The Fascination of the King, etc

Preface

IT may interest some readers of this book to know that when drawing the character of Marie, King of the Medangs, I was not relying wholly upon my imagination. Impossible as it may seem, the story has a certain foundation in fact. As is well known in the Farther East, in the year 1887 or 1888, I have never been able to definitely ascertain which, a man calling himself Marie David de Mayrena, who claimed to be a Frenchman, though it was afterwards ascertained he was not, made his way to the country of the Sedangs, a fertile region forming part of the Hinterland of Annam. After a series of extraordinary adventures there he proclaimed himself king, was at first recognised by the French, but ultimately believing himself the victim of treachery, fled in hot haste from the country. He visited Europe, remaining in Paris for some considerable time. Finally he returned to the Far East, where he brought his VI

PREFACE.

chequered career to a close by perishing of snake bite on a small island off the coast of the Malay Peninsula. Save the somewhat close resemblance in the matter of the man's name, and that of his country, and the fact that both aspired to the honour of being kings, the likeness extends no further. The meeting in Venice, all that occurred in the Eastern State, the wedding, even the war with the French, is pure fiction. GUY BOOTHBY. CONTENTS

Chapter I Being

A LETTER FROM THE MARQUIS OF INSTOW, IN EASTERN WATERS, TO IAMES FORSYTH, ESQ., OF CHESSBOROUGH PARK, NEAR OXFORD, ENGLAND. MY DEAR FORSYTH,— Before entering upon a description of my own doings, since we said " good-bye " upon the platform of the Oxford railway station, so long a time ago, I must thank you for your letter, dated the ist of July, which came to hand but yesterday. Ever since my receipt of it, I have been puzzling my brain to understand by what manner of means I could best make you acquainted with the curious drama in which my sister Olivia and I have been playing our parts since i I stayed the night with you at Chessborough, exactly three years ago this week. I feel that it is only right you should know everything, but how to tell you is quite another matter. There is so much to be told, and if it is not narrated in detail, I fear the effect will be lost.

This voluminous epistle is the result, and, when you have read it, I think you will agree with me in doubting whether a more curious experience has ever fallen to the lot of mortal man. Indeed, I must confess to a feeling of apprehension as to whether you may not be tempted to believe that much travelling has driven me mad, and that what I have written is the creation of a vivid imagi nation, rather than actual fact. To hark back to the beginning of things, I must revert to the talk we had together on the evening just referred to. You will remember that during the previous season Olivia had been regarded, and very justly too, I think, as the most beautiful woman in London ; and when I remind you of that fact, I haven't the slightest doubt but that it will recall the substance of our conversation as we smoked together after dinner.

It was patent to all our world that Belgravia wanted to marry my sister ; and you know how disappointed I was because she absolutely and irrevocably refused to entertain the notion. I have always liked Belgravia : we were at Eton and the 'Varsity together ; our properties in two counties adjoin one another ; and, what is perhaps more to the point, he is a good soldier, a sterling friend, and as perfect a gentleman as any in the circle of my acquaintance. Poor fellow, I fear her refusal was a blow to him ; but women, God bless them, are queer creatures at the best of times, and when they once make up their minds not to do a thing, it is my experience that wild horses will not drag them to it. To protest under such circumstances is worse than useless, while to argue is but to admit a limited understanding of the sex.

For the reason, however, that my sister is my only living relative, I would not coerce her into marrying a man she did not love, any more than I would ask her to pawn the family diamonds to meet the expenses of her presentation dress. So like a prudent man I accepted the inevitable, assured Belgravia of my warmest sympathy, and took Olivia off to Monte Carlo, thence to Venice, intending to have my yacht meet me there, and then to take a run out to Japan until the matter had somewhat blown over. It is from the time of our arrival in Venice that I date my story proper. You know, my dear Forsyth, what an epicure I am in the matter of travel. I must hit my places at the right season, or I am nowhere. For that reason, I must be in Paris when the leaves are unfolding themselves on the trees in the Luxembourg Gardens ; in St. Petersburg, between the middle of November and the 15th of December, when the ice is thick upon the Neva ; and in Venice, a fortnight before Shrove Tuesday and the Carnival.

On this occasion, we caught the latter place to a nicety, and engaged rooms at Galaghetti's. What recollections the men tion of that name conjures up ! Cannot you see the proprietor with his queer little sallow face, and piercing black eyes, and hear again the atrocious success which greeted his attempts to pronounce your name ? He inquired after you immediately we arrived, and begged that I would recall him to your memory when next I saw you. How little did I imagine then that it would be nearly four years before I should shake you by the hand again. For it is three years now since I bade you good-bye, and I quite expect that another year will elapse before I shall return to England. One thing is certain, to enjoy Venice properly, one must take one's time. The man who imagines that he could come at the heart of the Queen of the Adriatic in a week, would drink Imperial Tokay to assuage his thirst.

