CHAPTER XVIII

PROPOSAL NUMBER TWO

“Czean!”

“Yes, mademoiselle.”

“Has the mail arrived?”

“Yes, mademoiselle; I am bringing it.”

It was ten o’clock in the morning.

Mlle. Solini was in the library, reading aloud to Vivi, who sat by the window with some embroidery. In the earlier mail Mlle. Solini had been disappointed; there had been many letters, but not the one she was looking for.

As she took this which had just arrived from the tray, which Czean held out before her, there was an expression of expectation that approached anxiety on her face. She ran through the little bundle eagerly—ah! There it was—”Hotel Walderin.”

She opened the envelope and quickly glanced over the letter. Then, laying her book on the table and telling Vivi she would return in a moment, she went upstairs, opened a drawer of her writing-desk, placed the letter inside, closed the drawer, and locked it.

“There!” she breathed with a sigh of satisfaction. “So much for him!”

Then she returned to the library and resumed her reading—a play of Moliere’s—for Vivi’s instruction and her own amusement.

The morning passed. Noon arrived. Then one o’clock, and luncheon. By the time that was over it was nearly two, and Mlle. Solini began to exhibit signs of restlessness.

She told herself that she had no reason to be uneasy—had not General Nirzann told Stetton that the prince had signified his intention of marrying her? Nevertheless, her restlessness increased.

She walked to a window of the drawing room and stood there, looking out on the street, for half an hour. She went to her room and quarreled with her maid about nothing at all. The afternoon wore away.

Four o’clock found Mlle. Solini again in the library, reading; only by a conscious effort of the will could she force her mind to follow the words in their sequence. Dinnertime came, and with it the end of hope. The Prince of Marisi had not appeared.

In the evening Stetton called, and Mlle. Solini was compelled to humor him for three weary hours, in order not to rouse his suspicion. As an alternative, he must be preserved.

This was difficult; the young man was burning with love, and appeared to expect his affianced to be similarly afire. She managed somehow to satisfy him, and when he left quite late she threw herself on her bed, thoroughly exhausted in mind and body. Waiting was a dreary performance for Mlle. Solini; she preferred to act.

The following day she waited till half past three o’clock; then, as the sky was sunny and the air warm and pleasant, she ordered the open carriage and went with Vivi for a ride.

It was her first appearance on the drive in nearly a month, and it created a small sensation. Wherever she passed people could be observed whispering to one another, but none failed to greet her with the utmost politeness. All that they said of Mlle. Solini might be true; in the meantime they preferred to practice caution.

They had just made the last turn at Savaron Square, and Aline had ordered the coachman to drive home, when, on swinging again into the drive, she found herself looking directly into the eyes of the Prince of Marisi, seated by the side of General Nirzann in the royal carriage.

He was looking straight at Aline. In spite of herself, the color mounted to her face; she inclined her head in a dignified bow, and the prince returned it, she thought, somewhat coldly.

That was all. The two carriages rolled on in opposite directions. Aline bit her lip in vexation, and failed to recognize Stetton, who passed them soon afterward in a touring-car.

On the following day Mlle. Solini did not leave the house. Through a window of the drawing-room she watched the afternoon promenade for an hour; several times she saw the royal carriage containing the prince and General Nirzann. Again the thought occurred that the general had betrayed her.

“But,” she argued to herself, “the prince would never forgive him. No; he is mine; I must be patient.”

Despite this, she was uneasy; and when Stetton called in the evening she was as gracious and kind to him as she had ever been. He would talk of nothing but the happiness that was soon to be his, and was so insistent in his demand for a definite date for its consummation that Aline finally named a day early in June.

M. Stetton also had a little project on foot for her amusement. He had happened to hear that morning at the hotel of an old French chateau some miles out of Marisi on the Tsevor Road, which had been turned into an inn. He wanted to know if Mlle. Solini would drive out there with him the following day in his motorcar. He hastened to add that he would, of course, expect Vivi to accompany them; upon which, after a moment’s reflection, Aline accepted his invitation and said they would be ready to start at ten o’clock.

The day proved to be a happy one for Vivi and Stetton, and, to all appearances, for Aline also, save for one little incident that occurred as the car sped swiftly through the pleasant hilly country to the west of the city.

