Ivan Turgenev - "A Desperate Character and Other Stories"

Frederick S. Dellenbaugh - "A Canyon Voyage"

Pio Baroja - "Caesar or Nothing"

Various - "The Continental Monthly, Vol. 6, No 2, August, 1864"

Annual Bibliography of Commonwealth Literature 2007
This paper argues that discourses of love in Ghanaian market literature for youth offer a view into complex negotiations of agency and empowerment. Drawing on Deborah Durham's notion of youth as "social `shifters'" and Francis Nyamnjoh's conception of the "interconnectedness" of agency, I take Ghanaian market literature as one specific case of how African literature for youth foregrounds questions of continuity and change as African societies enter into increasingly complex global relations. In this literature for youth, received notions of love, often constructed out of impressions from American pop and hip hop music, carry new notions of agency that compete with existing "domesticated" forms. Authors like Ike Tandoh and Evelyn Tay employ discourses of love to offer youth alternative avenues for empowerment in a context of socio-economic disenfranchizement. In a creative process of "straddling", this writing both reveals and reproduces the contradictions that obtain in youth configurations of agency.

Mr. Grex of Monte Carlo

E >> E. Phillips Oppenheim >> Mr. Grex of Monte Carlo




"I admit it," Mr. Grex replied. "Such a statement on my part may sound a
little startling, but I make it advisedly. I know the feeling--you will
grant that my position entitles me to know the feeling--of the men who
count for anything in Russian politics. Perhaps I do not mean the
titular heads of my Government. There are others who have even more
responsibilities, who count for more. I honestly and truthfully assure
you that I speak for the powers that are behind the Government of Russia
when I tell you that the English dream of a triple alliance between
Russia, England, and France will never be accepted by my country."

Monsieur Douaille sipped his champagne.

"This is candour," he remarked, "absolute candour. One speaks quite
plainly, I imagine, before our friend the enemy?" he added, smiling
towards Selingman.

"Why not?" Selingman demanded. "Why not, indeed? We are not fools here."

"Then I would ask you, Mr. Grex," Monsieur Douaille continued, "where in
the name of all that is equitable are you to find an alliance more
likely to preserve the status quo in Europe? Both logically and
geographically it absolutely dovetails. Russia is in a position to
absorb the whole attention of Austria and even to invade the north coast
of Germany. The hundred thousand troops or so upon which we could rely
from Great Britain, would be invaluable for many reasons--first, because
a mixture of blood is always good; secondly, because the regular army
which perforce they would have to send us, is of very fine fighting
material; and thirdly, because they could land, to give away a very open
secret to you, my friend Selingman, in a westerly position, and would
very likely succeed thereby in making an outflanking movement towards
the north. I presume that at present the German fleet would not come out
to battle, in which case the English would certainly be able to do great
execution upon the northern coast of Germany. All this, of course, has
been discussed and written about, and the next war been mapped out in a
dozen different ways. I must confess, however, that taking every known
consideration into account, I can find no other distribution of powers
so reasonable or so favourable to my country."

Mr. Grex nodded.

"I find no fault with any word of what you have said," he declared,
"except that yours is simply the superficial and obvious idea of the man
in the street as to the course of the next probable war. Now let us go a
little further. I grant all the points which you urge in favour of your
suggested triple alliance. I will even admit that your forecast of a war
taking place under such conditions, is a fairly faithful one. We
proceed, then. The war, if it came to pass, could never be decisive. An
immense amount of blood would be shed, treasure recklessly poured out,
Europe be rendered desolate, for the sake most largely of whom?--of
Japan and America. That is the weakness of the whole thing. A war
carried out on the lines you suggest would be playing the game of these
two countries. Even the victors would be placed at a huge disadvantage
with them, to say nothing of the losers, who must see slipping away from
them forever their place under the sun. It is my opinion--and I have
studied this matter most scientifically and with the help of the Secret
Service of every country, not excepting your own, Herr Selingman--it is
my opinion that this war must be indecisive. The German fleet would be
crippled and not destroyed. The English fleet would retain its
proportionate strength. No French advance into Germany would be
successful, no German advance into France is likely. The war would
languish for lack of funds, through sheer inanition it would flicker
out, and the money of the world would flow into the treasuries of
America. Russia would not be fighting for her living. With her it could
be at best but a half-hearted war. She would do her duty to the
alliance. Nothing more could be hoped from her. You could not expect,
for instance, that she would call up all her reserves, leave the whole
of her eastern frontier unprotected, and throw into mid-Europe such a
force as would in time subjugate Germany. This could be done but it will
not be done. We all know that."

