Читать книгу The Man and His Kingdom - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 10

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"Josè dear."

The President paused, and looked back over his shoulder.

"My love."

"You are in a hurry. I wished to speak with you."

"I was going," he said, "to invite Colonel Sanarez and Mopez to dinner."

"And why?"

The President returned to his wife's side. In small matters he had great faith in her sagacity.

"I should like," he explained, "to impress our guest favourably. He has just relieved the Treasury from a position of—er—considerable embarrassment."

"You will be able then," she said, "to let me send something to those tiresome people in Paris?"

The President looked doubtful.

"Well," he said, "it is not an inexhaustible sum. I am afraid it would not be wise to attempt to pay any private accounts. It might create jealousy."

"Worth will send Lucia no more dresses," his wife continued placidly. "In fact, he said that he was sending a legal summons out."

The President grinned.

"If he does we will hang the fellow," he declared. "About the account, my dear. We will see. Lucia must have her dresses, of course. In the meantime, I must hurry, or Sanarez will have left."

"One moment, Josè," she cried, detaining him. "It is concerning your invitation of these men that I desired to speak with you. Do not ask them. Let it be a family party."

The President stroked his grey moustache.

"I scarcely see any advantage in that," he remarked. "Mopez is a most marvellous and magnificent liar. When he talks, I begin to wonder myself whether I am not the President of the wealthiest and most prosperous country in the world. He will impress our visitor, and in confidence, my dear Julia, I have reason to believe that this Gregory Dene is a man of great wealth in his own country. He might be very useful to us. Something in the nature of a loan secured by the revenues of the Republic might be suggested. One cannot tell what might come of it."

The lady raised two fat fingers.

"You are very clever in your own way, my dear Josè," she said, "but there are some things into which you can see no further than your own nose. Bah! Let the money be. It is for Lucia I speak. It is for Lucia I say let this be a family party—you and I, Eugène and Lucia, and the Señor Dene."

The President looked doubtful.

"You think that there is really any chance of that?" he said.

"Who can tell?" she answered. "Yet consider the time they spent together in the garden, and the colour in Lucia's cheeks when they returned. You were not noticing, but!—bah! it was I who sent them there. I can assure you of this, my dear Josè—never in all her days has our Lucia changed colour for a man, or looked at him as she looked at the Señor Dene."

"She had not much to say to him," the President remarked.

"It is the dear child's way," the Señora answered contentedly. "She is ever thus in our presence. Yet they must have talked of many things in the garden, and did you not hear her ask him to come to dinner? In another it would have been unmaidenly; with Lucia it is not so. She is always so proud and so self-contained."

"The Señor Dene," the President remarked, "does not present himself as a man of gallantry."

The fat little lady leaned back in her chair, and waved her hand contemptuously.

"Bah! In all San Martina, who is there like Lucia? Already she has interested him. In his loneliness at Beau Desir, he will think of her. To-night she will wear her white dress, and she will talk to him. He will go away, he will carry with him the picture of her as she will be to-night, and he will be restless. Then one fine morning there will be business in San Martina, he will ride in—and after that, he will come as often as she wills. Bah! do I not know?"

The President moved to the side window, and looked moodily out across the Place to the prison.

"Well, if you are right," he said, "so much the better. If Lucia were safely disposed of, I should feel all the more comfortable."

"The affairs of the State," she inquired—"are they not flourishing?"

"They are," he answered, "about as unflourishing as affairs can be. In fact, they are fast approaching a crisis. Everybody is robbing the Treasury, and everybody is discontented. The bank has refused to cash government bonds this afternoon."

"The miscreants," she exclaimed "What shall you do?"

"Oh, we shall probably shoot the bank manager," he answered. "But even then the mischief is done. They have either sent away or hidden the specie. Sanarez, with half a dozen soldiers, searched the place, and found the manager in the cellar. If it were not for this money of Señor Dene's, I believe that San Martina would be in a state of insurrection at this moment As it is, it will not go far."

The Señora had turned pale, and ceased to wave her fan.

"An insurrection," she exclaimed. "Oh, how detestable that word is. Do not frighten me please, Josè. I can think only of poor Maria Da Costa."

The President shrugged his shoulders, but he was not altogether at his ease. His predecessor and his wife had both been shot during a little difference with the inhabitants, and it was not exactly a pleasant memory.

"If only I dared shoot Sagasta," he said, looking gloomily at the prison. "Unfortunately I have given my word not to until he has had a fair trial, or the people would have had him out before now."

"You could have him tried and found guilty," the Señora suggested "You could be the judge yourself. You have managed these things before."

"The people would be up in an hour," he said. "They are greatly incensed now at his detention. You cannot walk in the streets without hearing his name. I am not sure that I dare trust even my soldiers if they were ordered to shoot him."

The Señora's fat little face was wrinkled up with thought

"Ugh!" she exclaimed. "Are there not secret ways of disposing of such pests? It could be given out that he had died."

The President shook his head gloomily.

"The people would never believe that he had died a natural death," he said, with a sigh. "They are so miserably suspicious. No. So far as I can see there is one thing, and one thing only, which can pull us through."

"And that?" the Señora asked.

"The suggestion came from you. If Gregory Dene were to ask me for Lucia, it would be salvation."

The Señora fluttered her fan, and her black eyes twinkled.

"Explain," she demanded.

"Dene would be an excellent ally. He is popular with the people. He is rich, and an Englishman. If he could be persuaded to take office with me, all immediate danger would be at an end."

"Immediate danger," the Señora repeated, half closing her eyes. "Ugh."

