A prince of lovers

IN his first glance at the stranger, the Count told himself that Gomer was right and there was nothing to be on his guard against in the withered, decrepit-looking old man who, wrapped in a fur-lined travelling cloak, stood before him with a demeanour of apologetic entreaty. At the second glance he was not so sure. But at least there was nothing physically to be feared from the harbouring of such a guest, and as to cunning, why, he was himself no fool, and loved nothing better than to pit his wits against other men’s.

The old traveller had missed his road, it appeared, and got lost in the labyrinth of small mountain valleys which abounded in the district He had been anxious to push on, but the task was clearly hopeless for that night, and as he was told he could expect to come upon no decent inn for many miles, he was forced to make bold to crave a night’s hospitality, should it in no way inconvenience the noble Count. The noble Count was for the moment in two minds about entertaining a guest whom continued scrutiny rendered less and less prepossessing. But he was a man of action and of daring: if this dubious old fellow’s presence meant danger he would delight in finding it out and checking it, at the same time making his guest pay dearly for his temerity; if he were but the strayed traveller he represented himself to be, why, he might count upon a chatty supper companion. Accordingly, he graciously placed himself and his establishment at the stranger’s disposal and presently they went in to supper. It would be well, Irromar reflected, to give his fair prisoner a night’s respite, and to renew their interview next morning. Once he could bring her into subjection to his dominant will—and of this he was confident—he would have no fear of attack or of any unpleasant consequences.

He found he had not been mistaken in his forecast of his guest’s sociable qualities. Indeed during the meal each of its partakers considerably astonished the other, not merely by the acute knowledge of the world which he displayed but more particularly by his intimate acquaintance with affairs, both political and social, such as was for the most part denied to outsiders.

“Who,” the Count’s busy brain puzzled, “can this man be, who has such a confident knowledge of the inner circle of politics? Hardly the enterprising merchant he would have me believe. It is just possible; since your eminent trader makes it his business to be au courant with every move in the political world that vigilance or money can give him wind of. And yet——?” The Count doubted and guessed, turned the conversation into probing channels, only to grow all the more interested and doubtful. By degrees the conviction increased that this pretended wealthy merchant was an emissary whose real errand was concerned with the recovery of his prisoners. He calculated in his mind the time it would have taken for their friends to have received information of their whereabouts and for his guest to have arrived on the scene. It fitted exactly. He then concluded that the old man sitting by the fire and chatting with such confident ease was there for a purpose.

What? That would surely appear if he had the patience to wait for it. Was this an emissary of Rollmar’s? The Captain, the Chancellor’s son, had said his captives were ladies of rank. Had Rollmar sent——? Was this Rollmar himself, this old, sharp-eyed man who carried with him such an atmosphere of innate power? Was it possible?

For a moment the truth flashed across his mind, only to be dismissed as preposterous. Nevertheless it was an indication of the Count’s acuteness of perception. And his reckoning up of his guest showed that he was, as he was wont to declare himself, no fool.

Rollmar?

The suspicion recurred persistently, and its grounds increased in colour and plausibility. He was awaiting developments now in a mood of intense and provocative curiosity. If this man had come with a purpose, surely he must declare it without much more delay. Except he came to spy and then—— The suave face which masked the busy brain darkened for an instant at the idea. As yet his thoughts had not reached the point of considering what action he would take should this in truth turn out to be the wily Chancellor. It would be time enough to determine that when this strange situation—too strange for belief—presented itself. Meanwhile, he watched his guest like a tiger, smooth and treacherous, with a readiness to spring hidden under an attitude of sleek repose.

But he had not to wait long.

“You have entertained me, a chance guest, possibly a not too welcome intruder, in princely fashion, Count!” the old man said, abruptly breaking off their subject of conversation, which happened to be Prince Ferdinand’s coup-d’etat. “In return for your unlooked-for hospitality I feel I must make an unworthy return in a confession and a piece of information which may possibly astonish you.”

