CHAPTER XX

THE GENERAL KEEPS HIS WORD

General Paul Nirzann slept well that night. His aeroplane—to return to our dashing metaphor of the previous chapter—had righted itself and was again sailing peacefully along. The only cloud on the horizon was the loss of his Cross of Buta; the general really regretted that. But he had to acknowledge, though not without a sigh, that it was cheap at the price.

He was thoroughly glad that he was at length finished with Mlle. Solini. Of course, he had never really loved her, and for some time past he had feared her. In all conscience, he and Marisi were well rid of such a woman.

He did not doubt but that she would leave in the morning, as she had promised; indeed, Marisi would be the last place where she would want to remain, after the destruction of all her plans.

For his own part, he kept his word with her. He deposited her letter in a drawer of his desk without looking at it, wondering at the same time why she had placed this curious restriction upon him. For some time he lay awake; his dominant thoughts were of security and thankfulness. He slept soundly.

In the morning he rose rather late. He sang—or, to be strictly accurate, uttered noises—while he dressed, and ate a hearty breakfast in his room. He was lingering over the coffee when a glance at his watch showed him that it was twenty-five minutes past nine.

He remembered that the prince had commanded his presence at ten o’clock—for what purpose the general easily guessed—and, thinking that the matter of the letter must be attended to before then, he went to his desk and took it from the drawer.

The envelope itself held memories for him; he had himself received several exactly similar. He could see now, in his mind’s eyes, that little corner of Aline’s dainty writing desk where they lay scattered about in an ebony box—two colors, pink and blue. This one was pink. The general sighed, took out the letter, and read:

TO HIS HIGHNESS THE PRINCE OF MARISI:

What I am going to say will no doubt astonish your highness. As for me, it breaks my heart.

I shall be brief; I must either say too much or too little, and I prefer the latter.

In four words—I cannot marry you.

Your highness knows that I would not write this without a reason, and a powerful one. Forgive me if I do not tell you what it is.

By the time you read this I shall have left Marisi; I shall never see you again. Ah, Michael—I may call you that once more, may I not?—I had thought that the first letter I should write to you would be very different from this.

I can say no more—adieu.

ALINE SOLINI.

The general read this letter over three times, and each time the frown on his brow deepened. Not that he had any fault to find with it, considering its purpose; indeed, he thought it perfect. It had an air of finality.

But why had Aline insisted so strongly that he should not read it till this morning? He could not understand that. He read it over again. Decidedly, there was nothing in it to explain that curious request.

But—he shrugged his shoulders—what of that? There was the letter; it was sufficient; quite sufficient. He returned the letter to the envelope, moistened the mucilage on the flap with his tongue, and sealed it.

Then he pressed a button on the wall beside his desk.

“But that would not do,” he thought. “I must mail it myself.”

When a servant appeared a moment later he dismissed him, saying that he would perform his errand himself. He rose, put on his coat and hat, and sought the street, and, walking some distance down the drive, deposited the letter in a mailbox.

As he heard it fall to the bottom of the box he breathed a sigh of satisfaction, and turned to retrace his steps.

By the time he reached his room it lacked but a minute till ten o’clock, and; stopping only to deposit his hat and coat on the back of a chair, he left it again to hasten to his appointment with the prince, in that room on the floor below, at the end of the corridor, which we have seen twice before. The general, being of the household, had the privilege of entering its sacred precincts; and he never did so without a little straightening of the shoulders at the thought of that privilege.

The prince, as it appeared, was in great good humor. When the general entered he was engaged with De Mide, his secretary, but their business was soon ended, and De Mide prepared to leave.

General Nirzann moved ostentatiously out of his path to the door. He did not like De Mide, and took advantage of every occasion to show it.

“You are punctual, I see, Nirzann,” said the prince, as the door closed behind the departing secretary.

“Am I not always so, your highness?”

“I suppose so. The fact is, my dear general, you have so many virtues it is difficult to remember all of them.”

The general smiled politely at his prince’s little joke. “Your highness is kind to remember even one of them,” he declared, quite as though he meant it.

“That will do, Nirzann; you will never be a courtier; you are too clumsy,” laughed the prince, seating himself in a chair and motioning the general to one on the other side of the table. “But come; we must get down to business. Of course you know what I want you for?”

“I can guess.”

“To be sure. You are to carry my formal proposal to your cousin.” The prince arranged some papers on the desk before him. “I have been working at it with De Mide. I think we have it in proper form, but there are some gaps to be filled in. To begin with, what was her father’s name?”

The general called on his wits, realizing that the farce must be played through. After a moment’s hesitation, he replied:

“Nicholas—Nicholas Solini.”

The prince wrote something on the paper. “And her mother?”

“I—really, I do not know,” stammered the general. “That is, I forget the name of her family. Her given name was the same as that of my cousin—Aline.”

Again the prince wrote on the paper. Then he looked up with a frown.

“Now, about those estates in Warsaw. You say they are no longer in her name?”

“No, your highness.”

“Then I suppose her residence could hardly be said to be there,” observed the prince. “Let us see; I think this will do.” He looked at the paper for a minute in silence, then began to read aloud from it.

