CHAPTER XIX. FOR OUR LOVE AND HER HONOR
RUPERT of Hentzau was dead! That was the thought which, among all our perplexities, came back to me, carrying with it a wonderful relief. To those who have not learnt in fighting against him the height of his audacity and the reach of his designs, it may well seem incredible that his death should breed comfort at a moment when the future was still so dark and uncertain. Yet to me it was so great a thing that I could hardly bring myself to the conviction that we had done with him. True, he was dead; but could he not strike a blow at us even from beyond the gulf?
Such were the half-superstitious thoughts that forced their way into my mind as I stood looking out on the crowd which obstinately encircled the front of the palace. I was alone; Rudolf was with the queen, my wife was resting, Bernenstein had sat down to a meal for which I could find no appetite. By an effort I freed myself from my fancies and tried to concentrate my brain on the facts of our position. We were ringed round with difficulties. To solve them was beyond my power; but I knew where my wish and longing lay. I had no desire to find means by which Rudolf Rassendyll should escape unknown from Strelsau; the king, although dead, be again in death the king, and the queen be left desolate on her mournful and solitary throne. It might be that a brain more astute than mine could bring all this to pass. My imagination would have none of it, but dwelt lovingly on the reign of him who was now king in Strelsau, declaring that to give the kingdom such a ruler would be a splendid fraud, and prove a stroke so bold as to defy detection. Against it stood only the suspicions of Mother Holf—fear or money would close her lips—and the knowledge of Bauer; Bauer’s mouth also could be shut, ay, and should be before we were many days older. My reverie led me far; I saw the future years unroll before me in the fair record of a great king’s sovereignty. It seemed to me that by the violence and bloodshed we had passed through, fate, for once penitent, was but righting the mistake made when Rudolf was not born a king.
For a long while I stood thus, musing and dreaming; I was roused by the sound of the door opening and closing; turning, I saw the queen. She was alone, and came towards me with timid steps. She looked out for a moment on the square and the people, but drew back suddenly in apparent fear lest they should see her. Then she sat down and turned her face towards mine. I read in her eyes something of the conflict of emotions which possessed her; she seemed at once to deprecate my disapproval and to ask my sympathy; she prayed me to be gentle to her fault and kind to her happiness; self-reproach shadowed her joy, but the golden gleam of it strayed through. I looked eagerly at her; this would not have been her bearing had she come from a last farewell; for the radiance was there, however much dimmed by sorrow and by fearfulness.
“Fritz,” she began softly, “I am wicked—so wicked. Won’t God punish me for my gladness?”
I fear I paid little heed to her trouble, though I can understand it well enough now.
“Gladness?” I cried in a low voice. “Then you’ve persuaded him?”
She smiled at me for an instant.
“I mean, you’ve agreed?” I stammered.
Her eyes again sought mine, and she said in a whisper: “Some day, not now. Oh, not now. Now would be too much. But some day, Fritz, if God will not deal too hardly with me, I—I shall be his, Fritz.”
I was intent on my vision, not on hers. I wanted him king; she did not care what he was, so that he was hers, so that he should not leave her.
“He’ll take the throne,” I cried triumphantly.
“No, no, no. Not the throne. He’s going away.”
“Going away!” I could not keep the dismay out of my voice.
“Yes, now. But not—not for ever. It will be long—oh, so long—but I can bear it, if I know that at last!” She stopped, still looking up at me with eyes that implored pardon and sympathy.
“I don’t understand,” said I, bluntly, and, I fear, gruffly, also.
“You were right,” she said: “I did persuade him. He wanted to go away again as he went before. Ought I to have let him? Yes, yes! But I couldn’t. Fritz, hadn’t I done enough? You don’t know what I’ve endured. And I must endure more still. For he will go now, and the time will be very long. But, at last, we shall be together. There is pity in God; we shall be together at last.”
“If he goes now, how can he come back?”
“He will not come back; I shall go to him. I shall give up the throne and go to him, some day, when I can be spared from here, when I’ve done my—my work.”
I was aghast at this shattering of my vision, yet I could not be hard to her. I said nothing, but took her hand and pressed it.
“You wanted him to be king?” she whispered.
“With all my heart, madam,” said I.
“He wouldn’t, Fritz. No, and I shouldn’t dare to do that, either.”
I fell back on the practical difficulties. “But how can he go?” I asked.
“I don’t know. But he knows; he has a plan.”
We fell again into silence; her eyes grew more calm, and seemed to look forward in patient hope to the time when her happiness should come to her. I felt like a man suddenly robbed of the exaltation of wine and sunk to dull apathy. “I don’t see how he can go,” I said sullenly.
She did not answer me. A moment later the door again opened. Rudolf came in, followed by Bernenstein. Both wore riding boots and cloaks. I saw on Bernenstein’s face just such a look of disappointment as I knew must be on mine. Rudolf seemed calm and even happy. He walked straight up to the queen.
“The horses will be ready in a few minutes,” he said gently. Then, turning to me, he asked, “You know what we’re going to do, Fritz?”
“Not I, sire,” I answered, sulkily.
“Not I, sire!” he repeated, in a half-merry, half-sad mockery. Then he came between Bernenstein and me and passed his arms through ours. “You two villains!” he said. “You two unscrupulous villains! Here you are, as rough as bears, because I won’t be a thief! Why have I killed young Rupert and left you rogues alive?”
