CHAPTER XI
THE SOCIALISTS
Hermann Breunner lived in the granite lodge, just within the eastern gates of the royal gardens. He was a widower and shared the ample lodge with the undergardeners and their families. He lived with them, but signally apart. They gave him as much respect as if he had been the duke himself. He was a lonely, taciturn man, deeply concerned with his work, and a botanical student of no mean order. No comrade helped him pass away an evening in the chimney-corner, pipe in hand and good cheer in the mug. This isolation was not accidental, it was Hermann's own selection. He was a man of brooding moods, and there was no laughter in his withered heart, though the false sound of it crossed his lips at infrequent intervals.
He adjusted his heavy spectacles and held the note slantingly toward the candle. A note or a letter was a singular event in Hermann's life. Not that he looked forward with eagerness to receive them, but that there was no one existing who cared enough about him to write. This note left by the porter of the Grand Hotel moved him with surprise. It requested that he present himself at eight o'clock at the office of the hotel and ask to be directed to the room of Hans Grumbach.
"Now, who is Hans Grumbach? I never knew or heard of a man of that name."
Nevertheless, he decided to go. Certainly this man Grumbach did not urge him without some definite purpose. He laid down his pipe, reached for his hat and coat—for in the lodge he generally went about in his shirt-sleeves—and went over to the hotel. The concierge, who knew Hermann, conducted him to room ten on the entresole. Hermann knocked. A voice bade him enter. Ah, it was the German-American, whose papers had puzzled his excellency.
"You wished to see me, Herr Grumbach?"
"Yes," said Grumbach, offering a chair.
Hermann accepted the courtesy with dignity. His host drew up another chair to the opposite side of the reading-table. The light overhead put both faces in a semishadow.
"You are Hermann Breunner," began Grumbach.
"Yes."
"You once had a brother named Hans."
Hermann grew rigid in his chair. "I have no brother," he replied, his voice dull and empty.
"Perhaps not now," continued Grumbach, "but you did have."
Hermann's head drooped. "My God, yes, I did have a brother; but he was a scoundrel."
Grumbach lighted a cigar. He did not offer one to Hermann, who would have refused it.
"Perhaps he was a scoundrel. He is—dead!" softly.
"God's will be done!" But Hermann's face turned lighter.
"As a boy he loved you."
"And did I not love him?" said Hermann fiercely. "Did I not worship that boy, who was to me more like a son than a brother? Had not all the brothers and sisters died but he? But you—who are you to recall these things?"
"I knew your brother; I knew him well. He was not a scoundrel; only weak. He went to America and became successful in business. He fought with the North in the war. He was not a coward; he did his fighting bravely and honorably."
"Oh, no; Hans could never, have been a coward; even his villainy required courage. But go on."
"He died facing the enemy, and his last words were of you. He begged your forgiveness; he implored that you forget that black moment. He was young, he said; and they offered him a thousand crowns. In a moment of despair he fell."
"Despair? Did he confess to you the crime he committed?"
"Yes."
"Did he tell you to whom he sold his honor?"
"That he never knew. A Gipsy from the hills came to him, so he said.
"From Jugendheit?"
"I say that he knew nothing. He believed that the Gipsy wanted her highness to hold for ransom. Hans spoke of a girl called Tekla."
"Tekla? Ah, yes; Hans was in love with that doll-face."
"Doll-face or not, Hans evidently loved her. She jilted him, and he did not care then what happened. His one desire was to leave Dreiberg. And this Gipsy brought the means and the opportunity."
"Not Jugendheit?"
"Who knows? Hans followed the band of Gipsies into the mountains. The real horror of his act did not come home to him till then. Ah, the remorse! But it was too late. They dressed the little one in rags. But when I ran away from them I took her little shoes and cloak and locket."
Hermann was on his feet!
Grumbach relighted his cigar which had gone out. The smoke wavered about his face and slowly ascended. His eyes were as bright and glowing as coals. He waited. He had made the slip without premeditation; but what was done was done. So he waited.
Hermann dropped his hands on the table and leaned forward.
"Is it you, Hans, and I did not know you?"
"My God!" Hermann sank down weakly. The ceiling spun and the gaslight separated itself into a hundred flames. "You said he was dead!"
"So I am, to the world, to you, and to all who knew me," quietly.
"Why have you returned?"
Hans shrugged. "I don't know. Perhaps I am a fool; perhaps I am willing to pay the penalty of my crime. At least that was uppermost in my mind till I learned that her highness had been found."
"Hans, Hans, the duke has sworn to hang you!"
Hans laughed. "The rope is not made that will fit my neck. Will you denounce me, brother?"
"I?" Hermann shrank back in horror.
"Why not? Five thousand crowns still hang over me."
"Blood-money for me? No, Hans!"
"Besides, I have made a will. At my death you will be rich."
"Rich?"
"Yes, Hermann. I am worth two hundred thousand crowns."
Hermann breathed with effort. So many things had beaten upon his brain in the past ten minutes that he was dazed. His brother Hans alive and here, and rich?
"But riches are not everything."
"Sometimes they are little enough," Hans agreed.
"Why did you do it?" Hermann's voice was full of agony.
"Have I not told you, Hermann? There is nothing more to be added." Then, with rising passion: "Nothing more, now that my heart is blistered and scarred with regret and remorse. God knows that I have repented and repented. I went to war because I wanted to be killed. They shot me here, and here, and here, and this saber-cut would have split the skull of any other man. But it was willed that I should come back here."
"My poor brother! You must fly from here at once!"
"From what?" tranquilly.
"The chancellor is suspicious."
"I know that. But since you, my brother, failed to identify me, certainly his excellency will not. I shall make no slip as in your case. And you will not betray me when I tell you that I have returned principally to find out whence came those thousand crowns."
"Ah! Find that out, Hans; yes, yes!" Hermann began to look more like himself. "But what was your part?"
"Mine? I was to tell where her highness and her nurse were to be at a certain hour of the day. Nothing more was necessary. My running away was the expression of my guilt; otherwise they would never have connected me with the abduction."
"Have you any suspicions?"
"None. And remember, you must not know me, Hermann, no matter where we meet. I am sleepy." Hans rose.
And this, thought Hermann, his bewilderment gaining life once more, and this calm, unruffled man, whose hair was whiter than his own, a veteran of the bloodiest civil war in history, this prosperous mechanic, was his little brother Hans!
