The Grand Babylon Hotel, Arnold Bennett [ereader ebook .txt] 📗

The millionaire whistled a very high note. “Nell!” he said at length. “And you? Do you sort of cling to him?”

“Dad,” she answered, “you are stupid. Do you imagine I should worry myself like this if I didn’t?” She smiled through her tears. She knew from her father’s tone that she had accomplished a victory.

“It’s a mighty queer arrangement,” Theodore remarked. “But of course if you think it’ll be of any use, you had better go down and tell your Prince Eugen that that million can be fixed up, if he really needs it. I expect there’ll be decent security, or Sampson Levi wouldn’t have mixed himself up in it.”

“Thanks, Dad. Don’t come with me; I may manage better alone.”

She gave a formal little curtsey and disappeared. Racksole, who had the talent, so necessary to millionaires, of attending to several matters at once, the large with the small, went off to give orders about the breakfast and the remuneration of his assistant of the evening before, Mr. George Hazell. He then sent an invitation to Mr. Félix Babylon’s room, asking that gentleman to take breakfast with him. After he had related to Babylon the history of Jules’ capture, and had a long discussion with him upon several points of hotel management, and especially as to the guarding of wine-cellars, Racksole put on his hat, sallied forth into the Strand, hailed a hansom, and was driven to the City. The order and nature of his operations there were too complex and technical to be described here.

When Nella returned to the State bedroom both the doctor and the great specialist were again in attendance. The two physicians moved away from the bedside as she entered, and began to talk quietly together in the embrasure of the window.

“A curious case!” said the specialist.

“Yes. Of course, as you say, it’s a neurotic temperament that’s at the bottom of the trouble. When you’ve got that and a vigorous constitution working one against the other, the results are apt to be distinctly curious. Do you consider there is any hope, Sir Charles?”

“If I had seen him when he recovered consciousness I should have said there was hope. Frankly, when I left last night, or rather this morning, I didn’t expect to see the Prince alive again⁠—let alone conscious, and able to talk. According to all the rules of the game, he ought to get over the shock to the system with perfect ease and certainty. But I don’t think he will. I don’t think he wants to. And moreover, I think he is still under the influence of suicidal mania. If he had a razor he would cut his throat. You must keep his strength up. Inject, if necessary. I will come in this afternoon. I am due now at St. James’s Palace.” And the specialist hurried away, with an elaborate bow and a few hasty words of polite reassurances to Prince Aribert.

When he had gone Prince Aribert took the other doctor aside. “Forget everything, doctor,” he said, “except that I am one man and you are another, and tell me the truth. Shall you be able to save his Highness? Tell me the truth.”

“There is no truth,” was the doctor’s reply. “The future is not in our hands, Prince.”

“But you are hopeful? Yes or no.”

The doctor looked at Prince Aribert. “No!” he said shortly. “I am not. I am never hopeful when the patient is not on my side.”

“You mean⁠—?”

“I mean that his Royal Highness has no desire to live. You must have observed that.”

“Only too well,” said Aribert.

“And you are aware of the cause?”

Aribert nodded an affirmative.

“But cannot remove it?”

“No,” said Aribert. He felt a touch on his sleeve. It was Nella’s finger.

With a gesture she beckoned him towards the anteroom.

“If you choose,” she said, when they were alone, “Prince Eugen can be saved. I have arranged it.”

“You have arranged it?” He bent over her, almost with an air of alarm. “Go and tell him that the million pounds which is so necessary to his happiness will be forthcoming. Tell him that it will be forthcoming today, if that will be any satisfaction to him.”

“But what do you mean by this, Nella?”

“I mean what I say, Aribert,” and she sought his hand and took it in hers.

“Just what I say. If a million pounds will save Prince Eugen’s life, it is at his disposal.”

“But how⁠—how have you managed it? By what miracle?”

“My father,” she replied softly, “will do anything that I ask him. Do not let us waste time. Go and tell Eugen it is arranged, that all will be well. Go!”

“But we cannot accept this⁠—this enormous, this incredible favour. It is impossible.”

“Aribert,” she said quickly, “remember you are not in Posen holding a Court reception. You are in England and you are talking to an American girl who has always been in the habit of having her own way.”

The Prince threw up his hands and went back in to the bedroom. The doctor was at a table writing out a prescription. Aribert approached the bedside, his heart beating furiously. Eugen greeted him with a faint, fatigued smile.

“Eugen,” he whispered, “listen carefully to me. I have news. With the assistance of friends I have arranged to borrow that million for you. It is quite settled, and you may rely on it. But you must get better. Do you hear me?”

Eugen almost sat up in bed. “Tell me I am not delirious,” he exclaimed.

“Of course you aren’t,” Aribert replied. “But you mustn’t sit up. You must take care of yourself.”

“Who will lend the money?” Eugen asked in a feeble, happy whisper.

“Never mind. You shall hear later. Devote yourself now to getting better.”

The change in the patient’s face was extraordinary. His mind seemed to have put on an entirely different aspect. The doctor was startled to hear him murmur a request for food. As for Aribert, he sat down, overcome by the turmoil of his own thoughts. Till that moment he felt that he had never