CHAPTER XXI

STETTON GOES HUNTING

The young are always with us.” The man who wrote that called himself a philosopher; but he would have shown clearer claim to the title if he had written instead: “The young are always with themselves.”

Youth is the age of conceit, arrogance, vanity and egoism. It was the age of Richard Stetton. Thus much given, you can guess at the young man’s feelings when, upon calling four different times at the house of Mlle. Solini—twice a day—he was told each time that she was not at home.

At the first call he believed it. The next he wondered. The third he doubted. The fourth he pushed his way past Czean at the door and went stalking through the drawing-room, library, dining-room and kitchen. The place was empty, except for the servants, who tittered behind his back.

What to do? He had not quite worked himself up to the point of daring to mount the stairs to her room and force an entrance. Besides, he felt that he was making himself ridiculous. He left the house with a threatening glance at Czean, who had followed at his heels throughout the search.

On his way back to the hotel he bought a newspaper. The first thing in it that met his eye was an account of the death of General Paul Nirzann.

The following morning, feeling that the situation was getting a little beyond him, Stetton went to his friend Frederick Naumann for advice; and then, for the first time, he told the whole story of his relations with Mlle. Solini, even to that burning proposal of marriage on which he had exercised all his epistolary genius a few nights previous. When he had finished Naumann was staring at him in incredulous amazement.

“You don’t mean to say you were ass enough to propose to her in a letter!” cried the young diplomat.

Stetton saw no reason why he should be considered an ass.

Naumann groaned.

“My dear fellow, it was bad enough to propose to her at all! And to put it in writing! Of course, the worst trick she could play you would be to marry you, but the Lord knows what she’ll do.

“Don’t ask me for advice. The only thing I can say is, get that letter, burn it, take the ashes to San Francisco and drop them in the Pacific Ocean. She’s too much for me; I’ve washed my hands of her.”

With which Stetton was perforce contented.

After that he stayed away from No. 341 for two whole days. On the morning of the third day he attended the funeral of General Nirzann at the Church of Montrosine, in the company of Naumann. The service was public, and the church was crowded; but in all the throng Stetton had eyes for only one figure—that of a slender woman, dressed in black and heavily veiled, who sat far to the front on the right, by the side of the Prince of Marisi.

It was Aline, who, as cousin of the general, was of course the chief mourner.

As he sat listening to the chant of the priest, Stetton conceived an idea. Perhaps, after all, he thought—for seeing Aline dressed in the garb of grief, hypocritical though he knew it to be, disposed him to generous thoughts—perhaps, after all, she had really not been at home when he had called.

He had been too impatient. He should have done—well, he should have done what he was going to do now, that very day.

At the conclusion of the ceremony at church Stetton accompanied his friend Naumann back to his rooms. There they chatted till noon. Stetton calculated that it would take two hours for the funeral procession to go to the cemetery and return; at one o’clock, therefore, he left Naumann and went afoot down the Drive to a point nearly opposite No. 341.

After a wait of fifteen minutes he saw the royal carriage drive up and halt in front of that number. Aline and Vivi got out, assisted by the prince, who took them to the door, and then returned and reentered the carriage, which resumed its way to the palace.

Stetton waited five minutes by his watch, then crossed the street, ascended the stoop and rang the bell.

“I’ll know this time,” he muttered grimly to himself. “I’ll show this smart mademoiselle a thing or two.”

He stood close to the door in order to be in a position to push his way in as soon as it was opened.

But the door did not open. After a minute’s wait he again rang the bell. Another minute, and still there was no sign from within.

He pressed his finger against the bell-button and kept it there; then he began punching it with little vicious stabs. Still there was no sign.

He put his face against the glass of the door and tried to look within; he could see nothing, but he knew that anyone standing at the farther end of the hall could see him plainly. For five minutes he stood alternately ringing the bell and pounding on the door, which was locked; then, muttering a string of oaths, he gave it up and returned to the street.

