at them were invited guests or hired geisha. The master of the house carried his bachelor fancy so far that he insisted upon a similar undetached state being preserved by his subordinates.

Count Ronsard was a dilettante in music and art, and a professional lover of beauty, especially in the form presented by his friend and countryman, Bouguereau. His favorite writer was Daudet; his favorite luxury, eating. Withal, he was a trained statesman and a subtle diplomat.

Pierre, upon his arrival in Tokio, had been urged to make the Legation his temporary home. His first question was, of course, for the appointment. Count Ronsard gave evasive reply. As this continued to be the case, Pierre felt, in decency, that he must cease to press the matter. As days passed, and the count, so indulgent, fatherly, and candid in other things, continued to avoid the discussion of Pierre's hopes, the young man could not fail to draw the conclusion that the elder had his personal reasons for not wishing to come to a decision. Pierre did not greatly care. The anxiety about Yuki kept his thoughts busy. More than once he had been on the point of confiding in Count Ronsard and of asking advice, but each time something prevented. Mrs. Todd, in this stress, was his unfailing sympathizer. Gwendolen was kind, but he knew well that there was now, and always had been, a certain reserve in her approbation of his love-affair. The laxity of hours at the French Legation, and the absence of all restrictions, suited well the boy's present restless temper.

The morning after Prince HaganÈ's banquet he woke to a feeling of heaviness and depression that sakÈ could not altogether account for. Small bits of recollection began to sting him like brier-points left under the skin. He saw now, in Yuki's white face, a protest which, twelve hours before, he had wilfully ignored. Gwendolen's eyes flashed again indignant warning. The extreme attentiveness of the host, a lurid after-image of the pictured god, the innumerable small cups that, at the time, had seemed innocuous, came over him in humiliating memories. "Gwendolen was right. It was all a test, and I, as usual, played the impulsive fool!" thought he, bitterly.

On reaching the breakfast-room he was pleasantly surprised to find his host still at table. A heap of letters, opened and unopened, showed the cause of delay. Several with foreign postmarks were at Pierre's plate. As the young man entered, Ronsard touched an electric button, giving four short, peculiar rings. A few seconds later a servant appeared with a tray of steaming coffee and food.

"What news from war-centres, your Excellency?" was Pierre's perfunctory question.

"Mon Dieu, war is surely coming! We are upon the very verge, though our friends the Russians pretend not to believe. Kurino is to abandon St. Petersburg. I still have a gleam of hope that the Japanese will have common intelligence, and withdraw."

"If Kurino leaves, then the Russian minister here must withdraw. I was told yesterday that he too made preparations."

"Each move may be a feint. Diplomacy is largely made up of feints." Here he gave a fleshy shrug. "But, my young friend, our speculations will not change events. As the Japanese say, 'Shi-ka-ta ga nai,' which, being interpreted, means, 'Way out, there is none.' Tell me of yourself. You are pale. Do the joys of Tokio prove too arduous?"

The speaker, lolling back in his leathern chair, lighted another cigarette, his eighth since breakfast, and turned an inquiring leer upon his companion. Pierre was staring into the smoky coal fire. He had scarcely heard Ronsard's last words. Yet all at once he felt that here was an opportunity to ask the advice he had been craving.

"Last night I was at a Japanese banquet, an affair splendid, but small, given to the family of the newly presented American minister, Mr. Todd, by Prince HaganÈ," he began.

Ronsard showed unmistakable interest. "Ah, the prince! The old toad who sits at the heart of empire in Japan. And at his private villa! You are fortunate, Monsieur."

Pierre nodded.

"And you said a family affair. I hear there is a Miss Todd. Am I to understand that you and the charming Mademoiselle—"

Pierre gave a gesture. "No," he said, "not she,—though the charm is unquestioned. Mr. Dodge and I were included because of being ship-comrades with the Todd party. There were also present Miss Onda and her father. Miss Onda was on the ship with us. She was educated in Washington. I knew her there."

"Ah," murmured the other, more thoughtfully. "Rumors of Miss Onda's great beauty are already abroad. They will contemplate an official marriage for her with some fortunate heathen, honored in his own land. Cela!"

"She will marry no Japanese," said Pierre, quickly. He felt Ronsard's upward look, but did not meet it. His heart moved a little faster. This was his first bold step upon a bridge too narrow for turning.

"Ah," murmured Ronsard again.

"Yes," repeated Pierre, "she will marry no Japanese. I—I—am in a position to know."

"She is already betrothed, perhaps?"

