Temporal Power: A Study in Supremacy

The King listened, and a faint shadow darkened the proud light on his face.

“‘But for an hour!’” he said half aloud—“Yes,—it would be enough! No woman’s love lasts longer!”

CHAPTER III. — A NATION OR A CHURCH?

An approaching step echoing on the marble terrace warned him that he was no longer alone. He reseated himself at his writing-table, and feigned to be deeply engrossed in perusing various documents, but a ready smile greeted the intruder as soon as he perceived who it was,—one Sir Roger de Launay, his favourite equerry and intimate personal friend.

“Time’s up, is it, Roger?” he queried lightly,—then as the equerry bowed in respectful silence—“And yet I have scarcely glanced at these papers! All the same, I have not been idle—I have been thinking.”

Sir Roger de Launay, a tall handsome man, with an indefinable air of mingled good-nature and lassitude about him which suggested the possibility of his politely urging even Death itself not to be so much of a bore about its business, smiled doubtfully. “Is it a wise procedure, Sir?” he enquired—“Conducive to comfort I mean?”

The King laughed.

“No—I cannot say that it is! But thought is a tonic which sometimes restores a man’s enfeebled self-respect. I was beginning to lose that particular condition of health and sanity, Roger!—my self-respect was becoming a flaccid muscle—a withering nerve;—but a little thought-exercise has convinced me that my mental sinews are yet on the whole strong!”

Sir Roger offered no reply. His eyes expressed a certain languid wonderment; but duty being paramount with him, and his immediate errand being to remind his sovereign of an appointment then about due, he began to collect the writing materials scattered about on the table and put them together for convenient removal. The smile on the King’s face deepened as he watched him.

“You do not answer me, De Launay,”—he resumed, “You think perhaps that I am talking in parables, and that my mind has been persuaded into a metaphysical and rambling condition by an hour’s contemplation of the sunlight on the sea! But come now!—have you not yourself felt a longing to break loose from the trammels of conventional routine,—to be set free from the slavery of answering another’s beck and call,—to be something more than my attendant and friend——”

“Sir, more than your friend I have never desired to be!” said Sir Roger, simply.

The King extended his hand with impulsive quickness, and Sir Roger as he clasped it, bent low and touched it with his lips. There was no parasitical homage in the act, for De Launay loved his sovereign with a love little known at courts; loyally, faithfully, and without a particle of self-seeking. He had long recognized the nobility, truth and courage which graced and tempered the disposition of the master he served, and knew him to be one, if not the only, monarch in the world likely to confer some lasting benefit on his people by his reign.

“I tell you,” pursued the King, “that there is something in the mortal composition of every man which is beyond mortality, something which clamours to be heard, and seen, and proved. We may call it conscience, intellect, spirit or soul, and attribute its existence, to God, as a spark of the Divine Essence, but whatever it is, it is in every one of us; and there comes a moment in life when it must flame out, or be quenched forever. That moment has come to me, Roger,—that something in me must have its way!”

“Your Majesty no doubt desires the impossible!”—said Sir Roger with a smile, “All men do,—even kings!”

“‘Even kings!’” echoed the monarch—“You may well say ‘even’ kings! What are kings? Simply the most wronged and miserable men on earth! I do not myself put in a special claim for pity. My realm is small, and my people are, for aught I can learn or am told of them, contented. But other sovereigns who are my friends and neighbours, live, as it were, under the dagger’s point,—with dynamite at their feet and pistols at their heads,—all for no fault of their own, but for the faults of a system which they did not formulate. Conspirators on the threshold—poison in the air,—as in Russia, for example!—where is the joy or the pride of being a King nowadays?”

“Talking of poison,” said Sir Roger blandly, as he placed the last document of those he had collected, neatly in a leather case and strapped it—“Your Majesty may perhaps feel inclined to defer giving the promised audience to Monsignor Del Fords of the Society of Jesus?”

“By Heaven, I had forgotten him!” and the King rose. “This is what you came to remind me of, Roger? He is here?”

De Launay bowed an assent.

“Well! We have kept a messenger of Mother Church waiting our pleasure,—and not for the first time in the annals of history! But why do you associate his name with poison?”

“Really, Sir, the connection is inexplicable,—unless it be the memory of a religious lesson-book given to me in my childhood. It was an illustrated treasure, and one picture showed me the Almighty in the character of an old gentleman seated placidly on a cloud, smiling;—while on the earth below, a priest, exactly resembling this Del Fortis, poured a spoonful of something,—poison—or it might have been boiling lead—down the throat of a heretic. I remember it impressed me very much with the goodness of God.”

He maintained a whimsical gravity as he spoke, and the King laughed.

“De Launay, you are incorrigible! Come!—we will go within and see this Del Fortis, and you shall remain present during the audience. That will give you a chance to improve your present impression of him. I understand he is a very brilliant and leading member of his Order,—likely to be the next Vicar-General. I know his errand,—the papers concerning his business are there—,” and he waved his hand towards the leather case Sir Roger had just fastened—“Bring them with you!”

