<p><SPAN name="chap07"></SPAN></p>
<h3> CHAPTER VII. </h3>
<h3> THE STATE BALL. </h3>
<p>The palace of Laurania was admirably
suited to the discharge of the social
ceremonies of the State. The lavish expenditure
on public entertainments, which the
constitutional practice encouraged, allowed the
hospitalities of the Republic to be extended
upon the most magnificent scale. The
opening State Ball of the season was in many
ways the most important of these affairs. It
was at this function that the great men of
both parties met, for the first time after the
summer heats, before the autumn session,
and the brilliant society of the capital
reunited after their absence in their country
and mountain villas. Taste, elegance, and
magnificence were equally displayed. The
finest music, the best champagne, the most
diverse, yet select, company were among the
attractions of the evening. The spacious
courtyard of the palace was completely
covered by a gigantic awning. Rows of the
Infantry of the Guard lined the approaches,
and with their bright steel bayonets increased
the splendour and the security of the occasion.
The well-lit streets were crowded with
the curious populace. The great hall of the
palace, at all times imposing and magnificent,
displayed a greater pomp when filled with a
gaily dressed company.</p>
<p>At the head of the stairs stood the President
and his wife, he resplendent in his orders
and medals, she in her matchless beauty.
As the guests ascended, an aide-de-camp, a
gorgeous thing in crimson and gold, inquired
their names and styles and announced them.
Many and various was the company; every
capital in Europe, every country in the world,
was represented.</p>
<p>The guest of the evening was the King
of Ethiopia, a mass of silk and jewels
framing a black but vivacious face. He
came early,—unwisely as, had he come
later, there would have been a better
audience to watch his arrival; however, to his
untutored mind perhaps this was a matter
of little importance.</p>
<p>The Diplomatic Corps followed in a long
succession. Coach after coach drew up at
the entrance and discharged its burden of
polite astuteness, clothed in every
conceivable combination of gold and colour.
Arrived at the top of the stairs, the Russian
Ambassador, grey but gallant, paused and,
bowing with a stately courtesy, kissed the
hand Lucile extended.</p>
<p>"The scene is an appropriate setting to
a peerless diamond," he murmured.</p>
<p>"Would it sparkle as brightly in the
Winter Palace?" inquired Lucile lightly.</p>
<p>"Assuredly the frosty nights of Russia
would intensify its brilliancy."</p>
<p>"Among so many others it would be lost."</p>
<p>"Among all others it would be unrivalled
and alone."</p>
<p>"Ah," she said, "I hate publicity, and as
for solitude, frosty solitude, the thought of
it alone makes me shiver."</p>
<p>She laughed. The diplomatist threw her
a look of admiration, and stepping into the
crowd, that already blocked the head of the
stairs, received and returned the
congratulations of his numerous friends.</p>
<p>"Madame Tranta," said the aide-de-camp.</p>
<p>"I am so glad to see you," said Lucile.
"What a pity your daughter could not
come; it has been a great disappointment
to many."</p>
<p>The ugly old woman thus addressed
beamed with delight, and moving up the
stairs pushed her way to the marble
balustrade of the balcony. She watched the
later arrivals, and commented freely to her
acquaintance on their dresses and deportments;
she also gave a little information
about each one, which would have been
ill-natured even had it not been untrue; but
though she told her friends many things,
she did not mention that she had had to
make Tranta write and threaten to desert
the President's party unless she was asked
to the ball, and that even this had failed
to procure an invitation for her daughter,
an unfortunate girl who added a bad
complexion to the family features.</p>
<p>Louvet came next, looking anxiously at
the crowd of faces which gazed from the
landing, and imagining bombs and daggers
at every step. He regarded Lucile with
apprehension, but her smile seemed to give
him courage and he mingled with the throng.</p>
<p>Then Sir Richard Shalgrove, the British
Ambassador, whose genial and cheery face
displayed an innocence which contrasted
with his reputation, advanced to make his
bow. The strained relations between
Laurania and Great Britain seemed to disappear
in that comprehensive salutation. Lucile
engaged him for a moment in conversation;
she pretended to know little or nothing.
