CHAPTER IV
THE YOUNG VINTNER
The Black Eagle (Zum Schwartzen Adler) in the Adlergasse was a prosperous tavern of the second rate. The house was two hundred years old and had been in the Bauer family all that time.
Had Fräu Bauer, or Fräu-Wirtin, as she was familiarly called, been masculine, she would have been lightly dubbed Bauer VII. She was a widow, and therefore uncrowned. She had been a widow for many a day, for the novelty of being her own manager had not yet worn off. She was thirty-eight, plump, pretty in a free-hand manner, and wise. It was useless to loll about the English bar where she kept the cash-drawer; it was useless to whisper sweet nothings into her ear; it was more than useless, it was foolish.
"Go along with you, Herr; I wouldn't marry the best man living. I can add the accounts, I can manage. Why should I marry?"
"But marriage is the natural state!"
"Herr, I crossed the frontier long ago, but having recrossed it, never again shall I go back. One crown-forty, if you please. Thank you."
This retort had become almost a habit with the Fräu-Wirtin; and when a day went by without a proposal, she went to bed with the sense that the day had not been wholly successful.
To-night the main room of the tavern swam in a blue haze of smoke, which rose to the blackened rafters, hung with many and various sausages, cheeses, and dried vegetables. Dishes clattered, there was a buzzing of voices, a scraping of feet and chairs, a banging of tankards, altogether noisy and cheerful. The Fräu-Wirtin preferred waitresses, and this preference was shared by her patrons. They were quicker, cleaner; they remembered an order better; they were not always surreptitiously emptying the dregs of tankards on the way to the bar, as men invariably did. Besides, the barmaid was an English institution, and the Fräu-Wirtin greatly admired that race, though no one knew why. The girls fully able to defend themselves, and were not at all diffident in boxing a smart fellow's ears. They had a rough wit and could give and take. If a man thought this an invitation and tried to take a kiss, he generally had his face slapped for his pains, and the Fräu-Wirtin was always on the side of her girls.
The smoke was so thick one could scarcely see two tables away, and if any foreigner chanced to open a window there was a hubbub; windows were made for light, not air. There were soldiers, non-commissioned officers—for the fall maneuvers brought many to Dreiberg—farmers and their families, and the men of the locality who made the Black Eagle a kind of socialist club. Socialism was just taking hold in those days, and the men were tremendously serious and secretive regarding it, as it wasn't strong enough to be popular with governments which ruled by hereditary might and right.
Gretchen came in, a little better dressed than in the daytime, the change consisting of coarse stockings and shoes of leather, of which she was correspondingly proud.
"Will you want me, Fräu-Wirtin, for a little while to-night?" she asked.
"Till nine. Half a crown as usual."
Gretchen sought the kitchen and found an apron and cap. These half-crowns were fine things to pick up occasionally, for it was only upon occasions that she worked at the Black Eagle.
In an obscure corner sat the young vintner. He had finished his supper and was watching and scrutinizing all who came in. His face brightened as he saw the goose-girl; he would have known that head anywhere, whether he saw the face or not. He wanted to go to her at once, but knew this action would not be wise.
In the very corner itself, his back to the vintner's, and nothing but the wall to look at, was the old man in tatters and patches, the mountaineer who possessed a Swiss watch and gave golden coins to goose-girls. He was busily engaged in gnawing the leg of a chicken. Between times he sipped his beer, listening.
Carmichael had forgotten some papers that day. He had dined early at the hotel and returned at once to the consulate. He was often a visitor at the Black Eagle. The beer was sweet and cool. So, having pocketed his papers, he was of a mind to carry on a bit of badinage with Fräu Bauer. As he stepped into the big hall, in his evening clothes, he was as conspicuous as a passing ship at sea.
"Good evening, Fräu-Wirtin."
"Good evening, your Excellency." She was quite fluttered when this fine young man spoke to her. He was the only person who ever caused her embarrassment, even though temporary. There was always a whimsical smile on his lips and in his eyes, and Fräu Bauer never knew exactly how to take him. "What is on your mind?" brightly.
"Many things. You haven't aged the least since last I saw you."
"Which was day before yesterday!"
"Not any further back than that?"
"Not an hour."
She turned to make change, while Carmichael's eyes roved in search of a vacant chair. He saw but one.
"The goose-girl?" he murmured suddenly. "Is Gretchen one of your waitresses?"
"She comes in once in a while. She's a good girl and I'm glad to help her," Fräu Bauer replied.
"I do not recollect having seen her here before."
"That is because you rarely come at night."
Gretchen carried a tray upon which steamed a vegetable stew. She saw Carmichael and nodded.
"I shall be at yonder table," he said indicating the vacant chair. "Will you bring me a tankard of brown Ehrensteiner?"
"At once, Herr."
Carmichael made his way to the table. Across the room he had not recognized the vintner, but now he remembered. He had crowded him against a wall two or three days before.
"This seat is not reserved, Herr?" he asked pleasantly, with his hand on the back of the chair.
"No." There was no cordiality in the answer. The vintner turned back the lid of his stein and drank slowly.
Carmichael sat down sidewise, viewing the scene with never-waning interest. These German taverns were the delight of his soul. Everybody was so kindly and orderly and hungry. They ate and drank like persons whose consciences were not overburdened. From the corner of his eye he observed that the vintner was studying him. Now this vintner's face was something familiar. Carmichael stirred his memory. It was not in Dreiberg that he had seen him before. But where?
Gretchen arrived with the tankard which she sat down at Carmichael's elbow.
"Will you not join me, Herr?" he invited.
"Thank you," said the vintner, without hesitation.
He smiled at Gretchen and she smiled at him. Carmichael smiled at them both tolerantly.
"What will you be drinking?"
"Brown," said the vintner.
Gretchen took up the empty tankard and made off. The eyes of the two men followed her till she reached the dim bar, then their glances swung round and met. Carmichael was first to speak, not because he was forced to, but because it was his fancy at that moment to give the vintner the best of it.
"She is a fine girl."
"Yes," tentatively.
"She is the handsomest peasant I ever saw or knew."
"You know her?" There was a spark in the vintner's eyes.
"Only for a few days. She interests me." Carmichael produced a pipe and lighted it.
"Ah, yes, the pretty peasant girl always interests you gentlemen." There was a note of bitterness. "Did you come here to seek her?"
"This is the first time I ever saw her here. And let me add," evenly, "that my interest in her is not of the order you would infer. She is good and patient and brave, and my interest in her is impersonal. It is not necessary for me to make any explanations, but I do so."
