CHAPTER XXIII

PRICE—TWO MILLION DOLLARS

There are many kinds of power in the world, and though some of them are able to stand alone, most are rendered useless without money to develop or uphold them. Political power certainly belongs to this latter and larger class, though in some instances it manages to live by what it feeds on. When this fails, destruction follows.

Thus, roughly, might be summarized the thoughts of Aline, Princess of Marisi, as she sat alone one afternoon in her boudoir in Marisi palace.

It was three days after the final obsequies had been performed over the body of the prince; a week had passed since his assassination. The princess had secluded herself in the palace and refused to see any but one or two of her most intimate friends.

She had, indeed, plenty to think about. During the life of Prince Michael, she had known little or nothing either of state affairs or his personal ones; she had just begun to make her influence felt in little matters of detail, and that was all. But with his death she had become in fact the ruler of Marisi; on the very day following she had sat on the throne at a meeting of council.

Since then she had learned many things; among them being this from the lips of De Mide, that the state coffers were sadly depleted and those of the dead prince empty; worse, somewhat in debt.

For the coffers of the state the princess felt little concern; they could be made to attend to themselves. But those of the prince—that is to say, her own—were a different matter. According to De Mide, it was difficult to procure cash even for the household expenses.

There was six hundred thousand francs due Latorne, of Paris, for the magnificent diamond cross which the prince had given Aline for a wedding present. As much more was owed in Marisi.

Since the death of Prince Michael the creditors were clamoring for their money; what was worse, they refused to advance more. The princess was already in debt to the state treasury, and, besides, it also was practically empty. It was impossible, De Mide had said, to get cash even to pay the servants of the palace.

Not a very pleasant situation, surely, for a newly bereaved princess. So thought Aline; but, true to her character, instead of wasting time in bewailing the difficulties of her situation, she set about finding a way to remove them.

Her first thought was increased taxes. When she pronounced that word De Mide smiled.

“Very little of the revenue is derived from taxes,” he asserted, “and that little goes to the state. The funds of the ruler of Marisi come from Paris and St. Petersburg, in recognition of certain services rendered those governments in connection with the Balkan States and the Turks. France pays two hundred thousand francs a year, Russia two hundred and fifty thousand. Prince Michael collected these sums three years in advance; nothing can be expected there.”

Thus Aline found herself confronting a real problem. And by dint of thinking a great deal of money she came, by a natural chain of association, to Richard Stetton, of New York. With her to think was to act; she went to the telephone and called up the Hotel Walderin.

At the first sound of Stetton’s voice, eager and joyful when he discovered to whom he was talking, the princess knew that he was still hers. That was all she wanted to know. She asked him to come to see her at the palace the following morning at eleven o’clock.

When Stetton arrived, twenty minutes ahead of time, he was shown at once to the apartments of the princess on the second floor, and into a little reception-room, daintily and tastefully furnished. He had waited but a moment when he heard the rustle of a curtain behind him.

He turned and saw the princess.

Aline expected little difficulty in this interview; nevertheless she came prepared for the battle. Never, thought Stetton, had she been so beautiful, so desirable.

Dressed in mourning purple from head to foot, her white skin and golden hair possessed almost a supernatural loveliness, while her gray-blue eyes glowed—with what, Stetton wondered—with welcome?

For his part, he was plainly embarrassed and ill at ease. He bent over her hand as of old, but dared not kiss it. Truth was, he was more than a little afraid of her. In addition to everything else, was she not a princess?

“I cannot say how glad I was to find you were still in Marisi,” Aline was saying. “I had feared you would have returned to America.”

“I did,” said Stetton, looking at her as though he were trying to fill his eyes. “That is, I started. At Liverpool I read of the prince’s death and returned.”

“Ah!” Aline smiled. “Then you knew, after all.”

Stetton looked at her, puzzled.

“I mean, you knew I would expect you,” Aline explained.

“I do not understand that.”

