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Not that I wish any of our girls such bad luck as Brabetz! I'll stake my head he'll never forget me!" Chase concluded with a sharp, reflective laugh in which his hearers joined, for the escapade which inspired it was being slyly discussed in every embassy in Europe by this time, but no one seemed especially loth to shake Chase's hand on account of it.
Brabetz is the heir apparent to some duchy or other over there and is supposed to be the catch of the season. You've heard of him. He was in Paris this season and cut quite a figure a prince with real money in his purse, you know. I wonder why it is that our American girls can't marry the princes who have money instead of those who have none.
"The da miserable cur was annoying the Princess," muttered Chase, straightening his cuffs, vaguely realising that he had interfered too hastily. "Confound it, man, he's the chap she's going to marry." "Marry?" gasped Chase. "The hereditary prince of Brabetz Karl Brabetz." "Good Lord!" "You must have known." "How the dev Of course I didn't know," groaned Chase.
Could anything be more miraculous than that she should come to the unheard-of island of Japat unless, possibly, that he should be there when she came? She was there for him to look upon and love and lose, just as he had dreamed all these months. It mattered little that she was now the wife of Prince Karl of Brabetz; to him she was still the Princess Genevra of Rapp-Thorberg.
"My word, Chase, everybody in Europe except you knows that Brabetz is a crank about music. Composes, directs and all that. Over in Brabetz he supports the conservatory of music, written dozens of things for the orchestra, plays the pipe organ in the cathedral all that sort of rot, you know. He's a confounded little bounder, just the same.
The Princess is his niece, you know." "You say the Brabetz palace is next door?" demanded Chase, steadying his voice with an effort. "Yes the old Flaurebert mansion. The Princess was to have been the social sensation of Paris this year. She's a wonderful beauty, you know." "Was to have been?"
I'm a bit of a savage just now and I'm correspondingly timid." His friend stared at him for a moment. "I can save you the trouble of going to the Marquess," he said. "He and the Marchioness are in London at present. Left Paris a month ago." "What? The house is closed?" in deep anxiety. "I think not. Servants are all there, I daresay. Their place adjoins the Brabetz palace.
She's got plenty of life left in her, as Karl Brabetz will learn before long." Thus spoke the far-sighted Marchioness, aunt of the bride-to-be. "It's terribly gruesome to speak of burying people before they are actually dead." "Other women have married princes and got on very well," said Prince Lichtenstein. "Oh, come now, Prince," put in Lord Deppingham, "you know the sort of chap Brabetz is.
There are princes and princes, by Jove." "He's positively vile!" exclaimed the Duchess, who would not mince words. "She's entering upon a hell of a I mean a life of hell," exploded the Duke, banging the table with his fist. "That fellow Brabetz is the rottenest thing in Europe. He's gone from bad to worse so swiftly that public opinion is still months behind him."
"She married that rotten Brabetz last June but, of course, you never heard of it out there in what's-the-name-of-the-place. You may have heard of his murder, however. His mistress shot him in Brussels " "Great God, man!" gasped Chase, clutching his arm in a grip of iron. "The devil, Chase!" cried the other, amazed. "What's the matter?" "He's dead? Murdered? How when?
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