In Paris a small party of gentlemen, among whom were represented all the national types of Southern Europe, were engaged in an informal discussion of very formal affairs.  They occupied a private suite in the Hotel Ritz overlooking the column of the Place Vendome.  Upon a table swept clean of draperies and bric-a-brac lay an outstretched map of the Mediterranean littoral, whereon a small peninsula had been marked with certain experimental and revised boundaries in red and blue and black.  The atmosphere was thick with the smoke from cigars and cigarettes, and through the veneering amenities of much courtesy the gentlemen of Europe’s Cabinets Noirs wrangled with insistence.  Finally Monsieur Jusseret took the floor, and the others dropped respectfully into an attitude of listening.

“It is hardly necessary,” he began, “to discuss what has been done in Galavia.  That is long since a stale story.  Our governments, acting in concert, made it possible to remove Karyl and crown Louis.”  He smiled quietly.  “You know how short a reign Louis enjoyed before death claimed him.  Perhaps you do not know that his death was not unforeseen by me.”

There was an outburst of exclamations under which France’s representative remained unmoved.

“Our object,” he explained coldly, “was the disruption of Galavia’s integrity.  In reducing this Kingdom to a province, the supplanting of Karyl with Louis was essential only as an initial step.  The instability of that government had to be demonstrated to the world by more continuous disorders.  It was necessary to show that the Kingdom had become incapable of self-rule.  It followed that the removal of Louis was equally natural—­and imperative.”

Don Alphonso Rodriguez, bearing the secret credentials of Spain, came to his feet with the hauteur of offended dignity.

“My government” he said, with austere deliberation, “had the right to know what matters were being transacted.  France appears to have assumed exclusive control.  Is it too late to inquire of France”—­he bent a chilling frown upon the smiling Jusseret—­“what she now purposes?  It appears that Spain knew no more than the newspapers.  Spain also believed that Louis died by his own hand, and artlessly assumed the motive of disappointment in his love for Marie Astaride.  We believed we were being frankly informed.”

The more accomplished diplomat lifted brows and hands in a deprecating gesture. “Mon ami,” he responded with suavity, “you flatter me.  What I have done is nothing.  I have only paved the way.  Quite possibly Louis did kill himself.  If so it was a meritorious act, but whether he did so or whether some mad young officer, infatuated and jealous, was the real author of the result, the result stands—­and meets our requirements.  France does not care what flag flies over the Governor-General’s Palace in Puntal, provided it be the flag of a nation in concert with France.  France suggests that the Governor-General should be a Galavian, and points to the one man conspicuously capable—­who happens to be,” he added with an amused laugh, “my particular enemy.”