Sir Roger obeyed, and the King, stepping forth from the pavilion, walked slowly along the terrace, watching the sparkling sea, the flowering orange-trees lifting their slender tufts of exquisitely scented bloom against the clear blue of the sky, the birds skimming lightly from point to point of foliage, and the white-sailed yachts dipping gracefully as the ocean rose and fell with every wild sweet breath of the scented wind. Pausing a moment, he presently took out a field-glass and looked through it at one of the finest and fairest of these pleasure-vessels, which, as he surveyed it, suddenly swung round, and began to scud away westward.

“The Prince is on board?” he asked.

“Yes, Sir,” replied De Launay—“His Royal Highness intends sailing as far as The Islands, and remaining there till sunset.”

“Alone, as usual?”

“As usual, Sir, alone, save for his captain and crew.”

The King walked on in silence for a minute. Then he paused abruptly.

“I do not like it, De Launay!”—he said decisively—“I do not like his abnormal love of solitude. Books are all very well—poetry is in its way excellent,—music, as we are told ‘hath charms’—but the boy broods too much, and stays away too much from Court. What woman attracts him?”

Sir Roger’s eyes opened wide as the King turned suddenly round upon him with this question.

“Woman, Sir? I know of none. The Prince is but twenty——”

“At twenty,” said the King,—“boys love—the wrong girl. At thirty they marry—the wrong woman. At forty they meet the only true and fitting soul’s companion,—and cry for the moon till the end! My son is in the first stage, or I am much mistaken,—he loves—the wrong girl!”

He walked on,—and De Launay followed, with a vague sense of amusement and disquietude in his mind. What had come to his Royal master, he wondered? His ordinary manner had changed somewhat,—he spoke with less than the customary formality, and there was an expression of freedom and authority, combined with a touch of defiance in his face, that was altogether new to the observation of the faithful equerry.

Arrived at the palace, and passing through one of the long and spacious painted corridors, lit by richly coloured mullioned windows from end to end, the King came face to face with a lady-in-waiting carrying a large cluster of Madonna lilies. She drew aside, with a deep reverence, to allow him to pass; but he stopped a moment, looking at the great gorgeous white flowers faint with fragrance, and at the slight retiring figure of the woman who held them.

“Are these for the chapel, Madame?” he asked.

“No, Sir! For the Queen.”

‘For the Queen!’ A quick sigh escaped him. He still stood, caught by a sudden abstraction, looking at the dazzling whiteness of the snowy blooms, and thinking how fittingly they would companion his beautiful, cold, pure Queen Consort, who had never from her marriage day uttered a word of love to him, or given him a glance of tenderness. Their rich odours crept into his warm blood, and the bitter old sense of unfulfilled longing, longing for affection, for comprehension, for all that he had not possessed in his otherwise brilliant life, vexed and sickened him. He turned away abruptly, and the lady-in-waiting, having curtsied once more profoundly, passed on with her glistening sheaf of bloom and disappeared vision-like in a gleam of azure light falling through one of the further and higher casements. The King watched her disappear, the meditative line of sadness still puckering his brow, then, followed by his equerry, he entered a small private audience chamber, where Sir Roger de Launay notified an attendant gentleman usher that his Majesty was ready to receive Monsignor Del Fortis.

During the brief interval occupied in waiting for his visitor’s approach, the King selected certain papers from those which Sir Roger had brought from the garden pavilion and placed them in order on the table.

“For the past six months,” he said “I have had this Jesuit’s name before me, and have been in twenty minds a month about granting or refusing what his Society demands. The matter has been discussed in the Press, too, with the usual pros and cons of hesitation, but it is the People I am thinking of, the People! and I am just now in the humour to satisfy a Nation rather than a Church!”

De Launay said nothing. His opinion was not asked.

“It is a case in which the temporal overbalances the spiritual,” continued the King—“Which plainly proves that the spiritual must be lacking in some essential point somewhere. For if the spiritual were always truly of God, then would it always be the strongest. The question which brings Monsignor Del Fortis here as special emissary of the Vicar-General of the Society of Jesus, is simply this: Whether or no a certain site in a particularly fertile tract of land belonging chiefly to the Crown, shall be granted to the Jesuits for the purpose of building thereon a church and monastery with schools attached. It seems a reasonable request, set forth with an apparently religious intention. Yet more than forty petitions have been sent in to me from the inhabitants of the towns and villages adjacent to the lands, imploring me to refuse the concession. By my faith, they plead as eloquently as though asking deliverance from the plague! It is a curious dilemma. If I grant the people’s request I anger the priests; if I satisfy the priests I anger the people.”

“You mentioned a discussion in the Press, Sir—” hinted Sir Roger.

“Oh, the Press is like a weathercock—it turns whichever way the wind of speculation blows. One day it is ‘for,’ another ‘against.’ In this particular case it is diplomatically indifferent, except in one or two cases where papal money has found its way into the newspaper offices.”

