Temporal Power: A Study in Supremacy

CHAPTER XVI. — THE PROFESSOR ADVISES

“I have discovered the secret of successful living, Professor,” said the King, a couple of hours later as, walking in one of the many thickly wooded alleys of the palace grounds, he greeted Von Glauben, who had been told to meet him there, and who had been waiting the Royal approach with some little trepidation,—“It is this,—to draw a straight line of conduct, and walk in it, regardless of other people’s crooked curves!”

The Professor looked at him, and saw nothing but kindliness expressed in his eyes and smile,—therefore, taking courage he replied without embarrassment,—

“Truly, Sir, if a man is brave enough to do this, he may conquer everything but death, and even face this last enemy without much alarm.”

“I agree with you!” replied the monarch; “And Humphry’s line has certainly been straight enough, taken from the point of his own perspective! Do you not think so?”

Von Glauben hesitated a moment—then spoke out boldly.

“Sir, as you now know all, I will frankly assure you that I think his Royal Highness has behaved honourably, and as a true man! Society pardons a prince for seducing innocence—but whether it will pardon him for marrying it, is quite another question! And that is why I repeat, he has behaved well. Though when he first told me he was married, I suffered a not-to-be-explained misery and horror; ‘For,’ said he—‘I have married an angel!’ Which naturally I thought (deducting a certain quantity of the enthusiasm of youth for the statement) meant that he had married a bouncing housemaid with large hands and feet. ‘That is well,’ I told him—‘For divorce is now made easy in this country, and you can easily return the celestial creature to her native element!’ At which I resigned myself to hear some oaths, for violent expletives are always refreshing to the masculine brain-matter. But his Royal Highness maintained the good breeding which always distinguishes him, and merely proceeded with his strange confession of romance,—which, as you, Sir, are now happily aware of it, I need not recapitulate. Your knowledge of the matter has lifted an enormous burden from my mind; Ach! Enormous!”

He gave a deep breath, and drew himself up to his full height—squared his shoulders, and then, as it were stood firm, as though waiting attack.

The King laughed good-naturedly, and took him by the arm.

“Tell me all you know, Von Glauben!” he said; “I am acquainted with the gist and upshot of the matter,—namely, Humphry’s marriage; but I am wholly ignorant of the details.”

“There is little to tell, Sir,” said Von Glauben;—“Of the Prince’s constant journeyings to The Islands we were all aware long ago; but the cause of those little voyages was not so apparent. To avoid the suspicion with which a Royal visitor would be viewed, the Prince, it appears, assumed to be merely one of the junior officers on his own yacht,—and under this disguise became known and much liked by the Islanders generally. He fell in love at first sight with the beautiful girl your Majesty saw yesterday—Gloria; ‘Glory-of-the-Sea’—as I sometimes call her, and they were married by the old parish priest in the little church among the rocks—the very church where, as her adopted father, Ronsard, tells me, he heard the choristers singing a ‘Gloria in Excelsis’ on the day he found her cast up on the shore.”

“Well!” said the King, seeing that he paused; “And is the marriage legal, think you?”

“Perfectly so, Sir!” replied Von Glauben; “Registered by law, as well as sanctified by church. The Prince tells me he married her in his own name,—but no one,—not even the poor little priest who married them,—knew the surname of your Majesty’s distinguished house, and I believe,—nay I am sure—” here he heaved an unconscious sigh, “it will bring a tragedy to the girl when she knows the true rank and title of her husband!”

“How came you to make her acquaintance? Tell me everything!—you know I will not misjudge you!”

“Indeed, Sir, I hope you will not!” returned the Professor earnestly;—“For there was never a man more hopelessly involved than myself in the net prepared for me by this romantic lover, who has the honour to be your son. In the first place, directly I heard this confession of marriage, I was for telling you at once; but as he had bound me by my word of honour before he began the story, to keep his confidence sacred, I was unable to disburden myself of it. He said he wanted to secure me as a friend for his wife. ‘That,’ said I firmly, ‘I will never be! For there will be difficulty when all is known; and if it comes to a struggle between a pretty fishwife and the good of a king—ach!—mein Gott!—I am not for the fishwife!’”

The King smiled; and Von Glauben went on.

“Well, he assured me she was not a fishwife. I said ‘What is she then?’ ‘I tell you,’ he replied, ‘she is an angel! You will come and see her; you will pass as an old friend of her sailor husband; and when you have seen her you will understand!’ I was angry, and said I would not go with him; but afterwards I thought perhaps it would be best if I did, as I might be able to advise him to some wise course. So I accompanied him one afternoon in the past autumn to The Islands (he was married last summer) and saw the girl,—the ‘Glory-of-the-Sea.’ And I must confess to your Majesty, my heart went down before her beauty and innocence in absolute worship! And if you were to kill me for it, I cannot help it—I am now as devoted to her service as I am to yours!”

“Good!” said the King gently;—“Then you must help me to console her in Humphry’s absence!”

Professor Von Glauben’s eyes opened widely, with a vague look of alarm.

“In his absence, Sir?”

“Yes! I am sending him abroad. He is quite willing to go, he tells me. His departure will make all things perfectly easy for us. The girl must remain in her present ignorance as to the position of the man she has really married. The sailor she supposes him to be will accompany the Prince on his yacht,—and it must be arranged that he never returns! She is young, and will easily be consoled!”

Von Glauben was silent.

“You will not betray the Prince’s identity with her lover,” went on the King, “and no one else knows it. In fact, you will be the very person best qualified to tell her of his departure, and—in due time, of his fictitious death!”

They were walking slowly under the heavy shadow of crossed ilex boughs,—and Von Glauben came to a dead halt.