"Yes."

"And not to a Japanese?"

"No."

"To an American, I presume. You say she has been educated in that country. Educated! And in America! The thought is droll."

"Not to an American either, your Excellency. To one of your own race,—to a Frenchman."

"Ah," said Ronsard. It was wonderful what expression he could cram into that small, elastic sound. Evidently the intonation on this occasion was far from pleasing to the listener. Pierre's blue eyes flashed and darkened. Fixing them for the first time steadily on his companion he said, "She is betrothed, your Excellency, to me. Do I receive your felicitations?"

His look was a challenge. Ronsard passed a fat hand over his mouth before asking, "With her family's consent?"

"Not yet. Our betrothal was in Washington, shortly before sailing, and entered into with the full knowledge and consent of her intimate friends, the Todds. As to the Japanese father's consent, we had planned and hoped to gain it immediately upon reaching Japan."

Ronsard's thin eyebrows arched to the very roots of his thin, gray hair. "You have arrived,—two weeks, is it not? You have not gained?"

"Things went wrong with me from the instant of landing," said Pierre, dejectedly. "I offended in some unknown way that grim image she calls her parent. I do not know yet in what I did wrong; but he keeps us apart, and prevents her even from writing an explanation. The Todds have seen her but once, and learned only the bald fact of her father's opposition. At the banquet last night we both seemed under espionage,—subjects for dissection, in fact. I am bewildered with the misery of it, your Excellency, for I love the girl. My one hope is that I have her promise, and on her loyalty alone I must now rely."

Count Ronsard drew a long, long whiff from his cigarette, and then ostentatiously flipped the ash in air. It dissolved before reaching the floor, a vague little puff of gray nothingness. "That is what the Japanese think of such a promise! The true Jehovah in Japan is the composite will of the family. Is it not partly so in France, Monsieur? If you really desired marriage with this bit of ivory, and—pardon me—so harsh a yoke seems utterly unnecessary, you should have persuaded your inamorata to become a Christian, and, while still in America, have consummated a Christian marriage. Even a Japanese, in these enlightened days, would not dare to attack such a bond."

"She is a Christian already," said Pierre. "And for an American marriage I pleaded with a scourged soul. Even Madame Todd advised it; but Yuki-ko would not listen. She must wait, she said, for her family's consent."

"Very proper of Mademoiselle," said Ronsard, gravely. As Pierre made no immediate reply, the count went on with his theme, "The Japanese family, my son, is like a large web, or a small solar system. In the midst, as a central sun, or reptile, squats the father. Behind him is the mystery and power of his father, living or dead, and his father's father, back to the visionary era of Jimmu Tenno. All about him, as planets, or flies, are dotted the children, the wife, grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins to the tenth branch, the family servants and their connections, the family cat, the family dog, the family ghost, the priests, soothsayers, physicians,—Mon Dieu, down to the very crickets who chirp beneath the family doorstone. In a question of marriage, all these must be consulted. The bride is no more than a gnat caught somewhere in the web, or a very small satellite belonging to a distant world."

"It is of interest, your Excellency," protested Pierre; "but I have no mind to give it. Consider my plight. I am young, madly in love, and touched with despair. I turn to you as a father."

"A father?" echoed the count, with a small gleam of amusement in his eyes, "Mother of God! It is a name to conjure with. What will you?"

"You have lived here long; you know the country well. Aid me to win the only woman I can ever love."

"In lawful marriage? Shall I assist you to inclose yourself in that barbed-wire fence of love?"

"There can be no other thought for Miss Onda and me," said Pierre, stiffly.

Count Ronsard shrugged. "You are quixotic. I was so at your age. Such sentiments are, I assure you, wasted in this place. The Japanese themselves prefer the laxer course. They very properly execrate these mixed marriages, especially legal mixed marriages."

The man's voice was so soft, so kindly, so self-controlled, that Pierre, in a sort of wonder, turned again to study his face. The minister met his look with the friendliest of smiles and a little nod. Then, as if to give the student of physiognomy every chance, he modestly lowered his eyes.

It was a face that must have been old even in childhood,—old, and shrewd, and self-indulgent. The unhealthy fat, which gave his body an unstable rotundity, showed here chiefly in the cheeks, sagging them down into loosely filled bags, and drawing long wrinkles in the pull. The forehead, very narrow toward the top, with hair growing downward in a deep point, was as gray as the scant, bristling hair. The whole face, indeed, was gray; its hueless monotony given emphasis by the single note of the underlip which protruded, moist, velvety, and round, like a scarlet fungus from the bark of a rotting tree.