"Pardon me!" The vintner was plainly abashed.
"Granted. But you, you seem to possess a peculiar interest."
The vintner flushed. "I have that right," with an air which rather mystified Carmichael.
"That explains everything. I do not recollect seeing you before in the Black Eagle."
"I am from the north; a vintner, and there is plenty of work here in the valleys late in September."
"The grape," mused Carmichael. "You will never learn how to press it as they do in France. It is wine there; it is vinegar this side of the Rhine."
"France," said the vintner moodily. "Do you think there will be any France in the future?"
Carmichael laughed. "France is an incurable cosmic malady; it will always be. It may be beaten, devastated, throttled, but it will not die."
"You are fond of France?"
"Very."
"Do you think it wise to say so here?"
"I am the American consul; nobody minds my opinions."
"The American consul," repeated the vintner.
Gretchen could now be seen, wending her return in and out among the clustering tables. She set the tankards down, and Carmichael put out a silver crown.
"And do not bother about the change."
"Are all Americans rich?" she asked soberly. "Do you never keep the change yourselves?"
"Are all Americans rich?" she asked, soberly.
"Not when we are in our Sunday clothes."
"Then it is vanity." Gretchen shook her head wisely.
"Mine is worth only four coppers to-night," he said.
The vintner laughed pleasantly. Gretchen looked into his eyes, and an echo found haven in her own.
Carmichael thirstily drank his first tankard, thinking: "So this vintner is in love with our goose-girl? Confound my memory! It never failed me like this before. I would give twenty crowns to know where I have seen him. It's only the time and place that bothers me, not the face. A fine beer," he said aloud, holding up the second tankard.
The vintner raised his; there was an unconscious grace in the movement. A covert glance at his hand satisfied Carmichael in regard to one thing. He might be a vintner, but the hand was as soft and well-kept as a woman's, for all that it was stained by wind and sunshine. A handsome beggar, whoever and whatever he was. But a second thought disturbed him. Could a man with hands like these mean well toward Gretchen? He was a thorough man of the world; he knew innoence at first glance, and Gretchen was both innocent and unworldly. To the right man she might be easy prey. Never to a man like Colonel von Wallenstein, whose power and high office were alike sinister to any girl of the peasantry; but a man in the guise of her own class, of her own world and people, here was a snare Gretchen might not be able to foresee. He would watch this fellow, and at the first sign of an evil—Carmichael's muscular brown hands opened and shut ominously. The vintner did not observe this peculiar expression of the hands; and Carmichael's face was bland.
A tankard, rapping a table near-by, called Gretchen to her duties. There was something reluctant in her step, in the good-by glance, in the sudden fall of the smiling lips.
"She will make some man a good wife," said Carmichael.
The vintner scowled at his tankard.
"He is not sure of her," thought Carmichael. Aloud he said: "What a funny world it is!"
"How?"
"Gretchen is beautiful enough to be a queen, and yet she is merely a Hebe in a tavern."
"Hebe?" suspiciously. The peasant is always suspicious of anything he doesn't understand.
"Hebe was a cup-bearer to the mythological gods in olden times," Carmichael explained. He had set a trap, but the vintner had not fallen into it.
"A fairy-story." The vintner nodded; he understood now.
Carmichael's glance once more rested on the vintner's hand. He would lay another trap.
"What happened to her?"
"Oh," said Carmichael, "she spilled wine on a god one day, and they banished her."
"It must have been a rare vintage."
"I suppose you are familiar with all valleys. Moselle?"
"Yes. That is a fine country."
The old man in tatters sat erect in his chair, but he did not turn his head.
"You have served?"
"A little. If I could be an officer I should like the army." The vintner reached for his pipe which lay on the table.
"Try this," urged Carmichael, offering his pouch.
"This will be good tobacco, I know." The vintner filled his pipe.
Carmichael followed this gift with many questions about wines and vintages; and hidden in these questions were a dozen clever traps. But the other walked over them, unhesitant, with a certainty of step which chagrined the trapper.
By and by the vintner rose and bade his table-companion a good night. He had not offered to buy anything, another sign puzzling to Carmichael. This frugality was purely of the thrifty peasant. But the vintner was not ungrateful, and he expressed many thanks. On his way to the door he stopped, whispered into Gretchen's ear, and passed out into the black street.
"Either he is a fine actor, or he is really what he says he is." Carmichael was dissatisfied. "I'll stake my chances on being president of the United States, which is safe enough as a wager, that this fellow is not genuine. I'll watch him. I've stumbled upon a pretty romance of some sort, but I fear that it is one-sided." He wrinkled his forehead, but that part of his recollection he aimed to stir remained fallow, in darkness.
The press in the room was thinning. There were vacant chairs here and there now. A carter sauntered past and sat down unconcernedly at the table occupied by the old man whose face Carmichael had not yet seen. The two exchanged not even so much as a casual nod. A little later a butcher approached the same table and seated himself after the manner of the carter. It was only when the dusty baker came along and repeated this procedure, preserving the same silence, that Carmichael's curiosity was enlivened. This curiosity, however, was only of the evanescent order. Undoubtedly they were socialists and this was a little conclave, and the peculiar manner of their meeting, the silence and mystery, were purely fictional. Socialism at that time revolved round the blowing up of kings, of demolishing established order. Neither kings were blown up nor order demolished, but it was a congenial topic over which to while away an evening. This was in the German states; in Russia it was a different matter.
Had Carmichael not fallen a-dreaming over his pipe he would have seen the old man pass three slips of paper across the table; he would have seen the carter, the butcher, and the baker pocket these slips stolidly; he would have seen the mountaineer wave his hand sharply and the trio rise and disperse. And perhaps it would have been well for him to have noted these singular manifestations of conspiracy, since shortly he was to become somewhat involved. It was growing late; so Carmichael left the Black Eagle, nursing the sunken ember in his pipe and surrendering no part of his dream.
Intermediately the mountaineer paid his score and started for the stairs which led to the bedrooms above. But he stopped at the bar. A very old man was having a pail filled with hot cabbage soup. It was the ancient clock-mender across the way. The mountaineer was startled out of his habitual reserve, but he recovered his composure almost instantly. The clock-mender, his heavy glasses hanging crookedly on his nose, his whole aspect that of a weary, broken man, took down his pail and shuffled noiselessly out. The mountaineer followed him cautiously. Once in his shop the clock-mender poured the steaming soup into a bowl, broke bread in it, and began his evening meal. The other, his face pressed against the dim pane, stared and stared.
"Gott in Himmel! It is he!" he breathed, then stepped back into the shadow, while the moisture from his breath slowly faded and disappeared from the window-pane.
