Maurice perused it twice, and pulled at his lips. “Madame becomes impatient. Poor devil. Somebody is likely to become suddenly rich and somebody correspondingly poor. What will they say when I return empty-handed? Like as not Madame will accuse me—and Fitzgerald will believe her!... The archbishop! That accounts for this bold move. And how the deuce did he get hold of them? I give up.” And his shoulders settled in resignation.
He passed down into the cafe, from there to his horse, which a groom was holding at the curb. He swung into the saddle and tossed a coin to the man, who touched his cap.
The early moon lifted its silvery bulk above the ragged east, and the patches of clouds which swarmed over the face of that white world of silence resembled so many rooks. Far away, at the farthermost shore of the lake, whenever the moon went free from the clouds, Maurice could see the slim gray line of the road which stretched toward Italy.
“It's a fine night,” he mused, glancing heavenward. The horse answered the touch of the spurs, and cantered away, glad enough to exchange the close air of the stables for this fresh gift of the night. Maurice guided him around the palaces into the avenue, which derived its name from the founder of the opera, in which most of the diplomatic families lived. Past the residence of Beauvais he went, and, gazing up at the lightless windows, a cold of short duration seized his spine. It bad been a hair's breadth betwixt him and death. “Your room, Colonel, is better than your company; and hereafter I shall endeavor to avoid both. I shall feel that cursed blade of yours for weeks to come.”
Carriages rolled past him. A gay throng in evening dress was crowding into the opera. The huge placard announced, “Norma—Mlle. Lenormand—Royal Opera Troupe.” How he would have liked to hear it, with Lenormand in the title role. He laughed as he recalled the episodes in Vienna which were associated with this queen of song. He waved his hand as the opera house sank in the distance. “Au revoir, Celeste, ma charmante; adieu.” By and by he reached the deserted part of the city, and in less than a quarter of an hour branched off into the broad road bordering the lake. The horse quickened his gait as he felt the stone of the streets no longer beneath his feet, which now fell with muffled rhythm on the sound earth. Maurice shared with him the delight of the open country, and began to talk to the animal.
“A fine night, eh, old boy? I've ridden many backs, but none easier than yours. This air is what gives the blood its color. Too bad; you ought not to belong to Madame. She will never think as much of you as I should.”
The city was falling away behind, and a yellow vapor rose over it. The lake tumbled in moonshine. Maurice took to dreaming again—hope and a thousand stars, love and a thousand dreams.
“God knows I love her; but what's the use? We can not all have what we want; let us make the best of what we have. Philosophy is a comfort only to old age. Why should youth bother to reason why? And I—I have not yet outgrown youth. I believed I had, but I have not. I did not dream she existed, and now she is more to me than anything else in the world. Why; I wonder why? I look into a pair of brown eyes, and am seized with madness. I hope. For what? O, Bucephalus! let us try to wake and leave the dream behind. The gratitude of a princess and a dog... and for this a rose. Well, it will prove the substance of many a pipe, many a kindly pipe. You miss a good deal, Bucephalus; smoking is an evil habit only to those who have not learned to smoke.”
The animal replied with a low whinney, and Maurice, believing that the horse had given an ear to his monologue, laughed. But he flattered himself. The horse whinneyed because he inhaled the faint odor of his kind. He drew down on the rein and settled into a swinging trot, which to Maurice's surprise was faster and easier than the canter. They covered a mile this way, when Maurice's roving eye discovered moving shadows, perhaps half a mile in advance.
“Hello! we're not the only ones jogging along. Eh, what's that?” Something flashed brightly, like silver reflecting moonlight; then came a spark of flame, which died immediately, and later Maurice caught an echo which resembled the bursting of a leaf against the lips. “Come; that looks like a pistol shot.”
Again the flash of silver, broader and clearer this time; and Maurice could now separate the shadow-shapes. A carriage of some sort rolled from side to side, and two smaller shadows followed its wild flight. One—two—three times Maurice saw the sparks and heard the faint reports. He became excited. Something extraordinary was taking place on the lonely road. Suddenly the top of the carriage replied with spiteful flashes of red. Then the moon came out from behind the clouds, and the picture was vividly outlined. Two continuous flashes of silver.... Cuirassiers! Maurice loosened the rein, and the horse went forward as smoothly as a sail. The distance grew visibly less. The carriage opened fire again, and Maurice heard the sinister m-m-m of a bullet winging past him.
“The wrong man may get hit, Bucephalus,” he said, bending to the neck of the horse; “which is not unusual. You're pulling them down, old boy; keep it up. There's trouble ahead, and since the cuirassiers are for the king, we'll stand by the cuirassiers.”
On they flew, nearer and nearer, until the pistol shots were no longer echoes. Two other horsemen came into view, in advance of the carriage. Five minutes more of this exciting chase, and the faces took on lines and grew into features. Up, up crept the gallant little horse, his hoofs rattling against the road like snares on a drum. When within a dozen rods, Maurice saw one of the cuirassiers turn and level a revolver at him. Fortunately the horse swerved, and the ball went wide.
“Don't shoot!” Maurice yelled; “don't shoot!”
The face he saw was von Mitter's. His heart clogged in his throat, not at the danger which threatened him, but at the thought of what that carriage might contain.
A short time passed, during which nothing was heard but the striking of galloping hoofs and the rumble of the carriage. Maurice soon drew abreast of von Mitter. There was a gash on the latter's cheek, and the blood from it dripped on his cuirass.
“Close for you, my friend,” he gasped; when he recognized the new arrival. “Have you—God! my leg that time,” with a groan.
For the fire of the carriage had spoken again, and true.
