A prince of lovers

IT was with considerable surprise that King Ferdinand of Drax-Beroldstein, as yet scarcely settled comfortably into his snatched dignity, heard that the notorious law-defier and outlaw, Count Irromar, was at the palace, asking for a private audience on business of the utmost importance. Had the King been a strong man, or one who felt his position unassailable, he would probably have handed the noble brigand over to his officers of justice, congratulating himself on getting the most troublesome and dangerous of his subjects so cheaply in his power. But Ferdinand was neither. He was a weak man who had been unable to resist the chance, urged upon him by designing favourites, to seize a crown which for the moment seemed to be left without a wearer, and, having put it on his head, was now trembling inwardly at his own temerity. He could afford to despise no man, and his only strength came not from within, but was forced on him by circumstances from without. It was almost a weak man’s strength of desperation; no one can be so strong by fits and starts as your thoroughly feeble character who dare not show his weakness.

Then there was the haunting mystery of Ludwig’s disappearance. At every waking moment, Ferdinand told himself that his cousin was surely dead, but in his dreams, he was alive and seeking retribution. In spite of the assurances of all his friends and flatterers, Ferdinand found himself doubting every one, from his ministers to the soldiery. He dreaded to read in every new-comer’s face the solution of the mystery, the end of his day. Still, he had cast his die, the boats were burned behind him—foolishly, he told himself, since he might, by constituting himself regent, have grasped the power clean-handed—and now, as it was, there seemed nothing for it but to assume a resolution which he had not, and to keep by force what treachery had won. It had all seemed so easy and desirable, this pursuit of power, this scheming for a throne, in the days of preparation; when suddenly the coup had to be made, and responsibility to be assumed, it was not so pleasant.

Doubtless it was a shrewd knowledge of the usurper’s character that gave Irromar confidence to put his head into the lion’s mouth. At the same time, he was well armed, both for attack and defence, with the knowledge he held.

On receiving the somewhat astounding message, Ferdinand hesitated. His first impulse was that of the bully; to order the arrest of this formidable outlaw. Then his chronic feeling of insecurity prompted him to hear what the visitor had to communicate. Such a man had not come boldly there without good reason, and he could easily be arrested after the interview. Accordingly, he gave orders for a guard to be in readiness and for the Count to be admitted to an audience.

With an affectation of homage which scarcely concealed his bold confidence, Irromar entered the royal presence, and, having bowed low, stood before the Usurper in the easy fearlessness of conscious power. Ferdinand had a set frown on his sharp, gambler’s face; he might as well have thought to melt a rock by frowning at it, as thereby to intimidate the strong, reckless nature confronting him. Perhaps he felt this, as, with an effort at self-assertion, he bid the Count say what had brought him thither.

“I have come on a matter which is for your Majesty’s ear alone,” was the sturdy reply.

Ferdinand affected to hesitate, then motioned his curious circle to a distance. “Now speak out, Count, and briefly.”

But Irromar dropped his strong vibrating voice almost to a whisper, as he bent forward to the King. “It is of your Majesty’s cousin, Prince Ludwig, that I have come here to speak!”

He watched closely the effect of his words, and saw nothing but a curious, indefinable expression flash across his hearer’s face. But it was enough. And although Ferdinand’s next remark was made in a tone of studied indifference, Count Irromar knew that the hit was more than a touch.

“Well? You know, perhaps, what has become of him? His fate?”

Irromar bowed assent. “He is at this moment in my power: a prisoner in my castle in the Teufelswald.”

If the news gave Ferdinand an uncomfortable thrill, he did not show it. The pale face, with its stiff yellow moustache and beard, remained impassive. Only, in the eyes there was a light of fierce concern. Perhaps, after all, the knowledge that one phase of his uncertainty was at an end came as a relief to him.

“Well?” Ferdinand had now to use his cunning; he would let suggestions come from the other side.

“I thought,” the Count answered readily, “that the information might be of vital interest to your Majesty.”

“In what way, Count?”

“It is not for me to dictate the use your Majesty should make of it.” His guard was good; it would have to be drawn out and weakened.

“And yet I dare be sworn,” Ferdinand returned, with his cunning smile, “that you had a use for it in your mind, or you would hardly have ventured hither.”

Irromar understood the invitation. “Perhaps, sire, a use which may be to the advantage of both of us,” he replied coolly.

Ferdinand was leaning sideways in his chair, with his hand playing at his sparse beard; it was a demeanour of sly reserve. “We should like to have your views, Count, as to this double advantage,” he said.

“Certainly, sire,” Irromar replied, playing his part with every outward sign of deference. “You will, perhaps, graciously pardon me if I express them too bluntly; but the position and opportunity are critical, and plain speaking fits them best.”

Ferdinand gave a quick, impatient nod of authority, and the Count proceeded.

“The Prince, is, as I have said, my prisoner, secretly hidden away where no man, unless I choose, can ever find him. He fell into my hands by an accident, and the fact is practically a secret which need never be known, save to those whose interest would be to ignore it. To all intents, he is dead and buried. It is for your Majesty to say whether he shall ever come to life again.”

He paused. “Go on,” Ferdinand said curtly.

“As to your Majesty’s interest and wishes in the matter,” Irromar continued, in the same tone of guarded deference, which yet seemed to mock as it flattered, “I do not presume to make a suggestion, or anticipate what may be in your Majesty’s mind. All that I wish to put forward is my hearty willingness to serve you, sire, in this matter. And, that you may trust me.”

Ferdinand, revolving keenly the crisis, smiled with a purposeful scorn which hid the inner working of his mind. “Confidence in Count Irromar is a somewhat unreasonable demand, methinks,” he observed.

“Without a guarantee, yes?” was the ready rejoinder. “It suggests the second and minor advantage of the situation; that which affects my poor self.”