CHAPTER V
A COMPATRIOT
Krumerweg was indeed a crooked way. It formed a dozen elbows and ragged half-circles as it slunk off from the Adlergasse. Streets have character even as humans, and the Krumerweg reminded one of a person who was afraid of being followed. The shadow of the towering bergs lay upon it, and the few stars that peered down through the narrow crevice of rambling gables were small, as if the brilliant planets had neither time nor inclination to watch over such a place. And yet there lived in the Krumerweg many a kind and loyal heart, stricken with poverty. In old times the street had had an evil name, now it possessed only a pitiful one.
It was half after nine when Gretchen and the vintner picked their way over cobbles pitted here and there with mud-holes. They were arm in arm, and they laughed when they stumbled, laughed lightly, as youth always laughs when in love.
"Only a little farther," said Gretchen, for the vintner had never before passed over this way.
"Long as it is and crooked, Heaven knows it is short enough!" He encircled her with his arms and kissed her. "I love you! I love you!" he said.
Gretchen was penetrated with rapture, for her ears, sharp with love and the eternal doubting of man, knew that falsehood could not lurk in such music. This handsome boy loved her. Buffeted as she had been, she could separate the false from the true. Come never so deep a sorrow, there would always be this—he loved her. Her bosom swelled, her heart throbbed, and she breathed in ecstasy the sweet chill air that rushed through the broken street.
"After the vintage," she said, giving his arm a pressure. For this handsome fellow was to be her husband when the vines were pruned and freshened against the coming winter.
"Aye, after the vintage," he echoed; but there was tragedy in his heart as deep and profound as his love.
"My grandmother—I call her that for I haven't any grandmother—is old and seldom leaves the house. I promised that after work to-night I'd bring my man home and let her see how handsome he is. She is always saying that we need a man about; and yet, I can do a man's work as well as the next one. I love you, too, Leo!" She pulled his hand to her lips and quickly kissed it, frightened but unashamed.
"Gretchen, Gretchen!"
She stopped. "What is it?" keenly. "There was pain in your voice."
"The thought of how I love you hurts me. There is nothing else, nothing, neither riches nor crowns, nothing but you, Gretchen. How long ago was it I met you first?"
"Two weeks."
"Two weeks? Is it not years? Have I not always known and loved you?"
"And I! What an empty heart and head were mine till that wonderful day! You were tired and dusty and footsore; you had walked some twenty odd miles; yet you helped me with the geese. There were almost tears in your eyes, but I knew that your heart was a man's when you smiled at me." She stopped again and turned him round to her. "And you love me like this?"
"Whatever betide, Lieberherz, whatever befall." And he embraced her with a fierce tenderness, and so strong was he in the moment that Gretchen gave a cry. He kissed her, not on the lips, but on the fine white forehead, reverently.
They proceeded, Gretchen subdued and the vintner silent, until they came to the end of their journey at number forty in the Krumerweg. It was a house of hanging gables, almost as old as the town itself, solid and grim and taciturn. There are some houses which talk like gossips, noisy, obtrusive and provocative. Number forty was like an old warrior, gone to his chair by the fireside, who listens to the small-talk of his neighbors saturninely. What was it all about? Had he not seen battles and storms, revolutions and bloodshed? The prattle of children was preferable.
Gretchen's grandmother, Fräu Schwarz, owned the house; it was all that barricaded her from poverty's wolves, and, what with sundry taxes and repairs and tenants who paid infrequently, it was little enough. Whatever luxuries entered at number forty were procured by Gretchen herself. At present the two stories were occupied; the second by a malter and his brood of children, the third by a woman who was partially bedridden. The lower or ground floor of four rooms she reserved for herself. As a matter of fact the forward room, with its huge middle-age fireplace and the great square of beamed and plastered walls and stone flooring, was sizable for all domestic purposes. Gretchen's pallet stood in a small alcove and the old woman's bed by the left of the fire.
Gretchen opened the door, which was unlocked. There was no light in the hall. She pressed her lover in her arms, kissed him lightly, and pushed him into the living-room. A log smoldered dimly on the irons. Gretchen ran forward, turned over the log, lighted two candles, then kissed the old woman seated in the one comfortable chair. The others were simply three-legged stools. There was little else in the room, save a poor reproduction of the Virgin Mary.
"Here I am, grandmother!"
"And who is here with you?" sharply but not unkindly.
"My man!" cried Gretchen gaily, her eyes bright as the candle flames.
"Bring him near me."
Gretchen gathered up two stools and placed them on either side of her grandmother and motioned to the vintner to sit down. He did so, easily and without visible embarrassment, even though the black eyes plunged a glance into his.
Her hair was white and thin, her nose aquiline, her lips fallen in, a cobweb of wrinkles round her eyes, down her cheeks, under her chin. But her sight was undimmed.
"Where are you from? You are not a Dreiberger."
"From the north, grandmother," forcing a smile to his lips.
The reply rather gratified her.
"Your name."
"Leopold Dietrich, a vintner by trade."
"You speak like a Hanoverian or a Prussian."
"I have passed some time in both countries. I have wandered about a good deal."
"Give me your hand."
The vintner looked surprised for a moment. Gretchen approved. So he gave the old woman his left hand. The grandmother smoothed it out upon her own and bent her shrewd eyes. Silence. Gretchen could hear the malter stirring above; the log cracked and burst into flame. A frown began to gather on the vintner's brow and a sweat in his palm.
"I see many strange things here," said the palmist, in a brooding tone.
"And what do you see?" asked Gretchen eagerly.
"I see very little of vineyards. I see riches, pomp; I see vast armies moving against each other; there is the smell of powder and fire; devastation. I do not see you, young man, among those who tramp with guns on their shoulders. You ride; there is gold on your arms. You will become great; but I do not understand. I do not understand," closing her eyes for a moment.
The vintner sat upright, his chin truculent, his arm tense.
"War!" he murmured.
Gretchen's heart sank; there was joy in his voice.
"Go on, grandmother," she whispered.
"Shall I live?" asked the vintner, whose belief in prescience till this hour had been of a negative quality.
"There is nothing here save death in old age, vintner." Her gnarled hand seized his in a vise. "Do you mean well by my girl?"
"Grandmother!" Gretchen remonstrated.
"Silence!"
The vintner withdrew his hand slowly.
"Is this the hand of a liar and a cheat? Is it the hand of a dishonest man?"
"There is no dishonesty there; but there are lines I do not understand. Oh, I can not see everything; it is like seeing people in a mist. They pass instantly and disappear. But I repeat, do you mean well by my girl?"