"And when," she asked merrily, "do we
declare war?"</p>
<p>"Not until after I have had the pleasure of
the third waltz, I hope," said the Ambassador.</p>
<p>"How annoying! I wanted so much to
dance it with you."</p>
<p>"And you will not?" he asked in great
concern.</p>
<p>"Dare I plunge two nations into war for
the sake of a waltz?"</p>
<p>"Had you my inducement you would not
hesitate," he replied gallantly.</p>
<p>"What, to precipitate hostilities! What
have we done? What is your great
inducement to fight?"</p>
<p>"Not to fight,—to dance," said Sir Richard
with a little less than his usual assurance.</p>
<p>"For a diplomatist you are indeed
explicit. While you are in so good a mood,
tell me what has happened; is there danger?"</p>
<p>"Danger? No—how could there be?" He
selected a formula: "Between traditionally
friendly powers arbitration settles
all disputes."</p>
<p>"You realise," she said earnestly and with
an entire change of manner, "that we have
to consider the political situation here? A
strong despatch improves the position of
the Government."</p>
<p>"I have felt all through," said the
Ambassador uncompromisingly, "that there was
no danger." He did not however mention
that H.M. battleship <i>Aggressor</i> (12,000 tons
displacement and 14,000 horse power, armed
with four 11-inch guns) was steaming
eighteen knots an hour towards the African
port of the Lauranian Republic, or that he
himself had been busy all the afternoon with
cipher telegrams relating to ships, stores,
and military movements. He thought that
would be only boring her with purely
technical details.</p>
<p>While this conversation had been taking
place, the stream of people had passed
continuously up the stairs, and the throng on
the wide balcony that ran round the entire
hall had become dense. The wonderful
band was almost drowned by the hum of
conversation; the perfect floor of the
ball-room was only occupied by a few young
couples whose own affairs absorbed their
minds and excluded all other interests. A
feeling of expectancy pervaded the hall;
the rumour that Savrola would come had
spread far and wide throughout Laurania.</p>
<p>Suddenly everyone became hushed, and
above the strains of the band the distant
sound of shouting was heard. Louder and
louder it swelled, swiftly approaching until
it was at the very gate; then it died away,
and there was a silence through the hall
filled only by the music. Had he been
hooted or cheered? The sound had seemed
strangely ambiguous; men were prepared to
wager about it; his face would tell them
the answer.</p>
<p>The swing-doors opened and Savrola
entered. All eyes were turned on him, but
his face showed them nothing, and the bets
remained undecided. As he leisurely
ascended the stairs, his eye travelled with
interest round the crowded galleries and the
brilliant throng who lined them. No
decorations, no orders, no star relieved the plain
evening dress he wore. Amid that blaze
of colour, that multitude of gorgeous
uniforms, he appeared a sombre figure; but,
like the Iron Duke in Paris, he looked
the leader of them all, calm, confident, and
composed.</p>
<p>The President walked down a few steps
to meet his distinguished guest. Both bowed
with grave dignity.</p>
<p>"I am glad you have come, Sir," said
Molara; "it is in harmony with the traditions
of the State."</p>
<p>"Duty and inclination combined to point
the way," answered Savrola with a smile
marked by a suggestion of irony.</p>
<p>"You had no difficulty with the crowd?"
suggested the President acidly.</p>
<p>"Oh, no difficulty, but they take politics
a little seriously; they disapproved of my
coming to your palace."</p>
<p>"You are right to come," said Molara.
"Now we who are engaged in matters of
State know what these things are worth;
men of the world do not get excited over
public affairs, nor do gentlemen fight with
bludgeons."</p>
<p>"I prefer swords," said Savrola reflectively.
He had reached the head of the stairs and
Lucile stood before him. What a queen
she looked, how peerless and incomparable
among all women! The fine tiara she wore
suggested sovereignty, and democrat as he
was, he bowed to that alone. She held out
her hand; he took it with reverence and
courtesy, but the contact thrilled him.</p>
<p>The President selected a fat but famous
woman from the aristocracy of Laurania,
and led the way into the ball-room. Savrola
did not dance; there were some amusements
which his philosophy taught him to despise.
Lucile was captured by the Russian
Ambassador, and he remained a spectator.</p>
<p>Lieutenant Tiro saw him thus alone and
approached him, wishing to finish their
discussion about the "back" of the polo team,
which had been interrupted the week before.
Savrola received him with a smile; he liked
the young soldier, as indeed did everyone.
Tiro was full of arguments; he was in favour
of a strong heavy player who should lie
back in the game and take no chances.
Savrola, having remarked on the
importance of the Lauranian Army being
properly represented in an international contest,
favoured a light weight, playing right up
to his forwards and ready to take the ball
on himself at any moment. It was an
animated discussion.</p>
<p>"Where have you played?" asked the
Subaltern, surprised at his knowledge.</p>
<p>"I have never played the game," answered
Savrola; "but I have always thought it a
good training for military officers."</p>
<p>The subject was changed.</p>
<p>"Explain to me," said the great Democrat,
"what all these different orders are.