It was now quite evident, even to him, that Mlle. Solini neither desired nor intended to see him. He perceived the fact, but he could not understand it. Why, he was going to marry her—he, Richard Stetton, of New York, rated—or soon to be rated—at ten million dollars!

Was the woman crazy? Aline Solini, a nobody, penniless, an outcast—it was absurd! In all America there were not ten girls who would not have jumped at the chance! Positively, she was out of her senses!

But out of her senses or not, it was perfectly plain that she would not see him. That, in short, he had been cut dead. Refused the house! The house for which he himself had paid the rent! By the time Stetton reached his room at the hotel he had worked himself into a raging fury.

He forced himself to calmness and began to consider possibilities. He could not very well break in the door. He thought of waylaying her on the street, but decided that it was beneath his dignity. As for an appeal to the agent of M. Duroy, owner of the house, that was impossible, for the simple reason that it had been taken in Aline’s name.

He ended by deciding to leave Marisi for good, charge his expenditures, of something like half a million francs, to the account of experience, and forget Mlle. Solini finally and forever. He even leaped to his feet with an oath and began to pack his trunks. He stopped almost before he had started. The face of Aline was before him.

The lips, with their inviting curve, the white, soft skin, the glorious eyes, filled with promise—and with this, the memory of her arms about his neck, her delicious breath against his cheek, her soft words of love whispered in his ear. No—another oath—he could not give her up—he would not! He sat down at his desk and wrote her a letter of nine pages.

After that he waited for three days. No answer came to his letter. He sent another, longer than before—one that was surely calculated to move a heart of stone.

To this he confidently expected an answer, and it was with a feeling of despair that he found none on the following morning. He wandered dejectedly into the reading-room of the hotel and picked up a newspaper. The first thing that met his eyes was the following, in bold headlines:

THE PRINCE TO WED

Announcement Made of His Engagement to Mlle. Aline Solini of Marisi.

No Surprise to Society, Which Has Admired and Courted the Beautiful Russian Since Her Arrival.

Betrothal Approved by Council—Wedding to Take Place Late in July.

Stetton stared at these headlines for five minutes without moving, while his face slowly assumed the expression of a man who is reading his death sentence. Then, mechanically, as one in a dream, he read the article from beginning to end.

Many details were given of Mlle. Solini—her parentage, the date of her birth, et cetera. It was called a genuine love-match. The wedding would have been set for an earlier day but for the fact that Mlle. Solini was in mourning for the recent death of her cousin, General Paul Nirzann.

Messages of congratulation had been received from all over the world. Et cetera, et cetera.

Stetton rose and walked out into the street. He was dazed; he knew not whither to go or what to do. He started rapidly down the Drive, then halted, cursing aloud.

What was the use? He would not be admitted.

Another thought came—he would go to the Prince of Marisi and tell him the truth about Mlle. Solini. He was filled with savage fury; he wanted to strike her, to crush her. He started off down the Drive toward the palace, in long, rapid strides; he could not get there soon enough.

Suddenly a hand fell on his arm and a voice sounded in his ear:

“Hello! What’s up? You look as though you were marching in the face of a thousand cannon!”

It was Naumann. Stetton halted.

“Aline is going to marry the prince,” he said, as though he were announcing the end of the world.

“I know it,” said Naumann dryly. “It’s the talk of the town. You’re well rid of her, old chap. But won’t the prince have a merry time of it!”

“He will, indeed,” Stetton replied grimly. “And he won’t have to wait long, either. I’m on my way to the palace now.”

The other looked at him sharply.

“What’s that? What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to cook Aline’s goose for her. I’m going to tell the prince all about her.”

The face of the young diplomat suddenly became serious—very serious. He said emphatically, grasping Stetton by the arm, “My dear fellow, you are going to do nothing of the sort.”

“No? Watch me!”

“But it’s folly—madness—suicide!”

“I don’t see why. Anyway, I’m going to do it.”

There was a pause, during which the two young men glared at each other. Finally Naumann spoke.