“Sir,” he said, in rather unsteady accents; “With every respect for your Majesty, I must altogether decline the task of breaking a pure heart, and ruining a young life! Moreover, if your Majesty, after all your recent experiences,”—and he laid great emphasis on these last words, “thinks there is any ultimate good to be obtained by keeping up a lie, and practising a fraud, the lessons we have learned in these latter days are wholly unavailing! You began this conversation with me by speaking of a straight line of conduct, which should avoid other people’s crooked curves. Is this your Majesty’s idea of a straight line?”

He spoke with unguarded vehemence, but the King was not offended. On the contrary, he looked whimsically interested and amused.

“My dear Von Glauben, you are not usually so inconsistent! Humphry himself has kept up a lie, and practised a fraud on the girl——”

“Only for a time!” interrupted the Professor hastily.

“Oh, we all do it ‘only for a time.’ Everything—life itself—is ‘only for a time!’ You know as well as I do that this absurd marriage can never be acknowledged. I explained as much to Humphry; I told him he could guard himself by the morganatic law, provided he would consent to a Royal alliance immediately—but the young fool swore it would be bigamy, and took himself off in a huff.”

“He was right! It would be bigamy;—it is bigamy!”, said the Professor; “Call it by what name you like in Court parlance, the act of having two wives is forbidden in this country. The wisest men have come to the conclusion that one wife is enough!”

“Humphry’s ideas being so absolutely childish,” went on the King, “it is necessary for him to expand them somewhat. That is why I shall send him abroad. You have a strong flavour of romance in your Teutonic composition, Von Glauben,—and I can quite sympathise with your admiration for the ‘Glory-of-the-Sea’ as you call her. From a man’s point of view, I admire her myself. But I know nothing of her moral or mental qualities; though from her flat refusal to give me her husband’s name yesterday, I judge her as wilful,—but most pretty women are that. And as for my line of conduct, it will, I assure you, be perfectly ‘straight,’—in the direction of my duty as a King,—apart altogether from sentimental considerations! And in this, as in other things,—” he paused and emphasised his words—“I rely on your honour and faithful service!”

The Professor made no reply. He was, thinking deeply. With a kind of grim scorn, he pointed out to himself that his imagination was held captive by the mental image of a woman, whose eyes had expressed trust in him; and almost as tenderly as the lover in Tennyson’s ‘Maud’ he could have said that he ‘would die, To save from some slight shame one simple girl.’ Presently he braced himself up, and confronted his Royal master.

“Sir,” he said very quietly, yet with perfect frankness; “Your Majesty must have the goodness to pardon me if I say you must not rely upon me at all in this matter! I will promise nothing, except to be true to myself and my own sense of justice. I have given up my own country for conscience’ sake—I can easily give up another which is not my own, for the same reason. In the matter of this marriage or ‘mésalliance’ as the worldly would call it,—I have nothing whatever to do. While the Prince asked me to keep his secret, I kept it. Now that he has confided it to your Majesty, I am relieved and satisfied; and shall not in any way, by word or suggestion, interfere with your Majesty’s intentions. But, at the same time, I shall not assist them! For as regards the trusting girl who has been persuaded that she has won a great love and complete happiness for all her life,—I have sworn to be her friend;—and I must respectfully decline to be a party to any further deception in her case. Knowing what I know of her character, which is a pure and grand one, I think it would be far better to tell her the whole truth, and let her be the arbiter of her own destiny. She will decide well and truly, I am sure!”

He ceased; the King was silent. Von Glauben studied his face attentively.

“You are a thinker, Sir,—a student and a philosopher. You are not one of those kings who treat their kingship as a license for the free exercise of intolerant humours and vicious practices. Were you no monarch at all, you would still be a sane and thoughtful man. Take my humble advice, Sir—for once put the unspoilt nature of a pure woman to the test, and find out what a grand creature God intended woman to be, in her pristine simplicity and virtue! Send for Gloria to this Court;—tell her the truth!—and await the result with confidence!”

There was a pause. The King walked slowly up and down; at last he spoke.

“You may be right! I do not say you are wrong. I will consider your suggestion. Certainly it would be the straightest course. But first a complete explanation is due to the Queen. She must know all,—and if her interest can be awakened by such a triviality as her son’s love-affair—” and he smiled somewhat bitterly,—“perhaps she may agree to your plan as the best way out of the difficulty. In any case”—here he extended his hand which the Professor deferentially bowed over—“I respect your honesty and plain speaking, Professor! I have reason to approve highly of sincerity,—wherever and however I find it,—at the present crisis of affairs. For the moment, I will only ask you to be on your guard with Humphry;—and say as little as possible to him on the subject of his marriage or intended departure from this country. Keep everything as quiet as may be;—till—till we find a clear and satisfactory course to follow, which shall inflict as little pain as possible on all concerned. And now, a word with you on other matters.”

They walked on side by side, through the garden walks and ways, conversing earnestly,—and by and by penetrating into the deeper recesses of the outlying woodlands, were soon hidden among the crossing and recrossing of the trees. Had they kept to the open ground, from whence the wide expanse of the sea could be viewed from end to end, their discussions might perhaps have been interrupted, and themselves somewhat startled,—for they would have seen Prince Humphry’s yacht, with every inch of canvas stretched to the utmost, flying rapidly before the wind like a wild white bird, winging its swift, straight way to the west where the sun shot down Apollo-like shafts of gold on the gleaming purple coast-line of The Islands.