They had just passed a little wooden bridge and turned to the left down a long stretch of straight, level road, at the right of which, some distance ahead, appeared a cluster of low, rambling sheds.

Stetton glanced at the spot with a start of recognition, and then, he scarcely knew why, turned to Aline.

“That is where I fought Chavot,” he observed.

She glanced up quickly, and he fancied that she shuddered, but she said nothing.

The chateau was about fifty miles from Marisi, and they reached it a little after noon. Everything was delightful. They had luncheon on an enclosed terrace, into which the sun shone brightly; off to the right the mountains rose, a majestic line of purple.

For an hour or more they lingered over their coffee, served in little earthen cups, while Stetton and Vivi chatted pleasantly about nothing at all, and Aline gazed toward Marisi, thinking of a great deal. Then they made ready to return.

It was nearly five o’clock when Aline and Vivi were set down by Stetton at the door of No. 341. Vivi ran upstairs to her room; Aline went to the library and rang for Czean.

“Has any one called?” she asked when he appeared.

“Yes, mademoiselle. The prince was here at two o’clock, and again at four.”

“Did he leave a note, a message?”

“Nothing, mademoiselle.”

Aline’s eyes sparkled. At last! She did not regret her absence; on the contrary, she considered it a lucky stroke. Still, she must contrive that the prince should see her, and as soon as possible; she knew where her strength lay.

After a few minutes’ thought, she went to the telephone and called up the Countess Potacci. The countess was delighted to hear from her dear Aline; she complained of having been neglected.

What was that? Mlle. Solini wished to invite herself to occupy a seat in the countess’s box at the opera that evening? Certainly! The countess would be glad to have her.

They would stop at 341 for her on their way. Aline said that was unnecessary, as she could go in her own car; but the countess insisted. They would call for her at eight o’clock.

Aline hung up the receiver, calling for Czean to serve dinner half an hour earlier than usual. Then she ran lightly up the stairs to her room. All her fatigue from the day’s long ride was forgotten; she was in the best of humor and spirits, and spoke so kindly to her maid that she lost a considerable portion of the reputation she had acquired in that quarter.

When she went down to dinner two hours later Vivi ran up and threw her arms round her.

“I can’t help it!” she , exclaimed impulsively. “You are so beautiful!”

Aline laughed and kissed her. The truth was that she enjoyed no one else’s praise so much as Vivi’s.

No sooner had she entered the Potacci box at the opera on the arm of the count than every glass in the house was leveled in their direction. But it was not for this that Aline had come, and a hasty glance at the royal box across the auditorium showed her that it was empty. It was yet early, however, and the prince was always late.

The lights grew dim and a hush fell over the house, while the orchestra commenced the overture. Then—the opera was “Rigoletto”—the curtain arose on the scene of much color and little music in the palace of the Duke of Mantua, and the hunchbacked jester began the antics that were to lead him into the path of grief and death.

But Aline had not taken her eyes from the royal box; and soon she was rewarded by seeing the curtains slowly open and the prince appear, followed by General Nirzann and one or two other members of the household. Aline turned her eyes to the stage.

The curtain fell; the auditorium was again lighted; the hum of conversation was heard on every side. Half a dozen of the young sparks of Marisi appeared in the box of the Count Potacci, attracted thither by the presence of the beautiful Russian.

Aline received them graciously and chatted pleasantly; all the time, however, she was watching the royal box out of the corner of her eye.

The visitors disappeared; the curtain again rose; all was again darkness and silence, save on the stage, where the Duke and Gilda soon began their amazingly amiable duet.

At the end of the second act, the Potacci box became crowded; it would seem that Marisi fancied it could read the thoughts of the beautiful Russian by looking into her eyes, and no one is so interested to discover the truth or falsity of a piece of gossip as those who have started it.

General Nirzann appeared to pay his respects to the countess and Mlle. Solini; evidently he had been apprised by Stetton of the success of his mission three days before, for he greeted his cousin Aline with warmth and effusion.

Aline was listening to him and a dozen others who were trying to talk all at once, when suddenly she heard a new voice behind her greeting the Countess Potacci. It was that of the prince.