“Stetton, you can be more different kinds of an ass than any ten men I’ve ever seen. Listen to me a minute! Do you realize how serious this is? Have you any idea what it means to go to the Prince of Marisi and tell tales of the woman he has publicly announced he is going to marry? Unless you have proof—double-riveted, apodictic, instantaneous proof—of every word you utter, you’ll find yourself in jail in two minutes.”

Hesitation and doubt replaced the determination in Stetton’s eye; the strength of these words was impressive.

“But what can I do?” he said. “Hang it all, don’t you see I’ve got to do something?”

“Come over to my rooms,” said Naumann, placing his arm through that of Stetton. “We’ll talk this thing over.”

Half reluctantly, Stetton allowed himself to be led back along the Drive. Here and there they met boys with papers, shouting the news of the prince’s engagement to Mlle. Solini, the beautiful Russian. On the street corners groups of people were gathered, talking; it was easy to guess of what. Everywhere they saw smiles and beaming faces.

“Why the deuce are they all so happy about it?” demanded Stetton.

Naumann replied, “On account of the future heir.”

At which the American grunted as though such a sentiment were beyond his comprehension.

Arrived in Naumann’s rooms, they began, as the young diplomat had said, to “talk it over.” At first Stetton refused to be impressed. He declared with an air of bravado that the Prince of Marisi was the same to him as any other man, and that nothing and no one in the world should balk him of vengeance on Mlle. Solini, the perfidious, the treacherous, the odious.

“I agree with you,” retorted Naumann, “that she is all that and more. But what can you do about it? Come; get down to cases; what specific charge can you make against her? When you get your audience with the prince, what are you going to say?”

“I—I—why, a dozen things.”

“What, for instance?”

“In the first place, I’ll tell him that she is not General Nirzann’s cousin. It was that lie that got her in.”

“How are you going to prove it?”

By the look on Stetton’s face when he heard this question, you might have thought he had been asked how he was going to prove that the world was round. He repeated: “How am I going to prove it? Why, you know it yourself! She’s no more General Nirzann’s cousin than I am!”

“Quite true,” said Naumann patiently; “but you must remember that the general is dead. You must have proof.”

Stetton ended by admitting that he had none.

“But,” he cried impatiently, “what does that amount to? That is the least of what I have to tell. How I found her in the convent in Fasilica, how she bargained to marry me, how she shot the man that saved us—the one you think was her husband—how she poisoned Chavot—”

Naumann interrupted wearily.

“But, I repeat, of all these things you have no proof—absolutely none. You yourself don’t believe she poisoned Chavot.”

“Yes, I do now. And also, how I’ve given her four hundred thousand francs since she came to Marisi.”

“Good Lord!” Naumann looked at him in amazement. “You don’t mean to say you’ve given her that amount of money! How? In checks? An account?”

“No. Mostly in cash and jewels. There were no checks.”

Naumann shrugged his shoulders and spread out his hands.

“There you are again. Where’s your proof?”

“But I paid the rent for the house personally; gave it to Duroy himself. That’s something.”

“Not much. Couldn’t she say you were acting as her agent? Stetton, you haven’t a leg to stand on. The worst of it is that only a week ago you sent her a written proposal of marriage; it is the most powerful weapon she could have against anything you might say. You can’t go to the prince with more accusations; believe me, if you do you’ll regret it.”

In the end Stetton was forced to admit that his friend was right. If General Nirzann were alive it would have been a different matter—so said Stetton grimly, and Naumann agreed with him. As it was, nothing could be done. Nothing.

But still Stetton could not smother his desire for revenge. He brought his hand down on the table with a bang, crying with an oath:

“I’ll tell you what, Naumann, I’d give one million dollars in cash to get even with her! I mean it!”

Naumann was standing in front of a window with his hands in his pockets, looking out with a frown across Walderin Place.

As Stetton spoke he turned and said abruptly, “Well, there’s a chance.”