CHAPTER XVII. — AN “HONOURABLE” STATESMAN

It is not easy to trace the causes why it so often happens that semi-educated, and more or less shallow men rise suddenly to a height of brilliant power and influence in the working of a country’s policy. Sometimes it is wealth that brings them to the front; sometimes the strong support secretly given to them by others in the background, who have their own motives to serve, and who require a public representative; but more often still it is sheer unscrupulousness,—or what may be described as ‘walking over’ all humane and honest considerations,—that places them in triumph at the helm of affairs. To rise from a statesman to be a Secretary of State augurs a certain amount of brain, though not necessarily of the highest quality; while it certainly betokens a good deal of dash and impudence. Carl Pérousse, one of the most prominent among the political notabilities of Europe, had begun his career by small peddling transactions in iron and timber manufactures; he came of a very plebeian stock, and had received only a desultory sort of education, picked up here and there in cheap provincial schools. But he had a restless, domineering spirit of ambition. Ashamed of his plebeian origin, and embittered from his earliest years by a sense of grudge against those who moved in the highest and most influential circles of the time, the idea was always in his mind that he would one day make himself an authority over the very persons, who, in the rough and tumble working-days of his younger manhood, would not so much as cast him a word or a look. He knew that the first thing necessary to attain for this purpose was money; and he had, by steady and constant plod, managed to enlarge and expand all his business concerns into various, important companies, which he set afloat in all quarters of the world,—with the satisfactory result that by the time his years had run well into the forties, he was one of the wealthiest men in the country. He had from the first taken every opportunity to insinuate himself into politics; and in exact proportion to the money he made, so was his success in acquiring such coveted positions in life as brought with them the masterful control of various conflicting aims and interests. His individual influence had extended by leaps and bounds till he had become only secondary in importance to the Prime Minister himself; and he possessed a conveniently elastic conscience, which could be stretched at will to suit any party or any set of principles. In personal appearance he was not prepossessing. Nature had branded him in her own special way ‘Trickster,’ for those who cared to search for her trademark. He was tall and thin, with a narrow head and a deeply-lined, clean-shaven countenance, the cold immovability of which was sometimes broken up by an unpleasant smile, that merely widened the pale set lips without softening them, and disclosed a crooked row of smoke-coloured teeth, much decayed. He had small eyes, furtively hidden under a somewhat restricted frontal development,—his brows were narrow,—his forehead ignoble and retreating. But despite a general badness, or what may be called a ‘smirchiness’ of feature, he had learned to assume an air of superiority, which by its sheer audacity prevented a casual observer from setting him down as the vulgarian he undoubtedly was; and his amazing pluck, boldness and originality in devising ways and means of smothering popular discontent under various ‘shows’ of apparent public prosperity, was immensely useful to all such ‘statesmen,’ whose statesmanship consisted in making as much money as possible for themselves out of the pockets of their credulous countrymen. He was seldom disturbed by opposing influences; and even now when he had just returned from the palace with the full knowledge that the King was absolutely resolved on vetoing certain propositions he had set down in council for the somewhat arbitrary treatment of a certain half-tributary power which had latterly turned rebellious, he was more amused than irritated.

“I suppose his Majesty wants to distinguish himself by a melodramatic coup d’état” he said, leaning easily back in his chair, and studying the tips of his carefully pared and polished finger-nails;—“Poor fool! I don’t blame him for trying to do something more than walk about his palace in different costumes at stated intervals,—but he will find his ‘veto’ out of date. We shall put it to the country;—and I think I can answer for that!”

He smiled, as one who knows where and how to secure a triumph, and his equanimity was not disturbed in the least by the unexpected arrival of the Premier, who was just then announced, and who, coming in his turn from the King’s diplomatic reception, had taken the opportunity to call and see his colleague on his way home.

“You seem fatigued, Marquis!” he said, as, rising to receive his distinguished guest, he placed a chair for him opposite his own. “Was his Majesty’s conversazione more tedious than usual?”

Lutera looked at him with a dubious air.

“No!—it was brief enough so far as I was immediately concerned,” he replied;—“I do not suppose I stayed more than twenty minutes in the Throne-room altogether. I understand you have been told that our proposed negotiations are to be vetoed?”

Pérousse smiled.

“I have been told—yes!—but I have been told many things which I do not believe! The King certainly has the right of veto; but he dare not exercise it.”

“Dare not?” echoed the Marquis—“From his present unconstitutional attitude it seems to me he dare do anything!”

“I tell you he dare not!” repeated Pérousse quietly;—“Unless he wishes to lose the Throne. I daresay if it came to that, we should get on quite as well—if not better—with a Republic!”

Lutera looked at him with an amazed and reluctant admiration.

“You talk of a Republic? You,—who are for ever making the most loyal speeches in favour of the monarchy?”

“Why not?” queried Pérousse lightly;—“If the monarchy does not do as it is told, whip it like a naughty child and send it to bed. That has been easily arranged before now in history!”

The Marquis sat silent,—thinking, or rather brooding heavily. Should he, or should he not unburden himself of certain fears that oppressed his mind? He cleared his throat of a troublesome huskiness and began,—

“If the purely business transactions in which you are engaged——”

“And you also,” put in Pérousse placidly.

The Premier shifted his position uneasily and went on.

“I say, if the purely business transactions of this affair were publicly known——”

“As well expect Cabinet secrets to be posted on a hoarding in the open thoroughfare!” said Pérousse. “What afflicts you with these sudden pangs of distrust at your position? You have taken care to provide for all your own people! What more can you desire?”

Lutera hesitated; then he said slowly:—

“I think there is only one thing for me to do,—and that is to send in my resignation at once!”

Carl Pérousse raised himself a little out of his chair, and opened his narrow eyes.

“Send in your resignation!” he echoed; “On what grounds? Do me the kindness to remember, Marquis, that I am not yet quite ready to take your place!”

He smiled his disagreeable smile,—and the Marquis began to feel irritated.

