If internationalism was the keynote of Monsieur Khodkine's politics, the term might in a general way be applied to the curious and striking personality of Madame Rochal, for she reflected such an intense cosmopolitanism that it was at first difficult to identify her with any nation of Europe. Her name might have been French, Russian or Spanish, and her gown might have come from Paris or Vienna. She spoke all languages, French, German, Russian, English with equal facility, each it seemed with a slight accent or tinge of the others, but without preference or favor. Her eyes, set a little obliquely in her head, were of the night, dark and unfathomable, and her hair, black with a faint green-violet gloss, was folded back at each side over her ears like the two wings of a raven. She was jeweled, exotic, slightly tinted, and exhaled a faint suggestion of daintily mingled perfumes. To all appearances she was less than thirty in years, though in her eyes lurked the wisdom of the centuries.
All of these persons were informed by Monsieur Khodkine, the earliest arrival, of the tragic event of the morning and of Philip Rowland's share in it. Monsieur Khodkine pitched his drama in a low key, spoke with great seriousness and earnestly requested the new arrivals to consider the evidence in the light of their own understanding and showed them the body of Ivanitch and the broken Bough, in token of the fulfillment of the prophecy. As to his own mind, he said, that was already made up. As a member of the Order, he would take commands from none other than Monsieur Rowland, who was now the President of the Order of Nemi. Rowland said nothing and stood soberly trying not to laugh, studying this queerly assorted company who had listened to the Russian, regarding the American with a new and rather morbid interest, appraising him (so Rowland thought) as one examines an egg which one expects to devour.
Whatever the others may have thought, only Liederman was outspoken. He got up, swaying from one foot to the other, like a great brown bear, his hairy fists clenched, his black brows beetling as he roared his opinions in a French tinged abominably with gutterals.
"Pfui! A new priest and an American! You have a doctrine over in your country. You should permit us to apply it here-Europe for Europeans, Monsieur-We do not need to go so far-
"But the laws of the Order-" broke in Khodkine.
"Pouf, Grisha Khodkine. We are no longer children, believing in the necromancy of the middle ages. I for one am no exorcist. We live in no day of incantations, nor can we accept the idols which a past age has set up for us. The train of coincidences is extraordinary, but let us accept it as such and end the matter. The Council of Nemi has borne with Kirylo Ivanitch, because as we all know he formed a proper buffer between our conflicting aims. But Kirylo Ivanitch is dead. When our numbers are filled, let us elect a leader, a Priest if you still choose to call him such, who will conduct our meetings and do our bidding. As for this Monsieur Rowland-" and he gave a grunt, "as far as I am concerned, he may very well go upon his way."
"That is impossible," came the cold, clear voice of Madame Rochal, her strange eyes fixed on Rowland's face. "The new Leader of the Order of Nemi has already been selected in accordance with a Destiny which it is not my privilege-nor yours, Herr Leiderman, to thwart."
Herr Leiderman stopped rocking and stared at the speaker, a look of sudden perplexity at his brows.
"You! Zoya!" he roared.
"I," she returned with a quick flash of her eyes. "And why not? God knows we need new wits to bring us harmony. Why not Monsieur Rowland's?"
"But-"
She shrugged and turned to Shestov who was speaking.
"Madame Rochal is not often wrong and her influence is not to be despised. For Russia I can speak. A man who is willing to offer his own blood unselfishly in sacrifice for a nation not his own, is a friend to Freedom and to Russia."
The red-rimmed eyes of Monsieur Barthou blinked enormously behind his goggles. "I am for the old order of things-as they have been since the beginning-"
"And shall be everlastingly," said Khodkine sententiously. "Amen. And you, Irina Colodna?" he asked.
"What has been, shall be," she replied in her soft Italian accent. "Whatever happens-the order must not be broken."
"Bah!" thundered Liederman, "and jeopardize our leadership of the cause of the world by investing this adventurer, this soldier of fortune, with the right to-"
"Hush! Max!" cried Zoya Rochal shrilly. "You are a beast."
Liederman rocked in a moment of silence and then sank into a chair, his fists clasped over his folded arms.
Rowland regarded him a moment and then as the gaze of the others was turned toward him, took a pace forward, faced them, and after a glance at Khodkine spoke quietly, and with growing assurance, while the smile that always lurked at the corners of his lips seemed to be struggling against his sober demeanor.
"Messieurs and Mesdames," he said politely, "I am, as this excellent and veracious Herr Liederman has just said, both an adventurer and a soldier of fortune. But if he chooses to turn these words against me I can only reply that I am an adventurer in the greatest cause the world has ever known, a soldier for the fortune of freedom which is to come. I am no diplomat but a soldier of France which stands resolute, undaunted, immovable upon its new frontier. I have been in the cauldron before Verdun and thus am the only one among you who has seen Hell upon this earth. I say to you Messieurs and Mesdames that death is nothing when compared to the tension of nerves tightened like bow-strings. After that I say there is no war that can be right-no Peace that can be wrong." There was a movement of approval and Rowland grinned comfortably and then went on-"Your cause is mine and whatever the means by which you accomplish peace, that is mine also. I will do your bidding if you desire it, but if, as Herr Liederman suggests, the good of your Society is best conserved by my departure I am ready to go upon my way-"
"Enough, Monsieur!" Zoya Rochal rose and threw out one white hand in a wide gesture. "We need you at Nemi, Monsieur Rowlan'-Is it not so, you others-?"
She challenged them quietly, but her eyes shot fire at the silent Liederman, who stared up at her from under heavy brows and shrugged.
"I am out-voted," he said; "I have no more to say."
"That is well," said Khodkine. He crossed the room and clasped Rowland by the hands, an example which all the others now followed. Tanya had stood at one side, a silent spectator of this scene smiling slightly, aware of her own part in this decision, but watching keenly as they came forward. Madame Rochal was the last to greet the visitor. Their hands met and Rowland bowed over the jeweled fingers.
"I thank you for your indulgence, Madame," he said.
"Do not let Herr Liederman disturb you," she whispered, "we are of many minds at Nemi. But the danger lies not in what is said, Monsieur, but what is unsaid."
"I understand. Perhaps you'll help me-"
"Perhaps. We shall see."
And with a deep look into Rowland's eyes, she passed on and joined the others who following Margot, the old woman whom Rowland had seen in the kitchen, went up the stairs to be shown the rooms they were to occupy. For a moment Rowland and Tanya were alone.
"You think her beautiful?" the girl asked.
"Magnetic, startling-but beautiful-? The beauté du Diable perhaps, but Mademoiselle-"
Tanya moved her expressive fingers.
"She is the most dangerous woman in Europe."
"You alarm me," he grinned. "The only powder a soldier fears is the Poudre de Riz."
She smiled.
"I'm not jesting."
"Nor