Trusia Part 18

"Clearly, M. Petros then knew something about the source of your income," said Marie.

"Agreed, sweet creature, but since I do not have the slightest idea where he is, I can't see how that will help me. I don't even know his full name."

"Cheer up, 'Gene, you will yet see that picture hang."

"More likely to hang myself," he said with a return of awful gloom.

"But the great M. Lourney praised the conception, the breadth, of this, your last picture," the girl said, as her hand pushed lightly through the shock of curls on the man's head.

"Yes, it is good," he said responsively, both to the hope she inspired and the caress she bestowed. That girl understood men. "Krovitch the Bulwark," he continued. "They were a great people, Marie. Their history, unfamiliar to most, has always interested me strangely." His eyes were illumined with enthusiasm as he raised an index arm toward the canvas.

"See those vigorous fellows, each a hero. A single nation flinging back from Europe the invasion of the infidel. A heroic subject for a painting, eh, girlie?" He smiled up in her face, his troubles for the nonce forgotten. Get a man talking about his abilities to achieve and you can dispel the darkest gloom from his brow. It was high time to bring him back to earth again, but she knew how. He had had just sufficient gratulation to take the edge off pretended or real misery.

"It is, 'Gene, but it will not pay the rent. Listen." The timid flush mounted to her cheek as she made the suggestion, "Go to the p.a.w.nbroker's. Take these trinkets of mine. Beg him to loan you sufficient for your rent. Now, don't refuse. You may redeem them when you can. Besides, you gave them to me." She looked down with affectionate regret at the bracelets, the bangles, the rings, which use and the donor had made dear to her.

Being weak, he hesitated. His need was great. Then kissing the girl lightly, he took them and strode from the room.

"Come right back, 'Gene," she called, happy as only a woman can be in a sacrifice.

During his absence, from her own scanty store of edibles across the hall, she prepared a meal for him. Absorbed in this occupation she gave little heed to the steady tramp of feet ascending the staircase. A peremptory knock recalled her from her world of happy thoughts.

"_Entrez_," she added, thinking it was one of 'Gene's jokes.

The door opened. Into the room trooped a throng of men, resplendent in black and gold, silver and gray. Her eyes opened in astonishment; so did theirs. Her lips, parted to speak, could only gasp; so could theirs. The surprise was apparently mutual. With true Parisian humor she laughed heartily at the paralysis, and speech was thawed. Colonel Sutphen stood forward and bowed courteously.

"Your pardon, mademoiselle. We were informed that a young man, Eugene Delmotte, resided here. Pardon our mistake, accept our most humble apology and permit us to depart." He moved toward the door as a signal for a general exodus.

"But 'Gene--but M. Delmotte does live here," she cried, in apprehension of the departure of these lordly and apparently affluent strangers who might aid poor 'Gene. The elderly gentleman stopped on hearing this. He regarded her with more chilling politeness.

"And you," he asked, "are Mme. Delmotte?"

"Oh, no, monsieur," she replied simply.

"His--his companion?" The Colonel flushed at his own audacity. The girl smiled forgivingly, though a little wanly.

"Oh, no, monsieur. I am only his friend and occasional model. He is in trouble, messieurs. I came to cheer him up. I live across the hall."

Colonel Sutphen, scanning the far end of the room, failed to find the object of his inquiry. The girl came forward with an explanation as the elderly n.o.ble turned a questioning face toward hers.

"He has gone out, monsieur," she said. "He will soon return. He is in debt." She hung her head in distress. Colonel Sutphen turned to Josef in surprise. The latter whispered something in his ear, which apparently satisfied him. The girl closely watched this little by-play.

"Oh, then you know about him, messieurs?" she said. "You will help him?

You are his friends?" She was happy for her neighbor.

"Only a few of a great many thousands," replied Sutphen ponderously.

"Tell me, mademoiselle, have you any--er--er claims upon M. Delmotte?

Are you betrothed? Any claims of er--er sentiment?"

The girl's eyelids dropped as she answered,

"Not that he is aware of, monsieur." Then her eyes blazed at the sudden realization of the indignity put upon her. "Who are you, though, and by what right do you question me? He is an artist and I--I am a friend.