Monsieur Douaille smoked thoughtfully for several moments.

"Very well," he pronounced at last, "I am rather inclined to agree with
all that you have said. Yet it seems to me that you evade the great
point. The status quo is what we desire, peace is what the world wants.
If, before such a war as you have spoken of is begun, people realise
what the end of it must be, don't you think that that itself is the
greatest help towards peace? My own opinion is, I tell you frankly, that
for many years to come, at any rate, there will be no war."

Herr Selingman set down his glass and turned slowly around.

"Then let me tell you that you are mistaken," he declared solemnly.
"Listen to me, my friend Douaille--my friend, mind, and not the
statesman Douaille. I am a German citizen and you are a French one, and
I tell you that if in three years' time your country does not make up
its mind to strike a blow for Alsace and Lorraine, then in three years'
time Germany will declare war upon you."

Monsieur Douaille had the expression of a man who doubts. Selingman
frowned. He was suddenly immensely serious. He struck the palm of one
hand a great blow with his clenched fist.

"Why is it that no one in the world understands," he cried, "what
Germany wants? I tell you, Monsieur Douaille, that we don't hate your
country. We love it. We crowd to Paris. We expand there. It is the
holiday place of every good German. Who wants a ruined France? Not we!
Yet, unless there is a change in the international situation, we shall
go to war with you and I will tell you why. There are no secrets about
this sort of thing. Every politician who is worth his salt knows them.
The only difficulty is to know when a country is in earnest, and how far
it will go. That is the value of our meeting. That is what I am here to
say. We shall go to war with you, Monsieur Douaille, to get Calais, and
when we've got Calais--oh, my God!" Selingman almost reverently
concluded, "then our solemn task will be begun."

"England!" Monsieur Douaille murmured.

There was a brief pause. Selingman had seemed, for a moment, to have
passed into the clouds. There was a sort of gloomy rapture upon his
face. He caught up Douaille's last word and repeated it.

"England! England, and through her...."

He moved to the sideboard and filled his tumbler with wine. When he came
back to his place, his expression had lightened.

"Ah, well! dear Monsieur Douaille," he exclaimed, patting the other's
shoulder in friendly fashion, "to-night we merely chatter. To-night we
are here to make friends, to gain each the confidence of the other. To
ourselves let us pretend that we are little boys, playing the game of
our nation--France, Germany, and Russia. Germany and Russia, to be frank
with you, are waiting for one last word from Germany's father, something
splendid and definite to offer. What we would like France to do, while
France loses its money at roulette and flirts with the pretty ladies at
Ciro's, is to try and accustom itself not to an alliance with
Germany--no! Nothing so utopian as that. The lion and the lamb may
remain apart. They may agree to be friends, they may even wave paws at
one another, but I do not suggest that they march side by side. What we
ask of France is that she looks the other way. It is very easy to look
the other way. She might look, for instance--towards Egypt."

[Illustration: "What we ask of France is that she looks the other way."]

There was a sudden glitter in the eyes of Monsieur Douaille. Selingman
saw it and pressed on.