“Do not be too sure that you will ever have it to take,” he said with some acerbity; “If the King should by any means come to know of your financial deal——”

“You seem to be very suddenly afraid of the King!” interrupted Pérousse; “Or else strange touches of those catch-word ideals ‘Loyalty’ and ‘Patriotism’ are troubling your mind! You speak of my financial deal,—is not yours as important? Review the position;—it is simply this;—for years and years the Ministry have been speculating in office matters,—it is no new thing. Sometimes they have lost, and sometimes they have won; their losses have been replaced by the imposition of taxes on the people,—their gains they have very wisely said nothing about. In these latter days, however, the loss has been considerably more than the gain. ‘Patriotism,’ as stocks, has gone down. ‘Honour’ will not pay the piper. We cannot increase taxation just at present; but by a war, we can clear out some of the useless population, and invest in contracts for supplies. The mob love fighting,—and every small victory won, can be celebrated in beer and illuminations, to expand what is called ‘the heart of the People.’ It is a great ‘heart,’ and always leaps to strong drink,—which is cheap enough, being so largely adulterated. The country we propose to subdue is rich,—and both you and I have large investments of land there. With the success which our arms are sure to obtain, we shall fill not only the State coffers (which have been somewhat emptied by our predecessors’ peculations), but our own coffers as well. The King ‘vetoes’ the war; then let us hear what the People say! Of course we must work them up first; and then get their verdict while they are red-hot with patriotic excitement. The Press, ordered by Jost, can manage that! Put it to the country; (through Jost);—but do not talk of resigning when we are on the brink of success! I will carry this thing through, despite the King’s ‘veto’!”

“Wait!” said the Marquis, drawing his chair closer to Pérousse, and speaking in a low uneasy tone; “You do not know all! There is some secret agency at work against us; and, among other things, I fear that a foreign spy has been inadvertently allowed to learn the mainspring of our principal moves. Listen, and judge for yourself!”

And he related the story of David Jost’s midnight experience, carefully emphasising every point connected with his own signet-ring. As he proceeded with the narration, Pérousse’s face grew livid,—once or twice he clenched his hand nervously, but he said nothing till he had heard all.

“Your ring, you say, had never left the King’s possession?”

“So the King himself assured me, this very afternoon.”

“Then someone must have passed off an imitation signet on David Jost,” continued Pérousse meditatively. “What name did the spy give?”

“Pasquin Leroy.”

Carl Pérousse opened a small memorandum book, and carefully wrote the name down within it.

“Whatever David Jost has said, David Jost alone is answerable for!” he then said calmly—“A Jew may be called a liar with impunity, and whatever a Jew has asserted can be flatly denied. Remember, he is in our pay!”

“I doubt if he will consent to be made the scapegoat in this affair,” said Lutera; “Unless we can make it exceptionally to his advantage;—he has the press at his command.”

“Give him a title!” returned Pérousse contemptuously; “These Jew press-men love nothing better!”

The Marquis smiled somewhat sardonically.

“Jost, with a patent of nobility would cut rather an extraordinary figure!” he said; “Still he would probably make good use of it,—especially if he were to start a newspaper in London! They would accept him as a great man there!”

Pérousse gave a careless nod; his thoughts were otherwise occupied.

“This Pasquin Leroy has gone to Moscow?”

“According to his own words, he was leaving this morning.”

“I daresay that statement is a blind. I should not at all wonder if he is still in the city. I will get an exact description of him from Jost, and set Bernhoff on his track.”

“Do not forget,” said the Marquis impressively, “that he told Jost in apparently the most friendly and well-meaning manner possible, that the King had discovered the whole plan of our financial campaign. He even reported me as being ready to resign in consequence——”

“Which apparently you are!” interpolated Pérousse with some sarcasm.

“I certainly have my resignation in prospect,” returned Lutera coldly—“And, so far, this mysterious spy has seemingly probed my thoughts. If he is as correct in his report concerning the King, it is impossible to say what may be the consequence.”

“Why, what can the King do?” demanded Pérousse impatiently, and with scorn for the vacillating humour of his companion; “Granted that he knew everything from the beginning——”

“Including your large land purchases and contract concessions in the very country you propose war with,” put in the Marquis,—“Say that he knew you had resolved on war, and had already started a company for the fabrication of the guns and other armaments, out of which you get the principal pickings—what then?”

“What then?” echoed Pérousse defiantly—“Why nothing! The King is as powerless as a target in a field, set up for arrows to be aimed at! He dare not divulge a State secret; he has no privilege of interference with politics; all he can do is to ‘lead’ fashionable society—a poor business at best—and at present his lead is not particularly apparent. The King must do as We command!”

He rose and paced up and down with agitated steps.

“To-day, when he told me he had resolved to ‘veto’ my propositions, I accepted his information without any manifestation of surprise. I merely said it would have to be stated in the Senate, and that reasons would have to be given. He agreed, and said that he himself would proclaim those reasons. I told him it was impossible!”

“And what was his reply?” asked the Marquis.

“His reply was as absurd as his avowed intention. ‘Hitherto it has been impossible,’ he said; ‘But in Our reign we shall make it possible!’ He declined any further conversation with me, referring me to you and our chief colleagues in the Cabinet.”

“Well?”

“Well! I pay no more attention to a King’s sudden caprice than I do to the veering of the wind! He will alter his mind in a few days, when the exigency of the matters in hand becomes apparent to him. In the same way, he will revoke his decision about that grant of land to the Jesuits. He must let them have their way.”

“What benefit do we get by favouring the Jesuits?” asked Lutera.

“Jost gets a thousand a year for putting flattering notices of the schools, processions, festivals and such nonsense in his various newspapers; and our party secures the political support of the Vatican in Europe,—which just now is very necessary. The Pope must give his Christian benediction not only to our Educational system, but also to the war!”

“Then the King has set himself in our way already, even in this matter?”

“He has! Quite unaccountably and very foolishly. But we shall persuade him still to be of our opinion. The ass that will not walk must be beaten till he gallops! I have no anxiety whatever on any point; even the advent of Jost’s spy, with an imitation of your signet on his finger appears to me quite melodramatic, and only helps to make the general situation more interesting,—to me at least;—I am only sorry to see that you allow yourself to be so much concerned over these trifles!”

“I have my family to think of,” said the Marquis slowly; “My reputation as a statesman, and my honour as a minister are both at stake.” Pérousse smiled oddly, but said nothing. “If in any way my name became a subject of popular animadversion, it would entirely ruin the position I believe I have attained in history. I have always wished,—” and there was a tinge of pathos in his voice—“my descendants to hold a certain pride in my career!”