“But, monsieur—then why did you return?”

“I don’t know. Yes, I do know. To see you.”

“There!” said Aline, as though he had admitted something. “You see, I am right.”

“Perhaps,” Stetton agreed, “but I don’t know what you are talking about.”

Aline laughed.

“You knew I would send for you.”

“How could I know that? I hoped, perhaps.”

“And why, monsieur? I thought you hated me.”

“And so I do.”

“Then why did you hope I would send for you?”

“Because when I do not hate you I love you.”

Aline glanced at him approvingly.

“My dear Stetton, you are developing a tongue. That is well. You are going to need all the accomplishments you can muster.”

“For what purpose?”

“That is the secret, to be divulged later. Now, let us be frank—the preliminary skirmish is over. Tell me exactly what you think of me, and tell me the truth.”

“You know very well what I think of you.”

“Nevertheless, tell me.”

“I cannot tell you.”

It was easy enough to tell what the young man meant by the expression of his eyes.

Aline smiled as she said boldly:

“Then show me.”

The next instant Stetton had her in his arms, pulling her against him roughly, passionately, and raining kisses on her cheeks and eyes and lips.

“That is what I think,” he cried in a voice hoarse with feeling.

What he was doing then he had been dreaming of for months. Her breath against his face maddened him; her lips, though they did not respond to his pressure, were soft and yielding.

“This is what I think,” he cried again, intoxicated.

“But, Stetton, you must remember,” Aline began, trying to free herself.

“I remember nothing—nothing but this, that I love you! You would tell me that you are a princess, that I must respect the memory of the prince. I respect nothing. I love you!”

“But you should not tell me—now,” Aline protested in a voice that was an invitation to tell her again.

“I should not tell you at all,” said Stetton grimly. “I know it very well. I am a fool to love you, and a still bigger fool to tell you so. You see, Aline, I am beginning to know you. You have never loved anyone, and never will. You never loved me; you merely played with me, got what you wanted, and then threw me over. And still I love you, in spite of your—”

The princess interrupted him.

“You are wrong.”

“Wrong to love you?”

“No.”

The princess paused for a moment, then with a sudden air of decision continued.

“Stetton, you are wrong; I repeat it.” She looked at the young man with tender eyes. “Why should you say I do not love you? Because I married the prince? Surely you do not think I loved him? Can you not understand that a woman’s ambition may be stronger than her love? Well, my ambition is satisfied”—she looked at him meaningly—”my love is not.”

“You mean—” cried the young man, trembling with joy, not so much at her words as at the expression of her face.

“I mean, Stetton, that I still have your proposal, and that I am willing to accept it.”

This was a little sobering. A sudden frown appeared on Stetton’s brow.

“Ah, that—” he began, and stopped.

“Do you hesitate?” asked Aline, fixing him with her eyes.

The truth was, he did. He could not understand it. A month ago—nay, a day—two hours ago—he would have asked nothing better for happiness than this which was now offered to him.

In all conscience, had he not had enough of this woman and her wiles? Did he not know her to be treacherous, perfidious, dangerous? Still, to have her for his own—to realize in actuality the desires that had possessed him for so many months—was it not worth any price?

And was she not a princess? Another thought, fed by his vanity, and therefore growing rapidly, entered his mind. Aline had everything she wanted—position, wealth, everything. If she still desired him, it must mean that she really loved him. Besides, for what had he returned to Marisi, if not for this?

“Do you hesitate?” Aline repeated.

For all reply he took her again in his arms. Again his lips sought hers, and this time met with a response as ardent as his own. For a long time they stood, holding each other close; then Aline gently disengaged herself and held him off with her two hands on his shoulders.

“You see, Stetton,” she said, looking into his eyes, “we are going to be happy after all. We will forget everything, will we not? Except each other. Now, do you not see that I love you—that I have always loved you?”

The only reply came from his burning eyes. He was too filled with the rapture of her presence to speak.

