Having come thus far in the story that I set out to tell, I have half a mind to lay down my pen, and leave untold how from the moment that Mr. Rassendyll came again to Zenda a fury of chance seemed to catch us all in a whirlwind, carrying us whither we would not, and ever driving us onwards to fresh enterprises, breathing into us a recklessness that stood at no obstacle, and a devotion to the queen and to the man she loved that swept away all other feeling. The ancients held there to be a fate which would have its fill, though women wept and men died, and none could tell whose was the guilt nor who fell innocent. Thus did they blindly wrong God’s providence. Yet, save that we are taught to believe that all is ruled, we are as blind as they, and are still left wondering why all that is true and generous and love’s own fruit must turn so often to woe and shame, exacting tears and blood. For myself I would leave the thing untold, lest a word of it should seem to stain her whom I serve; it is by her own command I write, that all may one day, in time’s fullness, be truly known, and those condemn who are without sin, while they pity whose own hearts have fought the equal fight. So much for her and him; for us less needs be said. It was not ours to weigh her actions; we served her; him we had served. She was our queen; we bore Heaven a grudge that he was not our king. The worst of what befell was not of our own planning, no, nor of our hoping. It came a thunderbolt from the hand of Rupert, flung carelessly between a curse and a laugh; its coming entangled us more tightly in the net of circumstances. Then there arose in us that strange and overpowering desire of which I must tell later, filling us with a zeal to accomplish our purpose, and to force Mr. Rassendyll himself into the way we chose. Led by this star, we pressed on through the darkness, until at length the deeper darkness fell that stayed our steps. We also stand for judgment, even as she and he. So I will write; but I will write plainly and briefly, setting down what I must, and no more, yet seeking to give truly the picture of that time, and to preserve as long as may be the portrait of the man whose like I have not known. Yet the fear is always upon me that, failing to show him as he was, I may fail also in gaining an understanding of how he wrought on us, one and all, till his cause became in all things the right, and to seat him where he should be our highest duty and our nearest wish. For he said little, and that straight to the purpose; no high-flown words of his live in my memory. And he asked nothing for himself. Yet his speech and his eyes went straight to men’s hearts and women’s, so that they held their lives in an eager attendance on his bidding. Do I rave? Then Sapt was a raver too, for Sapt was foremost in the business.
At ten minutes to eight o’clock, young Bernenstein, very admirably and smartly accoutred, took his stand outside the main entrance of the castle. He wore a confident air that became almost a swagger as he strolled to and fro past the motionless sentries. He had not long to wait. On the stroke of eight a gentleman, well-horsed but entirely unattended, rode up the carriage drive. Bernenstein, crying “Ah, it is the count!” ran to meet him. Rischenheim dismounted, holding out his hand to the young officer.
“My dear Bernenstein!” said he, for they were acquainted with one another.
“You’re punctual, my dear Rischenheim, and it’s lucky, for the king awaits you most impatiently.”
“I didn’t expect to find him up so soon,” remarked Rischenheim.
“Up! He’s been up these two hours. Indeed we’ve had the devil of a time of it. Treat him carefully, my dear Count; he’s in one of his troublesome humors. For example—but I mustn’t keep you waiting. Pray follow me.”
“No, but pray tell me. Otherwise I might say something unfortunate.”
“Well, he woke at six; and when the barber came to trim his beard there were—imagine it, Count!—no less than seven gray hairs.” The king fell into a passion. “Take it off!” he said. “Take it off. I won’t have a gray beard! Take it off!’ Well what would you? A man is free to be shaved if he chooses, so much more a king. So it’s taken off.”
“His beard!”
“His beard, my dear Count.” Then, after thanking Heaven it was gone, and declaring he looked ten years younger, he cried, “The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim breakfasts with me to-day: what is there for breakfast?” And he had the chef out of his bed and—“But, by heavens, I shall get into trouble if I stop here chattering. He’s waiting most eagerly for you. Come along.” And Bernenstein, passing his arm through the count’s, walked him rapidly into the castle.
The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim was a young man; he was no more versed in affairs of this kind than Bernenstein, and it cannot be said that he showed so much aptitude for them. He was decidedly pale this morning; his manner was uneasy, and his hands trembled. He did not lack courage, but that rarer virtue, coolness; and the importance—or perhaps the shame—of his mission upset the balance of his nerves. Hardly noting where he went, he allowed Bernenstein to lead him quickly and directly towards the room where Rudolf Rassendyll was, not doubting that he was being conducted to the king’s presence.
“Breakfast is ordered for nine,” said Bernenstein, “but he wants to see you before. He has something important to say; and you perhaps have the same?”
“I? Oh, no. A small matter; but—er—of a private nature.”
“Quite so, quite so. Oh, I don’t ask any questions, my dear Count.”
“Shall I find the king alone?” asked Rischenheim nervously.
“I don’t think you’ll find anybody with him; no, nobody, I think,” answered Bernenstein, with a grave and reassuring air.
They arrived now at the door. Here Bernenstein paused.
