Prince Ferdinand William Otto was supremely happy. Three quite delightful things had happened. First, Nikky had returned. He said he felt perfectly well, but the Crown Prince thought he looked as though he had been ill, and glanced frequently at Nikky’s cigarette during the riding-hour. Second, Hedwig did not come to the riding-lesson, and he had Nikky to himself. Third, he, Prince Ferdinand William Otto, was on the eve of a birthday.
This last, however, was not unmixed happiness. For the one day the sentence of exile was to be removed so that he might lunch with the King, and he was to have strawberry jam with his tea, some that Miss Braithwaite’s sister had sent from England. But to offset all this, he was to receive a delegation of citizens.
He had been well drilled for it. As a matter of fact, on the morning of Nikky’s return, they took a few minutes to go over the ceremony, Nikky being the delegation. The way they did it was simple.
Nikky went out into the corridor, and became the Chamberlain. He stepped inside, bowed, and announced: “The delegation from the city, Highness,” standing very stiff, and a trifle bowlegged, as the Chamberlain was. Then he bowed again, and waddled out—the Chamberlain was fat—and became the delegation.
This time he tried to look like a number of people, and was not so successful. But he looked nervous, as delegations always do when they visit a Royal Highness. He bowed inside the door, and then came forward and bowed again.
“I am, of course, standing in a row,” said Nikky, sotto voce. “Now, what comes next?”
“I am to shake hands with every one.”
So they shook hands nine times, because there were to be nine members of the delegation. And Nikky picked up a brass inkwell from the desk and held it out before him.
“Your Highness,” he said, after clearing his throat, for all the world as Prince Ferdinand William Otto had heard it done frequently at cornerstones and openings of hospitals, “Your Highness—we are here to-day to felicitate Your Highness on reaching the mature age of ten. In testimonial of our—our affection and—er loyalty, we bring to you a casket of gold, containing the congratulations of the city, which we beg that Your Highness may see fit to accept. It will be of no earthly use to you, and will have to be stuck away in a vault and locked up. But it is the custom on these occasions, and far be it from us to give you a decent present that you can use or enjoy!”
Prince Ferdinand William Otto had to cover his mouth with his hand to preserve the necessary dignity. He stepped forward and took the ink-well. “I thank you very much. Please give my thanks to all the people. I am very grateful. It is beautiful. Thank you.”
Whereupon he placed the ink-well on the desk, and he and Nikky again shook hands nine times, counting, to be sure it was right. Then Nikky backed to the door, getting all tangled up in his sword, bowed again and retired.
When he reentered, the boy’s face was glowing.
“Gee!” he said, remembering this favorite word of the American boy’s. “It’s splendid to have you back again, Nikky. You’re going to stay now, aren’t you?”
“I am.” Nikky’s voice was fervent.
“Where did you go when you went away?”
“I took a short and foolish excursion, Highness. You see, while I look grown-up I dare say I am really not. Not quite, anyhow. And now and then, like other small boys I have heard of, I—well, I run away. And am sorry afterward, of course.”
Miss Braithwaite was not in the study. The Prince looked about, and drew close—to Nikky. “Did you, really?”
“I did. Some day, when you are older, I’ll tell you about it. I—has the Princess Hedwig been having tea with you, as usual?”
Carelessly spoken as it was, there was a change in Nikky’s voice. And the Crown Prince was sensitive to voices. Something similar happened to Monsieur Puaux, the French tutor, when he mentioned Hedwig.
“Not yesterday. We went to the fortress. Nikky, what is it to be in love?”
Nikky looked startled, “Well,” he said reflectively, “it’s to like some one, a lady in your case or mine, of course; to—to like them very much, and want to see them often.”
“Is that all?”
“It’s enough, sometimes. But it’s more than that. It’s being dreadfully unhappy if the other person isn’t around, for one thing. It isn’t really a rational condition. People in love do mad things quite often.”
“I know some one who is in love with Hedwig.”
Nikky looked extremely conscious. There was, too, something the Crown Prince was too small to see, something bitter and hard in his eyes. “Probably a great many are,” he said. “But I’m not sure she would care to have us discuss it.”
“It is my French tutor.”
Nikky laughed suddenly, and flung the boy to his shoulder. “Of course he is!” he cried gayly. “And you are, and the Chancellor. And I am, of course.” He stood the boy on the desk.
“Do you think she is in love, with you?” demanded the Crown Prince, very seriously.
“Not a bit of it, young man!”
“But I think she is,” he persisted. “She’s always around when you are.”
“Not this morning.”