"There are laurels to be won which will never fade," he continued,
setting down his empty tumbler, "laurels to be won by that statesman of
your country, the little boy France, who is big enough and strong enough
to stand with his feet upon the earth and proclaim--'I am for France and
my own people, and my own people only, and I will make them great
through all the centuries by seeing the truth and leading them towards
it, single-purposed, single-minded.' ... But these things are not to be
disposed of so readily as this wonderful Berncastler--I beg its pardon,
Berncastler Doctor--of our host. For to-night I have said my say. I have
whims, perhaps, but with me serious affairs are finished for the night.
I go to the Sporting Club. Mademoiselle keeps my place at the baccarat
table. I feel in the vein. It is a small place, Monte Carlo. Let us make
no appointments. We shall drift together. And, monsieur," he concluded,
laying his hand for a moment upon Douaille's shoulder, "let the thought
sink into your brain. Wipe out that geographical and logical map of
Europe from your mind; see things, if you can, in the new daylight.
Then, when the idea has been there for just a little time--well, we
speak again.... Come, Draconmeyer. I am relying upon your car to get me
into Monte Carlo. My bounteous host, Mr. Grex, good night! I touch your
hand with reverence. The man who possesses such wine and offers it to
his friends, is indeed a prince."

Mr. Grex rose a little unwillingly from his chair.

"It is of no use to protest," he remarked, smiling. "Our friend
Selingman will have his way. Besides, as he reminded us, there is one
last word to arrive. Come and breathe the odours of the Riviera,
Monsieur Douaille. This is when I realise that I am not at my villa on
the Black Sea."

They passed out into the hall and stood on the terrace while the cars
drew up. The light outside seemed faintly violet. The perfume of mimosa
and roses and oleander came to him in long waves, subtle and yet
invigorating. Below, the lights of Monte Carlo, clear and brilliant,
with no northern fog or mist to dull their radiance, shone like gems in
the mantle of night. Selingman sighed as he stepped into the automobile.

"We are men who deserve well from history," he declared, "who, in the
midst of a present so wonderful, can spare time to plan for the
generations to come!"




CHAPTER XVI

A BARGAIN WITH JEAN COULOIS


Selingman drew out his watch and held it underneath the electric light
set in the back of the automobile.

"Good!" he declared. "It is not yet half-past eleven."

"Too early for the Austria," Draconmeyer murmured, a little absently.

Selingman returned the watch to his pocket.

"By no means," he objected. "Mademoiselle is doubtless amusing herself
well enough, but if I go now and leave in an hour, she will be peevish.
She might want to accompany us. To-night it would not be convenient.
Tell your chauffeur, Draconmeyer, to take us direct to the rendezvous.
We can at least watch the people there. One is always amused. We will
forget our nervous friend. These little touches, Draconmeyer, my man,
they mark the man of genius, mind you. Did you notice how his eyes lit
up when I whispered that one word 'Egypt'? It is a great game when you
bait your hook with men and fish for empires!"

Draconmeyer gave an instruction to his chauffeur and leaned back.

"If we succeed,--" he began.

"Succeed?" Selingman interrupted. "Why, man alive, he is on our hooks
already! Be at rest, my friend. The affair is half arranged. It remains
only with us to deal with one man."

Draconmeyer's eyes sparkled beneath his spectacles. A slow smile crept
over his white face.

"You are right," he agreed. "That man is best out of the way. If he and
Douaille should meet--"

"They shall not meet," Selingman thundered. "I, Selingman, declare it.
We are here already. Good! The aspect of the place pleases me."

The two men, arriving so early, received the distinguished consideration
of a bowing maitre d'hotel as they entered the Austria. They were
ushered at once to a round table in a favourable position. Selingman
surrendered his hat and coat to the obsequious vestiaire, pulled down
his waistcoat with a familiar gesture, spread his pudgy hands upon the
table and looked around him with a smile of benevolent approval.