One must take it in sips, for to rush from place to place, as do so many of our countrymen, in an attempt to take in the Academy — the Frari — Giovanni and Paola — Del Santissimo Redentore, and, shall we say, Francesco della Vigna in a few days, is to have but the poorest remembrance of what one has seen, and to confound Titian's " Martyrdom of S. Lawrence " with the " Baptism of Christ " by Cima de Conegliano. Looking back on that visit to Venice, after the lapse of three years, I am struck by one remarkable fact, and that is the quite disproportionate importance of the events which led up to the extraordinary story I am about to tell you. Taken in their chronological order, they consist of the meeting with an objectionable English member of Parlia ment, a chance conversation at a cafe table, and an unexpected invitation to spend the evening at the house of an old friend.

The English member must come first, for two reasons. As if the mere presence in this ancient city of such a blatant windbag were not enough, he must needs appropriate my favourite room in the hotel, and also occupy the table in the window over looking the Grand Canal, from which, as you know, one can just obtain a peep of the Palazzo Rezzonico in the distance, and which is always my own special spot for meals. When I arrived, Galaghetti was good enough to overwhelm me with apologies ; he knew my preference for that table, he said, but Mr. M'Sweeney (that was the fellow's name) had occu pied it for the last month, and, as he was at some pains to show me, it would scarcely be fair to turn him out, in order to make room for a new arrival, however old a customer he might be. Naturally, I bade him think no more about the matter.

But I must confess that when I was so magnanimous, I had not seen the man who had forestalled me. At breakfast next morning (and I am still insular enough to prefer breakfasting in my own hotel, at the hour surely intended by nature for the meal, to scampering out to cafes when the morning is half spent), I was reading my letters, and awaiting the appearance of Olivia, who, like most of her sex, has never learned to appreciate the difference be tween the stroke of the hour and five minutes past, when I heard a step behind me, and felt a hand placed upon my shoulder. I looked up in some surprise, half expecting to find myself face to face with an old friend whom I had heard was in Venice. But such was not the case. This person I could not, for the moment, remember to have seen before. Standing before me, at least six feet high, broad-shouldered, red-faced, red haired, and seeming to fill half the room, was a person whose identity 1 was able to guess without a second thought.

"Good-morning, my lord," he said, as he spoke holding out a ponderous freckled hand for me to shake. " I had no idea you were in Venice until five minutes ago. You remember me, I suppose, George M'Sweeney, Member for Middlesworth ?" Much as I should like to have denied the acquaintance, I had to acknowledge that I did remember him perfectly. He was a Liberal Unionist, whose only excuse for a Parliamentary career was a sense of duty that was almost Roman, an over weening belief in his own importance, an imper viousness to ridicule, and a strange capacity for spoiling the chances of his party by inconsequent oratory whenever its leaders permitted him so to do. Having once broken the ice, he literally over whelmed me. There appeared to be no subject under heaven upon which he was not, if I may so put it, over-informed.

The great European questions of the day he dismissed in a string of clap-trap phrases that sounded strangely out of place at breakfast time ; the prospects of the ensuing Parlia mentary session he gauged with a keenness of perception that could scarcely fail to be inaccurate. And yet, dominating it all, there was a certain sincerity of belief and singleness of purpose about the man that I must confess charmed, while it astonished, me. By the time Olivia entered the room, we were comparing the merits of Titian and Pordenone, if you can imagine such a thing, and I was receiving such an exposition of the various limners of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries as would have made the bronze horses of S. Mark bow their heads and weep for the consummate vanity of man. In justice to the fellow, I must admit that he had learned his lesson, such as it was, well ; but I shall never enter the Scuola di S. Rocco again without feeling oppressed by the remembrance of his glib, self-complacent, criticism.

What ever he may have given to the world, Mr. Ruskin, through the medium of the guidebooks, has at least much to answer for in Venice. M'Sweeney being still beside me when Olivia made her appearance, nothing remained for me but to introduce him to her. I found a certain enjoy ment in doing this, for Olivia's face, as you well know, is expressive to the last degree. On this occasion, I could see by the way she glanced at him that she regarded our countryman with very much the same combination of interest and horror that the country vicar's daughter bestows upon an actress or a dancing bear. M'Sweeney, on the other hand, behaved as gentlemen of his stamp invariably do. As an art critic, and when we were alone, he was an amusing anomaly enough ; but immediately a third person, and that third person a woman, was imported into the com pany, he floundered in such quicksands of polite ness as to make himself an object pitiful to behold.