I felt the friendly pressure of his hand on my arm. I could not answer him. With every word from his lips and every moment of his presence my sorrow grew keener that he would not stay. Bernenstein looked across at me and shrugged his shoulders despairingly. Rudolf gave a little laugh.
“You won’t forgive me for not being as great a rogue, won’t you?” he asked.
Well, I found nothing to say, but I took my arm out of his and clasped his hand. He gripped mine hard.
“That’s old Fritz!” he said; and he caught hold of Bernenstein’s hand, which the lieutenant yielded with some reluctance. “Now for the plan,” said he. “Bernenstein and I set out at once for the lodge—yes, publicly, as publicly as we can. I shall ride right through the people there, showing myself to as many as will look at me, and letting it be known to everybody where I’m going. We shall get there quite early to-morrow, before it’s light. There we shall find what you know. We shall find Sapt, too, and he’ll put the finishing touches to our plan for us. Hullo, what’s that?”
There was a sudden fresh shouting from the large crowd that still lingered outside the palace. I ran to the window, and saw a commotion in the midst of them. I flung the sash up. Then I heard a well-known, loud, strident voice: “Make way, you rascals, make way.”
I turned round again, full of excitement.
“It’s Sapt himself!” I said. “He’s riding like mad through the crowd, and your servant’s just behind him.”
“My God, what’s happened? Why have they left the lodge?” cried Bernenstein.
The queen looked up in startled alarm, and, rising to her feet, came and passed her arm through Rudolf’s. Thus we all stood, listening to the people good-naturedly cheering Sapt, whom they had recognized, and bantering James, whom they took for a servant of the constable’s.
The minutes seemed very long as we waited in utter perplexity, almost in consternation. The same thought was in the mind of all of us, silently imparted by one to another in the glances we exchanged. What could have brought them from their guard of the great secret, save its discovery? They would never have left their post while the fulfilment of their trust was possible. By some mishap, some unforeseen chance, the king’s body must have been discovered. Then the king’s death was known, and the news of it might any moment astonish and bewilder the city.
At last the door was flung open, and a servant announced the Constable of Zenda. Sapt was covered with dust and mud, and James, who entered close on his heels, was in no better plight. Evidently they had ridden hard and furiously; indeed they were still panting. Sapt, with a most perfunctory bow to the queen, came straight to where Rudolf stood.
“Is he dead?” he asked, without preface.
“Yes, Rupert is dead,” answered Mr. Rassendyll: “I killed him.”
“And the letter?”
“I burnt it.”
“And Rischenheim?”
The queen struck in.
“The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim will say and do nothing against me,” she said.
Sapt lifted his brows a little. “Well, and Bauer?” he asked.
“Bauer’s at large,” I answered.
“Hum! Well, it’s only Bauer,” said the constable, seeming tolerably well pleased. Then his eyes fell on Rudolf and Bernenstein. He stretched out his hand and pointed to their riding-boots. “Whither away so late at night?” he asked.
“First together to the lodge, to find you, then I alone to the frontier,” said Mr. Rassendyll.
“One thing at a time. The frontier will wait. What does your Majesty want with me at the lodge?”
“I want so to contrive that I shall be no longer your Majesty,” said Rudolf.
Sapt flung himself into a chair and took off his gloves.
“Come, tell me what has happened to-day in Strelsau,” he said.
We gave a short and hurried account. He listened with few signs of approval or disapproval, but I thought I saw a gleam in his eyes when I described how all the city had hailed Rudolf as its king and the queen received him as her husband before the eyes of all. Again the hope and vision, shattered by Rudolf’s calm resolution, inspired me. Sapt said little, but he had the air of a man with some news in reserve. He seemed to be comparing what we told him with something already known to him but unknown to us. The little servant stood all the while in respectful stillness by the door; but I could see by a glance at his alert face that he followed the whole scene with keen attention.
At the end of the story, Rudolf turned to Sapt. “And your secret—is it safe?” he asked.
“Ay, it’s safe enough!”
“Nobody has seen what you had to hide?”
“No; and nobody knows that the king is dead,” answered Sapt.
“Then what brings you here?”
“Why, the same thing that was about to bring you to the lodge: the need of a meeting between yourself and me, sire.”
“But the lodge—is it left unguarded?”
“The lodge is safe enough,” said Colonel Sapt.
Unquestionably there was a secret, a new secret, hidden behind the curt words and brusque manner. I could restrain myself no longer, and sprang forward, saying: “What is it? Tell us, Constable!”
He looked at me, then glanced at Mr. Rassendyll.
“I should like to hear your plan first,” he said to Rudolf. “How do you mean to account for your presence alive in the city to-day, when the king has lain dead in the shooting-box since last night?”
We drew close together as Rudolf began his answer. Sapt alone lay back in his chair. The queen also had resumed her seat; she seemed to pay little heed to what we said. I think that she was still engrossed with the struggle and tumult in her own soul. The sin of which she accused herself, and the joy to which her whole being sprang in a greeting which would not be abashed, were at strife between themselves, but joined hands to exclude from her mind any other thought.
“In an hour I must be gone from here,” began Rudolf.
“If you wish that, it’s easy,” observed Colonel Sapt.
“Come, Sapt, be reasonable,” smiled Mr. Rassendyll. “Early to-morrow, we—you and I—”
“Oh, I also?” asked the colonel.
“Yes; you, Bernenstein, and I will be at the lodge.”
“That’s not impossible, though I have had nearly enough riding.”
Rudolf fixed his eyes firmly on Sapt’s.
“You see,” he said, “the king reaches his hunting-lodge early in the morning.”
