The Scene is a hall or corridor, lying between two conservatories, one on the right, the other on the left. Besides plants and other ornaments, the corridor is furnished with a couch and a small round table with an arm-chair by it. The time is between eleven and twelve in the evening.
Mr Marchesson’s back is visible in the doorway leading to the conservatory on the right.
MR M. (Speaking to unseen person in the conservatory.) So awfully sorry, but I absolutely promised to meet a man at the club. (Pause.) Beg pardon? Oh, a fellow named Smith—you don’t know him. (Pause.) Yes, I hope we shall meet soon, but I’m rather afraid I may have to go out of town. (Pause.) Good-night. (Backs a little further into the corridor.) Phew!
Miss Grainger’s back appears in the doorway leading to the conservatory on the left.
Miss G. (Speaking to unseen person in the conservatory.) Yes, of course we shall be friends. What? (Pause.) Oh yes, great friends, What? (Pause.) I don’t know—I may be going out of town. Good-night. (She backs into the corridor, throws her eyes upwards, and draws in her breath with a long sigh.)
Mr M. meanwhile has taken out a cigarette, and is just about to light it when they turn and see one another. Both start, smile, and then become grave and rather formal in manner.
Mr M. (Putting his hands—with the cigarette and the match-box—behind him.) Oh, I beg pardon! I didn’t think anybody—(He turns as if to retreat into the conservatory.)
Miss G. Please don’t go—and please do smoke. It’s so nice and cool here, isn’t it? (She sits down on the couch and fans herself gently.)
Mr M. May I really? (He comes forward a little, holding up his cigarette.) You’re sure you don’t mind?
(She nods. He lights the cigarette.)
Miss G. It’s so warm in that conservatory. (Pointing to the left.)
Mr M. (With feeling.) So it was in that one. (Pointing to the right. He wipes his brow, she fans herself assiduously.) Ouf!
Miss G. You do look rather—flustered.
Mr M. Well—in fact—so do you.
(They look at one another, trying to remain grave, but presently both give a short embarrassed laugh. Mr M. comes a step nearer, placing his hand on the back of the chair.)
I’ve got it! I know the signs!
(She looks at him inquiringly and with amusement. He nods towards the conservatory on the left.) You’ve been refusing some fellow in there.
Miss G. Have I? (Pointing to the conservatory on the right.) And what have you been doing in there?
Mr M. (After a careful glance over his shoulder.) As you didn’t see the lady, I don’t mind admitting that I’ve been doing the same thing.
Miss G. (Raising her brows.) Refusing?
Mr M. Refusing—to ask.
Miss G. Oh!
Mr M. (He smokes vigorously, then throws his cigarette into a receptacle.) It’s a precious lot easier for you than for us, though. I say, I must sound like a conceited idiot, I know, but—well, you see, the fact is——
Miss G. That you’re Mr Marchesson——?
Mr M. (Pleased.) You know my name?
Miss G. Oh yes. Mine’s Grainger.
Mr M. Yes. I—I know your name, Miss Grainger.
Miss G. You’re diamonds? (She touches some that she is wearing as she speaks. He nods gloomily.)
I’m soap. (He glances for a brief instant at his hand.) So, of course——! (She shrugs her shoulders and closes her fan. A moment’s pause.)
Mr M. Beastly, isn’t it?
Miss G. Well, it’s—monotonous.
Mr M. It’s worse than that. It’s degrading, it’s heart-breaking, it’s ruin to the character. It saps my faith in humanity, it trammels my actions, it confines my affections, it cuts me off from friendship, from the pleasant and innocent companionships which my nature longs for. I alone mayn’t look with the eye of honest admiration on a pretty girl, I alone mayn’t——
Miss G. Sit in a conservatory?
Mr M. (With a shudder.) Above all—not that! I tell you it’s kept me single for years! And you for——
Miss G. Years?
Mr M. (Smiling.) Months! All last season and most of this! Take your case now——
Miss G. (Eagerly leaning forward.) Oh yes, let’s!
Mr M. You’d naturally enjoy men’s society, you’d like their friendship, their company, their admiration. You’d enjoy an innocent but piquant flirtation.
Miss G. Should I?
Mr M. (Looking at her.) Well, yes, I think you would. You daren’t venture on it!
Miss G. It is generally fatal, I admit.
Mr M. The plain truth is that the thing’s intolerable. I shall stick a placard on my waistcoat—“Not for sale.”
Miss G. And I’d better become a hospital nurse!
Mr M. That’s rather an odd remedy, Miss Grainger. But, in some form or other, celibacy—public and avowed celibacy—is our only chance. (He throws himself down in the chair.)
Miss G. (Low.) Unless there was somebody who——
Mr M. Didn’t know who you were? Not to be done in these days, with the illustrated press! And—you’ll excuse my referring to it?—but your fond father put you on the wrappings of the soap. And owing to the large sale of the article——
Miss G. Yes, I know. But I meant—if there was somebody who didn’t—didn’t care about the money?
Mr M. (Half under his breath.) Said he didn’t!
Miss G. And who—who really did care just for—for oneself alone? Oh, I must sound romantic and absurd; but you—you know what I mean, Mr Marchesson? There are such men, aren’t there?
Mr M. Well, admitting there was one—and it’s a handsome admission, which I limit entirely to the male sex—in the first place you wouldn’t believe in him half the time, and in the second he wouldn’t believe in himself half the time, and in the third none of your friends would believe in him any of the time.
Miss G. That would be horrid—especially the friends, I mean.
Mr M. Female friends!
Miss G. Of course.
Mr M. Another disgusting aspect of the business! Do you—do I—ever get legitimate credit for our personal attractions? Never! Never!
Miss G. (With conviction.) That’s awfully true.
Mr M. So even your paragon, if you found him, wouldn’t meet the case. And as for my paragon, nobody but Diogenes would take on the job of finding her.
Miss G. (Musing.) Is nobody indifferent to money?
Mr M. Only if they’ve got more than they want. (He gives a glance at her, unperceived by her, rises, puts his hands in his pockets, and looks at her.) Only the unhappy rich.
Miss G. (Roused from abstraction.) I beg pardon, what?
Mr M. Imagine a man surfeited, cloyed, smothered in it; a man who has to pay six other men to look after it; a man who can’t live because of the income-tax, and daren’t die because of the death duties; a man overwhelmed with houses he can’t live in, yachts he can’t sail, horses he can’t ride; a man in whom the milk of human kindness is soured by impostors, and for whom even “deserving cases” have lost their charm; a man who’s been round the d——d world—I beg your pardon, really I beg your pardon—who’s been round the wretched world twice, and shot every beast on it at least once; who is sick of playing, and daren’t work for fear of making a profit——
Miss G. It almost sounds as if you were describing yourself.
