The Game and the Candle Part 15

"No, sire."

"Dalmorov says that you were, long ago."

"Dalmorov," the other began, then checked himself, his tone chilling.

"The incident to which Baron Dalmorov doubtless refers, sire, hardly answers your question. Ten years ago, when I was less than twenty-two, I was briefly attracted toward a lady of the court. The affair died in its birth, on my discovering that mademoiselle was acting as the paid spy of the Emperor, your father. Since then I have thought of more important matters."

Adrian leaned back, his slim fingers twisted together.

"That was the Countess Sophia Mirkoff," he supplemented calmly, "whose husband you pardoned from the Two Saints last month; Dalmorov informed me. Was that because you still care?"

"No; because I would not have her imagine I remember enough for prejudice," Stanief answered, with glacial indifference.

The approving fire shot across the boy's lowered eyes, his pride sprang to comprehension of the other's.

"I am glad it is so," he said sedately. "I have been arranging your marriage, cousin."

If the terrace had crumbled beneath them, Stanief could have been no more astounded than at this.

"I beg your pardon!" he gasped.

"Why not? It is my privilege," Adrian returned, not moving.

Stanief opened his lips, and closed them again. The green and gold garden, the blue river and white city spread below, swam in a dazzle of color. He had never been more deeply annoyed, or more furiously angry with Dalmorov. But habitual self-control again aided him.

"I have no desire to marry, or time to give to such a distraction at present, sire," he answered.

"You would have to marry sooner or later, cousin."

"Then permit it to be later. After your coronation, if you still insist."

Adrian's small mouth set in a firm line rivaling the Regent's own.

"I wish it now. I have arranged that you shall marry the Princess Iria of Spain."

"Sire, forgive me if I presume to remind your Imperial Majesty that I have the right of questioning an order so personal."

The steel-hard anger of Stanief's voice struck fire from the flint of Adrian's determination.

"So I rule you!" he flashed tempestuously. "So you meant your pretty phrases! Dalmorov was right, right. You played with me, and I will never pardon you, Feodor Stanief."

Stanief drew back, realizing all the trap prepared for him.

"You are severe, sire," he retorted with dignity. "Perhaps reflection upon how unexpected this is, upon how serious to me is the amus.e.m.e.nt which to you signifies nothing, may win your indulgence. My life is full to overflowing; there is no place in it for a wife."

"You refuse?"

Stanief bit his lip.

"No, sire; I protest."

Adrian stood up, and the other perforce rose with him.

"You yourself said it," the boy stated, his chest heaving with pa.s.sion.

"Now, the test. I have the right; you know it. Do you govern me, or I you?"

"Sire--"

"You or I?"

Stanief looked very steadily into the blazing young eyes, himself colorless with the restraint forced upon his own emotions.

"I believed there were two promises given on the _Nadeja_, sire," he answered, never so quietly. "It seems that only one is to be remembered and that Baron Dalmorov wins. But I make no complaint; I suppose your last question was hardly serious."

"You consent?"

"I obey," he corrected pointedly.

At once victorious, and dominated by his kinsman's bearing, Adrian flung himself on the seat and motioned the other to the place beside him. But Stanief remained standing, choosing not to see the invitation, and there was a pause.

"I do remember my promise," Adrian declared, proudly reverting to the reproach of a few moments before. "If I have made you do this, cousin, it was not to please Dalmorov."

Stanief bowed, answering nothing.

"The lady--you will have heard of her. I met her last year on the Riviera. In her country they call her the Gentle Princess, because--she is. And she is very lovely."

Still the dark face was unstirred. His object gained, Adrian fretted and chafed before the change he himself had wrought.

"You are like Monsieur Allard; you do not want to yield your will," he said, half petulantly, half haughtily. "He is mine, you gave him to me; yet he did not like it because I said that no longer shall his fortune come from any one but me. Why?"

"He is an American, sire."

"Why does that make a difference between you and me?"

"I love him, sire."

The cold explanation coincided perfectly with Allard's; illogically Adrian felt a pang of isolation before this friendship, although he would not have believed either if they had professed the same affection for him.

"The churches are ringing the hour," he remarked, the sullen child struggling with the Emperor. "If you wish to go, as usual, you have my leave."

"Thank you, sire; my hours are indeed crowded."

"You are willing to ask the Princess Iria in marriage?"

"As you dispose, sire."

Satisfied and dissatisfied, Adrian held out his hand.

"You are not content, cousin," he accused. "You think me unkind."