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He told his story with charm of recital, verve and humor, and gave it withal a touch of vivid realism, so that even his auditors, long since graduated from the stage where a tale of adventurous undertaking thrilled them, yet listened with profound interest. With the salad Jusseret sighed regretfully. "I rather plume myself on one quality of my work, Monsieur Martin.
The words were in code, and being translated they read: "France, Italy, Spain, Portugal will recognize. Strike." The signature was "Jt.," which Delgado knew for Jusseret. The Duke had been greatly excited. He paced the room in a nervous tremor.
Two curtained carriages drove across Galata Bridge and in the mysterious quiet of Stamboul there was no ripple on the surface of affairs as other tourists haggled over a few piastres in the curio shops of the bazaar. Louis Delgado awaited Jusseret in an agony of doubt and fear. The Frenchman was late.
I must even require of you, in respect to that confidence which obtains between gentlemen, that you shall in no wise intimate that this suggestion came from me." The new incumbent, who had brought to the Throne of Galavia all the libertine's irresoluteness, paced the floor in perplexed distress. He feared Jusseret. He dared not anger or disobey him.
"She sent me away once, and I don't particularly care for the Cairo idea." "This time she will not send you away." Jusseret glanced up with a bland smile. "And it seems I remember a season, not so many years gone, when you were a rather prominent personage upon the terrace of Shephard's. You were quite an engaging figure of a man, Monsieur Martin, in flannels and Panama hat, quite a smart figure!"
The Englishman was leaning across the table, his cheek-bones red and his eyes dangerous. "By God, Jusseret, don't go too far!" he cautioned. The Frenchman raised his hands in an apologetic gesture, but his eyes still held a trace of the malevolent smile. "A thousand pardons, my dear Martin," he begged. "I meant only to be sympathetic." THE DEATH Of ROMANCE IS DEPLORED
At length she straightened herself, let go her support upon the table and went slowly like a sleep-walker from the room. She had not spoken. She had not said good-by, but Louis Delgado knew that she had walked out of his life. That evening Monsieur Jusseret of the French Cabinet Noir met, as if by chance, young Lieutenant Lapas, who was now high in the favor of the new government.
Then he cautiously added the inquiry: "Have you heard the plans that were discussed by the Duke, and Jusseret and Borttorff?" "And yourself and Lieutenant Lapas," she augmented. "And Lapas and myself," admitted Benton, lying fluently.
"But, my dear lady, this revolution I have planted nourished and cultivated to ripeness I cannot harvest it. Outside Europe must not appear interested in this matter. If the Galavian people led by a member of the Galavian Royal House revolts! Bien! More than bien excellent!" Jusseret spread his palms. "But unless there is a leader, there can be no revolution.
It is an insult to which a man must either blind himself or punish with such means as can ignore personal peril." "For God's sake," insisted the other, "explain yourself." "Louis Delgado," began Jusseret quietly, "accepted this woman's love: enjoyed it to the full. He sat and dreamed over his absinthe futile dreams of power. He was too weak to strike a blow too weak to raise a hand.
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