At that moment the door was flung open, and Monsignor Del Fortis was ceremoniously ushered into the presence of his Majesty. At the first glance it was evident that De Launay had reasonable cause for associating the mediaeval priestly torturer pictured in his early lesson-book with the unprepossessing personage now introduced. Del Fortis was a dark, resentful-looking man of about sixty, tall and thin, with a long cadaverous face, very strongly pronounced features and small sinister eyes, over which the level brows almost met across the sharp bridge of nose. His close black garb buttoned to the chin, outlined his wiry angular limbs with an almost painful distinctness, and the lean right hand which he placed across his breast as he bowed profoundly to the King, looked more like the shrunken hand of a corpse than that of a living man. The King observed him attentively, but not with favour; while thoughts, strange, and for him as a constitutional monarch audacious, began to move in the undercurrents of his mind, stirring him to unusual speech and action. Sir Roger, retiring to the furthest end of the room stood with his back against the door, a fine upright soldierly figure, as motionless as though cast in bronze, though his eyes showed keen and sparkling life as they rested on his Royal master, watching his every gesture, as well as every slightest movement on the part of his priestly visitor.

“You are welcome, Monsignor Del Fortis,”—said the King, at last breaking silence.—“To save time and trouble, I may tell you that I need no explanation of the nature of your business.”

The Jesuit bowed with an excessive humility.

“You wish me to grant to your Society,” continued the monarch—“that portion of the Crown lands named in your petition, to be held in your undisputed possession for a long term of years,—and in order to facilitate my consent to this arrangement, your Vicar-General has sent you here to furnish the full details of your building scheme. Am I so far correct?”

The priest’s dark secretive eyes glittered craftily a moment as he raised them to the open and tranquil countenance of the sovereign,—then once again he bowed profoundly.

“Your Majesty has, with your customary care and patience, fully studied the object of my errand”—he replied in a clear thin, somewhat rasping voice, which he endeavoured to make smooth and conciliatory—“But it is impossible that your Majesty, immersed every day in the affairs of state, should have found time to personally go through the various papers formally submitted to your consideration. Therefore, the Vicar-General of our Order considered that if the present interview with your Majesty could be obtained, I, as secretary and treasurer for the proposed new monastery, might be able to explain the spiritual, as well as the material advantages to be gained by the use of the lands for the purpose mentioned.”

He spoke slowly, enunciating each word with careful distinctness.

“The spiritual part of the scheme is of course the most important to you!”—said the King with a slight smile,—“But material advantages are never entirely overlooked, even by holy men! Now I am merely a ‘temporal’ sovereign; and as such, I wish to know how your plan will affect the people of the neighbouring town and district. What are your intentions towards them? Their welfare is my chief concern; and what I have to learn from you is,—How do you propose to benefit them by maintaining a monastery, church and schools in their vicinity?”

Again Del Fortis gave a furtive glance upward. Seeing that the King’s eyes were steadily fixed upon him, he quickly lowered his own, and gave answer in an evidently prepared manner.

“Sir, the people of the district in question are untaught barbarians. It is more for their sakes,—more for the love of gathering the lost sheep into the fold, than for our own satisfaction, that we seek to pitch our tents in the desert of their ignorance. They, and their children, are the prey of heathenish modern doctrines, which alas!—are too prevalent throughout the whole world at this particular time,—and, as they are at present situated, no restraint is exercised upon them for the better controlling of their natural and inherited vices. Unless the gentle hand of Mother Church is allowed to rescue these, her hapless and neglected ones; unless she has an opportunity afforded her of leading them out of the darkness of error into the light of eternal day—”

He broke off, his eloquence being interrupted by a gesture from the King.

“There is a Government school in the town,”—said the monarch, referring to one or two documents on the table before him.—“There is also a Free Public Library, and a Free School of Art. Thus it does not seem that education is quite neglected.”

“Alas, Sir, such education is merely disastrous!” said Del Fortis, with a deep sigh,—“Like the fruit on the tree of knowledge in the Garden of Eden, it brings death to the soul!”

“You condemn the Government methods?” asked the King coldly.

The Jesuit moved uneasily, and a dull flush reddened his pale skin.

“Far be it from me, Sir, as a poor servant of the Church, to condemn lawful authorities,—yet we should not forget that the Government is temporal and changeable,—the Church is spiritual and changeless. We cannot look for entire success in a scheme of popular education which is not formulated under the guidance or the blessing of God!”

The King leaned forward a little in his chair, and surveyed him fixedly.

“How do you know that it is not formulated under the guidance and blessing of God?” he asked suddenly—“Has the Almighty given you His special opinion and confidence on the matter?”

Monsignor Del Fortis started indignantly.

“Sir! Your Majesty——”

De Launay made a step forward, but the King motioned him back. Accordingly he resumed his former position, but his equable temperament was for once seriously disturbed. He saw that his Royal master was evidently bent on speaking his mind; and he knew well what a dangerous indulgence that is for all men who desire peace and quietness in their lives.

