A crown of straw

Treading cautiously for fear of being overheard by any chance passer-by, Karl led his master’s enemy down the corridor giving on to the royal apartments, and out into a spacious gallery which ran across the whole southern side of the Castle, and connected its two wings. This gallery was almost turned into a conservatory, by the whole of one side being given up to a row of windows so large and near together as to make the wall appear one expanse of glass. Along the floor, in front of these windows, ran a series of blossoming shrubs, bright-hued azaleas, or sweetly scented lemon and myrtle, giving the whole place a fresh and romantic air. As soon as they had reached this gallery Karl turned to his companion:—

“This is where the King generally walks about this hour. He may be alone, or he may be with his friend.”

Johann glanced round. The place seemed suited for his purpose. The foliage of the plants would afford him a hiding-place, where he could lurk until the opportunity came for him to carry out his purpose.

“That will do,” he said briefly.

Karl glanced at his face as if meditating another appeal for mercy, but found no encouragement to speak. He turned and hurried away, sick at heart, while Johann selected a nook in which to conceal himself.

It is hardly necessary to add much to the reasons given by Johann for his presence in the Castle. He had come there as the emissary of the society to which he referred in his conversation with Karl, a society founded ten years before, in the reign of Leopold IX.

Originally the society had consisted of five persons. Of these one was dead. Another had long since made a home in the United States of America. The third was he who had taken advantage of the old King’s death to abandon the paths of conspiracy, and who had become the servant and confidant of Leopold’s successor. Two of the original members still remained: one, a man remarkable for his size and for his thick red beard, had succeeded to the post of president; the other was Johann himself.

For some years after Maximilian’s accession the work of the society had seemed at a standstill. But it is a truth often illustrated in history that the spirit of revolt engendered by the oppressions of a strong bad king breaks out under the rule of a mild but weak successor. Maximilian’s offence towards his subjects had been simple indifference. A dreamer and a poet, he had shown himself utterly averse to the practical business of kingship, and, absorbed in his æsthetic pursuits, he had left the cares of government to his Chancellor. While the Minister was engaged in levying taxes, and keeping a tight rein on public opinion, the young King was withdrawing himself from the sight of his subjects, and spending his time in some distant hunting-lodge with a few favourite companions, or perhaps assisting at the production, on a lavish scale, of one of those operas which were beginning to make his intimate friend Bernal celebrated throughout Europe.

It was not long before these caprices began to take an extravagant turn, which gave an opening for the public discontent. Once a fancy seized Maximilian, he never stopped to count the cost, and his Ministers found that the best way to preserve their power was to furnish him ungrudgingly with the funds required to satisfy his whims. It was natural that the revolutionary party should seize on this ground of attack, and hold up the thoughtless young King as a vampire, draining the life-blood of the people to supply his selfish luxuries.

Matters had just been brought to a head by Maximilian’s last crowning extravagance, the celebrated palace of Seidlingen.

Seidlingen had been over three years in preparation. Riding one day in the mountains which border the northwest of Franconia, the King had come upon a beautiful little valley shut in on all sides by lofty hills. In the middle of the valley lay a deep blue lake, several miles in extent, overshadowed by the mountains, and bordered by dark pine forests. Charmed with the romantic situation, Maximilian had conceived the idea of erecting a palace on the very edge of the lake, and transforming the valley into a veritable fairy kingdom, in which he might roam undisturbed. How many millions had actually been spent in realising this splendid dream were not accurately known. It was supposed that the Ministers, afraid to disclose the truth, had distributed a large part of the cost among various heads of civil and military expenditure. All that public opinion could do was to take note of the colossal works involved, and from them to arrive at some estimate of the appalling cost.

It was known that thousands of men had been at work in the lovely valley. Part of the mountain had been levelled to obtain a site for the palace and the extensive gardens which spread away from the border of the lake. Another part had been cut away to make room for a magnificent road, broad and smooth as the boulevards of a capital, and bordered with trees and waterfalls and vistas of artificially embellished landscape. In one place an immense stretch of forest had to be cleared; in another, huge trees, selected for their size and beauty, had to be transplanted from distant regions. The whole of the lake, some ten or twelve square miles of water, had first to be drained away that its bed might be deepened and cleansed from weeds, and then to be refilled, and kept at a constant high level by means of immense dams of masonry, and by the construction of artificial water-courses, and the laying of miles of underground pipes. Its waters had to be stocked with rare fish from all the rivers of Europe and America, and its banks to be lined here and there with costly marble quays, to facilitate landing from the sumptuous pleasure craft, built of priceless woods, which were transported thither across the mountains. A net-work of canals lined with marble, ran through the gardens, and on their smooth waters exquisite boats inlaid with ivory, and shaped like swans and dolphins, glided past Chinese towers, and kiosks, and crystal caves from which concealed musicians were to pour out melodies upon the voyager’s ear. At one time it had actually been in contemplation to connect these canals with a larger one extending the whole way to the river Rhine, but another kingdom had to be crossed, and the compensation demanded by its government was so enormous that even Maximilian stopped short, and the dream of making a seaport in the heart of the German highlands was abandoned.