"Before God and His angels I love her; before all mankind I would gladly declare it. Gretchen shall never come to harm at these hands. I swear it."
"I believe you." The old woman's form relaxed its tenseness.
"Thanks, grandmother," said Gretchen. "Now, read what my hand says."
The old woman took the hand. She loved Gretchen.
"I read that you are gentle and brave and cheerful, that you have a loyal heart and a pure mind. I read that you are in love and that some day you will be happy." A smile went over her face, a kind of winter sunset.
"You are not looking at my hand at all, grandmother," said Gretchen in reproach.
"I do not need, my child. Your life is written in your face." The grandmother spoke again to the vintner. "So you will take her away from me?"
"Will it be necessary?" he returned quietly. "Have you any objection to my becoming your foster grandchild, such as Gretchen is?"
The old woman made no answer. She closed her eyes and did not open them. Gretchen motioned that this was a sign that the interview was ended. But as he rose to his feet there was a sound outside. A carriage had stopped. Some one opened the door and began to climb the stairs. The noise ceased only when the visitor reached the top landing. Then all became still again.
"There is something strange going on up there," said Gretchen in a whisper.
"In what way?" asked the vintner in like undertones.
"Three times a veiled lady has called at night, three times a man muffled up so one could not see his face."
"Let us not question our twenty-crowns rent, Gretchen," interrupted the grandmother, waking. "So long as no one is disturbed, so long as the police are not brought to our door, it is not our affair. Leopold, Gretchen, give me your hands." She placed them one upon the other, then spread out her hands above their heads. "The Holy Mother bring happiness and good luck to you, Gretchen."
"And to me?" said the youth.
"I could not wish you better luck than to give you Gretchen. Now, leave me."
The vintner picked up his hat and Gretchen led him to the street.
He hurried away, giving no glance at the closed carriage, the sleepy driver, the weary horse. Neither did he heed the man dressed as a carter who, when he saw the vintner, turned and followed. Finally, when the vintner veered into the Adlergasse, he stopped, his hands clenched, his teeth hard upon each other. He even leaned against the wall of a house, his face for the moment hidden in his arm.
"Wretch that I am! Damnable wretch! Krumerweg, Krumerweg! Crooked way, indeed!" He flung down his arm passionately. "There will be a God up yonder," looking at the stars. "He will see into my heart and know that it is not bad, only young. Oh, Gretchen!"
"Gretchen?" The carter stepped into a shadow and waited.
Carmichael did not enjoy the opera that night. He had missed the first acts, and the last was gruesome, and the royal box was vacant. Outside he sat down on one of the benches near the fountains in the Platz. His prolific imagination took the boundaries. Ah! That morning's ride, down the southern path of the mountains, the black squirrels in the branches, the red fox in the bushes, the clear spring, and the drink out of the tin cup which hung there for the thirsty! How prettily she had wrapped a leaf over the rusted edge of the cup! The leaf lay in his pocket. He had kissed a dozen times the spot where her lips had pressed it. Blind fool! Deeper and deeper; he knew that he never could go back to that safe ledge of the heart-free. Time could not change his heart, not if given the thousand years of the wandering Jew.
Bah! He would walk round the fountain and cool his crazy pulse. He was Irish, Irish to the core. Would any one, save an Irishman, give way, day after day, to those insane maunderings? His mood was savage; he was at odds with the world, and most of all, with himself. If only some one would come along and shoulder him rudely! He laughed ruefully. He was in a fine mood to make an ass of himself.
He left the bench and strolled round the fountain, his cane behind his back, his chin in his collar. He had made the circle several times, then he blundered into some one. The fighting mood was gone now, the walk having calmed him. He murmured a short apology for his clumsiness and started on, without even looking at the animated obstacle.
"Just a moment, my studious friend."
"Wallenstein? I didn't see you." Carmichael halted.
"That was evident," replied the colonel jestingly. "Heavens! Have you really cares of state, that you walk five times round this fountain, bump into me, and start to go on without so much as a how-do-you-do?"
"I'm absent-minded," Carmichael admitted.
"Not always, my friend."
"No, not always. You have some other meaning?"
"That is possible. Now, I do not believe that it was absent-mindedness which made you step in between me and that pretty goose-girl, the other night."
"Ah!" Carmichael was all alertness.
"It was not, I believe?"
"It was coldly premeditated," said Carmichael, folding his arms over his cane which he still held behind his back. His attitude and voice were pleasant.
"It was not friendly."
"Not to you, perhaps. But that happens to be an innocent girl, Colonel. You're no Herod. There was nothing selfish in my act. You really annoyed her."
"Pretense; they always begin that way."
"I confess I know little about that kind of hunting, but I'm sure you've started the wrong quarry this time."
"You are positive that you were disinterested?"
"Come, come, Colonel, this sounds like the beginning of a quarrel; and a quarrel should never come into life between you and me. I taught you draw-poker; you ought to be grateful for that, and to accept my word regarding my disinterestedness."
"I do not wish any quarrel, my Captain; but that girl's face has fascinated me. I propose to see her as often as I like."
"I have no objection to offer; but I told Gretchen that if any one, no matter who, ever offers her disrespect, to report the matter to me at the consulate."
"That is meddling."
"Call it what you like, my Colonel."
"Well, in case she is what you consider insulted, what will you do?" a challenge in his tones.
"Report the matter to the police."
Wallenstein laughed.
"And if the girl finds no redress there," tranquilly, "to the chancellor."
"You would go so far?"
"Even further," unruffled.
"It looks as though you had drawn your saber," with irony.
"Oh, I can draw it, Colonel, and when I do I guarantee you'll find no rust on it. Come," and Carmichael held out his hand amicably, "Gretchen is already in love with one of her kind. Let the child be in peace. What! Is not the new ballerina enough conquest? They are all talking about it."
"Good night, Herr Carmichael!" The colonel, ignoring the friendly hand, saluted stiffly, wheeled abruptly, and left Carmichael staring rather stupidly at his empty hand.
"Well, I'm hanged! All right," with a tilt of the shoulders. "One enemy more or less doesn't matter. I'm not afraid of anything save this fool heart of mine. If he says an ill word to Gretchen, and I hear of it, I'll cane the blackguard, for that's what he is at bottom. Well, I was looking for trouble, and here it is, sure enough."