"Hans, have you no other greeting?" Hermann asked, spreading out his arms.
The wanderer's face beamed; and the brothers embraced.
"You forgive me, then, Hermann?"
"Must I not, little Hans? You are all that is left me of the blood. True, I swore that if ever I saw you again I should curse you."
The two stood back from each other, but with arms still entwined.
"Perhaps, Hans, I did not watch you closely enough in those days."
"And what has become of the principal cause?"
"The cause?"
"Tekla."
"Bah! She is fat and homely and the mother of seven squalling children."
"What a world! To think that Tekla should be at the bottom of all this tangle! What irony! I ruin my life, I break the heart of the grand duke, I nearly cause war between two friendly states—why? Tekla, now fat and homely and the mother of seven, would not marry me. The devil rides strange horses."
"Good night, Hermann, and God bless you for your forgiveness. Always come at night if you wish to see me, but do not come often; they might remark it."
A rap on the door startled them. Hans, a finger of warning on his lips, opened the door. Carmichael stood outside.
"Ah, Captain!" Hans took Carmichael by the hand and drew him into the room.
Carmichael, observing Hermann, was rather confused as to what to do.
"Good evening, Hermann," he said.
"Good evening, Herr Carmichael."
Hermann passed into the hail and softly closed the door after him. It was better that the American should not see the emotion which still illumined his face.
"What's the good word, Captain?" inquired Hans.
Carmichael put in a counter-query: "What was your brother doing here?"
"I have told him who I am."
"Was it wise?"
"Hermann sleeps soundly; he will talk neither in his sleep nor in his waking hours. He has forgiven me."
"For what?" thoughtlessly.
"The time for explanations has not yet come, Captain."
"Pardon me, Grumbach; I was not thinking. But I came to bring you the invitation to the military ball."
The broad white envelope, emblazoned with the royal arms, fascinated Hans, not by its resplendency, but by the possibilities which it afforded.
"Thank you; it was very good of you."
"It was a pleasure, comrade. What do you say to an hour or two at the Black Eagle? We'll drown our sorrows together."
"Have you any sorrows, Captain?"
"Who hasn't? Life is a patchwork with the rounding-out pieces always missing. Come along. I'm lonesome to-night."
"So am I," said Hans.
The Black Eagle was lively as usual; and there were some familiar faces. The vintner was there and so was Gretchen. Carmichael hailed her.
"This is my last night here, Herr Carmichael," she said.
"Somebody has left you a fortune?" There was a jest in Carmichael's eyes.
"Yes," replied Gretchen, her lips unsmiling.
"The poor lady who lived on the top floor of my grandmother's house was rich. She left me a thousand crowns."
Carmichael and Grumbach: "A thousand crowns!"
"And what will you do with all that money?" asked Hans.
"I am going to study music."
"I thought you were going to be married soon," said Carmichael.
"Surely. But that will not hinder. I shall have enough for two." Gretchen saw no reason why she should tell them of the princess' generosity.
"But how does he take it?" asked Carmichael, with a motion of his head toward the vintner, half hidden behind a newspaper.
"He doesn't like the idea at all. But the Herr Direktor says that I am a singer, and that some day I shall be rich and famous."
"When that day comes I shall be there with many a brava!"
The vintner, who sat near enough to catch a bit of the conversation, scowled over the top of his paper. Carmichael eyed him mischievously. Gretchen picked up her coppers and went away.
"A beautiful girl," said Hans abstractedly. "She might be Hebe with no trouble at all."
Carmichael admired Hans. There was always some new phase in the character of this quiet and unassuming German. A plumber who was familiar with the classics was not an ordinary person. He raised his stein and Hans extended his. After that they smoked, with a word or two occasionally in comment.
At that day there was only one newspaper in Dreiberg. It was a dry and solid sheet, of four pages, devoted to court news, sciences, and agriculture. The vintner presently smoothed down the journal, opened his knife, and cut out a paragraph. Carmichael, following his movements slyly, wondered what he had seen to interest him to the point of preservation. The vintner crushed the remains of the sheet into a ball and dropped it to the floor. Then he finished his beer, rose, and proceeded toward the stairs leading to the rathskeller below. Down these he disappeared.
An idea came to Carmichael. He called a waitress and asked her to bring a copy of that day's paper. Meantime he recovered the vintner's paper, and when he finally put the two together, it was a simple matter to replace the missing cutting. Grumbach showed a mild interest over the procedure.
"Why do you do that, Captain?"
"A little idea I have; it may not amount to anything." But the American was puzzled over the cutting. There were two sides to it: which had interested the vintner? "Do you care for another beer?"
"No, I am tired and sleepy, Captain."
"All right; we'll go back to the hotel. There is nothing going on here to-night."
But Carmichael was mistaken for once.
A little time later Herr Goldberg harangued his fellow socialists bitterly. Gretchen's business in this society was to serve. They had selected her because they knew that she inclined toward the propaganda. Few spoke to her, outside of giving orders, and then kindly.
The rathskeller had several windows and doors. These led to the Biergarten, to the wine-cellar, and to an alley which had no opening on the street. The police had as yet never arrested anybody; but several times the police had dispersed Herr Goldberg and his disciples on account of the noise. The window which led to the blind alley was six feet from the floor, twice as broad as it was high, and unbarred. Under this window sat the vintner. He was a probationer, a novitiate; this was his second attendance. He liked to sit in the shadow and smile at Herr Goldberg's philosophy, which, summed up briefly, meant that the rich should divide with the poor and that the poor should hang on to what they had or got. It may have never occurred to Herr Goldberg that the poor were generally poor because of their incapabilities, their ignorance, and incompetence. To-night, however, there were variety and spice with his Jeremiad.
"Brothers, shall this thing take place? Shall the daughter of Ehrenstein become Jugendheit's vassal? Oh, how we have fallen! Where is the grand duke's pride we have heard so much about? Are we, then, afraid of Jugendheit?"
"No!" roared his auditors, banging their stems and tankards. The vintner joined the demonstration, banging his stein as lustily as the next one.
"Have you thought what this marriage will cost us in taxes?"
"What?"
"Thousands of crowns, thousands! Do we not always pay for the luxuries of the rich? Do not their pleasures grind us so much deeper into the dirt? Yes, we are the corn they grind. And shall we submit, like the dogs in Flanders, to become beasts of burden?"