He spoke quietly, with an easy unconcern, as though confident of his resources and of the welcome of his communication. But his preamble was enough to confirm the Count’s suspicion. No man but one, he told himself, would have the nerve to be so genuinely at his ease when in the power of another of his character and reputation. Vanity was a strong ingredient in his imperious character; many a strong, masterful man is a baby where his vanity is touched. This one was a ruffian, yet childishly eager to proclaim himself a paragon of sagacity and intellect. The temptation to a brilliant and discomfiting move was too great to be resisted.

“You are going to tell me,” he said quietly, “first that you have introduced yourself under an incognito, and secondly that your real name is——” He paused for an instant as the old man shot at him a sharp glance of curiosity. “Baron von Rollmar, Chancellor of the State of Waldavia.”

If he had expected his guest to be dumfounded at such startling evidence of an abnormal faculty of perception, he did not make full allowance for the old diplomatist’s power of self-restraint. Rollmar had not practised the art of thinking one thing and looking another through the course of a long public life to be taken aback even by this unexpected stroke. Without betraying the slightest sign of surprise or confusion, Rollmar made a slight bow of acknowledgement. For all the emotion he showed, his host might have merely set him right on a question of the day of the week.

“A good guess; you are quite right, Count,” he returned coolly, with a slight appreciative smile. “I need hardly apologise for my false pretence, since it appears not to have reached the point of deception. As to its motive, why, I must confess I was a little doubtful of my reception here, and it was necessary that I should have the opportunity of making a certain communication to you privately.”

He spoke with a calm assurance which discounted uncomfortably the Count’s triumph. Indeed that seemed to have gone for nothing.

“I shall be glad, Baron,” he replied, with a courtesy which covered, not altogether successfully, his feeling of annoyance, “to learn to what important circumstance I owe the honour of entertaining so distinguished a guest.”

“I should have imagined, Count,” Rollmar returned, with quiet sarcasm, “that your undoubted powers of perception would have saved me also the statement of this second point. However, I can perhaps understand your reticence. It is indeed an important matter that has brought me so far afield. More momentous, perhaps, than even you surmise.”

Again came the sarcastic curl of the mobile lips, provoking a temptation on the Count’s part to take by the throat and strangle the contemptuous old man who dared to beard him in his stronghold.

“I can only imagine,” he replied bluffly, “that your presence in my poor house may be the outcome of another and somewhat extraordinary visit to me paid yesterday by a Captain Rollmar, presumably a relative of yours.”

The Chancellor nodded. “My son. The cause of my visit goes beyond that, as you know well, Count. It is occasioned by the reception you were pleased to give to Captain von Rollmar’s request.”

The Count gave an ugly laugh. “A strange and unaccountable demand——”

He stopped, as Rollmar held up a protesting hand. “The night grows late, Count, and I am too old a man to exchange my rest for unprofitable discussions. Of your courtesy allow me to state plainly my errand.”

He was cool as ever; nevertheless, behind the calm suavity of his manner there was a touch of sternness, a suggestion of a latent power, held back in readiness to be called into action if necessary.

“You have,” he proceeded, “you are ready to deny and absolutely ignore it—but you have under your roof, detained here against their will, two ladies. Yes, I said you would repudiate the fact”—for the Count had made a quick, angry sign of denial—“but that is futile. That these ladies are for the moment in your power, I am well assured. At any rate, you will kindly allow me to argue on that supposition.”

“I will not, Baron,” Irromar exclaimed threateningly. “No man shall charge me with such an outrage.”

“You will do well to hear me out,” Rollmar continued imperturbably. “By refusing to hear a reasonable argument you may force me to resort to one more forcible and less pleasant.”

The Count laughed loud and scornfully. “You have come here to threaten me? I have known the Chancellor von Rollmar’s reputation well, and always gave him credit for sanity.”

“That is, at least, something,” the old man returned dryly, “I trust that when we part, your flattering opinion will have been in no way modified. Justified or not, you might have been sure that the Chancellor von Rollmar was at least sane enough to recognize the futility of an empty threat. Sane enough also to have stayed at home, rather than ride so many leagues to carry a mere threat—which any bullying sergeant could have done as well—to a man who seems for many years to have thriven on such empty food. No, Count; it was not to take up the challenge of your refusal to deliver up these ladies that I am here, but rather to set right, amicably, I hope, a certain misapprehension which, doubtless, induced you to refuse Captain Rollmar’s request.”