"I shall amuse myself here," he declared confidently. "Pass the menu to
me, Draconmeyer. You have no more idea how to eat than a rabbit. That is
why you suffer from indigestion. At this hour--why, it is not midnight
yet--one needs sustenance--sustenance, mark you, intelligently selected,
something nourishing yet not heavy. A sheet of paper, waiter. You see, I
like to write out my dishes. It saves trouble and there are no
disappointments, nothing is forgotten. As to the wine, show me the
vintage champagnes.... So! You need not hurry with the meal. We shall
spend some time here."

Draconmeyer arrested the much impressed maitre d'hotel as he was
hurrying away.

"Is there dancing here to-night?" he enquired.

"But certainly, monsieur," the man replied. "A Spanish lady, altogether
ravishing, the equal of Otero at her best--Signorina Melita."

"She dances alone?"

"By no means. There is the young Frenchman, Jean Coulois, who is engaged
for the season. A wonderful pair, indeed! When May comes, they go to the
music-halls in Paris and London."

Draconmeyer nodded approval.

"Coulois was the name," he whispered to Selingman, as the man moved
away.

The place filled up slowly. Presently the supper was served. Selingman
ate with appetite, Draconmeyer only sparingly. The latter, however,
drank more freely than usual. The wine had, nevertheless, curiously
little effect upon him, save for a slight additional brightness of the
eyes. His cheeks remained pale, his manner distrait. He watched the
people enter and pass to their places, without any apparent interest.
Selingman, on the other hand, easily absorbed the spirit of his
surroundings. As the night wore on he drank healths with his neighbours,
beamed upon the pretty little Frenchwoman who was selling flowers, ate
and drank what was set before him with obvious enjoyment. Both men,
however, showed at least an equal interest when Mademoiselle Melita, in
Spanish costume, accompanied by a slim, dark-visaged man, began to
dance. Draconmeyer was no longer restless. He sat with folded arms,
watching the performance with a strangely absorbed air. One thing,
however, was singular. Although Selingman was confessedly a ladies' man,
his eyes, after her first few movements, scarcely rested for a moment
upon the girl. Both Draconmeyer and he watched her companion
steadfastly. When the dance was over they applauded with spirit.
Selingman sat up in his place, a champagne bottle in his hand. He
beckoned to the man, who, with a little deprecating shrug of the
shoulders, swaggered up to their table with some show of condescension.

"A chair for Monsieur Jean Coulois, the great dancer," Selingman
ordered, "a glass, and another bottle of wine. Monsieur Jean, my
congratulations! But a word in your ear. Her steps do not match yours.
It is you who make the dance. She has no initiative. She can do nothing
but imitate," he added.

The dancer looked at his host a little curiously. He was slightly built
and without an atom of colour. His black hair was closely cropped, his
eyes of sombre darkness, his demeanour almost sullen. At Selingman's
words, however, he nodded rapidly and seated himself more firmly upon
his chair. It was apparent that although his face remained
expressionless, he was gratified.

"They notice nothing, these others," he remarked, with a little wave of
the hand. "It is always the woman who counts. You are right, monsieur.
She dances like a stick. She has good calves and she rolls her eyes. The
_canaille_ applaud. It is always like that. Your health, monsieur!"

He drank his wine without apparent enjoyment, but he drank it like
water. Selingman leaned across the table.

"Coulois," he whispered, "the wolves bay loudest at night, is it not
so?"

The man sat quite still. If such a thing had been possible, he might
have grown a shade paler. His eyes glittered. He looked steadfastly at
Selingman.

"Who are you?" he muttered.

"The wolves sleep in the daytime," Selingman replied.

The dancer shrugged his shoulders. He held out his glass to be
replenished. The double password had reassured him.

"Pardon, monsieur," he said, "these have been anxious hours."

"The little affair at La Turbie?" Selingman suggested.

Coulois set down his glass for the first time half finished. His mouth
had taken an evil turn. He leaned across the table.