Maurice shut his teeth, drew his revolver, cocked it and applied the spurs. With a bound he shot past von Mitter, who was cursing deeply and trying to reload. Maurice did not propose to waste powder on the driver, but was determined to bring down one of the carriage horses, which were marvelous brutes for speed. Scharfenstein kept popping away at the driver, but without apparent result. Finally Maurice secured the desired range. He raised the revolver, rested the barrel between the left thumb and forefinger and pressed the trigger. The nearest carriage horse lurched to his knees, a bullet in his brain, dragging his mate with him. The race had come to an end.
At once the two horsemen in front separated; one continued toward the great forest, while the other took to the hills. Scharfenstein started in pursuit of the latter. As for the carriage, it came to an abrupt stand. The driver made a flying leap toward the lake, but stumbled and fell, and before he could regain his feet Maurice was off his horse and on his quarry. He caught the fellow by the throat and pressed him to the earth, kneeling on his chest.
“Hold him!” cried von Mitter, coming up with a limp, “hold him till I knock in his head, damn him!”
“No, no!” said Maurice, “you can't get information out of a dead man.”
“It's all up with me,” groaned the Lieutenant. “I'll ask for my discharge. I could hit nothing, my hand trembled. I was afraid of shooting into the carriage.”
Maurice turned his attention to the man beneath him. “Now, you devil,” he cried, “a clean breast of it, or off the board you go. O!” suddenly peering down. “By the Lord, so it is you—you—you!” savagely bumping the fellow's head against the earth. “Spy!”
“You are killing me!”
“Small matter. Who is this fellow?” asked Maurice.
“Johann Kopf, a spy, a police rat, and God knows what else,” answered von Mitter, limping toward the carriage. “Curse the leg!” He forced the door and peered inside. “Fainted! I thought as much.” He lifted the inanimate bundle which lay huddled in between the seats and carried it to the side of the road, where he tenderly laid it. He rubbed the girl's wrists, unmindful of the blood which fell from his face and left dark stains on her dress. “Thank God,” heartily, “that her Royal Highness was suffering from a headache. She would have died from fright.”
Maurice felt the straining cords in the prisoner's neck grow limp. The rascal had fainted.
“Not her Highness?” Maurice asked, the weight of dread lifting from his heart.
“No. Her Royal Highness sent Camille, her maid of honor, veiled and dressed like herself, to play an innocent jest on her old nurse. Some one shall account for this; for they mistook Camille for her Highness. I'm going to wade out into the water,” von Mitter added, staggering to his feet.
“You'll never get off your boot,” said Maurice.
“I'll cut it off,” was the reply, “I shall faint if I do not cool off the leg. The ball is somewhere in the calf.” And he waded out into the water until it reached above his knees. Thus he stood for a moment, then returned to the maid, who, on opening her eyes, screamed. “It is all over, Camille,” said the Lieutenant, throwing an arm about her.
“Your face is bleeding!” she cried, and sank back with her head against his broad breast.
As Maurice gazed at the pair he sighed. There were no obstacles here.
Soon Scharfenstein came loping down the hill alone.
“I killed his horse,” he said, in response to queries, “but he fled into the woods where I could not follow. A bad night for us, Carl, a bad night,” swinging off his horse. “A boy would have done better work. Whom have we here?”
“Kopf,” said Maurice, “and he has a ball somewhere inside,” holding up a bloody hand.
“Kopf?” Scharfenstein cocked his revolver.
The maid of honor placed her hands over her ears and screamed again. Max gazed at her, and, with a short, Homeric laugh, lowered the revolver.
“Any time will do,” he said. “Ah, he opens his eyes.”
The prisoner's eyes rolled wildly about. That frowning face above him... was it a vision? Who was it? What was he doing here?
“Who put you up to this?” demanded Maurice.
“You are choking me!”
“Who, I say?”
“Beauvais.”
Scharfenstein and von Mitter looked at each other comprehensively.
“Who is this Beauvais? Speak!”
“I am dying, Herr... Your knees—”
Maurice withdrew his knees. “Beauvais; who is he?”
“Prince... Walmoden, formerly of the emperor's staff.”
Johann's eyes closed again, and his head fell to one side.
“He looks as if he were done for,” said Maurice, standing up. “Let us clear up the rubbish and hitch a horse to the carriage. The mate's all right.”
Von Mitter assisted the maid into the carriage and seated her.
“Go and stay with her,” said Maurice, brusquely; “you're half fainting.”
“You are very handy, Carewe,” said von Mitter gratefully, and he climbed in beside the maid, who, her fright gone, gave way to womanly instincts. She took her kerchief and wiped the Lieutenant's cheek, pressing his hand in hers the while.
Maurice and Scharfenstein worked away at the traces, and dragged the dead horse to the side of the road. Scharfenstein brought around von Mitter's horse, took oft the furnishings, and backed him into the pole.
Meanwhile the man lying by the water's edge showed signs of returning life. He turned his head cautiously. His enemies were a dozen yards away from him. Slowly he rolled over on his stomach, thence to his knees. They were paying no attention to him....
“Ho, there! the prisoner!” cried von Mitter, tumbling out of the carriage. He tried to stand up, but a numbness seized his legs, and he sank to a sitting posture.
Maurice and Scharfenstein turned too late. Johann had mounted on Scharfenstein's horse, and was flying away down the road. Maurice coolly leveled his revolver and sent two bullets after him. The second one caused Johann to straighten stiffly, then to sink; but he hung on to the horse.
“Hurry!” cried Maurice; “I've hit him and we'll find him along the road somewhere.”
They lifted von Mitter into the carriage, wheeled it about, and Scharfenstein mounted the box. Maurice sprang into his saddle, and they clattered off toward the city.
