Free Monsieur Jonquelle by Melville Davisson Post Page A

whole body seemed to spring up, as though cords binding down wings had been suddenly severed. Then she turned swiftly and put her cool, firm hand over my lips.
    â€œHush!” she whispered.
    I took the hand and kissed it, and kept it in my own. And I said the words again:
    â€œIf he should die?”
    She looked up slowly into my face, her eyes blue as the cornflower—hazy with a mist of tears—deep and saddening.
    â€œOh,
mon prince
,” she said, “things may happen like that in your fairy kingdom, but not here—not in this world.”
    It did happen—and in this world!
    I do not know what I did on this evening or this night. At the gate of the convent in Cimiez I was banished, but I had wrung from Madame Nekludoff her permission to remain for another day—and that day, as the Fates willed it, was time enough.
    That evening I doubtless smoked innumerable cigarettes on the terrace, under that halo-circled balcony; and that night I doubtless slept like one who guards a treasure. But in the morning destiny knocked on the door.
    I got my breakfast and was smoking by the window, looking out over this city of celestial colors, blended like the beauties of an Oriental carpet, where any extravagance of romance might happen in the coincidences and verisimilitudes of life. There was a timid rapping on the door, and the old woman I had seen on the balcony belowentered. She seemed in confusion from some event and startled.
    Madame Nekludoff wished to speak with monsieur. Would he come down to her apartment? I went down like one who travels upon wings, though step by step and no faster than the maid on the stone stair. At the salon door I stopped.
    Madame Nekludoff was standing by a curtain, with her face turned away, while in an armchair, behind a table, sat a huge monk, his shoes and his clothing covered with dust. He wore the garb of those isolated monastic orders dwelling in the waste and perilous places of the earth. He seemed overcome with fatigue, like one who has traveled far. There was a bottle of wine on the table and some cold meats.
    The maid closed the door and withdrew. Madame Nekludoff moved along the curtain until she finally stood before the window, but always keeping her face turned away. Finally she began to speak. Her voice jerked along as though now and then some great emotion choked it.
    â€œFather Augustine is here.… He has had a long journey—all the way down from Haute-Savoie.… The Grand Duke Dimitri is dead!” She moved along the window, still keeping her face turned away, until she reached the door to her bedchamber. “Sit down there by the table. He will tell you.” And putting her hand out tothe knob of the door she turned it and went in.
    I was not, in truth, very greatly startled. I had somehow profoundly believed that this thing would happen—as a child profoundly believes in the ultimate beneficence of God. I bowed to the monk and sat down. The old man poured out a glass of wine and drank it very slowly. Then he put his hand into the bosom of his robe, took out a packet and laid it on the table. The packet was some twelve or fifteen inches long and several inches thick. It was wrapped in a silk cloth. Then he addressed me, speaking like one who is very tired.
    â€œMy son,” he said, “the Duchess Dimitri will need the counsel of some one more familiar with the world than an old monk of Savoie.” He paused and put his big hand on the packet. “I have been in great doubt about this matter; but it was the dying command of the Grand Duke Dimitri, and we are not permitted to disregard even the wishes of the wicked in the presence of death. That God permits the evil to work their will in this world is a great mystery—but he does permit it. How far, then, may we prohibit what he permits?
    â€œWhen it became certain that the grand duke would die he had a curious seizure. He railed at Satan, calling him a sneaking and