CHAPTER I

WANTED—A DUCHESS!

As he had himself said to Ethel the day of his visit to Phil’s studio, Conrad di Tagliaferro, Duke of Morgania, was much to be pitied—he had to quit Paris!

The duke reveled in the life of the Boulevard, losing himself amid the crowd, climbing to the tops of omnibuses, taking a cab to the opera, getting himself spoken of in the society news of the papers. He was seen everywhere,—in salons and at the theater, at the clubs and at the races. There was no ceremony for him, and he had no cares. Arriving in Paris he put aside all the duties of his position as you might leave a coat in the cloak-room. When he accepted a friend’s invitation he always insisted that there should be no questions of etiquette.

“_Sans cérémonie_—it’s understood,” and he would add in Parisian slang, “_au hazard de la fourchette_ [pot-luck]!”

However, there was a “but.” His people pestered him from afar in the shape of two voivodes who had been delegated by his nobles, and who followed him even to his late suppers like some twofold Banquo specter. These delegates were in Paris to urge his return. The duke had been lucky enough to avoid them until now; but their mere presence said clearly enough that things were going wrong in Morgania.

Since the fabulous days of Morgana the unity of this little warlike people had always been kept at its frontier, beneath the shadow of its great red banner with the white cross facing barbarism; and it was from that side the storm was muttering once again.

There were grave reports from Macedonia. Houses were being burned and convoys pillaged. All the villages from Kassovo to Monastir were in ebullition. Bands of bashi-bazouks had come as far as the Drina. It would be necessary to go back. The duke saw it clearly—great events were preparing.

“You were present, I believe,” the duke said to Caracal, “when I spoke at Phil’s place of the old sorceress, who is a prophetess for some and a saint for others, and has more influence in the country than all the journalists in the world could have. This old woman predicts the future. I assure you, Caracal, she foretells astonishing things, absolutely amazing, and I myself have seen them realized many times over. Just now she is upsetting the country with talk about the return of Morgana.”

“But there’s no harm in that,” Caracal remarked.

“She excites the people, and it will end in war, that’s all!” answered the duke, gravely. “Ah! the prophetess and her prophecies—they are a load upon my back, I can tell you!”

“Why don’t you shut her up in a madhouse?”

“That’s more easily said than done,” observed the duke. “An old woman adored by an entire people—you may not believe me, but—I assure you—she’s stronger than I!”

Caracal looked at the duke to see if he was in earnest. But a duke’s psychology was entirely beyond his ken, subtle observer as he was. The duke’s animosity against the sorceress had a look of embroilment between sovereigns.

While the prospect of all these troubles alienated the duke from Morgania, so a creature dear to his heart attracted him homeward. This was his only child, his son, the little Duke Adalbert. All the duke’s affections were centered upon this son, after the death of the duchess. It had not been a happy marriage. First of all, his wife had made him take a dislike to his people. She was an Austrian archduchess—more than an aristocrat, an Olympian; and the fall from the elegance of Vienna life to severe duties in Morgania filled her with bitterness. She detested her subjects, and they paid her back the compliment. Never had a duchess been so unpopular.

Until then,—not to speak of the heroine who had founded the glory of the house,—all the duchesses had had the gift of pleasing the people, perhaps because most of them were themselves sprung from the people. Love’s fancies had reigned in the house of Tagliaferro, and, thanks to such spontaneousness of feeling, misalliances had not been rare. Just as at the Austrian court Archduke Henry, the emperor’s nephew, had espoused a dancing-girl who became Baroness Weideck, and before him Archduke John had married the pretty Anna Plochel, a postmaster’s daughter, so the Dukes of Morgania, with aristocratic loftiness, chose their consorts wherever it seemed good to them.

Such duchesses the people of Morgania preferred to all others. It was very important for the future of the house that she who was to succeed the mother of Adalbert should possess all those qualities which make a woman adorable—goodness, beauty, and valor.

In Morgania, where diplomatic refinements were unknown, there was needed a young woman of new blood, bringing energy with her, and able to revive confidence. There had been such in the ancestry of Duke Conrad—heroines sprung from the people, daughters of the mountain or the plain.

“You shall see their statues,” the duke said one day to Ethel, who had come with her grandmother to see his collections—“that is, if you do me the honor of stopping in Morgania when you make your Mediterranean yacht tour.”

“It is a promise,” said Ethel.

“It will interest you, Miss Rowrer, to visit my stronghold. It is one of the most ancient in Europe. The donjon at the entrance is formidable. It was in 1221, when he returned from the Crusade of Honorius III and Andrew II, King of Hungary, that my ancestor, Enguerrand, had it built, along with the great hall used for the people’s assemblages; for, to procure the necessary resources of his expedition, he had been obliged to enfranchise the serfs.”

“He did well,” observed grandma.

