CHAPTER XXXITHE COUSINS MEET
HIS great object having been so luckily obtained, having found and reassured Countess Minna, Ompertz judged it well to tell Rollmar the truth about Princess Ruperta, although he did not venture to add that he had known of her flight all along. The Chancellor fell into a fury of annoyance at this new turn of events, which promised to render the hushing-up of her escapade all the more difficult. Ludwig, whose first enquiries had naturally been for Ruperta, was, while overwhelmed at the thought of her devotion, rendered desperately anxious as to the result of the step she had taken.
“It is my own fault,” he exclaimed, miserably, “in keeping my secret. Ignorant as to who I am, how could she know the double danger she was running in appealing to the last man she should have sought?”
“Neither does he know her lover’s identity,” Ompertz suggested, hopefully.
“What does that matter?” Ludwig returned. “Ferdinand is evil-minded and treacherous, and she is the most beautiful woman in the world. Thank Heaven, at least, that I am free.”
So, burning with the desire to reach his kingdom, which every hour now must render his the less, and to put his fortunes upon a desperate cast, he addressed himself tothe wrathful and discomfited Rollmar, in whose plans he seemed no longer an appreciable factor.
“I am setting out for Beroldstein within the hour, Excellency.”
“For Beroldstein?” The words were snapped out impatiently, indifferently, save for a sneer.
“To regain my kingdom.”
“Ah?” He shook his head. “It is too late.”
“That is my fault in some measure, fate’s in a greater.”
“It is a pity fate is against you,” Rollmar returned, curtly. “Luck counts for much in politics, as in everything else. Well, I wish yours may return, Prince.”
Clearly he did not think it would. He was turning away, busy with more urgent speculations, when Ludwig’s next words recalled him.
“As the husband chosen by yourself for Princess Ruperta, I may look to your Excellency for help in asserting my rights?”
Rollmar looked at him sharply. “Help? It is no business of mine or my master’s to set you on the throne. And I have already told you that the alliance we sought was with the undisputed heir to the throne of Drax-Beroldstein.”
“An excellent reason,” Ludwig returned with a confident smile, “why you should render me all the assistance in your power. I do not ask much. Only the few troops you have here, ready to hand, in my very territory. I am going straightway to claim my crown, you know I am neither a coward nor a fool, and luck has of late not been altogether against me. Will you, who profess such interest in me, grudge me the escort of this handful of men with which to enter my kingdom?”
“A forlorn hope, Prince.”
“No,” he replied resolutely. “Let me put it to you as policy. These men I seek to borrow may make all the difference between success and failure, although, ifI live, I do not mean to fail. Think what the effect will be if I ride into Beroldstein at the head of a body of your troops, the sign that I am backed by the power of Waldavia. And with Princess Ruperta by this time in Ferdinand’s clutches you cannot do otherwise than assert your interest in the situation. Do you think she will ever marry Ferdinand? I tell you that, whatever may be my fate, you may put that idea from your mind. Her courage and her constancy I can answer for.”
Rollmar had his own views of the female mind, still he was forced to confess to himself that Ludwig’s argument had a certain practical point. He felt more than ever furious that he had again let the Princess slip from his grasp to the thwarting of his plans, but, as statesman and diplomatist, he knew he must set himself to make the best of fate’s ill turn, and try by a stroke to win his game against it yet. Ludwig’s proposal was daring to rashness; and the cunning statesman hated and despised rashness, but it was just feasible and the situation was becoming so desperate that an heroic measure seemed called for. His sharp eyes read Ludwig, as he stood before him, confident and eager, as though the brain behind them were forecasting the desperate venture to its result by the token of its leader’s character.
“So!” he said, still dubious, “you think, Prince, that you have only to appear, for the people and the troops to declare for you?”
“I am sure of it. Only let me show that I am recognized as King by you?”
“H’m! It is a desperate chance, touch and go. I would not wager a ducat on it. Yet I like your spirit; I sympathize with your determination; power is no light thing to let another snatch away. No; were I in your place I would do as you are intending, though I would never have given my enemies the chance of making it necessary for the sake of a romantic whim. But then,if all men’s characters were alike where would be the zest in state-craft?”
