CHAPTER FIVE

Since the failure of Linnartz's intrigue, the ambassador's prestige had grown and his position had strengthened. At the same time, while his political opponents were committing one mistake after another, his own plans were maturing and the possibility of a military alliance was in prospect. Events pointed to a fresh crisis, and the grouping of parties around the competing great powers was becoming plainer day by day.

The baroness had long been of opinion that the only way to shake Gregor's position was through the publication of some scandal connected with his private life, some scandal having no political significance, and yet one that could not be ignored. Diana was of no use to her in this field, for Diana was not received in society circles, and could do and say what she liked without compromising any one but herself. At first the Linnartzes had come forward as champions of Olivia's honour, as defenders of the unhappy wife who was being so basely betrayed. But the baroness soon changed her tactics, when she had learned from little Clemens the secret of the countess's relations to Andreas. She was now engaged in thinking out a means whereby the count might become aware of his wife's unfaithfulness, and she calculated that such a revelation would compel the ambassador to resign his post.

Her plans were considerably delayed because just about that time the countess and Andreas were very seldom able to meet. December had come again with its seasonal demands on Olivia; she had purchases to make, and other preparations. Andreas, too, was giving more time to political affairs, for a new attaché had just been appointed who was interested in the young man and took a pleasure in initiating him into his work. He had been sorely troubled that morning at Diana's house: her gentleness, the friendliness with which, all unconsciously, she had served him as of old, the frank comradeliness of her gesture as she shook hands with him; then Gregor's sudden apparition in the hall, the way he stood beside the woman who seemed so obviously to belong to him, the hint he had given that he would like Andreas to clear out; and, finally, the acerbity of his own reply to this twofold rival of his--all these things reacted upon his irritated nerves and filled him with perplexity. To add to his troubles he was now more or less cut off from Olivia, and no longer able to find solace as often as he wished in his beloved's arms.

Gregor, on the other hand, was flourishing in every way. He had succeeded in giving a good turn to affairs in the Balkans, and this success was a fertile ground for the planning of fresh political victories. The growing consciousness of his own power fired his creative energies to put forth of their best. When Diana had told him of the plot against him, and of Scherer's refusal to do the foreign secretary's bidding, he had sprung to his feet, had wanted an inquiry to be made as to his own actions. Thus far his superiors' prognosis had been fulfilled. But what the foreign secretary could not foresee, and what even Scherer had failed to estimate correctly, was the mutual confidence that existed between Diana and Gregor, and the influence Diana wielded in consequence of Gregor's trust. She had never to keep anything from him, had fearlessly told him all that troubled her; and she could show him how good had been Scherer's advice that he should keep silent, seeing that after all he was the stronger.

The evening after this talk, in which the courses of their destinies seemed to draw very near, both sharing in a common gloom and a common splendour, Gregor's passion for this strange and wonderful woman deepened and broadened. While they discussed the details of the intrigue directed against them both, and realized the extent of the danger they had been exposed to, their will to go on living and to conquer life became firmer and had mutual reactions and interactions upon the reserves of energy with which to face the world.

Although Diana had, in the early days of their love, yielded to Gregor rather than given herself spontaneously, in the course of many starry nights shared together she had come to depend on him as a young sapling depends on its post for support. He, the artist in love, had extended the spiritual scope of the adventure into wider and ever widening circles. In the nights that followed that night in the tent at the foot of the mountain, he had guided her with the sure strokes of an accomplished oarsman in the stream of undreamed delights. Vaguely and as from afar, she felt that this love was driving her towards a high-water mark in her life.

Diana stood before her tall mirror smartening herself up, and smiling as she did so at the thought: "It is not for him!" It was New Year's Eve, and the prince had invited her to a little supper party. His letter, at once reserved and gallant, the way in which he commented upon this same letter when he called at her house next day, his manner when asking whom else he might invite--all this had been done in so friendly a spirit that she felt she could not refuse. Now she stood in an old-gold evening gown before her glass, trying the effect of a golden ribbon in her hair. In days gone by she had been fond of such an ornament, but tonight she pulled the snood this way and that, unable to get the effect she wanted. At last she threw the thing away from her, took a few steps backward, looked at herself from this new vantage point, and, finally, decided to wear the ribbon. She was always chary of adornment, so contented herself this evening with a gold brooch set with three large topazes, living stones, two as it were awake while the third slumbered.

Coming into the prince's little drawing-room, her golden fillet created quite a sensation among the three men, although the major had known her to wear such an ornament in days gone by. He could not resist reminding her of those times by a gentle hint:

"I have not had the pleasure of seeing Mademoiselle wear a hair-band before!"