“He could not have done better,” the duke replied. “Moreover, there came out of it the Hall, which is a masterpiece.”

“The Hall, doubtless, is decorated with the arms and armor of the epoch?—that will interest me greatly.”

“There are neither cuirasses nor gauntlets,” answered the duke; “neither helmets nor the armor of knights on horseback, as in the Tower of London or the Invalides in Paris. But such as it is, it will interest you even more. It has something that will go straight to your heart.”

“Really?” Ethel asked. “And what can that be?”

“This,” the duke went on. “The Walhalla of Bavaria has been built to German heroes; our Hall is built to the glory, not of the heroes, but of the heroines of Morgania. My ancestor, Enguerrand, consecrated his Hall to the glorification of our women.”

“Ah!” Ethel exclaimed, deeply interested.

“A great idea!” said grandma. “America ought to have a hall like that at Lincoln Park. We have our heroines, too—it would be full in little time!”

“Madame Rowrer is right,” said the duke. “To be a heroine there is no need to fight, sword in hand; the fulfilment of the civil and moral virtues makes heroines, and devotedness and love have their own martyrs. But I am going to show you an old engraving of the Hall.”

The duke rose and searched in a portfolio.

“Two characteristic features,” he continued, “strike one in feudalism: individual energy and improvement in the condition of women. When Duke Enguerrand went forth to look for war and adventures, my ancestress, Bertha, remained in Morgania as the duke’s representative, clothed with the right of administering justice, and charged, during his absence, with the defense and honor of the country. Such sovereign power often gave to the women of that time virtues which they had no opportunity of exercising otherwise.

“When the knights and men-at-arms were gone to the Holy Land, only the women remained at home. Then Hungary was invaded by the Mongols, who ravaged everything down to the Adriatic. Morgania was on the point of perishing; but Bertha the Horsewoman, as the people called her ever after, scoured the country the whole winter long, leading convoys, and bringing in supplies from Italy and mercenaries from Germany. Thus she repelled the Mongols and saved Morgania from invasion, and the people from famine.

“When the duke came back he found Morgania in mourning, for the duchess had died at her task. Saint Morgana, the heroic ancestress, already had her altars. The duke wished to consecrate the glory of the others as well; and he built the Hall so that henceforth the people might gather around their images under the saint’s protection. Dying he expressed a wish that his descendants should dedicate the Hall to the glory of their women. Here is the engraving,” the duke said, turning toward Miss Rowrer and grandma.

“Indeed,” said Ethel, “all this interests me tremendously. So your ancestor Enguerrand was the creator of women’s rights!”

Ethel and grandma examined the engraving. It represented an octagonal hall of somber and massive aspect. The eight segments of the vaulted roof were separated by stone ribbing that met in a fleuron, from which hung an immense chandelier. The arches rested on eight columns. Between two of these a solid wall had been built; it was covered with vestiges of ancient painting. Stone steps mounted up to this wall, making a platform on which there was a bench of carved wood.

“Let me be your guide,” said the duke. “This large wooden bench against the wall between the two columns is the ducal throne. The stuffs and cushions which cover it were brought from Tyre and Sidon by Enguerrand.”

“That is very beautiful,” Ethel interrupted, “but it is your heroines that interest me most—where are they in all this? Bertha the Horsewoman, where is she?”

“Here—this statue,” the duke replied. “As you see, there are three statues facing each other—first Bertha, then Thilda, the duchess who killed Sultan Murad at Kroja with her own hand, and then Rhodaïs the Slave. The fourth pedestal is still empty.”

“Was there a slave in your ancestry?” Ethel asked. “It is the name you apply to Rhodaïs.”

“She was the daughter of a simple voivode,” said the duke. “She accompanied to Venice the daughter of the King of Hungary, whose kingdom had partly fallen under the power of the Turks. But they were attacked by an Ottoman galley and every one was massacred except Rhodaïs. As she trampled the Crescent under foot they chained her to the rowers’ bench, from which she escaped only by a shipwreck. She came back to Morgania, had the duke buy a galley in Venice, chose a crew of hardy corsairs, and began a war without mercy against the Turks who infested the coast. She put herself at the service of Don Juan of Austria at the battle of Lepanto. My ancestor, Hugh XIII, made her his duchess, and Philip II of Spain, as a recompense of her valor, gave her the hereditary title, unknown till then, of Lady Knight of Malta.”

“That was a woman!” Ethel said. “With a duchess like Rhodaïs a people could not perish! But Morgana, the fairy, the saint, in whose honor the Hall was built—I do not see her?”

“On the contrary, she is everywhere. She lights up the Hall with her rays,” the duke replied. “This engraving does not give the entrance portal which overlooks city and sea and country. This portal was made at Enguerrand’s return. It is like the entrance to an enchanted palace; and by its magnificence and delicate ornamentation contrasts with the general severity of the Hall. As in Gothic churches this portal sets far back into the interior. An immense stained-glass window overlooks it; and from this light falls in floods through one of the sides of the vaulted roof, which was purposely suppressed.”