“I am aware of what you would say,” pursued the King—“You would say that the Church—your Church—is the only establishment of the kind which receives direct inspiration from the Creator of Universes. But I do not feel justified in limiting the control of the Almighty to one special orbit of Creed. You tell me that a government system of education for the people is a purely temporal movement, and that, as such, it is not blessed by the guidance of God. Yet the Pope seeks ‘temporal’ power! It is explained to us of course that he seeks it in order that he may unite it to the spiritual in his own person,—theoretically for the good of mankind, if practically for the advancement of his own particular policy. But have you never thought, Monsignor, that the marked severance of what you call ‘temporal’ power, from what you equally call ‘spiritual’ power, is God’s work? Inasmuch as nothing can be done without God’s will; for even if there is a devil (which I am inclined to doubt) he owes his unhappy existence to God as much as I do!”

He smiled; but Del Fortis stood rigidly silent, his head bent, and one hand folded tight across his breast, an attitude Sir Roger de Launay always viewed in every man with suspicion, as it suggested the concealment of a weapon.

“You will admit” pursued the King, “that the action of human thought is always progressive. Unfortunately your Creed lags behind human thought in its onward march, thus causing the intelligent world to infer that there must be something wrong with its teaching. For if the Church had always been in all respects faithful to the teaching of her Divine Master, she would be at this present time the supreme Conqueror of Nations. Yet she is doing no more nowadays than she did in the middle ages,—she threatens, she intimidates, she persecutes all who dare to use for a reasonable purpose the brain God gave them,—but she does not help on or sympathize with the growing fraternity and civilization of the world. It is impossible not to recognize this. Yet I have a profound respect for each and every minister of religion who honestly endeavours to follow the counsels of Christ,”—here he paused,—then added with slow and marked emphasis—“in whose Holy Name I devoutly believe for the redemption of whatever there is in me worth redeeming;—nevertheless my first duty, even in Christ, is plainly to the people of the country over which I am elected to rule.”

The flickering shadow of a smile passed over the Jesuit’s dark features, but he still kept silence.

“Therefore,” went on the King—“it is my unpleasant task to be compelled to inform you, Monsignor, that the inhabitants of the district your Order seeks to take under its influence, have the strongest objection to your presence among them. So strong indeed is their aversion towards your Society, that they have petitioned me in numerous ways, (and with considerable eloquence, too, for ‘untaught barbarians’) to defend them from your visitation. Now, to speak truly, I find they have all the advantages which modern advancement and social improvement can give them,—they attend their places of public worship in considerable numbers, and are on the whole decent, God-fearing, order-loving subjects to the Throne,—and more I do not desire for them or for myself. Criminal cases are very rare in the district,—and the poor are more inclined to help than to defraud each other. All this is so far good,—and, I should imagine,—not displeasing to God. In any case, as their merely temporal sovereign, I must decline to give your Order any control over them.”

“You refuse the concession of land, Sir?” said Del Fortis, in a voice that trembled with restrained passion.

“To satisfy those of my subjects who have appealed to me, I am compelled to do so,” replied the King.

“I pray your Majesty’s pardon, but a portion of the land is held by private persons who are prepared to sell to us——”

A quick anger flashed in the King’s eyes.

“They shall sell to me if they sell at all,”—he said,—“I repeat, Monsignor, the fact that the law-abiding people of the place have sought their King’s protection from priestly interference;—and,—by Heaven!—they shall have it!”

There was a sudden silence. Sir Roger de Launay drew a sharp breath,—his habitual languor of mind was completely dissipated, and he studied the inscrutable face of Del Fortis with deepening suspicion and disfavour. Not that there was the slightest sign of wrath or dismay on the priest’s well-disciplined countenance;—on the contrary, a chill smile illumined it as he spoke his next words with a serious, if somewhat forced composure.

“Your Majesty is, without doubt, all powerful in your own particular domain of society and politics,” he said—“But there is another Majesty higher than yours,—that of the Church, before which dread and infallible Tribunal even kings are brought to naught——”

“Monsignor Del Fortis,” interrupted the King, “We have not met this morning, I presume, to indulge in a religious polemic! My power is, as you very truly suggest, merely temporal—yours is spiritual. Yours should be the strongest! Go your way now to your Vicar-General with the straight answer I have given you,—but if by your ‘spiritual’ power you can persuade the people who now hate your Society, to love it,—to demand it,—to beg that you may be permitted to found a colony among them,—why, in that case, come to me again, and I will grant you the land. I am not prejudiced one way or the other, but I will not hand over any of my subjects to the influence of priestcraft, so long as they desire me to defend them from it.”

Del Fortis still smiled.

“Pardon me, Sir, but we of the Society of Jesus are your subjects also, and we judge you to be a Christian and Catholic monarch——”

“As I am, most assuredly!” replied the King—“Christian and Catholic are words which, if I understand their meaning, please me well! ‘Christian’ expresses a believer in and follower of Christ,—‘Catholic’ means universal, by which, I take it, is intended wide, universal love and tolerance without sect, party, or prejudice. In this sense the Church is not Catholic—it is merely the Roman sect. Nor are you truly my subjects, since you have only one ruler, the Supreme Pontiff,—with whom I am somewhat at variance. But, as I have said, we are not here to indulge in argument. You came to proffer a request; I have given you the only answer I conceive fitting with my duty;—the matter is concluded.”