The cuirassiers stationed in the guardroom of the royal palace walked gently on the tiling, when occasion required them to walk, and when they entered or left the room, they were particularly careful to avoid the chink of the spur or the clank of the saber. Although the royal bedchamber was many doors removed, the Captain had issued a warning against any unnecessary noise. A loud laugh, or the falling of a saber carelessly rested, drew upon the unlucky offender the scowling eyes of the commander, who reclined in front of the medieval fireplace, in which a solitary log burned, and brooded over past and present. The high revels in the guardroom were no more, the cuirassiers were no longer made up of the young nobles of the kingdom; they were now merely watch dogs.
Twenty years ago the commander had come from Dresden as an instructor in arms, and after the first year had watched over the royal household, in the service of the late king and the king who lay dying. He had come of good family, but others had come off better, and had carried off court honors, though his post in early days had been envied by many. He was above all else a soldier, the embodiment of patience and integrity, and he scorned to murmur because fortune had passed over his head. As he sucked at his pipe, he recalled the days of Albrecht and his opera singers, the court scandals, and his own constant employment as messenger in the king's love intrigues.
Albrecht had died a widower and childless, and with him had died the flower of court life. The courtiers and sycophants had flocked to the standard of the duke, and had remained there, primarily because Leopold of Osia promised a sedate and exemplary life. Sometimes the Captain shook his head, as if communing with some unpleasant thought. On each side of him sat a soldier, also smoking and ruminating.
At the mess table a dozen or so whiled away the time at cards. The wavering lights of the candle and hearth cast warring shadows on the wall and floor, and the gun and saber racks twinkled. If the players spoke, it was in tones inaudible to the Captain's ears.
“Our bread and butter,” said the Captain softly, “are likely to take unto themselves the proverbial wings and fly away.”
No one replied. The Captain was a man who frequently spoke his thoughts aloud, and required no one to reply to his disjointed utterances.
“A soldier of fortune,” he went on, “pins his faith and zeal to standards which to-day rise and to-morrow fall. Unfortunately, he takes it at flood tide, which immediately begins to ebb.”
The men on either side of him nodded wisely.
“The king can no longer speak. That is why the archbishop has dismissed the cabinet. While he could speak, his Majesty refused to listen to the downfall of his enemies. Why? Look to heaven; heaven only can answer. How many men of the native troops are quartered in these buildings? Not one—which is bad. Formerly they were in the majority. Extraordinary. His Majesty would have made friends with them, but the archbishop, an estimable man in his robes, practically ostracized them. Bad, very bad. Had we been comrades, there might be a different end.
“Faugh! if one of us sticks his head into the city barracks a breath of ice is our reward. Kronau never attends the receptions. A little flattery, which costs nothing, and they would have been willing to die for his Majesty. Now—” He knocked his pipe on the firedog. “Now, they would not lift a finger. A soldier will forgive all things but premeditated neglect.
“As for me, when the time comes I shall return to Dresden and die of old age. Maybe, though, I shan't. When his Majesty dies there is like to be a clash. The duchess is a clever woman, but she would make a balky wife; a capillary affection which runs in the family. Red hair in a man is useful; in a woman it is unmanageable.” He refilled his pipe and motioned toward the tongs. The soldier nearest caught up a brand and held it out. The Captain laid his pipe against it and drew. “It's a dreary watch I have from ten till daylight, in his Majesty's antechamber, but he will trust no other man at that post.” And with this he fell into silence.
Some time passed. Twice the Captain pulled out his watch and looked at it. Shortly after nine o'clock the beat of hoofs came up the driveway, and the Captain turned his head toward the entrance and waited. A moment later the door opened and three men stood framed in the doorway. Two of them—one in civilian dress—were endeavoring to hold up a third between them. The central figure presented an alarming picture. His cuirass and white trousers were splashed with blood, and his head rolled from side to side, almost insensibly.
“A thousand devils!” exclaimed the Captain at the sight of this unexpected tableau. He sprang up, toppling over his chair. “What's this? Von Mitter? Blood? Have those damned students—”
“A brush on the lake road,” interrupted Sharfenstein, breathlessly. “Help him over to a chair, Monsieur Carewe. That's it.”
“Have you a knife, Captain?” asked Maurice.
The Captain whipped out his knife, locked it, and gave it to Maurice. “Riemer,” he called to one of the cuirassiers, who were rising from the mess table, “bring out your box of instruments; and you, Scharfenstein, a basin of cold water. Quick!”
Maurice knelt and deftly cut away the Lieutenant's boot. A pool of blood collected on the floor.
“God save us!” cried the Captain, “his boot is full of blood.” He turned to Scharfenstein, who was approaching with the basin. “What has happened, Max?”
Scharfenstein briefly explained.
“And Kopf?”
“Got away, curse him!”
“And the others?” with a lowering brow.
“They all got away,” adding an oath under his breath. Max set the basin on the floor.
“Bad, very bad. Why didn't you shoot?”
“He was afraid of hitting Mademoiselle Bachelier,” Maurice interposed.
Max threw him a grateful look.
“Humph!” The Captain called his men around him. “Two of you—. But wait. Who's back of Kopf?”
“Our distinguished Colonel,” snapped Max, “who was this day relieved of his straps. A case of revenge, probably.”
“Beauvais! Ah, ah!” The Captain smiled grimly. He had always hated Beauvais, who had, for no obvious reason, passed him and grasped the coveted colonelcy, and because, curiously enough, the native troops had made an idol of him. “Beauvais? I am not surprised. An adventurer, with neither kith nor country.”
“He is Prince Walmoden,” said Maurice, “and for some reason not known, the emperor has promised to recall him.”
This information caused the Captain to step back, and he muttered the name several times. “Austria....” A gloom settled on his face. “No matter. Prince or no prince, or had he one thousand emperors behind him, no matter. Four of you seek him and arrest him. If he offers resistance, knock him on the head, but arrest him. A traitor is without name, country or respect. His purpose... Never mind.