"No, no!"
"I have a plan, brothers; it will show the duke to what desperation he has driven us at last. We will mob the Jugendheit embassy on the day of the wedding; we will tear it apart, brick by brick, stone by stone."
"Hurrah!" cried the noisy ones. They liked talk of this order. They knew it was only here that great things happened, the division of riches and mob-rule. Beer was cheaper by the keg.
The noise subsided. Gretchen spoke.
"Her serene highness will not marry the king of Jugendheit."
Every head swung round in her direction.
"What is that you say?" demanded Herr Goldberg.
Gretchen repeated her statement. It was the first time she had ever raised her voice in the councils.
"Oh, indeed!" said Goldberg, bowing with ridicule: "Since when did her serene highness make you her confidante?"
"Her serene highness told me so herself." Gretchen's eyes, which had held only mildness and good-will, now sparkled with contempt.
A roar of laughter went up, for the majority of them thought that Gretchen was indulging in a little pleasantry.
"Ho-ho! So you are on speaking terms with her highness?" Herr Goldberg laughed.
"Is there anything strange in this fact?" she asked, keeping her tones even.
The vintner made a sign to her, but she ignored it.
"Strange?" echoed Herr Goldberg, becoming furious at having the interest in himself thus diverted. "Since when did goose-girls and barmaids become on intimate terms with her serene highness?"
Gretchen pressed the vintner's arm to hold him in his chair.
"Does not your socialism teach that we are all equal?"
The vintner thumped with his stein in approval, and others imitated him. Goldberg was no ordinary fool. He sidestepped defeat by an assumption of frankness.
"Tell us about it. If I have spoken harshly it is only reasonable. Tell us under what circumstance you met her highness and how she happened to tell you this very important news. Every one knows that this marriage is to take place."
Gretchen nodded. "Nevertheless, her highness has changed her mind." And she recounted picturesquely her adventure in the royal gardens, and all hung on her words in a kind of maze. It was all very well to shout, "Down with royalty!" it was another matter to converse and shake bands with it.
"Hurrah!" shouted the vintner. "Long live her highness! Down with Jugendheit!"
There was a fine chorus.
And there was a fine tableau not down on the evening's program. A police officer and three assistants came down the stairs quietly.
"Let no one leave this room!" the officer said sternly.
The dramatic pause was succeeded by a babel of confusion. Chairs scraped, stems clattered, and the would-be liberators huddled together like so many sheep rounded up by a shepherd-dog.
"Ho, there! Stop him, you!"
It was the vintner who caused this cry; and the agility with which he scrambled through the window into the blind alley was an inspiration.
"After him!" yelled the officer. "He is probably the one rare bird in the bunch."
But they searched in vain.
Gretchen stared ruefully at the blank window.
Somehow this flight pained her; somehow it gave her the heartache to learn that her idol was afraid of such a thing as a policeman.
"Out into the street, every mother's son of you!" cried the officer angrily to the quaking socialists. "This is your last warning, Goldberg. The next time you go to prison for seditious teachings. Out with you!"
The socialists could not have emptied the cellar any quicker had there been a fire.
Gretchen alone remained. It was her duty to carry the steins up to the bar. The officer, rather thorough for his kind, studied the floor under the window. He found a cutting from a newspaper. This interested him.
"Do you know who this fellow was?" with a jerk of his head toward the window.
"He is Leopold Dietrich, a vintner, and we are soon to be married." There was a flaw in the usual sweetness of her voice.
"So? What made him run away like this?"
"He is new to Dreiberg. Perhaps he thought you were going to arrest every one. Oh, he has done nothing wrong; I am sure of that."
"There is one way to prove it."
"And what is that?"
"Ask him if he is not a spy from Jugendheit," roughly.
The steins clicked crisply in Gretchen's arms; one of them fell and broke at her feet.
CHAPTER XII
LOVE'S DOUBTS
Gretchen, troubled in heart and mind over the strange event of the night, walked slowly home, her head inclined, her arms swinging listlessly at her side. A spy, this man to whom she had joyously given the flower of her heart and soul? There was some mistake; there must be some mistake. She shivered; for the word spy carried with it all there was in deceit, treachery, cunning. In war time she knew that spies were necessary, that brave men took perilous hazards, without reward, without renown; but in times of peace nothing but opprobrium covered the word. A political scavenger, the man she loved? No; there was some mistake. The bit of newspaper cutting did not worry her. Anybody might have been curious about the doings of the king of Jugendheit and his uncle the prince regent. Because the king hunted in Bavaria with the crown prince, and his uncle conferred with the king of Prussia in Berlin, it did not necessarily follow that Leopold Dietrich was a spy. Gretchen was just. She would hear his defense before she judged him.
Marking the first crook in the Krumerweg was an ancient lamp hanging from the side of the wall. The candle in this lamp burned night and day, through winter's storms and summer's balms. The flame dimmed and glowed, a kindly reminder in the gloom. It was a shrine to the Virgin Mary; and before this Gretchen paused, offering a silent prayer that the Holy Mother preserve this dream of hers.
A footstep from behind caused her to start. The vintner took her roughly in his arms and kissed her many times.
Her heart shook within her, but she did not surrender her purpose under these caresses. She freed herself energetically and stood a little away from him, panting and star-eyed.
"Gretchen?"
She did not speak.
"What is it?"
"You ask?"
"Was it a crime, then, to jump out of the window?" He laughed.
Gretchen's face grew sterner. "Were you afraid?"
"For a moment. I have never run afoul the police. I thought perhaps we were all to be arrested."
"Well, and what then?"
"What then? Uncomfortable quarters in stone rooms. I preferred discretion to valor."
"Perhaps you did not care to have the police ask you questions?"
"What is all this about?" He pulled her toward him so that he could look into her eyes.
"What is the matter? Answer!"
"Are you not a spy from Jugendheit?" thinly.
He flung aside her hand. "So! The first doubt that enters your ear finds harbor there. A spy from Jugendheit; that is a police suggestion, and you believed it!"
"Do you deny it?" Gretchen was not cowed by his anger, which her own evenly matched.
"Yes," proudly, snatching his hat from his head and throwing it violently at her feet; "yes, I deny it. I am not a spy from any country; I have not sold the right to look any man in the eye."
"I have asked you many questions," she replied, "but you are always laughing. It is a pleasant way to avoid answering. I have given you my heart and all its secrets. Have you opened yours as frankly?"