As he came toward the front of the box, the others fell back before his imperious glance, looking at each other significantly. Aline kept her gaze steadfastly ahead. Suddenly she heard his voice quite close to her, low and musical.

“Good evening, mademoiselle.”

“Good evening, your highness,” she replied calmly, without turning round.

Again his voice sounded, this time lower still and full of significance. He uttered the one word: “Tomorrow.”

Then he fell back to the side of the Countess Potacci, who would have given her eyes to know what that whispered word had been, and the others again crowded round the beautiful Russian.

The face of one, however, was filled with something besides admiration; General Nirzann was trying to guess at what the prince had said. To be sure, Stetton had told him that he himself had Mlle. Solini’s promise of her hand, but the general was beginning to appreciate Aline’s capacity for intrigue, and he feared her.

During the last act, Aline watched the stage without seeing it; what did she care for murdered maids or betrayed jesters? She allowed herself, however, a feeling of contempt for poor Rigoletto—the weak fool, to entrust his vengeance to the hands of another. Assuredly that would not have been the way of Mlle. Solini.

On the way home in the Potacci carriage, she paid no heed to the comments of the count and countess; she kept repeating to herself the word: “Tomorrow.”

An hour later, alone in her own room, she surveyed herself in the mirror with satisfaction and approval.

“Tomorrow,” was her thought, “tomorrow.”

The following morning she awoke late. Stretching herself luxuriously, she rang for her maid; then followed her chocolate and mail, after which Vivi came in to say good morning. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, playing with Aline’s golden tresses, when there came a sudden knock on the door. In response to Aline’s invitation to enter, Czean appeared.

“M. Stetton is in the library, mademoiselle.”

Aline appeared to reflect for a moment. Then she said in the tone of one who has made sudden decision.

“I am not at home.”

Czean stammered, “But, mademoiselle—he already knows—I have told him—”

“I am not at home,” Aline repeated sharply. “Tell him so.”

Czean disappeared to give the lie to Stetton. As for Vivi, although she was greatly surprised at this sudden change in the fortunes of M. Stetton, she made no observation on the matter. She had long before learned that the more inexplicable a thing appeared to be the less likely was Mlle. Solini to explain it.

The burning of bridges is a pastime that only the sure-footed should allow themselves; this Mlle. Solini knew, and yet she had applied the match. The prince’s “tomorrow” had arrived.

This should be her day of triumph; everything was well in hand. She had the confidence of her genius; and when, at a little after two o’clock in the afternoon, she heard the outer door open and the voice of the Prince of Marisi in the hall, her pulse remained as steady and composed as her face. Czean, who had received his orders, escorted the royal visitor at once to the library, where Aline was sitting alone.

As soon as Aline looked into the prince’s eyes as he crossed the room to take her hand, she saw that the battle was over and the victory won. He had come to claim his prize, and to pay the price that was demanded for it.

Aline resolved that it should not be too easy for him; she remembered that scene in the same room three days before, when he had left her in the midst of her humiliation. True, it had been assumed, but he did not know that. Today he should answer to her pride.

The prince appeared, in fact, to be a little ill at ease. He began with some conventional remark concerning his disappointment of the day before. Aline, delighted to have the cue, replied with a long and circumstantial account of their trip into the country, and ended by observing that she and Vivi had about decided to go by automobile to Paris, for which place they intended to depart in the course of a week or so.

“You are going to Paris?” asked the prince in a tone which implied that no one ever went there.

“Yes. Does that surprise your highness?”

“I thought you intended to stay in Marisi.”

“So we did, for a while. We have changed our plans.”

Aline said this, not as one who expresses an intention for the sake of evoking a protest, but quite naturally as a matter of fact. It had its effect on the prince. He regarded her for a moment in silence.

“You are less acute than I thought, mademoiselle,” he said abruptly. “Did you not understand what I said last night?”

Aline smiled.

“Was it so cryptic, your highness? I took it to mean that you would honor me with a visit today.” She glanced at him, as much as to say, “And here you are.”

“A quite natural deduction,” said the prince dryly. “But had you no idea of the nature of my visit?”

“I am not good at guessing riddles, your highness.”

“But you are an adept—do not deny it—at reading the hearts of men.”