“But she is, when she can be. She never used to take riding-lessons. She doesn’t need them.” This was a grievance, but he passed it over. “And she always asks where you are. And yesterday, when you were away, she looked very sad.”
Nikky stood with his hand on the boy’s shoulder, and stared out through the window. If it were so, if this child, with his uncanny sensitiveness, had hit on the truth! If Hedwig felt even a fraction of what he felt, what a tragedy it all was!
He forced himself to smile, however. “If she only likes me just a little,” he said lightly, “it is more than I dare to hope, or deserve. Come, now, we have spent too much time over love and delegations. Suppose we go and ride.”
But on the way across the Place Prince Ferdinand William Otto resumed the subject for a moment. “If you would marry Hedwig,” he suggested, an anxious thrill in his voice, “you would live at the Palace always, wouldn’t you? And never have to go back to your regiment?” For the bugaboo of losing Nikky to his regiment was always in the back of his small head.
“Now, listen, Otto, and remember,” said Nikky, almost sternly. “It may be difficult for you to understand now, but some day you will. The granddaughter of the King must marry some one of her own rank. No matter how hard you and I may wish things to be different, we cannot change that. And it would be much better never to mention this conversation to your cousin. Girls,” said Nikky, “are peculiar.”
“Very well,” said the Crown Prince humbly. But he made careful note of one thing. He was not to talk of this plan to Hedwig, but there was no other restriction. He could, for instance, take it up with the Chancellor, or even with the King to-morrow, if he was in an approachable humor.
Hedwig was not at the riding-school. This relieved Prince Ferdinand William Otto, whose views as to Nikky were entirely selfish, but Nikky himself had unaccountably lost his high spirits of the morning. He played, of course, as he always did. And even taught the Crown Prince how to hang over the edge of his saddle, while his horse was cantering, so that bullets would not strike him.
They rode and frolicked, yelled a bit, got two ponies and whacked a polo ball over the tan-bark, until the Crown Prince was sweating royally and was gloriously flushed.
“I don’t know when I have been so happy,” he said, dragging out his handkerchief and mopping his face. “It’s a great deal pleasanter without Hedwig, isn’t it?”
While they played, overhead the great hearse was ready at last. Its woodwork shone. Its gold crosses gleamed. No fleck of dust disturbed its austere magnificence.
The man and the boy who had been working on it stood back and surveyed it.
“All ready,” said the man, leaning on the handle of his long brush. “Now it may happen any time.”
“It is very handsome. But I am glad I am not the old King.” The boy picked up pails and brushes. “Nothing to look forward to but—that.”
“But much to look back on,” the man observed grimly, “and little that is good.”
The boy glanced through a window, below which the riding-ring stretched its brown surface, scarred by nervous hoofs. “I would change places with the Crown Prince,” he said enviously. “Listen to him! Always laughing. Never to labor, nor worry, nor think of the next day’s food—”
“Young fool!” The man came to his shoulder and glanced down also. “Would like to be a princeling, then! No worry. No trouble. Always play, play!” He gripped the boy’s shoulder. “Look, lad, at the windows about. That is what it is to be a prince. Wherever you look, what do you see? Stablemen? Grooms? Bah, secret agents, watching that no assassin, such perhaps as you and I, lurk about.”
The boy opened wide, incredulous eyes. “But who would attack a child?” he asked.
“There be those, nevertheless,” said the man mockingly. “Even a child may stand in the way of great changes.”
He stopped and stared, wiping the glass clear that he might see better. Nikky without his cap, disheveled and flushed with exertion, was making a frantic shot at the white ball, rolling past him. Where had he seen such a head, such a flying mop of hair? Ah! He remembered. It was the flying young devil who had attacked him and the others that night in the by-street, when Peter Niburg lay stunned!
Miss Braithwaite had a bad headache that afternoon, and the Crown Prince drove out with his aunt. The Archduchess Annunciata went shopping. Soon enough she would have Hedwig’s trousseau on her mind, so that day she bought for Hilda—Hilda whose long legs had a way of growing out of skirts, and who was developing a taste of her own in clothes.
So Hilda and her mother shopped endlessly, and the Crown Prince sat in the carriage and watched the people. The man beside the coachman sat with alert eyes, and there were others who scanned the crowd intently. But it was a quiet, almost an adoring crowd, and there was even a dog, to Prince Ferdinand William Otto’s huge delight.
The man who owned the dog, seeing the child’s eyes on him, put him through his tricks. Truly a wonderful dog, that would catch things on its nose and lie dead, rousing only to a whistle which its owner called Gabriel’s trumpet.