“Ah?” Ferdinand was indifferently curious. Perhaps he felt he could, if expedient, secure that guarantee without the Count’s active co-operation.

“The very disrepute of my antecedents,” Irromar went on, with the confidence arising from a strong position, “is, although it naturally appears to the contrary, the very guarantee for my liberty. Your Majesty is justly incredulous; but let me explain away the apparent absurdity. In a word, I am sick of my present outlawry, legal and moral. My one great desire is to rehabilitate myself, to take up once more the position to which I was born, and which, in my hot-headed madness, I chose to throw away. There is but one hand from which I can hope to receive back what I have squandered, the good name, the noble position; but one countenance to which I can look for pardon and favour. If once that hand is held out, that countenance turned favourably towards me, am I likely to reject that royal generosity and return to my dog’s life? Now, sire, have I made my meaning plain?”

“You have—quite plain,” Ferdinand answered. Then he paused, his manner seeming to command silence on the other’s part as well. Once or twice he glanced sharply at the Count’s face, that strong, keenly determined face. He was scheming rapidly, vaguely, uncomfortably. The crisis for which he had been preparing himself was, now that it had suddenly arisen, rather more than he could confidently meet. And his discomposure was due less to the urgency of the situation than to the manner of its announcement, and, above all, to the man who set it so boldly before him. For during the whole interview he had been oppressed and irritated by the sense of his inferiority to the Count, an inferiority none the less galling in that it was of evil; such better qualities as they may have possessed did not enter into the question. This man’s personality and character were dominant; their owner looked down from a higher plane of evil upon the weak tool of political intriguers, seated uneasily on his stolen throne.

But, apart from purely personal considerations, the manifest superiority forced this question upon Ferdinand. Would it be wise for him to put himself in the power of this resolute, cunning spirit? The Count’s argument was plausible enough, but what deep scheme might not lurk behind it? Had Irromar shown himself a weaker man, Ferdinand would probably have employed him to put his awkward cousin out of the way, and then taken the obvious means of securing his ever-lasting silence. But, somehow, as he looked at his visitor and mentally gauged him, he could not see in him an easy victim. Still, for the moment, power was on the King’s side, only he must, indeed, be careful how he let it slip away. At any rate, the matter was too difficult for an off-hand decision; he would take counsel with a more astute mind than his own; as it was, he and this master-spirit were unevenly matched. And in the meantime he would gratify and avenge his wounded vanity by showing his power.

So, with a deepening frown, he at length broke the tense pause.

“You are a bold man, Count, to come here and make this proposition to us. For what may have prompted you to this temerity, the wild life you have led may, perhaps, be responsible.”

Both men gave a smile, and the Count’s produced the effect which the King’s vainly intended.

“Nobody,” Ferdinand continued, “but yourself would have conceived so bold a step. No one in any but our position would have seemed to invite it.”

“Your Majesty will hardly blame me for seizing a chance so momentous to both,” Irromar returned, bluffly.

“At least,” Ferdinand replied, guardedly, “we cannot blame you for hastening to impart to us news so important. That may weigh with us in the view we shall take in our judgment of you.”

The Count was quick enough to see the line Ferdinand was taking, and, with the impetuosity of a strong, impatient nature, he set about brushing aside the barrier of shuffling behind which the King was entrenching himself.

“There is scarcely time or room for the question of judgment to come in, sire,” he said, emphatically. “I am a man of action, accustomed to go straightway to the point at issue. This matter clearly admits of no temporizing. Your Majesty’s judgment of me is at the moment of little consequence. My all-important quality is that I am the jailer of the one person in the world whose condition must supremely affect your Majesty’s welfare.”

“That,” replied Ferdinand, with a purposeful show of scorn, “is a matter upon which we do not invite your opinion. The King of Drax-Beroldstein must not be dictated to by the outlaw of the Teufelswald.”

The Count flushed purple. “The King——,” he began hotly, then checked the words at his lips. Doubtless he saw Ferdinand’s object in provoking him, and resolved to meet him at his own game. “I should be the last man to presume to usurp the functions of your Majesty’s advisers,” he said, with a significant smile, “or interfere, unbidden, with aught that concerns you. I fear that already, in my zeal, I may have been guilty of officiousness. Is it, then, your pleasure, sire, that I set Prince Ludwig free?”

Ferdinand had settled his course, and, that once accomplished, could keep to it firmly enough. “That,” he answered, with an assumption of dignity, “is a question for our advisers. It is not to be determined in a moment, certainly not at the suggestion of Count Irromar. We are not unmindful of your zeal, Count, and shall take it into consideration in dealing with you. But for the moment we must, as you will understand, at least make a show of doing our duty. You have set our laws at defiance, you have been the very scourge of a wide district of our kingdom. You”—and here a peculiar sneering smile spread over his face—“you, who have taken upon yourself so boldly to advise us, will recognize that we cannot afford to reward your long list of black deeds with immediate tokens of our favour. It would raise an easy and hideous suspicion. It would at once brand us as our cousin’s murderer. No! Policy of State must stand before all things, and that policy demands your arrest.”

All through the speech Irromar’s face had been growing darker, and at the last word he made a swift gesture of rage.

“Arrest? Your Majesty is joking!”

It was all he could say, but there was clearly no jest in Ferdinand’s crafty face as he signed to the group that, in scarcely veiled curiosity, stood apart. He had given his orders, and the men were ready. At a word from an alert official, Count Irromar, inwardly raging, and frowning threats, found himself surrounded and a prisoner.

“Your Majesty,” he cried darkly, “will do well to consider this step you are taking.”

Ferdinand waved his hand with a gesture of dismissal. “We will see you again, Count; you understand?” he said significantly, as he rose and walked away.