To meet anger with logic and sense is the simplest way to overcome it. The vintner saw himself at bay. He stooped to recover his hat, not so much to regain it but to steal time to conjure up some way out.
"Gretchen, here under the Virgin I swear to you that I love you as a man loves but once in his life. If I were rich, I would gladly fling these riches to the wind for your sake. If I were a king, I'd barter my crown for a smile and a kiss. I have done no wrong; I have committed no crime. But you must have proof; so be it. We will go together to the police-bureau and settle this doubt once and for all."
"When?" Gretchen's heart was growing warm again.
"Now, to-night, while they are hunting for me."
"Come!"
"No, Leopold, this test is not necessary."
"I insist. This thing must be righted publicly."
"And I was thinking that the man I loved was a coward!"
"I am braver than you dream, Gretchen." And in truth he was, for he was about to set forth for the lion's den, and only amazing cleverness could extricate him. Man never enters upon the foolhardy unless it be to dazzle a woman. And the vintner's love for Gretchen was no passing thing. "Let us hurry; it is growing late. They will be shutting off the lights before we return."
The police-bureau was far away, but the distance was nothing to these healthy young people.
They progressed at a smart pace and in less than twenty minutes they arrived. It was Gretchen who drew back fearfully.
"After all, will it not be foolish?" she suggested.
"They will be searching for me," he answered.
"It will be easier if I present myself. It will bear testimony that I am innocent of any wrong."
"I will go in with you," determinedly.
The police officer, or, to be more particular, the sub-chief of the bureau, received them with ill-concealed surprise.
"I have learned that you are seeking me," said the vintner, taking off his cap. His yellow curls waved about his forehead in moist profusion.
Immediately the sub-chief did not know what to say. This was out of the ordinary, conspicuously so. There was little precedent by which to act in a case like this. So in order to appear that nothing could destroy his official poise, he let the two stand before his desk while he sorted some papers.
"You are not a native of Dreiberg," he began.
"No, Herr; I am from Bavaria. If you will look into your records you will find that my papers were presented two or three weeks ago."
"Let me see them."
The vintner's passports were produced. The sub-chief compared them to the corresponding number in his book. There was nothing wrong about them.
"I do not recollect seeing you here before."
"It was one of your assistants who originally went over the papers."
"What is your business?"
"I am a vintner by trade, Herr."
"And are there not plenty of vineyards in Bavaria?"
"We vintners," with an easy gesture, "are of a roving disposition. I have been all along the Rhine and the Moselle. I prefer grapes to hops."
"But why Dreiberg? The best vineyards are south."
"Who can say where we shall go next? Dreiberg seemed good enough for me," with a shy glance at Gretchen.
"Why did you jump out of the window?"
"I was frightened at first, Herr. I did not know that you merely dispersed meetings. I believed that we were all to be arrested. Such measures are in force in Munich."
"You accused him of being a Jugendheit spy," broke in Gretchen, who was growing impatient under these questions, which seemed to go nowhere in particular.
"You be silent," warned the sub-chief.
"I am here because of that accusation," said the vintner.
"What have you to say?"
"I deny it."
"That is easy to do. But can you prove it?"
"It is for you to prove, Herr."
"Read this."
It was the cutting. The vintner read it, his brows drawn together in a puzzled frown. He turned the slip over carelessly. The sub-chief's eyes bored into him like gimlets.
"I can make nothing of this, Herr. When I cut this out of the paper it was to preserve the notice on the other side." The vintner returned the cutting.
The sub-chief read aloud:
"Vintners and presses and pruners wanted for the season. Find and liberal compensation. Apply, Holtz."
Gretchen laughed joyously; the vintner grinned; the sub-chief swore under his breath.
"The devil fly away with you both!" he cried, making the best of his chagrin. "And when you marry, don't invite me to the wedding."
After they had gone, however, he called for an assistant.
"Did you see that young vintner?"
"Yes."
"Follow him, night and day. Find out where he lives and what he does; and ransack his room if possible. He is either an innocent man or a sleek rascal. Report to me this time each night."
"And the girl?"
"Don't trouble about her. She is under the patronage of her serene highness. She's as right as a die. It's the man. He was too easy; he didn't show enough concern. An ordinary vintner would have been frightened. This fellow smiled."
"And if I find out anything suspicious?"
"Arrest him out of hand and bring him here at once."
Alone once more the sub-chief studied the cutting with official thoroughness. He was finally convinced, by the regularity of the line on the printed side as compared with the irregularity of the line on the advertising side, that the vintner had lied. And yet there was no proof that he had.
"This young fellow will go far," he mused, with reluctant admiration.
On reaching the street Gretchen gave rein to her laughter. What promised to be a tragedy was only a farce. The vintner laughed, too, but Momus would have criticized his laughter.
The night was not done yet; there were still some more surprises in store for the vintner. As they turned into the Krumerweg they almost ran into Carmichael. What was the American consul doing in this part of the town, so near midnight? Carmichael recognized them both. He lifted his hat, but the vintner cavalierly refused to respond.
"Herr Carmichael!" said Gretchen. "And what are you doing here this time of the night?"
"I have been on a fool's errand," urbanely.
"And who sent you?"
"The god of fools himself, I guess. I am looking for a kind of ghost, a specter in black that leaves the palace early in the evening and returns late, whose destination has invariably been forty Krumerweg."
The vintner started.
"My house?" cried Gretchen.
"Yours? Perhaps you can dispel this phantom?" said Carmichael.
Gretchen was silent.
"Oh! You know something. Who is she?"
"A lady who comes on a charitable errand. But now she will come no more."
"And why not?"
"The object of her visits is gone," Gretchen answered sadly.
"My luck!" exclaimed Carmichael ruefully.
"I am always building houses of cards. I don't suppose I shall ever reform."
"Are you not afraid to walk about in this part of the town so late?" put in the vintner, who was impatient to be gone.
"Afraid? Of what? Thieves? Bah, my little man, I carry a sword-stick, and moreover I know how to use it tolerably well. Good night." And he swung along easily, whistling an air from The Barber of Seville.
The insolence in Carmichael's tone set the vintner's ears a-burning, but he swallowed his wrath.
"I like him," Gretchen declared, as she stopped before the house.
"Why?" jealously.
"Because he is always like that; pleasant, never ruffled, kindly. He will make a good husband to some woman."