He saw a carriage coming along. He recognized the white horse as it passed the lamps. He stood still for a space, undecided. Then he sped rapidly toward the side gates of the royal gardens. The vehicle stopped there. But this time no woman came out. Carmichael would have recognized that lank form anywhere. It was the chancellor. Well, what of it? Couldn't the chancellor go out in a common hack if he wanted to? But who was the lady in the veil?
"I've an idea!"
As soon as the chancellor disappeared, Carmichael hailed the coachman.
"Drive me through the gardens."
"It is too late, Herr."
"Well, drive me up and down the Strasse while I finish this cigar."
"Two crowns."
"Three, if your horse behaves well."
"He's as gentle as a lamb, Herr."
"And doubtless will be served as one before long. Can't you throw back the top?"
"In one minute!" Five crowns and three made eight crowns; not a bad business these dull times.
Carmichael lolled in the worn cushions, wondering whether or not to question his man. But it was so unusual for a person of such particular habits as the chancellor to ride in an ordinary carriage. Carmichael slid over to the forward seat and touched the jehu on the back.
"Where did you take the chancellor to-night?" he asked.
"Du lieber Gott! Was that his excellency? He said he was the chief steward."
"So he is, my friend. I was only jesting. Where did you take him?"
"I took him to the Krumerweg. He was there half an hour. Number forty."
"Where did you take the veiled lady?"
The coachman drew in suddenly and apprehensively. "Herr, are you from the police?"
"Thousand thunders, no! It was by accident that I stood near the gate when she got out. Who was she?"
"That is better. They both told me that they were giving charity. I did not see the lady's face, but she went into number forty, the same as the steward. You won't forget the extra crown, Herr?"
"No; I'll make it five. Turn back and leave me at the Grand Hotel." Then he muttered: "Krumerweg, crooked way, number forty. If I see this old side-paddler stopping at the palace steps again, I'll take a look at number forty myself."
On the return to the hotel the station omnibus had arrived with a solitary guest. A steamer trunk and a couple of bags were being trundled in by the porter, while the concierge was helping a short, stocky man to the ground. He hurried into the hotel, signed the police slips, and asked for his room. He seemed to be afraid of the dark. He was gone when Carmichael went into the office.
"Your Excellency," said the concierge, rubbing his hands and smiling after the manner of concierges born in Switzerland, "a compatriot of yours arrived this evening."
"What name?" indifferently. Compatriots were always asking impossible things of Carmichael, introductions to the grand duke, invitations to balls, and so forth, and swearing to have him recalled if he refused to perform these offices.
The concierge picked up the slips which were to be forwarded to the police.
"He is Hans Grumbach, of New York."
"An adopted compatriot, it would seem. He'll probably be over to the consulate to-morrow to have his passports looked into. Good night."
So Hans Grumbach passed out of his mind; but for all that, fortune and opportunity were about to knock on Carmichael's door. For there was a great place in history ready for Hans Grumbach.
CHAPTER VI
AT THE BLACK EAGLE
The day promised to be mild. There was not a cloud anywhere, and the morning mists had risen from the valleys. It was good to stand in the sunshine which seemed to draw forth all the vagaries and weariness of sleep from the mind and body. Hans Grumbach shook himself gratefully. He was standing on the curb in front of the Grand Hotel, his back to the sun. It was nine o'clock. The broad König Strasse shone, the white stone of the palaces glared, the fountains glistened, and the coloring tree tops scintillated like the head-dress of an Indian prince. Hans was short but strongly built; a mild blue-eyed German, smooth-faced, ruddy-cheeked, white-haired, with a brown button of a nose. He drank his beer with the best of them, but it never got so far as his nose save from the outside. His suit was tight-fitting, but the checks were ample, and the watch-chain a little too heavy, and the huge garnet on his third finger was not in good taste. But what's the odds? Grumbach was satisfied, and it's one's own satisfaction that counts most.
Presently two police officers came along and went into the hotel. Grumbach turned with a sigh and followed them. Doubtless they had come to look over his passports. And this happened to be the case.
The senior officer unfolded the precious document.
"It is not yet viséed by your consul," said the officer.
"I arrived late last night. I shall see him this morning," replied Grumbach.
"You were not born in America?"
"Oh, no; I came from Bavaria."
"At what age?"
"I was twenty."
"Did you go to America with your parents?"
"No. I was alone."
"You still have your permit to leave Bavaria?"
"I believe so; I am not certain. I never thought in those days I should become rich enough to travel."
The word that tingled with gold soothed the suspicious ear of the officer.
"What is your business in America?"
"I am a plumber, now retired."
"And your business here?"
"Simply pleasure."
"You are forty?" said the officer, referring to the passports.
"Yes."
"This is rather young to retire from business."
"Not in America," easily.
"True, everybody grows rich there, with gold mines popping open at one's feet. It must be a great country." The officer sighed as he refolded the documents. "As soon as these are approved by his excellency the American consul, kindly have a porter bring them over to the bureau of police. It will be only a matter of form. I shall return them at once."
Grumbach produced a Louis Napoleon which was then as now acceptable that side of the Rhine. It was not done with pomposity, but rather with the exuberance of a man whose purse and letter of credit possess an assuring circumference.
"Drink a bottle, you and your comrade," he said.
This the officer promised to do forthwith. He returned the passports, put a hand to his cap respectfully and, followed by his assistant, walked off briskly.
Grumbach took off his derby and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. This moisture had not been wrung forth by any atmospheric effect. From the top of his forehead to the cowlick on the back of his head ran a broad white scar. At one time or another Grumbach had been on the ragged edge of the long journey. He went out of doors. There is nothing like sunshine to tonic the ebbing courage.
Coming up the thoroughfare, with a dash of spirit and color, was a small troop of horses. The sunlight broke upon the steel and silver. A waiter, cleaning off the little iron tables on the sidewalk, paused. The riders passed, all but two in splendid uniforms. Grumbach watched them till they disappeared into the palace courtyard. He called to the waiter.
"Who are they?"
"The grand duke and some of his staff, Herr."
"The grand duke? Who was the gentleman in civilian clothes?"
"That was his excellency, Herr Carmichael, the American consul."
"Very good. And the young lady?"
"Her serene highness, the Princess Hildegarde."
"Bring me a glass of beer," said Grumbach, sinking down at a table. A thousand questions surged against his lips, but he kept them shut with all the stolidity of his native blood. When the waiter set the beer down before him, he said: "Where does Herr Carmichael live?"
"The consulate is in the Adlergasse. He himself lives here at the Grand Hotel. Ach! He is a great man, Herr Carmichael."
"So?"
"A friend of the grand duke, a friend of her serene highness, liked everywhere, a fine shot and a great fencer, and rides a horse as if he were sewn to the saddle. And all the ladies admire him because he dances."