“A chance? What do you mean?”

“A chance to get even with her, as you say.”

“In Heaven’s name, how?”

“Find Vasili Petrovich.”

Then, as the other stood gazing at him in slow comprehension, the young diplomat continued.

“You have told me that he was only wounded that day in Fasilica—that you saved his life. Then depend on it, he is still very much alive and searching for the woman who injured him. If you can find him he will soon see to it that she doesn’t marry the Prince of Marisi or anyone else. You’ll have all the revenge you want.”

“But where is he?”

“That’s the question. He isn’t at Warsaw; that much I know, for I’ve written there several times. But he’s somewhere. Find him. Advertise all over Europe; go yourself if you find a clue anywhere. It’s just possible he’s still in Fasilica. Find Vasili Petrovich, and he’ll do the rest.”

“By Heaven,” cried Stetton, “I will!”

In another minute they were discussing details and plans for the search. There was plenty of time; according to the announcement, the wedding was to occur late in July, and this was early in April.

Now that something had been decided upon—something that bade fair to be productive of results—Naumann laid bare a corner of his heart to admit his own vital interest in the proceedings, on account of his love for Mlle. Janvour. Stetton had no time to waste on thoughts of Vivi or Naumann; his head was filled with one exclusive, overmastering idea.

In the first place, they prepared an advertisement which Naumann was to insert in every newspaper of any importance in Europe and Russia. It read as follows:

Vasili Petrovich, of Warsaw, will please communicate at once with Frederick Naumann either at Berlin or Marisi.

Secondly, Naumann gave Stetton all the assistance and information possible for his search, regretting that he could not assist personally.

He gave him letters to his father in Berlin, acquaintances in Warsaw, St. Petersburg, and Paris, and a dozen men in the diplomatic service stationed in different cities. Stetton had suggested asking the aid of the police, but Naumann had vetoed the idea.

“It would be dangerous on account of what will follow if we find him,” he said. “We may use them as a last resort.”

Finally, after a discussion lasting four hours, everything was arranged, and it was decided that Stetton should leave Marisi without delay.

On the following morning the Tsevor Express had for one of its passengers Mr. Richard Stetton, of New York. His destination was Fasilica.

It was three months before Stetton saw Marisi again, and in that time he traversed all of Europe and most of Russia.

He began, as they had decided, with Fasilica. There he found nothing.

He went on to Warsaw, where the manager of Vasili Petrovich’s estates, upon reading the letter of Frederick Naumann, received him with open arms. But of his master he could tell him nothing—absolutely nothing—he had not heard from him for a year. Still, he did have a clue, a very slight one.

On the strength of that clue Stetton proceeded to St. Petersburg. Still no trace.

Next he journeyed to Berlin and sought out Naumann’s father, who gave him suggestions, but nothing more, and they led nowhere. Thenceforth it became a mere wild-goose chase, and nearly attained to the dignity of a mania.

He visited Paris, Rome, Budapest, Vienna, Moscow, Marseilles, Athens; and the first of July found him back at Warsaw. Time then was short; and Stetton, worn out in body and mind, headed himself for Marisi and the advice of his friend Naumann, from whom he had heard but once or twice in the entire three months.

He arrived at Marisi at eight o’clock in the evening and went directly to the Hotel Walderin for a bath, a change of linen, and dinner. That done, he went to Naumann’s rooms at 5 Walderin Place.

Naumann was delighted to see him, but in despair at his lack of success. Stetton, however, refused to lose heart, saying that they still had nearly a month before the date of the wedding, and that by procuring the aid of the police they might yet be successful. He was stopped in the middle of this speech by the look of surprise that appeared on Naumann’s face.

“Haven’t you heard?” cried the young diplomat. “Have you been out of the world altogether? Haven’t you got any of the dozen or so letters I’ve written you in the past few weeks? Don’t you ever look at a newspaper? My dear fellow, the Prince of Marisi and Mlle. Solini were married two weeks ago!”