Mr M. Oh no, no! No! At least—er—if at all, quite accidentally. I’ll describe you now, if you like.
Miss G. I get absolutely no thrill out of a new frock!
Mr M. There it is—in a nutshell, by Jingo! Miss Grainger, we have found the people we want, the people who are indifferent to money, and would—that is, might—marry us for love alone.
Miss G. (Laughing.) You mean—one another? That’s really rather an amusing end to our philosophising, isn’t it? (She rises, laughing still, and holds out her hand.) Good-night.
Mr M. (Indignantly.) Good-night be——! Why, our talk’s just got to the most interesting point!
Miss G. Well, you ought to know—you’ve been doing most of it yourself.
Mr M. Oh, but don’t go! I—I’ll do it better—and perhaps quicker too—if you’ll stay a bit.
Miss G. (Sitting again, with a laugh.) I’ll give you just five minutes to wind up the argument.
Mr M. The conclusion’s obvious in logic. I ought to offer you my hand in marriage, and you ought to accept.
Miss G. (Laughing.) Logic is logic, of course, Mr Marchesson—but we’ve never even been introduced! I don’t think you need feel absolutely compelled to go through the ceremony you suggest. We’ll be illogical, and say good-night.
Mr M. You admit the logic? You see the force of it?
Miss G. Women don’t act by logic, though.
Mr M. It’s always at least a good excuse.
Miss G. If you want one, yes. (She is about to rise again.)
Mr M. I do want one.
(She shakes her head, laughing.)
I’m serious.
Miss G. You don’t really want me to think that? The very first time we meet? The lady in there (pointing to the conservatory on the right) must have frightened you terribly indeed!
Mr M. Until the logic of the thing struck me—which happened only to-night—I thought it no good to try to know you.
Miss G. I don’t suppose you ever thought about it at all.
Mr M. I had nothing to give you—and you had nothing to give me! So it seemed in the days of illogicality. Now it’s all different. So I insist on—the ceremony.
Miss G. (Laughing, but a little agitated.) Go on, then. But your logic doesn’t bind me, you know.
(He comes and sits on the couch by her.)
Yes, that’s quite right—but don’t put too much feeling into it. It—it’s only logic! No, I—I don’t think I want you to go on. I—I don’t think it’s a good joke.
Mr M. It’s not a joke. I’ve never been introduced to you, you say. I’ve never spoken to you before to-night, I know. But you’re not a stranger to me. There have been very few days in the last three months when I haven’t managed to see you——
Miss G. (Low.) Managed to see me—managed?
Mr M. Yes—though I must say you go to some places which but for your presence would be very dull. I stuck at none of them, Miss Grainger. I swallowed every one! Did you ever notice me?
Miss G. Of course not.
(He looks at her.)
Of course I’ve seen you, but I never noticed you.
(He continues to look at her.)
Not specially, at anyrate.
Mr M. I suppose I must have been there a hundred times. How often did you notice me?
Miss G. How absurd! I’m sure I don’t remember. Very seldom.
Mr M. Don’t you remember even the first time?
Miss G. Oh yes, that was at the—— No, certainly I don’t.
Mr M. Yes, it was at the Phillips’s!
(She smiles against her will. He also smiles.)
I’m glad you remember.
Miss G. You stared so—as you may perhaps remember.
Mr M. Have I stared every time?
Miss G. Very often, anyhow.
Mr M. You noticed that?
Miss G. Every time I noticed you, I noticed that.
Mr M. And you noticed that very often! Therefore you noticed me——
Miss G. Please, no more logic!
Mr M. And yet you try to treat me as a stranger!
Miss G. It is rather a matter of trying with you, isn’t it? You’re not very susceptible to the treatment.
Mr M. And pretend to be surprised at my wanting to marry you! If the logic of it still leaves you doubtful——
Miss G. Doubtful! I never said I was doubtful!
Mr M. Look at the romantic side! How romantic it would be to throw yourself away on riches! Did you never think about that? Not when I—stared?
Miss G. I didn’t exactly mean that you exactly stared. You—you—you—— Oh, you really might help me out! What did you do?
Mr M. I’d so much rather hear you say it.
Miss G. Well, right from the beginning there was something in your look—I mean the way you looked at me—I can’t describe it, but it got more and more like that.
Mr M. Yes, I believe I meant it to.
Miss G. Never forward or—or impertinent. Just nice, Mr Marchesson.
Mr M. I say, was that a good chap you refused in there (indicating the conservatory to the left) a thousand years ago?
Miss G. Very—so handsome! I liked him awfully. And the girl you refused——
Mr M. To ask——
Miss G. In there? (Indicating the conservatory to the right.)
Mr M. Really, you know—impartially speaking—a ripper! Why did we?
Miss G. What?
Mr M. I said, “Why did we?”
Miss G. Was it—a thousand years ago? Yes?
Mr M. Which certainly makes it absurd to call us strangers.
Miss G. I wasn’t thinking any more about that. Oh, you do——?
Mr M. I do—mean it.
Miss G. (Rising.) I think that—after all—it wouldn’t be so bad in—in——
Mr M. The conservatory?
(They look at one another and laugh.)
Miss G. It’s terribly absurd even to think about it.
Mr M. It’s absolutely logical! And, by the way, it’s time I put my question.
Miss G. Haven’t you?
Mr M. Then it’s time you gave your answer.
Miss G. (Putting her hands in his.) Haven’t I?
Mr M. There’ll be a great deal of talk about this to-morrow! (He offers her his arm, and they go towards the conservatory on the left.) Oh, your conservatory? No!
Miss G. Yours would be just as bad.
Mr M. Then stay here.
Miss G. Take me to my carriage. And—and come and see if I’m not perfectly logical to-morrow.
(He releases her arm and kisses her hand. She adds in a low voice:) And—somehow—it is absurd—so wonderfully happy to-night! Will you come with me?
Mr M. Will I live? Come! Quick—through your conservatory! (He puts his arm round her waist.) Come!
(They disappear into the conservatory on the left.)
LA MORT À LA MODE[2]
MONSIEUR LE DUC—MADAME LA MARQUISE
(The tumbril is the last of a row of several, some of which have left, some of which stand at, the gates of the Conciergerie. The others are full, in this the Duc is alone. At the beginning of the conversation the tumbril stands still, later it is moving slowly, escorted through a turbulent crowd by National Guards to its destination in the Place Louis Quinze (Place de la Revolution.) The time is noon of a fine day during the Reign of Terror.)