“I am ordered to wait outside till his Majesty summons me,” he said in a low voice, as though he feared that the irritable king would hear him. “I’ll open the door and announce you. Pray keep him in a good temper, for all our sakes.” And he flung the door open, saying, “Sire, the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim has the honor to wait on your Majesty.” With this he shut the door promptly, and stood against it. Nor did he move, save once, and then only to take out his revolver and carefully inspect it.
The count advanced, bowing low, and striving to conceal a visible agitation. He saw the king in his arm-chair; the king wore a suit of brown tweeds (none the better for being crushed into a bundle the night before); his face was in deep shadow, but Rischenheim perceived that the beard was indeed gone. The king held out his hand to Rischenheim, and motioned him to sit in a chair just opposite to him and within a foot of the window-curtains.
“I’m delighted to see you, my lord,” said the king.
Rischenheim looked up. Rudolf’s voice had once been so like the king’s that no man could tell the difference, but in the last year or two the king’s had grown weaker, and Rischenheim seemed to be struck by the vigor of the tones in which he was addressed. As he looked up, there was a slight movement in the curtains by him; it died away when the count gave no further signs of suspicion, but Rudolf had noticed his surprise: the voice, when it next spoke, was subdued.
“Most delighted,” pursued Mr. Rassendyll. “For I am pestered beyond endurance about those dogs. I can’t get the coats right, I’ve tried everything, but they won’t come as I wish. Now, yours are magnificent.”
“You are very good, sire. But I ventured to ask an audience in order to—”
“Positively you must tell me about the dogs. And before Sapt comes, for I want nobody to hear but myself.”
“Your Majesty expects Colonel Sapt?”
“In about twenty minutes,” said the king, with a glance at the clock on the mantelpiece.
At this Rischenheim became all on fire to get his errand done before Sapt appeared.
“The coats of your dogs,” pursued the king, “grow so beautifully—”
“A thousand pardons, sire, but—”
“Long and silky, that I despair of—”
“I have a most urgent and important matter,” persisted Rischenheim in agony.
Rudolf threw himself back in his chair with a peevish air. “Well, if you must, you must. What is this great affair, Count? Let us have it over, and then you can tell me about the dogs.”
Rischenheim looked round the room. There was nobody; the curtains were still; the king’s left hand caressed his beardless chin; the right was hidden from his visitor by the small table that stood between them.
“Sire, my cousin, the Count of Hentzau, has entrusted me with a message.”
Rudolf suddenly assumed a stern air.
“I can hold no communication, directly or indirectly, with the Count of Hentzau,” said he.
“Pardon me, sire, pardon me. A document has come into the count’s hands which is of vital importance to your Majesty.”
“The Count of Hentzau, my lord, has incurred my heaviest displeasure.”
“Sire, it is in the hopes of atoning for his offences that he has sent me here to-day. There is a conspiracy against your Majesty’s honor.”
“By whom, my lord?” asked Rudolf, in cold and doubting tones.
“By those who are very near your Majesty’s person and very high in your Majesty’s love.”
“Name them.”
“Sire, I dare not. You would not believe me. But your Majesty will believe written evidence.”
“Show it me, and quickly. We may be interrupted.”
“Sire, I have a copy—”
“Oh, a copy, my lord?” sneered Rudolf.
“My cousin has the original, and will forward it at your Majesty’s command. A copy of a letter of her Majesty’s—”
“Of the queen’s?”
“Yes, sire. It is addressed to—” Rischenheim paused.
“Well, my lord, to whom?”
“To a Mr. Rudolf Rassendyll.”
Now Rudolf played his part well. He did not feign indifference, but allowed his voice to tremble with emotion as he stretched out his hand and said in a hoarse whisper, “Give it me, give it me.”
Rischenheim’s eyes sparkled. His shot had told: the king’s attention was his; the coats of the dogs were forgotten. Plainly he had stirred the suspicions and jealousy of the king.
“My cousin,” he continued, “conceives it his duty to lay the letter before your Majesty. He obtained it—”
“A curse on how he got it! Give it me!”
Rischenheim unbuttoned his coat, then his waistcoat. The head of a revolver showed in a belt round his waist. He undid the flap of a pocket in the lining of his waistcoat, and he began to draw out a sheet of paper.
But Rudolf, great as his powers of self-control were, was but human. When he saw the paper, he leant forward, half rising from his chair. As a result, his face came beyond the shadow of the curtain, and the full morning light beat on it. As Rischenheim took the paper out, he looked up. He saw the face that glared so eagerly at him; his eyes met Rassendyll’s: a sudden suspicion seized him, for the face, though the king’s face in every feature, bore a stern resolution and witnessed a vigor that were not the king’s. In that instant the truth, or a hint of it, flashed across his mind. He gave a half-articulate cry; in one hand he crumpled up the paper, the other flew to his revolver. But he was too late. Rudolf’s left hand encircled his hand and the paper in an iron grip; Rudolf’s revolver was on his temple; and an arm was stretched out from behind the curtain, holding another barrel full before his eyes, while a dry voice said, “You’d best take it quietly.” Then Sapt stepped out.
Rischenheim had no words to meet the sudden transformation of the interview. He seemed to be able to do nothing but stare at Rudolf Rassendyll. Sapt wasted no time. He snatched the count’s revolver and stowed it in his own pocket.