Soon after she told him he must leave. For the present, she said, they must practice extreme caution; they must give no basis for rumors so soon after the death of Prince Michael. The event that had opened the way for their happiness would at the same time defer its consummation.

But if Stetton was impatient, she declared that he was no more so than she. He need fear nothing more than the temporary delay; she was his—his forever.

Stetton departed with a lighter heart than he had known for many months.

When he had gone Aline stood looking at the door which had just closed behind him for a full minute.

“For the purpose,” she said finally to herself, “I could not do better in all the world. Easily managed, vain, passionate, ignorant—in short, a perfect fool. And with his fifty millions, which, by the way, must be investigated—”

She turned and rang a bell, to send for De Mide.

A week passed. Stetton called at the palace daily and had long conferences with Aline; it began to appear that it was not so easy a matter to become the consort of a princess.

Aline had not yet broached the subject in council, but she had sounded two or three of its members privately, and she reported that their final approval was almost certain. The difficulties of the matter were presented to Stetton in so strong a light that he declared his inability to comprehend how they had any chance whatever of success.

“We would not have,” said Aline, “but for one thing.”

“And that is?”

“An heir to the throne is expected in six months.”

Stetton’s face reddened, and he abruptly changed the subject.

A week later Aline informed him that two of the council members who remained obstinate could be won by bribes.

Old Duplann, she felt sure, could be had for fifty thousand francs. As for Cinni, a shrewd young Italian who had conducted the late prince’s negotiations with the French and Russian governments, that was a different matter. It would require twice that amount with him. A mere hundred and fifty thousand francs in cash—which she did not happen to possess—would turn the scale in their favor.

Stetton provided it, without a murmur. Indeed, he had not expected to get off so cheaply.

The day of the council meeting arrived. Stetton remained in his room at the Walderin, awaiting a message from the palace. The meeting was scheduled for twelve o’clock; an hour before that time he was fuming with impatience. He thought the time would never pass. Noon came; he could scarcely contain himself.

Then one o’clock; and exactly on the hour the telephone-bell rang, and he received word that the princess desired to see him at once. He rushed from the room and to the street, where he had kept an automobile waiting all day. In five minutes he was at the palace.

His first glance at Aline’s face, as she met him in her reception-room, told him that all was over. It was eloquent with disappointment, rage, and despair. He cried out without waiting for her to speak:

“What is it? What have they done?”

“Ah, Stetton!” sighed the princess, taking his hand and looking sorrowfully into his eyes.

“They have refused!” cried the young man, feeling his heart sink to his boots.

“No.” Aline shook her head.

“They have not refused? What then?”

Aline did not reply at once. Still holding Stetton’s hand, she drew him down beside her on a divan. Then she said, seeming to have difficulty to find the words:

“No, they have not refused. But they might as well have done so, for they have imposed conditions that are utterly impossible. They are stubborn, impudent, detestable—I hate them!”

“But the conditions! What are they?”

“It would do no good to tell you.” Aline was holding his hand in both her own.

“Tell me!” he insisted frantically. “What are they?”

“No; indeed, I cannot.”

But he insisted so earnestly that she was finally forced to yield. She began:

“In the first place, they demand that you be given no power whatever in Marisi politics, either domestic or foreign.”

“Bah! What do I care for their politics? What else?”

“They ask that you sign away all claims of whatsoever kind on the State of Marisi for your—our children, if we have any. Under certain conditions this clause may be abrogated later, but only by their will.”

“Well, that is not impossible. Is that all?”

“No. The last is the worst. They demand that you furnish ten million francs to the state, to be used in the treasury of the throne.”

Stetton jumped to his feet in amazement.

“Ten million francs! Two million dollars!”

“Yes. Of course, it is merely another way of refusing. They knew very well that you would be unable to furnish that amount. It was Cinni who did it—and he took our money! The greasy wretch!”

Stetton kept repeating: “Two million dollars!”