“To Mlle. Aline Solini, of Marisi, daughter of Nicholas Solini, of Warsaw, and his wife, Aline, greeting from Michael William Feodor Albert Keff, Prince of Marisi, Duke of Gernannt, Chevalier of the Order of Mestaniz. His highness, by these presents—”

The general sat listening respectfully while the prince read the somewhat lengthy document from beginning to end.

Once before the general had heard such a paper read in this same room—many years before.

As this thought crossed his mind he glanced up involuntarily at the portrait over the fireplace—the portrait of a woman of about thirty years, with dark hair and serious eyes.

She would have thanked him, the general thought, if she could; it was well that Mlle. Solini was not to take her place.

“You will take this to Mlle. Solini at once,” the prince was saying. “I want all preliminaries arranged without delay so that we can make the public announcement as soon as possible. You will conduct the affair, of course, with due formality. You will understand, Nirzann, that I am eager for haste in this matter.”

The general managed a smile.

“I can well understand that, your highness.”

“Yes. Since you are Mlle. Solini’s only living relative, you will be expected to officiate in that capacity at the wedding. And before I forget it, I have a little present for you.”

The prince opened a drawer of the table and took out a little ivory box, which he opened, displaying to view a cross of gold, with yellow and green ribbons.

“Your Cross of Buta, general. Here, let me—What is it? What’s the matter?”

“I—I—nothing, your highness.” A swift spasm as of pain had distorted the general’s face. “That is—I felt something—it has passed now.”

“That is what comes of dining out,” said the prince with a smile. “You know your weakness, general.”

“It has passed,” said the general, who was looking relieved. “Your highness will forgive me—I should not—in your presence—”

“Good Heavens, man,” the prince interrupted, laughing, “don’t apologize! Indigestion has no respect for princes.”

“Your highness is always kind.” The general rose. “I am ready to go with your—er—proposal whenever your highness pleases. If there are any—”

The general’s voice stopped suddenly, while his features were again distorted with a spasm of pain. This time it continued twice as long as before.

“What is it?” again cried the prince, looking at him in quick sympathy.

The general sank back weakly in his chair, while his eyes grew wide and staring and his lips twitched convulsively.

The prince crossed hastily to his side with an exclamation of alarm.

“What is it, Nirzann? Are you ill? What is the matter?”

“I don’t know, your highness.” The general appeared to be speaking with difficulty. He tried to struggle to his feet, but fell back again into the chair. “Perhaps—if I—if I—”

Then, quite suddenly, there came from his lips a great cry of pain—the cry of one who is being tortured with insupportable agony.

“Help!” he cried, again trying to rise. “For God’s sake, help me!”

The thing had come so suddenly that for an instant the prince stood as one paralyzed. The next he was ringing the bell on the table and calling to the footman without. Then he sprang back to the general, who was slowly slipping from the chair onto the floor, and supported him in his arms.

In another moment two or three servants rushed into the room, attracted by the prince’s cries. One he sent for water; another for the doctor, who was in the palace; and still another helped him support the general.

They had all they could do to hold him; he was struggling in their grasp like a crazy man, uttering screams of agony that sounded throughout the palace and reached even into the street. Other servants and members of the household rushed in, crying out in startled tones; all was confusion and uproar; they had thought the prince was being murdered.

De Mide, arriving breathless, offered to take the place of the prince beside Nirzann; but the prince shook his head, crying:

“The doctor—get the doctor!”

At that moment the doctor arrived—a man of sixty or more, wise and competent, who had served the prince’s father before him. He pushed his way through the throng to the side of General Nirzann, who was a terrible sight to behold as he struggled in the arms of the prince and the footman.

His eyes were rolling wildly about, his face was red and distorted, and froth was coming from his mouth. The old doctor gave him but one glance before he turned to the De Mide and said sharply:

“Clear the room!”

Then the doctor turned and gave some swift instructions to a servant who had entered with him and who now disappeared at a run. De Mide ordered everyone from the room; it was cleared in three seconds. No one remained but the prince, the doctor, and De Mide.

General Nirzann had slipped to the floor. The doctor knelt beside him, holding him down with both arms. The general’s movements were more feeble now; his body was moving from side to side with little convulsive twitches. A low, continuous moan came from his lips.

The servant who had taken the doctor’s instructions entered, carrying a case of instruments and bottles. De Mide hurried him forward, crying:

“Here, doctor—here you are!”

There was a silence, broken only by the moans of the general, now so feeble they were scarcely heard. The doctor raised his head and said gravely, “Send him away. It is too late. Send him from the room.”

“But what is it?” cried the prince. “This is horrible! In Heaven’s name, what is it?”

The doctor did not reply. He was gazing at General Nirzann, whose body was trembling with spasmodic shudders that ran from his head to his feet. But his eyes were steady and seemed once more to hold the light of reason. The doctor leaned forward and spoke distinctly.

“Look at me, general. Do you know me?”

The eyes shifted, and the general’s voice came, painful and gasping, as though every word were torn from his throat by force.