Suffice it that in less than five minutes two of which he spent in commenting on the weather, and the balance lamenting the lack of good hotel accommodation in Venice, shifting uneasily upon his feet, he had left us to return to his own table, and we were free to commence our meal. Olivia settled herself in her seat with an indescrib able shake of her plumage, the meaning of which I know as well as any words. There was no necessity for her to tell me that she hoped we should not see very much of Mr. M'Sweeney during our stay in Venice. Like Lord Burleigh's nod, her gestures are invariably significant. Breakfast finished, I was sitting in the hall scan ning Galignani's Messenger and wondering at the utter absence of news, when Olivia came flying down stairs. I looked at her in surprise, for, as you are aware, my sister is not prone to excitement.

More over, she was dressed for walking, and as yet it was but ten o'clock. " What on earth is the matter ? " I asked. " I did not expect you for at least an hour to come." " Get your hat this instant and come with me," she answered excitedly. " That friend of yours, M'Sweeney, is looking for you in order to propose an excursion. He stopped me in the corridor up stairs just now, and informed me that the Admiral had given him permission to visit the arsenal with any friends who might care to accompany him. He asked where he might find you, and in reply I was wicked enough to insinuate that you had already gone out." Without more ado, I found my hat, and quickly led the way out of the hotel. Then calling a gondola, I bade the man convey us with all possible speed to the church of S. Rocco. We were only just in time, for as we took our places in the boat and the gondolier gave his first flirt of the oar, we saw M'Sweeney appear upon the hotel steps in search of us.

Another minute, and we could not possibly have escaped him. I have narrated this otherwise commonplace inci dent, not for any interest it contains in itself, but because it seems to me to be the pivot upon which all the rest of the curious story I have set myself to tell you, turns. I argue that, had it not been for M'Sweeney's importunity, we should not, in all probability, have left the hotel so early, and but for my desire to escape him, I should not have decided upon the church of S. Rocco, which I had seen a dozen times over, but which was the first name that rose upon my tongue, as our destination. In that case we should not have accepted a certain invita tion, nor should we have been drawn into the influence of as extraordinary a person as, I venture to believe, the world has yet seen.

Olivia would not be the happy woman she is to-day, and I should not have won But there — I must not anticipate. You will find out all that when you have read my story. In spite of what I have just said, I am inclined to believe that of all the places of worship in beautiful Venice, the church of S. Rocco, next to that of S. Mark, and perhaps Santa Maria della Salute might be included in the category, is the most interesting. Though almost insignificant in its outward appear ance, it contains a wealth of art treasures which, with the two exceptions just mentioned, ranks it second to no other church in the city. The Titian in the little chapel to the right of the high-altar, alone is worth a visit. On reaching the building in question, we bade our gondolier wait for us, and entered it. As far as we could see, with the exception of the sacristan, who was eating his breakfast in a corner, we were its only occupants.

Despite the brilliant sunshine outside, the place was very sombre, though here and there long shafts of light penetrated the quaint windows, and fell in zigzag patterns upon the stone floor. There was, however, something so restful about the silence, that an attempt to break it by hurrying would have seemed little better than sacrilege. For this reason, we examined our Tintorettos quietly, lingered over the miracle at Bethesda, slowly con sidered the Annunciation in all its lights, and gave even a closer attention than usual to the two incidents depicted in the life of San Rocco. Then leaving the high-altar, we passed into the little chapel on the right. Here even a greater quiet reigned, but there was this difference — one glance round showed us that we were no longer alone. On the steps leading to the small altar at the further end, a man was kneeling in prayer, while, at a short distance, another stood watching and patiently waiting for him to rise.

For some reason, whether it was a premonition of what was to come, or the result of the extraordinary fascination we afterwards discovered this singular being to possess, I cannot say — I only know that my eyes having once alighted upon him, could scarcely withdraw them selves again. And yet his back was all that I could see. Presently, while we were examining Titian's marvellous " Betrayal," the man I have just referred to rose from his knees and turned towards his com panion. As he did so, we were permitted a good view of his face. Though it is upwards of three years now since that moment, I can recall the whole scene as vividly as if it were but yesterday. I can see the half-dark chapel — the glittering altar, Olivia by my side, and this strange creature, who was des tined to exercise such a potent influence upon our future lives, standing before us.