That is all, monsieur."

She had little spirit, after all, for a contest; but a door in her heart had been opened, a door that a girl generally keeps closed to mankind, and she naturally resented the intrusion. Look, too, where she would she could not escape the eyes of encircling masculinity.

Carter, appreciating her embarra.s.sment and feeling an American gentleman's compa.s.sion for her predicament, undertook a divertis.e.m.e.nt.

"Fine picture, that," he said, loud enough to be heard by the others.

"Those chaps are wearing the Krovitch Lion, too. Coincidence, isn't it?"

Involuntary curiosity called all eyes toward the painting. The effect was magical. Astonishment showed in every Krovitch face. They, one and all, uncovered their heads as they recognized in the subject the unconscious expression of their sovereign's patriotism.

"Is that the work of M. Delmotte?" inquired the Colonel with voice softened by what he had just seen.

The girl nodded; she was proud of her friend's ability to move these strangers to reverence.

"Gentlemen--an omen," said the grizzled veteran, pointing to the picture. "History repeats itself."

"Mademoiselle," Carter said gently under cover of the general buzz of excited comment aroused by the picture, "mademoiselle, M. Delmotte is destined to a high place among the great men of the world. While to some is given the power to portray famous events, to a very few indeed it is given to create such epochs. Such men are necessarily set apart from their fellows. Despite the promptings of their hearts, they must forego many friends.h.i.+ps which would otherwise be dear to them. M. Delmotte is both fortunate and unfortunate in this." As with careful solicitude for her feelings he strove to prepare her for the separation from the artist, the girl's color came and went fitfully as gradually the truth began to dawn upon her.

"I think I understand, monsieur," she said, grateful for his consideration. Then she continued slowly, deliberately, letting the acid truth of each word eat out the joy in her heart, "You mean that M.

Delmotte must no longer know Marie, the model."

The Colonel, who had approached, had overheard this last thing spoken.

"It is possible," the latter hinted, "that he might desire to spare you the pain of leave taking, as he goes with us from Paris--from your world."

"Oh, monsieur," she turned appealingly to Carter, her eyes wide in their efforts to restrain their tears, "is this true?"

Carter nodded his head gravely. Sutphen pressed a fat, black wallet upon her, which she declined gently.

"As a gift," he insisted.

"Oh, monsieur," she cried reproachfully, and with averted face fled from the room.

Sheepishly guilty in feeling as only men can be, the party in the studio awaited expected developments. In a few minutes they heard the approach of a man's footsteps upon the stairs. All eyes turned curiously toward the doorway. Nearer came the sounds, nearer, while with increasing volume their hearts beat responsively. The steps stopped. The waiting hearts seemed to stand still in sympathy. Then the door opened.

"It is he," whispered Josef. All heads uncovered and each man bowed low.

Delmotte stood petrified with astonishment.

"Messieurs," he said at last, recovering his speech, "messieurs, I am honored." Then as his eyes lighted on Josef, they sparkled with unexpected recognition. "You are Petros," he said, puzzled by the brilliant throng surrounding him.

"Josef Petros Zolsky, Your Majesty. I am your childhood's retainer and hereditary servitor. Yes, I am he you call Petros," and the white head bowed low as a gratified light kindled in the crafty eyes.

"Majesty! What the devil--am I crazy? I am not drunk," he added regretfully.

"Sire," stammered Colonel Sutphen, "sire, you are the King of Krovitch."

"The devil I am," came the prompt response. Nevertheless the artist threw an affectionate glance at the painting as one might in saying, "You were my people." The piquancy of the situation caused him to smile.

"Gentlemen," he said, "if this is some hoax, believe me it is in very poor taste. Taste? Yes, for I haven't eaten in two days. What's your game? I've just come from a p.a.w.nbroker's, where I had gone with the paltry jewels of a model, to try and secure enough to pay my rent. You offer me a crown. Corduroys and blouse," he pointed to his garb, "you tempt me with visions of ermine. A throne to replace my stool, and pages of history are given for my future canvases. I am starving, gentlemen,"