CHAPTER XXV

ON THE BALCONY

On that side of Marisi palace which faces the east, shut off from view of the drive by the trees and shrubbery of the grounds and garden, there is a broad marble balcony running from one end of the wing to the other. This balcony, which is some twenty feet above the ground, is reached from the palace through a series of French windows, those in the front leading to the apartments of the prince and those in the rear to the rooms of the princess. Over its marble balustrade the branches of century-old trees wave majestically, and, in the summer, stir softly about the thousand scents rising from the garden below. On a hot summer night it is the most comfortable spot in the city, as well as the most pleasant.

On this balcony sat the Princess Aline and Mlle. Janvour, at a little after eight in the evening. They had left the dinner-table only a few minutes before, and Aline had brought Vivi with her partly to escape the intrusion of other members of the household, and partly because she wished to inform her of a certain decision which she had that day resolved upon, to the effect that if she still wished to marry Herr Frederick Naumann the princess would give her consent and blessing.

The woman and the girl sat for a long time without speaking.

The evening was soft and mild, and sweet with the fragrance of the garden. The noises of the city sounded at a distance; its clamor was reduced to a soothing and pleasing hum.

All was quiet and peaceful, even in the breast of the princess; for not only were her plans in a fair way of completion according to her desires, but she was about to confer happiness on her Vivi, the only creature in the world for whom she had ever felt any genuine affection.

She pressed Vivi’s hand and opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the entrance of a servant through one of the windows leading onto the balcony.

The princess turned impatiently.

“What is it? I was not to be disturbed.”

The servant approached apologetically.

“I know, your highness, but M. Stetton insisted. He is—”

“M. Stetton!” cried the princess.

“Yes, your highness. He is below. He would not be refused. He says it is of the utmost importance that he see you at once.”

The princess had recovered herself. She said calmly:

“Show him up. I will see him here.”

Then, when the servant had disappeared, she turned to Vivi.

“You had better go, dear. I had something to tell you—it must wait. Kiss me.”

Vivi kissed her not once, but many times, then turned to go. As she passed through the window to the hall within, she met Stetton. He was making for the balcony almost at a run and gave her the merest nod in passing.

His pale face and excited manner roused the girl’s curiosity, but she said nothing as she continued on her way down the hall to her own rooms.

Stetton stepped through the window. The balcony was comparatively dark, and coming as he did from the brilliantly lighted palace, he could see nothing.

He heard Aline’s voice: “Here, Stetton, I am here. What is it? Why have you returned?”

He made his way to her side, where she stood against the marble balustrade, and took her in his arms and kissed her. She endured his embrace with ill-concealed impatience.

“Why have you returned?” she repeated.

Stetton began: “I got as far as Paris—”

“Did you see M. Candalet?”

“Yes.”

“His answer?”

“Was favorable. But—” Stetton hesitated, then said abruptly:

“Aline, Vasili Petrovich is alive. I have seen him.”

The face of the princess turned suddenly pale; so pale that Stetton observed it in the dim light from the windows. She put out a hand and grasped his arm.

“Vasili! You have seen Vasili Petrovich? Where? When?”

“In Paris. At the Gare du Nord.”

“But he did not see you?”

“Yes, and followed me to Berlin. I shook him off there.”

Then, while the princess stood looking at him in amazement, he related his experiences of the past two days, from the interview with Vasili Petrovich in the Paris café to his arrival at the palace a few minutes before. Never had he seen Aline so moved; her eyes flashed fire; her whole body was tense.

“Fool!” she cried, when he had finished. “You should not have returned to Marisi at all! Why did you not remain in Paris and write to me? Why did you not—but there!” Her tone was one of furious scorn. “An eagle does not catch flies; nor should we expect a fly to catch an eagle.”

Stetton did not exactly understand this observation, but the tone was enough. He protested hotly that he had done the best thing possible; at least, he had not gone on to America and left her in ignorance of her danger.

“Mon Dieu! What a man!” said Aline with increasing scorn. “But that would have been much better than to lead him straight to me!”

“I tell you I ditched him in Berlin!” cried poor Stetton, who had expected the most profound gratitude for his heroism.

“Perhaps,” said the princess, forcing herself to be calm. “But you are no match for Vasili Petrovich, my dear Stetton. I have no doubt that he is in Marisi—perhaps in the street, in the garden there, now.”

The princess glanced about uneasily, then suddenly crossed to the windows through which the light shone from the hall, and drew the curtains across the glass, leaving the balcony in darkness. Then she made her way back to Stetton’s side and continued:

“You do not know this Vasili Petrovich. He is capable of anything. He is the one person in the world that I fear. You acted for the best—I know that—but you have plunged us in danger. I shall send for Duchesne in the morning, and have the entire city watched for him. Ah, if I once get him in my hands—”

Aline’s eyes glittered so brightly that Stetton saw them in the darkness. After a pause she began again abruptly:

“But, after all, why did you return? Why did you not go on to America, and write me of this meeting?”

Stetton stammered something about coming back to find out what to do.

“Do?” cried the princess. “We shall do as we intended, of course!” Then, at a movement from the young man, she moved close to him and put an arm around his shoulders. “Do you think, Stetton, that I will let this Vasili cheat me of you?”

“But he is your husband!”

“Bah!” Aline snapped her fingers. “That only makes it the more imperative to get rid of him.”

She moved closer to the young man and put her other hand on his shoulder.

“It will not be necessary to make any change in our plans. Go to America—start tomorrow—and by the time you return there will be no Vasili Petrovich.”