Prince Ferdinand William Otto, growing excited, leaned quite out of the window. “What is your dog’s name?” he inquired, in his clear treble.
The man took off his hat and bowed. “Toto, Highness. He is of French origin.”
“He is a very nice dog. I have always wanted a dog like that. He must be a great friend.”
“A great friend, Highness.” He would have expatiated on the dog, but he was uncertain of the etiquette of the procedure. His face beamed with pleasure, however. Then a splendid impulse came to him. This dog, his boon companion, he would present to the Crown Prince. It was all he had, and he would give it, freely, even though it left him friendless.
But here again he was at a loss. Was it the proper thing? Did one do such things in this fashion, or was there a procedure? He cocked an eye at the box of the carriage, but the two men sat impressive, immobile.
Finally he made up his mind. Hat in hand, he stepped forward. “Highness,” he said nervously, “since the dog pleases you, I—I would present him to you.”
“To me?” The Crown Prince’s voice was full of incredulous joy.
“Yes, Highness. If such a thing be permissible.”
“Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“He is the best I have, Highness. I wish to offer my best.”
Prince, Ferdinand William Otto almost choked with excitement. “I have always wanted one,” he cried. “If you are certain you can spare him, I’ll be very good to him. No one,” he said, “ever gave me a dog before. I’d like to have him now, if I may.”
The crowd was growing. It pressed closer, pleased at the boy’s delight. Truly they were participating in great things. A small cheer and many smiles followed the lifting of the dog through the open window of the carriage. And the dog was surely a dog to be proud of. Already it shook hands with the Crown Prince.
Perhaps, in that motley gathering, there were some who viewed the scene with hostile eyes, some who saw, not a child glowing with delight over a gift, but one of the hated ruling family, a barrier, an obstacle in the way of freedom. But if such there were, they were few. It was, indeed, as the Terrorists feared. The city loved the boy.
Annunciata, followed by an irritated Hilda, came out of the shop. Hilda’s wardrobe had been purchased, and was not to her taste.
The crowd opened, hats were doffed, backs bent. The Archduchess moved haughtily, looking neither to the right nor left. Her coming brought no enthusiasm. Perhaps the curious imagination of the mob found her disappointing. She did not look like an Archduchess. She looked, indeed, like an unnamiable spinster of the middle class. Hilda, too, was shy and shrinking, and wore an unbecoming hat. Of the three, only the Crown Prince looked royal and as he should have looked.
“Good Heavens,” cried the Archduchess, and stared into the carriage. “Otto!”
“He is mine,” said the Crown Prince fondly. “He is the cleverest dog. He can do all sorts of things.”
“Put him out.”
“But he is mine,” protested Ferdinand William Otto. “He is a gift. That gentleman there, in the corduroy jacket—”
“Put him out,” said the Archduchess Annunciata.
There was nothing else to do. The Crown Prince did not cry. He was much too proud. He thanked the donor again carefully, and regretted that he could not accept the dog. He said it was a wonderful dog, and just the sort he liked. And the carriage drove away.
He went back to the Palace, and finding that the governess still had a headache, settled down to the burnt-wood frame. Once he glanced up at the woolen dog on its shelf at the top of the cabinet. “Well, anyhow,” he said sturdily, “I still have you.”
Hedwig came to tea that afternoon. She came in softly, and defiantly, for she was doing a forbidden thing, but Prince Ferdinand William Otto had put away the frame against such a contingency. He had, as a matter of fact, been putting cold cloths on Miss Braithwaite’s forehead.
“I always do it,” he informed Hedwig. “I like doing it. It gives me something to do. She likes them rather dry, so the water doesn’t run down her neck.”
Hedwig made a short call on the governess, prostrate on the couch in her sitting-room. The informality of the family relationship had, during her long service, been extended to include the Englishwoman, who in her turn found nothing incongruous in the small and kindly services of the little Prince. So Hedwig sat beside her for a moment, and turned the cold bandage over to freshen it.
Had Miss Braithwaite not been ill, Hedwig would have talked things over with her then. There was no one else to whom she could go. Hilda refused to consider the prospect of marriage as anything but pleasurable, and between her mother and Hedwig there had never been any close relationship.
But Miss Braithwaite lay motionless, her face set in lines of suffering, and after a time Hedwig rose and tiptoed out of the room.
Prince Ferdinand William Otto was excited. Tea had already come, and on the rare occasions when the governess was ill, it was his privilege to pour the tea.
“Nikky is coming,” he said rapidly, “and the three of us will have a party. Please don’t tell me how you like your tea, and see if I can remember.”