All that art could desire or science execute had been done to render the palace itself one of the wonders of the world. In mere size it was inferior to the state palace in Mannhausen, far inferior to such huge piles as Versailles and the Roman Vatican. A poet does not build like a conqueror. Maximilian’s object had not been to stupefy mankind, but to delight himself. Almost more wealth had been lavished on the wonderful accessories than on the main edifice—that is to say, on the aviaries, the hothouses, and above all on the unique and gorgeous theatre destined for the production of the grandest works of Mozart and Beethoven and Bernal. But it was in the beauty of its design, and the perfection of its finish, that Seidlingen rose superior to every other palace on the globe. The barrack-like stateliness of Potsdam, the homely majesty of Windsor, were alike put out of the comparison. It was the complete and final fusion of the mediæval and the classic, a Gothic castle breathed upon by the spirit of the Renaissance, and transformed into a dazzling temple of art. Beneath stretched broad terraces and solemn colonnades, above soared fairy-like turrets and thin spires of delicate tracery. It was the beauty and glory of the South, brooded over by the deep immortal spirit of the North.

And now the rumour ran that Seidlingen was finished, and that the King was about to go and take possession. This was the signal for the discontent, which had long been gathering head, to break into a ferment. The revolutionary societies redoubled their activity, recruits came flocking to them in shoals, and already the more daring minds spoke of open insurrection against the royal Government. It only remained for some one man, more daring than the rest, to give the signal of revolt.

This was the crisis for which Johann had long been waiting. He called together the members of his own brotherhood, which had renewed its numbers, and producing the very weapon which had been provided ten years before for the assassination of Leopold, boldly demanded that it should be loaded once more. His comrades consented, and by his own desire he was entrusted with the carrying out of the society’s sentence. The dawn of the following day saw him set forth from Mannhausen, carrying in his breast the sealed pistol, and bound for the place where the Court was then in residence.

Stopping on his way at Franz Gitten’s cottage, what he had learned there confirmed his resolution, and he had come away armed, as he believed, with a fresh justification for the deed he was going to commit.

He had hardly settled himself in what seemed to be a secure hiding-place, when a door opened at the far end of the gallery, and Maximilian and Bernal entered arm-in-arm.

The King had discarded the dress he had worn for his walk through the forest, and was now clad in a plain suit of black velvet, trimmed with deep lace ruffles at the throat and wrists. The only mark of his rank was a small cap of the same stuff which he wore, while his companion was bare-headed.

As if he had changed his mood with his clothes, the young man came in laughing and rallying his friend.

“Why, Auguste, what nonsense you talk! Did you hear Von Stahlen’s latest? He declares that the Steinketel has jilted me! He thinks I have been cut out by Von Hardenburg. It is lucky that Seidlingen will be ready for me to retire to, to hide my despair.”

Auguste did not seem quite to share his friend’s cheerfulness. His face wore a troubled expression.

“I suppose you have no idea what your fairyland has actually cost,” he observed. “I cannot help fearing it will make you unpopular with the nation.”

Maximilian laughed.

“I see what it is,” he retorted lightly; “you have been reading the newspapers. I never do, not even the Cologne Gazette. My dear Auguste, if you are going to take life seriously, all confidence between us must be at an end. Remember that I am the King of the Fairies, and my politics are those of A Midsummer Night’s Dream!”

Auguste smiled rather half-heartedly.

“That is all very well, Max, but you know the inhabitants of Franconia are not fairies, and the taxes they have to pay are not fairy gold.”

“My dear friend, I really believe that you have turned Republican. I shall hear next that you are a candidate for the Chamber on the Opposition side. What are the Franconians to you, or to me either? Philistines all, my friend, Philistines all. I look upon myself as a divinely appointed instrument of retribution. I am the avenger of the poets they have imprisoned, and the musicians they have insulted, and the painters they have starved. Let them pay their taxes. It is the only homage to genius they have ever rendered. I am the only prophet who has ever been honoured in his own country, and they honour me because they have to. Make your mind easy; and when we get to the Happy Valley we will lock the gates and give orders that no newspapers are to be admitted except that one at Athens which is published in verse!”

Auguste shook his head.

“It is lucky for you that the Chancellor takes the business of government a little more seriously. What would you do if a revolutionary mob invaded your Happy Valley?”

“Offer them refreshments, of course, and then make them listen to one of your operas. If that did not subdue their fierceness, nothing would,” added Maximilian, unable to resist the temptation to banter his friend. “But tell me, Auguste, do you seriously suppose that any one wants to deprive me of the throne in favour of poor Ernest?”

