Читать книгу The Kingdom of Earth - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 11

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JOHN PETERS stood there with his back against the door, and the hand which grasped his revolver stretched out into the room. Pitiless as fate itself seemed the eyes which calmly yet alertly took stock of its three occupants. Yet neither his expression nor his tone was in the least threatening.

"You must pardon me," he begged, "if my entrance seems a little melodramatic. One has to make sure, and the attitude of the young gentleman who brought me was quite alarming. If you move your hand, sir, one inch nearer that drawer, I shall put a bullet through it. Back, please. Thanks! I shall not seem boastful, I hope, if I remind you that I am supposed to be almost the best shot with a revolver in Europe."

All the time his eyes were taking stock of them—two men and Grace. One was short and dark, with black moustache and beard, and restless eyes; the other was older, with shrewd, benevolent face, and deep-set eyes. Both were dressed in faultless evening clothes; both were apparently men of nerve, for they faced the situation unflinchingly. And behind them stood Grace, now as pale as death, with something miserably pathetic in her drawn features, and a half-defiant light in her eyes, which seemed to challenge his. But he never looked at her.

"I have come," John Peters continued, "to have a little conversation with you. It seems very possible that we might find interesting things to discuss. Only, I am not comfortable like this, and my attitude is perhaps open to misconstruction. Have you any objection to placing yourselves according to a little idea of my own?"

The elder of the two men shrugged his shoulders. "We are entirely at your disposal, sir," he said. "Let us know in what way we can meet your wishes."

"Our young friend here," John Peters continued pleasantly, "will place three chairs there"—he pointed—"a little farther apart, please. That will do admirably. The lady"—he looked at her for the first time, unflinchingly—"will be so good as to take that easy chair, a little farther off." His eyes held hers, and she obeyed, as did the others.

The elder man held out his hand toward a box of cigarettes. "Have we your permission to smoke?" he asked pleasantly. "I can recommend these cigarettes."

"They are excellent," John Peters agreed. "I have been privileged to try them myself. By all means, smoke—and now you will not mind a few questions?"

"Certainly not," the man declared; "so long as you do not insist upon answers."

"Oh! I dare say we shall not quarrel about that," John Peters said, quietly. "In the first place, I should like to know how to address you."

"Certainly," was the courteous reply. "Miss Pellisier I think you already know. The young gentleman whose acquaintance you made in the corridor, calls himself, I believe, Monsieur Defarge. Our friend on my left here is Mr. St. Dahlias. My own name is Sir William Wilson. We have the pleasure, I believe, of addressing—Mr. John Peters?"

John Peters nodded. "Sometimes known as John Valentine, Duke of Sayon, Prince of Bergeland," he added drily. "Now, Sir William, I should like to know why you four people dislike me so much that you thought it advisable to dispense with my presence upon the earth. A little personal feeling I might have understood, but you go too far."

Sir William shook his head slowly. "My dear Prince," he said, "or Mr. Peters, if you prefer, you misapprehend the situation entirely. Personally, I have never had the pleasure of meeting you before, and I can assure you that I have nothing whatever against you. None of us have anything against you. It is the Crown Prince of Bergeland whom we should like to remove, in the interests of a great many people."

"You don't like my manner of life, I suppose?" John Peters remarked.

Sir William shook his head. "We dislike it exceedingly," he said. "To tell you the truth, it is impossible for us to contemplate with equanimity your accession to the throne of your country."

"I sympathize with you—to some extent," John Peters remarked. "I feel that I should make a thoroughly bad king. But when you say 'we,' you make me wonder whom you represent. Attempts of this sort have been made before to expedite my departure from this world, but I have always been able to trace their source. I must admit that you puzzle me completely. I see apparently an Englishman, a Frenchman, a Bergian—I take it that Mr. Defarge is of my own country—and a young American lady. What does it matter to you whether my country is well or ill ruled?"

"We are philanthropists, my dear sir," Sir William declared, lighting another cigarette. "We might be compared to a gardener, wandering about a great garden with a pruning knife in his hands. He lops a bough here, a blossom there, and the world—the garden I mean, is the healthier for it."

John Peters nodded sympathetically. "I see," he said. "The idea is excellent. I should like to understand your point of view more clearly, however. At present I am harmless enough. I do not rule over anybody or anything. On the other hand, my uncle, who is King of Bergeland to-day, is perhaps as bad a king as ever sat upon a throne. He indulges in all the vices which are popularly attributed to me; he robs the revenues in a dozen different ways; he shows not the slightest interest in his people, and some of his private commercial undertakings, entered upon to provide more funds for his numerous extravagances, have become the scandal of Europe. Now I should have thought that any one seeking to relieve the earth of an undesirable—"

Sir William interrupted with a little wave of his hand. He leaned forward in his chair confidentially. "I see your point of view, my dear sir," he said, "and I can assure you that I appreciate it, but, to tell you the truth, we are all amateurs at this sort of thing, as you yourself have had an opportunity to find out. We carry out our little affairs ourselves, and we have not had much experience. You can understand, I dare say, that it is much easier to get rid of a prince, especially when he travels a good deal incognito, than a king."

