The All-Story, March 1914 — page 152: what you’re looking at

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

THE MAN WHO COULD NOT DIE. 625 breaking his voice. “Oh, Master Florenz, those are glad tidings! Would that the old count, your father, were alive to hear you say that! How it would please him, if I may make so bold as to say it, sir. I, too, am very happy to hear it, sir.”’ Count Florenz was irritated, even while acknowledging the sincerity of the old servitor’s delight. He frowned. “Your garrulity, Heinrich,” said he. “esrows worse from day to day. You may go now—and remember! Do not come back before ten.” And now milord was alone with his thoughts and the wickedly shining re- volver with which he had determined to end his Itfe. He was, indeed, going “ elsewhere ”’ to-night—would never again occupy his accustomed chair by the long, green tables where the wheels spun so rapidly and where the croupier’s voice never seerned loud in comparison with the click of the little ivory balls. He had sat too often—far too often —in that seat, and staked the anherit- ance of twelve generations of Regen- steins upon the checkered baize. He had dissipated all that fierce old Gottlieb von Regenstein, the Crusader, had wrenched with the strong arm from the Saracen; he had squandered the riches amassed in devious ways by. sly Otho, first count of their name; he had been a wastrel with the hoardings of old Karl August, his grandfather, and scattered to the four wjnds the patrimony of Count Reinhard, his father. Milord laughed mirthlessly in remi- niscenice. Well, it was all gone—the old, old story of idle hands and a restless tem- perainent that was allowed nothing with which to occupy itself. Florenz, Count von Regenstein, last scion of one of the most distinguished names in the empire, was a pauper— nay, worse, for there were his cred- itors (how many he had even forgot- ten!) all hounding him day in and day out. He had known for weeks past 10 § that the exposé could not be delayed much longer. No one of his family had ever borne the stigma of a court summons before. He would not. It was time that he ended it all. For the fourth time Count Florenz raised the ugly muzzle of the revolver to his head. Undoubtedly there were many who would regret the news of his demise— Prince Leopold, a score of boon com- panions with names as traditional as his; the restaurateurs, the waiters and lackeys who scurried to win his tips; the ladies whom his passing whim had bedecked with soft furs and diamonds. Oh, yes! they would regret hiin. There were three pink and blue scented envelopes still lying unopened on his escritoire now, but milord was not curious as to their contents. That one with the elusive hint of heliotrope was from Fraulein Ermen- garde who had danced her way into prominence (and his favor) on the daintiest of little feet. That missive with the white wax contained cajoleries from Etta, the toast of boulevardiers young and old— Etta. who had said that she must have a gold piece to match each hair of her ruddy head, and got them; who had said that each shining tooth of hers must be mated with a pearl, and got them, too. And that plain white envelope with the mid-city postmark smudging the dainty writing across its back—that one was from Celestine Vauregarde, French by birth and a beautiful devil by nature. Undoubtedly she was want- ing him to bear her company again in sone madcap frolic of the kind that had already made his circle a target of public censor. It would be motors, wine, song, a bacchanal—something unavoidably the same, anyway. There was nothing new left for Count Florenz to do. For the fifth time he raised the pistol to his forehead and stared in- differently at his image in the mirror. Why wait longer to do the one thing COmicloOolks.€O©