“Now take the paper,” said he to Rudolf, and his barrel held Rischenheim motionless while Rudolf wrenched the precious document from his fingers. “Look if it’s the right one. No, don’t read it through; just look. Is it right? That’s good. Now put your revolver to his head again. I’m going to search him. Stand up, sir.”
They compelled the count to stand up, and Sapt subjected him to a search that made the concealment of another copy, or of any other document, impossible. Then they let him sit down again. His eyes seemed fascinated by Rudolf Rassendyll.
“Yet you’ve seen me before, I think,” smiled Rudolf. “I seem to remember you as a boy in Strelsau when I was there. Now tell us, sir, where did you leave this cousin of yours?” For the plan was to find out from Rischenheim where Rupert was, and to set off in pursuit of Rupert as soon as they had disposed of Rischenheim.
But even as Rudolf spoke there was a violent knock at the door. Rudolf sprang to open it. Sapt and his revolver kept their places. Bernenstein was on the threshold, open-mouthed.
“The king’s servant has just gone by. He’s looking for Colonel Sapt. The King has been walking in the drive, and learnt from a sentry of Rischenheim’s arrival. I told the man that you had taken the count for a stroll round the castle, and I did not know where you were. He says that the king may come himself at any moment.”
Sapt considered for one short instant; then he was back by the prisoner’s side.
“We must talk again later on,” he said, in low quick tones. “Now you’re going to breakfast with the king. I shall be there, and Bernenstein. Remember, not a word of your errand, not a word of this gentleman! At a word, a sign, a hint, a gesture, a motion, as God lives, I’ll put a bullet through your head, and a thousand kings sha’n’t stop me. Rudolf, get behind the curtain. If there’s an alarm you must jump through the window into the moat and swim for it.”
“All right,” said Rudolf Rassendyll. “I can read my letter there.”
“Burn it, you fool.”
“When I’ve read it I’ll eat it, if you like, but not before.”
Bernenstein looked in again. “Quick, quick! The man will be back,” he whispered.
“Bernenstein, did you hear what I said to the count?”
“Yes, I heard.”
“Then you know your part. Now, gentlemen, to the king.”
“Well,” said an angry voice outside, “I wondered how long I was to be kept waiting.”
Rudolf Rassendyll skipped behind the curtain. Sapt’s revolver slipped into a handy pocket. Rischenheim stood with arms dangling by his side and his waistcoat half unbuttoned. Young Bernenstein was bowing low on the threshold, and protesting that the king’s servant had but just gone, and that they were on the point of waiting on his Majesty. Then the king walked in, pale and full-bearded.
“Ah, Count,” said he, “I’m glad to see you. If they had told me you were here, you shouldn’t have waited a minute. You’re very dark in here, Sapt. Why don’t you draw back the curtains?” and the king moved towards the curtain behind which Rudolf was.
“Allow me, sire,” cried Sapt, darting past him and laying a hand on the curtain.
A malicious gleam of pleasure shot into Rischenheim’s eyes. “In truth, sire,” continued the constable, his hand on the curtain, “we were so interested in what the count was saying about his dogs—”
“By heaven, I forgot!” cried the king. “Yes, yes, the dogs. Now tell me, Count—”
“Your pardon, sire,” put in young Bernenstein, “but breakfast waits.”
“Yes, yes. Well, then, we’ll have them together—breakfast and the dogs. Come along, Count.” The king passed his arm through Rischenheim’s, adding to Bernenstein, “Lead the way, Lieutenant; and you, Colonel, come with us.”
They went out. Sapt stopped and locked the door behind him. “Why do you lock the door, Colonel?” asked the king.
“There are some papers in my drawer there, sire.”
“But why not lock the drawer?
“I have lost the key, sire, like the fool I am,” said the colonel.
The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim did not make a very good breakfast. He sat opposite to the king. Colonel Sapt placed himself at the back of the king’s chair, and Rischenheim saw the muzzle of a revolver resting on the top of the chair just behind his Majesty’s right ear. Bernenstein stood in soldierly rigidity by the door; Rischenheim looked round at him once and met a most significant gaze.
“You’re eating nothing,” said the king. “I hope you’re not indisposed?”
“I am a little upset, sire,” stammered Rischenheim, and truly enough.
“Well, tell me about the dogs—while I eat, for I’m hungry.”
Rischenheim began to disclose his secret. His statement was decidedly wanting in clearness. The king grew impatient.
“I don’t understand,” said he testily, and he pushed his chair back so quickly that Sapt skipped away, and hid the revolver behind his back.
“Sire—” cried Rischenheim, half rising. A cough from Lieutenant von Bernenstein interrupted him.
“Tell it me all over again,” said the king. Rischenheim did as he was bid.
“Ah, I understand a little better now. Do you see, Sapt?” and he turned his head round towards the constable. Sapt had just time to whisk the revolver away. The count lent forward towards the king. Lieutenant von Bernenstein coughed. The count sank back again.
“Perfectly, sire,” said Colonel Sapt. “I understand all the count wishes to convey to your Majesty.”