The Count, with a set and not encouraging smile on his face, kept silent, in an affectation of courteous tolerance. He foresaw that the point for which Rollmar was making must be the identity of his captives, and he was anxious to learn it.

“When I tell you,” the Chancellor proceeded, “who the ladies are, whom for the moment we may presume you are detaining, you will, I am sure, recognize that your action, unless quickly abandoned, is bound to have very serious consequences.”

“Another threat, Excellency?” Irromar could not help interjecting.

“You shall judge how far,” was Rollmar’s quiet answer. “This act of kidnapping is one that must carry with it its natural, its logical punishment. Threats are here superfluous. But the ladies in question are of high rank. One is Countess Minna von Croy, principal Maid of Honour to Princess Ruperta of Waldavia, and the other is Princess Ruperta herself.”

The hit, so quietly delivered, told the more heavily from its total unexpectedness. In the game of surprises the Count could not but own himself worsted. But, with the perfect nerve system of a healthy tiger, he did not take long to recover himself.

“Then it would appear that my house has indeed been honoured,” he laughed, as nettled by his discomfiture. “I do not doubt your veracity, Baron,” he continued, less roughly as he regained greater command of himself, “since your very presence here goes far to prove it.”

As he spoke, he was rapidly reviewing his position, as seen in this new light. Could he, even yet, hold this prize? It was not in his nature to give up anything on which his heart was set. Still the keen old man confronting him was not one to be brow-beaten. All the same, why should he not try? At the worst he could but capitulate if he found his position untenable.

“It is a very pretty story,” he continued, with another disagreeable laugh of incredulity. “Your statement that your Princess is roaming about the country is one which I am ready to accept from your lips. But when you take upon yourself to declare that she is detained under my roof, I must beg to join issue and repudiate the assertion, even coming, as it does, from so illustrious a source.”

“You deny it, Count?” Rollmar would cut short this unprofitable fencing. He was not a man to be played with, although the vivid recollection of Ruperta’s superb beauty made Irromar neglectful of the fact.

“I must, Excellency, you are wasting your time——”

“I think I am,” he retorted dryly. “Therefore let me conclude my errand. As I have already suggested, I should wish to conduct this business between us in an amicable manner. That being so, I will, if you will permit me, put before you my view, an old statesman’s view, of the position in which you stand.”

“By all means, Excellency,” the Count assented readily. The possible consequences of his act, and its chance of success were just what he was curious to learn.

The Chancellor put the tips of his long white fingers together, and spoke as coolly as though, instead of facing in his den, perhaps the most dangerous and unscrupulous breaker of laws, divine and human, in Europe, he were discussing a clause of a new bill with a secretary in his own bureau. But it is in critical situations that the real staying power of a man’s character shows itself.

“Shortly, then,” he began. “You say that these ladies are not detained here by you. That may or, pardon me, may not be the truth. I shall not concern myself to argue it. But,” he proceeded, as the suggestion of sternness in his equable tone grew somewhat in its restrained intensity, “we, that is the State which I have the honour to represent, have the warrant of sufficient evidence to convince us that it is a denial which we cannot accept. Your own antecedents, Count, you must allow,” here the old intriguer smiled deprecatingly, “are scarcely such as make for implicit confidence in your bare word.”

Irromar smiled in his turn, but the smile did not reach his eyes, which were darkly threatening. “You are a bold man, Baron, to tell me that, here in my own house. You presume upon your years.”

“Scarcely,” Rollmar replied with a shrug. “Except so far as my age gives me little life to lose. Any boldness I may show comes from nature and from the knowledge that I have a mightly protector a stone’s throw away.”

If the Count wondered what that was, his guest did not at that moment enlighten him.

“Now,” Rollmar continued, with a significant glance at the clock, “should our friend, Count Irromar, persist, as I do not think he will, in his repudiation, it will become our unpleasant duty to pursue our enquiries by force.”