Bernal did not at once reply to this question. While the two had been talking they had continued to stroll up and down the gallery, and in letting his eyes wander from side to side, the musician had caught sight through the gathering dusk of something which he fancied to be unusual in the appearance of one of the shrubs before the windows.

Restraining his curiosity for the moment, he walked on, and as Maximilian was waiting, he forced himself to return some answer.

“I am afraid that is not the question. You may have enemies whose designs go farther than a mere change of masters. Be serious for one moment, Max. Other kings have to take precautions to guard themselves, and why should not you do the same?”

“Oh, that will be all right You will find that Seidlingen is well guarded, though it has been more with the idea of keeping out impertinent admirers than the mysterious enemies you talk about. I have had a palisade put up all round the mountains, and at every mile or so I shall have small pickets of troops, whose duty it will be to patrol the boundary, and see that no one attempts to cross. There is only one road leading into the valley, the one I have had made, and that will be guarded at the entrance by a small fort pierced by an iron gate, which will be kept locked, and only opened by a written order from me or the Chancellor. So you see the Anarchists won’t have much chance to disturb us.”

While he was speaking, they had strolled back till they again came opposite the spot which had attracted the musician’s attention. He contrived to gradually bring himself to a halt, Maximilian following his example without perceiving that his companion’s movements were governed by any special purpose. Bernal fixed his gaze upon a dark shadow under the foliage, while Maximilian continued to speak.

“The real difficulty I shall have,” he said, “is to avoid the visits of persons who cannot very well be turned back by a sentry. I am afraid from what I hear that my preparations have roused the curiosity of the Kaiser, and that his Imperial Majesty is likely to inflict his formidable presence on me, unless I can think of some pretext for keeping him away.”

Bernal still listened, but the King’s words fell dully on his ear. His whole attention was absorbed by a frightful discovery. Gazing steadfastly into the shadow, he had all at once become aware that his look was returned. There, at a distance of a few feet from him, was a pair of dark eyes fixed deliberately upon his own. By a tremendous effort of will he suppressed all outward signs of agitation, lest he should alarm the man before him, and continued to gaze calmly back, as if unconscious of what he saw. His thoughts, travelling with terrific rapidity, went over the dangers of the situation. The King and himself were totally unarmed, they were alone in the gallery, and, thanks to Maximilian’s morbid love of privacy, there were no attendants likely to be within hail. Who could the concealed watcher be? Only a desperate man would have dared to risk the danger of thus invading the royal apartments in a way which sufficiently proclaimed the threatening character of his errand. If this man were armed, the King’s life, both their lives, were at his mercy.

The only chance of escape that presented itself to Bernal’s mind, was to feign unconsciousness, and draw the King gradually away to the end of the gallery. Then, by a sudden movement, he could urge him through the doorway, and fasten it against the enemy. With a strange feeling of dizziness creeping over him, he contrived to say a few words in answer to his companion.

“That is what I was afraid you would say. If the Kaiser is really anxious to come, in your own interest you ought to make him welcome, and show him every attention. He may be a useful friend or a dangerous foe.”

He was quite unconscious whether he was talking sense or nonsense; as long as he could maintain the appearance of composure it was all he cared for. Maximilian, wholly unsuspicious, launched out into a reply.

“My dear Auguste, you are talking like old Von Sigismark. Of course, all that is very true; but it is no reason why I should submit to the penalty of that barbarian’s presence, if there is any reasonable way of avoiding it. I come to you for sympathy, not for good advice.”

As the King finished speaking, Bernal felt a sudden shock. Still gazing into the depths of those flaming eyes, he had become aware by some subtle instinct that the man lurking in the shadow knew that he was detected. There was only one moment’s more breathing-time, till the assassin should learn that this knowledge in turn had been discovered by his observer.

Trembling under the imminence of the peril, Bernal felt irritated at having to reply to the King, as a man racked by some torturing pain resents having to respond to the commonplace observations of those around him.

“I never talk like Von Sigismark. I simply meant that if there were no way of avoiding it, you should submit with as much grace as possible.”

Maximilian smiled at the peevishness of his friend’s tone.

“You are a Job’s comforter, Auguste. If you say much more I shall make you my Chancellor; so be careful.”

“Ah!”

The crisis had come. A flash of the eyes which he had been watching with such feverish anxiety, convinced Bernal that the last stage had been arrived at. The enemy had already learned that Bernal had detected him. He now knew that Bernal was aware of this.

The fence of eyes was over. The two were as much face to face as if both were out in the middle of the apartment. Bernal set his teeth together and drew back a step, while Johann sprang to his feet, throwing down the shrub which had protected him, and levelled his pistol, at the distance of four paces, at the King’s breast.

“If either of you moves or makes the least cry, I fire.”