“Well, I understand about half,” said the king with a laugh. “But perhaps that’ll be enough.”
“I think quite enough, sire,” answered Sapt with a smile. The important matter of the dogs being thus disposed of, the king recollected that the count had asked for an audience on a matter of business.
“Now, what did you wish to say to me?” he asked, with a weary air. The dogs had been more interesting.
Rischenheim looked at Sapt. The revolver was in its place; Bernenstein coughed again. Yet he saw a chance.
“Your pardon, sire,” said he, “but we are not alone.”
The king lifted his eyebrows.
“Is the business so private?” he asked.
“I should prefer to tell it to your Majesty alone,” pleaded the count.
Now Sapt was resolved not to leave Rischenheim alone with the king, for, although the count, being robbed of his evidence could do little harm concerning the letter, he would doubtless tell the king that Rudolf Rassendyll was in the castle. He leant now over the king’s shoulder, and said with a sneer:
“Messages from Rupert of Hentzau are too exalted matters for my poor ears, it seems.”
The king flushed red.
“Is that your business, my lord?” he asked Rischenheim sternly.
“Your Majesty does not know what my cousin—”
“It is the old plea?” interrupted the king. “He wants to come back? Is that all, or is there anything else?”
A moment’s silence followed the king’s words. Sapt looked full at Rischenheim, and smiled as he slightly raised his right hand and showed the revolver. Bernenstein coughed twice. Rischenheim sat twisting his fingers. He understood that, cost what it might, they would not let him declare his errand to the king or betray Mr. Rassendyll’s presence. He cleared his throat and opened his mouth as if to speak, but still he remained silent.
“Well, my lord, is it the old story or something new,” asked the king impatiently.
Again Rischenheim sat silent.
“Are you dumb, my lord?” cried the king most impatiently.
“It—it is only what you call the old story, sire.”
“Then let me say that you have treated me very badly in obtaining an audience of me for any such purpose,” said the king. “You knew my decision, and your cousin knows it.” Thus speaking, the king rose; Sapt’s revolver slid into his pocket; but Lieutenant von Bernenstein drew his sword and stood at the salute; he also coughed.
“My dear Rischenheim,” pursued the king more kindly, “I can allow for your natural affection. But, believe me, in this case it misleads you. Do me the favor not to open this subject again to me.”
Rischenheim, humiliated and angry, could do nothing but bow in acknowledgment of the king’s rebuke.
“Colonel Sapt, see that the count is well entertained. My horse should be at the door by now. Farewell, Count. Bernenstein, give me your arm.”
Bernenstein shot a rapid glance at the constable. Sapt nodded reassuringly. Bernenstein sheathed his sword and gave his arm to the king. They passed through the door, and Bernenstein closed it with a backward push of his hand. But at this moment Rischenheim, goaded to fury and desperate at the trick played on him—seeing, moreover, that he had now only one man to deal with—made a sudden rush at the door. He reached it, and his hand was on the door-knob. But Sapt was upon him, and Sapt’s revolver was at his ear.
In the passage the king stopped.
“What are they doing in there?” he asked, hearing the noise of the quick movements.
“I don’t know, sire,” said Bernenstein, and he took a step forward.
“No, stop a minute, Lieutenant; you’re pulling me along!”
“A thousand pardons, sire.”
“I hear nothing more now.” And there was nothing to hear, for the two now stood dead silent inside the door.
“Nor I, sire. Will your Majesty go on?” And Bernenstein took another step.
“You’re determined I shall,” said the king with a laugh, and he let the young officer lead him away.
Inside the room, Rischenheim stood with his back against the door. He was panting for breath, and his face was flushed and working with excitement. Opposite to him stood Sapt, revolver in hand.
“Till you get to heaven, my lord,” said the constable, “you’ll never be nearer to it than you were in that moment. If you had opened the door, I’d have shot you through the head.”
As he spoke there came a knock at the door.
“Open it,” he said brusquely to Rischenheim. With a muttered curse the count obeyed him. A servant stood outside with a telegram on a salver.
“Take it,” whispered Sapt, and Rischenheim put out his hand.
“Your pardon, my lord, but this has arrived for you,” said the man respectfully.
“Take it,” whispered Sapt again.
“Give it me,” muttered Rischenheim confusedly; and he took the envelope.
The servant bowed and shut the door.
“Open it,” commanded Sapt.
“God’s curse on you!” cried Rischenheim in a voice that choked with passion.
“Eh? Oh, you can have no secrets from so good a friend as I am, my lord. Be quick and open it.”
The count began to open it.
“If you tear it up, or crumple it, I’ll shoot you,” said Sapt quietly. “You know you can trust my word. Now read it.”
“By God, I won’t read it.”
“Read it, I tell you, or say your prayers.”
The muzzle was within a foot of his head. He unfolded the telegram. Then he looked at Sapt. “Read,” said the constable.
“I don’t understand what it means,” grumbled Rischenheim.
“Possibly I may be able to help you.”
“It’s nothing but—”
“Read, my lord, read!”
Then he read, and this was the telegram: “Holf, 19 Konigstrasse.”
“A thousand thanks, my lord. And—the place it’s despatched from?”
