The Missourian Part 40

"Oh, don't be tedious. You alone hold the knight that means royalty triumphant or checkmated, and you know that you do."

"But you who are inspired, tell me how I shall play."

"You forget that I left this man to be shot?"

"Then I am to destroy him?"

Jacqueline shuddered. "That was my only way, but you, monsieur, you can lift him off the board entirely."

Bazaine rose from his chair and stood before her. "I am no poet," he said, "and these flowers of speech hide the trenches. My American means that I may have thousands more like him, and he is a good one to be multiplied even tenfold. Mademoiselle, _what_ am I to understand?"

"Does Napoleon's letter satisfy none of your doubts?"

Without a word he handed her the packet. It was from Napoleon's minister of finance, and it exuded woe. The French loans were exhausted by Maximilian's luxury and mismanagement, and therefore Bazaine was instructed not to advance a cent further. He was, moreover, to take charge of the Mexican ports, and administer the customs. Here, then, was the annihilation of Maximilian's sway. Here was the whispering of the Sphinx. France herself would take over the Empire.

"Hardly," returned the marshal, "but we will frighten His Majesty into bettering his finances," and he handed her a confidential missive that had accompanied the other. Bazaine was therein authorized, when the security of the Mexican Empire absolutely demanded it, to advance ten millions of francs.

Jacqueline sank back disheartened. Not even Napoleon would help her. The Sphinx had not the courage of his own designs, and she contemptuously flung him out of her way. She would strive alone, and against him, Napoleon, among the rest. First of all, there was his captain general, the man before her.

"Monsieur le Marechal," she began, as impersonally as though quoting a dry paragraph of history, "there is a party among the Mexicans who fear the republicans and what the Republic would do. Yet their hope for the Empire is gone, and they want no more of it. These, monsieur, are the moderate liberals, and strange to say, they are the clericals too; in a word, the great landowners. They are for what is good in Mexico. They demand order. But they would not take it from the United States. They look to France--to France, which is Catholic, and liberal."

"I know," said the marshal. "They have already hinted at annexation."

"Annexation to France, of course. Now then, monsieur, if we stay at all, we shall have to fight the United States. But do you imagine that we would undertake such a fight for Maximilian? Parbleu, the French people would mob Napoleon over night. But, supposing we were to do it for ourselves, and not for an impecunious archduke----"

His Excellency's eyes blazed. "Ah, it would be a fight superb!"

"And you commanding, Monsieur le Marechal. And behind you, with our own pantalons rouges, those Confederates against their old enemies.

_Then_ would be the moment to set your knight on the chess board.

And," she added insidiously, "France would need a viceroy over here."

The plain soldier started as though shot.

"Mademoiselle," he gasped, "you--_you_ are Napoleon! The _great_ Napoleon, I salute you, mademoiselle!"

"Helas, monsieur, that I am not in a position to credit Napoleon III.

with what I have said!"

"Yet you wish me to believe that you are only inspired by him? Pardon me, mademoiselle, but _he_ is the inspired one, and--mon Dieu, I do not blame him!"

"But it's very simple," said Jacqueline, "and honorable too.

Maximilian's bad faith nullifies our treaty with him. Tres bien, we are free, free to withdraw our troops. At least we may threaten as much.

Then he will, he must abdicate, unless--well, unless he first sees Your Excellency's prisoner."

She arose, feeling that she was leaving a good Frenchman behind her. But Madame la Marechale appeared to bid her adieu, and Madame la Marechale looked sharply from one to another, noting especially Bazaine's flush of enthusiasm. The good Frenchman straightway became uneasy. And Jacqueline, riding back to Chapultepec in her carriage with its coronet and arms and footmen, did not know that Driscoll had not been incommunicado against Madame la Marechale. Who could be? And Madame la Marechale betimes had paid her respects to a third woman, who also was but little more than a girl. She and the Empress Charlotte had discussed both the prisoner and Jacqueline.

CHAPTER x.x.x

THE AMBa.s.sADOR

"Receive then this young hero with all becoming state; 'Twere ill advis'd to merit so fierce a champion's hate."

--_Nibelungenlied._

In his bedroom at Buena Vista, the marshal's residence, Driscoll the next day received a personage, and offered him a cigar. Declined, with bow from shoulder. Hoped he would have a nip of peach brandy? Declined, with sweep from hips. He _was_ a personage. Driscoll noted regalia, medals, cordon; and apologized for the temerity of Missouri hospitality.

"Especially," he said, "as you're a Grand Divinity."

"Dignity, senor," the hidalgo corrected him, "Grand Dignity."

"You'll have to pardon me again," said Driscoll, "but I really didn't intend any short measure at all."