“Very well, dear,” Hedwig said gently, and went to the window.
Behind her Prince Ferdinand William Otto was in a bustle of preparation. Tea in the study was an informal function, served in the English manner, without servants to bother. The Crown Prince drew up a chair before the tea service, and put a cushion on it. He made a final excursion to Miss Braithwaite and, returning, climbed on to his chair.
“Now, when Nikky comes, we are all ready,” he observed.
Nikky entered almost immediately.
As a matter of fact, although he showed no trace of it, Nikky had been having an extremely bad time since his return; the Chancellor, who may or may not have known that his heart was breaking, had given him a very severe scolding on the way back from Wedeling. It did Nikky good, too, for it roused him to his own defense, and made him forget, for a few minutes anyhow, that life was over for him, and that the Chancellor carried his death sentence in his old leather dispatch case.
After that, arriving in the capital, they had driven to the little office in a back street, and there Nikky had roused himself again enough to give a description of Peter Niburg, and to give the location of the house where he lived. But he slumped again after that, ate no dinner, and spent a longish time in the Place, staring up at Annunciata’s windows, where he had once seen Hedwig on the balcony.
But of course Hedwig had not learned of his return, and was sitting inside, exactly as despairing as he was, but obliged to converse with her mother in the absence of the Countess. The Archduchess insisted on talking French, for practice, and they got into quite a wrangle over a verb. And as if to add to the general depression, Hilda had been reminded of what anniversary it was, and was told to play hymns only. True, now and then, hearing her mother occupied, she played them in dotted time, which was a bit more cheerful.
Then, late in the evening, Nikky was summoned to the King’s bedroom, and came out pale, with his shoulders very square. He had received a real wigging this time, and even contemplated throwing himself in the river. Only he could swim so damnably well!
But he had the natural elasticity of youth, and a sort of persistent belief in his own luck, rather like the Chancellor’s confidence in seven as a number—a confidence, by the way, which the Countess could easily have shaken. So he had wakened the next morning rather cheerful than otherwise, and over a breakfast of broiled ham had refused to look ahead farther than the day.
That afternoon, in the study, Nikky hesitated when he saw Hedwig. Then he came and bent low over her hand. And Hedwig, because every instinct yearned to touch his shining, bent head, spoke to him very calmly, was rather distant, a little cold.
“You have been away, I think?” she said.
“For a day or two, Highness.”
The Crown Prince put a small napkin around the handle of the silver teapot. He knew from experience that it was very hot. His face was quite screwed up with exertion.
“And to-day,” said Nikky reproachfully, “to-day you did not ride.”
“I did not feel like riding,” Hedwig responded listlessly. “I am tired. I think I am always tired.”
“Lemon and two lumps,” muttered the Crown Prince. “That’s Nikky’s, Hedwig. Give it to him, please.”
Nikky went a trifle pale as their fingers touched. But he tasted his tea, and pronounced it excellent.
Prince Ferdinand William Otto chattered excitedly. He told of the dog, dilating on its cleverness, but passing politely over the manner of its return. Now and then Hedwig glanced at Nikky, when he was not looking, and always, when they dared, the young soldier’s eyes were on her.
“She will take some tea without sugar,” announced the Crown Prince.
While he poured it, Hedwig was thinking. Was it possible that Nikky, of every one, should have been chosen to carry to Karl the marriage arrangements? What an irony! What a jest! It was true there was a change in him. He looked subdued, almost sad.
“To Karnia?” she asked, when Prince Ferdinand William Otto had again left the room. “Officially?”
“Not—exactly.”
“Where, in Karnia?”
“I ended,” Nikky confessed, “at Wedeling.”
Hedwig gazed at him, her elbows propped on the tea-table. “Then,” she said, “I think you know.”
“I know, Highness.”
“And you have nothing to say?”
Nikky looked at her with desperate eyes. “What can I say, Highness? Only that—it is very terrible to me—that I—” He rose abruptly and stood looking down at her.
“That you—” said Hedwig softly.
“Highness,” Nikky began huskily, “you know what I would say. And that I cannot. To take advantage of Otto’s fancy for me, a child’s liking, to violate the confidence of those who placed me here—I am doing that, every moment.”
“What about me?” Hedwig asked. “Do I count for nothing? Does it not matter at all how I feel, whether I am happy or wretched? Isn’t that as important as honor?”
Nikky flung out his hands. “You know,” he said rapidly. “What can I tell you that you do not know a thousand times? I love you. Not as a subject may adore his princess, but as a man loves a woman.”
“I too!” said Hedwig. And held out her hands.