“Strelsau.”
“Just turn it so that I can see. Oh, I don’t doubt you, but seeing is believing. Ah, thanks. It’s as you say. You’re puzzled what it means, Count?”
“I don’t know at all what it means!”
“How strange! Because I can guess so well.”
“You are very acute, sir.”
“It seems to me a simple thing to guess, my lord.”
“And pray,” said Rischenheim, endeavoring to assume an easy and sarcastic air, “what does your wisdom tell you that the message means?”
“I think, my lord, that the message is an address.”
“An address! I never thought of that. But I know no Holf.”
“I don’t think it’s Holf’s address.”
“Whose, then?” asked Rischenheim, biting his nail, and looking furtively at the constable.
“Why,” said Sapt, “the present address of Count Rupert of Hentzau.”
As he spoke, he fixed his eyes on the eyes of Rischenheim. He gave a short, sharp laugh, then put his revolver in his pocket and bowed to the count.
“In truth, you are very convenient, my dear Count,” said he.
THE doctor who attended me at Wintenberg was not only discreet, but also indulgent; perhaps he had the sense to see that little benefit would come to a sick man from fretting in helplessness on his back, when he was on fire to be afoot. I fear he thought the baker’s rolling-pin was in my mind, but at any rate I extorted a consent from him, and was on my way home from Wintenberg not much more than twelve hours after Rudolf Rassendyll left me. Thus I arrived at my own house in Strelsau on the same Friday morning that witnessed the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim’s two-fold interview with the king at the Castle of Zenda. The moment I had arrived, I sent James, whose assistance had been, and continued to be, in all respects most valuable, to despatch a message to the constable, acquainting him with my whereabouts, and putting myself entirely at his disposal. Sapt received this message while a council of war was being held, and the information it gave aided not a little in the arrangements that the constable and Rudolf Rassendyll made. What these were I must now relate, although, I fear, at the risk of some tediousness.
Yet that council of war in Zenda was held under no common circumstances. Cowed as Rischenheim appeared, they dared not let him out of their sight. Rudolf could not leave the room into which Sapt had locked him; the king’s absence was to be short, and before he came again Rudolf must be gone, Rischenheim safely disposed of, and measures taken against the original letter reaching the hands for which the intercepted copy had been destined. The room was a large one. In the corner farthest from the door sat Rischenheim, disarmed, dispirited, to all seeming ready to throw up his dangerous game and acquiesce in any terms presented to him. Just inside the door, guarding it, if need should be, with their lives, were the other three, Bernenstein merry and triumphant, Sapt blunt and cool, Rudolf calm and clear-headed. The queen awaited the result of their deliberations in her apartments, ready to act as they directed, but determined to see Rudolf before he left the castle. They conversed together in low tones. Presently Sapt took paper and wrote. This first message was to me, and it bade me come to Zenda that afternoon; another head and another pair of hands were sadly needed. Then followed more deliberation; Rudolf took up the talking now, for his was the bold plan on which they consulted. Sapt twirled his moustache, smiling doubtfully.
“Yes, yes,” murmured young Bernenstein, his eyes alight with excitement.
“It’s dangerous, but the best thing,” said Rudolf, carefully sinking his voice yet lower, lest the prisoner should catch the lightest word of what he said. “It involves my staying here till the evening. Is that possible?”
“No; but you can leave here and hide in the forest till I join you,” said Sapt.
“Till we join you,” corrected Bernenstein eagerly.
“No,” said the constable, “you must look after our friend here. Come, Lieutenant, it’s all in the queen’s service.”
“Besides,” added Rudolf with a smile, “neither the colonel nor I would let you have a chance at Rupert. He’s our game, isn’t he, Sapt?”
The colonel nodded. Rudolf in his turn took paper, and here is the message that he wrote:
“Holf, 19, Konigstrasse, Strelsau.—All well. He has what I had, but wishes to see what you have. He and I will be at the hunting-lodge at ten this evening. Bring it and meet us. The business is unsuspected.—R.”
Rudolf threw the paper across to Sapt; Bernenstein leant over the constable’s shoulder and read it eagerly.
“I doubt if it would bring me,” grinned old Sapt, throwing the paper down.
“It’ll bring Rupert to Hentzau. Why not? He’ll know that the king will wish to meet him unknown to the queen, and also unknown to you, Sapt, since you were my friend: what place more likely for the king to choose than his hunting-lodge, where he is accustomed to go when he wishes to be alone? The message will bring him, depend on it. Why, man, Rupert would come even if he suspected; and why should he suspect?”
“They may have a cipher, he and Rischenheim,” objected Sapt.
“No, or Rupert would have sent the address in it,” retorted Rudolf quickly.
“Then—when he comes?” asked Bernenstein.
“He finds such a king as Rischenheim found, and Sapt, here, at his elbow.”
“But he’ll know you,” objected Bernenstein.
“Ay, I think he’ll know me,” said Rudolf with a smile. “Meanwhile we send for Fritz to come here and look after the king.”
“And Rischenheim?”
“That’s your share, Lieutenant. Sapt, is any one at Tarlenheim?”
“No. Count Stanislas has put it at Fritz’s disposal.”