Del Fortis hesitated a moment,—then bowed low to the ground;—anon, lifting himself, raised one hand with an invocative gesture of profound solemnity.

“I commend your Majesty to the mercy of God, that He may in His wisdom, guard your life and soften your heart towards the ministers of His Holy Religion, and bring you into the ways of righteousness and peace! For the rest, I will report your Majesty’s decision to the Vicar-General.”

“Do so!”—rejoined the King—“And assure him that the decision is unalterable,—unless the inhabitants of the place concerned desire to have it revoked.”

Again Del Fortis bowed.

“I humbly take my leave of your Majesty!”

The monarch looked at him steadfastly as he made another salutation, and backed out of the presence-chamber. Sir Roger de Launay opened the door for him with alacrity, handing him over into the charge of an usher with the whispered caution to see him well off the Royal premises; and then returning to his sovereign, stood “at attention.” The King noted his somewhat troubled aspect, and laughed.

“What ails you, De Launay?” he asked—“You seem astonished that for once I have spoken my mind?”

“Sir, to speak one’s mind is always dangerous!”

“Dangerous—danger!—What idle words to make cowards of men! Danger—of what? There is only one danger—death; and that is sure to come to every man, whether he be a hero or a poltroon.”

“True,—but——”

“But—what? De Launay, if you love me, do not look at me with so expostulatory an air! It does not become your inches! Now listen!—when the next press reporter comes nosing round for palace news, let him be told that the King has refused permission to the Jesuits to build on any portion of the Crown lands demanded for the purpose. Let this be made known to Press and People—the sooner the better!”

“Sir,” murmured De Launay—“We live in strange times——”

“Why, there you speak most truly!” said the King, with emphasis—“We do live in strange times—the very strangest perhaps, since Aeneas Sylvius wrote concerning Christendom. Do you remember the words he set down so long ago?—‘It is a body without a head,—a republic without laws or magistrates. The pope or the emperor may shine as lofty titles, as splendid images,—but they are unable to command, and no one is willing to obey!’ History thus repeats itself, De Launay;—and yet with all its past experience, the Roman Church does not seem to realize that it is powerless against the attacks of intellectual common sense. Faith in God,—a high, perfect, pure faith in God, and a simple following of the Divine Teacher of God’s command, Christ;—these things are wise and necessary for all nations; but, to allow human beings to be coerced by superstition for political motives, under the disguise of religion, is an un-Christian business, and I for one will have no part in it!”

“You will lay yourself open to much serious misconstruction, Sir,” said De Launay.

“Let us hope so, Roger!” rejoined the King with a smile—“For if I am never misunderstood, I shall know myself to be a fool! Come,—do not look so glum!—I want you to help me.”

“To help you, Sir?” exclaimed De Launay eagerly,—“With my life, if you demand it!”

The King rested one hand familiarly on his shoulder.

“I would rather take my own life than yours, De Launay!” he said—“No,—whatever difficulties I get myself into, you shall not suffer! But—as I told you a while ago,—there is something in me that must have its way. I am sick to death of conventionalities,—you must help me to break through them! You are right in saying that we live in strange times;—they are strange times!—and they may perchance be all the better for a strange King!”

CHAPTER IV. — SEALED ORDERS

Some hours later on, Sir Roger de Launay, having left his Sovereign’s presence, and being off duty for a time, betook himself to certain apartments in the west wing of the palace, where the next most trusted personage to himself in the confidence of the King, had his domicile,—Professor von Glauben, resident physician to the Royal Household. Heinrich von Glauben was a man of somewhat extraordinary character and individuality. In his youth he had made a sudden meteoric fame for his marvellous skill and success in surgery, as also for his equally surprising quickness and correctness in diagnosing obscure diseases and tracing them to their source. But, after creating a vast amount of discussion and opposition among his confrères, and almost reaching that brilliant point of triumph when his originality and cleverness were proved great enough to win him a host of enemies, he all at once threw up the game as it were, and, resigning the favourable opportunities of increasing distinction offered him in his native Germany, accepted the comparatively retired and private position he now occupied. Some said it was a disappointment in love which had caused his abrupt departure from the Fatherland,—others declared it was irritation at the severe manner in which his surgical successes had been handled by the medical critics,—but whatever the cause, it soon became evident that he had turned his back on the country of his birth for ever, and that he was apparently entirely satisfied with the lot he had chosen. His post was certainly an easy and pleasant one,—the members of the Royal family to which his services were attached were exceptionally healthy, as Royal families go; and he was seldom in more than merely formal attendance, so that he had ample time and opportunity to pursue those deeper forms of physiological study which had excited the wrath and ridicule of his contemporaries, as well as to continue the writing of a book which he intended should make a stir in the world, and which he had entitled “The Moral and Political History of Hunger.”