It was the Imperial Grand Chamberlain himself. There were no incomunicado doors before _him_; he came from the Emperor. The Empress had spoken to His Majesty, having just had her discussion aforementioned with Madame la Marechale, so that Monsieur le Marechal had had to lift from his prisoner the ban of the incomunicado. But monsieur had been extremely reluctant about it.

The Chamberlain's name went well with his exalted fourth degree of proximity to the throne. It was Velasquez de Leon, a very bristling of Castilian pride. He looked over the battered American in homespun gray, and wondered where the mistake was. For, as arbiter of precedence, appraiser of inequality between men, and supervisor over court functions generally, he had been sent in the way of business. Driscoll felt sorry for him.

"Just tell them to let me out of here," said the prisoner, "then I'll call in on the Emperor whenever it's convenient for him."

"But, senor," the don objected testily, "with what status, pray? Has your country a representative here? You must obtain a letter from your amba.s.sador, or have him present you."

Driscoll shook his head. "Can't," he said, "haven't any country."

The minion of etiquette despaired.

"But," Driscoll added, "I've got as good as credentials from what used to be my country."

Velasquez de Leon grasped at the straw. "Then," he cried, "we can register you as an amba.s.sador."

"Bringing my country with me," Driscoll suggested.

So it was all straightened out pleasantly, and quite in the orthodox manner, too. The American's status was defined. His reception would fall under the rubric: "Private Audience." There remained only one grave drawback. The protocol allowed no hints as to the un-protocol aspect of an amba.s.sador's wardrobe. The hidalgo could only finger nervously the Imperial Crown in his Grand Uniform, and with stiff dignity take his leave.

The amba.s.sador who was his own country rode in the marshal's landau to court, with a retinue of Lancers that was also his guard. Soon they entered the Paseo, which Maximilian was making beautiful at inordinate cost as a link between the City and his summer palace, the alcazar of Chapultepec. Turning into the wide, stately boulevard, Driscoll was that moment plunged into an eddying splendor of Europe transplanted, and he blinked his eyes, half humorously. There were mettlesome steeds, and coaches with a high polish, and silver weighted harness, and the insolence of livery, and armorial bearings, and the gilt of coronets on carriage panels. There were silk hats and peaked sombreros, lace mantillas and Parisian bonnets. A lavish use of French money was doing these things, and the Mexicans, believing in their aristocracy since the revival of t.i.tles never heard of in Gotha, believed also that such brilliancy of display made their capital the peer of Vienna, or of the Quartier St. Germain. The Mexicans were very happy and arrogant over it.

"I wonder how they can fight and yet keep their clothes so pretty,"

thought the Missourian.

The gallant carpet-knighthood of uniforms was bothering him again. They were das.h.i.+ng, militant, these paladins, a bal masque of luxurious oddity and color. They twisted waxed moustaches, and their coursers cantered to and fro in the gay parade, and among them only the charro cavaliers with a glitter of spangle let one guess that this could be Mexico. There was the Austrian dragoon with his Tyrolean feather, and the Polish uhlan, fur fringed, and the Hungarian hussar, whose pelisse dangled romantically, and there were some fellows in low boots and tights and high busbies, who were cross-braided on the chest and scroll-embroidered on the front of the leg, and looked exactly like Tzigane bandmasters or lion tamers. The Slav, the Magyar, the Czech, and yet others of the Emperor's score of native races, all were here out of the nearer Orient, with curved swords and ferocious bearing. There were the countrymen of the Empress, too; the Belgians, who were as bedecked of sleeve as a drum corps. And as to the French, there they were in green and silver, in sky blue, in cuira.s.sier helmets, in the zouave fez, or in any of the other ways in which they bore _their_ chips on the shoulder.

Shelby's ragged Missourians had tossed on straw for the lack of quinine, and yet were presuming to save this gorgeous empire of golden spurred gentlemen. The thought of his mission gave Driscoll an ironic twinge.

But there was the pantalon rouge, the little soldier boy of France who did the work, and the sight of him put the American into a friendly humor. He was everywhere, the little pantalon rouge, streaming the walks, dotting the cafes with red, and every wee piou-piou under the great big epaulettes of a great big comic opera generalissimo. His huge military coat fitted him awkwardly, and the crimson pompon c.o.c.ked on his little fighting kepi was more often awry, and he could not by any effort achieve a strut. He was only bon enfant, this unconquered soldier lad; so he gave over trying to be martial, and left to his officers the role of the Gallic rooster, taking it all as a droll joke on himself, while his vivacious eyes danced with fun.

The amba.s.sador's coach pa.s.sed under the cypresses and wound round the Aztec hill of the Gra.s.shopper, and came at last to the castle on the summit. And as Guatemotzin had once ventured to this place to plead with Moctezuma to save his empire, and to show him how to do it, so Driscoll now entered the portals of Chapultepec on a very similar errand.