Griffiths The World Masters

1. Auflage 2018
ISBN: 978-83-8162-348-3
Verlag: Ktoczyta.pl
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 262 Seiten

Another masterpiece by George Griffiths that deserves attention. The World Masters is an exciting, story that explores the unintended consequences of uncontrolled scientific innovation. What will the author offer us this time? This novel shows that you need to be careful before new scientific innovations.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Griffiths, George

Leseproben

CHAPTER I It was the 27th of January, the Kaiser’s birthday, and the reception- rooms of the German Embassy, on the Nevski Prospekt, overlooking the snow- covered quays and ice-bound waters of the Neva, were filled with as brilliant a throng as could have been found between the Ourals and the English Channel. It has been said that Petersburg in the winter season contains more beautiful women than any other capital in Europe; and certainly the fair guests of His Excellency the German Ambassador to the Court of the White Czar went far towards proving the truth of the saying. The dresses were as ideal as they were indescribable, and the jewels which blazed round the softly moulded throats and on the fair white breasts, and gleamed on dainty coiffures of every hue, from ebony black to the purest flaxen, would have been bad to match even among the treasures of Oriental princes. The men, too, were splendid in every variety of uniform, from the gold- laced broadcloth of Diplomacy to the white and gold of the Imperial Guard. Not a man was present whose left breast was not glittering with stars and medals, ^nd, in most cases, crossed with the ribbon of some distinguished Order. The windless, frosty air outside was still vocal with the jingling of the sleigh-bells as the vehicles sped swiftly and noiselessly up to the open doors, 6 for it was only a little after ten, and all the guests had not yet arrived. Precisely at half-past a sleigh drawn by three perfectly black Orloff horses swept into the courtyard, and a few minutes later the major-domo passed through the open folding-doors and said, in loud but well-trained tones: “His Highness the Prince de Condé, Due de Montpensier! Mademoiselle la Marquise de Montpensier!” At the same moment two lacqueys held aside the heavy curtains which hung on the inside of the doorway, and the latest arrivals entered. The announcement of the once most noble names in Europe instantly hushed the hurn of conversation, and all eyes were turned towards the doorway. They saw a tall, straight, well-set-up man of about fifty, with dark moustache and imperial, and iron-grey hair still thick and strong. A single glance at his features showed that they bore the indelible stamp of the old Bourbon race. The high, somewhat narrow, forehead was continued in a straight line to the end of the long thin nose. The somewhat high cheek-bones, the delicate ears, the thin, sensitive nostrils, and the strong, slightly protruding chin, might have belonged to the Grande Monarque himself He was in ordinary court dress, the broad red ribbon of the Order of St Vladimir crossed his breast, the collar and jewel of the Golden Fleece hung from his neck, and the stars of half-a-dozen other Orders glittered on the left breast of his coat; but, though he bore the greatest name in France, there was not a French order among them, 7 for Louis Xavier de Condd was a voluntary exile from the land over which his ancestors had once ruled so splendidly and so ruinously. For three generations his branch of the great family had refused to recognise any ruler in France, from the First Consul to the President of the Third Republic. In his eyes they were one and all usurpers and plebeian upstarts, who ruled only by the suffrages of an ignorant and deluded mob. In short, his creed and the rule of his daily life were hatred and contempt of the French democracy. On this subject he was almost a fanatic, and in days soon to come this fanaticism of his was destined to influence events, of which only three people in all that crowded assembly were even dreaming. The girl at his side–for she was not yet twenty-one–might well have been taken for a twentieth-century replica of Marie Antoinette, and to say that, is to say that among all the beautiful and stately women in that brilliant concourse, none were quite so beautiful and stately as Adelaide de Condé Marquise de Montpensier. Of all the hundred eyes which were turned upon this peerless daughter of the line of St Louis, the most eager were those of a splendidly-built young fellow of about twenty-eight, dressed in the blue and white uniform of the Uhlan regiment of the German army. Captain Victor Fargeau, military attach^ to the German Embassy in Petersburg, was perhaps the handsomest, and, at the same time, manliest-looking man in all that company of soldiers and diplomats. At least, so certainly thought Adelaide de Condé, as she saw his dark blue eyes light up with a swift gleam