What is that blue one that Sir Richard, the
British Ambassador, is wearing?"</p>
<p>"That is the Garter," replied the Subaltern;
"the most honourable order in England."</p>
<p>"Really, and what is this that you are
wearing?"</p>
<p>"I! Oh, that's the African medal. I was
out there in '86 and '87, you know." As
Savrola had anticipated, he was intensely
pleased at being asked.</p>
<p>"It must have been a strange experience
for you, who are so young."</p>
<p>"It was damned good fun," said the
Subaltern with decision. "I was at Langi Tal.
My squadron had a five-mile pursuit. The
lance is a beautiful weapon. The English
in India have a sport called pig-sticking;
I have never tried it, but I know a better."</p>
<p>"Well, you may have another chance
soon. We seem to be getting into difficulties
with the British Government."</p>
<p>"Do you think there is any chance of
war?" asked the boy eagerly.</p>
<p>"Well, of course," said Savrola, "a war
would distract the attention of the people
from internal agitation and the Reform
movement. The President is a clever man.
There might be war. I should not care to
prophesy; but do you wish for it?"</p>
<p>"Certainly I do; it is my profession. I
am sick of being a lap-dog in this palace; I
long for the camp and the saddle again.
Besides, these English will be worth
fighting; they will give us a gallop all right.
There was one of their officers with me at
Langi Tal, a subaltern; he came as a
spectator searching for adventure."</p>
<p>"What happened to him?"</p>
<p>"Well, you know, we pursued the enemy
all the way to the hills and played the devil
with them. As we were galloping along,
he saw a lot making off towards a wood,
and wanted to cut them off. I said there
wasn't time; he laid me six to four there
was, so I sent a troop,—I was in command
of the squadron that day—you know. He
went with them and showed them the way
straight enough,—but I bore you?"</p>
<p>"On the contrary, I am greatly interested;
what then?"</p>
<p>"He was wrong; the enemy got to the
wood first and picked him off in the open.
Our fellows brought him back, shot through
the big artery of the leg; that doesn't take
long, you know. All he said was: 'Well,
you've won, but how the deuce you'll get
paid, I can't think. Ask my brother,—Royal
Lancers.'"</p>
<p>"And then?" asked Savrola.</p>
<p>"Well, I couldn't find the artery to
compress it, and none of the doctors were about.
He died,—a gallant fellow!"</p>
<p>The Subaltern paused, rather ashamed at
having talked so much about his military
adventures. Savrola felt as if he had looked
into a new world, a world of ardent, reckless,
warlike youth. He was himself young
enough to feel a certain jealousy. This boy
had seen what he had not; he possessed an
experience which taught him lessons
Savrola had never learned. Their lives had
been different; but one day perhaps he
would open this strange book of war, and
by the vivid light of personal danger read
the lessons it contained.</p>
<p>Meanwhile the dances had succeeded each
other and the night was passing. The
King of Ethiopia, horrified at the low
dresses of the unveiled women and dreading
the prospect of eating with odious white
people, had taken his departure. The
President, approaching Savrola, invited him to
take his wife down to supper; a procession
was formed; he offered Lucile his arm and
they descended the stairs. The supper was
excellent: the champagne was dry and the
quails fat. A profusion of rare and beautiful
orchids covered the table; Savrola's
surroundings were agreeable, and he sat next
the most beautiful woman in Laurania, who,
though he did not know it, was exerting
herself to captivate him. At first they
talked amusing frivolities. The President,
whose manners were refined, showed
himself a pleasant companion and an
accomplished talker. Savrola, who delighted in
sparkling conversation, found it difficult to
keep to the part of a purely official visitor
which he had determined to observe. The
influence of wit, wine, and beauty were
combined to break his reserve; before he knew
it, he had joined in a discussion, one of those
half cynical, half serious discussions which
are characteristic of an age which inquires
because it doubts, and doubts the more
because it has inquired.</p>
<p>The Russian Ambassador had said that
he worshipped beauty, and had told his
partner, the youthful Countess of Ferrol, that he
regarded taking her into dinner as a
religious observance.</p>
<p>"I suppose that means you are bored,"
she replied.</p>
<p>"By no means; in my religion the ceremonies
are never dull; that is one of the
principal advantages I claim for it."</p>
<p>"There are few others," said Molara;
"you devote yourself to an idol of your own
creation. If you worship beauty, your
goddess stands on no surer pedestal than human
caprice. Is it not so, Princess?"</p>
<p>The Princess of Tarentum, who was on
the President's right, replied that even that
foundation was more secure than that on
which many beliefs repose.</p>
<p>"You mean that in your own case human
caprice has been sufficiently constant? I
can well believe it."</p>
<p>"No," she said; "I only mean that the
love of beauty is common to all human
beings."</p>
<p>"To all living things," corrected Savrola.