“I follow you, sire.”
“And what happens there, Sapt? Does he shoot himself accidentally?”
“Well, that happens sometimes.”
“Or does an assassin kill him?”
“Eh, but you’ve made the best assassin unavailable.”
Even at this moment I could not help smiling at the old fellow’s surly wit and Rudolf’s amused tolerance of it.
“Or does his faithful attendant, Herbert, shoot him?”
“What, make poor Herbert a murderer!”
“Oh, no! By accident—and then, in remorse, kill himself.”
“That’s very pretty. But doctors have awkward views as to when a man can have shot himself.”
“My good Constable, doctors have palms as well as ideas. If you fill the one you supply the other.”
“I think,” said Sapt, “that both the plans are good. Suppose we choose the latter, what then?”
“Why, then, by to-morrow at midday the news flashes through Ruritania—yes, and through Europe—that the king, miraculously preserved to-day—”
“Praise be to God!” interjected Colonel Sapt; and young Bernenstein laughed.
“Has met a tragic end.”
“It will occasion great grief,” said Sapt.
“Meanwhile, I am safe over the frontier.”
“Oh, you are quite safe?”
“Absolutely. And in the afternoon of to-morrow, you and Bernenstein will set out for Strelsau, bringing with you the body of the king.” And Rudolf, after a pause, whispered, “You must shave his face. And if the doctors want to talk about how long he’s been dead, why, they have, as I say, palms.”
Sapt sat silent for a while, apparently considering the scheme. It was risky enough in all conscience, but success had made Rudolf bold, and he had learnt how slow suspicion is if a deception be bold enough. It is only likely frauds that are detected.
“Well, what do you say?” asked Mr. Rassendyll. I observed that he said nothing to Sapt of what the queen and he had determined to do afterwards.
Sapt wrinkled his forehead. I saw him glance at James, and the slightest, briefest smile showed on James’s face.
“It’s dangerous, of course,” pursued Rudolf. “But I believe that when they see the king’s body—”
“That’s the point,” interrupted Sapt. “They can’t see the king’s body.”
Rudolf looked at him with some surprise. Then speaking in a low voice, lest the queen should hear and be distressed, he went on: “You must prepare it, you know. Bring it here in a shell; only a few officials need see the face.”
Sapt rose to his feet and stood facing Mr. Rassendyll.
“The plan’s a pretty one, but it breaks down at one point,” said he in a strange voice, even harsher than his was wont to be. I was on fire with excitement, for I would have staked my life now that he had some strange tidings for us. “There is no body,” said he.
Even Mr. Rassendyll’s composure gave way. He sprang forward, catching Sapt by the arm.
“No body? What do you mean?” he exclaimed.
Sapt cast another glance at James, and then began in an even, mechanical voice, as though he were reading a lesson he had learnt, or playing a part that habit made familiar:
“That poor fellow Herbert carelessly left a candle burning where the oil and the wood were kept,” he said. “This afternoon, about six, James and I lay down for a nap after our meal. At about seven James came to my side and roused me. My room was full of smoke. The lodge was ablaze. I darted out of bed: the fire had made too much headway; we could not hope to quench it; we had but one thought!” He suddenly paused, and looked at James.
“But one thought, to save our companion,” said James gravely.
“But one thought, to save our companion. We rushed to the door of the room where he was. I opened the door and tried to enter. It was certain death. James tried, but fell back. Again I rushed in. James pulled me back: it was but another death. We had to save ourselves. We gained the open air. The lodge was a sheet of flame. We could do nothing but stand watching, till the swiftly burning wood blackened to ashes and the flames died down. As we watched we knew that all in the cottage must be dead. What could we do? At last James started off in the hope of getting help. He found a party of charcoal-burners, and they came with him. The flames were burnt down now; and we and they approached the charred ruins. Everything was in ashes. But”—he lowered his voice—“we found what seemed to be the body of Boris the hound; in another room was a charred corpse, whose hunting-horn, melted to a molten mass, told us that it had been Herbert the forester. And there was another corpse, almost shapeless, utterly unrecognizable. We saw it; the charcoal-burners saw it. Then more peasants came round, drawn by the sight of the flames. None could tell who it was; only I and James knew. And we mounted our horses and have ridden here to tell the king.”
Sapt finished his lesson or his story. A sob burst from the queen, and she hid her face in her hands. Bernenstein and I, amazed at this strange tale, scarcely understanding whether it were jest or earnest, stood staring stupidly at Sapt. Then I, overcome by the strange thing, turned half-foolish by the bizarre mingling of comedy and impressiveness in Sapt’s rendering of it, plucked him by the sleeve, and asked, with something between a laugh and a gasp:
“Who had that other corpse been, Constable?”
He turned his small, keen eyes on me in persistent gravity and unflinching effrontery.
“A Mr. Rassendyll, a friend of the king’s, who with his servant James was awaiting his Majesty’s return from Strelsau. His servant here is ready to start for England, to tell Mr. Rassendyll’s relatives the news.”
The queen had begun to listen before now; her eyes were fixed on Sapt, and she had stretched out one arm to him, as if imploring him to read her his riddle. But a few words had in truth declared his device plainly enough in all its simplicity. Rudolf Rassendyll was dead, his body burnt to a cinder, and the king was alive, whole, and on his throne in Strelsau. Thus had Sapt caught from James, the servant, the infection of his madness, and had fulfilled in action the strange imagination which the little man had unfolded to him in order to pass their idle hours at the lodge.