“Good; then Fritz’s two friends, the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim and Lieutenant von Bernenstein, will ride over there to-day. The constable of Zenda will give the lieutenant twenty-four hours’ leave of absence, and the two gentlemen will pass the day and sleep at the chateau. They will pass the day side by side, Bernenstein, not losing sight of one another for an instant, and they will pass the night in the same room. And one of them will not close his eyes nor take his hand off the butt of his revolver.”
“Very good, sir,” said young Bernenstein.
“If he tries to escape or give any alarm, shoot him through the head, ride to the frontier, get to safe hiding, and, if you can, let us know.”
“Yes,” said Bernenstein simply. Sapt had chosen well, and the young officer made nothing of the peril and ruin that her Majesty’s service might ask of him.
A restless movement and a weary sigh from Rischenheim attracted their attention. He had strained his ears to listen till his head ached, but the talkers had been careful, and he had heard nothing that threw light on their deliberations. He had now given up his vain attempt, and sat in listless inattention, sunk in an apathy.
“I don’t think he’ll give you much trouble,” whispered Sapt to Bernenstein, with a jerk of his thumb towards the captive.
“Act as if he were likely to give you much,” urged Rudolf, laying his hand on the lieutenant’s arm.
“Yes, that’s a wise man’s advice,” nodded the constable approvingly. “We were well governed, Lieutenant, when this Rudolf was king.”
“Wasn’t I also his loyal subject?” asked young Bernenstein.
“Yes, wounded in my service,” added Rudolf; for he remembered how the boy—he was little more then—had been fired upon in the park of Tarlenheim, being taken for Mr. Rassendyll himself.
Thus their plans were laid. If they could defeat Rupert, they would have Rischenheim at their mercy. If they could keep Rischenheim out of the way while they used his name in their trick, they had a strong chance of deluding and killing Rupert. Yes, of killing him; for that and nothing less was their purpose, as the constable of Zenda himself has told me.
“We would have stood on no ceremony,” he said. “The queen’s honor was at stake, and the fellow himself an assassin.”
Bernenstein rose and went out. He was gone about half an hour, being employed in despatching the telegrams to Strelsau. Rudolf and Sapt used the interval to explain to Rischenheim what they proposed to do with him. They asked no pledge, and he offered none. He heard what they said with a dulled uninterested air. When asked if he would go without resistance, he laughed a bitter laugh. “How can I resist?” he asked. “I should have a bullet through my head.”
“Why, without doubt,” said Colonel Sapt. “My lord, you are very sensible.”
“Let me advise you, my lord,” said Rudolf, looking down on him kindly enough, “if you come safe through this affair, to add honor to your prudence, and chivalry to your honor. There is still time for you to become a gentleman.”
He turned away, followed by a glance of anger from the count and a grating chuckle from old Sapt.
A few moments later Bernenstein returned. His errand was done, and horses for himself and Rischenheim were at the gate of the castle. After a few final words and clasp of the hand from Rudolf, the lieutenant motioned to his prisoner to accompany him, and they two walked out together, being to all appearance willing companions and in perfect friendliness with one another. The queen herself watched them go from the windows of her apartment, and noticed that Bernenstein rode half a pace behind, and that his free hand rested on the revolver by his side.
It was now well on in the morning, and the risk of Rudolf’s sojourn in the castle grew greater with every moment. Yet he was resolved to see the queen before he went. This interview presented no great difficulties, since her Majesty was in the habit of coming to the constable’s room to take his advice or to consult with him. The hardest task was to contrive afterwards a free and unnoticed escape for Mr. Rassendyll. To meet this necessity, the constable issued orders that the company of guards which garrisoned the castle should parade at one o’clock in the park, and that the servants should all, after their dinner, be granted permission to watch the manoeuvres. By this means he counted on drawing off any curious eyes and allowing Rudolf to reach the forest unobserved. They appointed a rendezvous in a handy and sheltered spot; the one thing which they were compelled to trust to fortune was Rudolf’s success in evading chance encounters while he waited. Mr. Rassendyll himself was confident of his ability to conceal his presence, or, if need were, so to hide his face that no strange tale of the king being seen wandering, alone and beardless, should reach the ears of the castle or the town.
While Sapt was making his arrangements, Queen Flavia came to the room where Rudolf Rassendyll was. It was then nearing twelve, and young Bernenstein had been gone half an hour. Sapt attended her to the door, set a sentry at the end of the passage with orders that her Majesty should on no pretence be disturbed, promised her very audibly to return as soon as he possibly could, and respectfully closed the door after she had entered. The constable was well aware of the value in a secret business of doing openly all that can safely be done with openness.
All of what passed at that interview I do not know, but a part Queen Flavia herself told to me, or rather to Helga, my wife; for although it was meant to reach my ear, yet to me, a man, she would not disclose it directly. First she learnt from Mr. Rassendyll the plans that had been made, and, although she trembled at the danger that he must run in meeting Rupert of Hentzau, she had such love of him and such a trust in his powers that she seemed to doubt little of his success. But she began to reproach herself for having brought him into this peril by writing her letter. At this he took from his pocket the copy that Rischenheim had carried. He had found time to read it, and now before her eyes he kissed it.