"See you," he exclaimed in a hoarse whisper, "what happened, happened
justly! Martin is responsible. The whole thing was conducted in the
spirit of a pantomime, a great joke. Who are we, the Wolves, to brandish
empty firearms, to shrink from letting a little blood! Bah!"

He finished his wine. Selingman nodded approvingly as he refilled his
glass.

"My friend and I," he confided, "were amongst those who were held up.
Imagine it! We stood against the wall like a row of dummies. Such
treasure as I have never before seen was poured into that sack. Jewels,
my friend, such as only the women of Monte Carlo wear! Packet after
packet of mille notes! Wealth immeasurable! Oh, Coulois, Coulois, it was
an opportunity lost!"

"Lost!" the dancer echoed fiercely. "It was thrown into the gutter! It
was madness! It was hellish, such ill-fortune! Yet what could I do? If I
had been absent from here--I, Coulois, whom men know of--even the police
would have had no excuse. So it was Martin who must lead. Our armoury
had never been fuller. There were revolvers for every one, ammunition
for a thousand.... Pardon, monsieur, but I cannot talk of this affair.
The anger rises so hot in my heart that I fear to betray myself to those
who may be listening. And besides, you have not come here to talk with
me of it."

"It is true," Selingman confessed.

There was a brief silence. The dancer was studying them both. There was
uneasiness in his expression.

"I do not understand," he enquired hoarsely, "how you came by the
passwords?"

"Make yourself wholly at ease, my young friend," Selingman begged him
reassuringly. "We are men of the world, my friend and I. We seek our own
ends in life and we have often to make use of the nearest and the best
means for the purpose of securing them. Martin has served me before. A
week ago I should have gone to him. To-night, as you know, he lies in
prison."

"Martin, indeed!" the dancer jeered. "You would have gone, then, to a
man of sawdust, a chicken-livered bungler! What is it that you want
done? Speak to me. I am a man."

The leader of the orchestra was essaying upon his violin the tentative
strains of a popular air. The girl had reappeared and was poising
herself upon her toes. The leader of the orchestra summoned Coulois.

"I must dance," he announced. "Afterwards I will return."

He leapt lightly to his feet and swung into the room with extended arms.
Draconmeyer looked down at his plate.

"It is a risk, this, we are running," he muttered. "I do not see,
Selingman, why you could not have hired this fellow through Allen or one
of the others."

Selingman shook his head.

"See here, Draconmeyer," he explained, "this is one of the cases where
agents are dangerous. For Allen to have been seen with Jean Coulois here
would have been the same as though I had been seen with him myself. I
cannot, alas! in this place, with my personality, keep my identity
concealed. They know that I am Selingman. They know well that wherever I
move, I have with me men of my Secret Service. I cannot use them against
Hunterleys. Too many are in the know. Here we are simply two visitors
who talk to a dancer. We depart. We do not see him again until
afterwards. Besides, this is where fate is with us. What more natural
than that the Wolves should revenge themselves upon the man who captured
one of their leaders? It was the young American, Richard Lane, who
really started the debacle, but it was Hunterleys who seized Martin.
What more natural than revenge? These fellows hang by one another
always."

Draconmeyer nodded with grim approval.

"It was devilish work he did in Sofia," he said softly. "But for him,
much of this would have been unnecessary."

The dance was over. Both men joined enthusiastically in the applause.
Coulois, with an insolent nod to his admirers, returned to his seat. He
threw himself back in his chair, crossed his legs and held out his empty
glass. Though he had been dancing furiously, there was not a single bead
of perspiration upon his forehead.

"You are in good condition, my friend," Selingman observed admiringly.

"I need to be for my work," Coulois replied. "Let us get to business.
There is no need to mince words. What do you want with me? Who is the
quarry?"

"The man who ruined your little affair at La Turbie and captured your
comrade Martin," Selingman whispered. "You see, you have every
provocation to start with."

Coulois' eyes glittered.

"He was an Englishman," he muttered.