“For,” said he—“Hunger is the primal civilizer,—the very keystone and foundation of all progress. From the plain, prosy, earthy fact that man is a hungry animal, and must eat, has sprung all the civilization of the world! I shall demonstrate this in my book, beginning with the scriptural legend of Adam’s greed for an apple. Adam was evidently hungry at the moment Eve tempted him. As soon as he had satisfied his inner man, he thought of his outer,—and his next idea was, naturally, tailoring. From this simple conjunction of suggestions, combined with what ‘God’ would have to say to him concerning his food-experiment and fig-leaf apron, man has drawn all his religions, manners, customs and morals. The proposition is self-evident,—but I intend to point it out with somewhat emphasised clearness for the benefit of those persons who are inclined to arrogate to themselves the possession of superior wisdom. Neither brain nor soul has placed man in a position of Supremacy,—merely Hunger and Nakedness!”

The Professor was now about fifty-five, but his exceptionally powerful build and robust constitution gave him the grace in appearance of many years younger, though perhaps the extreme composure of his temperament, and the philosophic manner in which he viewed all circumstances, whether pleasing or disastrous, may have exercised the greatest influence in keeping his eyes clear and clean, and his countenance free of unhandsome wrinkles. He was more like a soldier than a doctor, and was proud of his resemblance to the earlier portraits of Bismarck. To see him in his own particular ‘sanctum’ surrounded by weird-looking diagrams of sundry parts of the human frame, mysterious phials and stoppered flasks containing various liquids and crystals, and all the modern appliances for closely examining the fearful yet beautiful secrets of the living organism, was as if one should look upon a rough and burly giant engaged in some delicate manipulation of mosaics. Yet Von Glauben’s large hand was gentler than a woman’s in its touch and gift of healing,—no surgeon alive could probe a wound more tenderly, or with less pain to the sufferer,—and the skill of that large hand was accompanied by the penetrative quality of the large benevolent brain which guided it,—a brain that could encompass the whole circle of the world in its observant and affectionate compassion.

“Ach!—who is there that can be angry with anyone?—impatient with anyone,—offended with anyone!” he was wont to say—“Everybody suffers so much and so undeservedly, that as far as my short life goes I have only time for pity—not condemnation!”

To this individual, as a kind of human calmative and tonic combined, Sir Roger de Launay was in the habit of going whenever he felt his own customary tranquillity at all disturbed. The two were great friends;—friends in their mutual love and service of the King,—friends in their equally mutual but discreetly silent worship of the Queen,—and friends in their very differences of opinion on men and matters in general. De Launay, being younger, was more hasty of judgment and quick in action; but Von Glauben too had been known to draw his sword with unexpected rapidity on occasion, to the discomfiture of those who deemed him only at home with the scalpel. Just now, however, he was in a particularly non-combative and philosophic mood; he was watching certain animalculae wriggling in a glass tube, the while he sat in a large easy-chair with slippered feet resting on another chair opposite, puffing clouds of smoke from a big meerschaum,—and he did not stir from his indolent attitude when De Launay entered, but merely looked up and smiled placidly.

“Sit down, Roger!” he said,—then, as De Launay obeyed the invitation, he pushed over a box of cigars, and added—“You look exceedingly tired, my friend! Something has bored you more than usual? Take a lesson from those interesting creatures!” and he pointed with the stem of his pipe to the bottled animalculae—“They are never bored,—never weary of doing mischief! They are just now living under the pleasing delusion that the glass tube they are in is a man, and that they are eating him up alive. Little devils! Nothing will exhaust their vitality till they have gorged themselves to death! Just like a great many human beings!”

“I am not in the mood for studying animalculae,” said De Launay irritably, as he lit a cigar.

“No? But why not? They are really quite as interesting as ourselves!”

“Look here, Von Glauben, I want you to be serious—”

“My friend, I am always serious,” declared the Professor—“Even when I laugh, I laugh seriously. My laughter is as real as myself.”

“What would you think,”—pursued De Launay—“of a king who freely expressed his own opinions?”

“I should say he was a brave man,” answered the Professor; “He would certainly deserve my respect, and he should have it. Even if the laws of etiquette were not existent, I should feel justified in taking off my hat to him.”

“Never from henceforth wear a hat at all then,” said De Launay—“It will save you the trouble of continually doffing it at every glimpse of his Majesty!”

Von Glauben drew his pipe from his mouth and gazed blankly at the ceiling for a few moments in silence. “His Majesty?” he presently murmured—“Our Majesty?”

“Yes; our Majesty—our King”—replied De Launay—“For some inscrutable reason or other he has suddenly adopted the dangerous policy of speaking his mind. What now?”

“What now? Why nothing particular just now,—unless you have something to tell me. Which, judging from your entangled expression of eye, I presume you have.”

De Launay hesitated a moment. The Professor saw his hesitation.

“Do not speak, my friend, if you think you are committing a breach of confidence,” he said composedly—“In the brief affairs of this life, it is better to keep trouble on your own mind than impart it to others.”