Clearly, however, as I can recollect his face as I saw it then, I find that when I sit down with my pen in my hand and endeavour to give you a description of it, I am quite nonplussed. A bare outline, setting forth the colour of his skin, eyes, and hair, the contour of his face, and the absence of either beard or moustache, would no more en able you to realise him, than to tell a man, who had never been in Venice, that the Ponte dei Sospiri spans the Grand Canal would help him to picture for himself the Bridge of Sighs. On the other hand, if you can imagine a man about six feet two in height, very slimly built, with a pure Venetian face (I say Venetian, as opposed to Italian, for, to my mind, there is a distinction with a decided differ ence), large and lustrous eyes, a lofty forehead leading up to a mass of wavy black hair, small hands and feet, and a grace of movement that would almost warrant one in using that abominable adjec tive, fawn-like, you will have derived some faint notion of the man whom I shall consider the hero of my life, and with whom this story is almost entirely concerned.

While I was glancing at him, the stranger, whose mere personal appearance had thus exercised such an unwonted fascination over me, said something in an undertone to his companion, who bowed respectfully, and accompanied him from the chapel. As a rule, I fancy my worst enemy could scarcely accuse me of inquisitiveness, but on this occasion I will confess to a strong feeling of curiosity as to who this mysterious individual might be. That the person with him was an inferior it was easy to understand, but even he bore himself with the assured carriage of a gentleman. As we left the church in our turn and passed out into the bright sunshine, where our gondola awaited us, I turned to Olivia and inquired if she had been at all impressed by the man we had seen. " I noticed him, of course," she replied ; " but I must confess I saw nothing extraordinary about him.

I always think that Venice teems with such men." " I fancy, however, that this particular individual must be a little out of the common," I replied. " Did you notice the respect with which his com panion addressed him ? " " My dear Instow," said Olivia, with that quietly superior manner of hers that seldom fails to achieve success, " you must admit you are endowing this man with all sorts of attributes he is scarcely likely to possess. If you could but know the truth about him you would, in all probability, discover that he is either a member of one of the numerous im poverished noble houses that abound in this city, or a mere adventurer ; very probably both." " You admit, then, that you think him a Venetian," I said, with a chuckle of satisfaction, for I have a respect for Olivia's judgment, and like to find it in accord with my own.

" There could be no possible doubt upon that score," she answered confidently, and with that we took our places in our gondola again. In response to the man's inquiry whither he should take us, I directed him to the Piazza S. Marco. When we reached it, and I had paid him his fare, I led the way to a cafe where, at a small table, we seated ourselves. To my mind, there are few things in the world more pleasant on a bright morning than to sit outside a cafe on this magnificent Piazza, sipping one's wine or chocolate, smoking one's cigar or cigarette, and watch the pigeons of S. Mark's. On this particular occasion, we had been seated at our table for something like a quarter of an hour before we recognised any one we knew. Then Olivia suddenly leant across the table, and, touching my arm, drew my attention to an exquisitely dressed, dapper, little man, with a gray Vandyke beard and small moustache, the latter much waxed and curled, who was leaning on his cane, watching through his eyeglass the gambols of two French poodles on the stones before him.

" Surely that is Monsieur de Trailles ? " said Olivia; " I cannot believe that there are two men in the world so much alike." Before I had time to reply, the man we were dis cussing turned, and we were thus enabled to see his full face. As you will have guessed, it was De Trailles, looking exactly the same as we both remem ber him the better part of twenty years ago. He recognised us instantly, and assuming his most gran diose manner, which I used to say was without its parallel in Europe, came, hat in hand, to greet us. A minute later he was seated with us, and we were in the full flood-tide of speech. You know his way ; we began with old friends and mere acquaintances, married half, and divorced the rest. It was then that I heard, for the first time, of poor De Sarniac's suicide in Florence, and Berthier's marriage in Turin.

I was also given three reasons why Flancaurt's widow has not tempted Providence a second time, and was reliably informed as to the events which induced Vocsquai to resign his chamberlainship in Vienna, and to emigrate to Monaco, which is supposed to suit his gout better than the Austrian capital. In fact, to put it in a nutshell, in something less than a quarter of an hour, I was conversant with more than half the scandal of Europe. Personally, I will own to being more than a little afraid of Gustave de Trailles ; his tongue is as keen as his wit, and when I am with him, I cannot help entertaining a fear lest it may be my lot to furnish him with food for gossip later on. Olivia, however, thoroughly enjoyed her self. The Countess Flancaurt has long been one of her cherished correspondents, and, as you know, she was staying with the Vocsquals when the Prince's health first showed signs of giving way last autumn.