"It is the love of the plant that produces
the flower."</p>
<p>"Ah," said the President, "but, though
the love of beauty may be constant, beauty
itself may change. Look how everything
changes: the beauty of one age is not the
beauty of the next; what is admired in
Africa is hideous in Europe. It is all
a matter of opinion, local opinion. Your
goddess, Monsieur, has as many shapes as
Proteus."</p>
<p>"I like change," said the Ambassador.
"I regard variability of form as a decided
advantage in a goddess. I do not care how
many shapes I look at, so long as all are
beautiful."</p>
<p>"But," interposed Lucile, "you make no
distinction between what is beautiful and
what we think is beautiful."</p>
<p>"There is none," said the President.</p>
<p>"In Her Excellency's case there would be
none," interposed the Ambassador politely.</p>
<p>"What is beauty," said Molara, "but what
we choose to admire?"</p>
<p>"Do we choose? Have we the power?"
asked Savrola.</p>
<p>"Certainly," answered the President; "and
every year we alter our decisions; every
year the fashion changes. Ask the ladies.
Look at the fashions of thirty years ago;
they were thought becoming then. Observe
the different styles of painting that have
succeeded each other, or of poetry, or of
music. Besides, Monsieur de Stranoff's
goddess, though beautiful to him, might not
be so to another."</p>
<p>"I regard that also as a real advantage;
you make me more enamoured with my
religion each moment. I do not worship my
ideals for the <i>reclamé</i>," said the Ambassador
with a smile.</p>
<p>"You look at the question from a material
point of view."</p>
<p>"Material rather than moral," said Lady
Ferrol.</p>
<p>"But in the spirit-worship of my goddess
the immorality is immaterial. Besides, if
you say that our tastes are always changing,
it seems to me that constancy is the
essence of my religion."</p>
<p>"That is a paradox which we shall make
you explain," said Molara.</p>
<p>"Well, you say I change each day, and
my goddess changes too. To-day I admire
one standard of beauty, to-morrow another,
but when to-morrow comes I am no longer
the same person. The molecular structure of
my brain is altered; my ideas have changed;
my old self has perished, loving its own
ideal; the renovated <i>ego</i> starts life with a new
one. It is all a case of wedded till death."</p>
<p>"You are not going to declare that
constancy is a series of changes? You may as
well assert that motion is a succession of
halts."</p>
<p>"I am true to the fancy of the hour."</p>
<p>"You express my views in other words.
Beauty depends on human caprice, and
changes with the times."</p>
<p>"Look at that statue," said Savrola
suddenly, indicating a magnificent marble
figure of Diana which stood in the middle of
the room surrounded by ferns. "More than
two thousand years have passed since men
called that beautiful. Do we deny it
now?" There was no answer and he continued:
"That is true beauty of line and form, which
is eternal. The other things you have
mentioned, fashions, styles, fancies, are but the
unsuccessful efforts we make to attain to
it. Men call such efforts art. Art is to
beauty what honour is to honesty, an
unnatural allotropic form. Art and honour
belong to gentlemen; beauty and honesty
are good enough for men."</p>
<p>There was a pause. It was impossible
to mistake the democratic tone; his earnestness
impressed them. Molara looked uneasy.
The Ambassador came to the rescue.</p>
<p>"Well, I shall continue to worship the
goddess of beauty, whether she be constant
or variable"—he looked at the Countess;
"and to show my devotion I shall offer up
a waltz in that sacred fane, the ball-room."</p>
<p>He pushed his chair back, and, stooping,
picked up his partner's glove, which had
fallen to the floor. Everyone rose, and
the party separated. As Savrola walked
back to the hall with Lucile, they passed
an open doorway leading to the garden.
A multitude of fairy lights marked out the
flower-beds or hung in festoons from the
trees. The paths were carpeted with red
cloth; a cool breeze fanned their faces.
Lucile paused.</p>
<p>"It is a lovely night."</p>
<p>The invitation was plain. She had wanted
to speak to him, then, after all. How right
he was to come,—on constitutional grounds.</p>
<p>"Shall we go out?" he said.</p>
<p>She consented, and they stepped on to the
terrace.</p>
<p><br/><br/><br/></p>
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