The vintner shrugged. He was not patient to-night.
"Who is this mysterious woman?"
"I am not free to tell you."
"Oh!"
"Leopold, what is the matter with you to-night? You act like a boy."
"Perhaps the police muddle is to blame. Besides, every time I see this man Carmichael I feel like a baited dog."
"In Heaven's name, why?"
"Nothing that I can remember. But I have asked you a question."
"And I have declined to answer that question. All my secrets are yours, but this one is another's."
"Is it her highness?"
Gretchen fingered the latch suggestively.
"I am wrong, Gretchen; you are right. Kiss me!"
She liked the tone; she liked the kisses, too, though they hurt.
"Good night, my man!" she whispered.
"Good night, my woman! To-morrow night at eight."
He turned and ran lightly and swiftly up the street. Gretchen remained standing in the doorway till she could see him no more. Why should he run like that? She raised the latch and went inside.
From the opposite doorway a mountaineer, a carter, a butcher, and a baker stepped cautiously forth.
"He heard something," said the mountaineer. "He has ears like a rat for hearing. What a pretty picture!" cynically. "All the world loves a lover—sometimes. Touching scene!"
No one replied; no one was expected to reply; more than that, no one cared to court the fury which lay thinly disguised in the mountaineer's tones.
"To-morrow night; you heard what he said. I am growing weary of this play. You will stop him on his way to yonder house. A closed carriage will be at hand. Before he enters, remember. She watches him too long when he leaves. Fool!"
The quartet stole along in the darkness, noiselessly and secretly.
The vintner had indeed heard something. He knew not what this noise was, but it was enough to set his heels to flying. A phase had developed in his character that defied analysis; suspicion, suspicion of daylight, of night, of shadows moving by walls, of footsteps behind. Only a little while ago he had walked free-hearted and careless. This growing habit of skulking was gall and wormwood. Once in his room, which was directly over the office of the American consulate, he fell into a chair, inert and breathless. What a night! What a series of adventures!
"Only a month ago I was a boy. I am a man now, for I know what it is to suffer. Gretchen, dear Gretchen, I am a black scoundrel! But if I break your heart I shall break my own along with it. I wonder how much longer it will last. But for that vintner's notice I should have been lost."
By and by he lighted a candle. The room held a cot, a table, and two chairs. The vintner's wardrobe consisted of a small pack thrown carelessly into a corner. Out of the drawer in the table he took several papers and burned them. The ashes he cast out of the window. He knew something about police methods; they were by no means all through with him. Ah! A patch of white paper, just inside the door, caught his eye. He fetched it to the candle. What he read forced the color from his cheeks and his hands were touched with transient palsy.
"The devil! What shall I do now?" he muttered, thoroughly dismayed.
What indeed should he do? Which way should he move? How long had he been in Dreiberg? Ah, that would be rich! What a joke! It would afford him a smile in his old age. Carmichael, Carmichael! The vintner chuckled softly as he scribbled this note:
"If Herr Carmichael would learn the secret of number forty Krumerweg, let him attire himself as a vintner and be in the Krumerweg at eight o'clock to-night."
"So there is a trap, and I am to beware of a mountaineer, a carter, a butcher, and a baker? Thanks, Scharfenstein, my friend, thanks! You are watching over me."
He blew out his candle and went to bed.
CHAPTER XIII
A DAY DREAM
Colonel Von Wallenstein curled his mustaches. It was a happy thought that had taken him into the Adlergasse. This Gretchen had been haunting his dreams, and here she was, coming into his very arms, as it were. The sidewalk was narrow. Gretchen, casually noting that an officer stood in the way, sensibly veered into the road. But to her surprise the soldier left the sidewalk and planted himself in the middle of the road. There was no mistaking this second maneuver. The officer, whom she now recognized, was bent on intercepting her. She stopped, a cold fury in her heart.
To make sure, she essayed to go round. It was of no use. So she stopped again.
"Herr," she said quietly, "I wish to pass."
"That is possible, Gretchen."
It was nine o'clock in the morning. The Adlergasse was at this time deserted.
"You have been haunting my dreams, Gretchen."
"That would be a pity. But I wish to pass."
"Presently. Do you know that you are the most beautiful being in all Dreiberg?"
"I am in a hurry," said Gretchen.
"There is plenty of time."
"Not to listen to foolish speeches."
"I am not going to let you pass till I have had a kiss."
"Ah!" Battle flamed up in Gretchen's eyes. Somewhere in the past, in some remote age, her forebears had been men-at-arms or knights in the crusades.
"You are very hard to please. Some women—"
"But what kind of women?" bitingly. "Not such as I should care to meet. Will you let me by peacefully?"
"After the toll, after the toll!"
Too late she started to run. He laughed and caught hold of her. Slowly but irresistibly he drew her toward his heart. The dead-white of her face should have warned him. With a supreme effort she freed herself and struck him across the face; and there was a man's strength in the flat of her hand. Quick as a flash she whirled round and ran up the street, he hot upon her heels. He was raging now with pain and chagrin. The one hope for Gretchen now lay in the Black Eagle; and into the tavern she darted excitedly.
"Fräu Bauer," she cried, gasping as much in wrath as for lack of breath, "may I come behind your counter?"
"To be sure, child. Whatever is the matter?"
Wallenstein's entrance was answer sufficient. His hand, held against his stinging cheek, was telltale enough for the proprietress of the Black Eagle.
"Shame!" she cried. She knew her rights. She was not afraid to speak plainly to any officer in the duchy, however high he might be placed.
"I can not get at you there, Gretchen," said the colonel, giving to his voice that venom which the lady's man always has at hand when thwarted in his gallantries. "You will have to come hence presently."
"She shall stay here all day," declared Fräu Bauer decidedly.
"I can wait." The colonel, now possessing two smarts, one to his cheek and one to his vanity, made for the door. But there was a bulk in the doorway formidable enough to be worth serious contemplation.
"What is going on here, little goose-girl?" asked the grizzled old man, folding his arms round his oak staff.
"Herr Colonel insulted me."
"Insulted you?" The colonel laughed boisterously. This was good; an officer insult a wench of this order! "Out of the way!" he snarled at the obstruction in the doorway.
"What did he try to do to you, Gretchen?"
"He tried to kiss me!"
"The man who tries to kiss a woman against her will is always at heart a coward," said the mountaineer.
