“Plaisir,” he repeated. Olive sat down on the foot of Emily’s chaise longue and Brevoort took a stool from against the wall, meanwhile noting the other occupants of the room. There was a very fierce young man in a cape who stood, with arms folded and teeth gleaming, by the door, and two ragged, bearded men, one holding a revolver, the other with his head sunk dejectedly on his chest, who sat side by side in the corner.
“You come here long?” the prince asked.
“Just arrived this morning.”
For a moment Olive could not resist comparing the two, the tall fair-featured American and the unprepossessing South European, scarcely a likely candidate for Ellis Island. Then she looked at Emily—the same thick bright hair with sunshine in it, the eyes with the hint of vivid seas. Her face was faintly drawn, there were slight new lines around her mouth, but she was the Emily of old—dominant, shining, large of scale. It seemed shameful for all that beauty and personality to have arrived in a cheap boarding house at the world’s end.
The man in the cape answered a knock at the door and handed a note to Petrocobesco, who read it, cried “Chut!” and passed it to Emily.
“You see there are no carriages,” he said tragically in French. “The carriages were destroyed—all except one, which is in a museum. Anyhow, I prefer a horse.”
“No,” said Emily.
“Yes, yes, yes!” he cried. “Whose business is it how I go?”
“Don’t let’s have a scene, Tutu.”
“Scene!” He fumed. “Scene!”
Emily turned to Olive: “You came by automobile?”
“Yes.”
“A big de luxe car? With a back that opens?”
“Yes.”
“There,” said Emily to the prince. “We can have the arms painted on the side of that.”
“Hold on,” said Brevoort. “This car belongs to a hotel in Budapest.”
Apparently Emily didn’t hear.
“Janierka could do it,” she continued thoughtfully.
At this point there was another interruption. The dejected man in the corner suddenly sprang to his feet and made as though to run to the door, whereupon the other man raised his revolver and brought the butt down on his head. The man faltered and would have collapsed had not his assailant hauled him back to the chair, where he sat comatose, a slow stream of blood trickling over his forehead.
“Dirty townsman! Filthy, dirty spy!” shouted Petrocobesco between clenched teeth.
“Now that’s just the kind of remark you’re not to make!” said Emily sharply.
“Then why we don’t hear?” he cried. “Are we going to sit here in this pigsty forever?”
Disregarding him, Emily turned to Olive and began to question her conventionally about New York. Was prohibition any more successful? What were the new plays? Olive tried to answer and simultaneously to catch Brevoort’s eye. The sooner their purpose was broached, the sooner they could get Emily away.
“Can we see you alone, Emily?” demanded Brevoort abruptly.
“Why, for the moment we haven’t got another room.”
Petrocobesco had engaged the man with the cape in agitated conversation, and taking advantage of this, Brevoort spoke hurriedly to Emily in a lowered voice:
“Emily, your father’s getting old; he needs you at home. He wants you to give up this crazy life and come back to America. He sent us because he couldn’t come himself and no one else knew you well enough——”
She laughed. “You mean, knew the enormities I was capable of.”
“No,” put in Olive quickly. “Cared for you as we do. I can’t tell you how awful it is to see you wandering over the face of the earth.”
“But we’re not wandering now,” explained Emily. “This is Tutu’s native country.”
“Where’s your pride, Emily?” said Olive impatiently. “Do you know that affair in Paris was in the papers? What do you suppose people think back home?”
“That affair in Paris was an outrage.” Emily’s blue eyes flashed around her. “Someone will pay for that affair in Paris.”
“It’ll be the same everywhere. Just sinking lower and lower, dragged in the mire, and one day deserted——”
“Stop, please!” Emily’s voice was cold as ice. “I don’t think you quite understand——”
Emily broke off as Petrocobesco came back, threw himself into his chair and buried his face in his hands.
“I can’t stand it,” he whispered. “Would you mind taking my pulse? I think it’s bad. Have you got the thermometer in your purse?”
She held his wrist in silence for a moment.
“It’s all right, Tutu.” Her voice was soft now, almost crooning. “Sit up. Be a man.”
“All right.”
He crossed his legs as if nothing had happened and turned abruptly, to Breevort:
“How are financial conditions in New York?” he demanded.
But Brevoort was in no humor to prolong the absurd scene. The memory of a certain terrible hour three years before swept over him. He was no man to be made a fool of twice, and his jaw set as he rose to his feet.