"Well, I mean it," the President declared. "In the event of a rising, I would not give much for the lives of any of us. There is one consolation only. Sanarez and Mopez are more hated even than we are. They would go first. Would it not be as well, Julie, to give Lucia a hint?"

The Señora protested most vigorously.

"Do not dream of it, my dear Josè," she begged. "It would spoil everything. Lucia is the most extraordinary, the most peculiar girl in the world. I alone can manage her—and I—even I am sometimes puzzled. If you were to tell her of our desire she would not speak a word to him all the evening. Why, Josè, let me tell you this. If she had any idea as to the real state of affairs here, she would disclose everything to him, and he would be wanting his money back again. If you speak of Señor Dene to her at all, let it be slightingly. Do not praise him, or make much of him before her. It would be fatal. All would be undone."

The President smiled.

"In your way, my dear," he said, "you are a clever woman. I leave all to you. Only remember that the affair is of vital importance to us."

She nodded her head—a slow, mysterious gesture. It was an enterprise which commended itself to her.

"You will see," she exclaimed. "You will see how I shall manage it But Eugène—where is he? The Señor Dene asked twice for him. He must dine with us to-night."

The President's face darkened.

"Concerning Eugène," he said, "there is a great deal which I should like to say to you. My patience has a limit, and Eugène is fast approaching it."

"Is it anything more than I know?—anything new?" she asked anxiously.

"Anything new," he repeated impatiently. "What need is there of anything new? He has all the vices. The saints know that our discipline is lax enough, but his colonel has complained to me repeatedly. He is but an indifferent soldier, and he makes no effort to improve. All his time he wastes in the hotels or worse places. He is my son, and my only son, but my patience has its limits. He is on the point of overstepping them. I have told him in plain words that the next time he is discovered drunk he will be put under arrest, tried, and degraded. Yesterday he escaped by the skin of his teeth only. To-day no one knows where he is, but I heard by chance that he is at the hotel with a companion—of the usual sort."

The Señora dabbed her eyes with a small handkerchief. Suddenly she half rose from her chair and waved her hand frantically to some one out of the window.

"It is he—Eugène!" she cried. "Eugène, my son, come hither! At least to-day he is sober. See how well he looks."

The young man turned round with manifest distinction, and, waving his hat, was on the point of hurrying off. But the President, who had joined his wife at the window, summoned him back with an imperious gesture.

"Where were you going, Eugène?" he asked.

"To your room, sir," Eugène answered.

"You wished to speak to me?"

"Yes."

"You can do so here."

The young man came slowly up the piazza steps, and, taking off his white cap, began to fan himself with it. He was obviously ill-at-ease.

"It b about him," he said, inclining his head towards the prison.

"Sagasta?"

"Yes."

"What have you to say?"

"I think," Eugène said slowly, "that I would have him shot."

His father looked at him coldly.

"Why?"

"The people are beginning to get excited. They may storm the prison at any moment."

"And if we have him shot, what then? Will they not storm the Presidency instead?"

Eugène shook his head.

"No. They will have no leader. They are like sheep; without Sagasta they are not dangerous."

The President regarded his son for a moment with cold contempt.

"You called yourself his friend, Eugène," he said slowly. "What you were planning with him you two alone know. It answered your purpose to betray him, and you did so. Now you come to me and calmly recommend his assassination. You give crafty reasons enough, but I think I know your real one. You are afraid to meet him face to face. You fear that if he were free, vengeance upon you would be his first instinct."

Eugène flushed up to the temples.

"What I did," he said, "was for all our good."

The President sighed.

"We are all poor creatures enough out here," he said, "but as I live, Eugène, I would rather have seen you up like a man with your sword in your hand side by side with Sagasta in open rebellion against me than have had you first betray him and then come whining for his assassination. Now, listen to me. Sagasta shall not be harmed unless the people rise. So long as they remain quiet he is safe. And listen to me further. If the time comes, as I hope it may, when I can set him free, I will put a sword into your hand and a sword into his, and for once, at any rate, you shall quit yourself like a man, or he shall avenge himself for your treachery."

"Josè, Josè! how cruel you are!" the Señora cried. "Eugène is our son. You would not see him butchered!"

The President's eyes blazed fiercely.

"He is our son," he answered sternly, "but—"

He stopped short. In his heart there was a weak spot for that fat, honest little lady who had at least been a loyal companion to him. There was something in her face just then as she sat with her tearful eyes fastened upon Eugène which suddenly touched him. He would not let her know all that he suspected. He was silent—he did not attempt to finish his sentence. Eugène, who was pale now with fear, turned to leave them.

"Where are you going, Eugène?" his mother asked tearfully.

"I have an engagement," he muttered. "Some friends at the hotel."

"You must send them an excuse, then," his father said drily. "I require you to dine here to-night to meet Señor Dene."

The young man's face became white with passion. A half-smothered oath escaped from his lips.

"But it is impossible," he protested in a low tone. "I have guests."

"You will dine here to-night, Eugène," his father repeated. "And remember, when you choose to entertain your friends you can do so here. Explain my wishes to your friends, if necessary."

Eugène drew a quick little breath. He was horribly afraid of his father, especially just now, but it was altogether too vexatious. He could not give in without a struggle.

"If you will excuse me for this once only—" he pleaded.

The President interrupted him.

"Eugène," he said coldly, "I know of your guest. Let that be sufficient for you. Do not dare to obtrude your vices upon our notice. Report yourself in my dressing-room at seven o'clock."

Eugène made an effort to submit gracefully, but the smile which showed his yellow teeth was not a pleasant one. He raised his hat to his mother and turned away.

"That is another account," he muttered under his breath, "which I shall have to settle with the Señor Dene."