"So he dances? Quite a lady's man." To Grumbach a man who danced was a lady's man, something to be held in contempt.
"You would not call him a lady's man, if you mean he wastes his time on them."
"But you say he dances?"
"Ach, Gott! Don't we all dance to some tune or other?" cried the waiter philosophically.
"You are right; different music, different jigs. Take the coppers."
"Thanks, Herr." The waiter continued his work.
So Herr Carmichael lived here. That would be convenient. Grumbach decided to wait for him. He had seen enough of men to know if he could trust the consul. He glared at the amber-gold in the glass, took a vigorous swallow, and smacked his lips. A sentimental old fool; he was neither more nor less.
The wait for Carmichael was short. The American consul came along with energetic stride. He had been to the earlier maneuvers, and aside from coffee and bacon he had had no breakfast. The ride and the cold air of morning had made him ravenous. Grumbach rose and caught Carmichael by the arm.
"Your pardon, sir," he said in good English, "but you are Mr. Carmichael, the American consul?"
"I am."
"Will you kindly look over my papers?" Grumbach asked.
"You are from the United States?" Then Carmichael remembered that this must be the compatriot who arrived the night before. "I shall be very glad to see you in the Adlergasse at half after ten. It is one flight up, next door to the Black Eagle. Any one will show you the way. I haven't breakfasted yet, and I can not transact any business in these dusty clothes. Good morning."
Grumbach liked the consul's smile. More than that, he recognized instantly that this handsome young man was a gentleman. The inherent respect for caste had not been beaten out of Grumbach's blood; he had come from a brood in a peasant's hovel. To him the word gentleman would always signify birth and good clothes; what the heart and mind were did not matter much.
He had more than an hour to idle away, so he wandered through the park, admiring the freshness of the green, the well-kept flower-beds, the crisp hedges, and the clean graveled paths. There was nothing like it back there in America. They hadn't the time there; everybody was in the market, speculating in bubbles. He admired the snowy fountains, too, and the doves that darted in and out of the wind-blown spray. There was nothing like this in America, either. He was not belittling; he was only making comparisons. He knew that he would be far happier in his adopted country, which would accomplish all these beautiful things farther on.
He looked up heavenward, where the three bergs shouldered the dazzling snow into the blue. This impressed him more than all else; that little wrinkle in the middle berg's ice had been there when he was a boy. Nothing had changed in Dreiberg save the König Strasse, whose cobbles had been replaced by smooth blocks of wood. At times he sent swift but uncertain glances toward the palaces. He longed to peer through the great iron fence, but he smothered this desire. He would find out what he wanted to know when he met Carmichael at the consulate. Here the bell in the cathedral struck the tenth hour; not a semitone had this voice of bronze changed in all these years. It was good to be here in Dreiberg again. Should he ask the way to the Adlergasse? Perhaps this would be wiser. So he put the question to a policeman. The officer politely gave him a detailed route.
"Follow these directions and you will have no trouble in finding the Adlergasse."
"Much obliged."
Trouble? Scarcely! He had put out his first protest against the world in the Adlergasse, forty years since. He came to a stand before the old tavern. Not even the sign had been painted anew, though the oak board was a trifle paler and there was a little more rust on the hinges. Many a time he had fought with the various pot-boys. He wondered if there were any pot-boys inside now. He noted the dingy consulate sign, then started up the dark and narrow stairs. The consulate door stood open.
A clerk, native to Ehrenstein, was writing at a table. At a desk by the window sat Carmichael, deep in a volume of Dumas. No one ever hurried here; no one ever had palpitation of the heart over business. The clerk lifted his head.
"Mr. Carmichael?" said Grumbach in English.
The clerk indicated with his pen toward the individual by the window. Carmichael read on. Grumbach had assimilated some Americanisms. He went boldly over and seated himself in the chair at the side of the desk. With a sigh Carmichael left Porthos in the grotto of Locmaria.
"I am Mr. Grumbach. I spoke to you this morning about my passports. Will you kindly look them over?"
Carmichael took the papers, frowning slightly. Grumbach laid his derby on his knees. The consul went over the papers, viséed them, and handed them to their owner.
"You will have no trouble going about with those," Carmichael said listlessly. "How long will you be in Dreiberg?"
"I do not know," said Grumbach truthfully.
"Is there anything I can do for you?"
"There is only one thing," answered Grumbach, "but you may object, and I shall not blame you if you do. It will be a great favor."
"What do you wish?" more listlessly.
"An invitation to the military ball at the palace, after the maneuvers," quietly.
Carmichael sat up. He had not expected so large an order as this.
"I am afraid you are asking something impossible for me to obtain," he replied coldly, thumbing the leaves of his book.
"Ah, Mr. Carmichael, it is very important that I should be there."
"Explain."
"I can give you no explanations. I wish to attend this ball. I do not care to meet the grand duke or any one else. Put me in the gallery where I shall not be noticed. That is all I ask of you."
"That might be done. But you have roused my curiosity. Your request is out of the ordinary. You have some purpose?"
"A perfectly harmless one," said Grumbach, mopping his forehead.
This movement brought Carmichael's eye to the scar. Grumbach acknowledged the stare by running his finger along the subject.
"I came near passing in my checks the day I got that," he volunteered. "Everybody looks at it when I take off my hat. I've tried tonics, but the hair won't grow there."
"Where did you get it?"
"At Gettysburg."
"Gettysburg?" with a lively facial change. "You were in the war?"
"All through it."
Carmichael was no longer indifferent. He gave his hand.
"I've got a few scars myself. What regiment?"
"The—— th cavalry, New York."
"What troop?" with growing excitement.
"C troop."
"I was captain of B troop in the same regiment. Hurrah! Work's over for the day. Come along with me, Grumbach, and we'll talk it over down-stairs in the Black Eagle. You're a godsend. C troop! Hanged if the world doesn't move things about oddly. I was in the hospital myself after Gettysburg; a ball in the leg. And I've rheumatism even now when a damp spell comes."
So down to the tavern they went, and there they talked the battles over, sundry tankards interpolating. It was "Do you remember this?" and, "Do you recall that?" with diagrams drawn in beer on the oaken table.
"But there's one thing, my boy," said Carmichael.
"What's that?"
"The odds were on our side, or we'd be fighting yet."
"That we would. The poor devils were always hungry when we whipped them badly."
"But you're from this side of the water?"
"Yes; went over when I was twenty-two." Grumbach sucked his pipe stolidly.
"What part of Germany?"
"Bavaria; it is so written in my passports."