Stetton shuddered at the calmness of her tone. For the thousandth time he tried to tell himself of the danger he was putting his head into, and for the thousandth time he forgot everything else in the promise of her eyes and the sweetness of her kisses.

Her arms were round his neck; she was breathing words of love in his ear; he held her against him roughly, feeling the beating of her heart on his breast, filled with a mad fire.

“Aline,” he whispered, “Aline! You know I love you—I love you—I love you—”

Suddenly the princess started and turned about quickly.

“What was that?” she whispered in a tone of alarm, but without removing her arms from the young man’s neck.

“What? I heard nothing.”

“That tree—that branch there—it moved—see, that one over the balustrade—”

“It was the wind.”

“But there is no wind. Stetton let, us go in. I confess it, I am alarmed.”

“Bah! You are fanciful. It was nothing.” He held her again in his arms and pressed his lips to hers. “Come, Aline—I shall leave tomorrow, then—be kind to me tonight! I love you so! As for Vasili Petrovich, you are right; we will not let him rob us—”

The sentence was never finished.

Stetton suddenly felt his throat gripped in fingers of steel, and at the same moment saw an arm stretched round him toward Aline.

She started back with a cry of terror as she saw herself confronted by a man with a black beard and piercing black eyes, that were brilliant even in the darkness of the balcony.

But she was not quick enough; the fingers of the man’s free hand closed about her own throat, slender and white, and sank into the flesh.

After that there was not a sound. The man with the beard stood towering above them, holding them at arm’s length; against his great strength they were as babes.

They grasped the sleeves of his coat and tried to pull themselves free; they tore frantically at his fingers, which closed ever tighter about their throats; all was futile.

“Marie”—the voice of Vasili Petrovich came, merciless and terrible—”Marie, demon of hell! Look at me—ah—look in my eyes—what do you see there, Marie Nikolaevna? It is the wrath of God!”

They struggled more feebly. The man with the beard laughed aloud.

“No, no—it is useless—it is the hand of fate around your throat—and yours, you lying dog. I have waited—I have waited—”

Slowly, inexorably, they were pressed to the floor by his overpowering weight and strength—to their knees—down—down—they lay on their backs on the marble pavement; the fingers of steel sank ever deeper in their throats.

Vasili Petrovich was on his knees between them; his arms moved up and down; there was a dull, sickening thud.

A second time, a third, a fourth; then, without releasing his hold, he bent over closely and examined first the face of Stetton, then that of the princess. This for a long time; but what he saw was death.

Vasili Petrovich rose to his feet and stood looking down at the body of the woman.

“Marie.” he muttered, and repeated it several times. “Marie—Marie.”

He turned abruptly, walked to the balustrade and swung himself onto the branch of a tree that hung over the balcony, and disappeared in its dense foliage.

There was the sound of bending limbs, and, a moment later, the muffled noise of his feet landing on the grass of the garden below.

The branch swayed gently back and forth over the marble balustrade.

Its movements became slower and slower, until the trembling of the leaves finally ceased entirely and became still.

All was night and silence on the balcony.

* * * *

Somewhere in southern France—exactly where does not matter—perhaps at Nice—on the white sand of the beach, under a large multicolored parasol, sat a young man and a girl.

They were dressed for bathing, but their costumes were dry; it was perhaps not the first time that they had found something on the beach more interesting than the waters of the Mediterranean. They had been silent for a long time, gazing steadfastly into each other’s eyes; between them, on the sand, their hands were clasped tightly together.

Suddenly the girl spoke.

“And yet—I believe—my sadness makes me happier.” She smiled soberly. “So you should not be jealous of it.”

The man looked at her. That is, he would have looked at her if he had not been doing so already.

“I am jealous of anything and anyone that gets the smallest fraction of your smallest thought,” he declared emphatically.

“No; I am serious,” replied the girl. “You must not expect me ever to forget Aline, and it I want to talk of her it must be with you, for there is no one else. How could I forget? How horrible it was!”

The girl covered her face with her hands.

“Vivi! Vivi dearest!” The man tried to pull her hands away. “You must not think of that—you positively must not. To please me, dear. As for Aline. I shall not ask you to forget her, and I shall talk of her with you whenever you want me to. Dear, you must not—the doctor has forbidden it and you must take heed. Come, talk of me a while—you know what I want you to say.”

Evidently the young man knew what he was about, for at this request the girl suddenly uncovered her face and looked at him.

“M. Naumann,” she said emphatically, “if you begin that again you will regret it.”

“But Vivi! To wait a year is impossible! Six months at most—make it six months. You know very well what mother thinks—”

Vivi interrupted him.

“Your mother agrees with me, young man, and you know it.”

“But, hang it all, I tell you I can’t wait a year! I won’t! In the autumn I go to Rome and you will stay at Berlin—what the deuce do you expect me to do?”

The girl sprang to her feet.

“As you please, monsieur,” she cried gaily. “Always do as you please; that is my motto, as it was that of the Abbey of Saint Theleme. And now farewell, monsieur.”

Waving her hand at him mockingly, she raced down the beach toward the surf. In an instant he was on his feet and after her, and they entered the water together with a tremendous splash.

And thus, finally, it happened that Vivi Janvour, who was distinctly French from the tip of her toes to the top of her head, changed her nationality as well as her name and became a German frau.

No one will say that she didn’t deserve her happiness or reproach her for remaining loyal to the only friend her early years had known. Content in a convent and modest in a palace, she made the best and most obedient of wives; and yet—this should be whispered—if you wish to procure a favor from Herr Frederick Naumann, who has become somewhat of a power in politics and diplomacy, it would not be a bad idea first to gain the approval of the mistress of the house.

Still, Naumann had his way in the matter of a certain date.