Pérousse looked at him with grim amusement.

“It is a curious and unpleasant fact that the ‘descendants’ of these days do not care a button for their ancestors,” he said; “They generally try to forget them as fast as possible. What do the descendants of Robespierre, (if there are any), care about him? The descendants of Wellington? The descendants of Beethoven or Lord Byron? Among the many numerous advantages attending the world-wide fame of Shakespeare is that he has left no descendants. If he had, his memory would have been more vulgarised by them, than by any Yankee kicker at his grave! One of the most remarkable features of this progressive age is the cheerful ease with which sons forget they ever had fathers! I am afraid, Marquis, you are not likely to escape the common doom!”

Lutera rose slowly, and prepared to take his departure.

“I shall call a Cabinet Council for Monday,” he said; “This is Friday. You will find it convenient to attend?”

Pérousse, rising at the same time, assented smilingly.

“You will see things in a better and clearer light by then,” he said. “Rely on me! I have not involved you thus far with any intention of bringing you to loss or disaster. Whatever befalls you in this affair must equally befall me; we are both in the same boat. We must carry things through with a firm hand, and show no hesitation. As for the King, his business is to be a Dummy; and as Dummy he must remain.”

Lutera made no reply. They shook hands,—not over cordially,—and parted; and as soon as Pérousse heard the wheels of the Premier’s carriage grinding away from his outer gate, he applied himself vigorously to the handle of one of the numerous telephone wires fitted up near his desk, and after getting into communication with the quarter he desired, requested General Bernhoff, Chief of the Police, to attend upon him instantly. Bernhoff’s headquarters were close by, so that he had but to wait barely a quarter of an hour before that personage,—the same who had before been summoned to the presence of the King,—appeared.

To him Pérousse handed a slip of paper, on which he had written the words ‘Pasquin Leroy.’

“Do you know that name?” he asked.

General Bernhoff looked at it attentively. Only the keenest and closest observer could have possibly detected the slight flicker of a smile under the stiff waxed points of his military moustache, as he read it. He returned it carefully folded.

“I fancy I have heard it!” he said cautiously; “In any case, I shall remember it.”

“Good! There is a man of that name in this city; trace him if you can! Take this note to Mr. David Jost”—and while he spoke he hastily scrawled a few lines and addressed them—“and he will give you an exact personal description of him. He is reported to have left for Moscow,—but I discredit that statement. He is a foreign spy, engaged, we believe, in the work of taking plans of our military defences,—he must be arrested, and dealt with rigorously at once. You understand?”

“Perfectly,” replied Bernhoff, accepting the note handed to him; “If he is to be discovered, I shall not fail to discover him!”

“And when you think you are on the track, let me have information at once,” went on Pérousse; “But be well on your guard, and let no one learn the object of your pursuit. Keep your own counsel!”

“I always do!” returned Bernhoff bluntly. “If I did not there might be trouble!”

Pérousse looked at him sharply, but seeing the wooden-like impassiveness of his countenance, forced a smile.

“There might indeed!” he said; “Your tact and discretion, General, do much to keep the city quiet. But this affair of Pasquin Leroy is a private matter.”

“Distinctly so!” agreed Bernhoff quietly; “I hold the position entirely!”

He shortly afterwards withdrew, and Carl Pérousse, satisfied that he had at any rate taken precautions to make known the existence of a spy in the city, if not to secure his arrest, turned to the crowding business on his hands with a sense of ease and refreshment. He might not have felt quite so self-assured and complacent, had he seen the worthy Bernhoff smiling broadly to himself as he strolled along the street, with the air of one enjoying a joke, the while he murmured,—

“Pasquin Leroy,—engaged in taking plans of the military defences—is he? Ah!—a very dangerous amusement to indulge in! Engaged in taking plans!—Ah!—Yes!—Very good,—very good; excellent! Do I know the name? Yes! I fancy I might have heard it! Oh, yes, very good indeed—excellent! And this spy is probably still in the city? Yes!—Probably! Yes—I should imagine it quite likely!”

Still smiling, and apparently in the best of humours with himself and the world at large, the General continued his easy stroll by the sea-fronted ways of the city, along the many picturesque terraces, and up flights of marble steps built somewhat in the fashion of the prettiest corners of Monaco, till he reached the chief promenade and resort of fashion, which being a broad avenue running immediately under and in front of the King’s palace facing the sea, was in the late sunshine of the afternoon crowded with carriages and pedestrians. Here he took his place with the rest, saluting a fellow officer here, or a friend there,—and stood bareheaded with the rest of the crowd, when a light gracefully-shaped landau, drawn by four greys, and escorted by postillions in the Royal liveries, passed like a triumphal car, enshrining the cold, changeless and statuesque beauty of the Queen, upon whom the public were never weary of gazing. She was a curiosity to them—a living miracle in her unwithering loveliness; for, apparently unmoved by emotion herself, she roused all sorts of emotions in others. Bernhoff had seen her a thousand times, but never without a sense of new dazzlement.

“Always the same Sphinx!” he thought now, with a slight frown shading the bluff good-nature of his usual expression; “She is a woman who will face Death as she faces Time,—with that cold smile of hers which expresses nothing but scorn of all life’s little business!”

He proceeded meditatively on his way to the palace itself, where, on demand, he was at once admitted to the private apartments of the King.