“Had I as many lives as there are words, my queen,” he said softly, “for each word I would gladly give a life.”
“Ah, Rudolf, but you’ve only one life, and that more mine than yours. Did you think we should ever meet again?”
“I didn’t know,” said he; and now they were standing opposite one another.
“But I knew,” she said, her eyes shining brightly; “I knew always that we should meet once more. Not how, nor where, but just that we should. So I lived, Rudolf.”
“God bless you!” he said.
“Yes, I lived through it all.”
He pressed her hand, knowing what that phrase meant and must mean for her.
“Will it last forever?” she asked, suddenly gripping his hand tightly. But a moment later she went on: “No, no, I mustn’t make you unhappy, Rudolf. I’m half glad I wrote the letter, and half glad they stole it. It’s so sweet to have you fighting for me, for me only this time, Rudolf—not for the king, for me!”
“Sweet indeed, my dearest lady. Don’t be afraid: we shall win.”
“You will win, yes. And then you’ll go?” And, dropping his hand, she covered her face with hers.
“I mustn’t kiss your face,” said he, “but your hands I may kiss,” and he kissed her hands as they were pressed against her face.
“You wear my ring,” she murmured through her fingers, “always?”
“Why, yes,” he said, with a little laugh of wonder at her question.
“And there is—no one else?”
“My queen!” said he, laughing again.
“No, I knew really, Rudolf, I knew really,” and now her hands flew out towards him, imploring his pardon. Then she began to speak quickly: “Rudolf, last night I had a dream about you, a strange dream. I seemed to be in Strelsau, and all the people were talking about the king. It was you they meant; you were the king. At last you were the king, and I was your queen. But I could see you only very dimly; you were somewhere, but I could not make out where; just sometimes your face came. Then I tried to tell you that you were king—yes, and Colonel Sapt and Fritz tried to tell you; the people, too, called out that you were king. What did it mean? But your face, when I saw it, was unmoved, and very pale, and you seemed not to hear what we said, not even what I said. It almost seemed as if you were dead, and yet king. Ah, you mustn’t die, even to be king,” and she laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Sweetheart,” said he gently, “in dreams desires and fears blend in strange visions, so I seemed to you to be both a king and a dead man; but I’m not a king, and I am a very healthy fellow. Yet a thousand thanks to my dearest queen for dreaming of me.”
“No, but what could it mean?” she asked again.
“What does it mean when I dream always of you, except that I always love you?”
“Was it only that?” she said, still unconvinced.
What more passed between them I do not know. I think that the queen told my wife more, but women will sometimes keep women’s secrets even from their husbands; though they love us, yet we are always in some sort the common enemy, against whom they join hands. Well, I would not look too far into such secrets, for to know must be, I suppose, to blame, and who is himself so blameless that in such a case he would be free with his censures?
Yet much cannot have passed, for almost close on their talk about the dream came Colonel Sapt, saying that the guards were in line, and all the women streamed out to watch them, while the men followed, lest the gay uniforms should make them forgotten. Certainly a quiet fell over the old castle, that only the constable’s curt tones broke, as he bade Rudolf come by the back way to the stables and mount his horse.
“There’s no time to lose,” said Sapt, and his eye seemed to grudge the queen even one more word with the man she loved.
But Rudolf was not to be hurried into leaving her in such a fashion. He clapped the constable on the shoulder, laughing, and bidding him think of what he would for a moment; then he went again to the queen and would have knelt before her, but that she would not suffer, and they stood with hands locked. Then suddenly she drew him to her and kissed his forehead, saying: “God go with you, Rudolf my knight.”
Thus she turned away, letting him go. He walked towards the door; but a sound arrested his steps, and he waited in the middle of the room, his eyes on the door. Old Sapt flew to the threshold, his sword half-way out of its sheath. There was a step coming down the passage, and the feet stopped outside the door.
“Is it the king?” whispered Rudolf.
“I don’t know,” said Sapt.
“No, it’s not the king,” came in unhesitating certainty from Queen Flavia.
They waited: a low knock sounded on the door. Still for a moment they waited. The knock was repeated urgently.
“We must open,” said Sapt. “Behind the curtain with you, Rudolf.”
The queen sat down, and Sapt piled a heap of papers before her, that it might seem as though he and she transacted business. But his precautions were interrupted by a hoarse, eager, low cry from outside, “Quick! in God’s name, quick!”
They knew the voice for Bernenstein’s. The queen sprang up, Rudolf came out, Sapt turned the key. The lieutenant entered, hurried, breathless, pale.
“Well?” asked Sapt.
“He has got away?” cried Rudolf, guessing in a moment the misfortune that had brought Bernenstein back.
“Yes, he’s got away. Just as we left the town and reached the open road towards Tarlenheim, he said, ‘Are we going to walk all the way? I was not loath to go quicker, and we broke into a trot. But I—ah, what a pestilent fool I am!”
“Never mind that—go on.”
“Why, I was thinking of him and my task, and having a bullet ready for him, and—”
“Of everything except your horse?” guessed Sapt, with a grim smile.