"Quite true," Selingman assented. "His name is Hunterleys--Sir Henry
Hunterleys. He lives at the Hotel de Paris. His room is number 189. He
spends his time upon the Terrace, at the Cafe de Paris, and in the
Sporting Club. Every morning he goes to the English Bank for his
letters, deals with them in his room, calls at the post-office and takes
a walk, often up into the hills."

"Come, come, this is not so bad!" Coulois exclaimed. "They laugh at us
in the cafes and down in the wine shops of Monaco, those who know," he
went on, frowning. "They say that the Wolves have become sheep. We shall
see! It is an affair, this, worth considering. What do you pay, Monsieur
le Gros, and for how long do you wish him out of the way?"

"The pay," Selingman announced, "is two hundred louis, and the man must
be in hospital for at least a fortnight."

Draconmeyer leaned suddenly forward. His eyes were bright, his hands
gripped the table.

"Listen!" he whispered in Coulois' ear. "Are the Wolves sheep, indeed,
that they can do no more than twist ankles and break heads? That two
hundred shall be five hundred, Jean Coulois, but it must be a cemetery
to which they take him, and not a hospital!"

[Illustration: "That two hundred shall be five hundred, but it must be a
cemetery to which they take him!"]

There was a moment's silence. Selingman sat back in his place. He was
staring at his companion with wide-open eyes. Jean Coulois was
moistening his lips with his tongue, his eyes were brilliant.

"Five hundred louis!" he repeated under his breath.

"Is it not enough?" Draconmeyer asked coldly. "I do not believe in half
measures. The man who is wounded may be well before he is welcome. If
five hundred louis is not enough, name your price, but let there be no
doubt. Let me see what the Wolves can do when it is their leader who
handles the knife!"

The face of the dancer was curiously impassive. He lifted his glass and
drained it.

"An affair of death!" he exclaimed softly. "We Wolves--we bite, we
wound, we rob. But death--ugh! There are ugly things to be thought of."

"And pleasant ones," Draconmeyer reminded him. "Five hundred louis is
not enough. It shall be six hundred. A man may do much with six hundred
golden louis."

Selingman sat forward once more in his place.

"Look here," he intervened, "you go too far, my friend. You never spoke
to me of this. What have you against Hunterleys?"

"His nationality," Draconmeyer answered coolly. "I hate all Englishmen!"

The gaiety had left Selingman's face. He gazed at his companion with a
curious expression.

"My friend," he murmured, "I fear that you are vindictive."

"Perhaps," Draconmeyer replied quietly. "In these matters I like to be
on the safe side."

Jean Coulois struck the table lightly with his small, feminine hand. He
showed all his teeth as though he had been listening to an excellent
joke.

"It is to be done," he decided. "There is no more to be said."

Some visitors had taken the next table. Coulois drew his chair a little
closer to Draconmeyer.

"I accept the engagement," he continued. "We will talk no more. Monsieur
desires my address? It is here,"--scribbling on a piece of paper. "But
monsieur may be warned," he added, with a lightning-like flash in his
eyes as he became conscious of the observation of some passers-by. "I
will not dance in England. I will not leave Monte Carlo before May. Half
that sum--three hundred louis, mind--must come to me on trust; the other
three hundred afterwards. Never fear but that I will give satisfaction.
Keep your part of the bargain," he added, under his breath, "and the
Wolves' fangs are already in this man's throat."

He danced again. The two men watched him. Draconmeyer's face was as
still and colourless as ever. In Selingman's there was a shade of
something almost like repulsion. He poured himself out a glass of
champagne.

"Draconmeyer," he exclaimed, "you are a cold-blooded fish, indeed! You
can sit there without blinking and think of this thing which we have
done. Now as for me, I have a heart. I can never see the passing out of
the game of even a bitter opponent, without a shiver. Talk philosophy to
me, Draconmeyer. My nerves are shaken."

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