DUC. Alone! My luck holds to the last. They’re close as fish in a tub in the others—and by strange chance every man next to his worst enemy—or at least his best friend’s husband! These rascals have no consideration. Ah, somebody coming here! I’ve to have company after all. A woman too—deuce take it! (A lady is assisted into the tumbril. The Duc rises, bows, and starts.) Marquise! (The lady sinks on the bench across the tumbril.) You here! (He takes snuff and murmurs:) Awkward! (Pauses and murmurs again:) Even her! Curse the hounds!
Marquise. I—I heard you had escaped.
Due. Ah, madame, I can no longer expect justice from you—only mercy. And—excuse me—M. le Marquis?
Marquise. He—he has gone—
Duc. Ah yes, yes. He went before us? I remember now. Er—my condolences, Marquise. But on what pretext are you——?
Marquise. They say that, as his wife, I shared his designs and was in his confidence.
Duc. How little they know of the world! (Smiling.) As his wife—in his confidence! How simple the blackguards are! (Looks at her.) I protest I feel my presence inopportune.
Marquise. No. (She holds out a little silver box.) Will you hold this for me? (He takes it.) You may look. (Opening it he finds rouge and a powder-puff. The Marquise smiles faintly.)
Duc. (Shutting box.) On my honour you’ve no need of it this morning. Your cheeks display the most charming flush. Ah, we move. (She starts.) Yes, yes, it jolts horribly. But I won’t drop the rouge.
Marquise. Will it take long?
Duc. It? (Shrugs his shoulders.) Oh, before you know—before you know!
Marquise. No, no—I mean the journey.
Duc. Ah, the journey! It will seem short now. Before you came, I feared the tedium—though the crowd’s amusing enough. Look at that fellow! Why in heaven’s name does he shake his fist at me? He’s not one of my people, not even from my province. (Smiles at the crowd and seats himself by the Marquise.) You’re silent. Ah, I remember, now I remember! When we parted last, you vowed you’d never speak to me again.
Marquise. I thought I never should.
Duc. The things we think we never shall do include all the most delightful things we do.
Marquise. You seem to flatter yourself, monsieur. I meant what I said then: but times are changed.
Duc. Faith, yes! The times more than I.
Marquise. More than you? Ah, changeful times!
Duc. And their changes bring more grief than any of mine could.
Marquise. Oh, as for grief—! It was your rudeness I deplored, more than my loss.
Duc. I am never rude, madame. I may have been——
Marquise. (Low.) Unfaithful?
Duc. (Low.) Unworthy, madame. (She looks at him for a moment and sighs. He smiles and is about to speak when a great shout is heard from the direction of the Place Louis Quinze. She starts, turns a little pale, and involuntarily stretches out a hand to him.)
Marquise. What’s that? What’s happening?
Duc. Oh, they’re excited! In truth, my dear Marquise, I have long wished——
Marquise. No, no—what was the shouting?
Duc. Well—er—in fact, I imagine that the first of our friends must have arrived.
Marquise. (Low.) Arrived! (He smiles, takes her hand and kisses it, then holds out the rouge-box with an air of mockery.) No, no—I won’t.
Duc. Why, no! We’ve no need of it. Let me bring the colour to your cheeks. Once on a time I—well, at least I have been there when it came. Ah, it comes now! Listen to me. I have long wished to——
Marquise. To explain?
Duc. (Smiling.) Ah, you were always a little—a little—exacting. No, no; nobody can explain these things. I wished only to——
Marquise. You daren’t apologise!
Duc. Ah, and you never were quite just to my good breeding. No again! I wished to tell you frankly that I made a very great mistake. (A voice from the crowd shouts “To Hell with them!” The Duc laughs.) The Church’s prerogatives follow the King’s! Ah well! A terrible mistake, Marquise.
Marquise. (Low, but eagerly.) You suspected me of——? Was that why you——?
Duc. No. I suspected her.
Marquise. Her? But of what?
Duc. Of wit, madame, and of charm. I was most unjust.
Marquise. (Smiling.) And not perhaps of one other thing—in which respect you were unjust too?
Duc. (Looking at her a moment and then smiling.) No, no—on my honour I was not refused.
Marquise. Oh, not refused! (She turns away.)
Duc. Shall I tell you the reason of that?
Marquise. Can’t I—I at least—guess the reason?
Duc. You least of all can guess it. I did not ask, Marquise.
Marquise. (Turning quickly to him.) You didn’t——?
Duc. On my word, no. You’ll ask me why not?
Marquise. Why not, indeed? It was unlike you, monsieur.
Duc. I thought of you—and behold, it became impossible. At the moment your image—— (Another great shout is heard.) Hum, they never get tired of the sight, it seems. (He glances at the Marquise, but she has not noticed the shout. He takes her hand and presses it gently.)
Marquise. Is it true? You ought to tell the truth now.
Duc. Now? (Laughs.) Ah, yes!
Marquise. Really true? (She draws her hand away sharply.)
Duc. You don’t believe me?
Marquise. Yes, I believe you. But—but how stupid you were, monsieur!
Duc. Eh?
Marquise. How stupid you were, monsieur.
Duc. True. (Takes snuff.) True, by heaven! I was—monstrous stupid.
Marquise. To think that you could——
Duc. Love her?
Marquise. Forget me, monsieur. Alas, I lose all my pride in—— (Pauses.)
Duc. In——? (Pauses. They smile and she blushes.)
Marquise. In any compliments you may have paid me.
Duc. (Softly.) You won’t forgive me? Well, it’s the fashion now! I must die twice to-day?
Marquise. Twice—die twice! (Looks at him and trembles a little.) I—I had almost forgotten what—where we were. (A fierce shout is heard, sounding nearer now.) Louis, they’ll—they’ll do nothing worse than—kill me? You don’t answer, Louis!
Duc. Yes, yes. There’s no fear—no fear of that.
Marquise. But you hesitated.
Duc. (Low.) If we must talk of death, pray let it be of mine. (She glances at him and lays her hand on his for a moment.) Yours seems too—too—— (Smiles.) I want a word. Well, too incongruous, dear Marquise.
Marquise. I have confessed—and forgiven all my enemies.
Duc. Am I your enemy? Have you no forgiveness left for friends? (She looks at him gravely for a moment, then smiles reluctantly.) Why, we were growing grave! That would be a bad ending.
Marquise. The most seemly ending!
Duc. For me? Oh, oh, Marquise! They’d think they’d got hold of the wrong man. Your hand’s a trifle cold.
Marquise. (Laughing nervously.) Well, if it is? We’ve stopped again! Are we near now?
Duc. At the entrance of the Place, I believe. (Looks at her and goes on quickly.) You and I have walked here together before now. You remember? Alone together—so often. (Rises.) Forgive me—as you face towards the Place the sun is in your eyes. Pray sit the other way. It’s pleasanter to look towards the river—cooler to the eye. You remember our walks, dear Marquise?