The Chancellor was becoming more human under the inspiration of fighting for power than ever Ludwig had seen in him or thought possible.
So the upshot was that when the troops could be drawn from the sacking of Irromar’s castle, Rollmar, having thrown down his stake, turned homewards, and Ludwig rode off towards the capital of his kingdom with Ompertz at his side, and at the head of some three-score men. The delay in setting forth had been considerable, and the rough way made the progress of so large a company comparatively slow, so that it was night-fall when they arrived within a league of the city, having just missed encountering on their way a horseman, spurring through the forest, with evil in his face and murder in his heart—Karl Irromar.
Here a halt was made, while Ompertz was sent forward to give notice of Ludwig’s approach to several trusted friends and adherents. This was carried out quietly, and without arousing suspicion, even among Ferdinand’s spies, whose vigilance was, perhaps, beginning to relax. So successful was Ompertz’s errand, and so eagerly was the news of Ludwig’s arrival received by his friends, who had begun to despair of his coming, that in two hours’ time quite a considerable party had ridden out to greet their lawful sovereign. A plan was hastily formed, and it was resolved that the most likely way to gain their object was by a surprise and suddencoup de main.
Accordingly, the order was given, and the party rode forward to the city with all haste, lest the affair should get wind, and Ferdinand’s party have time to be on their guard. The advance was accomplished so successfully, that not until the gates were reached did the citizens become aware of what was going forward. Then several of Ludwig’s adherents dashed forward up the streets,crying, “Ludwig! Long live King Ludwig, who has come to claim his own! Hurrah for Ludwig, our rightful King! Out, men, and rally round your King, King Ludwig for ever!”
In a very few minutes the almost deserted streets became thronged with excited citizens, running hither and thither; and when Ludwig, at the head of what seemed a formidable body of troops, came clattering resolutely down the street, they recognized and began to shout for him, as they followed with excited curiosity in his wake.
So far all was well, but the most difficult and critical part of the business was yet to be faced. With all speed Ludwig and his followers made straightway for the palace and the barracks, which stood near together. By the time they arrived there it was evident that the bad news had been received; the palace was astir, and men were seen hurrying to and fro. Ludwig and his troops rode up to the main entrance, while Ompertz and half a dozen influential men turned aside to the barracks with a view of gaining over the soldiery by a sudden appeal. The great alarm bell began its frightful clanging; and as the soldiers sprang to arms, the party of Ludwig’s adherents presented themselves.
“Soldiers, your King has returned: King Ludwig,” cried Anton de Gayl. “He is even now at the palace doors, claiming his throne from the usurper. You are his soldiers, not Ferdinand’s; he looks to you to support him in right and truth and justice. Men, will you stand by him? He has the army of the Duke of Waldavia at his back, but he wants you; he relies on your loyalty and devotion. Say, are they his?”
From the windows could be seen the great square before the palace filled with troops and with a surging, shouting crowd, and, in the darkness, the real proportion of soldiers and citizens could not be distinguished. The men were taken by surprise, and evidently undecided.Suddenly a voice in the hall cried, “Long live King Ludwig!”
The effect was electrical, and, with a great cheer, the cry was echoed. De Gayl drew his sword.
“He is there, your rightful King,” he shouted excitedly; “there, on the threshold, claiming his throne. It is you, his own soldiers, his own countrymen, to whom he will look to seat him on it and maintain him there. Let Waldavians stand aside; this is the work and the privilege of Beroldsteiners. Come!”
He rushed out, and the men, with a cheer, caught up their arms and followed him.
In the meantime, Ludwig had advanced to the very door of the palace, which was hastily closed and barred against him. Then, by his orders, a blast was sounded, and a very stentor among his followers demanded admittance for Ludwig, the lawful King. As no reply was forthcoming, the order was given for the door to be forced. While this was in train, it was evident that the inmates of the palace were in a state of panic. And it was no wonder, with the whole square filled by what seemed a threatening crowd, and a strong body of troops at the very doors. Frantic messages were sent to the barracks for military aid; but it was too late, while only a handful of soldiers were within the palace and available. The main body was already outside and shouting for Ludwig.