Knowing all this, it amused me to see her watching De Trailles through the lace of her parasol as he talked, a little smile hovering round the corners of her mouth meanwhile, as if she wondered what he would be inventing next. If I desired to know the secret life of any man in Europe, I should certainly ask De Trailles ; and as I heard him praising or damning half the aristocracy of Venice, I found myself regretting that he had not been with us in the church of S. Rocco an hour before, in order that he might have made us ac quainted with the name and history of the man in whom we, or rather I, had been so much interested. Thinking he might possibly be able to help me, I endeavoured to describe the person to him, but I was immediately confronted by the difficulty I found in presenting him to you.

To speak of a sallow-skinned man with dark hair and eyes — slightly above the middle height, in a place where the majority of inhabitants boasted just such qualifications, would be of no possible assistance to a recognition. " Whoever he is, he seems to have made an impression upon you, mon cher ami," said De Trailles, when I had finished ; " and, in that case, Venice may claim, as you English say, ' to have scored one.' For I cannot remember your betraying such interest in a man before." " Instow has assuredly got this person upon his brain," said Olivia, with a slight dash of scorn in her voice. " For my own part, I must tell you candidly I was not so much impressed. The man looks like an adventurer, and probably is one. Are you still bent, my dear brother, on making his acquaintance ?" " I want to know who he is first, of course," I said.

" But if he should prove, in any way, a respectable member of society, I shall be only too glad to do so." " Bravo, British caution," said Olivia, " faithful to the last. If all else perish, let us insist upon the respectability of our acquaintances." " For all we know to the contrary, the fellow may be a member of the Camorra," continued De Trailles, with an airy wave of his hand, " or a mad-headed anarchist bent on blowing up the Ponte dei Sospiri." I was about to reply in a similar strain, when I chanced to turn my head in the direction of the Campanile. To my astonishment, the man of whom we were speaking and his previous companion, were coming in our direction. "A truce to jesting," I said, as nervously as a school-miss who, when under her duenna's eyes, sees her lover approaching; "here is the very man him self."

" This is delightful," exclaimed De Trailles. " Now let me see if I know him." The two men came closer. I saw De Trailles put up his glass and look at the taller of the pair. Hav ing done so, he dropped it again almost as quickly. At the same instant, he jumped to his feet, raised his hat and bowed politely, the mysterious stranger returning the salute with the easy grace of one accustomed to receive such deference. As soon as they had passed, and were out of hearing, I turned upon my companion. " Now that you know the man," I said, " possibly you can tell us who he is. I am glad to observe that he seems to have made quite an impression upon you." " If I had guessed that he was the person you were inquiring about," replied De Trailles, "I should have been the last man in the world to have laughed at your infatuation.

I must beg your pardon. Now I can perfectly understand it." "This is really excellent comedy," said Olivia, clapping her hands. " Who is he ? Tell us that. Is he a prince incognito, a famous singer, a sorcerer, or only an ordinary commonplace tourist like our selves ? " De Trailles settled himself down in his chair, and polished his eyeglass with his dainty silk handker chief before he answered. "You place me, for the moment, in an awkward predicament," he said, with the air of a man who has his chance, and is determined to make the most of it. " Who the man really is, in whom you seem to have taken so much interest, that is to say who he is by birth, I can no more tell you, than I can vouch for the name of the designer of the Bronze Horses yonder. I have heard it said that his father was a Frenchman of good family, while his mother was a member of one of the oldest houses of Venice, but of the truth of it I can say nothing.

Suffice it, that he is now His Majesty Marie I., King of the Medangs." " Medangs ? " I cried. " My dear fellow, I have travelled about the world a good deal, but I must confess to never having heard that there was such a place ; pray where is it situated ? " "That again I cannot tell you," our friend replied imperturbably. " It must be somewhere, however, for the reason that he is recognised by France and England, also I believe by Russia ; but beyond the fact that it is in Asia, and I believe somewhere between India and China, I have not the remotest notion of its locality." " And you say this man is king of the country. As he is not a native, pray how did he manage that?" " I believe he chanced to hear of the state's advan tages, discovered that it was villainously governed, went in with but one companion — not the man you saw with him to-day, but another who is still abroad, I fancy — braved all risks and dangers, and when the monarch then seated upon the throne saw fit to pay the debt of nature, mounted it himself and by sheer impudence and force of character, or lack of it, as the case may be, proclaimed himself king and remained so.