Back Aa

Savrola

<h3> CHAPTER V. </h3> <h3> A PRIVATE CONVERSATION. </h3> "That," said the President to his confidential secretary, so soon as the door had closed on the retiring deputation, "is over, but we shall have plenty more in the future. Savrola will most certainly be elected for the Central Division, and we shall then have the pleasure of listening to him in the Senate." "Unless," added Miguel, "anything should happen." The President, who knew his man well, understood the implication. "No, it is no good; we cannot do that. Fifty years ago it might have been possible. People won't stand that sort of thing now-a-days; even the army might have scruples. So long as he keeps within the law, I don't see how we can touch him constitutionally." "He is a great force, a great force; sometimes, I think, the greatest in Laurania. Every day he grows stronger. Presently the end will come," said the Secretary slowly and thoughtfully, who, as the partner of Molara's dangers, no less than of his actions, had a claim to be heard. "I think the end is coming," he continued; "perhaps quite soon—unless——?" he paused. "I tell you it can't be done. Any accident that happened would be attributed to me. It would mean a revolution here, and close every asylum abroad." "There are other ways besides force, physical force." "None that I can see, and he is a strong man." "So was Samson, nevertheless the Philistines spoiled him." "Through a woman. I don't believe he has ever been in love." "That is no reason against the future." "Wanted a Delilah," said the President dryly. "Perhaps you will find one for him." The Secretary's eyes wandered round the room artlessly, and paused for a moment on a photograph of Lucile. "How dare you, Sir! You are a scoundrel! You have not an ounce of virtue in you!" "We have been associated for some time, General." He always called him General on these occasions, it reminded the President of various little incidents which had taken place when they had worked together during the war. "Perhaps that is the cause." "You are impertinent." "My interests are concerned. I too have enemies. You know very well how much my life would be worth without the protection of the Secret Police. I only remember with whom and for whom these things were done." "Perhaps I am hasty, Miguel, but there is a limit, even between——" He was going to say friends but Miguel interposed accomplices. "Well," said Molara, "I do not care what you call it. What is your proposition?" "The Philistines," replied Miguel, "spoiled Samson, but Delilah had to cut his hair first." "Do you mean that she should implore him to hold his hand?" "No, I think that would be useless, but if he were compromised——" "But she, she would not consent. It would involve her." "She need not necessarily know. Another object for making his acquaintance might be suggested. It would come as a surprise to her." "You are a scoundrel—an infernal scoundrel," said the President quietly. Miguel smiled, as one who receives a compliment. "The matter," he said, "is too serious for the ordinary rules of decency and honour. Special cases demand special remedies." "She would never forgive me." "The forgiveness would rest with you. Your charity would enable you to pardon an uncommitted crime. You have only to play the jealous husband and own your mistake later on." "And he?" "Fancy the great popular leader. Patriot, Democrat, what not, discovered fawning to the tyrant's wife! Why, the impropriety alone would disgust many. And more than that,—observe him begging for mercy, grovelling at the President's feet,—a pretty picture! It would ruin him; ridicule alone would kill him." "It might," said Molara. The picture pleased him. "It must. It is the only chance that I can see, and it need cost you nothing. Every woman is secretly flattered by the jealousy of the man she loves, even if he be her husband." "How do you know these things?" asked Molara, looking at the ugly pinched figure and glistening hair of his companion. "I know," said Miguel with a grin of odious pride. The suggestion of his appetites was repulsive. The President was conscious of disgust. "Mr. Secretary Miguel," he said with the air of one who has made up his mind, "I must request you not to speak to me of this matter again. I consider it shows less to the advantage of your heart than of your head." "I see by Your Excellency's manner that further allusion is unnecessary." "Have you the report of the Agricultural Committee for last year? Good,—please have a précis made of it; I want some facts. The country may be kept, even if we lose the capital; that means a good part of the army." Thus the subject dropped. Each understood the other, and behind lay the spur of danger. After the President had finished the morning's business, he rose to leave the room, but before he did so he turned to Miguel and said abruptly: "It would be a great convenience for us to know what course the Opposition intends to pursue on the opening of the Senate, would it not?" "Assuredly." "How can we induce Savrola to speak? He is incorruptible." "There is another method." "I tell you physical force is not to be thought of." "There is another method." "And that," said the President, "I directed you not to speak of again." "Precisely," said the Secretary, and resumed his writing. The garden into which Molara walked was one of the most beautiful and famous in a country where all vegetation attained luxuriant forms. The soil was fertile, the sun hot, and the rains plentiful. It displayed an attractive disorder. The Lauranians were no admirers of that peculiar taste which finds beauty in the exact arrangement of an equal number of small trees of symmetrical shape in mathematical designs, or in the creation of geometrical figures by means of narrow paths with box-hedges. They were an unenlightened people, and their gardens displayed a singular contempt for geometry and precision. Great blazes of colour arranged in pleasing contrasts were the lights, and cool green arbours the shades of their rural pictures. Their ideal of gardening was to make every plant grow as freely as if directed by nature, and to as high perfection as if cultivated by art. If the result was not artistic, it was at least beautiful. The