The door was burst in with a crash, disclosing the brilliantly lighted vestibule filled with a desperate crowd of the usurper’s household. They offered no resistance, since it was clearly futile, as Ludwig, surrounded by a strong body-guard, entered, and passed triumphantly through to the state salon which lay beyond.
Here, in the midst of a group composed of his council, and adherents, whose drawn swords and militant attitudes contrasted oddly with their anxious, apprehensivefaces, stood Ferdinand, haggard and desperate, yet with a look of defiant hatred in his eyes.
So the cousins met.
For a few moments there was a pause, as it were at the very crisis in the game of life and death, when the winner’s stroke was made, and the losing gambler saw his ruin in his adversary’s face. It was a terrible silence, wherein men held their breath, and dared not anticipate the breaking of the intolerable strain.
Ludwig spoke first, standing forward now, and confronting his cousin’s lowering face.
“So you have taken care of my throne for me in my absence, Ferdinand,” he said, with an almost sweet gravity. “I fear the relinquishing of it will be distasteful to you, yet the moment has come when I must claim my own.”
Ferdinand’s sharp eyes searched for a suspicion of irony, but the sting, though sharp enough, was hidden. Ludwig’s tone and expression were as gravely simple as his words. Even the acuter Morvan, who stood by, biting his sensual lip in utter discomfiture, could detect no sarcasm.
Ferdinand made a brave attempt at a smile, but the result was a grin of hate and mortification. “So you are alive, after all, Cousin Ludwig,” he said awkwardly, and with a dry tongue. “We heard, on good authority, that you were dead.”
“I fear,” Ludwig returned, with stern calmness, “that my cousin was so content with such acceptable news, that he troubled neither to verify it, for fear it might prove false, nor to send me help in my danger. I have, indeed, been near death more than once; but, under Heaven’s mercy, have escaped. And I am here, as you see, to claim my throne.”
The last words, which were pronounced as a challenge, were received by Ferdinand and his party with ominous silence. The usurper glanced at Morvan, who went nearand spoke to him in a low tone. Then, in the midst of the dark mutterings, there was a movement beyond the doorway, which was filled by Ludwig’s adherents, who there awaited the upshot. They now drew aside to make a passage for Ompertz and de Gayl, who entered at the head of a body of the domestic troops which they had led from the barracks. Ferdinand, seeing the uniforms, and thinking they had come to his assistance, raised his head in relief, and stood forth defiantly. But Morvan had noticed the leaders, and shrank back, knowing the game was lost.
“I say I am here to claim my kingdom and the throne you have usurped,” Ludwig exclaimed, irritated and impatient at the other’s attitude.
There was a great shout of “Long live King Ludwig!” and Ferdinand drew back like a beaten hound.
“Does my cousin Ferdinand acknowledge or dispute my claim?” The question was spoken in a lower tone, but quite clearly.
For some moments no answer came from the baffled man, half crouching like a wolf at bay. Ludwig went up to him. “You must decide on the instant,” he said, sternly, “or take the consequences.”
Ferdinand ground his teeth together, as his vicious eyes sought counsel from Morvan. But the evil counsellor had none ready to meet that crisis, no time had been allowed to face the situation, he looked from one cousin to the other, silently compared them, and saw his case was hopeless; so the only reply he could give was a shrug. The bold game had been played and lost, and that it was irretrievably lost no one knew better than he whose brain had conceived it.
Ferdinand was fain to answer. “Have I ever pretended to dispute your right, or asserted my own claim, save on your disappearance and reported death? You have to thank me, cousin, for having kept the throne safefor you; nor do I imagine that you in my place would have acted otherwise.”
The speech was disingenuous enough, and Ludwig knew it; still he was content to take no further exception to it beyond replying:
“I think I should have acted with less haste and more decency. But that may pass. Then you, and the council, acknowledge my claim as rightful?”