“Four of you seek for Kopf. Look into Stuler's, in at the opera, and follow Kopf's woman home. I'll take it upon myself to telegraph the frontier to allow no one to cross on the pain of being shot. Pass the word to the officers in the stables. Hurry away before the archbishop hears of the matter. Away with you, and quietly. And one of you seek that blockhead of a coachman, who did not know enough to come back here and inform us. Beauvais, make him a prisoner, you are not to know why. As for Kopf, dead or alive—alive will be less convenient for all concerned. Off with you!”
The guardroom was at once emptied, and the cuirassiers turned off toward the stables, where the main body of the troops was stationed.
Riemer, who was both surgeon and soldier, probed the wound in von Miner's leg and extracted the bullet, which had lodged in the fleshy part of the calf. He applied cold water, lints and bandages. All the while von Mitter sat in the chair, his eyes shut and his lips closed tightly.
“There!” said the surgeon, standing up, “that's better. The loss of blood is the worst part of it.” Next he took a few stitches in the cut on the cheek and threw his cloak over the wounded man's knee. “He'll be all right in a day or so, though he'll limp. Carl?”
“O, I'm sound enough,” answered von Mitter, opening his eyes. “A little weak in the knees, that's all. I shouldn't have given in, only Kopf got away when we had him fair and fast. We found his horse wandering about the Frohngarten, but no sign of Johann. He's got it, though, square in the back.”
“I'm sure of it,” said Maurice, who leaned over the back of the speaker's chair.
The Captain eyed him inquiringly.
“Pardon me,” said Scharfenstein. “Captain, Monsieur Carewe, an American tourist, formerly of the United States cavalry. And a pretty shot, too, by the book! It would have gone badly with us but for him.”
“My thanks,” said the Captain, with a jerky nod. “Max, come, give me the whole story.”
And Scharfenstein dropped into a chair and recounted in picturesque diction the adventure; how they had remained by the royal carriage till the nurse, recovering from her faint, had rushed out and told them of the abduction; and the long race on the south shore. While he listened the Captain smoked thoughtfully; and when the story was done, he rose and wagged his head.
“Call it revenge,” he said, “if it strikes you in that light. Monsieur Carewe, what is your opinion?”
“It occurs to me,” answered Maurice, rubbing the scratch the late Colonel's sword had left on his chin, “it occurs to me that the man played his hand a few days too late.”
“Which is to say?”
“Well, I do not call it revenge,” Maurice admitted, unwilling to venture any theory.
“No more do I;” and the Captain began drumming on the mantel. “What say, Max; how would the illustrious Colonel look with the shadow of a crown on his head? He comes from Austria, who, to my thinking, is cognizant of all he does and has done.”
The answer was not spoken. The door, leading to the main palace through the kitchens, opened, and the Marshal, the princess, and the maid of honor came down the steps. The Captain, Max and the surgeon stood at salute. Maurice, however, drew back into the shadows at the side of the grate. The old soldier gazed down at the pale face of the young Lieutenant, and smiled kindly.
“Even the best of soldiers make mistakes,” he said; “even the best. No,” as von Mitter made an attempt to speak. “I've heard all about it, and from a most reliable source,” nodding toward the anxious maid of honor. “Colonel,” he addressed the Captain, whose eyes started at this appellation, “Colonel, you will report to me in the morning to assume your new duties. You have been a faithful Captain and a good soldier. I know your value, your name and your antecedents, which till now was more than I knew of your late predecessor. Von Mitter will take upon himself your duties as Captain of the household troop; and you, Scharfenstein, will hereafter take charge of her Royal Highness's carriage, and you may choose whom you will as your comrade.”
“I have always tried to do my duty,” said von Mitter. He felt a small hand secretly press his.
“And you have always succeeded, Captain,” said a voice which made Maurice's foolish heart leap. “See, I am the first to give you your new rank. How you must suffer!”
“God bless your Royal Highness!” murmured the fellow, at once racked with pain and happiness. “But I am not the one you must thank for this night's work.”
The Marshal peered at the silent figure beyond the fireplace. Maurice was compelled to stand forth. “Ah!” said the Marshal.
“Yes,” went on von Mitter, “but for him no one knows what the end might have been. And I, thinking him one of the abducting party coming up from the rear, shot at him.”
The princess took a step forward, anxiety widening her dark eyes; and the swift glance added to the fever in the recipient's veins.... How beautiful she was, and how far away! He laid his hand on the top of von Mitter's chair.
“Monsieur Carewe,” said the Marshal, “seems to have plenty of leisure time on his hands—fortunately for us. You were not hit?”
“O, no,” said Maurice, blushing. He had discerned an undercurrent of raillery in the Marshal's tones. “The ball came close to my ear, that was all. It is strange how that fellow got away. I am positive that I hit him.”
“We shall find him,” said the Marshal, with a look at the newly-appointed Colonel which said: “Your straps hang in the balance.” He rubbed his nose. “Well, is your Royal Highness satisfied that there is no danger?”
“Yes, Marshal; but think, if he should have been killed! Ah, what does it all mean? What had this man against me, who have always been kind to him?”
“We shall, with your Highness's permission,” said the Marshal, “leave all questions to the future. Let us return to the archbishop, who is doubtless awaiting the news. Take good care of yourself, Captain. To-morrow, Colonel; good evening to you, Monsieur Carewe;” and the terse old soldier proceeded to the door and held it open for the women.
“Good night, Messieurs,” said her Highness. “I shall not forget. Thanks to you, Captain.” One more glance, and she was gone. But this glance blossomed in one heart into a flower of hope.
The Marshal, having closed the door behind the women, returned to the group before the fireplace. They watched him interestedly.
“Colonel,” he said, “make no effort to seek Beauvais. As for Kopf, that is different. But Beauvais—”
“To let him go?” exclaimed the Colonel in dismay.
