CHAPTER IV
Fritzl lifted his heavy eyelids, and looked about him, first languidly, then wonderingly. Gone were the Riesenthor and the Stephansplatz, and in place of them was a quiet room, lined with books and hung with tapestries.
But the friendly eyes into which his gazed were still those of “Santa Claus,” and the friendly hand which had touched his bare head on the steps of the Giant’s Gate, held one of his own. His violin lay on the couch beside him, while a warm little tongue licking his hand, and the subdued but joyous thumping of a stubby tail against the polished floor, told that Tzandi was near.
So, all his fears relieved, Fritzl looked up happily to the man who sat beside him, and asked: “Is this your house, dear Santa Claus?”
“I shall have to tell him,” said “Unser Franz” to himself. Then aloud: “Yes, little lad, it is my house. But it is the palace of Schönbrunn, and I am only the Kaiser.”
“Well, I s’pose you can’t help it,” sighed Fritzl, “but I truly thought you were Santa Claus. You look exactly like him!”
“Thank you,” replied the Emperor meekly, “and I will try to be like him. Indeed, he sent me to thee, little lad, so do not be disappointed. Another year thou shalt surely see him. I—your Emperor—promise thee. And now, what wilt thou choose first as a gift from him?”
“Something to eat for Tzandi and me,” leapt the swift reply.
“Bless my heart,” laughed “Unser Franz,” ringing a silver bell on the table beside him. Then, as a servant appeared, he said, “Bring broth and bread and milk for the little lad.”
“Oh, yes,” he went on, answering the question in Fritzl’s eyes, “Tzandi has already eaten all that he possibly could.”
Then while Fritzl, propped with pillows on the broad lounge, ate hungrily, they talked together.
“What is thy name, little lad?”
“Fritzl, sir—I mean, Your Majesty,” remembering the words he had heard the servant use.
“Fritzl—and what else?”
“Nothing else,” firmly, “just Fritzl.”
“But who were thy father and mother?”
“I never had any,” the boy answered gravely. “Once there was Josef, the blind fiddler, but since he went to heaven, there’s only been just the violin and Tzandi and me.”
“And what art thou going to be, when thou art a man?”
“A great violinist!” flashed the prompt answer.
“And so thou shalt be, little Fritzl, if I can help thee to it.”
When the boy had eaten the broth and bread, “Unser Franz” rose.
“Now stay thou here, child, and rest,” he said; “after I have wished my own dear little ones ‘Merry Christmas,’ I will come back to thee.”
But the Emperor returned sooner than Fritzl had expected.
“For what dost thou think our Prince wishes most, this Christmas morning?” he said excitedly, “why, a little boy who can play the fiddle, and a little dog that can dance. Come thou with me straight to him, Fritzchen!”
Tucking his violin carefully under his arm, the boy slipped one small hand into the hand of the Emperor, and followed by Tzandi, they went from the room.
At the end of a long corridor, the Emperor stopped before a closed door.
“Go thou in alone, Fritzl,” he said softly, opening the door: “there are two little friends within who will welcome thee.”
Very quietly, as if nothing more could surprise him, that day of miracles, Fritzl crossed the threshold, and stood within the room.
At one of the bay windows overlooking the terraced garden, sat the little lame Prince and his sister, their curly heads bent over a book.
“The dog looks something like the one that boy had,” Fritzl heard the Prince say wistfully.
“Only he hasn’t such a dear funny tail as—”
But Betty never finished her sentence.
Tzandi, having been quiet as long as seemed to him desirable, gave a soft little whine.
The brother and sister turned swiftly.
“It’s the boy with the violin!” cried Max.
“It’s the dog!” cried Betty.