President, however, cared very little for flowers or their arrangement; he was, he said, too busy a man to have anything to do with the beauties of colour, harmony, or line. Neither the tints of the rose nor the smell of the jasmine awakened in him more than the rudimentary physical pleasures which are natural and involuntary. He liked to have a good flower garden, because it was the right thing to have, because it enabled him to take people there and talk to them personally on political matters, and because it was convenient for afternoon receptions. But he himself took no interest in it. The kitchen garden appealed to him more; his practical soul rejoiced more in an onion than an orchid. He was full of thought after his conversation with Miguel, and turned down the shady path which led to the fountains with long, hasty strides. Things were looking desperate. It was, as Miguel had said, a question of time, unless,—unless Savrola were removed or discredited. He refrained from precisely formulating the idea that had taken possession of his mind. He had done many things in the rough days of the war when he was a struggling man, the memory of which was not pleasant. He remembered a brother officer, a rising man, the colonel of a regiment, who had been a formidable rival; at a critical moment he had withheld the supports, and left it to the enemy to remove one obstacle from his path. Then another tale came into his mind which also was not a pretty one, a tale of a destroyed treaty, and a broken truce; of men, who had surrendered to terms, shot against the wall of the fort they had held so long. He also recalled with annoyance the methods he had adopted to extract information from the captured spy; five years of busy life, of success and fortune, had not obscured the memory of the man's face as it writhed in suffering. But this new idea seemed the most odious of all. He was unscrupulous, but like many men in history or modern life, he had tried to put away a discreditable past. Henceforth, he had said when he obtained power, he would abandon such methods: they would no longer be necessary; and yet, here was the need already. Besides, Lucile was so beautiful; he loved her in his hard way for that alone; and she was such a consort, so tactful, so brilliant, that he admired and valued her from a purely official standpoint. If she ever knew, she would never forgive him. She never should know, but still he hated the idea. But what other course remained? He thought of the faces of the crowd the day before; of Savrola; of the stories which reached him from the army; of other tales of a darker and more mysterious kind,—tales of strange federations and secret societies, which suggested murder, as well as revolution. The tide was rising; it was dangerous to tarry. And then the alternative presented itself; flight, abdication, a squalid existence in some foreign country, despised, insulted, suspected; and exiles always lived to a great age he had heard. He would not think of it; he would die first; nothing but death should drag him from the palace, and he would fight to the last. His mind returned to the starting point of his reflections. Here was a chance, the one solution which seemed possible; it was not an agreeable one, but it was that or none. He had reached the end of the path and turning the corner saw Lucile seated by the fountain. It was a beautiful picture. She saw his preoccupied look and rose to meet him. "What is the matter, Antonio? You look worried." "Things are going wrong with us, my dear. Savrola, the deputation, the newspapers, and, above all, the reports I receive of the people, are ominous and alarming." "I noticed black looks this morning when I drove. Do you think there is danger?" "I do," he answered in his precise official manner, "grave danger." "I wish I could help you," she said, "but I am only a woman. What can I do?" He did not answer and she continued: "Señor Savrola is a kind man. I used to know him quite well before the war." "He will ruin us." "Surely not." "We shall have to fly the country, if indeed they allow us to do that." She turned paler. "But I know what men look like; there is a sympathy between us; he is no fanatic." "There are powers behind and beneath him of which he knows little, which he cannot control, but which he has invoked." "Can you do nothing?" "I cannot arrest him; he is too popular, and besides he has broken no law. He will go on. In a fortnight are the elections; he will be returned in spite of my precautions; then the trouble will begin." He paused, and then speaking as if to himself continued: "If we could learn what he means to do, perhaps we might defeat it." "Can I not help you?" she asked quickly. "I know him; I think he likes me. He might whisper to me what he would not tell to others." She thought of many victories in the past. "My darling," said Molara, "why should you spoil your life by mixing in the darker side of politics? I would not ask you." "But I want to. I will try if it would help you." "It might do much more." "Very well, I will find out for you; in a fortnight you shall know. He must come to the State Ball; I will meet him there." "I am loth to let you talk to such a man, but I know your wit, and the need is great. But will he come?" "I will write him a note with the invitation," she said, "laugh at politics and advise him to keep his private life at least free from them. I think he will come; if not, I will find some other way of seeing him." Molara looked at her with admiration. At no time did he love her more than when he realised of what use she was to him. "I leave it to you, then. I fear you will fail, but if you can do it, you may have saved the State. If not, no harm will have been done." "I shall succeed," she answered confidently, and rising from her seat began to walk towards the house. She saw from her husband's manner that he would like to be alone. He remained seated there for a long time, staring into the water in which the fat, lazy, gold fish swam placidly. His face wore the expression of one who has swallowed some nasty thing. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2

Update Required To play the media you will need to either update your browser to a recent version or update your Flash plugin.