Marquise. You still look towards the Place, though.
Duc. (Laughing.) Why yes! I can’t have the dogs saying I daren’t——
Marquise. Are they to say it of me then, monsieur? (She rises and stands by him, looking towards the Place, where the scaffold is now visible.)
Duc. (Removing his hat and bowing humbly.) I beg your pardon.
Marquise. (Very low.) Dear Louis, dear Louis!
Duc. I thought life done. I was wrong a thousand times!
Marquise. I cried when you——
Duc. Ah, if I beg them to torture me—— Would that atone?
Marquise. They found me crying. Think of the humiliation!
Duc. Oh, I must have a talk with a priest—after all I must! (She turns away with a sob and then a gasping laugh.) Ay, that’s life, dearest Marquise—and perhaps it’s the other thing too.
Marquise. I care less now, Louis.
Duc. Give me your hand a minute. Yes, it’s warmer now. And the rouge—why, madame, I swear the rouge is utterly superfluous! Shall we throw it to the mob? It’s their favourite colour. I’ll leave it in the cart—when they turn on one another, some hero may be glad of it. Margot, dear Margot, are you cold? I thought you shivered as your arm touched mine.
Marquise. (Low.) No. I’m—I’m just a little afraid, Louis.
Duc. Oh no, no, no—Margot, no. You’re cold. Or—(Smiling.) Come, flatter me. Say it’s agitation—say it’s joy. Come, Margot, say that!
Marquise. (Drawing nearer.) They didn’t know what they were doing when they sent me with you.
Duc. The ignorance of the fellows is extraordinary.
Marquise. Because—everybody knew.
Duc. Alas, I was never too discreet! (More shouts are heard. The Guard in charge of the tumbril cries “Ready? We’re the last.”) Hum! For to-day, I suppose he means! (He looks at her; her lips are moving. He takes off his hat and stands bareheaded. The movement of her lips ceases and she turns to him. He smiles.) I think you can have little need of prayer.
Marquise. You say that? You?
Duc. Yes, I say that, Margot. (They are at the foot of the scaffold now.) As for me—well, I have always followed the fashion—and prayers are not the fashion now. I was bitten by M. de Voltaire. By the way, perhaps he’s had something to do with this—and we made him the fashion! How whimsical! (The National Guard turns and points his finger towards the scaffold.) What? Oh, at your service, monsieur. (He turns to the Marquise, smiling.) I must leave you—this time in love.
Marquise. (Stretching out her hands.) Let me go first.
Duc. On my soul, I couldn’t! (Softly.) The way is dark, let me show it you.
Marquise. Louis, Louis!
Duc. And now—look now towards the river. Pray—towards the river! I want you to remember me at my best. And—Margot—you mustn’t—you mustn’t want the rouge. Your hand’s warm—still warm.
Marquise. (Vehemently.) I will go first. I—I can’t see you—I will go first.
Duc. Your will is my law always. (She turns to descend.) It has been pleasant to come with you.
Marquise. It was—easier—to come with you.
Duc. I am forgiven, Margot?
Marquise. Louis, dear Louis! (He raises her hand to his lips. She goes. He stands bareheaded, facing the scaffold while she suffers. Then he puts his hat on and mounts the scaffold. They carry past him the basket containing her head. A priest holds a crucifix before him. He starts and bows to the priest.)
Duc. I beg your pardon, father, but—I knew the lady very well. She died bravely, eh? Pardon? Think how we have lived as well as how we die? Yes, yes; most just and—er—apposite. Die truly penitent? Ah yes, yes. Forgive me—I’m not master of my time. (He bows and turns to the executioner and his assistants.) Don’t keep me waiting. My desire is to follow Madame la Marquise. What? “The woman died well!” God save us—the woman! Well, as you please. Shall we say—— (He places himself beneath the knife.) Shall we say—Margot? Nobody was ever like Margot. (Smiles, then looks up.) Well? Oh, you wait for me. Good! Messieurs, allez!
THE RIDDLE OF COUNTESS RUNA
I
HAVING reduced the rest of his kingdom to obedience in three arduous campaigns, King Stanislas sat himself down with a great army before the strong place of Or, which was held against him by Runa, daughter of Count Theobald the Fierce. For Countess Runa said that since her father had paid neither obedience nor tribute to the King’s father for fifty years, neither would she pay obedience or tribute to the King, nor would she open the city gates to him save at her own time and by her own will. So the King came and enveloped the city on all sides, so that none could pass in or out, and sent his heralds to Countess Runa demanding surrender; in default of which he would storm the ramparts, sack the city, and lay the citadel level with the earth, in such wise that men should not remember the place where it had been.
Sitting on her high chair, beneath the painted window through which the sun struck athwart her fair hair, Runa heard the message.
“Tell the King—for a king he is, though no king of mine—that we are well armed and have knights of fame with us. Tell him that we are provisioned for more months than he shall reign years, and that we will tire him sooner than he can starve us.”
She ceased speaking, and the principal herald, bowing low, asked: “Is that all the message?”
“No, there is more. Tell him that the daughter of Count Theobald the Fierce rules in the city of Or.”
Bowing again, the principal herald asked: “Is that all the message?”
Runa sat silent for a minute. Then she said: “No, there is more. Tell the King that he must carry the citadel before he can pass the ramparts.”
The principal herald frowned, then smiled and said: “But with deference, madam, how can that be? For the citadel is high on a rock, and the city lies round it below, and again round the city lie the ramparts. How, then, shall the King carry the citadel before——?”
Runa raised her brows in weariness.
“Your speech is as long as your siege will be,” she said. “You are a mouthpiece, Sir Herald, not an interpreter. Begone, and say to the King what I have given you to say.”
So the heralds returned to King Stanislas and gave him Runa’s answer; but the King, in his wrath, listened more to the first part of it than to the last, and assaulted the ramparts fiercely for three days. But Runa’s men rolled his men back with loss and in confusion, for they were in good heart because of the message Runa had sent. “For,” they said, “our Countess has bidden the King perform what is impossible before she will yield the city; and as we trusted Theobald the father, so we trust the daughter Runa.”
After his three assaults had failed, King Stanislas waited in quiet for a month, drawing his cordon yet more closely round the city. Then he sent again to the Countess, saying that he would spend the first half of his reign outside the walls of Or, provided he could spend the second half of it inside the same; yet if she would yield now, she should have his favour and all her wealth; but if she would not yield, she must await starvation and sack and the extremity of his anger. To which summons she answered only: “Tell the King that he must carry the citadel before he can pass the ramparts.” And she would say no more to the heralds.