“Emily, get your things together,” he said tersely. “We’re going home.”
Emily did not move; an expression of astonishment, melting to amusement, spread over her face. Olive put her arm around her shoulder.
“Come, dear. Let’s get out of this nightmare.” Then:
“We’re waiting,” Brevoort said.
Petrocobesco spoke suddenly to the man in the cape, who approached and seized Brevoort’s arm. Brevoort shook him off angrily, whereupon the man stepped back, his hand searching his belt.
“No!” cried Emily imperatively.
Once again there was an interruption. The door opened without a knock and two stout men in frock coats and silk hats rushed in and up to Petrocobesco. They grinned and patted him on the back chattering in a strange language, and presently he grinned and patted them on the back and they kissed all around; then, turning to Emily, Petrocobesco spoke to her in French.
“It’s all right,” he said excitedly. “They did not even argue the matter. I am to have the tide of king.”
With a long sigh Emily sank back in her chair and her lips parted in a relaxed, tranquil smile.
“Very well, Tutu. We’ll get married.”
“Oh, heavens, how happy!” He clasped his hands and gazed up ecstatically at the faded ceiling. “How extremely happy!” He fell on his knees beside her and kissed her inside arm.
“What’s all this about kings?” Brevoort demanded. “Is this—is he a king?”
“He’s a king. Aren’t you, Tutu?” Emily’s hand gently stroked his oiled hair and Olive saw that her eyes were unusually bright.
“I am your husband,” cried Tutu weepily. “The most happy man alive.”
“His uncle was Prince of Czjeck-Hansa before the war,” explained Emily, her voice singing her content. “Since then there’s been a republic, but the peasant party wanted a change and Tutu was next in line. Only I wouldn’t marry him unless he insisted on being king instead of prince.”
Brevoort passed his hand over his wet forehead.
“Do you mean that this is actually a fact?”
Emily nodded. “The assembly voted it this morning. And if you’ll lend us this de luxe limousine of yours we’ll make our official entrance into the capital this afternoon.”
IV
Over two years later Mr. and Mrs. Brevoort Blair and their two children stood upon a balcony of the Carlton Hotel in London, a situation recommended by the management for watching royal processions pass. This one began with a fanfare of trumpets down by the Strand, and presently a scarlet line of horse guards came into sight.
“But, mummy,” the little boy demanded, “is Aunt Emily Queen of England?”
“No, dear; she’s queen of a little tiny country, but when she visits here she rides in the queen’s carriage.”
“Oh.”
“Thanks to the magnesium deposits,” said Brevoort dryly.
“Was she a princess before she got to be queen?” the little girl asked.
“No, dear; she was an American girl and then she got to be a queen.”
“Why?”
“Because nothing else was good enough for her,” said her father. “Just think, one time she could have married me. Which would you rather do, baby—marry me or be a queen?”
The little girl hesitated.
“Marry you,” she said politely, but without conviction.
“That’ll do, Brevoort,” said her mother. “Here they come.”
“I see them!” the little boy cried.
The cavalcade swept down the crowded street. There were more horse guards, a company of dragoons, outriders, then Olive found herself holding her breath and squeezing the balcony rail as, between a double line of beefeaters, a pair of great gilt-and-crimson coaches rolled past. In the first were the royal sovereigns, their uniforms gleaming with ribbons, crosses and stars, and in the second their two royal consorts, one old, the other young. There was about the scene the glamour shed always by the old empire of half the world, by her ships and ceremonies, her pomps and symbols; and the crowd felt it, and a slow murmur rolled along before the carriage, rising to a strong steady cheer. The two ladies bowed to left and right, and though few knew who the second queen was, she was cheered too. In a moment the gorgeous panoply tad rolled below the balcony and on out at sight.
When Olive turned away from the window there were tears in her eyes.
“I wonder if she likes it, Brevoort. I wonder if she’s really happy with that terrible little man.”
“Well, she got what she wanted, didn’t she? And that’s something.”
Olive drew a long breath.
“Oh, she’s so wonderful,” she cried—“so wonderful! She could always move me like that, even when I was angriest at her.”
“It’s all so silly,” Brevoort said.
“I suppose so,” answered Olive’s lips. But her heart, winged with helpless adoration, was following her cousin through the palace gates half a mile away.
Published in The Saturday Evening Post magazine (13 July 1929).