“Oh, there is no breach of confidence;” said De Launay, “The thing is as public as the day, or if it is not public already, it soon will be made so. That is where the mischief comes in,—or so I think. Judge for yourself!” And in a few words he gave the gist of the interview which had taken place between the King and the emissary of the Jesuits that morning.

“Nothing surprises me as a rule,”—said the Professor, when he had heard all—“But if anything could prick the sense of astonishment anew in me, it would be to think that anyone, king or commoner, should take the trouble to speak truth to a Jesuit. Why, the very essence of their carefully composed and diplomatic creed, is to so disguise truth that it shall be no more recognisable. Myself, I believe the Jesuits to be the lineal descendants of those priests who served Bel and the Dragon. The art of conjuring and deception is in their very blood. It is for the Jesuits that I have invented a beautiful new verb,—‘To hypocrise.’ It sounds well. Here is the present tense,—‘I hypocrise, Thou hypocrisest, He hypocrises:—We hypocrise, You hypocrise, They hypocrise.’ Now hear the future. ‘I shall hypocrise, Thou shalt hypocrise, He shall hypocrise; We shall hypocrise, You shall hypocrise, They shall hypocrise.’ There is the whole art of Jesuitry for you, made grammatically perfect!”

De Launay gave a gesture of impatience, and flung away the end of his half-smoked cigar.

“Ach! That is a sign of temper, Roger!” said Von Glauben, shaking his head—“To lift one’s shoulders to the lobes of one’s ears, and waste nearly the half of an exceedingly expensive and choice Havana, shows nervous irritation! You are angry, my friend—and with me!”

“No I am not,” replied De Launay, rising from his chair and beginning to pace the room—“But I do not profess to have your phlegmatic disposition. I feel what I thought you would feel also,—that the King is exposing himself to unnecessary danger. And I know what you do not yet know, but what this letter will no doubt inform you,”—and he drew an envelope bearing the Royal seal from his pocket and handed it to the Professor—“Namely,—that his Majesty is bent on rushing voluntarily into various other perils, unless perhaps, your warning or advice may hinder him. Mine has no effect,—moreover I am bound to serve him as he bids.”

“Equally am I also bound to serve him;”—said Von Glauben, “And gladly and faithfully do I intend to perform my service wherever it may lead me!” Whereupon, shaking himself out of his recumbent position, like a great lion rolling out of his lair, he stood upright, and breaking the seal of the envelope he held, read its contents through in silence. Sir Roger stood opposite to him, watching his face in vain for any sign of astonishment, regret or dismay.

“We must do as he commands,”—he said simply as he finished reading the letter and folded it up for safe keeping—“There is no other way; not for me at least. I shall most assuredly be at the appointed place, at the appointed hour, and in the appointed manner. It will be a change; certainly lively, and possibly beneficial!”

“But the King’s life—”

“Is in God’s keeping!” said Von Glauben,—“Believe me, Roger, no harm comes undeservedly to a brave man with a good conscience! It is a bad conscience which invites mischief. I am a great believer in the law of attraction. The good attracts the good,—the bad, the bad. That is why truthful persons are generally lonely—because nearly all the world’s inhabitants are liars!”

“But the King—” again began Sir Roger.

“The King is a man!” said Von Glauben, with a flash of pride in his eyes—“Which is more than I will say for most kings! Who shall blame him for asserting his manhood? Not I! Not you! Who shall blame him for seeking to know the real position of things in the country he governs? Not I! Not you! Our business is to guard and defend him—with our own lives, if necessary,—we shall do that with a will, Roger, shall we not?” And with an impulsive quickness of action, he took a sword from a stand of weapons near him, drew it from its scabbard and kissing the hilt, held it out to De Launay who did the same—“That is understood! And for the rest, Roger my friend, take it all lightly and easily—as a farce!—as a bit of human comedy, with a great actor cast for the chief role. We are only supers, you and I, but we shall do well to stand near the wings in case of fire!”

He drew himself up to his great height and squared his shoulders,—then smiled benevolently.

“I believe it will be all very amusing, Roger; and that your fears for the safety of his Majesty will be proved groundless. Remember, Court life is excessively dull,—truly the dullest form of existence on earth,—it is quite natural that he who is the most bored by it should desire some break in the terrible monotony!”

“The monotony will certainly be broken with a vengeance, if the King continues in his present humour!”—said De Launay grimly.

“Possibly! And let us hope the comfortable self-assurance and complacency of a certain successful Minister may be somewhat seriously disturbed!” rejoined Von Glauben,—“For myself, I assure you I see sport!”

“And I scent danger,”—said De Launay—“For if any mischance happen to the King, the Prince is not ripe enough to rule.”

A slight shadow darkened the Professor’s open countenance. He looked fixedly at Sir Roger, who met his gaze with equal fixity.

“The Prince,”—he said slowly—“is young—”

“And rash—” interposed De Launay.

“No. Pardon me, my friend! Not rash. Merely honest. That is all! He is a very honest young man indeed. It is unfortunate that he is so; a ploughman may be honest if he likes, but a prince—never!”