"Munich?"
Grumbach circled the room. All the near tables were vacant. The Black Eagle was generally a lonely place till late in the afternoon. Grumbach touched the scar tenderly. Could he trust this man? Could he trust any one in the world? The impulse came to trust Carmichael, and he did not disregard it.
"I was born in this very street," he whispered.
"Here?"
"Sh! Not so loud! Yes, in this very street. But if the police knew, I wouldn't be worth that!"—with a snap of the fingers. "My passports, my American citizenship, they would be worthless. You know that."
"But what does this all mean? What have you done that you can't come back here openly?" Here was a mystery. This man with the kindly face and frank eyes could be no ordinary criminal. "Can I help you in any way?"
"No; no one can help me."
"But why did you come back? You were safe enough in New York."
"Who can say what a man will do? Don't question me. Let be. I have said too much already. Some day perhaps I shall tell you why. When I went away I was thin and pale and had yellow hair. To-day I am fat, gray-headed; I have made money. Who will recognize me now? No one."
Grumbach laughed unmusically. "Grumbach is as good as another. Listen. You are my comrade now; we have shed our blood on the same field. There is no tie stronger than that. When I left Dreiberg there was a reward of a thousand crowns for me. Dead or alive, preferably dead."
Carmichael was plainly bewildered. He tried to recall the past history of Ehrenstein which would offer a niche for this inoffensive-looking German. He was blocked.
"Dead or alive," he repeated.
"So."
"You were mad to return."
"I know it. But I had to come; I couldn't help it. Oh, don't look like that! I never hurt anybody, unless it was in battle"—naïvely. "Ask no more, my friend. I promise to tell you when the right time comes. Now, will you get me that invitation to the gallery at the military ball?"
"I will, if you will give me your word, as a soldier, as a comrade in arms, that you have no other purpose than to look at the people."
"As God is my judge"—solemnly—"that is all I wish to do. Now, what has happened since I went away? I have dared to ask questions of no one."
Carmichael gave him a brief summary of events, principal among which was the amazing restoration of the Princess Hildegarde. When he had finished, Grumbach remained dumb and motionless for a time.
"And what is her serene highness like?"
To describe the Princess Hildegarde was not only an easy task, but a pleasant one to Carmichael, and if he embroidered this description here and there, Grumbach was too deeply concerned with the essential points to notice these variations in the theme.
"So she is gentle and beautiful? Why not? Ach! You should have seen her mother. She was the most beautiful woman in all Germany, and she sang like one of those Italian nightingales. I recall her when I was a boy. I would gladly have died at a word from her. All loved her. The king of Jugendheit wanted her, but she loved the grand duke. So the Princess Hildegarde has come back to her own? God is good!" And Grumbach bent his head reverently.
"Well," said Carmichael, beckoning to the waitress, and paying the score, "if any trouble rises, send for me. You don't look like a man who has done anything very bad." He offered his hand again.
Grumbach pressed it firmly, and there was a moisture in his eyes.
Together they returned to the Grand Hotel for lunch. On the way neither talked very much. They were both thinking of the same thing, but from avenues diametrically opposed. Grumbach declined Carmichael's invitation to lunch, and immediately sought his own room.
Once there, he closed the shutters so as to admit but half the day's light, and opened his battered trunk. From the false bottom, which had successfully eluded the vigilance of a dozen frontiers, he took out a small bundle. This he opened carefully, his eyes blurring. Mad fool that he had been! How many times had he gazed at these trinkets in these sixteen or more years? How often had he uttered lamentations over them? How many times had the talons of remorse gashed his heart?
Two little yellow shoes, so small that they lay on his palm as lightly as two butterflies; a little cloak trimmed with ermine; a golden locket shaped like a heart!
CHAPTER VII
AN ELDER BROTHER
Grumbach was very fond of music, and in America there were never any bands except at political meetings or at the head of processions; and that wasn't the sort of music he preferred. There was nothing at the Opera, so he decided to spend the earlier part of the evening in the public gardens. He was lonely; he had always been lonely. Men who carry depressing secrets generally are. He searched covertly among the many faces for one that was familiar, but he saw none; and he was at once glad, and sorry. Yes, there was one face; the rubicund countenance of the bandmaster. It was older, more wrinkled, but it was the same. How many years had the old fellow swung the baton? At least thirty years. In his boyhood days Grumbach had put that brilliant uniform side by side with the grand duke's. As it was impossible for him ever to become a duke, his ambition had been to arrive at the next greatest thing—the bandmaster. As he neared the pavilion he laughed silently and grimly. To have grown wealthy as a master plumber instead! So much for ambition!
Subsequently he found himself standing beside a young vintner and his peasant sweetheart. Their hands secretly met and locked behind their backs. Grumbach sighed. Never would he know aught of this double love. This Eden would never have any gate for him to push aside. He would always go his way alone.
The girl turned her head. Seeing Grumbach, she loosened the vintner's hand.
"Do not mind me, girl," said Grumbach, his face broadening.
The girl laughed easily and without confusion. Her companion, however, flushed under his tan, and a scowl ran over his forehead.
The band struck up, and the little comedy was forgotten. But Grumbach could not see anything except the girl's face, the fresh, exquisite turn of her profile. Once his eye wandered rather guiltily. Her figure was in keeping with her face. Then he saw the little wooden shoes. Ah, well, as long as kings surrounded themselves with armies and with pomp, there would always be wooden shoes. The band was playing Les Huguenots, and the girl hummed the air.
"Do not go there to-night, Gretchen," said the vintner.
"It is a crown."
"I will give you two if you will not go," the vintner urged.
"Foolish boy, what good would that do? We need every crown we have or can get, if we are to be married soon. And you have not gone to work yet. And every day costs you a crown to live, and more, for all I know. You spend a crown as carelessly as if all you had to do was to pick them off the vines. Crowns are hard to get."
"When one is happy, one does not stop to bother about crowns," he said impatiently.
"But will such happiness last? Shall we not be happier as our crowns accumulate, to ward off sickness and hunger? Must I teach you economy?"
"I shall apply for work to-morrow and waste no more crowns, my heart." The vintner's hand again sought hers, and he sent Grumbach a look which said: "Smile if you dare!"
But Grumbach did not smile. He was too sad. He fell into a dream, and the music faded in his ear and the lights of the pavilion grew dim. He was a boy again, and he was carrying posies to the pretty little fräulein in the Adlergasse. Dreams never last, and sometimes they are rudely interrupted.
A hand was put upon his shoulder authoritatively. The police officer who had examined his passports that morning stood at Grumbach's elbow.