“I understand,” Ethel said. “Face to face with the ducal throne, your ancestress Morgana dominates everything!”

“Yes,” continued the duke; “at eventide the setting sun enters the interior of the Hall through this window, which represents the glorious martyrdom of Morgana. You would say that her blood threw crimson stains upon the throne itself and the glow of her miracle lighted up the whole hall.”

“What about the fresco which has left traces on the wall behind the throne? Was it, too, of some warlike deed?” Ethel asked.

“No; this one represented the legend of Morgana rising from the sea and bringing in her arms what should be the fortune of Morgania. What was it she was bringing in her arms? I know not. Morgana, it appears, was represented in the fresco issuing from the sea, and covered with seaweed.”

“Just as in the picture of Monsieur Phil,” remarked Ethel.

“Exactly so,” said the duke. “It was the moment I chose; and your fellow-countryman has reconstructed it. In my next trip to Morgania Monsieur Phil is to come to the castle and finish his picture on the spot. Before then I shall have time to search through the archives, and perhaps I shall find what it was Morgana was bringing in her arms.”

Thereupon Miss Rowrer and grandma went away. The duke remained alone. He retired to his study—a den plastered with sporting photographs—and sinking on a sofa lighted a cigarette and began dreaming as he followed the light smoke with his eye.

“Morgana—she who was to come forth from the sea bringing fortune and happiness in her arms—is it not Miss Rowrer landing in her yacht before the castle? She, too, comes from the setting sun. She, too, brings fortune. She, too, would be adored by the people. What a strange coincidence! The old sorceress is not so crazy after all,” the duke said to himself, “and there is nothing impossible in it! Whatever may be the personal qualities and fabulous fortune of Miss Rowrer, a Duke Tagliaferro is her equal. Through me she would be Duchess of Morgania, Protectress of the Skipetars, Lady Knight of Malta, Princess of Kroja, Queen of Antioch in the Holy Land, allied to the court of Prussia, and cousin of the Hapsburgs. There is not an older nor a nobler house in Europe.”

It made the duke’s head swim only to think of it. He was a descendant of Hugh, the Frankish chief to whom Theodosius had given one of his twelve duchies of the West, and since that time nothing—not even Attila’s torrent, nor the Turks, nor Charles the V, nor so many famines, nor so many wars—nothing had ever struck the sword from the hands of his ancestors—nothing save the anger of the people against Duke Adhemar, who was driven from the throne because he had delivered up Morgana!

_I will maintain by the sword!_ This proud device had never proved false, as the old iron-bound archives could witness. The duke felt weary—weary with all the weariness and old with all the age of all his ancestors; and his fingers had scarcely the strength to knock the ashes from his cigarette.

What a youth his inheritance of glory had won for him! How he had envied in other days the little peasants who ran barefoot along the beach, whereas he, brought up by sad-faced priests in the old feudal castle, was less free than a slave. Then came his marriage, which had been settled for him for reasons of state, and the death of his father, which gave him the administration of the duchy—an ungrateful task. No! He had not lived! Enough of the gloomy palace and rude peasants! He wished to live and to be amused—to be young for once in his life. He would know happiness, at least!

The duke gazed at the blue curls of smoke floating as aimlessly as himself. He had not even hoped for a marriage like this with Miss Rowrer, having all the advantages of a royal marriage, without any of its inconveniences. She would be one of the richest and most brilliant sovereigns of Europe.

Never had life appeared sweeter to him than now. He was buoyed up with hope and illusions. There was this marriage for the near future, and meanwhile he could enjoy the little time he still had to pass in Paris. This evening, for instance, he was to go with Caracal and meet Helia behind the scenes of the Nouveau-Cirque. Perhaps he was thinking more than he ought of Helia, but he wished to thank her before his departure for having posed as Morgana.

A lackey broke in upon his reverie, handing the duke two cartes-de-visite on a silver plate.

“Zrnitschka!”

“Bjelopawlitji!”

“The devil!” said the duke. “My two voivodes—my two kill-joys!”

Ah! those two sad-faced “ambassadors of the sorceress”—would they never cease harassing him? The valet spoke:

“The gentlemen wish to have the honor of presenting their homage to monseigneur.”

“Yes; I am acquainted with their homage,” the duke said, below his voice, as he drew out his watch. “Half-past six, and Caracal is waiting for me—and Helia, whom I have to see—”

“What answer shall I give these gentlemen?” asked the valet.

“How do I know!” answered the duke, vexed at being troubled while thinking of so many things. “Tell them—oh, tell them I am having a political interview—a tête-à-tête with the representative of a great power!”