Suddenly Mr. Rassendyll spoke in clear, short tones.
“This is all a lie, Sapt,” said he, and his lips curled in contemptuous amusement.
“It’s no lie that the lodge is burnt, and the bodies in it, and that half a hundred of the peasants know it, and that no man could tell the body for the king’s. As for the rest, it is a lie. But I think the truth in it is enough to serve.”
The two men stood facing one another with defiant eyes. Rudolf had caught the meaning of the great and audacious trick which Sapt and his companion had played. It was impossible now to bring the king’s body to Strelsau; it seemed no less impossible to declare that the man burnt in the lodge was the king. Thus Sapt had forced Rudolf’s hand; he had been inspired by the same vision as we, and endowed with more unshrinking boldness. But when I saw how Rudolf looked at him, I did not know but that they would go from the queen’s presence set on a deadly quarrel. Mr. Rassendyll, however, mastered his temper.
“You’re all bent on having me a rascal,” he said coldly. “Fritz and Bernenstein here urge me; you, Sapt, try to force me. James, there, is in the plot, for all I know.”
“I suggested it, sir,” said James, not defiantly or with disrespect, but as if in simple dutiful obedience to his master’s implied question.
“As I thought—all of you! Well, I won’t be forced. I see now that there’s no way out of this affair, save one. That one I’ll follow.”
We none of us spoke, but waited till he should be pleased to continue.
“Of the queen’s letter I need say nothing and will say nothing,” he pursued. “But I will tell them that I’m not the king, but Rudolf Rassendyll, and that I played the king only in order to serve the queen and punish Rupert of Hentzau. That will serve, and it will cut this net of Sapt’s from about my limbs.”
He spoke firmly and coldly; so that when I looked at him I was amazed to see how his lips twitched and that his forehead was moist with sweat. Then I understood what a sudden, swift, and fearful struggle he had suffered, and how the great temptation had wrung and tortured him before he, victorious, had set the thing behind him. I went to him and clasped his hand: this action of mine seemed to soften him.
“Sapt, Sapt,” he said, “you almost made a rogue of me.”
Sapt did not respond to his gentler mood. He had been pacing angrily up and down the room. Now he stopped abruptly before Rudolf, and pointed with his finger at the queen.
“I make a rogue of you?” he exclaimed. “And what do you make of our queen, whom we all serve? What does this truth that you’ll tell make of her? Haven’t I heard how she greeted you before all Strelsau as her husband and her love? Will they believe that she didn’t know her husband? Ay, you may show yourself, you may say they didn’t know you. Will they believe she didn’t? Was the king’s ring on your finger? Where is it? And how comes Mr. Rassendyll to be at Fritz von Tarlenheim’s for hours with the queen, when the king is at his hunting lodge? A king has died already, and two men besides, to save a word against her. And you—you’ll be the man to set every tongue in Strelsau talking, and every finger pointing in suspicion at her?”
Rudolf made no answer. When Sapt had first uttered the queen’s name, he had drawn near and let his hand fall over the back of her chair. She put hers up to meet it, and so they remained. But I saw that Rudolf’s face had gone very pale.
“And we, your friends?” pursued Sapt. “For we’ve stood by you as we’ve stood by the queen, by God we have—Fritz, and young Bernenstein here, and I. If this truth’s told, who’ll believe that we were loyal to the king, that we didn’t know, that we weren’t accomplices in the tricking of the king—maybe, in his murder? Ah, Rudolf Rassendyll, God preserve me from a conscience that won’t let me be true to the woman I love, or to the friends who love me!”
I had never seen the old fellow so moved; he carried me with him, as he carried Bernenstein. I know now that we were too ready to be convinced; rather that, borne along by our passionate desire, we needed no convincing at all. His excited appeal seemed to us an argument. At least the danger to the queen, on which he dwelt, was real and true and great.
Then a sudden change came over him. He caught Rudolf’s hand and spoke to him again in a low, broken voice, an unwonted softness transforming his harsh tones.
“Lad,” he said, “don’t say no. Here’s the finest lady alive sick for her lover, and the finest country in the world sick for its true king, and the best friends—ay, by Heaven, the best friends—man ever had, sick to call you master. I know nothing about your conscience; but this I know: the king’s dead, and the place is empty; and I don’t see what Almighty God sent you here for unless it was to fill it. Come, lad—for our love and her honor! While he was alive I’d have killed you sooner than let you take it. He’s dead. Now—for our love and her honor, lad!”
I do not know what thoughts passed in Mr. Rassendyll’s mind. His face was set and rigid. He made no sign when Sapt finished, but stood as he was, motionless, for a long while. Then he slowly bent his head and looked down into the queen’s eyes. For a while she sat looking back into his. Then, carried away by the wild hope of immediate joy, and by her love for him and her pride in the place he was offered, she sprang up and threw herself at his feet, crying:
“Yes, yes! For my sake, Rudolf—for my sake!”
“Are you, too, against me, my queen?” he murmured caressing her ruddy hair.