"Herr Grumbach," he said quietly, "his excellency the chancellor has directed me to bring you at once to the palace."
"To the palace?" Grumbach's face was expressive of great astonishment. The officer saw nothing out of the ordinary in this expression. Any foreigner would have been seized with confusion under like circumstances. "To the palace?" Grumbach repeated. "My passports were wrong in some respect?"
"Oh, no, Herr; they were correct."
Grumbach roused his mind energetically. He forced down the fast beating of his heart, banished the astonishment from his face, and even brought a smile to his lips.
"But whatever can the chancellor want of me?"
"That is not my business. I was simply sent to find you. His excellency is always interested in German-Americans. It may be that he wishes to ask what the future is there in America. We have more in Dreiberg than we can reasonably take care of."
"In the prisons?"
The officer laughed. "There and elsewhere."
"Is that right?" asked Grumbach, now thoroughly on guard.
"It may not be right to ship our criminals over there, but it is considered very good politics."
"Shall we go at once? I never expected to enter the palace of the grand duke of Ehrenstein," Grumbach added. "It will be something to tell of when I go back to America."
The only thing that reassured him was the presence of one officer. When they came for a man on a serious charge, in Ehrenstein, they came in pairs or fours. So then, there could be pending nothing vital to his liberty or his incognito. Besides, his papers were all right, and now there would be Carmichael to fall back on.
"The palace is lighted up," was Grumbach's comment as the two passed the sentry outside the gates.
"The duke gives the dinner to the diplomatic corps to-night."
"A fine thing to be a diplomat."
"I myself prefer fighting in the open. Diplomats? Their very precious hides are never anywhere near the wars they bring about. No, no; this way. We go in at the side."
"You'll have to guide me. Yes, these diplomats. Men like you and me do all the work. I was in the Civil War in America."
"That was a great fight," remarked the officer. "I should like to have been there."
"Four years; pretty long. Do you know Herr Carmichael?"
"The American consul? Oh, yes."
"He and I fought in the same regiment."
"Then you saw some pretty battles."
Grumbach took off his hat. "See that?"
"Gott! That must have been an ugly one."
"Almost crossed over when I got it. Is this the door?"
"Yes. I'll put you in snugly. You will probably have to wait for his excellency. But you'll have me for company till he appears."
Grumbach entered the palace with a brave heart and a steady mind.
The grand duke had a warm place in his heart for the diplomatic corps. He liked to see them gathered round his table, their uniforms glittering with orders and decorations. It was always a night of wits; and he sprang a hundred traps for comedy's sake, but these astonishing linguists seldom if ever blundered into one of them. They were eternally vigilant. It was no trifling matter to swing the thought from German into French or Italian or Hungarian; but they were seasoned veterans in the game, all save Carmichael, who spoke only French and German fluently. The duke, however, never tried needlessly to embarrass him. He admired Carmichael's mental agility. Never he thrust so keenly that the American was found lacking in an effective though simple parry.
"Your highness must recollect that I am not familiar with that tongue."
"Pardon me, Herr Captain!"
But there was always a twinkle in the ducal eye and an answering smile in the consul's.
The somber black of Carmichael's evening dress stood out conspicuously among the blue and green and red uniforms. Etiquette compelled him to wear silk stockings, but that was the single concession on his part. He wore no orders. An order of the third or fourth class held no allurement. Nothing less than the Golden Fleece would have interested him, and the grand duke himself could not boast of this rare and distinguished order. In truth, Carmichael coveted nothing but a medal for valor, and his own country had not yet come to recognize the usefulness of such a distinction.
All round him sat ministers or ambassadors; he alone represented a consulate. So his place at the table was honorary rather than diplomatic. It was his lively humorous personality the grand duke admired, not his representations.
The duke sat at the head of the table and her serene highness at the foot; and it was by the force of his brilliant wit that the princess did not hold in perpetuity the court at her end of the table. For a German princess of that time she was highly accomplished; she was ardent, whimsical, with a flashing mentality which rounded out and perfected her physical loveliness. Above and beyond all this, she had suffered, she had felt the pangs of poverty, the smart of unrecognized merit; she had been one of the people, and her sympathies would always be with them, for she knew what those about her only vaguely knew, the patience, the unmurmuring bravery of the poor. Never would she become sated with power so long as it gave her the right to aid the people. Never a new tax was levied that she did not lighten it in some manner; never an oppressive law was promulgated that she did not soften its severity. And so the populace loved her, for it did not take the people long to find out what she was trying to do for them. And perhaps they loved her because she had lived the greater part of her young life as one of them.
To-night there was love in the duke's eyes as he looked down the table's length; there was love in the old chancellor's eyes, too; and in Carmichael's. And there was love in her eyes as she gazed back at the two old men. But who could read her eyes whenever they roved in Carmichael's direction? Not even Gretchen's grandmother, who lived in the Krumerweg.
"Gentlemen," said the duke, rising and holding up his glass, "this night I give you a toast which I believe will be agreeable to all of you, especially to his excellency, Baron von Steinbock of Jugendheit. What is past is past; a new regime begins this night." He paused. All eyes were focused upon him in wonder. Only Baron von Steinbock displayed no more than ordinary interest. "I give you," resumed the duke, "her serene highness and his majesty, Frederick of Jugendheit!"
The princess grew delicately pale as the men and women sprang to their feet. Every hand swept toward her, holding a glass. She had surrendered that morning. Not because she wished to be a queen, not because she cared to bring about an alliance between the two countries; no, it was because she was afraid and had burned the bridge behind her.
The tan thinned on Carmichael's face, but his hand was steady. Never would he forget the tableau. She sat still in her chair, her lids drooped, but a proud lift to her chin. The collar of pearls round her neck had scarce more luster than her shoulders. How red her lips seemed against the whiteness of her skin! Beautiful to him beyond all dreams of beauty. God send another war and let him die in the heart of it, fighting! To dream lies as he had done this twelvemonth, to break his heart over the moon! He sat his glass down untouched, happily unobserved. He was in misery; he wanted to be alone.
"Long live her majesty!" thundered the chancellor. He, too, was pale, but the fire of great things burned in his eyes and his lank form took upon itself a transient majesty.
In the ball-room the princess was surrounded; everybody flattered her; congratulated her, and complimented her. All agreed that it was a great political stroke. And indeed it was, but none of them knew how great.
Carmichael was among the last to approach her. By this time he had his voice and nerves under control. Without apparent volition they walked down the stairs which led to the conservatory.
"I thought perhaps you had forgotten me," she said.