"To be candid, my boy," murmured the minister, still with eyelids drooped, "your penchant for Miss Onda was already known to me. A ship is a huge floating laboratory of social gossip. Touch land, voilÀ, and the germs fly. My attachÉ, Monsieur Mouquin, chanced to witness your meeting with Papa Onda. He saw your rejection, and the manner in which your betrothed was heartlessly abducted. We—that is, Mouquin and myself—have even ventured to speculate upon possibilities, diplomatic possibilities in the interest of France, that may be lying dormant in your continued—er—friendship with the charming Miss Onda. At the axis of each new twig of history, Monsieur, sits the love of a woman."

"I—I trust that I do not clearly understand your Excellency," said Pierre, fighting down, as he spoke, a whole swarm of unsavory intuitions.

The count gave a small, resigned sigh, turned slightly in his chair, and tapped with one white hand his heap of opened letters. "Several of these documents suggest the appointment of a certain young Monsieur Le Beau to office in the French Legation at Tokio. The old Duc de St. Cyr is writer of one."

"Monsieur le Duc is my great-uncle, and my friend," said Pierre.

"You will realize that it becomes my duty to acquaint myself with the calibre of such an applicant, of a youth so highly recommended, and especially at a time when relations between our country and Japan are slightly—er—neuralgic."

"I have no previous record in civil service, but I believe I could do something for France."

"Ah, that is just the point!" said the count, with more eagerness than he had yet showed. "To serve France,—that is our whole concern. You have had no training, it is true; yet you have already a weapon that old and tried diplomats might weep for. I refer, as you conjecture, to your friendship with Mademoiselle Onda, daughter of Tetsujo Onda, and ward, in a sense, of his Highness Prince HaganÈ."

Pierre, in a flash, was upon his feet. Cigarette ashes tumbled from the folds of his waistcoat. He hurled a newly lighted tube into the fire. "You, sir," he began, with evident effort to control his voice, "you, sir, are experienced, and I am ignorant; you are calm and I am impetuous,—perhaps I should listen courteously to what you wish to say; but I believe it impossible for me to do so. I love this girl as a man loves the woman whom he desires to make his honored wife. In England, where I went to school, I learned ideas, stricter perhaps than Parisian conceptions, of the sacredness and the responsibility of marriage. This girl is a thing of snow. No tie could be too strong, no sacrament too safe, for pledging my fidelity. You see, I could not listen."

The count, as the young man was speaking, gazed steadily into the fire. His face remained as expressionless as a leaf. Pierre, striding here and there in his agitation, came back at length to the mantel, and stood still. The count spoke slowly.

"It is far better for France and for you that I speak my mind fully; yet, because you are ignorant and impetuous, you cannot, as you say, listen in decent reserve. It is ever so with youth."

The deep sadness of the elder man swept aside Pierre's rising indignation. He looked very old now, huddled in the great chair, his hands spread, palm outward, to the blaze.

Pierre threw himself on an ottoman near. "Pardon my boorishness. I will listen, Monsieur, though your words be fangs. You are my mother's valued friend, and for that alone I should owe you reverence. Speak what you will."

At the re-mention of the word "mother," the same curious look flickered in Ronsard's eyes. He drew a sigh, gathered himself into a more upright posture, and asked of Pierre, in judicial tones, "Let me inquire, Monsieur, whether you and Mademoiselle Onda, or your friends the Todds, have thought out any logical conclusion, should the family of Onda determine that you are to be definitely repulsed?"

Pierre dropped his head to his hands. "No, we can think of nothing,—except elopement, and that, now, is impossible."

"Have you thought for her of a possible forced marriage?"

"To a Japanese? Yes, my God, when have I not thought it! No, Monsieur, I do not think it—I will not; she would accept death sooner than break her troth to me. I have her word, her broken hairpin—"

"A menacing implement—" interpolated Ronsard.

"Can you think it possible, your Excellency?"

"What, the forced marriage?" Ronsard broke off, looked at Pierre, and then, as if in compassion, removed his gaze.

"Make it not unendurable," muttered Pierre, through whitening lips.

"I make nothing," said Ronsard. "You have begun the train of disaster; I can but trace the map of possible retreat. Yes, I believe truly that the next move in her family will be to marry her off to some eligible suitor,—an old man, probably, one strong enough to keep you and the girl in check. Some worn-out voluptuary, or a War-God in Pig Iron, like old HaganÈ himself."