“A plague on her!” cried Stanislas. “A plague on the woman and her insolent riddles! Of what appearance is she? I have never seen her.”
“As the sun for beauty and the moon for dignity,” said the principal herald, whose occupation naturally bred eloquence.
“Stuff!” said King Stanislas very crossly.
The herald bowed, but with an offended air.
“Does she seem sane?” asked Stanislas.
“Perfectly sane, sire,” answered the herald. “Although, as your Majesty deigns to intimate, the purport of her message is certainly not such as might reasonably be expected from a lady presumably endowed with——”
“I am ready for the next audience,” said King Stanislas to his Chamberlain.
And after the next audience he sat down and thought. But, as often happens with meaner men, he took nothing by it, except a pain in the head and a temper much the worse. So that he ordered three more assaults on the ramparts of the City of Or, which ended as the first three had; and then sent another summons to Countess Runa, to which she returned the same answer. And for the life of him the King could see in it no meaning save that never in all his life should he pass the ramparts. “Only an army of birds could do what she says!” he declared peevishly. Indeed he was so chagrined and shamed that he would then and there have raised the siege and returned to the capital, had it not been for the unfortunate circumstance that, on leaving it, he had publicly and solemnly vowed never to return, nor to show himself to his lieges there, unless and until he should be master of the City of Or. So there he was, unable to enter either city, and saddled with a great army to feed, winter coming on, and the entire situation, as his Chancellor observed, full of perplexity. On the top of all this, too, there were constant sounds and signs of merriment and plenty within the city, and the Countess’s men, when they had eaten, took to flinging the bones of their meat to the besiegers outside—an action most insulting, however one might be pleased to interpret it.
Meanwhile Countess Runa sat among her ladies and knights, on her high chair under the emblazoned window, with the sun striking athwart her fair hair. Often she smiled; once or twice she sighed. Perhaps she was wondering what King Stanislas would do next—and when he would understand her message.
II
THERE was with King Stanislas’ army a certain friar named Nicholas, a man who was pious, brave, and cheerful, although, in the judgment of some, more given to good-fellowship and conviviality than became his sacred profession. He was a shrewd fellow too, and had a good wit; and for all these qualities Stanislas held him in good will and allowed him some degree of familiarity. Friar Nicholas had heard the Countess Runa’s message, which, indeed, had leaked through the army and been much discussed and canvassed round the camp fires. The friar had listened to all the talk, agreeing with every man in turn, nodding his head wisely, but holding his tongue closely. No man heard him utter any opinion whatsoever as to what Countess Runa meant—supposing her to mean anything save defiance pure and simple.
One night, when the King sat in his tent very moody and sore out of heart with his undertaking, the flap of the tent was lifted, and Friar Nicholas stood there.
“I did not summon you,” said the King.
“David did not summon Nathan,” said Nicholas. “But he came to him.”
“What ewe-lamb is it that I have taken?” Stanislas asked, smiling, for he was glad to be rid of his thoughts and have company. “Let Nathan drink with David,” he added, pushing a flagon of wine towards Nicholas, who, on this invitation, let the flap of the tent fall behind him and came in. “Is the ewe-lamb this one city which of all the realm holds out against me? Is Or the ewe-lamb of Countess Runa?”
“The City of Or is the ewe-lamb,” said Nicholas, after he had drunk.
“But in the first place, O Prophet, I have not taken it—a curse on it! And, in the second, it is mine by right, as by right it was my father’s before me. Why, then, am I to be denounced by my holy Prophet?”
“I do not come to denounce you for having taken it, but to show you how to take it,” answered Nicholas. And he stood there, in the centre of the tent, wrapping his frock close round him. “O King,” said he, “I will put a question to you.”
The King leant back in his chair. “I will listen and answer,” he said.
“Where is the citadel of an army, O King?” asked Nicholas.
“An army has no citadel,” answered the King. “A city has a citadel, a fortress of stone or of brick, set in the middle of it and on high. But an army lies in tents or on the bare ground, moving hither and thither. An army has no citadel, O Prophet! Are you answered?”
“Where is the citadel of an army, O King?” asked Nicholas again.
“An army has no citadel,” replied the King. “A city that is made of brick and of stone has a citadel. But an army is not of brick and stone, but is made and composed only of men, of their flesh and bones, their sinews and muscles, their brains and hearts. An army has no citadel, O Prophet! Are you answered?”
“Where is the citadel of an army, O King?” asked Nicholas for the third time.
Then, seeing that he had a meaning, the King took thought; for many minutes he sat in meditation, while Nicholas stood in the centre of the tent, never moving, with his eyes set on the King’s face.
At last the King answered.
“An army has a citadel,” he said. “The citadel of an army is the stout heart of him who leads it. His heart is its citadel, O Prophet! Are you answered?”
“You have spoken it. I am answered, O King!” said Nicholas, and he turned and went out from the King’s tent.
But the King sprang to his feet with an eager cry. “It is not otherwise with a city!” he cried. “And before I can pass the ramparts of Or, I must carry the citadel!”
III
COUNTESS RUNA sat in her high chair under the emblazoned window of the great hall, with her ladies and knights about her, and one of her officers craved leave to bring a prisoner into her presence. Leave given, the officer presented his charge—a tall and comely young man, standing between two guards, yet bearing himself proudly and with a free man’s carriage of his head. His hair was dark, his eyes blue, his shoulders broad; he was long in the leg and lean in the flank. Runa suffered her eyes to glance at him in approval.
“Where did you find him?” she asked of the officer.
“He came late last night to the southern gate,” the officer answered, “and begged asylum from the anger of King Stanislas.”
“He’s a deserter, then?” she asked, frowning a little.
“He has told us nothing. He would tell his story, he said, to your Highness only.”
“Let him speak,” she said, taking a peacock fan from one of her ladies and half hiding her face behind it.
“Speak, prisoner,” said the officer.
“If I am a prisoner, it is by my own will,” said the stranger; “but I was in such straits that my will had no alternative save to cause me to throw myself on the mercy of your Highness. Yet I am no traitor, and wish naught but good to my lord King Stanislas.”
“Then you had best wish that he shall return to his own city and leave mine alone,” said Runa.
The knights smiled and the ladies tittered. The stranger took no heed of these things, nor, as it seemed, of her Highness’s remark.
“I was high in the King’s confidence,” he said. “He deemed me a wise man, and held that I knew all that was to be known, and that by my aid alone he could discover all that was hidden, and unravel any riddle, however difficult. Through three victorious campaigns I was by his side, and then he brought me to the walls of Or, not doubting that by my valour and counsel he should be enabled to make himself master of the city. I do not boast. I repeat only what the King has many a time said of me, both publicly and when we two were alone.”
