Chapter 17: An Arabian Night

The Emperor’s congratulations and formal inquiries duly arrived, borne by a glittering officer who was so impressed by the coldness of the message intrusted to him that he scarcely raised his eyes during its delivery. He had the misfortune to be attached to the Regent.

But Stanief received all unmoved. A clear scarlet burned in his dark cheek, his drowsy eyes glowed with some inward fire. He had just left the Grand Duchess and still carried traces of the recent accident, but he smiled in utter tranquillity as he listened, and gave his reply. It was too unaccountable; actually dismayed by the indifferent composure, the officer retired, and found himself stammering again when he repeated the answering message to the Emperor.

Adrian was at dinner, or rather had just concluded, when he found time to receive the envoy; and he set down his glass to study this embarrassment in a courtier of twenty years’ standing. He was always cynically interested in such situations.

“What else did the Grand Duke say?” he demanded.

“Sire, nothing was said except that which I have had the honor to report to your Imperial Majesty.”

“Nothing to you?”

“Nothing, sire.”

Adrian made no sign, yet the unfortunate equery was conscious that he was not believed.

“My cousin appeared well?” came the inquiry.

“Perfectly well, sire. Remarkably so.”

“I am enchanted to hear it; he has need of steady nerves. That will do.”

He pushed away the glass and rose, his glance encountering that of Allard near him.

“You almost hate me to-night, Allard?” he questioned softly.

Allard, in evening dress, the tiny jeweled star of honor flashing on his coat, was very different in appearance from the smoke-grimed gentleman of noon, but his gray eyes met Adrian’s in the same indignation with which they had shone from beneath the stains of the explosion.

“Almost, sire,” he acknowledged.

Staggered by the unexpected frankness, Adrian nearly lost his self-possession for the first time in his seventeen years. But he recovered immediately.

“Thanks for the ‘almost’,” he said with nonchalance. “Just bring my cloak; I want you to go with me.”

Amazed at himself, Allard obeyed, humiliatingly aware that he had been scarcely decorous and certainly unwise.

“I beg your pardon, sire,” he said seriously, as he offered the cloak.

Adrian surveyed him calmly.

“Was it true?” he queried.

In spite of himself Allard smiled.

“Almost, sire,” he confessed.

“Truth is a virtue, at least theoretically, and needs no apology. Moreover, I challenged you. Come.”

And Allard followed.

It was, of course, impossible to question the Emperor, but Allard’s anxiety nearly betrayed him into the indiscretion as Adrian slipped on the cloak and led the way to a small private salon from which a staircase permitted reaching the street unobserved. For, in common with Peter the Great and Harun-al-Rashid, Adrian occasionally indulged in rambles about his capital, incognito, and with Allard for sole companion. It was a habit only a year old, of which even the omniscient Stanief was ignorant. The Emperor had made it a point of honor with his confidant to guard the secret absolutely; and many a bad hour had Allard passed in consequence. No one suspected the true reason why the American had bought a compact, exquisite Italian automobile during the summer before; or guessed the identity of the slim young chauffeur, masked and wearing the usual shapeless coat, who drove the machine through the streets at dusk or later. But it was a current tale for laughter in the clubs that Monsieur Allard had been arrested four times for over-speeding his car and each time had paid his fine without a murmur, himself assuming the blame and exonerating his chauffeur.

Perhaps, being young himself, Allard also had enjoyed the variety and slight peril of these excursions. But then the city had lain quiet under the Regent’s strong hand, while now—

For once he was pleased to see Dalmorov, who rose at their entrance into the salon. At least his presence proved that nothing wholly secret was intended.

“The carriage is ready, Baron?” Adrian asked, drawing on his gloves with his leisurely decision of movement.

“It waits at the lower door, sire.”

“Very good. Are you ready, Allard?”

“Sire, I did not understand—”

“Well, you have always a coat here, I think.”

That was true, and taking a key from his waistcoat pocket Allard silently opened the wardrobe that held their apparel for the motor trips. It was Adrian’s affair, not his, if the proceeding awakened Dalmorov’s ever-active curiosity.

However, the baron’s attention was fixed on the master, not the man; he was watching Adrian with intent and crafty eagerness. He barely glanced at Allard when he came back ready to go out.

“I also may have the honor of accompanying your Imperial Majesty?” he urged.

“No,” Adrian returned.

“Sire—”

“No, Dalmorov. Come, Allard.”

But Allard stood still.

“Sire, dare I ask where?” he said, with firm respect.

“To drive to the cathedral and observe the preparations for next week,” was the dry explanation.

“Pardon me yet again; without escort?”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps Monsieur Allard disapproves,” suggested Dalmorov sarcastically.

“I do,” Allard declared, taking a step toward Adrian and throwing back his head obstinately. “It is not fit for the Emperor to go on the streets to-night. Sire, I have talked with Captain Alisov of the guards and with Zaliski of the secret police, and it is a seething frenzy of excitement out there. This morning’s attack has brought to the surface the most dangerous elements in the capital. To-morrow all may be under control, but to-night it is not fit.”

“Your affectionate solicitude overwhelms me, Allard,” Adrian retorted.

The irony and the allusion brought Allard’s color, but he maintained his position.

“Sire, I state a fact. There is real and serious danger in such a drive this evening. I beg you to consider seriously the event occurring at noon.”

“I am not Feodor; the attack was on him. Let him keep his house if the people make it necessary.”

This of the adored Regent, for whom the whole Empire mourned in bitter regret! It was too much.

“Sire, the attack this morning was intended for you,” Allard flung with exasperated bluntness. “When the assailant saw the Grand Duke, he shouted directions how to prevent the explosion. It was meant for you; all the court and city know it.”

Adrian stood quite still, looking from one to the other. Aghast at the introduction of rude truth, not venturing to deny what could be verified, Dalmorov found no words.

“For me?” the Emperor repeated.

“Yes, sire. And for that I am amazed at Baron Dalmorov’s willingness that you should go out.”

“It is safe,” cried Dalmorov furiously. “If you are afraid, Monsieur Allard, of your own tales, ask to be left here and let me attend his Imperial Majesty.”

If the statement regarding the morning had made any impression on Adrian, he shook it off as soon as received.

“So; suppose I adopt that suggestion, Allard?” he remarked.

“Sire, if you go out I shall have the honor of going also.”

“If I choose that you shall,” the Emperor replied.

His eyes afire, Allard touched the star upon his coat.

“If this gives me any claim to your consideration, sire, you will not refuse me the privilege of accompanying you. I did not speak for myself, indeed I think you scarcely believe so; I spoke because the imperial carriage will attract every eye and recognition will be certain. There is no one in the Empire for whom the worst districts would be so dangerous as the brightest avenues will be for you, sire.”