The colonel seized the old man by the shoulder to push him aside. The other never so much as stirred. He put out one of his arms and clasped the colonel in such a manner that he gasped. He was in the clutch of a Carpathian bear.
"Well, my little soldier?" said the mountaineer, his voice even and not a vein showing in his neck.
"I will kill you for this!" breathed the colonel heavily.
"So?" The old man thrust him back several feet, without any visible exertion. He let his staff slide into his hand.
The moment the colonel felt himself liberated, he drew his saber and lunged toward his assailant. There was murder in his heart. The two women screamed. The old man laughed. He turned the thrust with his staff. The colonel, throwing caution to the four winds, surrendered to his rage. He struck again. The saber rang against the oak. This dexterity with the staff carried no warning to the enraged officer. He struck again and again. Then the old man struck back. The pain in the colonel's arm was excruciating. His saber rattled to the stone flooring. Before he could recover the weapon the victor had put his foot upon it. He was still smiling, as if the whole affair was a bit of pastime.
On his part the colonel's blood suddenly cooled. This was no accident; this meddling peasant had at some time or other held a saber in his hand and knew how to use it famously well. The colonel realized that he had played the fool nicely.
"My sword," he demanded, with as much dignity as he could muster.
"Will you sheathe it?" the old man asked mildly.
"Since it is of no particular use," bitterly.
"I could have broken it half a dozen times. Here, take it. But be wise in the future, and draw it only in the right."
The gall was bitter on the colonel's tongue, but his head was evenly balanced now. He jammed the blade into the scabbard.
"I should like a word or two with you outside," said the mountaineer.
"To what purpose?"
"To a good one, as you will learn."
The two of them went out. Gretchen, overcome, fell upon Fräu Bauer's neck and wept soundly. The whole affair had been so sudden and appalling.
Outside the old man laid his hand on the colonel's arm.
"You must never bother her again."
"Must?"
"The very word. Listen, and do not be a fool because you have some authority on the general staff. You are Colonel von Wallenstein; you are something more besides."
"What do you infer?"
"I infer nothing. Now and then there happens strange leakage in the duke's affairs. The man is well paid. He is a gambler, and one is always reasonably certain that the gambler will be wanting money. Do you begin to understand me, or must I be more explicit?"
"Who are you?"
"Who I am is of no present consequence. But I know who and what you are. That is all-sufficient. If you behave yourself in the future, you will be allowed to continue in prosperity. But if you attempt to molest that girl again and I hear of it, there will be no more gold coming over the frontier from Jugendheit. Now, do you understand?"
"Yes." The colonel experienced a weakness in the knees.
"Go. But be advised and walk circumspectly." The speaker showed his back insolently, and reëntered the Black Eagle.
The colonel, pale and distrait, stared at the empty door; and he saw in his mind's eye a squad of soldiers, a wall, a single volley, and a dishonored roll of earth. Military informers were given short shrift. It was not a matter of tearing off orders and buttons; it was death. Who was this terrible old man, with the mind of a serpent and the strength of a bear? The colonel went to the barracks, but his usual debonair was missing.
"I am going into the garden, Gretchen. Bring me a stein of brown." The mountaineer smiled genially.
"But I am not working here any more," said Gretchen.
"No?"
"She has had a fortune left her," said Fräu Bauer.
"Well, well!" The mountaineer seemed vastly pleased. "And how much is this fortune?"
"Two thousand crowns." Gretchen was not sure, but to her there always seemed to be a secret laughter behind those clear eyes.
"Handsome! And what will you do now?"
"She is to study for the opera."
"Did I not prophesy it?" he cried jubilantly.
"Did I not say that some impresario would discover you and make your fortune?"
"There is plenty of work ahead," said Gretchen sagely.
"Always, no matter what we strive for. But a brave heart and a cheerful smile carry you half-way up the hill. Where were you going when this popinjay stopped you?"
"I was going to the clock-mender's for a clock he is repairing."
"I've nothing to do. I'll go with you. I've an idea that I should like to talk with you about a very important matter. Perhaps it would be easier to talk first and then go for the clock. If you have it you'll be watching it. Will you come into the garden with me now?"
"Yes, Herr." Gretchen would have gone anywhere with this strange man. He inspired confidence.
The garden was a snug little place; a few peach-trees and arbor-vines and vegetables, and tables and chairs on the brick walk.
"So you are going to become a prima donna?" he began, seating himself opposite her.
"I am going to try," she smiled. "What is it you wish to say to me?"
"I am wondering how to begin," looking at the blue sky.
"Is it difficult?"
"Yes, very."
"Then why bother?"
"Some things are written before we are born. And I must, in the order of things, read this writing to you."
"Begin," said Gretchen.
"Have you any dreams?"
"Yes," vaguely.
"I mean the kind one has in the daytime, the dreams when the eyes are wide open."
"Oh, yes!"
"Who has not dreamed of riding in carriages, of dressing in silks, of wearing rich ornaments?"
"Ah!" Gretchen clasped her hands and leaned on her elbows. "And there are palaces, too."
"To be sure." There was a long pause. "How would you like a dream of this kind to come true?"
"In this particular case, I am a fairy. I know that I do not look it; still, I am. With one touch of my wand—this oak staff—I can bring you all these things you have dreamed about."
"But what would I do with carriages and jewels? I am only a goose-girl, and I am to be married."
"To that young rascal of a vintner?"
"He is not a rascal!" loyally.
"It will take but little to make him one," with an odd grimness.
Gretchen did not understand.
He resumed, "how would you like a little palace, with servants at your beck and call, with carriages to ride in, with silks and velvets to wear, and jewels to adorn your hair? How would you like these things? Eh? Never again to worry about your hands, never again to know the weariness of toil, to be mistress of swans instead of geese?"
A shadow fell upon Gretchen's face; the eagerness died out of her eyes.
"I do not understand you, Herr. By what right should I possess these things?"
"By the supreme right of beauty, beauty alone."
"Would it be—honest?"
For the first time he lowered his eyes. The clear crystal spirit in hers embarrassed him.
"Come, let us go for your clock," he said, rising. "I am an old fool. I forgot that one talks like this only to opera-dancers."
Then Gretchen understood. "I am all alone," she said; "I have had to fight my battles with these two hands."
"I am a black devil, Kindchen. Forget what I have said. You are worthy the brightest crown in Europe; but you wear a better one than that—goodness. If any one should ever make you unhappy, come to me. I will be your godfather. Will you forgive an old man who ought to have known better?"