“Then one man at least has a good esteem of you,” said Runa. “Indeed, as I think, two.”
Again the ladies tittered and the knights smiled. But the stranger was unmoved.
“Then,” he went on in a smooth equable voice whose rich tones struck pleasantly on their ears and made the ladies sorry for their mocking, “came the day, fatal to me, when your Highness was pleased to send his Majesty a message. For when the King asked me the meaning of your riddle—asked how a man could carry the citadel before he passed the ramparts—I told him to take no heed of it, for it was an idle vaunt. And he believed me and assaulted the ramparts three times in vain. And in vain brave men died. Again came your message, and when the King asked me the meaning of it, I said it was insolent defiance. And he believed me, and assaulted the ramparts three times in vain. And in vain brave men died. Then came the message a third time, and the King demanded of me the meaning of it. But I did not know the meaning, and, lest more men should die, I confessed to him that I could not read the riddle.”
“You learnt wisdom late and at a cost,” said Runa, setting her eyes on him over the top of the peacock fan.
“When I confessed that, he called me a blockhead and, with many hard words, told me plainly that all my credit stood on my reading him that riddle, and reading it, the third time, right; and that if I could not read it, I could never see home again nor my own people, but that my life must end here outside the walls of the city, and end in disgrace and defeat. So the King said to me in his wrath, and in fear of him and of the death he threatened I stole by night from his camp and delivered myself to the officer of your Highness’s watch at the southern gate of the city.”
“What do you want of me?” asked Runa.
“Either the answer to the riddle, that I may carry it back to the King forthwith and have his favour again——”
“And failing that?” said Runa, smiling.
“Leave to abide here for a while, in the hope that by my own wit I may discover the meaning.”
The knights laughed and murmured scornfully, but the ladies, on whom the stranger’s appearance had made no small impression, sighed sadly, as though it were lamentable to hear a personable brave man ask such foolish things. But Runa sank her head in thought. When she raised her eyes she met those of the stranger fixed full on her. They gleamed blue and keen. A faint flush rose on Runa’s cheek—or was it a red light from the painted window over her head?
“Seven days and seven nights you may abide here,” she said, “but on condition that at the end of that time my officers deliver you to your King again. If by then you have read the riddle, it will be good for the King and for you. But if you have not read it, let it be evil for you as for him—evil unto death. How say you?”
“I accept the condition, and I will abide,” said the stranger.
Runa signed that he should be led forth. “And leave me alone, all of you,” she said.
IV
SEVEN days and seven nights, then, the stranger abode in the city. Every day he held speech with Runa, both in the great hall, with the ladies and the knights, and privately. Much he told her concerning the kingdom and the King, and she showed him all the wealth and power of her city. But when she bade him speak of himself, he would answer, “I am nothing without the King,” and would say no more of himself, so that she was full of wonder about him, and pondered more and more as to who he was and whence he came. And meanwhile the King’s army lay idle in its tents and made no assault on the ramparts.
At last, on the third day, she said to him: “Tell me why the King your master leaves all his great kingdom and makes war on my poor city?”
“The King,” he answered, “makes war that peace may come, and union, and power. In three years he has brought peace to all the kingdom. This city alone is left, a foe set among friends, disobedient among the obedient, a weakness amidst that which is strong. Without the kingdom the city is nothing, and without the city the kingdom is feeble.”
Runa knit her brows and heard him in silence. But after a while she said:
“Had the King sent an embassy to me with these words, it may be that I should have listened. But he sent me only a summons to surrender.”
The next day she sent for him again and said: “If I give up my city and submit myself to the King, what am I then—I who was Runa of Or?”
“You will be high in the King’s counsel and in his love,” he answered.
“I do not covet the King’s love,” said Runa, knitting her brows again.
“You do not know what it is, madam,” he said softly.
On the fifth day she sent for him again, and privately, and said to him:
“If I give up my city and submit myself to the King, and there is peace in the kingdom such as there has not been since the day my father Count Theobald ruled in Or, what will the King do?”
“He will enrich the kingdom, and make it fair and secure it against all foes.”
“And what will you do?” she asked.
“I shall be by the King’s side,” he answered, “if by chance I can give him good counsel.”
“And he will reward you with high honour?”
“All honour is at once mine if I read the riddle,” he replied.
“You have not read it?”
“I seek to read it in your eyes,” he answered boldly, and Runa turned her glance away from him, lest he should read the riddle there.
On the seventh day, in the evening, she sent for him again in secret, unknown to any of her knights or ladies. The great hall in which she sat alone was dimly lighted; only her face, her fair hair, and her rich robe of white gleamed from the gloom. He came and stood before her.
“To-morrow at sunrise,” she said, “I must deliver you to the King your master according to our agreement. What gift do you carry in your hand to turn his wrath into favour?”
“If I do not bear in my hand the keys of the citadel, I bear nothing,” he answered.
There fell a long silence between them, and the great hall was marvellously still. The stranger drew very near to Countess Runa and stood by the arm of her high chair.
“Madam, farewell,” he said.
She looked up at him and murmured softly: “Farewell.”
“Yet we shall meet again.”
“When?” she asked, with lips just parted and eyes that strained to see his face.
“In a day’s time, outside the ramparts.”
“Outside the ramparts?”
“Yes.” He knelt before her and kissed her hand. “The citadel of the city is the heart of its mistress,” he said.
She rose suddenly to her feet and would have spoken, but he raised his hand to impose silence on her. With one long look he turned away and left her alone, standing under the emblazoned window, through which one ray of moonlight caught her fair hair and illumined it.
She stood with clasped hands, her eyes still set on the door by which he had gone out.
“My heart knows its lord,” she whispered. “I have been speaking with my King.”
V
ON the morrow, in the afternoon, King Stanislas, being returned from a journey on which affairs of State had called him, and having assumed again the command of his army, led it forth in battle array, and took up his position in the plain before the southern gate, not far from the ramparts of the city.
“We are going to assault the ramparts again,” said an old soldier to Friar Nicholas, who was there to see what passed and to exercise his sacred functions in case need arose.
“Nay, I think the King is going to carry the citadel,” answered the Friar, with a laugh. And all of them laughed, thinking that he jested at the King’s expense.
As the clock struck four the King rode forth, magnificently appointed, and bestriding a black war-horse of great strength and spirit. When he was two hundred yards from the walls, he halted all his army and rode forward alone, save for the herald by his side. Coming close under the ramparts, which were thronged with Countess Runa’s knights and men-at-arms, to say nothing of those who were ready to pour down stones and molten pitch and heavy bars of iron on the assaulters, he bade the herald cry that King Stanislas would speak with her Highness the Countess Runa.