There was a pause, as every man whom he addressed hesitated to declare the defeat of his own ambition. Nevertheless, the reluctant assent could not, in face of those odds, be withheld, and the word was sullenly spoken.
Ludwig acknowledged it a little haughtily, as accepting a right rather than a favour, and, at the word, de Gayl and Ompertz led the soldiers in another cheer, which, caught up and echoed through the hall and out into the palace square, sounded the knell of Ferdinand’s ambitious hopes.
“You will not be surprised,” said Ludwig, addressing his cousin, “that, until the public mind is clearer, I shall find it necessary to deprive you and your friends of your liberty. You will merely be confined to your own apartments, and I trust only a few days’ detention may be necessary.”
With a bitter scowl, Ferdinand turned away, a prisoner where, an hour before, he had played king. Thus, straightway, and without bloodshed, did Ludwig gain his throne.
Ruperta, who was lodged in the precincts of the palace, heard the tumult, which lasted almost through the night. Presently she was told that Prince Ludwig had arrived to claim his throne, and that a terrible struggle was anticipated. This news came as a stunning blow in her distress, for she realized that while the King had to fight for his throne he would have no mind or men for her service. Then, in the morning, she heard that the affairwas peaceably concluded, that Ferdinand had abdicated, and that Ludwig was King. So she made haste to renew her petition to the new ruler, and with revived hope, since she had, on reflection, come to distrust Ferdinand, and to doubt any real intention on his part of helping her.
In the miserable hours of waiting, she had divined that she had made upon the King an impression which would fall like a bar between her and her great desire; her instinct told her that he was self-indulgent and treacherous, and that there was little honour in the eyes which had looked on her so ardently. But what of this man, of the new King? she asked herself in her perplexity. That was a speculation which beat her. Politically, she might be considered his betrothed wife; yet he had run away to avoid her, and so nearly lost his kingdom. And now she, of all women, had come to him, of all men, to beg his interest and help on behalf of a lover. The position was intolerably false, for all it was honest and simple enough. She felt hot with shame that she had to make this petition, yet she was desperate, and, even at the best, the life of the man she so loved was hanging in the balance. Yes, she would let no false shame deter her; she would meet King Ludwig boldly and frankly; there was no love between them on either side, and—ah, but there might be. They had never seen each other. What if, at first sight, he should fall in love with her, as Ferdinand had done? Without vanity—poor girl, that was far from her just then—she knew it was more than possible. Her only hope was that King Ludwig might be, as she had pictured him, cold, stern, prejudiced; above all, she prayed that he was chivalrous, then the other qualities would matter little; at least he could not be worse than Ferdinand. So, with anxiety and impatience keeping back her repugnance and pride, she sent to the King, whose first care had been to learn that she was safe, a humble petition for an audience on a matter of life and death. It is certain that she had not to wait long for its granting.
How describe the meeting? When Ruperta entered the presence-chamber with fear of failure in her heart, and Ludwig rose to receive her, with greater fear in his, his life, his very soul, seemed to hang on the upshot of that moment of recognition, now so strangely come. At first, as she advanced, she saw only the kingly figure standing to receive her. Perhaps she dreaded to look into his face. But when, as she drew nearer, she did raise her eyes, she could not believe what they told her. She stopped dead, staring in fearful uncertainty at her lover; then, in a flash, the whole thing became plain as though she had known and forgotten and suddenly recollected it. Her pause was a terrible suspense to Ludwig, and, when at last her lips moved, and she cried his name, he ran forward with outstretched arms, and next moment she was clasped to his heart.
“Thank God you are safe,” she murmured, and he knew that in her kiss his trick was forgiven.
Then he led her, lover-like to the daïs, and with full hearts they talked, not of the past, since they scarcely dared think of it, but of the future, and the delight it surely held for them. And as they talked, a rider, with fury and discomfiture in his face, was savagely spurring a jaded horse over the cobbles of the street that led to the palace, then across the great square, noticing nothing, inquiring nothing, in his hot haste to bring news, bad enough, and the warning which might save his undoing.