There was such unmistakable honesty in his face and eyes that she did not hesitate, but placed her hand in his.
"Why did you ask all those questions?" she inquired.
"Perhaps it was only to test your strength. You are a brave and honest girl."
"And if trouble came," now smiling, "where should I find you?"
"I shall be near when it comes. Good fairies are always close at hand." He swept his hat from his head; ease and grace were in the movement; no irony, nothing but respect. "And do you love this vintner?"
"With all my heart."
"And he loves you?"
"Yes. His lips might lie, but not his eyes and the touch of his hand."
"So much the worse!" said the mountaineer inaudibly.
Gretchen had gone home with her clock; but still Herr Ludwig, as the mountaineer called himself, tarried in the dim and dusty shop. Clocks, old and new, broken and whole, clocks from the four ends of the world; and watches, thick and clumsy, thin and graceful, of gold and silver and pewter.
"Is there anything you want?" asked the clock-mender.
Herr Ludwig turned. How old this clock-mender was, how very old!
"Yes," he said. "I've a watch I should like you to look over." And he carelessly laid the beautiful time-piece on the worn wooden counter.
The clock-mender literally pounced upon it. "Where did you get a watch like this?" he demanded suspiciously.
"It is mine. You will find my name engraved inside the back lid."
The clock-mender pried open the case, adjusted his glass—and dropped it, shaking with terror.
"You?" he whispered.
"Sh!" said Herr Ludwig, putting a finger to his lips.
CHAPTER XIV
FIND THE WOMAN
The watch, slipping from the clock-mender's hand, spun like a coin on the counter, while the clock-mender himself, his eyes bulging, his jaw dangling, it might be said, staggered back upon his stool.
"So this is the end?" he said in a kind of mutter.
"The end of what?" demanded the owner of the watch.
"Of all my labors, to me and to what little I have left!"
"Fiddlesticks! I am here for no purpose regarding you, my comrade. So far as I am concerned, your secret is as dead as it ever was. I had a fancy that you were living in Paris."
"Paris! Gott! For seventeen, eighteen years I have traveled hither and thither, always on some false clue. Never a band of Gipsies I heard of that I did not seek them out. Nothing, nothing! You will never know what I have gone through, and uselessly, to prove my innocence. It always comes back in a circle; what benefit to me would have been a crime like that of which I was accused? Was I not high in honor? Was I not wealthy? Was not my home life a happy one? What benefit to me, I say?" a growing fierceness in his voice and gestures. "All my estates confiscated, my wife dead of shame, and I molding among these clocks!"
"But why the clocks?" in wonder.
"It was a pastime of mine when I was a boy. I used to be tinkering among all the clocks in the house. So I bought out this old shop. From time to time I have left it in the hands of an assistant. The grand duke has a wonderful Friesian clock. One day it fell out of order, and the court jeweler could do nothing with it. I was summoned, I! No one recognized me, I have changed so. I mended the clock and went away."
"But what is the use of all this, now that her highness is found?"
"My honor; to the duke it is black as ever."
"Have you gone forward any?"
"Like Sisyphus! I had begun to give up hope, when the Gipsy I was seeking was seen by one of my agents. He alone knows the secret. And I am waiting, waiting. But you believe, Ludwig?"
"Carl, you are as innocent of it all as I am or as my brother was. Come with me to Jugendheit."
"No, Ludwig, this is my country, however unjustly it has treated me."
"Yes, yes. And to think that you and I and the grand duke were comrades at Heidelberg! But if your Gipsy fails you?"
"Still I shall remain. This will be all I shall have, these clocks. I am only sixty-eight, yet no one would believe me under eighty. I no longer gaze into mirrors. I have forgotten how I look. There were letters found in my desk, all forgeries, I knew, but so cleverly done I could only deny. I saw that my case was hopeless, so I fled to Paris. I wrote Herbeck once while there. He believed that I was innocent. I have his letter yet. He has a great heart, Ludwig, and he has done splendid work for Ehrenstein."
"He keeps a steady hand on the duke."
"But you, what are you doing in Dreiberg, in this guise?"
Herr Ludwig sat upon the counter and clasped a knee. "Do you care for fairy-stories?"
"Sometimes."
"Well, once upon a time there lived a king. He was young. He had an uncle who watched over him and his affairs. They call such uncles prince regents. This prince regent had an idea regarding the future welfare of this nephew. He would bring him up to be a man, well educated, broad-minded, and clean-lived. He should have a pilot to guide him past the traps and vices which befall the young. Time wore on. The lad grew up, clean in mind, strong in body, liberal; a fine prince. No scandalous entanglements; no gaming; no wine-bibbing beyond what any decent man may do. In his palace few saw anything of him after his fifteenth year. He went into the world under an assumed name. By and by he came home, quietly. His uncle was proud of him, for his eye was clear and his tongue was clean. In one month he was to be coronated. And now what do you think? He must have one more adventure, just one. Would his uncle go with him? Certainly not. Moreover, the time for adventure was over. He must no longer wander about; he was a king; he must put his hand to king-craft. And one morning his uncle found him gone, gone as completely as if he had never existed. What to do? Ah! The prince regent set it going that his majesty had gone a-hunting in Bavaria. Then the prince regent put on some old clothes and went a-venturing himself."
"And the end?"
"God knows!" said Ludwig, sliding off the counter.
Nothing but the ticking of the clocks was heard.
"And fatuous fool that this uncle was, he committed an almost irreparable blunder. He tried to marry his nephew."
"I understand. But if you are discovered here?"
"That is not likely."
"Ah, Ludwig, it is not the expected that always happens. Be careful; you know the full wording of Herbeck's treaty."
"Herbeck; there's a man," said Herr Ludwig admiringly. "To have found her highness as he did!"
"He is lucky," but without resentment.
The other picked up his watch. "Can I be of material assistance?"
"I want nothing," haughtily.
"Proud old imbecile!" replied the mountaineer kindly. "You have been deeply wronged, but some day you will pick up the thread in the labyrinth, and there will be light forward. I myself shall see what can be done with the duke."
"He will never be brought to reason unless indubitable evidence of my innocence confronts him. With the restoration of the princess fifty political prisoners were given their liberty and restored to citizenship. The place once occupied by my name is still blank, obliterated. It is hard. I have given the best of my heart and of my brain to Ehrenstein—for this! I am innocent."