“Yes—Anchevin—yes.” Again the eyes shifted toward the prince. “Your highness—listen—before—I am dying—Aline—Aline—”

He stopped; more would not come. The doctor took a pitcher of water and poured some over his mouth; then he leaned forward and spoke.

“Answer me if you can, general. Use all your strength. You have been poisoned. Do you know who did it?”

A sudden light flashed into the general’s eyes—the light of comprehension. Then their expression changed as quickly to one of the most intense fury and hatred—so plain, so fiercely malignant, that De Mide and the prince recoiled involuntarily.

And again words came from the general’s lips, but this time in a whisper, barely audible, though he was plainly making a terrible effort to speak intelligibly.

“Poison!” he gasped. “Yes—I know—yes—mucilage—mucilage—”

That was all. Several times more he opened his lips; it could be seen that he was exerting himself tremendously to speak; but no words came. His fingers were plucking convulsively at the edge of his coat; his eyes closed, then opened again; a tremor passed all over his body, and he lay quite still.

The doctor rose to his feet, turning to the others; they saw by the expression on his face that all was over. Their own faces were filled with a question—a question of horror; the doctor answered it without waiting for them to speak. His voice was very grave.

“Your highness, the general was poisoned. And with some quick poison—something that he has taken within the hour. Do you know—”

The prince interrupted him in a voice of agitation.

“I know nothing, Anchevin. He was sitting there, talking to me; the attack came suddenly and without warning. Why—I can’t believe—it was only ten minutes ago—”

He stopped abruptly and stood looking down at the body of the general as though he were just beginning to understand what had happened. This for a long time; then he murmured gently, “Poor old Nirzann—a faithful servant and a true friend.”

No one will deny that the little general deserved the epitaph.

Then the prince, suddenly rousing himself, turned to the others.

“Anchevin, you must repeat to no one what you have just said. Call it anything you like; there must be no mention of poison. De Mide, you will do what is necessary. Get Duchesne on the telephone and let him confer with Anchevin, but let him understand that whatever investigations he makes must be kept strictly secret. We owe it—to him.”

The doctor began, “Your highness, there must be an autopsy—”

“Good Heavens!” cried the prince. “Anchevin, you are ghoulish. Do what is necessary, but don’t talk about it. De Mide, the general must be removed to his own room.”

“Yes, your highness.”

“And don’t forget to impress Duchesne with the necessity for secrecy. If there is any—”

He was interrupted by the ringing of a bell. It was the telephone on the prince’s desk. De Mide crossed to it and took up the receiver. The others heard him speak and, after a short pause, say, “Yes, the prince is here.” Another pause, then De Mide asked: “Who is it?” Then: “One moment, please.” De Mide placed his hand over the mouth of the transmitter and then turned to the prince.

“Mlle. Solini wishes to speak to you.”

With an exclamation of surprise the prince hastened to take the receiver from his secretary, at the same time saying:

“You may go—both of you. Return in five minutes.”

Then, when the doctor and De Mide had disappeared, he spoke into the telephone:

“Aline! Is this you, Aline?”

“Yes, your highness.”

“Ah! I recognize your voice.”

“And I recognize yours.” A short pause. “I wanted to ask your highness—I wanted to know if you have received a letter from me this morning?”

“A letter? No.”

“Oh! Then it hasn’t been delivered. I am glad of that. I mailed it this morning, and then, half an hour afterward, found it on my desk.”

“You found it on your desk?” repeated the prince, puzzled.

“Yes. I had placed a letter to someone else in the envelope addressed to you.” There was a little silvery laugh in her voice. “And it is a letter which I would much rather you didn’t read. That is why I telephoned you—I don’t want you even to open it.” Again the laugh. “Your highness knows that all women have their strictly private secrets.”

“I know,” said the prince, and began to return her laugh; but his eye rested on the body of General Nirzann, lying on the floor almost at his feet, and the laugh stuck in his throat.

“I will return your letter unopened, Aline. I shall speak to De Mide about it at once.”

“That is what I was afraid of—that someone else might read it.”

“I’ll see that they don’t. I’ll guard your secret for you; I have the right, haven’t I?”

“Yes, your highness.”

“Not that!”

“Then—yes, Michael.”

The prince was wondering if he ought to tell her of the death of her cousin, and how, but decided that it would be too rude a shock, coming thus suddenly over the telephone. But neither should she learn it through the cries of newsboys or the headlines of a newspaper.

He asked if he might call on her at her home in half an hour, saying that he had something of importance to tell her that could not be entrusted to the telephone. That arranged, he hung up the receiver and turned just as a knock sounded on the door.

It was De Mide, come to say that servants were preparing the general’s room and would soon arrive to carry him there. The prince nodded gravely, without speaking.

Then, when the secretary had gone, he walked over to the body of the little general and stood looking down at him in silence.

His thoughts reverted to the general’s dying words. They had been of Aline and of the prince himself, perhaps—so thought the prince—the only persons he had ever loved. But then—at the very end—

The prince’s brow was wrinkled in a puzzled frown. He muttered aloud:

“‘Mucilage!’ Now what the devil could he have meant by that word mucilage?”

Which was one of those questions that never find an answer.