CHAPTER XX. THE DECISION OF HEAVEN
WE were half mad that night, Sapt and Bernenstein and I. The thing seemed to have got into our blood and to have become part of ourselves. For us it was inevitable—nay, it was done. Sapt busied himself in preparing the account of the fire at the hunting-lodge; it was to be communicated to the journals, and it told with much circumstantiality how Rudolf Rassendyll had come to visit the king, with James his servant, and, the king being summoned unexpectedly to the capital, had been awaiting his Majesty’s return when he met his fate. There was a short history of Rudolf, a glancing reference to his family, a dignified expression of condolence with his relatives, to whom the king was sending messages of deepest regret by the hands of Mr. Rassendyll’s servant. At another table young Bernenstein was drawing up, under the constable’s direction, a narrative of Rupert of Hentzau’s attempt on the king’s life and the king’s courage in defending himself. The count, eager to return (so it ran), had persuaded the king to meet him by declaring that he held a state-document of great importance and of a most secret nature; the king, with his habitual fearlessness, had gone alone, but only to refuse with scorn Count Rupert’s terms. Enraged at this unfavorable reception, the audacious criminal had made a sudden attack on the king, with what issue all knew. He had met his own death, while the king, perceiving from a glance at the document that it compromised well-known persons, had, with the nobility which marked him, destroyed it unread before the eyes of those who were rushing in to his rescue. I supplied suggestions and improvements; and, engrossed in contriving how to blind curious eyes, we forgot the real and permanent difficulties of the thing we had resolved upon. For us they did not exist; Sapt met every objection by declaring that the thing had been done once and could be done again. Bernenstein and I were not behind him in confidence.
We would guard the secret with brain and hand and life, even as we had guarded and kept the secret of the queen’s letter, which would now go with Rupert of Hentzau to his grave. Bauer we could catch and silence: nay, who would listen to such a tale from such a man? Rischenheim was ours; the old woman would keep her doubts between her teeth for her own sake. To his own land and his own people Rudolf must be dead while the King of Ruritania would stand before all Europe recognized, unquestioned, unassailed. True, he must marry the queen again; Sapt was ready with the means, and would hear nothing of the difficulty and risk in finding a hand to perform the necessary ceremony. If we quailed in our courage: we had but to look at the alternative, and find recompense for the perils of what we meant to undertake by a consideration of the desperate risk involved in abandoning it. Persuaded that the substitution of Rudolf for the king was the only thing that would serve our turn, we asked no longer whether it was possible, but sought only the means to make it safe.
But Rudolf himself had not spoken. Sapt’s appeal and the queen’s imploring cry had shaken but not overcome him; he had wavered, but he was not won. Yet there was no talk of impossibility or peril in his mouth, any more than in ours: those were not what gave him pause. The score on which he hesitated was whether the thing should be done, not whether it could; our appeals were not to brace a failing courage, but cajole a sturdy sense of honor which found the imposture distasteful so soon as it seemed to serve a personal end. To serve the king he had played the king in old days, but he did not love to play the king when the profit of it was to be his own. Hence he was unmoved till his care for the fair fame of the queen and the love of his friends joined to buffet his resolution.
Then he faltered; but he had not fallen. Yet Colonel Sapt did all as though he had given his assent, and watched the last hours in which his flight from Strelsau was possible go quickly by with more than equanimity. Why hurry Rudolf’s resolve? Every moment shut him closer in the trap of an inevitable choice. With every hour that he was called the king, it became more impossible for him to bear any other name all his days. Therefore Sapt let Mr. Rassendyll doubt and struggle, while he himself wrote his story and laid his long-headed plans. And now and then James, the little servant, came in and went out, sedate and smug, but with a quiet satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. He had made a story for a pastime, and it was being translated into history. He at least would bear his part in it unflinchingly.
Before now the queen had left us, persuaded to lie down and try to rest till the matter should be settled. Stilled by Rudolf’s gentle rebuke, she had urged him no more in words, but there was an entreaty in her eyes stronger than any spoken prayer, and a piteousness in the lingering of her hand in his harder to resist than ten thousand sad petitions. At last he had led her from the room and commended her to Helga’s care. Then, returning to us, he stood silent a little while. We also were silent, Sapt sitting and looking up at him with his brows knit and his teeth restlessly chewing the moustache on his lip.
“Well, lad?” he said at last, briefly putting the great question. Rudolf walked to the window and seemed to lose himself for a moment in the contemplation of the quiet night. There were no more than a few stragglers in the street now; the moon shone white and clear on the empty square.
“I should like to walk up and down outside and think it over,” he said, turning to us; and, as Bernenstein sprang up to accompany him, he added, “No. Alone.”
“Yes, do,” said old Sapt, with a glance at the clock, whose hands were now hard on two o’clock. “Take your time, lad, take your time.”
Rudolf looked at him and broke into a smile.
“I’m not your dupe, old Sapt,” said he, shaking his head. “Trust me, if I decide to get away, I’ll get away, be it what o’clock it will.”
“Yes, confound you!” grinned Colonel Sapt.
So he left us, and then came that long time of scheming and planning, and most persistent eye-shutting, in which occupations an hour wore its life away. Rudolf had not passed out of the porch, and we supposed that he had betaken himself to the gardens, there to fight his battle. Old Sapt, having done his work, suddenly turned talkative.
“That moon there,” he said, pointing his square, thick forefinger at the window, “is a mighty untrustworthy lady. I’ve known her wake a villain’s conscience before now.”
“I’ve known her send a lover’s to sleep,” laughed young Bernenstein, rising from his table, stretching himself, and lighting a cigar.
“Ay, she’s apt to take a man out of what he is,” pursued old Sapt. “Set a quiet man near her, and he dreams of battle; an ambitious fellow, after ten minutes of her, will ask nothing better than to muse all his life away. I don’t trust her, Fritz; I wish the night were dark.”
“What will she do to Rudolf Rassendyll?” I asked, falling in with the old fellow’s whimsical mood.