CHAPTER XVIII. — ROYAL LOVERS

Silver-white glamour of the moon, and velvet darkness of deep branching foliage held the quiet breadth of The Islands between them. Low on the shore the fantastic shapes of one or two tall cliffs were outlined black on the fine sparkling sand,—tiny waves rose from the bosom of the calm sea, and cuddling together in baby ripples made bubbles of their crests, and broke here and there among the pebbles with low gurgles of laughter, and in the warm silence of the southern night the nightingales began to tune up their delicate fluty voices with delicious tremors and pauses in the trying of their song. The under-scent of hidden violets among moss flowed potently upon the quiet air, mingled with strong pine-odours and the salt breath of the gently heaving sea,—and all the land seemed as lonely and as fair as the fabled Eden might have been, when the first two human mated creatures knew it as their own. To every soul that loves for the first time, the vision of that Lost Paradise is granted; to every man and woman who know and feel the truth of the divine passion is vouchsafed a flashing gleam of glory from that Heaven which gives them to each other. For the voluptuary—for the animal man,—who like his four-footed kindred is only conscious of instinctive desire, this pure expansion of the heart and ennobling of the thought is as a sealed book,—a never-to-be-divulged mystery of joy, which, because he cannot experience it, he is unable to believe in. It is a glory-cloud in which the privileged ones are ‘caught up and received out of sight.’ It transfuses the roughest elements into immortal influences,—it colours the earth with fairer hues, and fills the days with beauty; every hour is a gem of sweet thought set in the dreaming soul, and the lover, at certain times of rapt ecstasy, would smile incredulously were he told that anyone living could be unhappy. For love goes back to the beginning of things,—to the time when the world was new. It has its birth in that primeval light when ‘the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy.’ If it is real, deep, passionate and disinterested love, it sees no difficulties and knows no disillusions. It is a sufficient assurance of God to make life beautiful. But in these days of the eld-time of nations, when all things are being mixed and prepared for casting into a new mould of world-formation, where we and our civilizations are not, and shall not be,—any more than the Egyptian Rameses is part of us now,—love in its pristine purity, faith and simplicity, is rare. Very little romance is left to hallow it; and it is doubtful whether the white moon, swinging like a silver lamp in heaven above the peaceful Islands, shed her glory anywhere on any such lovers in the world, as the two who on this fair night of the southern springtime, with arms entwined round each other, moved slowly up and down on the velvet greensward outside Ronsard’s cottage,—Gloria and her ‘sailor’ husband.

Gloria was happy,—and her happiness made her doubly beautiful. Clad in her usual attire of white homespun, with her rich hair falling unbound over her shoulders in girl-fashion, and just kept back by a band of white coral, she looked like a young goddess of the sea; her lustrous, starlike eyes gazed up into the tender responsive ones of the handsome stripling she had so trustfully wedded, and not a shadow of doubt or fear darkened the heaven of her confidence. She did not know how beautiful she was,—she did not realise that her body was like one of the unfettered, graceful and perfectly-proportioned figures of women left to our wondering reverence by the Greek sculptors,—she had never thought about herself at all, not even to compare her fair brilliancy of skin with the bronzed, weather-beaten faces of the fisher-folk among whom she dwelt. Resting her delicate classic head against the encircling arm of her lover and lord, her beauty seemed almost unearthly in its pure transparency of feature, outlined by the silver glimmer of the moonbeams; and the young man by her side, with his handsome dark head, tall figure and distinguished bearing, looked the fitting mate for her fair, blossoming womanhood. No two lovers were ever more ideally matched in physical perfection; and as they moved slowly to and fro on the soft dark grass, brushing the dewy scent from hanging rose-boughs that pushed out inviting tufts of white and pink bloom here and there from the surrounding foliage, they would have served many a poet for some sweet idyll, or romance in rhyme, which should hold in its stanzas the magic of immortality. Yet there was a shade of uneasiness in the minds of both,—Prince Humphry was more silent than usual, and seemed absorbed in thought; and Gloria, looking timidly up from time to time at the dark poetic face of her ‘sailor’ lover, felt with a woman’s quick instinct that something was troubling him, and remorsefully concluded that she was to blame,—that he had heard of her having been seen by the King, and that he was evidently vexed by it. He had arrived that evening suddenly and unexpectedly; for she and her ‘little father,’ as she called Réné Ronsard, had just begun their frugal supper, when the Crown Prince’s yacht swept into the bay and dropped anchor. Half an hour later he, the much-beloved ‘junior officer’ in the Crown Prince’s service had appeared at the cottage door, greatly to their delight, for they did not expect to see him so soon. They had supped together, and then Ronsard himself had gone to superintend a meeting at a small social club he had started for the amusement of the fisher-folk, wisely leaving the young wedded lovers to themselves. And they had for a long time been very quiet, save for such little words of love as came into tune with the interchange of caresses,—and after a pause of anxious inward thought, Gloria ventured on a timid query.

“Dearest,—are you very angry with me?”

He started,—and stopping in his walk, turned the fair face up between his two hands, as one might lift a rose on its stem, and kissed it tenderly.

“Angry? How can I ever be angry with you, Sweet? Besides what cause have I for anger?”

“I thought, perhaps—” murmured Gloria, “that if the Professor told you what I did yesterday,—when the King came—”

“He did tell me;” and the Prince still gazed down on that heavenly beauty which was the light of the world to him. “He told me that you sang;—and that your golden voice was a musical magnet which drew his Majesty to your feet! I am not surprised,—it was only natural! But I could have wished it had not happened just yet; however, it has happened, and we must make the best of it!”

“It was my fault,” said the girl penitently;—“I had the fancy to sing; and I would sing, though the good Professor told me not to do so!”

The Prince was silent. He was bracing his mind to the inevitable. He had determined that on this very night Gloria should know the truth. For he was instinctively certain that if he went abroad, as his father wished him to do, some means would be taken to remove her altogether from the country before his return; and his idea was to tell her all, and make her accompany him on his travels. As his wife, she was bound to obey him, he argued within himself; she should, she must go with him! Unconsciously Gloria’s next words supplied him with an opening to the subject.

“Why did you never tell me that the Professor was in the King’s service?” she asked. “He seemed to know him quite well,—indeed, almost as a friend!”

“He is the King’s physician,” answered the Prince abruptly; “And, therefore, he is very greatly in the King’s confidence.”