“Yes; and the horse pecked and stumbled, and I fell forward on his neck. I put out my arm to recover myself, and—I jerked my revolver on to the ground.”
“And he saw?”
“He saw, curse him. For a second he waited; then he smiled, and turned, and dug his spurs in and was off, straight across country towards Strelsau. Well, I was off my horse in a moment, and I fired three times after him.”
“You hit?” asked Rudolf.
“I think so. He shifted the reins from one hand to the other and wrung his arm. I mounted and made after him, but his horse was better than mine and he gained ground. We began to meet people, too, and I didn’t dare to fire again. So I left him and rode here to tell you. Never employ me again, Constable, so long as you live,” and the young man’s face was twisted with misery and shame, as, forgetting the queen’s presence, he sank despondently into a chair.
Sapt took no notice of his self-reproaches. But Rudolf went and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“It was an accident,” he said. “No blame to you.”
The queen rose and walked towards him; Bernenstein sprang to his feet.
“Sir,” said she, “it is not success but effort that should gain thanks,” and she held out her hand.
Well, he was young; I do not laugh at the sob that escaped his lips as he turned his head.
“Let me try something else!” he implored.
“Mr. Rassendyll,” said the queen, “you’ll do my pleasure by employing this gentleman in my further service. I am already deep in his debt, and would be deeper.” There was a moment’s silence.
“Well, but what’s to be done?” asked Colonel Sapt. “He’s gone to Strelsau.”
“He’ll stop Rupert,” mused Mr. Rassendyll. “He may or he mayn’t.”
“It’s odds that he will.”
“We must provide for both.”
Sapt and Rudolf looked at one another.
“You must be here!” asked Rudolf of the constable. “Well, I’ll go to Strelsau.” His smile broke out. “That is, if Bernenstein’ll lend me a hat.”
The queen made no sound; but she came and laid her hand on his arm. He looked at her, smiling still.
“Yes, I’ll go to Strelsau,” said he, “and I’ll find Rupert, ay, and Rischenheim too, if they’re in the city.”
“Take me with you,” cried Bernenstein eagerly.
Rudolf glanced at Sapt. The constable shook his head. Bernenstein’s face fell.
“It’s not that, boy,” said old Sapt, half in kindness, half in impatience. “We want you here. Suppose Rupert comes here with Rischenheim!”
The idea was new, but the event was by no means unlikely.
“But you’ll be here, Constable,” urged Bernenstein, “and Fritz von Tarlenheim will arrive in an hour.”
“Ay, young man,” said Sapt, nodding his head; “but when I fight Rupert of Hentzau, I like to have a man to spare,” and he grinned broadly, being no whit afraid of what Bernenstein might think of his courage. “Now go and get him a hat,” he added, and the lieutenant ran off on the errand.
But the queen cried:
“Are you sending Rudolf alone, then—alone against two?”
“Yes, madam, if I may command the campaign,” said Sapt. “I take it he should be equal to the task.”
He could not know the feelings of the queen’s heart. She dashed her hand across her eyes, and turned in mute entreaty to Rudolf Rassendyll.
“I must go,” he said softly. “We can’t spare Bernenstein, and I mustn’t stay here.”
She said no more. Rudolf walked across to Sapt.
“Take me to the stables. Is the horse good? I daren’t take the train. Ah, here’s the lieutenant and the hat.”
“The horse’ll get you there to-night,” said Sapt. “Come along. Bernenstein, stay with the queen.”
At the threshold Rudolf paused, and, turning his head, glanced once at Queen Flavia, who stood still as a statue, watching him go. Then he followed the constable, who brought him where the horse was. Sapt’s devices for securing freedom from observation had served well, and Rudolf mounted unmolested.
“The hat doesn’t fit very well,” said Rudolf.
“Like a crown better, eh?” suggested the colonel.
Rudolf laughed as he asked, “Well, what are my orders?”
“Ride round by the moat to the road at the back; then through the forest to Hofbau; you know your way after that. You mustn’t reach Strelsau till it’s dark. Then, if you want a shelter—”
“To Fritz von Tarlenheim’s, yes! From there I shall go straight to the address.”
“Ay. And—Rudolf!”
“Yes?”
“Make an end of him this time.”
“Please God. But if he goes to the lodge? He will, unless Rischenheim stops him.”
“I’ll be there in case—but I think Rischenheim will stop him.”
“If he comes here?”
“Young Bernenstein will die before he suffers him to reach the king.”
“Sapt!”
“Ay?”
“Be kind to her.”
“Bless the man, yes!”
“Good-by.”
“And good luck.”
At a swift canter Rudolf darted round the drive that led from the stables, by the moat, to the old forest road behind; five minutes brought him within the shelter of the trees, and he rode on confidently, meeting nobody, save here and there a yokel, who, seeing a man ride hard with his head averted, took no more notice of him than to wish that he himself could ride abroad instead of being bound to work. Thus Rudolf Rassendyll set out again for the walls of Strelsau, through the forest of Zenda. And ahead of him, with an hour’s start, galloped the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim, again a man, and a man with resolution, resentment, and revenge in his heart.
The game was afoot now; who could tell the issue of it?