“Perhaps—of men. But not of a prince.”

“It is all the same.”

“Your highness will forgive me; experience has taught me the difference.”

The prince’s face suddenly became quite grave. He gazed toward Mlle. Solini as though he were looking not at her, but through her; his thoughts, serious ones, appeared to be elsewhere.

Suddenly he said, “If there is a difference, you must admit that it is not a fictitious one. Let us be frank, mademoiselle. I did not come here today to play with words, though you do it so delightfully.” He paused; as Mlle. Solini did not speak, he continued. “The other day I said something that angered and offended you. I am not going to apologize, though I hope for your forgiveness—and more. You know, mademoiselle, that my life does not belong to myself; and perhaps you are right, for therein lies the difference between a prince and a man. My family has ruled in Marisi for two hundred years. We have not the ostentation of the larger thrones, but our pride is equal to theirs. Behind the familiarity and democracy of our relations with our people there exists a tradition stronger even than that of the family of your own Czar.”

The prince paused, regarding Mlle. Solini expectantly, but she said nothing.

“I do not need to explain why I am saying all this to you, mademoiselle,” he resumed. “You know very well. You know that I love you, for you are able to read the hearts of men, and to play with them. I speak calmly and gravely, because it affects others than myself when I ask you to become my wife and share with me the throne of Marisi.”

Aline drew a sharp breath. She felt the eyes of the prince upon her, with their sternness and gravity. To tell the truth, she was not a little embarrassed. Quick, hot, passionate words—these she could command at will; but to dissemble in the face of this deep and calm sincerity was not easy.

She finally murmured, “I do not know—I have not sought this honor, your highness—if it is a sacrifice, I will not accept it.”

“It is a willing sacrifice, mademoiselle. Do not misunderstand me. For myself”—and here, for the first time, the prince’s voice held a note of passion—”for myself, I would hesitate at nothing. I love you; that is enough. It is of others I am thinking when I speak of sacrifice. But they will make it willingly for me. Do you accept, mademoiselle?”

“I—I—” Aline faltered and stopped.

A note of eagerness crept into the prince’s voice.

“Tell me. Do you accept?”

Aline extended her hand. The prince took it in his own and pressed the fingers to his lips quite gravely.

“I accept, your highness,” said Mlle. Solini in a low voice, moved, in spite of herself, by his manner.

The prince straightened up, drawing a long breath.

“Ah!” he said in a new tone.

It was more than an exclamation; it was a prayer. Then, in a sudden burst of passion, long restrained, he made a quick step forward and took her roughly in his arms. He held her close, and sought her lips with his own.

“This—this is what I wanted!” He was breathing heavily. “I love you—you witch—you witch—I love you!”

“No—no—” Aline pushed him away. “Your highness must not—your highness—”

The prince half released her, still keeping an arm around her shoulders.

“Not that any more,” he said, in the voice of love. “My name is Michael. Say it.”

“But—your highness—”

“No! Say it!”

Again he drew her to him, this time with firm tenderness; still he was trembling from head to foot.

“Say it,” he repeated.

She whispered in his ear: “Michael.”

“You love me?”

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“Michael, I love you.”

After that, silence. A long silence, broken here and there by soft murmurings and little electric words. At length the prince released her from his embrace and began to talk to arrangements—it appeared that a great deal of ceremony was connected with the betrothal of a prince.

When he announced that he would send General Nirzann with a formal proposal, in writing, on the following morning, Aline turned her head quickly to hide the smile that appeared on her lips. She could guess how General Nirzann would relish that mission.

The prince went on to say that he had selected the general for that office as being peculiarly fitted for it on account of his relationship with Mlle. Solini. He added that everything must be kept strictly secret until the time came for a formal announcement from the palace.

To all his suggestions Aline listened respectfully and assented as a matter of course. The prince made ready to leave. They had been together over three hours; night was beginning to fall, and the library was dim with the ghostly and melancholy light of dusk.

“I shall see you tomorrow,” said the prince, holding her in his arms and kissing her. “Tell me again that you love me.”

“Michael, I love you.”

A moment later he was gone.

Aline rang for lights.

But not the brilliance of all the lamps in the world, nor of the sun itself, could have equaled that in her own eyes.