“Aye, to let him go. We do not seek bears with birdshot, and that is all we have. He will leave the country.”
“And go to the duchy!”
“So much the better; when the time comes, our case against him will be so much the stronger. Mind you, this is not from sentiment. I have none,” glaring around to see if any dared refute this assertion. “It is policy, and Monseigneur concurs with me.”
“But I have sent men after him!” cried the Colonel, in keen disappointment.
“Send men after them to rescind the order.”
“And if they should catch him?”
“Let him go; that is my order. The servant will be sufficient for our needs. Monsieur Carewe, I rely on your discretion;” and the Marshal passed into the kitchens.
The men looked at each other in silence. A moment later the Colonel dashed from the room, off to the stables.
“Well, I'm off,” said Maurice. The desire to tell what he knew was beginning to master him. It was too late now, he saw that. Besides, they might take it into their heads to detain him. He put on his hat. “Good night; and good luck to your leg, Captain.”
“Till to-morrow,” said von Mitter, who had taken a fancy to the smooth-faced young American, who seemed at home in all places.
“I am going away to-morrow,” said Maurice, pressing the Lieutenant's hand. “I shall return in a day or so.”
He led his horse to the hotel stables, lit a fresh cigar and promenaded the terrace. “Some day,” he mused, “perhaps I'll be able to do something for myself. To-morrow we'll take a look at Fitzgerald's affairs, like the good fairy we are. If the Colonel is there, so much the worse for one or the other of us.” He laughed contentedly. “Beauvais took my warning and lit out, or his henchman would never have made a botch of the abduction. It is my opinion that Madame wanted a hostage, for it is impossible to conceive that the man made the attempt on his own responsibility. I shall return to the duchy in a semi-official character as an envoy extraordinary to look into the whereabouts of one Lord Fitzgerald. Devil take me, but I did make a mess of it when I slapped him on the shoulder that night.” The princess had not addressed a word to him. Why?
When the princess and her maid of honor had passed through the kitchens into the princess's boudoir, the maid suddenly caught her mistress's hand and imprinted a hasty kiss on it, to the latter's surprise and agitation. There was something in that kiss which came nearer to sincere affection than Mademoiselle Bachelier had ever shown before.
“Camille?”
“God bless your Highness!” whispered the girl, again pressing the cold hand to her lips. What had given rise to this new-born affection she herself could not say, but a sudden wave of pity rushed into her heart. Perhaps it was because she loved and was loved that caused this expansion of heart toward her mistress, who was likely never to love or beget love, who stood so lonely. Tears came into her eyes.
“You are hysterical!” said the princess.
“No; it is because—because—” She stopped and a blush suffused her face and temples.
The princess took the face between her hands and gazed long and earnestly into it. “Have you discovered a belated pity in your heart for me? Or is it because you thought him wounded unto death, and he was not?”
“It is both!” weeping.
The princess put her arms around the maid. “And you weep for happiness? Let us weep together, then; only—I can not weep for happiness.”
To return to the flight of Kopf. As he dashed down the road he heard two reports. At the second he experienced a terrible burning blow under the right shoulder-blade, and immediately his arm became paralyzed. He coughed. With a supreme effort he managed to recover his balance. Already his collar-bone had been cracked by a bullet either from von Mitter or from Scharfenstein.
“God's curse on them all!” he sobbed, pushing his knees into his horse; “God's curse!” He bit his lips; and when he drew his breath the pain which followed almost robbed him of his senses. Behind him the sound of hoofs came no nearer; he had a chance. He could not look back to see if he gained, however, as his neck was stiffening.
“Curse him and his damned gold! He never warned me as he said he would.” On he rode. The moon became obscured, and when it flashed again he could see it but indistinctly.... To reach the city, to reach Gertrude's, to give the horse a cut and send him adrift, this was his endeavor. But would he reach the city—alive? Was he dying? He could not see... Yet again he shut his jaws and drew on his entire strength. He was keeping in the saddle by will power alone. If the horse faltered he was lost. To Gertrude; she could use them. And after all he loved her. If he died she would be provided for.
The first of the city lamps. He sobbed. Into this street he turned, into that, expecting each moment to be challenged, for the white saddle blanket of the cuirassiers stood out conspicuously. At last he had but a corner to turn. He stopped, slid from the saddle and gave the animal a cut across the face. The horse reared, then plunged forward at a wild gallop. Johann staggered along the street, fumbling in his pockets for his keys.
Gertrude of the opera company was usually in the ballet. To-night she had left the stage after the first dance. She had complained of a severe headache, and as the manager knew her worth he had permitted her withdrawal from the corps. She lived off the Frohngarten, in an apartment on the second floor, over a cheap restaurant. She was bathing her temples in perfumed ammonia water, when she heard footsteps in the corridor, and later the rasp of a key in the lock. As the door opened she beheld a spectacle which caused her to scream.
“Hush! Gertrude, I am dying.... Brandy! I must talk to you! Silence!” Johann tottered to a lounge and dropped on his side.
The woman, still trembling with fright and terror, poured into her palm some of the pungent liquid with which she had been bathing her temples, and held it under his nose. It revived him. And in a few broken sentences he made known to her what had happened.
“Gertrude, I am lost!” He breathed with difficulty. “I have lived like a rascal, and I die like one. But I have always loved you; I have always been true to you; I have never beaten nor robbed you.” His eyes closed.
“O God,” she cried, “what shall I do? Johann, you must not die! We will leave the country together. Johann, you do not speak! Johann!” She kissed him, pressed him in her arms, regardless of the stains which these frantic fondlings gathered from his breast. “Johann!”
“Rich,” he said dreamily; “rich... and to die like a dog!”
