A prince of lovers

FOR the greater part of two centuries after the close of the Thirty Years War there existed in Germany some two hundred independent states. It is with two of these, lying in the midst of what was once the Hercynian forest, which tract even then, although in slow process of clearing, retained much of its primitive, desolate wildness, that the events of the following story are concerned.

And it may be well to premise, seeing that nowadays in story-telling the realms of imagination have often a two-fold meaning, literal as well as metaphorical, that, though the embroidery of this tale may be fanciful, the ground upon which it is worked is of the substance called fact. For the once secret chronicles of these two hundred kingdoms, principalities, palatinates, bishoprics, duchies, landgravates and what not form very pretty reading to the student of humanity; and the dull atmosphere of much pettiness and fatuous pomp is lighted up in welcome fashion by occasional stars of romance. And, after all, apart from the favourable soil they find in that traditional land of the romantic, these flowers which continually spring up amid the dull herbage are easily accounted for. For what is romance but the opposite of the humdrum? And is not human nature the same all the world over, flourishing even when found in the stifling confinement of a formal and etiquette-bound court? And does not young and healthy humanity rebel against the humdrum, and fight tooth and nail against its own repression?

Thus it came about that the somewhat dramatic romance of the following pages was played upon a fitting stage, with a change of scenes, the royal palace, and the castle in the wood, homes respectively of the heroine and the villain of the piece. The actors have been dead and forgotten for more than a century, although they live in their types to-day, the style of their playing alone being changed. The weak sovereign, the ambitious, astute, unscrupulous minister, the brave, chivalrous hero, the heroine for whom pride and love and policy are desperately fighting—at least we all know her—the cold, imperious beauty with the burning heart. And the unprincipled man-of-the-world, self-indulgent and scheming to his own gratification, at least he is not extinct, nor is the weakly ambitious plotter who would grasp the fruit but fears to climb the tree, and the evil councillor who for the benefit of his own desperate fortunes eggs him up.

With quieter methods they are in our midst to-day. They are walking through their parts with just as much determination of spirit as was theirs who fought and strutted and fretted and postured in the days before life was so carefully toned down—in the days of this story. And that the story is in the main true the annals above mentioned can vouch, even if the events may not in the reality have welded themselves together just as here set down with a mind for the reader’s patience as well as his hoped-for entertainment.

In his private cabinet Duke Theodor of Waldavia was going through his daily consultation with his Chancellor, Baron Rollmar; a prescribed custom as irksome to both as it was unnecessary to either.

“Your excellency has reckoned without your host,” said the Duke.

“I do not propose, Highness,” replied the Chancellor, grimly confident, “that my host shall have the making up of the reckoning at all.”

“He may not submit to dictation,” suggested his highness.

“Then he will be a greater fool than I take him for, seeing that this project is as much for his benefit as ours.”

“Some men,” the Duke hazarded out of his somewhat limited experience, “would not take kindly to a forced marriage.”

“Your Highness uses a harsh word,” Rollmar observed indifferently.

“Perhaps. I was thinking of my daughter.”

The Chancellor just checked a shrug. “Dukes’ daughters and beggars cannot be choosers. But we have yet to learn that Princess Ruperta has occasion to bewail her particular lot.”

“She is in an abominably false position. Prince Ludwig’s silence and indifference would be galling enough to any woman’s pride. And Ruperta has, perhaps, more than her share.”

The old minister gave a slight bow of assent. Crowned monarchs are not to be contradicted gratuitously, even when they indulge in self-disparagement.

“The position is becoming intolerable,” his highness continued.

“Any hour may end it,” said Rollmar, quietly. Then he added, “Surely you approve of the alliance, sire?”

“Naturally.” Duke Theodor emphasised the word with a nod which was intended to express the dignity which in his conferences with his Chancellor was always provokingly elusive. “Of course it would be of untold advantage to both crowns. It is a most natural desire. The uniting of the two kingdoms would more than double their power and influence.”

“It should increase them tenfold,” said Rollmar, as repeating a cut-and-dried argument for his policy. “And not only their power but their wealth; the development, more especially, of the natural wealth of the one by union with the labour of the other.”

“Yes, yes,” snapped the Duke, impatiently, almost petulantly. “That is our view. Our immediate concern, however, is that of Ruperta and Prince Ludwig.”

Rollmar smiled, and his smile seemed hardly to endorse the word concern.

“Except to themselves, is it very material?” he asked significantly.

The Duke tried to look resolute. “I have my daughter’s happiness to think of, Baron,” he protested.

“Doubtless. So have I,” he returned imperturbably. “And am taking the measures to secure it.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” the Duke admitted pettishly. “But this state of affairs will not do so. We shall be a laughing-stock.”

“Let him laugh who wins.”

“Ludwig’s conduct in ignoring the matter is an insult.”

“We will not think so, much less say so.”

“But others will.”

“Others are not going to marry him.”

“Are we?”

“Certainly; without fail; most assuredly.”

The Duke rose and paced the room.

“But how long is this state of things going to last, Baron? You must remember that Ruperta is not one to take kindly to the part of a puppet. She is a girl of spirit, and this wretched fellow Ludwig, by his cavalier treatment, is rousing it in a way that threatens difficulties to our project. Can nothing be done? Where is the fellow?”

“Nobody knows. If anybody did it would be I.”

“I feel inclined,” said Theodor, working himself into a weak man’s passion, “to throw over the whole affair. It would be the most dignified course.”

“And the most foolish.”

The Duke turned sharply at the blunt rejoinder. “Certainly not more foolish than we are showing ourselves at present.”

Rollmar gave a great audible sigh as he often did when his master was particularly tiresome.

“Pardon me, sire. A thousand times worse, although I do not seem able to convince you of the fact. I may be so unfortunate as to differ in ideas from your Highness, but my notion of foolishness would be to abandon a magnificent chance of imperial aggrandisement for the sake of taking umbrage at a boy’s want of manners. Ludwig is a fool; he may not know it, but we do, and when he sets his eyes for the first time on Princess Ruperta he will know it too. The mischief is that they have taken it into their heads to dislike each other before they have ever met. But I anticipate little difficulty on that account.”

“Perhaps not,” replied the Duke, who rejoiced in his rare opportunities of twitting his masterful minister with failure. “But you must first find your runaway bridegroom.”

“I intend to find him,” Rollmar returned quietly.

“When found you may perhaps discover a wife as well,” suggested Theodor, making the most of his temporary advantage.

The Chancellor smiled grimly, and there was an ugly gleam in his dark, fierce eyes. “It would be a pity—more particularly for her,” he rejoined. “But as his bride would certainly not be of his own rank the position would present little difficulty.”

The Duke understood his words the more clearly as read by the pitiless light in his eyes. The talk was taking a turn which he always made a point of avoiding. If he was virtually governed by his astute old servant and left him practically a free hand he would at least take no responsibility for or cognisance of his ruthlessly unscrupulous methods.

“At least we may take care that my daughter forms no undesirable attachment,” he said somewhat feebly to give a turn to the subject.

“You may leave me to deal with such a contingency,” Rollmar said, drawing back his lips in a significant smile.

“Ludwig’s unheard-of conduct is enough to make a girl of spirit rebel.”

“She may rebel,” Rollmar retorted, beginning to grow impatient. “We are prepared for rebellion. I think your Highness’ hint can be referred to no actual cause?”

“No,” said the Duke, weakly. “I know of no attachment. I only fear it.”

“You need not fear it, sire,” replied Rollmar, with infinite meaning in his smile. “The favoured lover’s life would be a very short one.”