Pierre raised bloodshot eyes. His mouth writhed and opened, but no words came. The old diplomat's voice had been like cut velvet, woven on wires of steel.

"You—you—do not—spare—" Pierre managed to gasp at length.

Ronsard wore, if anything, a look of satisfaction. He now lifted a jewelled hand to press and pinch and fondle the moist, warm cushion of the protruding lip. His eyes, from under their drooping lids, darted sharp fusillades of meaning upon his shrinking companion. The very sting restored Pierre. "Yes," resumed the other, as if Pierre had spoken, "in such mariages de convenance personal affection is left aside. Yet how deplorable—how impossible—that a Botticelli in ivory and pearl should never know the joys of ardent love! Opportunities always arise. And then, as wife of a Japanese official, Mademoiselle Onda might prove invaluable to France—invaluable!"

Pierre rose this time slowly. Both delicate hands gripped the rim of the table hard. For a moment he shut his eyes that the vision of the sneering, sensual face might not tempt the blow his young arm tingled to inflict. "It is enough," he said, "I was wrong in thinking that I could listen. If your Excellency will now be so good as to excuse me—"

Ronsard gave a gesture of good fellowship. He smiled cunningly to himself as Pierre vanished from the room. Self-congratulations fawned upon him. His aim had been true. The poisoned arrow was in place, and though Pierre might snap, or draw it forth, the wound would fester.

Among his morning letters one had been carefully concealed. It was of the latest tint and shape of fashion. It smelled of Paris and intrigue. The last words were these, "Say nothing to my headstrong boy of this letter, but, for my sake, keep him from serious entanglement. I object not, you will understand, to passing follies; but let not the handcuffs of a Japanese marriage click. Mon Dieu, think of grandchildren! Yours, for the old time's sake, Olga Le Beau." The count read it through once more, rubbed it thoughtfully against his red lip, and finally, with a sentimental sigh, placed it on the coals.

Dropping his head forward, he began to dream. At first it was of Paris, only Paris, with its gay streets, beautiful women, its theatres and supper-rooms. What waste of years to have lived so long away! Yet in the East had been compensations. Diplomacy, as he conceived it, was the highest form of gambling; life itself, a spinning roulette table. Diplomacy was the only profession for one with romance, poetry, passion in his veins, and brains in his skull. Pierre, Olga Brekendorff's child, was fitted for the career, if, at the outset, he did not manacle his own hands. He must not marry, least of all marry a Japanese girl of high connections. Let the girl love him, and be given to another. Visions of purloined state papers, of secrets won in the marriage chamber only to be given France next morning, of Japanese chagrin at the mysterious betrayal of plans, caressed him with leprous fingers. Ah, to be young once more and beautiful, like Pierre! How like his eyes were to the Russian mother! No wonder the Japanese girl loved him!

A sharp knock roused him.

"Entrez! OidÈ!"

Mouquin rushed in as if pursued, leaving the door open. Within a few feet of Ronsard he stood still, shivering in an ague of excitement.

"Well, what is it? Speak, man. You chatter and grimace like an ape."

Mouquin waved a small square of paper printed in Japanese. "An extra! War! They say Togo has fired!"

Ronsard leaned forward and snatched the paper. He read Japanese well.

"War! Togo fired this morning! Three Russian boats already sunk! Mother of God!"

The telephone began a frantic ringing. Mouquin went to it sidewise. "Your Excellency, the Russian minister."

"Hold the wire." Ronsard got to his feet. Mouquin still chattered. His words came now in a torrent. He was drunk with the bigness of the hour. "Fired, your Excellency! Japan the pygmy, with no further provocation, has dared fire upon Imperial Russia!"

Ronsard eyed the speaker with a sort of scorn. "True, Monsieur, and, as I understand, Japan the pygmy has begun already to sink Imperial Russia."

Mouquin stared for a moment at the speaker, seeking a clue to the unexpected words. Perhaps he saw for himself a chance at singularity. He bowed over, gave a low laugh, and backing toward the door cried out, "And has begun to—sink Imperial Russia! Banzai Nippon!" He went out quickly.

Ronsard stood quiet by the telephone. It hissed and bubbled like an impaled crab. He lifted the receiver slowly, his eyes still on the door. "I know it now," he murmured, "I have long suspected it. Somewhere in this desert of gray huts Mouquin has a Japanese wife. It was her lips that uttered through him that 'Banzai Nippon.' And so I think it would soon be with the impressionable Pierre. Hello! Oui, it is Ronsard."