“They would listen to nothing,” Aline went on. “I pleaded with them, threatened, stormed; you may be sure I did not let them off easily. But they were immovable. They would not reduce the amount by a single sou.”

“Two million dollars!” said Stetton.

Aline pressed his hand. The expression in her eyes was one of sadness and despair.

“Ah, Stetton!” she sighed. “This, then, is the end. You must know this, my disappointment is as bitter as your own. To have so nearly approached happiness, and then to lose it!”

Stetton sighed. “Two million dollars!”

“Yes. It is monstrous. ‘Twas Cinni who did it—the oily, wily Italian. I hate him! Some day, Stetton, you may be sure we shall be revenged. They pretend—well, it makes no difference what they pretend. We shall be revenged; I shall make it the task of my life. If only I dared defy them! But no—the people are with them—I would lose everything. I thought that today we would be betrothed; instead, we must say farewell!” Her voice trembled. “You will not forget me, Stetton? You will think of me, as I shall think of you? And to know—”

She was interrupted by a quick movement from the young man. He had risen to his feet and stood facing her, his face lit up by a sudden resolve. He said abruptly, in the tone of one who has made a momentous decision:

“Aline, I will get that ten million francs.”

She also rose to her feet, with an appearance of astonishment. “Stetton,” she cried, “you cannot! It is impossible!”

“I will,” he replied firmly.

She doubted it and said so. He stuck to his assertion, and finally persuaded her. She applauded his sublime resolution and threw herself into his arms, crying that after all they would be happy, their love would receive its reward.

She declared that she hated to give in to Cinni and the others, but if Stetton thought her worth it she would see that he did not regret his bargain. Besides, she added somewhat ingenuously, would he not have a ruling princess for a wife?

So much decided, they entered into a discussion of details. It would be necessary, of course, for Stetton to go to America to see his father.

As a matter of fact, he did not expect much opposition in that quarter. His father certainly would not be overjoyed at the prospect of handing over two million dollars, but how his mother would jump at the chance of having the Princess of Marisi for a daughter-in-law! She would consider such an acquisition cheap at double the price. No, there would be no opposition there.

He did not explain all this to Aline; he merely told her that he would have no difficulty to procure the necessary amount, but that he would have to go to New York to get it.

“I did not imagine,” said Aline playfully, running her fingers through his hair—they were again seated on the divan—”that you carried that much money around in your pocket.”

It was decided that Stetton should leave for New York the very next day; they were both anxious, though for very different reasons, to have the matter settled as speedily as possible. It was thought that he would be able to return to Marisi within a month.

“And then,” said Aline, “we shall not have long to wait. The wedding must not take place until a year after Prince Michael’s death, but we shall be assured of our happiness, we shall be together, and the time will fly swiftly. We shall be a happy family, Stetton—you, Vivi, and I.”

“That reminds me. I had almost forgotten. I saw Naumann last night—Frederick Naumann. He wants to marry Vivi.”

Aline frowned. “I know it.”

“Well, why not?”

She replied dryly, “For a dozen reasons. I think you are acquainted with most of them.”

“But all the same, Naumann is a good fellow, and he is a good friend of mine. Can’t you forgive him for my sake? If we are going to be happy we ought to be willing to extend our happiness to others. You see what your love does for me; I am beginning to be unselfish. Indulge me in this, won’t you?”

Aline laughed.

“So you are beginning to be unselfish? Well, it would be a pity to hinder you. We shall see about it when you return; if you are successful no doubt I shall be ready to forgive anybody anything.

“And now”—she glanced at her watch—”you must leave me. I must have a talk with De Mide before dinner, when I shall see Cinni and one or two others. If you see your friend Naumann tonight, tell him not to despair.”

Stetton rose to go.

“There is no question about my seeing him. He is probably waiting at the hotel now.”

“All right. Tell him. And, of course, come in the morning before you go, and say goodbye.”

Stetton kissed her hand and left.