De Launay was silent.

“I will now destroy a world”—continued Von Glauben, “Kings, emperors, popes, councillors and common folk, can all perish incontinently,—as—being myself for the present the free agent of the Deity concerned in the matter,—I have something else to do than to look after them,”—and he took up the glass vessel containing the animalculae he had been watching, and cast it with its contents into a small stove burning dimly at one end of the apartment,—“Gone are their ambitions and confabulations for ever! How easy for the Creator to do the same thing with us, Roger! Let us not talk of any special danger for the King or for any man, seeing that we are all on the edge of an eternal volcano!”

De Launay stood absorbed for a moment, as if in deep thought. Then rousing himself abruptly he said:—

“You will not see the King, and speak with him before to-morrow night?”

“Why should I?” queried the Professor. “His wish is a command which I must obey. Besides, my good Roger, all the arguments in the world will not turn a man from having his own way if he has once made up his own mind. Advice from me on the present matter would be merely taken as an impertinence. Moreover I have no advice to give,—I rather approve of the plan!”

Sir Roger looked at him; and noting the humorous twinkle in his eyes smiled, though somewhat gravely.

“I hope, with you, that the experiment may only prove an amusing one,” he said—“But life is not always a farce!”

“Not always, but often! When it is not a farce it is a tragedy. And such a tragedy! My God! Horrible—monstrous—cruel beyond conception, and enough to make one believe in Hell and doubt Heaven!”

He spoke passionately, in a voice vibrating with strong emotion. De Launay glanced at him wonderingly, but did not speak.

“When you see tender young children tortured by disease,” he went on,—“Fair and gentle women made the victims of outrage and brutality—strong men killed in their thousands to gain a little additional gold, an extra slice of empire,—then you see the tragic, the inexplicable, the crazy cruelty of putting into us this little pulse called Life. But I try not to think of this—it is no use thinking!”

He paused,—then in his usual quiet tone said:

“To-morrow night, then, my friend?”

“To-morrow night,” rejoined De Launay,—“Unless you receive further instructions from the King.”

At that moment the clear call of a trumpet echoing across the battlements of the palace denoted the hour for changing the sentry. “Sunset already!” said Von Glauben, walking to the window and throwing back the heavy curtain which partially shaded it, “And yonder is Prince Humphry’s yacht on its homeward way.”

De Launay came and stood beside him, looking out. Before them the sea glistened with a thousand tints of lustrous opal in the light of the sinking sun, which, surrounded by mountainous heights of orange and purple cloud, began to touch the water-line with a thousand arrowy darts of flame. The white-sailed vessel on which their eyes were fixed, came curtseying over the waves through a perfect arch of splendid colour, like a fairy or phantom ship evoked from a poet’s dream.

“Absent all day, as he has been,” said De Launay, “his Royal Highness is punctual to the promised hour of his return.”

“He is, as I told you, honest;” said Von Glauben, “and it is possible his honesty will be his misfortune.”

De Launay muttered something inaudible in answer, and turned to leave the apartment.

Von Glauben looked at him with an affectionate solicitude.

“What a lucky thing it is you never married, Roger! Otherwise you would now be going to tell your wife all about the King’s plans! Then she, sweet creature, would go to confession,—and her confessor would tell a bishop,—and a bishop would tell a cardinal,—and a cardinal would tell a confidential monsignor,—and the confidential monsignor would tell the Supreme Pontiff,—and so all the world would be ringing with the news started by one little pretty wagging tongue of a woman!”

A faint flush coloured De Launay’s bronzed cheek, but he laughed.

“True! I am glad I have never married. I am still more glad—of circumstances”—he paused,—then went on, “which have so chanced to me that I shall never marry.” He paused again—then added—“I must be gone, Von Glauben! I have to meet Prince Humphry at the quay with a message from his Majesty.”

“Surely,” said the Professor, opening his eyes very wide, “The Prince is not to be included in our adventure?”

“By no means!” replied De Launay,—“But the King is not pleased with his son’s frequent absences from Court, and desires to speak with him on the matter.”

Von Glauben looked grave.

“There will be some little trouble there,” he said, with a half sigh—“Ach! Who knows! Perhaps some great trouble!”

“Heaven forbid!” ejaculated Sir Roger,—“We live in times of peace. We want no dissension with either the King or the people. Till to-morrow night then?”

“Till to-morrow night!” responded Von Glauben, whereupon Sir Roger with a brief word of farewell, strode away.

Left to himself, the Professor still stood at his window watching the approach of the Prince’s yacht, which came towards the shore with such swift and stately motion through the portals of the sunset, over the sparkling water.

“Unfortunate Humphry!” he muttered,—“What a secret he has entrusted me with! And yet why do I call him unfortunate? There should be nothing to regret—and yet—! Well! The mischief was done before poor Heinrich von Glauben was consulted; and if poor Heinrich were God and the Devil rolled into one strange Eternal Monster, he could not have prevented it! What is done, can never be undone!”