Much stir arose on the ramparts at this message, but the King sat calm and motionless on his great black horse. So passed half-an-hour or so. Then the city gate rolled open, and Runa rode forth, in a robe of scarlet, seated on a white palfrey, and with all her knights and ladies round about her.
“This is no assault on the ramparts,” said the old soldier to Friar Nicholas, grumbling because there was danger that he should be balked of a fight.
“I think you will soon pass them, though,” said Nicholas.
When the King saw Countess Runa he touched his horse with the spur and rode up to her where she awaited his coming. When she saw him, her eyes brightened to a new brilliance. Yet she showed no wonder.
“My heart knew,” she said, when her ladies and her knights marvelled.
King Stanislas saluted her.
“Whither, my King?” she asked.
He leant down, put his arm about her waist, and lifted her from her palfrey. A great shout went up from the army in the plain and from the defenders on the walls. The King set her in front of him on his great horse.
“I carry the citadel,” he said. “And now I will pass the ramparts”; and they two rode together into the city amidst mighty rejoicings.
VI
TO which story there are a number of morals quite out of proportion to its size.
This for Kings and Rulers: That they should state their objects openly—provided that they wish to have them known.
This for Children: That what their fathers did for fifty years, it may be wise for them to cease from doing immediately—especially if they wish to make good marriages.
This for Men: That though it be impossible that a woman should mean what she says, yet she means something by what she says—at any rate, if she says it three times.
This for Women: That though the ramparts protect the citadel, the citadel may often betray the ramparts.
And this for Everybody: That he who devotes a good intelligence to enlightening others is like unto a man who cooks his neighbour’s dinner without being invited to table. For when once the citadel was carried, the ramparts passed, and the lovers happy, neither King nor Countess nor anybody else gave another thought to poor Friar Nicholas!
THE LADY AND THE FLAGON
THE DUKE OF BELLEVILLE—which name, by the way, you must pronounce by no means according to its spelling, if you would be in the fashion; for as Belvoir is Beevor, and Beauchamp is Beecham, even so on polite lips Belleville is Bevvle—the Duke of Belleville shut the hall door behind him, and put his latchkey into the pocket of his trousers. It was but ten in the evening, yet the house was as still as though it had been two in the morning. All was dark, save for a dim jet of gas in the little sitting-room; the blinds were all down; from without the villa seemed uninhabited, and the rare passer-by—for rare was he in the quiet lane adjoining but not facing Hampstead Heath—set it down as being to let. It was a whim of the Duke’s to keep it empty; when the world bored him, he fled there for solitude; not even the presence of a servant was allowed, lest his meditations should be disturbed. It was long since he had come; but to-night weariness had afflicted him, and, by a sudden change of plan, he had made for his hiding-place in lieu of attending a Public Meeting, at which he had been advertised to take the chair. The desertion sat lightly on his conscience, and he heaved a sigh of relief, as, having turned up the gas, he flung himself into an arm-chair and lit a cigar. The Duke of Belleville was thirty years of age; he was unmarried; he had held the title since he was fifteen; he seemed to himself rather old. He was at this moment yawning. Now when a man yawns at ten o’clock in the evening something is wrong with his digestion or his spirits. The Duke had a perfect digestion.
“I should define wealth,” murmured the Duke, between his yawns, “as an unlimited command of the sources of ennui, rank as a satirical emphasising of human equality, culture as a curtailment of pleasures, knowledge as the death of interest.” Yawning again, he rose, drew up the blind, and flung open the window. The summer night was fine and warm. Although there were a couple of dozen other houses scattered here and there about the lane, not a soul was to be seen. The Duke stood for a long while looking out. His cigar burnt low and he flung it away. Presently he heard a church clock strike eleven. At the same moment he perceived a tall and burly figure approaching from the end of the lane. Its approach was slow and interrupted, for it paused at every house. A moment’s further inspection revealed in it a policeman on his beat.
“He’s trying the windows and doors,” remarked the Duke to himself. Then his eyes brightened. “There are possibilities in a door always,” he murmured, and his thoughts flew off to the great doors of history and fiction—the doors that were locked when by all laws human and divine they should have been open, and the even more interesting doors that proved to be open and yielded to pressure when any man would have staked his life on their being bolted, barred, and impregnable. “A door has the interest of death,” said he. “For how can you know what is on the other side till you have passed through it? Now suppose that fellow found a door open, and passed through it, and, turning the rays of his lantern on the darkness within, saw revealed to him—Heavens!” cried the Duke, interrupting himself in great excitement, “is all this to be wasted on a policeman?” And without a moment’s hesitation, he leant out of the window and shouted, “Constable, constable!”—which is, as all the world knows, the politest mode of addressing a policeman.
The policeman, perceiving the Duke and the urgency of the Duke’s summons, left his examination of the doors in the lane and ran hastily up to the window of the villa.
“Did you call, sir?” he asked.
“Don’t you know me?” inquired the Duke, turning a little, so that the light within the room should fall on his features.
“I beg your Grace’s pardon,” cried the policeman. “Your Grace gave me a sovereign last Christmas. The Duke of Belle-ville, isn’t it, your Grace?”
“You will know,” said the Duke patiently, “how to pronounce my name when I tell you that it rhymes with ‘Devil.’ Thus: ‘Devvle, Bevvle.’ ”
“Yes, your Grace. You called me?”
“I did. Do you often find doors open when they ought to be shut?”
“Almost every night, your Grace.”
“What do you do?”
“Knock, your Grace.”
“Good heavens,” murmured the Duke, “how this man throws away his opportunities!” Then he leant forward, and laying his hand on the policeman’s shoulder drew him nearer, and began to speak to him in a low tone.
“I couldn’t, your Grace,” urged the policeman. “If I was found out I should get the sack.”
“You should come to no harm by that.”
“And if your Grace was found out——”
“You can leave that to me,” interrupted the Duke.
Presently the policeman, acting on the Duke’s invitation, climbed into the window of the villa, and the conversation was continued across the table. The Duke urged, produced money, gave his word to be responsible for the policeman’s future; the policeman’s resistance grew less strong.
“I am about your height and build,” said the Duke. “It is but for a few hours, and you can spend them very comfortably in the kitchen. Before six o’clock I will be back.”
“If the Inspector comes round, your Grace?”
“You must take a little risk for twenty pounds,” the Duke reminded him.
The struggle could end but one way. A quarter of an hour later the policeman, attired in the Duke’s overcoat, sat by the kitchen hearth, while the Duke, equipped in the policeman’s garments, prepared to leave the house and take his place on the beat.
“I shall put out all lights and shut the door,” said he. “The window of this kitchen looks out to the back, and you will not be seen. You will particularly oblige me by remaining here and taking no notice of anything that may occur till I return and call you.”
