CHAPTER V
“I told you so, Maxchen!” Betty announced triumphantly, as a half hour later, explanations having been finished, the three children and Tzandi clustered on the tiger skin, before the fire of pine logs. “I told you Grandpapa Franzchen would bring them to you. There isn’t anything in this world he can’t do. And now, Fritzl, commence at the very first beginning, and tell it all over again!”
“Oh, poor Fritzl,” she cried, slipping a warm hand into his, as he came to that part of his story, where Tzandi and he were driven out of the doorways, in which they had sought shelter, the night before.
“Poor little Fritzl,” echoed the Prince, “all cold and lonely!”
“I wasn’t exactly lonely,” said Fritzl loyally, looking down at Tzandi at his feet, sleeping the sleep of a well-fed dog, “but I was awful hungry!”
“Well,” cried the small Archduchess stoutly, “it was the very last time, Fritzl. You sha’n’t be hungry or cold any more, ever again!”
“Sit thou closer to me, Fritzchen,” commanded the Prince: “now I will tell thee my story.”
Then he told Fritzl how he had never been able to run or walk like other boys. How, for nearly two years, the famous surgeon had been treating him. How, that very Christmas night, he was to walk for the first time.
“But if he fail?” faltered Fritzl, tears of anxiety in his eyes and voice.
“He will not fail,” the Prince said proudly: “he never fails anyone—my Herr Doctor! And now, Fritzl,” all a boy’s love of fun flashing into his eyes, “make Tzandi dance!”
AndhowTzandi danced!
Back and forth, up and down the room, while Fritzl fiddled merrily, and Max and Betty clapped their hands in delight.
For Tzandi realized that the time had come for him to do honor to his little master’s training, and never did a dog dance as he, that Christmas Day!
He was still waltzing blithely, his fore paws waving ecstatically in the air, when the Emperor came into the room. “I have come to hear thee fiddle, Fritzl,” he said, taking Betty into his arms, and seating himself in the great arm-chair beside the Prince. “Play me one of the dances my children of Hungary love.”
So Fritzl played, standing proudly yet very modestly before his Kaiser. And the old Emperor, closing his eyes, saw once more that village on the Danube, where, a boy about the age of the three children, he had been taught to dance the czardas; heard once more the chant of the pines, and the laughter of the Hungarian peasants, who had danced with him.
“Little lad,” he said, as the song died plaintively away, “God has given thee the greatest of his gifts. And now,” he went on, “play that which shall make these children think of the brave deeds of their ancestors.”
And Fritzl played: deep chords and crashing measures, underneath which was the tramp of feet, and the clash of sword blades.
“Grandpapa, Grandpapa,” cried Max excitedly, “canst thou not hear them? The tramp of the men and the tramp of the horses of Rudolph, going forth to victory over Ottokar of Bohemia?”
“Oh, and the sound of swords drawn swiftly,” Betty cried, nestling closer into her grandfather’s arms.
“And now,” said “Unser Franz” softly, “play thou that song which neither thou nor these other little orphaned ones ever heard. The song that mothers sing.”
Again Fritzl played: and the sound was like the ripple of quiet waters, like the rustle of rain-drenched poplar leaves, like the cadence of a woman’s voice, hushing her little child to sleep upon her breast.
Again the Emperor closed his eyes, and saw his mother’s face, and heard the song his beautiful wife used to sing to their only son, long dead.
Then, brushing the tears from his eyes, he cried cheerily to Fritzl: “Play thou the ‘Kaiser Hymn!’ And then,” kissing the forehead of the boy beside him, “the Prince must rest.”
Fritzl drew himself to his tallest, tucked his violin more firmly under his chin, and to its measures sang in his clear young voice, the other children joining eagerly,—
“Gott erhalte, Gott beschütze, unsern Kaiser, unser Land!”
“Gott erhalte, Gott beschütze, unsern Kaiser, unser Land!”