“Force!” Irromar laughed.

“Force,” the Chancellor repeated. “Our Count is a strong man,” he went on pleasantly, “strong in will and in sinew, he has a strong house, fortified, doubtless, by art, as it is by nature; he has a garrison at his command; but my knowledge of men tells me that he is not foolish enough to put his security to an unwisely severe test, or to imagine that it enables him to defy the resources of a State, should that State make up its mind in earnest to pull down his house about his ears.”

Irromar was on his mettle now. “That would depend,” he commented grimly. “He might begin the tussle with a winning advantage. The holding, for instance, as hostages of perhaps the two most important persons in that State.”

Rollmar gave a little triumphant smile. “I note your admission, Count, that the other is here.”

Irromar had realized the slip when it had passed his lips. He could only give a shrug of indifference. After all, a bland repudiation would hardly serve him against this self-controlled, penetrating old strategist.

“But,” the Chancellor went on, “to resume our argument. His holding these important persons would simply make it imperative that strong action should be taken. But, no. You will not make a hostage of me, Count Irromar. Had such a fate any terrors for me, I should scarcely have been at pains to put myself in your power. My life is for the State, and at my master’s disposal; I hold it worthless, when balanced against the welfare of him and his.”

There was a dignified touch of self-abnegating patriotism in the old minister’s speech which carried conviction to its hearer, for all that he affected to smile at the declaration.

“You see, Count,” he went on, “I have, as is my custom, well weighed the consequences of my act; I doubt whether you have done the same respecting your own.”

“I am not in the habit,” Irromar replied, with an outburst of scornful, overbearing pride, “of troubling myself about the consequences of any act of mine which may commend itself to my fancy. I have hitherto found myself able to shape such consequences myself.”

“Ah, that is where you are wrong, or at least short-sighted,” Rollmar returned, with provoking, almost patronising, coolness. “That system may succeed for a while, but it surely means disaster in the end. You are within measurable distance—literally measurable distance—of that now.”

“Indeed?”

“In very truth,” Rollmar maintained steadfastly. “I am an old man, weak and alone, completely at your mercy.” As he spoke, he rose and faced Irromar with the dignified power which only years passed in ruling men can give. “I think I have earned the reputation of knowing every move, every possibility of the game called state-craft, and I know the difference between a brutum fulmen, an empty threat, and the absolutely certain result of a well-planned and organized action. Before I left home, I set in motion the machinery for the alternative accomplishment of the purpose which brought me here. My reason for coming to you thus quietly and alone was to avoid making the episode public, to obviate an unhappy scandal.”

He drew himself up and fastened his fierce, undimmed eyes on the Count, who stood fumingly playing his waiting game with lessening prospect of success.

“One word more, Count, and only one, since I tire of stretching my patience to the length of your equivocation. Standing here before you, and recognizing your personal power over me, I tell you, even though they may be the last words my tongue may ever utter, that unless Princess Ruperta is produced and set free within the hour, this castle of yours shall, by this time to-morrow be a ruin, and yourself hanged before its walls.”

For a moment it seemed as though the contingency Rollmar had suggested might become an accomplished fact, and that provocative old man have the breath strangled out of him by those muscular hands. But from such a fate perhaps his host’s complex character saved him. After a few moments of ugly hesitation, the Count started away and took a turn across the room. Bold, unprincipled dare-devil that he was, he had yet a strong idea of the importance of his own welfare. In the midst of his discomfiture and consequent anger, he felt that he had to deal with no ordinary man, or even statesman. The threat which stirred up his rage might be a trick, but the chances were heavily against it. Chancellor Rollmar was, he knew, a man of action as well as of intrigue. The position was humiliating, and he cursed the chance that had brought upon him this fall for his pride, this humbling in his hitherto unbroken success in defying all who crossed his will. But the prize, although for the moment within his reach, was not for his grasping; he realized that, and that nothing now was left to him but to cover his yielding and minimise his defeat in the best manner his wit could suggest. And his shrewdness told him that it would be sheer waste of time and trouble were he to attempt to deceive his keen old adversary in the manner of accepting his defeat. To retire fighting would hardly serve to satisfy his own self-complacency. He had better make a clean surrender. So, when he turned again to his guest it was with a face almost laughingly genial.

