Sophy of Kravonia: A Novel

On this terrace, it being a fine October morning, sat Sophy, drinking a cup of chocolate.

The scene before her, if not quite living up to the name of the hotel, was yet animated enough. A score of handsome carriages drove by, some containing gayly dressed ladies, some officers in smart uniforms. Other officers rode or walked by; civil functionaries, journalists, and a straggling line of onlookers swelled the stream which set towards the Palace. Awaking from a reverie to mark the unwonted stir, Sophy saw the leaders of the informal procession crossing the ornamental iron bridge which spanned the Krath, a quarter of a mile from where she sat, and gave access to the King's demesne on the left bank.

"Right bank – left bank! It sounds like home!" she thought to herself, smiling perhaps rather bitterly. "Home!" Her home now was a single room over a goldsmith's shop, whither she had removed to relieve Marie Zerkovitch from a hospitality too burdensome, as Sophy feared, for her existing resources to sustain.

The reverie bore breaking; it had been none too pleasant; in it sad memories disputed place with present difficulties. Some third or so remained of Lady Meg's hundred-pound note. Necessity had forced a use of the money at any cost to pride. When all was gone, Sophy would have to depend on what is so often a last and so often a vain refuge – the teaching of French; it was the only subject which she could claim to teach. Verily, it was a poor prospect; it was better to look at the officers and the ladies than to think of it – ay, better than to think of Casimir and of what lay in the past. With her strong will she strove to steel herself alike against recollection and against apprehension.

The café was nearly deserted; the hour was too early for the citizens, and Sophy's own chocolate had been merely an excuse to sit down. Yet presently a young officer in a hussar uniform stopped his horse opposite the door, and, giving over the reins to an orderly who attended him, nimbly dismounted. Tall and fair, with a pleasant, open face, he wore his finery with a dashing air, and caressed a delicate, upturned mustache as he glanced round, choosing his seat. The next moment he advanced towards Sophy; giving her a polite salute, he indicated the little table next to hers.

"Mademoiselle permits?" he asked. "She has, I fear, forgotten, but I have the honor to be an acquaintance of hers."

"I remember," smiled Sophy. "Captain Markart? We met at Madame Zerkovitch's."

"Oh, that's pleasant of you!" he cried. "I hate being clean forgotten. But I fear you remember me only because I sang so badly!"

"I remember best that you said you wanted to go and help France, but your General wouldn't let you."

"Ah, I know why you remember that – you especially! Forgive me – our friend Marie Zerkovitch told me." He turned away for a moment to give an order to the waiter.

"What's going on to-day?" asked Sophy. "Where's everybody going?"

"Why, you are a stranger, mademoiselle!" he laughed. "It's the King's name-day, and we all go and congratulate him."

"Is that it? Are you going?"

"Certainly; in attendance on my General – General Stenovics. My lodgings are near here, his house at the other end of the boulevard, so he gave me leave to meet him here. I thought I would come early and fortify myself a little for the ordeal. To mademoiselle's good health!" He looked at her with openly admiring eyes, to which tribute Sophy accorded a lazy, unembarrassed smile. She leaned her chin on her hand, turning her right cheek towards him. Sophy was never disdainful, never neglectful; her pose now was good.

"What sort of a man is the King?" she asked.

"The King is most emphatically a very good sort of fellow – a very good old fellow. I only wish his son was like him! The Prince is a Tartar. Has he gone by yet?"

"I don't think so. I suppose he'd have an escort, wouldn't he? I don't know him by sight yet. Does everybody call the King a good fellow?"

"Some people are so extremely righteous!" pleaded Markart, ruefully. "And, anyhow, he has reformed now."

"Because he's old?"

"Fifty-nine! Is that so very old? No; I rather attribute it – you're discreet, I hope? I'm putting my fortunes in your hands – to Madame la Comtesse."

"The Countess Ellenburg? Marie has told me something about her."

"Ah! Madame Zerkovitch is a friend of hers?"

"Not intimate, I think. And is the Countess oppressively respectable, Captain Markart?"