"Nor have we," said Kopp.

"A golden coronal as for the wedding of a god," exclaimed the prince as he led her into dinner.

"I don't care for weddings. Dreadful affairs. Even the banquets of the gods in Homer seem to me grotesque," protested Diana.

"And yet such things may sometimes be very pleasant," said Kopp, thereby earning a friendly glance from Diana, who loved the man for his solemn way of dealing with the merest trifle.

"As a matter of fact," argued Felix, "we none of us are in a position to judge, seeing that marriage still lies in the unknown future so far as we are concerned."

"Unquestionably," put in the captain, while simultaneously a deprecating "Oh" came from Diana and the prince.

"In that case we'd never be allowed to pass judgment.--The law should be: Never marry--even when your grand-daughter clings beseeching to your knee!"

They all laughed at the prince's sally. Diana felt very genially disposed towards her host, each flower got a word of praise, each dish a laudatory comment. Indeed the whole place was charming in its miniature way.

"Since we have now both sung the praises of bachelorhood, it is meet that, as a woman, I add my regret at your resolve. A woman could be very happy in this house, which your yourself manage so admirably."

The two other guests applauded Diana's words, but the prince was determined to give a whimsical turn to the conversation, so he said:

"I attributed to you, Mademoiselle, a taste for light foods, ragouts, fancy bread, pasties, and souffles. And I hope your sons, gentlemen, will be exclusively fed by injections!"

"What do you use those exquisite Viennese bowls for? Or it is Schumann ware?" Diana turned the little plate over as she spoke.

"The backside gives us a foretaste of beauty to come," said the major thoughtlessly, and he hastened to remedy the false step by adding: "A connoisseur need only see a graceful figure from behind, he knows then what to expect."

Diana and the prince had been studying the mark on the china while the major blundered. Now the prince took up the point:

"Just as among the aristocracy, my dear Major. The coat-of-arms must first tell us of a nobleman's worth!"

Felix laughed somewhat wryly. His pride of birth made such an aspersion unsavoury. Yet he did not venture to protest, seeing that the prince's family was far older and far higher in the social scale than his own. Kopp, too, as a man of plebeian origin, held his peace, for he was well aware how touchy these aristocrats were when their democratic principles were openly approved of by a commoner.

Diana alone took the prince boldly to task:

"And yet Your Highness knows very well that armorial bearings do not make the man."

The prince looked at her delightedly, for any contradiction that helped the flow of conversation was welcome to him.

"You are right, Mademoiselle. But you speak positively and enigmatically, just as if you were drawing up a list of birthday honours in that brain of yours beneath its golden fillet--and certainly no princely diadem would hold its own beside your simple band."

With an unexpected gesture Diana tore off the ribbon, and declared hotly:

"I do not want a diadem! I am free!"

The three men looked at one another, and then at her as she lifted her chin in the air and shook out her locks.

Kopp once more was overcome with amazement as he contemplated this free-born nature, which made a strong appeal to his seafarer's heart. The major recognized the Diana he had known of old, the woman who had, by one look, filled his heart with courage and sent him along the highroad to fine achievement. The prince saw his first impression confirmed; he felt that he had before him an exemplar of his contention that, in some inexplicable way, certain natures, though they possess no genealogical tree, contain within themselves the germs of power, are, in fact, born rulers.

Diana who, after an outburst of this kind, was ever anxious to dissimulate its full meaning, beamed upon her companions, her smile effectually melting the haughty and wrathful expression her words had conjured up. Indeed, she was a little astonished at the effect she had created, and hastened to break the spell of silence which had fallen upon the company.

"All clear now?" she asked merrily.

The prince raised his glass and, though not, as a rule, fond of formalities, looked upon the occasion as a propitious one for a little friendly ceremony.

"Pereat vitta! Vivat vita!" he exclaimed clinking glasses with Diana.

All the guests followed suit. Then came a silence, during which each of the three was meditating the significance of the words. At length the prince said:

"Vitta, vittae, second declension, the sacerdotal fillet, which I may be allowed to recall to your memory, Gentlemen. Undeserved gift of the gods that this band should have come to my mind at a decisive moment."

"For my part," said Kopp, ruefully passing his hand over his bald head, "I am excluded from wearing my hair in the classical fashion usque ad finem I fear!"

"I, too, am being deforested," laughed the major. "We're all beaten in that respect by the chief."

