Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 14, 1928 — page 75: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

HIS SERVICE TO FOLLY. of his molds are on Le Diable Noir, ready for this black emperor to slaugh- ter white folks with. It’s the French whichever way they point, with only this difference: that in France they kill, and here they torture and despoil. I wish the lad was safe here with me.” Jack Butts’s mutterings drifted into sighs and silence, and the only sound was that of horses’ hoofs beating on the hard earth and crunch of wheels on gravel. In the emperor’s carriage Basil wait- ed in the grip of paralyzing uncertain- ty, hearing the rumbling noises made by Christophe from time to time. Sometimes he smacked his big lips and occasionally he muttered in his throat. Then a chortle of mirth escaped him, and he slapped his leg. “You will teach me that song, Sir Fool,” he said at length. “My mu- sicians will play the tune when De Banana comes to court. And you shall make a like song about other suppli- ants for my favors, the Duke of Limonade, the Baron de Fromage, and Duc de Carotte. “And at Sans Souci there is Milady Chat, Duchess Petit Feu, though she will match your wit. We'll have you make a chanson for my queen, whom I call ‘ Pain au Beurre’ because when all the others weary me like too much caviar and champagne I turn to her for substance, the bread and butter a sol- dier needs for strength on which to fight.” A formidable program was being planned for Basil’s talents. He could only murmur: “Ou, votre majesté—merct beau- coup.” The road they traveled became steep. He heard the driver’s whip and shout- ing at the horses. From the coach win- dows he saw mountain peaks against the stars, streaked with limestone white as snow, and gleams of light in the val- ley. Then as the road twisted there ap- peared a blaze of light high up on the 213 mountainside, but they wound and rode many miles before they reached the glory of Sans Souci. It shone under silver starlight, like palaces of France, white stone towers and turrets against the velvet dark hills. Flambeaux in sconces lighted terraced gardens. Fountains showered silver spray. White marble nymphs and fauns and nereids gleamed against the shrubbery. On its verandas was a moving scarf of color made by women’s dresses. Then, as they came nearer, there was the sound of music and a procession formed on the lawns to greet the em- peror. His carriage came to a stop before the center terrace. Basil saw a bevy of women dressed in flowered silks, grouped about a fat black queen, who was seated. Immediately a dancer ap- peared on a balcony, seemed to float down on white gossamers which she flung high in the air, and began a dance of such beauty and grace that in spite of his overwhelming apprehension Trelawney was fascinated. “Le petit feul’ announced the em- peror. ‘‘ Think you, you can match her art, Sir: Rook?’ ‘“ Her art, but not her beauty, high- ness,’ said Basil. He was suddenly sick. The dancer was as white and golden-haired as Violette. Her limbs were bare and about her body hung a flittering sheath of tight-fitting fabric sewn with diamonds. Gossamers float- ed from her arms like wraiths of silver mist as she whirled and pirouetted, then ran to the shrubbery and disap- eared. ‘“ She might be empress,” said Chris- tophe. “‘ But that ‘bread and butter’ of mine will not risk me a chance to broach the subject. She’s a jealous femme, that wife of mine. And the dancer, she says, is quite mad. “She came here just when Dessa- lines died. An accident overtook her parents and young sister. They were a performing troupe of dancers. She _.OOKS COMUEE (E@)