“But, your Grace, if there’s murder done——”
“We can hardly expect that,” interrupted the Duke, a little wistfully. Yet, although, remembering how the humdrum permeates life, he would not pitch his anticipations too high, the Duke started on the expedition with great zest and lively hopes. The position he had assumed, the mere office that he discharged vicariously, seemed to his fancy a conductor that must catch and absorb the lightning of adventurous incident. His big-buttoned coat, his helmet, the lantern he carried, his deftly hidden truncheon, combined to make him the centre of anything that might move, and to involve him in coils of crime or of romance. He refused to be disappointed although he tried a dozen doors and found all securely fastened. For never till the last, till fortune was desperate and escape a vanished dream, was wont to come that marvellous Door that gaped open-mouthed. Ah! The Duke started violently, the blood rushing to his face and his heart beating quick. Here, at the end of the lane most remote from his own villa, at a small two-storeyed house bright with green paint and flowering creepers, here, in the most unlikely, most inevitable place, was the open door. Barred? It was not even shut, but hung loose, swaying gently to and fro, with a subdued bang at each encounter with the doorpost. Without a moment’s hesitation the Duke pushed it open. He stood in a dark passage. He turned the glare of his bull’s-eye on the gloom, which melted as the column of light pierced it, and he saw—
“There is nothing at all,” said the Duke of Belleville with a sigh.
Nor, indeed, was there, save an umbrella-rack, a hatstand, and an engraving of the Queen’s Coronation—things which had no importance for the Duke.
“They are only what one might expect,” said he.
Yet he persevered and began to mount the stairs with a silent cautious tread. He had not felt it necessary to put on the policeman’s boots, and his thin-soled well-made boots neither creaked nor crunched as he climbed, resting one hand on the balustrade and holding his lantern in the other. Yet suddenly something touched his hand, and a bell rang out, loud, clear and tinkling. A moment later came a scream; the Duke paused in some bewilderment. Then he mounted a few more steps till he was on the landing. A door to his right was cautiously opened; an old gentleman’s head appeared.
“Thank heaven, it’s the police!” cried the old gentleman. Then he pulled his head in and said, “Only the police, my dear.” Then he put his head out again and asked, “What in the world is the matter? I thought you were burglars when I heard the alarm.”
“Your hall door was standing open,” said the Duke accusingly.
“Tut, tut, tut! How very careless of me, to be sure! And I thought I locked it! Actually open! Dear me! I’m much obliged to you.”
A look of disappointment had by now spread over the Duke’s face.
“Didn’t you leave it open on purpose?” he asked. “Come now! You can trust me.”
“On purpose? Do you take me for a fool?” cried the old gentleman.
“A man who leaves his door open on purpose may or may not be a fool,” said the Duke. “But there is no doubt about a man who leaves it open without a purpose,” and, so saying, the Duke turned, walked downstairs, and, going out, slammed the door behind him. He was deeply disgusted.
When, however, he had recovered a little from his chagrin, he began to pace up and down the lane. It was now past midnight, and all was very quiet. The Duke began to fear that Fortune, never weary of tormenting him, meant to deny all its interest to his experiment. But suddenly, when he was exactly opposite his own house, he observed a young man standing in front of it. The stranger was tall and well made; he wore a black cloth Inverness, which, hanging open at the throat, showed a white tie and a snowy shirt front. The young man seemed to be gazing thoughtfully at the Duke’s villa. The Duke walked quietly up to him, as though he meant to pass by. The young man, however, perceiving him, turned to him and said:
“It’s very annoying, but I have lost my latchkey, and I don’t know how to get into my house.”
“Indeed, sir?” said the Duke sympathetically. “Which is your house?”
“This,” answered the young man, pointing to the Duke’s villa.
The Duke could not entirely repress a slight movement of surprise and pleasure.
“This your house? Then you are——?” he began.
“Yes, yes, the Duke of Belleville,” interrupted the young man. “But there’s nobody in the house. I’m not expected——”
“I suppose not,” murmured the Duke.
“There are no servants, and I don’t know how to get in. It’s very awkward, because I’m expecting a—a friend to call.”
“With my assistance,” said the Duke deferentially, “your Grace might effect an entry by the window.”
“True!” cried the young man. “Bring your lantern and give me a light. Look here, I don’t want this talked about.”
“It is a matter quite between ourselves, your Grace,” the Duke assured him, as he led the way to the window.
“By-the-by, you might help me in another matter if you like. I’ll make it worth your while.”
“I shall be very glad,” said the Duke.
“Could you be spared from your beat for an hour?”
“It might be possible.”
“Good. Come in with me, and we’ll talk it over.”
The Duke had by this time opened the window of his villa; he gave the young man a leg-up, and afterwards climbed in himself.
“Shut the window again,” commanded the stranger. “Oh, and you might as well just close the shutters.”
“Certainly, your Grace,” said the Duke, and he did as he was bid.
The young man began to move round the room, examining the articles that furnished the side-tables and decorated the walls. The Duke of Belleville had been for a year or two an eager collector of antique plate, and had acquired some fine specimens in both gold and silver. Some of these were now in the villa, and the young man scrutinised them with close attention.
“Dear me,” said he in a vexed tone, as he returned to the hearth, “I thought the Queen Bess flagon was here. Surely I sent it here from Belleville Castle!”
The Duke smiled; the Queen Bess flagon had never been at Belleville Castle, and it was now in a small locked cabinet which stood on the mantelpiece. He made no remark; a suspicion had begun to take shape in his mind concerning this strange visitor. Two thousand seven hundred and forty guineas was the price that he had paid for the Queen Bess flagon; all the other specimens in the little room, taken together, might be worth perhaps a quarter as much.
“Your Grace spoke of some other matter in which I might assist you?” he suggested, for the young man seemed to have fallen into a reverie.
“Why, yes. As I tell you, I expect a friend; and it looks very absurd to have no servant. You’re sure to find a suit of dress clothes in my bedroom. Pray put them on and represent my valet. You can resume your uniform afterwards.”
The Duke bowed and left the room. The moment the door closed behind him he made the best of his way to the kitchen. A few words were enough to impart his suspicions to the policeman. A daring and ingenious scheme was evidently on foot, its object being the theft of the Queen Bess flagon. Even now, unless they acted quickly, the young man might lay hands on the cabinet in which the treasure lay and be off with it. In a trice the Duke had discarded the police uniform, its rightful owner had resumed it, and the Duke was again in the convenient black suit which befits any man, be he duke or valet. Then the kitchen window was cautiously opened, and the policeman crawled silently round to the front of the house; here he lay in waiting for a summons or for the appearance of a visitor. The Duke returned immediately to the sitting-room.