“The King!” he cried, as he pulled up his poor reeking horse at the palace steps, flung himself out of the saddle, and rushed up to the door. “I must see the King instantly. I bring news that touches his Majesty’s safety.”
Those of the attendants who did not guess the truth thought his errand might well be what he proclaimed it, while any who may have realized his mistake kept their own counsel to see what might befall. Roughly, and waving aside any attempt to stay him, the man pressedforward to the presence-chamber, as the curious groups he passed closed in and followed him.
“The King! I must have instant word with the King.”
The door was opened at his approach, and he passed through, while some hurried forward to announce him to the King, who had that moment retired with Ruperta by an opposite door. On receiving the intimation Ludwig spoke a word to his betrothed, and turned back alone. Then, in that hour’s second surprise, the two men met again. Count Irromar’s hot, flushed face turned pale when he saw who the King was, and realized he had come too late. But his iron nerve did not desert him.
“Already Ludwig?” he exclaimed, with the insolent desperation of a ruined gambler. “I congratulate your Majesty, as much on your promptness as your good luck.”
Then he folded his arms, and stood defiantly silent, waiting for his own fate to be pronounced. He had lost all, yet did not for an instant regret his bold game. And, as for escape, a half-glance round had shown him Ompertz armed and expectant, and a file of soldiers at his elbow.
Ludwig hated his task, and, coming, as it did, so abruptly in the midst of his happiness, it was trebly repugnant. But the remembrance of that fiendishly murdered woman steeled him, more than would ever his own treatment, against an unwise mercy. It would be monstrous, he knew, and a gross abuse of his prerogative to let this ravening human wolf live to devour his subjects.
“You know the penalty of your crimes,” he said, with stern dignity, “and can hope for nothing less. It is death.”
Irromar bowed his head. “I do not complain. Fate has served you well, Ludwig. I accept the penalty which would have been yours but for the mischance of an hour. As I have lived my life, so will I die my death.”
Thus he went out to his prison and the scaffold.
“I shall never forgive you for running all those unnecessary risks for me,” Ruperta said to Ludwig. “I am sure if your subjects had known all your fool-hardiness, sir, they would have pronounced you unfit to govern them soberly, and would never have allowed you to depose Ferdinand.”
“You would not have cared for me, my glorious love,” he replied fondly, “if I had come in sober, formal state to take possession of you, to have the bargain paid over on the counter of the banker, Rollmar.”
“Tell me the truth, sir,” she insisted, her love hardly kept out of sight by her show of peremptoriness, “you came secretly like that to see whether you approved of the bargain. Had I not pleased you, it would have been so easy for Lieutenant von Bertheim to have slipped away again and left no one the wiser.”
“You are wrong, sweetheart. I knew there was no chance of that. For I had been given a description of you, as good a portrait as words could ever hope to paint of one that beggars description——”
“Ludovic!”
“And also a hint that you might rebel against being made a pawn in Rollmar’s political game.”
“That judgment was not far wrong.”
“I heard, too,” he continued, “that you were cold and proud; I could easily account for that, and I told myself that, as snow can keep warm a living body hidden beneath it, it did not follow that you had not a warm woman’s heart, and that if it were there I might find it.”
“You had no little confidence in yourself,” she protested, with a little pouting smile.
“You see,” he explained, “I expected help in my siege from a traitor in the garrison.”
“A traitor?”
“A rebel, who would rather fall into Lieutenant von Bertheim’s hands than into Prince Ludwig’s.”
“Ah! yes.”
“And then chance, the most valuable of allies, came to my help.”
“Luckily. Chance has played us some fine tricks.”
“The best is the last, which has given you to me. Ah, how I dreaded the moment when you would find me out. It might have turned your love to hate.”
“A trick that does not offend against love and honour will never make a woman hate a man she really loves. But I ought to bear you a grudge for your easy victory, and to punish you for stripping my heart so bare.”
“And for playing into your enemy Rollmar’s hands. Punish me; I will submit and kiss the rod.”
And with that penance the offence was blotted out.