“I scarcely think the impregnability of my house will be put to a test over this business, Excellency,” he said with, to all appearance, unruffled frankness. “But to one of your eminent shrewdness and perspicacity I need hardly explain the motives of my action and my caution in admitting it.”

As Rollmar’s sign of agreement suggested that he had put a rather different construction on the words from that which was intended, the Count was fain to explain them.

“I have done myself the honour to retain the Princess under my roof from motives of protection.”

“Ah!” Rollmar evidently accepted the statement for what it was worth.

“You will allow,” Irromar continued, with dogged complacency, “that the circumstances under which her Highness came under my roof were, to say the least, extraordinary, and might be held to excuse any ignorance or error on my part.”

“Assuredly, Count,” Rollmar agreed. “The circumstances were no doubt, peculiar.”

“They suggested caution, if not interference, on my part,” his host proceeded, “even before I was aware of the identity of my guests.”

“Certainly.”

The dominant feeling which now possessed the Count’s mind was intense curiosity. “The strange conduct and personality of the ladies’ companions were calculated to fill one with suspicion.”

He paused after his tentative speech, but Rollmar merely bowed his agreement.

“The circumstances and manner of the party’s arrival here were mysterious.”

Again he paused enquiringly, only to receive the same provoking, silent response.

“May I ask,” the Count said blandly, “since a mutual understanding has been established, and before I have the satisfaction of restoring the Princess to your guardianship, may I ask who the two men were who formed her escort?”

All this time, Rollmar had been turning over in his mind a certain idea which was closely connected with the subject of the other’s curiosity. And it resulted in his answering—

“Another surprise for you, Count, I fancy. Of Captain von Ompertz you know as much as I; the other was a man of some interest just now, namely, Prince Ludwig of Drax-Beroldstein.”

“Prince Ludwig? The man who should be King of Drax-Beroldstein?”

The Count was indeed surprised, and showed it the more unrestrainedly that there was no reason for its concealment.

“The same. Now the mystery is explained.”

“Indeed it is,” Irromar replied thoughtfully. “Had I only known it sooner, what trouble and cross-purposes would have been avoided. What lives spared. Prince Ludwig of Drax-Beroldstein.”

The Chancellor stood watching him in silence, an amused smile playing at his lips.

Presently the Count spoke again, as he got a better grasp of the situation. “The Princess runs away, then, with her intended husband; the one you have provided for her. Ah, doubtless to face the usurper, Prince Ferdinand.”

Rollmar’s smile deepened with a grim intent. “Ah, that is where the romance appears, romance not provided for in my scheme. I scarcely blame you, Count, that you have not yet threaded the maze. It has a deeper winding yet. What if the Princess should be ignorant of the fact that her lover is Prince Ludwig?”

“You are surely pleased to joke, Baron?”

“So far as my knowledge goes,” Rollmar maintained, “she does not know that he is more than Lieutenant von Bertheim.”

“Or perhaps she would not have fallen in love with him?”

“A shrewd deduction, Count. When one wishes a woman to go forward it is not a bad plan to draw her back. Now, you see the pretty affair into which chance has thrust you.”

Irromar laughed. “My house has indeed been honoured in receiving three such illustrious guests. The Princess of Waldavia, the renowned Chancellor von Rollmar and—I hardly know how to describe my third guest—a sovereign prince and yet no sovereign.”

His glance at Rollmar was suggestive of a question. The old man drew back the corners of his mouth in a significant smile.

“No sovereign, certainly, at present,” he responded.

The other was not slow at perceiving the hint.

“Have I, then, done you, after all, a service, Baron? Does that alter your plans? Or is my question indiscreet?”

Rollmar gave him a curiously indefinable look.

“My plan is an alliance between our Princess and the reigning King of Drax-Beroldstein,” he said quietly.