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Updated: May 23, 2025
The foreigner was Monsieur Jusseret. "Why," began the new Monarch testily, "do you believe that there should be delay in proclaiming myself? I shall feel safer with the Crown actually upon my head." The Frenchman sat reflectively silent, his slim fingers spread, tip to tip, his elbows on the arms of the chair in which he lounged. "Your Majesty is not a fisherman?" he suavely inquired.
At length Martin held up the dial of his watch to the uncertain light. "I must be off," he announced. "Jusseret is waiting at the Pera Palace. Don't fail us at seven-thirty." The tireless features of Abdul Said Bey once more shaped themselves into a deliberate smile. "Of a surety, Effendi. May your virtues ever find favor in the sight of Allah."
Jusseret looked at her in surprise. "I supposed he was here, consulting with you. I sent him to you with a letter recommending him as a useful instrument." "He was in Algiers, but I sent him away." The Countess laughed. "He wanted money, always money, until I wearied of furnishing his purse." "Even if he were available he could hardly go to Puntal, Madame," demurred Jusseret. "Von Ritz knows him."
The lighted door, at the same moment, framed the figure of an aide. "Your Majesty," he said with a bow, "Monsieur Jusseret prays a brief audience." Karyl turned to Von Ritz, his brows arching interrogation. In answer the Colonel wheeled and addressed the officer, who waited statuesquely: "His Majesty will not receive Monsieur Jusseret.
His own vision went farther into the future, and recognized in the present only a mile-post far from the ultimate. He led Lapas to his own rooms. He was leaving for Paris the following morning, he explained, and wished a brief conference. Jusseret could, when occasion demanded, be not only calm and self-sufficient, but also emotional. Now he was emotional.
Monsieur Jusseret rose and began drawing on his gloves. "Of course if Your Majesty sees fit, a morganatic marriage with the Countess Astaride would be entirely advisable but for the Queen of Galavia, Europe will insist on a stronger alliance; on a union with more royal blood." Louis came to his feet in astonishment. "You dare suggest that?" he exclaimed.
Changing the nebulous into the concrete; shifting the dotted line of a frontier from here to there on a map; changing the likeness that adorned a coin or postage-stamp: these were things to which Monsieur Jusseret lent himself with the same zest that actuates the hunting dog and makes his work also his passion.
Von Ritz knows who instigated the murder of the King, but he is without proof. The thing happened far beyond the borders of Galavia." Louis rose unsteadily from his chair. "Jusseret," he began, "this interview with Marie still confronts me and I dread it. Would it not be better for you to explain to her?
For an instant Von Ritz looked fixedly into the face of the King, then he bowed. "In that case," he commented, "there are various things to be done." When Monsieur François Jusseret, the cleverest unattached ambassador of France's Cabinet Noir, had first met the Countess Astaride, his sardonic eyes had twinkled dry appreciation. This meeting had seemed to be the result of a chance introduction.
A dispatch from the frontier had announced his coming, but to the anxiety of Delgado delays seemed numberless and interminable. At last an aide ushered him into the apartment where the new Monarch waited, his inevitable glass of Pernod and anisette twisting in his fingers. Jusseret bowed. "Where is Martin?" inquired the King. "Dead," said the newcomer briefly. The Pretender paled palpably.
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