She left him and rushed to the sideboard, poured out a tumbler of brandy, and returned to his side. She raised his head, but he swallowed with effort.
“In the lungs,” he said. “God! how it burns! Rich; we are rich, Gertrude; a hundred thousand crowns.... And I am dying!... What a failure! Curse them all; they never offered to lend a hand unless it led toward hell! Gertrude... I must tell you. Here; here, put your hand in this pocket; yes. Draw them out... A hundred thousand crowns!”
The woman shuddered. Her hand and what it held were wet with blood.
“Hide them!” And Johann fainted away for the second time. When he came to his senses, several minutes had passed. Quickly, with what remaining strength he had, he unfolded his plan.
And her one idea was to save him. She drenched her handkerchief with the ammonia, and bade him hold it to his nose, while she fetched a basin of water and a sponge. Tenderly she drew back his coat and washed the blood from his throat and lips, and moistened his hair.
“Listen!” he cried suddenly, rising on his elbow. “It is they! They have found me! Quick! to the roof!” He struggled to his feet, with that strength which imparts itself to dying men, super-human while it lasts. He threw one arm around her neck. “Help me!”
And thus they gained the hall, mounted the flight to the roof, he groaning and urging, she sobbing, hysterical, and frenzied. She climbed the ladder with him, threw back the trap, and helped him on the roof.
“Now leave me!” he said, kissing her hand.
She gave him her lips, and went down to her rooms, and waited and waited. This agony of suspense lasted a quarter of an hour, when again came the clatter of hoofs. Would this, too, prove a false alarm? She held her hand to her ear. If he were dying... They had stopped; they were mounting the stairs; O God, they were beating on the door!
“Open!” cried a voice without; “open in the king's name!”
She gasped, but words would not come. She clenched her hands until the nails sank into the flesh.
“Open, Madame, or down comes the door.”
The actress in her came to the rescue. The calm of despair took possession of her.
“In a moment, Messieurs,” she said. Her voice was without agitation. She opened the door and the cuirassiers pushed past her. “In heaven's name, Messieurs, what does this mean?”
“We want Johann Kopf,” was the answer, “and we have it from good authority that he is here. Do not interfere with us; you are in no wise connected with the affair.”
“He is not here,” she replied. She wondered at herself, her tones were so even, her mind was so clear.
One of the cuirassiers caught up her gown. “What's this, Madame?” he demanded, pointing to the dark wet stains; “and this?” to her hands, “and this?” to the spots on the carpet, the basin and the sponge. “To the roof, men; he has gone by the roof! Up with you!”
The ballet dancer held forth her hands in supplication; life forsook her limbs; she sank.
The cuirassiers rushed to the roof.... When they came down it was slowly and carefully. What they had found on the roof was of no use to them. They laid the inanimate thing on the lounge, and frowned. One of the cuirassiers lifted the ballet dancer and carried her into her bed-room, and laid her on the bed. He had not the heart to revive her. Death softens all angers; even an enemy is no longer such when dead. And Johann Kopf was dead.
At eight o'clock of the following evening, that is to say, the nineteenth of September, Maurice mounted the Thalian pass and left the kingdom in the valley behind him. He was weary, dusty, lame and out of humor; besides, he had a new weight on his conscience. The night before he had taken the life of a man. True, this had happened before, but always in warfare. He had killed in a moment of rage and chagrin a poor devil who was at most only a puppet. There was small credit in the performance. However, the rascal would have suffered death in any event, his act being one of high treason.
In the long ride he had made up his mind to lock away forever the silly dream, the tender, futile, silly dream. All men die with secrets locked in their hearts; thus he, too, would die. His fancy leaped across the chasm of intervening years to the day of his death, and the thought was a happy one! He smiled sadly, as young men smile when they pity themselves. He knew that he would never get over it—in a day. But to-morrow, or to-morrow's to-morrow..
He took the pass's decline; the duchy spread away toward the south. A quarter of a mile below him he saw the barrack and the customs office which belonged to Madame the duchess. The corporal inspected him and his papers, spoke lowly to the customs inspector, who returned to his office.
“It is all right, Monsieur Carewe,” said the corporal; “I ought to recognize the horse a mile away. You will arrive just in time.”
“Just in time for what?”
“Ah, true. Her Highness gives a grand ball at the chateau to-night. The court has arrived from Brunnstadt. Some will reside at the chateau, some at General Duckwitz's, others at the Countess Herzberg's.”
“Has the duchess arrived at last, then?” was the cynical inquiry.
“She will arrive this evening,” answered the corporal, grinning. “A pleasant journey to you.”
Maurice proceeded. “And that blockhead of an Englishman has not tumbled yet! The court here? A grand ball? What else can it mean but that Madame is celebrating a victory to come? If the archbishop has those consols, she will wage war; and this is the prelude.” He jogged along. He had accomplished a third of the remaining distance, when he was challenged. The sentry came forward and scrutinized the rider.
“O, it is Monsieur Carewe!” he cried in delighted tones. He touched his cap and fell back into the shadows.
A mile farther, and the great chateau, scintillating with lights, loomed up against the yellow sky. He felt a thrill of excitement. Doubtless there would be some bright passages before the night drew to a close. He would make furious love to the pretty countess; it would be something in the way of relaxation. How would they greet him? What would be Madame's future plans in regard to Fitzgerald? How would she get him out of the way, now that he had served her purpose? He laughed.
“The future promises much,” he said, half aloud. “I am really glad that I came back.”
“Halt!”
Maurice drew up. A sentry stepped out into the road.
“O, it is Monsieur Carewe!” he cried. With a short laugh he disappeared.
“Hang me,” grumbled Maurice as he went on, “these fellows have remarkable memories. I can't recollect any of them.” He was mystified.