As he uttered the last word, the three men simultaneously raised their eyes from their plates and looked at one another. The mention of Gregor's name acted like a signal they were all awaiting. But the prince, uncertain as to how Diana might be feeling about it, hurriedly changed the subject.

"I beseech you, Mademoiselle, another mouthful of my vol au vent! It is stuffed with pure south-east! I had the recipe from my great-grandmother, who had saved a few from the Confederation of the Rhine. This? A light Assmannshauser, not, unfortunately, a '93, but an '87--a year when mother sun fulfilled her maternal duties to perfection."

The talk ran upon old Rhenish. The captain had once found on board a sailing vessel the oldest wine of the century; it was so bitter that in the end all those who had partaken of it challenged one another to a fight. The major had a tale to tell of the three last bottles that remained of a present Old Fritz had made to his regiment. Diana, too, had her contribution to make.

"Do you know Etna? All wines grown on volcanic soil have fire within them. Lacrimæ Christi is one of the tamest. From Etna by way of Falernian to Stromboli, we get a rising scale of interest. The climax is Stromboli, but that wine is to be shunned."

"Why?"

"Because it makes the drinker mad."

"And--is that a thing to be shunned?" The major was still hoping to draw her out. "Could we not imagine that certain wines, let us say, old, but not too old, medium-dry Palugyai, would confer a boon if they sent us crazy?"

He did not venture to look at Diana as he spoke, hoping to remind her of an evening they had spent together in the former days. She took her revenge adroitly:

"Forbidden fantasies, Major. You must take precautions against any further deforestation!"

"How's that, is alcohol supposed to make the hair fall out?" and the prince ran his fingers over his fair head.

"In that case the chief must be a total abstainer," cried the major, trying to get a rise out of Diana.

This second reference to Gregor made it extremely difficult to turn the conversation once more on to dishes and wines. The men were nonplussed, but Diana said quite simply:

"Yes, he has a very nice head of hair."

"Twenty years ago he is said to have wrought havoc with fair ladies' hearts when he sat playing the piano and tossing his locks. My father used to tell me about him," said the prince.

Diana, who was determined not to lose her presence of mind among these men whom she knew to be her friends, took the prince up readily.

"Yes, he must have been a very different man in the days when he earned his name of 'mad Gregor.'"

"He must have been irresistible when he was young," rejoined the major.

"Even today, he scuds under full sail," said the captain.

"Perhaps it was not until he grew older that he became really interesting," added Diana calmly.

The men were attentive. They went forward cautiously, as if they were conspiring together.

"Interesting? Many people are that," hazarded the prince. "But Münsterberg--he seems to have some traits of Prince Louis Ferdinand rather than..."

"I venture to disagree," interrupted Diana.

"Why?" asked the three men simultaneously.

The prince laid his fruit-knife gently on his plate, the major leaned forward, the captain pushed his chair back a little way. Diana held a review of the six eyes that were fixed upon her. Then, speaking earnestly, she said:

"Youth seems to me to be the most rapturous time in a man's life, but only when he is sure of dying young, like our charming prince, or living to fade away as so many. The count, however, has grown so greatly in importance with the passage of the years, that I am inclined to believe a brilliant and superficial youth may..."

The men made no reply, so that her last words were left floating in the air until the prince made up his mind to blow them away.

"Does Mademoiselle fancy the count may enjoy a long life?"

"I did not say so."

"Since he has only now arrived at the point where his life's work and fundamental ideas have a chance of bearing fruit, may we not conclude that you had that in mind?"

"I make no prognosis, Your Highness, I am merely taking a backward glance."

"True. I hope you'll forgive me! But all the same, prognosis is extraordinarily interesting...."

"Yes, let's have your prognosis," cried the officers who had listened with keen attention. It was as if all three attributed the power of second sight to this strange woman opposite them. Again they urged:

"Your prognosis, please!"

Diana did not laugh, although the droll effect of this trio of voices tickled her sense of humour. She gazed in front of her, peeled off a long tongue of skin from her Jaffa orange, and said in a low voice, her eyes now fixed upon the fruit in her hand:

"I hardly know if it is fair to wish that a man who has remained so young should live to be old."

She sat silent now, not letting them into the secret of what had moved her. Her tone was strangely sad, and she had seemed, rather, to be speaking to herself than to her friends. A veil of melancholy fell upon the little company. The prince, remembering his duties as host, sprang up to dispel it. The others followed his example. All stood, their raised glasses in their hands, while he proposed a toast.

"It is New Year's Day! We will drink to the health of our honoured chief, Gregor Count of Münsterberg!"

The three men leaned over the table to clink glasses with Diana.