He walked on, still keeping his arm round her, and seemed not to see the half-frightened glance she gave him.

“The King’s physician!” she echoed;—“He does not seem a great person at all,—he is quite a simple old German man!”

Her lover smiled.

“To be physician to the King, my Gloria, is not a very wonderful honour! It merely implies that the man so chosen is perhaps the ablest fencer with sickness and death; the greatness is in the simple old German himself, not in the King’s preference. Von Glauben is a good man.”

“I know it;” said Gloria gently; “He is good,—and very kind. He said he would always be my friend,—but he was very strange in his manner yesterday, and almost I was vexed with him. Do you know what he said? He asked me what I should do if you—my husband, had deceived me? Can you imagine such a thing?”

Now was the supreme moment. With a violently beating heart the Prince halted, and putting both arms round her waist, drew her up to him in such a way that their eyes looked close into each other’s, and their lips were within kissing touch.

“Yes, my sweetest one! I can imagine such a thing! Such a thing is possible! Consider it to be true! Consider that I have deceived you!”

She did not move from his clasp, but into her large, lovely trusting eyes came a look of grief and terror, and her face grew ashy pale.

“In what way?” she whispered faintly; “Tell me! I—I—cannot believe it!”

“Gloria,—Gloria! My love, my darling! Do not tremble so! Do not fear! I have not deceived you in any evil way,—what I have done was for your good and mine; but now—now there is no longer any need of deception,—you may, and shall know all the truth, my wife, my dearest in the world! You shall know me as I truly am at last!”

She moved restlessly in his strong clasp,—she was trembling from head to foot, as if her blood was suddenly chilled.

“As you truly are!” she echoed, with pale lips—“Are you not then what I have believed you to be?”

And she made an effort to withdraw herself entirely from his embrace. But he held her fast.

“I am your husband, Gloria!” he said, “and you are my wife! Nothing can alter that; nothing can change our love or disunite our lives. But I am not the poor naval officer I have represented myself to be!—though I am glad I adopted such a disguise, because by its aid I wooed and won your love! I am not in the service of the Crown Prince,—except in so far as I serve my own needs! Why, how you tremble!”—and he held her closer—“Do not be afraid, my darling! Lift up your eyes and look at me with your own sweet trusting look,—do not turn away from me, because instead of being the Prince’s servant, I am the Prince himself!”

“The Prince!” And with a cry of utter desolation, Gloria wrenched herself out of his arms, and stood apart, looking at him in wild alarm and bewilderment. “The Prince! You—you!—my husband! You,—the King’s son! And you have married me!—oh, how cruel of you!—how cruel!—how cruel!”

Covering her face with her hands, she broke into a low sobbing,—and the Prince, cut to the heart by her distress, caught her again in his arms.

“Hush, Gloria!” he said, with an accent of authority, though his own voice was tremulous; “You must not grieve like this! You will break my heart! Do you not understand? Do you not see that all my life is bound up in you?—that I give it to you to do what you will with?—that I care nothing for rank, state or throne without you?—that I will let all the world go rather than lose you? Gloria, do not weep so!—do not weep! Every tear of yours is a pang to me! What does it matter whether I am prince or commoner? I love you!—we love each other!—we are one in the sight of Heaven!”

He held her passionately in his arms, kissing the soft clusters of hair that fell against his breast, and whispering all the tenderest words of endearment he could think of to console and soothe her anguish. By degrees she grew calmer, and her sobs gradually ceased. Dashing the tears from her eyes, she looked up,—her face white as marble.

“You must not tell Ronsard!” she said in faint tones that shook with fear; “He would kill you!”

The Prince smiled indulgently; his only thought was for her, and so long as he could dry her tears, Ronsard’s rage or pleasure was nothing to him.

“He would kill you!” repeated Gloria, with wide open tear-wet eyes; “He hates all kings, in his heart!—and if he knew that you—you—my husband,—were what you say you are;—if he thought you had married me under a disguise, only to leave me and never to want me any more——”

“Gloria, Gloria!” cried the Prince, in despair; “Why will you say such things! Never to want you any more! I want you all my life, and every moment of that life! Gloria, you must listen to me—you must not turn from me at the very time I need you most! Are you not brave? Are you not true? Do you not love me?”

With a pathetic gesture she stretched out her hands to him.

“Oh, yes, I love you!” she said; “I love you with all my heart! But you have deceived me!—my dearest, you have deceived me! And if you had only told me the truth, I would never,—for your own sake,—have married you!”

“I know that!” said the Prince; “And that is why I determined to win you under the mask of poverty! Now listen, my Princess and my Queen!—for you are both! I want all your help—all your love—all your trust! Do not be afraid of Ronsard; he will, he can do nothing to harm me! You are my wife, Gloria,—you have promised before God to obey me! I claim your obedience!”

She stood silent, looking at him,—pale and fair as an ivory statue of Psyche, seen against the dark background of the heavily-branched trees. Her mind was stunned and confused; she had not yet grasped the full consciousness of her position,—but as he spoke, the old primitive lessons of faith, steadfastness of purpose, and unwavering love and trust in God, which her adopted father had instilled into her from childhood, rose and asserted their sway over her startled, but unspoilt soul.

“You need not claim it!” she said, slowly; “It is yours always! I shall do whatever you tell me, even if you command me to die for your sake!”

With a swift impulsive action, full of grace and spirit, he dropped on one knee and kissed her hand.

“And so I pledge my faith to my Queen!” he said joyously. “Gloria! my ‘Glory-of-the-Sea’!—you will forgive me for having in this one thing misled you? Think of me as your sailor lover still!—it is a much harder thing to be a king’s son than a simple, independent seafarer! Pity me for my position, and help me to make it endurable! Come now with me down to that rocky nook on the shore where I first saw you,—and I will tell you exactly how everything stands,—and how I trust to your love for me and your courage, to clear away all the difficulties before us. You do not love me less?”