“He will see the queen’s face in hers,” cried Bernenstein.
“He may see God’s,” said Sapt; and he shook himself as though an unwelcome thought had found its way to his mind and lips.
A pause fell on us, born of the colonel’s last remark. We looked one another in the face. At last Sapt brought his hand down on the table with a bang.
“I’ll not go back,” he said sullenly, almost fiercely.
“Nor I,” said Bernenstein, drawing himself up. “Nor you, Tarlenheim?”
“No, I also go on,” I answered. Then again there was a moment’s silence.
“She may make a man soft as a sponge,” reflected Sapt, starting again, “or hard as a bar of steel. I should feel safer if the night were dark. I’ve looked at her often from my tent and from bare ground, and I know her. She got me a decoration, and once she came near to making me turn tail. Have nothing to do with her, young Bernenstein.”
“I’ll keep my eyes for beauties nearer at hand,” said Bernenstein, whose volatile temper soon threw off a serious mood.
“There’s a chance for you, now Rupert of Hentzau’s gone,” said Sapt grimly.
As he spoke there was a knock at the door. When it opened James entered.
“The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim begs to be allowed to speak with the king,” said James.
“We expect his Majesty every moment. Beg the count to enter,” Sapt answered; and, when Rischenheim came in, he went on, motioning the count to a chair: “We are talking, my lord, of the influence of the moon on the careers of men.”
“What are you going to do? What have you decided?” burst out Rischenheim impatiently.
“We decide nothing,” answered Sapt.
“Then what has Mr.—what has the king decided?”
“The king decides nothing, my lord. She decides,” and the old fellow pointed again through the window towards the moon. “At this moment she makes or unmakes a king; but I can’t tell you which. What of your cousin?”
“You know that my cousin’s dead.”
“Yes, I know that. What of him, though?”
“Sir,” said Rischenheim with some dignity, “since he is dead, let him rest in peace. It is not for us to judge him.”
“He may well wish it were. For, by Heaven, I believe I should let the rogue off,” said Colonel Sapt, “and I don’t think his Judge will.”
“God forgive him, I loved him,” said Rischenheim. “Yes, and many have loved him. His servants loved him, sir.”
“Friend Bauer, for example?”
“Yes, Bauer loved him. Where is Bauer?”
“I hope he’s gone to hell with his loved master,” grunted Sapt, but he had the grace to lower his voice and shield his mouth with his hand, so that Rischenheim did not hear.
“We don’t know where he is,” I answered.
“I am come,” said Rischenheim, “to put my services in all respects at the queen’s disposal.”
“And at the king’s?” asked Sapt.
“At the king’s? But the king is dead.”
“Therefore ‘Long live the king!’” struck in young Bernenstein.
“If there should be a king—” began Sapt.
“You’ll do that?” interrupted Rischenheim in breathless agitation.
“She is deciding,” said Colonel Sapt, and again he pointed to the moon.
“But she’s a plaguey long time about it,” remarked Lieutenant von Bernenstein.
Rischenheim sat silent for a moment. His face was pale, and when he spoke his voice trembled. But his words were resolute enough.
“I gave my honor to the queen, and even in that I will serve her if she commands me.”
Bernenstein sprang forward and caught him by the hand. “That’s what I like,” said he, “and damn the moon, colonel!” His sentence was hardly out of his mouth when the door opened, and to our astonishment the queen entered. Helga was just behind her; her clasped hands and frightened eyes seemed to protest that their coming was against her will. The queen was clad in a long white robe, and her hair hung on her shoulders, being but loosely bound with a ribbon. Her air showed great agitation, and without any greeting or notice of the rest she walked quickly across the room to me.
“The dream, Fritz,” she said. “It has come again. Helga persuaded me to lie down, and I was very tired, so at last I fell asleep. Then it came. I saw him, Fritz—I saw him as plainly as I see you. They all called him king, as they did to-day; but they did not cheer. They were quiet, and looked at him with sad faces. I could not hear what they said; they spoke in hushed voices. I heard nothing more than ‘the king, the king,’ and he seemed to hear not even that. He lay still; he was lying on something, something covered with hanging stuff, I couldn’t see what it was; yes, quite still. His face was so pale, and he didn’t hear them say ‘the king.’ Fritz, Fritz, he looked as if he were dead! Where is he? Where have you let him go?”
She turned from me and her eyes flashed over the rest. “Where is he? Why aren’t you with him?” she demanded, with a sudden change of tone; “why aren’t you round him? You should be between him and danger, ready to give your lives for his. Indeed, gentlemen, you take your duty lightly.”
It might be that there was little reason in her words. There appeared to be no danger threatening him, and after all he was not our king, much as we desired to make him such. Yet we did not think of any such matter. We were abashed before her reproof and took her indignation as deserved. We hung our heads, and Sapt’s shame betrayed itself in the dogged sullenness of his answer.
“He has chosen to go walking, madam, and to go alone. He ordered us—I say, he ordered us not to come. Surely we are right to obey him?” The sarcastic inflection of his voice conveyed his opinion of the queen’s extravagance.
“Obey him? Yes. You couldn’t go with him if he forbade you. But you should follow him; you should keep him in sight.”
This much she spoke in proud tones and with a disdainful manner, but then came a sudden return to her former bearing. She held out her hands towards me, wailing:
“Fritz, where is he? Is he safe? Find him for me, Fritz; find him.”
“I’ll find him for you if he’s above ground, madam,” I cried, for her appeal touched me to the heart.