John Peters looked across the room, looked into the eyes of the woman who had made the world a different place for him. "And the lady who acts as your decoy," he asked calmly, "is she also an amateur?"

She started as though some one had stabbed her, and a rush of colour burned her cheeks. The look which flashed for a moment across to him hurt, but his eyes never faltered.

"Miss Pellisier is more of an amateur than any of us, perhaps," Sir William said.

"She is certainly the greatest artist," John Peters answered, "but let that go. I have heard what you have to say. Let me add a few remarks. Supposing your attempt to-night had been successful. Do you know who would have succeeded to the throne of Bergeland on my uncle's death?"

"One of your two cousins, sir," St. Dalmas answered, "Count Emil or the Duke of Latoria."

"Exactly," John Peters agreed. "I know them both well, and I can assure you that although they may be cleverer at concealing their delinquencies, they are not a scrap better than I am. I believe that Emil is really worse."

"They are not so brazen, at least," St. Dalmas declared. "They have not made all Europe ring with their follies."

"People do talk so," John Peters remarked, with a sigh, "but at any rate you can take my word for it that those young men are no better than I am. That is where I think that your system of indiscriminate slaughter has its weak points. I can confidently assure you that Bergeland would be just as ill-governed by any other member of my house."

"Your death," Sir William remarked, "might serve as a warning to these other young men."

John Peters shook his head. "If it is really the good of my country which you seek, I wonder you do not try to make use of other means."

The young man, who had not yet spoken since he had brought John Peters into the room, now leaned a little forward in his chair. "What other means," he asked, "are open to us?"

"There," John Peters remarked, "you open up a great subject. Still, you have history to refer to. What has generally happened in countries whose people were worthy, but whose ruling race became degenerate?"

"Revolution," the young man answered, grimly.

"Precisely," John Peters assented. "Why not revolt against us?"

"Because, as you know very well," the young man answered, "Germany would interfere at once. The Kaiser does not like republics on his frontier."

"Well, I am not going to show you how to do it," John Peters remarked. "If I were not the Crown Prince of Bergeland, however, I fancy I could give you a few hints."

"You will permit me to say," Sir William remarked, "that you are not in the least the sort of young man I expected to find you."

"That may or may not be a compliment," John Peters answered. "I can at least, however, go so far on my own account as to say that you are none of you in the least like the bloodthirsty band I expected to find at the back of my young assailant here. None the less dangerous, I dare say," he added, smiling, "because your methods are modern. Frankly, I do not seem to have found out much about you."

Sir William shrugged his shoulders. "I considered," he remarked, "that we had been most frank."

"Up to a certain point, yes," John Peters admitted; "but what are you? Who are you? A society, or just one or two cranks?"

Sir William was silent for several moments. He kept his eyes fixed upon John Peters, and the expression upon his face during those few seconds underwent a remarkable change. All its benevolence, its somewhat middle-class respectability, seemed to vanish. His eyes grew brighter and keener. It was the face now of a dangerous man.

"Prince," he said, "you are not the sort of person I expected to find you. You have humour, and you have pluck. It has pleased you to turn this affair into a sort of comedy, and we have been content to fall in with your whim. But the time has come for us to speak seriously. What was your object in making Defarge bring you here? We have been your judges, and we have condemned you to die. The first skirmish has ended in your favour. You have a certain measure of advantage for the moment. It cannot alter the end, but it would be as well for us to understand one another. How do you intend to use that advantage? What is to be the end of this interview?"

"Terms," John Peters answered, "if you will accept them."

"Well?"

"Give me six months' safety. I am tired of dodging assassins. For six months' safety, I leave you here undisturbed and unquestioned."

"We grant you that six months," Sir William answered, "provided only that your uncle—who, I believe, is in excellent health—lives so long. You see, we do not in any case intend to allow you to ascend the throne of Bergeland."

John Peters nodded. Then he rose slowly to his feet. "Let it be so," he answered. "I accept. For six months, then, we are free of one another. At the end of that time, war if you like."

"War it must be," Sir William said gravely.

John Peters rose and bowed indifferently. Then, for a moment, his eyes travelled over the heads of the three men, to where Grace still sat in the easy chair, with her face partly averted. It seemed so short a time since they two had stood together before the window, and life had suddenly seemed filled with a rare and unexpected sweetness. It was the same room, almost the same spot. A sudden wave of anger swept up in the man.

"War, by all means," he declared, almost fiercely. "The greatest causes can be debased by false methods. The world will never be set free by the assassin's knife or the throwing of bombs."