Shortly he came upon the patrol. The leader ordered him to dismount, an order be obeyed willingly, for he was longing to stand again. He shook his legs, while the leader struck a match.
“Why, it is Monsieur Carewe!” he cried. “Good! We are coming out to meet you. This is a pleasure indeed.”
Maurice gazed keenly into the speaker's face, and to his surprise beheld the baron whose arm he had broken a fortnight since. He climbed on his horse again.
“I am glad you deem it a pleasure, baron,” he said dryly. “From what you imply, I should judge that you were expecting me.”
“Nothing less! Your departure from Bleiberg was known to us as early as two o'clock this after-noon,” answered the baron. “Permit us to escort you to the chateau before the ladies see you. 'Tis a gala night; we are all in our best bib and tucker, as the English say. We believed at one time that you were not going to honor us with a second visit. Now to dress, both of us; at ten Madame the duchess arrives with General Duckwitz and Colonel Mollendorf, who is no relation to the late minister of police in Bleiberg.”
Underneath all this Maurice discerned a shade of mockery, and it disturbed him.
“First, I should like to know—” he began.
“Later, later!” cried the baron. “The gates are but a dozen rods away. To your room first; the rest will follow.”
“The only clothes I have with me are on my back,” said Maurice.
“We shall arrange that. Your guard-hussar uniform has been reserved for you, at the suggestion of the Colonel.”
And Maurice grew more and more disturbed.
“Were they courteous to you on the road?”
“Yes. But—”
“Patience! Here we are at the rear gates.”
Maurice found it impossible to draw back; three troopers blocked the rear, the baron and another rode at his sides, and four more were in advance. The rear gates swung open, and the little troop passed into the chateau confines. Maurice snatched a glimpse of the front lawns and terraces. The trees and walls were hung with Chinese lanterns; gay uniforms and shimmering gowns flitted across his vision. Somewhere within the chateau an orchestra was playing the overture from “Linda di Chamounix.” Indeed, with all these brave officers, old men in black bedecked with ribbons, handsome women in a brilliant sparkle of jewels, it had the semblance of a gay court. It was altogether a different scene from that which was called the court of Bleiberg. There was no restraint here; all was laughter, music, dancing, and wines. The women were young, the men were young; old age stood at one side and looked on. And the charming Voiture-verse of a countess, Maurice was determined to seek her first of all. He vaguely wondered how Fitzgerald would carry himself throughout the ordeal.
The troopers dismounted in the courtyard.
“I'm a trifle too stiff to dance,” Maurice innocently acknowledged.
The baron laughed. “You will have to take luck with me in the stable-barrack; the chateau is filled. The armory has been turned into a ballroom, and the guard out of it.”
“Lead on!” said Maurice.
At the entrance to the guardroom, which occupied the left wing of the stables, stood a Lieutenant of the hussars.
“This is Monsieur Carewe,” said the baron, “who will occupy a corner in the guardroom.”
“Ah! Monsieur Carewe,” waving his hand cavalierly; “happy to see you again.”
Maurice was growing weary of his name.
“Enter,” said the baron, opening the door.
Maurice entered, but not without suspicion. However, he was in a hurry to mingle with the gay assembly in the chateau. But that body was doomed to proceed without the honor or the knowledge of his distinguished presence. Several troopers were lounging about. At the sight of the baron they rose.
“Messieurs,” he said, “this is Monsieur Carewe, who was expected.”
“Glad to see you!” they sang out in chorus. They bowed ironically.
Maurice gazed toward the door. As he did so four pairs of arms enveloped him, and before he could offer the slightest resistance, he was bound hand and foot, a scarf was tied over his mouth, and he was pushed most disrespectfully into a chair. The baron's mouth was twisted out of shape, and the troopers were smiling.
“My faith! but this is the drollest affair I ever was in;” and the baron sat on the edge of the table and held his sides. “Monsieur Carewe! Ha! ha! You are a little too stiff to dance, eh? Shall I tender your excuses to the ladies? Ass! did you dream for a moment that such canaille as you, might show your countenance to any save the scullery maids? Too stiff to dance! Ye gods, but that was rich! And you had the audacity to return here! I must go; the thing is killing me.” He slipped off the table, red in the face and choking. “The telegraph has its uses; it came ahead of you. We trembled for fear you would not come! Men, guard him as your lives, while I report to Madame, I dare say she will make it droller in the telling.”
He stepped to the door, turned, looking into the prisoner's glaring eyes; he doubled up again. “We are quits; I forgive you the broken arm; this laugh will repay me. How Madame the countess will laugh! And Duckwitz—the General will die of apoplexy! O, but you are a sorry ass; and how neatly we have clipped your ears!” And into the corridor he went, still laughing, heartily and joyously, as if what had taken place was one of the finest jests in the world.
Maurice, white and furious, was positive that he never would laugh again. And the most painful thought was that his honesty had brought him to this pass—or, was it his curiosity?
Fitzgerald stood alone in the library. The music of a Strauss waltz came indistinctly to him. He was troubled, and the speech of it lay in his eyes. From time to time he drummed on the window sill, and followed with his gaze the shadowy forms on the lawns. He was not a part of this fairy scene. He was out of place. So many young and beautiful women eyeing him curiously confused him. In every glance he innocently read his disgrace.
At Madame's request he had dressed himself in the uniform of a Lieutenant-Colonel, which showed how deeply he was in the toils. Though it emphasized the elegant proportions of his figure, it sat uncomfortably upon him. His vanity was not equal to his sense of guilt. The uniform was a livery of dishonor. He could not distort it into a virtue, try as he would. He lacked that cunning artifice which a man of the world possesses, that of winning over to the right a misdeed.