“He’s no farther off than the gardens,” grumbled old Sapt, still resentful of the queen’s reproof and scornful of the woman’s agitation. He was also out of temper with Rudolf himself, because the moon took so long in deciding whether she would make or unmake a king.
“The gardens!” she cried. “Then let us look for him. Oh, you’ve let him walk in the gardens alone?”
“What should harm the fellow?” muttered Sapt.
She did not hear him, for she had swept out of the room. Helga went with her, and we all followed, Sapt behind the rest of us, still very surly. I heard him grumbling away as we ran downstairs, and, having passed along the great corridor, came to the small saloon that opened on the gardens. There were no servants about, but we encountered a night-watchman, and Bernenstein snatched the lantern from the astonished man’s hand.
Save for the dim light thus furnished, the room was dark. But outside the windows the moon streamed brightly down on the broad gravel walk, on the formal flower-beds, and the great trees in the gardens. The queen made straight for the window. I followed her, and, having flung the window open, stood by her. The air was sweet, and the breeze struck with grateful coolness on my face. I saw that Sapt had come near and stood on the other side of the queen. My wife and the others were behind, looking out where our shoulders left space.
There, in the bright moonlight, on the far side of the broad terrace, close by the line of tall trees that fringed its edge, we saw Rudolf Rassendyll pacing slowly up and down, with his hands behind his back and his eyes fixed on the arbiter of his fate, on her who was to make him a king or send him a fugitive from Strelsau.
“There he is, madam,” said Sapt. “Safe enough!”
The queen did not answer. Sapt said no more, and of the rest of us none spoke. We stood watching him as he struggled with his great issue; a greater surely has seldom fallen to the lot of any man born in a private station. Yet I could read little of it on the face that the rays of white light displayed so clearly, although they turned his healthy tints to a dull gray, and gave unnatural sharpness to his features against the deep background of black foliage.
I heard the queen’s quick breathing, but there was scarcely another sound. I saw her clutch her gown and pull it away a little from her throat; save for that none in the group moved. The lantern’s light was too dim to force notice from Mr. Rassendyll. Unconscious of our presence, he wrestled with fate that night in the gardens.
Suddenly the faintest exclamation came from Sapt. He put his hand back and beckoned to Bernenstein. The young man handed his lantern to the constable, who set it close to the side of the window-frame. The queen, absolutely engrossed in her lover, saw nothing, but I perceived what had caught Sapt’s attention. There were scores on the paint and indentations in the wood, just at the edge of the panel and near the lock. I glanced at Sapt, who nodded his head. It looked very much as though somebody had tried to force the door that night, employing a knife which had dented the woodwork and scratched the paint. The least thing was enough to alarm us, standing where we stood, and the constable’s face was full of suspicion. Who had sought an entrance? It could be no trained and practised housebreaker; he would have had better tools.
But now our attention was again diverted. Rudolf stopped short. He still looked for a moment at the sky, then his glance dropped to the ground at his feet. A second later he jerked his head—it was bare, and I saw the dark red hair stir with the movement—like a man who has settled something which caused him a puzzle. In an instant we knew, by the quick intuition of contagious emotion, that the question had found its answer. He was by now king or a fugitive. The Lady of the Skies had given her decision. The thrill ran through us; I felt the queen draw herself together at my side; I felt the muscles of Rischenheim’s arm which rested against my shoulder grow rigid and taut. Sapt’s face was full of eagerness, and he gnawed his moustache silently. We gathered closer to one another. At last we could bear the suspense no longer. With one look at the queen and another at me, Sapt stepped on to the gravel. He would go and learn the answer; thus the unendurable strain that had stretched us like tortured men on a rack would be relieved. The queen did not answer his glance, nor even seem to see that he had moved. Her eyes were still all for Mr. Rassendyll, her thoughts buried in his; for her happiness was in his hands and lay poised on the issue of that decision whose momentousness held him for a moment motionless on the path. Often I seem to see him as he stood there, tall, straight, and stately, the king a man’s fancy paints when he reads of great monarchs who flourished long ago in the springtime of the world.
Sapt’s step crunched on the gravel. Rudolf heard it and turned his head. He saw Sapt, and he saw me also behind Sapt. He smiled composedly and brightly, but he did not move from where he was. He held out both hands towards the constable and caught him in their double grasp, still smiling down in his face. I was no nearer to reading his decision, though I saw that he had reached a resolution that was immovable and gave peace to his soul. If he meant to go on he would go on now, on to the end, without a backward look or a falter of his foot; if he had chosen the other way, he would depart without a murmur or a hesitation. The queen’s quick breathing had ceased, she seemed like a statue; but Rischenheim moved impatiently, as though he could no longer endure the waiting.
Sapt’s voice came harsh and grating.
“Well?” he cried. “Which is it to be—backward or forward?” Rudolf pressed his hands and looked into his eyes. The answer asked but a word from him. The queen caught my arm; her rigid limbs seemed to give way, and she would have fallen if I had not supported her. At the same instant a man sprang out of the dark line of tall trees, directly behind Mr. Rassendyll. Bernenstein uttered a loud startled cry and rushed forward, pushing the queen herself violently out of his path. His hand flew to his side, and he ripped the heavy cavalry sword that belonged to his uniform of the Cuirassiers of the Guard from its sheath. I saw it flash in the moonlight, but its flash was quenched in a brighter short blaze. A shot rang out through the quiet gardens. Mr. Rassendyll did not loose his hold of Sapt’s hands, but he sank slowly on to his knees. Sapt seemed paralyzed.