"I believe you, Carl. Remember, Jugendheit will always welcome you. I must be going. I have much to do between now and midnight. The good God will unravel the snarl."
"Or forget it," cynically. "Good-by, Ludwig."
There was a hand-clasp, and the mountaineer took himself off. The clock-mender philosophically reached for his tools. He had wasted time enough over retrospection; he determined to occupy himself with the present only. Tick-tock! tick-tock! sang the clocks about him. All at once a volume of musical sounds broke forth; cuckoo-calls, chimes, tinkles light and thin, booms deep and vibrant. But the clock-mender bent over his work; all he was conscious of was the eternal tick-tock! tick-tock! on and on, without cessation.
Carmichael walked his horse. This morning he had ridden out almost to the frontier and was now on his return. As he passed through the last grove of pines and came into the clearing the picture was exquisite; the three majestic bergs of ice and snow above Dreiberg, the city shining white and fairylike in the mid-morning's sun, and the long, half-circling ribbon of a road. He sighed, and the horse cocked his ears at the sound.
No longer did Carmichael take the south pass for his morning rides. That was the favored going of her highness, and he avoided her now. In truth, he dared not meet her now; it would have been out of wisdom. So long as she had been free his presence had caused no comment, only tolerant amusement among the nobles at court. It chafed him to be regarded as a harmless individual, for he knew that he was far from being in that class. There was a wild strain in him. Dreiberg might have waked up some fine morning to learn that for a second time her princess had been stolen, and that there was a vacancy in the American consulate. How many times had he been seized with the mad desire to snatch the bridle of her horse and ride away with her into a far country! How often had his arms started out toward her, only to drop stiffly to his sides!
March hares! They were Solons as compared with his own futile madness. But it was different now. She was to marry the king of Jugendheit; it was in the order of things that he ride alone. He knew that court etiquette demanded the isolation of the Princess Hildegarde from male escort other than that formally provided. The two soldiers detailed to act as her grooms or bodyguards were not, of course, to be considered. So, of the morning, he went down to the military field to watch the maneuvers, which were drawing to a close; or rode out to the frontier, or took the side road to Eissen, where the summer palaces were. But it was all dreary; the zest of living had somehow dropped out of things.
The road to Eissen began about six miles north of the base of the Dreiberg mountain. It swerved to the east. As Carmichael reached the fork his horse began to limp. He jumped down and removed the stone. It was then that he heard the far-off mutter of hoofs. Coming along the road from Eissen were a trio of riders. Carmichael laughed weakly.
"I swear to Heaven that this is no fault of mine!"
Should he mount and be off before she made the turn? Bah! It was an accident; he would make the most of it. The bodyguard could easily vindicate him, in any event. He remounted and waited.
She came in full flight, rosy, radiant, as lovely as Diana. Carmichael swung his cap boyishly; and there was a swirl of dust as she drew up.
"Good morning, Herr Carmichael!"
"Good morning, your Highness!"
"Which way have you been riding?"
"Toward Jugendheit."
"And you are returning?" With a short nod of her head she signaled for the two soldiers to fall back.
The two looked at each other embarrassedly.
"Pardon, Highness," said one of them, "but the orders of the duke will not permit us to leave you. There have been thieves along the road of late."
Thieves? This was the first time Carmichael had heard of it. The real significance of the maneuver escaped him; but her highness was not fooled.
"Very well," she replied. "One of you ride forward and one of you take the rear." Then she spoke to Carmichael in English.
The soldiers shrugged. To them it did not matter what language her highness adopted so long as they obeyed the letter of the duke's instructions. The little cavalcade directed its course toward the city.
"You have not been riding of late," she said.
Then she had missed him. Carmichael's heart expanded. To be missed is to be regretted, and one regrets only those in whom one is interested.
"I have ridden the same as usual, your Highness; only I have taken this road for a change."
"Ah!" She patted the glistening neck of her mare. So he had purposely tried to avoid her? Why? She stole a sly glance at him. Why were not kings molded in this form? All the kings she had met had something the matter with them, crooked legs, weak eyes, bald, young, or old, and daft over gaming-tables and opera-dancers. And the one man among them all—at least she had been informed that the king of Jugendheit was all of a man—had politely declined. There was some chagrin in this for her, but no bitterness or rancor. In truth, she was more chagrined on her father's account than on her own.
"You should have taken the south pass. It was lovely yesterday."
"Perhaps this way has been wisest."
"Are you become afraid of me?" archly.
"Yes, your Highness." If he had looked at her instead of his horse's ears, and smiled, all would have been well.
She instantly regretted the question. "I am sorry that I have become an ogress."
"To me your highness is the most perfect of women. I am guilty of lese-majesty."
"I shall not lock you up," she said, and added under her breath, "as my good father would like to! Besides," she continued aloud, "I rather like to set the court by the ears. Whoever heard of a serene highness doing the things I do? I suppose it is because I have known years of freedom, freedom of action, of thought, of speech. These habits can not change at once. In fact, I do not believe they ever will. But the duke, my father, is good; he understands and trusts me. Ah, but I shall lead some king a merry life!" with a wicked gleam in her eyes.
"Frederick of Jugendheit?"
"Is it true that you have not heard yet? I have declined the honor."
"Your highness?"
"My serene highness," with a smile. "This, of course, is as yet a state secret; and my reason for telling you is not a princess', but a woman's. Solve it if you can."
Carmichael fumbled the reins blindly. "They say that he is a handsome young man."
"What has that to do with it? The interest he takes in his kingdom is positively negative. I have learned that he has been to his capital but twice since he was fifteen. He is even now absent on a hunting trip in Bavaria, and his coronation but a few days off. There will be only one king in Jugendheit, and that will be the prince regent."
"He has done tolerably well up to the present," observed Carmichael, welcoming this change. "Jugendheit is prosperous; it has a splendid army. The prince regent is a fine type of man, they say, rugged, patient, frugal and sensible."
"There is an instance where he made a cruel blunder."
"No man is infallible," said he, wondering what this blunder was.
"I suppose not. Look! The artillery is firing."
Boom-boom! They saw the smoke leap from the muzzles of the cannon, and it seemed minutes before the sound reached them.
"I have a fine country, too," she said, with pride; "prosperous, and an army not inferior to that of Jugendheit."