And Carewe, on whose honesty he would have staked his life, Carewe had betrayed him. Why, he could not conceive. He saw how frail his house of love was. A breath and it was gone. What he had until to-day deemed special favors were favors common to all these military dandies. They, too, could kiss Madame's hand, and he could do no more. And yet she held him. Did she love him? He could not tell. All he knew was that it was impossible not to love her. And to-night he witnessed the culmination of the woman beautiful, and it dazzled him, filled him with fears and oppressions.... To bind her hand and foot, to carry her by force to the altar, if need; to call her his in spite of all.
If she were playing with him, making a ball of his heart and her fancy a cup, she knew not of the slumbering lion within. He himself was but dimly conscious of it. Princess? That did not matter. Since that morning the veil had fallen from his eyes, but he had said nothing; he was waiting for her to speak. Would she laugh at him? No, no! The knowledge that had come to him had transformed wax into iron. Princess? She was the woman who had promised to be his wife.
Only two candles burned on the mantel-piece. The library was a room apart from the festivities. A soft, rose-colored darkness pervaded the room. Presently a darker shadow tiptoed over the threshold. He turned, and the shadow approached. Madame's gray eyes, full of lambent fires, looked into his own.
“I was seeking you,” she said. The jewels in her hair threw a kind of halo above her head.
“Have I the happiness to be necessary to you?” he asked.
“You have not been enjoying yourself.”
“No, Madame; my conscience is, unhappily, too green.” He turned to the window again for fear he would lose control of himself.
“I have a confession to make to you,” she said humbly. How broad his shoulders were, was her thought.
“It can not concern me,” he replied.
“How?”
“There is only one confession which I care to hear. You made it once, though you are not willing to repeat it. But I have your word, Sylvia; I am content. Not all the world could make me believe that you would willingly retract that word.”
Her name, for the first time coming from his lips, caused her to start. She sent him a penetrating glance, but it broke on a face immobile as marble.
“I do not recollect granting you permission to use my given name,” she said.
“O, that was before the world. But alone, alone as we are, you and I, it is different.” The smile which accompanied these words was frankness itself, but it did not deceive Madame, who read his eyes too well. “Ah, but the crumbs you give this love of mine are so few!” “You are the only man in the world permitted to avow love to me. You have kissed my hand.”
“A privilege which seems extended to all.”
Madame colored, but there was not light enough for him to perceive it.
“The hand you kissed is the hand of the woman; others kiss it to pay homage. Monsieur, forgive me for having deceived you, you were so easy to deceive.” His eyes met hers steadily.
“I am not Madame simply. I am Stephonia Sylvia Auersperg; the name I assumed was my mother's.” His lack of surprise alarmed her.
“I am well aware of that,” he said. “You are the duchess.”
Something in his tone warned her of a crisis, and she put forth her cunning to avert it. “And, you—you will not love me less?” her voice vibrant as the string of a viol. “I am a princess, but yet a woman. In me there are two, the woman and the princess. The princess is proud and ambitious; to gain her ends she stops at nothing. As a princess she may stoop to trickery and deceit, and step back untouched. But the woman-ah, well; for this fortnight I have been most of all the woman.”
“And all this to me-is a preamble to my dismissal, since my promise remains unfulfilled? Madame, do not think that because fate has willed that my promise should become void, that my conscience acquits me of dishonor. For love of you I have thrown honor to the winds. But do I regret it? No. For I am mad, and being mad, I am not capable of reason. I have broken all those ties which bind a man's respect to himself. I have burned all bridges, but I laugh at that. It is only with the knowledge that your love is mine that I can hold high my head.
“As the princess in you is proud, so is the man in me. A princess? That is nothing; I love you. Were you the empress of all the Russias, the most unapproachable woman in the world, I should not hesitate to profess my love, to find some means of declaring it to you. I love you. To what further depths can I fall to prove it?” Again he sought the window, and leaned heavily on the sill. He waited, as a man waits for an expected blow.
As she listened a delicious sensation swept through her heart, a sensation elusive and intangible. She surrendered without question. At this moment the Eve in her evaded all questions. Here was a man. The mood which seized her was as novel as this love which asked nothing but love, and the willingness to pay any price; and the desire to test both mood and love to their full strength was irresistible. She was loved for herself alone; hitherto men had loved the woman less and the princess more. To surrender to both mood and love, if only for an hour or a day, to see to what length this man would go at a sign from her.
He was almost her equal in birth; his house was nearly if not quite as old and honored as her own; in his world he stood as high as she stood in hers. She had never committed an indiscretion; passion had never swayed her; until now she had lived by calculation. As she looked at him, she knew that in all her wide demesne no soldier could stand before him and look straight into his eyes. So deep and honest a book it was, so easily readable, that she must turn to its final pages. Love him? No. Be his wife? No. She recognized that it was the feline instinct to play which dominated her. Consequences? Therein lay the charm of it.
“Patience, Monsieur,” she said. “Did I promise to be your wife? Did I say that I loved you? Eh, bien, the woman, not the princess, made those vows. I am mistress not only of my duchy, but of my heart.” She ceased and regarded him with watchful eyes. He did not turn. “Look at me, John!” The voice was of such winning sweetness that St. Anthony himself, had he heard it, must have turned. “Look at me and see if I am more a princess than a woman.”
He wheeled swiftly. She was leaning toward him, her face was upturned. No jewel in her hair was half so lustrous as her eyes. From the threaded ruddy ore of her hair rose a perfume like the fabulous myrrhs of Olympus. Her lips were a cup of wine, and her eyes bade him drink, and the taste of that wine haunted him as long as he lived. He made as though to drain the cup, but Madame pushed down his arms, uttered a low, puzzled laugh, and vanished from the room. He was lost! He knew it; yet he did not care. He threw out his arms, dropped them, and settled his shoulders. A smile, a warm, contented smile, came into his face and dwelt there. For another such kiss he would have bartered eternity.
And Madame? Who can say?