Again Bernenstein cried out. It was a name this time. “Bauer! By God, Bauer!” he cried.
In an instant he was across the path and by the trees. The assassin fired again, but now he missed. We saw the great sword flash high above Bernenstein’s head and heard it whistle through the air. It crashed on the crown of Bauer’s head, and he fell like a log to the ground with his skull split. The queen’s hold on me relaxed; she sank into Rischenheim’s arms. I ran forward and knelt by Mr. Rassendyll. He still held Sapt’s hands, and by their help buoyed himself up. But when he saw me he let go of them and sank back against me, his head resting on my chest. He moved his lips, but seemed unable to speak. He was shot through the back. Bauer had avenged the master whom he loved, and was gone to meet him.
There was a sudden stir from inside the palace. Shutters were flung back and windows thrown open. The group we made stood clean-cut, plainly visible in the moonlight. A moment later there was a rush of eager feet, and we were surrounded by officers and servants. Bernenstein stood by me now, leaning on his sword; Sapt had not uttered a word; his face was distorted with horror and bitterness. Rudolf’s eyes were closed and his head lay back against me.
“A man has shot the king,” said I, in bald, stupid explanation.
All at once I found James, Mr. Rassendyll’s servant, by me.
“I have sent for doctors, my lord,” he said. “Come, let us carry him in.”
He, Sapt and I lifted Rudolf and bore him across the gravel terrace and into the little saloon. We passed the queen. She was leaning on Rischenheim’s arm, and held my wife’s hand. We laid Rudolf down on a couch. Outside I heard Bernenstein say, “Pick up that fellow and carry him somewhere out of sight.” Then he also came in, followed by a crowd. He sent them all to the door, and we were left alone, waiting for the surgeon. The queen came up, Rischenheim still supporting her. “Rudolf! Rudolf!” she whispered, very softly.
He opened his eyes, and his lips bent in a smile. She flung herself on her knees and kissed his hand passionately. “The surgeon will be here directly,” said I.
Rudolf’s eyes had been on the queen. As I spoke he looked up at me, smiled again, and shook his head. I turned away.
When the surgeon came Sapt and I assisted him in his examination. The queen had been led away, and we were alone. The examination was very short. Then we carried Rudolf to a bed; the nearest chanced to be in Bernenstein’s room; there we laid him, and there all that could be done for him was done. All this time we had asked no questions of the surgeon, and he had given no information. We knew too well to ask: we had all seen men die before now, and the look on the face was familiar to us. Two or three more doctors, the most eminent in Strelsau, came now, having been hastily summoned. It was their right to be called; but, for all the good they were, they might have been left to sleep the night out in their beds. They drew together in a little group at the end of the room and talked for a few minutes in low tones. James lifted his master’s head and gave him a drink of water. Rudolf swallowed it with difficulty. Then I saw him feebly press James’s hand, for the little man’s face was full of sorrow. As his master smiled the servant mustered a smile in answer. I crossed over to the doctors. “Well, gentlemen?” I asked.
They looked at one another, then the greatest of them said gravely:
“The king may live an hour, Count Fritz. Should you not send for a priest?”
I went straight back to Rudolf Rassendyll. His eyes greeted me and questioned me. He was a man, and I played no silly tricks with him. I bent down and said: “An hour, they think, Rudolf.”
He made one restless movement, whether of pain or protest I do not know. Then he spoke, very low, slowly, and with difficulty.
“Then they can go,” he said; and when I spoke of a priest he shook his head.
I went back to them and asked if anything more could be done. The answer was nothing; but I could not prevail further than to get all save one sent into an adjoining room; he who remained seated himself at a table some way off. Rudolf’s eyes had closed again; old Sapt, who had not once spoken since the shot was fired, raised a haggard face to mine.
“We’d better fetch her to him,” he said hoarsely. I nodded my head.
Sapt went while I stayed by him. Bernenstein came to him, bent down, and kissed his hand. The young fellow, who had borne himself with such reckless courage and dash throughout the affair, was quite unmanned now, and the tears were rolling down his face. I could have been much in the same plight, but I would not before Mr. Rassendyll. He smiled at Bernenstein. Then he said to me:
“Is she coming, Fritz?”
“Yes, she’s coming, sire,” I answered.
He noticed the style of my address; a faint amused gleam shot into his languid eyes.
“Well, for an hour, then,” he murmured, and lay back on his pillows.
She came, dry-eyed, calm, and queenly. We all drew back, and she knelt down by his bed, holding his hand in her two hands. Presently the hand stirred; she let it go; then, knowing well what he wanted, she raised it herself and placed it on her head, while she bowed her face to the bed. His hand wandered for the last time over the gleaming hair that he had loved so well. She rose, passed her arm about his shoulders, and kissed his lips. Her face rested close to his, and he seemed to speak to her, but we could not have heard the words even if we would. So they remained for a long while.
The doctor came and felt his pulse, retreating afterwards with close-shut lips. We drew a little nearer, for we knew that he would not be long with us now. Suddenly strength seemed to come upon him. He raised himself in his bed, and spoke in distinct tones.
“God has decided,” he said. “I’ve tried to do the right thing through it all. Sapt, and Bernenstein, and you, old Fritz, shake my hand. No, don’t kiss it. We’ve done with pretence now.”
We shook his hand as he bade us. Then he took the queen’s hand. Again she knew his mind, and moved it to his lips. “In life and in death, my sweet queen,” he murmured. And thus he fell asleep.