of admiration, and the bronze on his cheeks grow deeper as the quick blood flushed beneath it. It was a strange bond that united the daughter of the Bourbons with the soldier and subject of the German Kaiser, and yet it must have been a close one. For, after the first formal presentations were over, her eyes sent a quick signal to his, which brought him instantly to her side, and when their hands met the clasp was closer, and lasted just a moment longer than mere acquaintance or even friendship would have warranted. “Can you tell me, Captain, whether the gentleman who calls himself the French Ambassador has honoured us with his presence to-night?” said the Prince, as he shook hands with the young soldier. “No, Prince, he has not,” he replied. “I hear that, almost at the last moment, he sent an attach^ with his regrets and excuses. Of course, as you know, there is a little friction between the Governments just now, and naturally, too, he would know that Your Highness and Mam’selle la Marquise would honour us with your presence–so, on the whole, I suppose he thought it more convenient to discover some important diplomatic matter which would deprive him of the pleasure of joining us.” “Ah,” said the Marquise, looking up at him with a a glance and a smile that set his pulses jumping, “then perhaps Sophie Valdemar was right when she told me this afternoon that His Excellency had really a good excuse for not coming–an interview with Count Lansdorf, and afterwards with no less 9 a personage than the Little Father himself! And, you know, Sophie knows everything.” “Ah yes,” said the Prince; “I had forgotten that. You told me of it. I should not wonder if the subject of their conversation were not unconnected with an increase of the French fleet in Chinese waters. And then Morocco is–” “Chut, papa!” said the Marquise, in a low tone, “we must not talk politics here. In Petersburg ceilings have eyes and walls have ears.” “That is true,” laughed Victor; “not even Embassies here are neutral ground.” At this moment a lacquey approached and bowed to Captain Fargeau. “Pardon me a moment,” he said to his companions; “I am wanted for something, and I can see a good many envious eyes looking this way. Ah, there goes the music! They will be dancing presently, and there will be many candidates for Mam’selle’s hand. But you will keep me a waltz or two, won’t you? and may I hope also for supper?” “My dear Victor,” she replied, with a bewildering smile, “have I not already told you that you may hope for everything? Meanwhile, au revoir! When you have done your business you will find us in the salon.” As he moved away, the curtains were again drawn aside, and the major-domo announced: “His Excellency Count Valdemar! The Countess Sophie Valdemar!” The Count was a big, strongly-built man in diplomatic uniform. His face was of the higher Russian type, and heavily bearded. His daughter, the Countess Sophie, was a strange contrast to him, slight and fair, with perfectly cut features, almost Grecian in their regularity, golden-bronze hair, dark, straight eyebrows, and big, wide-set, pansy-blue eyes. The only Russian trait that she possessed was her mouth–full-lipped and sensuous, almost sensular, in fact; and yet it was small enough, and the lips were so daintily shaped that it added to, rather than detracted from her beauty. They were lips whose kisses had lured more than one bearer of a well- known name to destruction. Some they had sent to the scaffold, and others were still dreaming of their fatal sweetness in prison or in hopeless exile; for Sophie Valdemar, daughter of Count Leo Valdemar, Chief of the Third Section of the Ministry of the Interior, had been trained up from girlhood by her father in every art of intrigue, until even he was fully justified in calling her the most skilful diplomatic detective in Europe. To her friends and acquaintances she was just a charming and brilliantly- accomplished girl of nineteen, who had reigned as undisputed Queen of Beauty in Moscow and Petersburg until Adelaide de Condd had come from Vienna with her father, and, by some mysterious means, unknown even to her, had been received into instant favour at Court, and in the most exclusive circles in the most exclusive city in the world. In fact, the enigma which it was the present object of her life to solve was how this could be possible–granted the tacit alliance between the Russian Empire and the French Republic, and the Prince’s openly expressed contempt for all modern things French and Republican. There were, indeed, only three people in Europe who could have solved that riddle, and she was not one of them. As she entered she saw Victor coming towards her. Instantly her eyes brightened, and the faintest of flushes showed through the pallor of her silken skin. He stopped for a moment to greet them, but his clasp on her hand was nothing more than the formal pressure which friendship expects, and she looked in vain for any gleam in his eyes answering that in her own. When...