“I could not love you less!” she replied slowly; “but I cannot think of you as quite the same!”

A shadow of pain darkened his face.

“Gloria,” he said sadly; “If your love was as great as mine you would forgive!”

She stood a moment wavering and uncertain; their eyes were riveted on each other in a strange spiritual attraction—her soft lips were a little relaxed from their gravity as she steadfastly regarded him. She was embarrassed, conscious, and very pale; but he drank in gratefully the wonder and shy worship of those pure eyes,—and waited. Suddenly she sprang to him and closed her arms about his neck, kissing him with simple and loving tenderness.

“I do forgive! Oh, I do forgive!” she murmured; “Because I love you, my darling—because I love you! Whatever you wish I will do for your love’s sake—believe me!—but I am frightened just now!—it is as if I did not know you—as if someone had taken you suddenly a long way off! Give me a little time to recover my courage!—and to know”—here a faint smile trembled on her beautiful curved mouth—“to know,—and to feel,—that you are still my own!—even though the world may try to part you from me!—still my very own!”

The warmth of passionate feeling in her face flushed it into a rose-glow that spread from chin to brow,—and clasping her to his breast, he gave her the speechless answer that love inscribes on eyes and lips,—then, keeping his arm tenderly about her, he led her gently into the path through the pinewood, which wound down to their favourite haunt by the sea.

The moonlight had now increased in brilliancy, and illumined the landscape with all the opulence, splendour and superabundance of radiance common to the south,—the air was soft and balmy, and one great white cloud floating lazily under the silver orb, moved slowly to the centre of the heavens,—the violet-blue of night falling around it like an imperial robe of state. The two youthful figures passed under the pine-boughs, which closed over them odorously in dark arches of shadow, and wended their slow way down to the seashore, from whence they could see the Royal yacht lying at anchor, every tapering line of her fair proportions distinctly outlined against the sky, and all her masts shining as if they had been washed with silver dew; and the Heir-Apparent to a throne was,—for once in the history of Heir-Apparents,—happy—happy in knowing that he was loved as princes seldom or never are loved,—not for his power, not for his rank, but simply for himself alone, by one of the most beautiful women in the world, who,—if she knew neither the ways of a Court, nor the wiles of fashion,—had something better than either of these,—the sanctity of truth and the strength of innocence.

Réné Ronsard, coming back from his pleasurable duties as host and chairman to his fishermen-friends, found the cottage deserted, and smiled, as he sat himself down in the porch to smoke, and to wait for the lover’s return.

“What a thing it is to be young!” he sighed, as he gazed meditatively at the still beauty of the night around him;—“To be young,—and in love with the right person! Hours go like moments—the grass is never damp—the air is never cold—there is never time enough to give all the kisses that are waiting to be given; and life is so beautiful, that we are almost able to understand why God created the universe! The rapture passes very quickly, unfortunately—with some people;—but if I ever prayed for anything—which I do not—I should pray that it might remain with Gloria! It surely cannot offend the Supreme Being who is responsible for our existence, to see one woman happy out of all the tortured millions of them! One exception to the universal rule would not make much difference! The law that the strong should prey on the weak, nearly always prevails,—but it is possible to hope and believe that on rare occasions the strong may be magnanimous!”

He smoked on placidly, considering various points of philosophic meditation, and by and by fell into a gentle doze. The doze deepened into a dream which grew sombre and terrible,—and in it he thought he saw himself standing bareheaded on a raised platform above surging millions of people who all shouted with one terrific uproar of unison—“Regicide! Regicide!” He looked down upon his hands, and saw them red with blood!—he looked up to the heavens, and they were flushed with the same ominous hue. Blood!—blood!—the blood of kings,—the dust of thrones!—and he, the cause! Choked and tormented with a parching thirst, it seemed in the dream that he tried to speak,—and with all his force he cried out—“For her sake I did it! For her sake!” But the clamour of the crowd drowned his voice,—and then it was as if the coldness of death crept slowly over him,—slowly and cruelly, as though his whole body were being enclosed within an iceberg,—and he saw Gloria, the child of his love and care, laid out before him dead,—but robed and crowned like a queen, and placed on a great golden bier of state, with purple velvet falling about her, and tall candles blazing at her head and feet. And voices sang in his ears—“Gloria! Gloria in excelsis Deo!”—mingling with the muffled chanting of priests at some distant altar; and he thought he made an attempt to touch the royal velvet pall that draped her beautiful lifeless body, when he was roughly thrust back by armed men with swords and bayonets who asked him “What do you here? Are you not her murderer?”—and he cried out wildly “No, no! Never could I have harmed the child of my love! Never could I hurt a hair of her head, or cause her an hour’s sorrow! She is all I had in the world!—I loved her!—I loved her! Let me see her!—let me touch her!—let me kiss her once again!” And then the scene suddenly changed,—and it was found that Gloria was not dead at all, but walking peacefully alone in a garden of flowers, with lilies crowning her, and all the sunshine about her; and that the golden bier of state had changed into a ship at sea which was floating, floating westward bearing some great message to a far country, and that all was well for him and his darling. The troubled vision cleared from his brain, and his sleep grew calmer; he breathed more easily, and flitting glimpses of fair scenes passed before his dreaming eyes,—scenes in some peaceful and beautiful world, where never a shadow of sorrow or trouble darkened the quiet contentment of happy and innocent lives. He smiled in his sleep, and heaved a deep sigh of pleasure,—and so, gently awoke, to feel a light touch on his shoulder, and to see Gloria standing before him. A smile was on her face,—the fragrance of the woodlands and the sea clung about her garments,—she held a few roses in her hand, and there was something in her whole appearance that struck him as new, commanding, and more than ever beautiful.

“You have returned alone?” he said wonderingly.

“Yes. I have returned alone! I have much to tell you, dear! Let us go in!”