"Women in her position always are," said the Captain, with an affected sigh: his round, chubby face was wrinkled with merriment. "You see, a morganatic marriage isn't such a well-established institution here as in some other countries. Oh, it's legal enough, no doubt, if it's agreed to on that basis. But the Stefanovitches have in the past often made non-royal marriages – with their own subjects generally. Well, there was nobody else for them to marry! Alexis got promotion in his first marriage – an Italian Bourbon, which is always respectable, if not very brilliant. That gave us a position, and it couldn't be thrown away. So the second marriage had to be morganatic. Only – well, women are ambitious, and she has a young son who bears the King's name – a boy twelve years old."

He looked reflectively at his polished boots. Sophy sat in thoughtful silence. A jingle of swords and the clatter of hoofs roused them. A troop of soldiers rode by. Their uniform was the same smart tunic of light blue, with black facings, as adorned Captain Markart's shapely person.

"Ah, here's the Prince!" said Markart, rising briskly to his feet. Sophy followed his example, though more in curiosity than respect.

The young man at the head of the troop returned Markart's salute, but was apparently unconscious of the individual from whom it proceeded. He rode by without turning his head or giving a glance in the direction of the café terrace. Sophy saw a refined profile, with a straight nose, rather short, and a pale cheek: there was little trace of the Bourbon side of the pedigree.

"He's on his promotion, too," continued the loquacious and irreverent Captain, as he resumed his seat. "They want a big fish for him – something German, with a resounding name. Poor fellow!"

"Well, it's his duty," said Sophy.

"Somebody who'll keep the Countess in order, eh?" smiled Markart, twirling his mustache. "That's about the size of it, I expect, though naturally the General doesn't show me his hand. I only tell you common gossip."

"I think you hardly do yourself justice. You've been very interesting, Captain Markart."

"I tell you what," he said, with an engaging candor, "I believe that somehow the General makes me chatter just to the extent he wants me to, and then stops me. I don't know how he does it; it's quite unconscious on my part. I seem to say just what I like!"

They laughed together over this puzzle. "You mean General Stenovics?" asked Sophy.

"Yes, General Stenovics. Ah, here he is!" He sprang up again and made a low bow to Sophy. "Au revoir, mademoiselle. A thousand thanks!"

He saluted her and hurried to the side of the pavement. General Stenovics rode up, with two orderlies behind him. Saluting again, Markart mounted his horse. The General brought his to a stand and waited the necessary moment or two with a good-humored smile. His eye wandered from the young officer to the presumable cause of his lack of vigilance. Sophy felt the glance rest on her face. In her turn she saw a stout, stumpy figure, clad in a rather ugly dark-green uniform, and a heavy, olive-tinted face adorned with a black mustache and a stubbly gray beard. General Stenovics, President of the Council of Ministers, was not an imposing personage to the outward view. But Sophy returned the regard of his prominent pale-blue eyes (which sorted oddly with the complexion of his face) with vivid attention. The General rode on, Markart following, but turning in his saddle to salute once more and to wave his hand in friendly farewell.

For the first time since her arrival in Slavna, Sophy was conscious of a stir of excitement. Life had been dull and heavy; the mind had enjoyed little food save the diet of sad memories. To-day she seemed to be brought into sight of living interests again. They were far off, but they were there; Markart's talk had made a link between them and her. She sat on for a long while, watching the junction of the streams and the broad current which flowed onward past the Palace, on its long journey to the sea. Then she rose with a sigh; the time drew near for a French lesson. Marie Zerkovitch had already got her two pupils.

When General Stenovics had ridden three or four hundred yards, he beckoned his aide-de-camp and secretary – for Markart's functions were both military and civil – to his side.

"We're last of all, I suppose?" he asked.

"Pretty nearly, sir."

"That must be his Royal Highness just crossing the bridge?"

"Yes, sir, that's his escort."

"Ah, well, we shall just do it! And who, pray" – the General turned round to his companion – "is that remarkable-looking young woman you've managed to pick up?"

Markart told what he knew of Mademoiselle de Gruche; it was not much.

"A friend of the Zerkovitches? That's good. A nice fellow, Zerkovitch – and his wife's quite charming. And your friend – ?"

"I can hardly call her that, General."

"Tut, tut! You're irresistible, I know. Your friend – what did you tell her?"

"Nothing, on my honor." The young man colored and looked a trifle alarmed. But Stenovics's manner was one of friendly amusement.

"For an example of your 'nothing,'" he went on, "you told her that the King was an amiable man?"

"Oh, possibly, General."

"That the Countess was a little – just a little – too scrupulous?"