But he did not take them. Almost it was as though he would protect her from herself. But he closed his eyes for a moment, that he might not see that appealing gesture. “I, who love you more than life, who would, God help me, forfeit eternity for you—I dare not take you in my arms.”
Hedwig’s arms fell. She drew herself up. “Love!” she said. “I do not call that love.”
“It is greater love than you know,” said poor Nikky. But all his courage died a moment later, and his resolution with it, for without warning Hedwig dropped her head on her hands and, crouching forlornly, fell to sobbing.
“I counted on you,” she said wildly. “And you are like the others. No one cares how wretched I am. I wish I might die.”
Then indeed Nikky was lost. In an instant he was on his knees beside her, his arms close about her, his head bowed against her breast. And Hedwig relaxed to his embrace. When at last he turned and looked up at her, it was Hedwig who bent and kissed him.
“At least,” she whispered, “we have had this, We can always remember, whatever comes, that we have had this.”
But Nikky was of very human stuff, and not the sort that may live by memories. He was very haggard when he rose to his feet—haggard, and his mouth was doggedly set. “I will never give you up, now,” he said.
Brave words, of course. But as he said them he realized their futility. The eyes he turned on her were, as he claimed her, without hope. For there was no escape. He had given his word to stay near the Crown Prince, always to watch him, to guard him with his life, if necessary. And he had promised, at least, not to block the plans for the new alliance.
Hedwig, with shining eyes, was already planning.
“We will go away, Nikky,” she said. “And it, must be soon, because otherwise—”
Nikky dared not touch her again, knowing what he had to say. “Dearest,” he said, bending toward her, “that is what we cannot do.”
“No?” She looked up, puzzled, but still confident dent. “And why, cowardly one?”
“Because I have given my word to remain with the Crown Prince.” Then, seeing that she still did not comprehend, he explained, swiftly. After all, she had a right to know, and he was desperately anxious that she should understand. He stood, as many a man has stood before, between love and loyalty to his king, and he was a soldier. He had no choice.
It was terrible to him to see the light die out of her eyes. But even as he told her of the dangers that compassed the child and possibly others of the family, he saw that they touched her remotely, if at all. What she saw, and what he saw, through her eyes, was not riot and anarchy, a threatened throne, death itself. She saw only a vista of dreadful years, herself their victim. She saw her mother’s bitter past. She saw the austere face of her grandmother, hiding behind that mask her disappointments.
But all she said, when Nikky finished, was: “I might have known it. Of course they would get me, as they did the others.” But a moment later she rose and threw out her arms. “How skillful they are! They knew about it. It is all a part of the plot. I do not believe there is danger. All my life I have heard them talk. That is all they do—talk and plan and plot, and do things in secret. They made you promise never to desert Otto, so that their arrangements need not be interfered with. Oh, I know them, better than you do. They are all cruel. It is the blood.”
What Nikky would have said to this was lost by the return of Prince Ferdinand William Otto. He came in, carrying the empty cup carefully. “She took it all,” he said, “and she feels much better. I hope you didn’t eat all the bread and butter.”
Reassured as to this by a glance, he climbed to his chair. “We’re all very happy, aren’t we?” he observed. “It’s quite a party. When I grow up I shall ask you both to tea every day.”
That evening the Princess Hedwig went unannounced to her grandfather’s apartment, and demanded to be allowed to enter.
A gentleman-in-waiting bowed deeply, but stood before the door. “Your Highness must pardon my reminding Your Highness,” he said firmly, “that no one may enter His Majesty’s presence without permission.”
“Then go in,” said Hedwig, in a white rage, “and get the permission.”
The gentleman-in-waiting went in, very deliberately, because his dignity was outraged. The moment he had gone, however, Hedwig flung the door open, and followed, standing, a figure of tragic defiance, inside the heavy curtains of the King’s bedroom.
“There is no use saying you won’t see me, grandfather. For here I am.”
They eyed each other, the one, it must be told, a trifle uneasily, the other desperately. Then into the King’s eyes came a flash of admiration, and just a gleam of amusement.
“So I perceive,” he said. “Come here, Hedwig.”
The gentleman-in-waiting bowed himself out. His hands, in their tidy white gloves, would have liked to box Hedwig’s ears. He was very upset. If this sort of thing went on, why not a republic at once and be done with it?
A Sister of Charity was standing by the King’s bed. She had cared for him through many illnesses. In the intervals she retired to her cloister and read holy books and sewed for the poor. Even now, in her little chamber off the bedroom, where bottles sat in neat rows, covered with fresh towels, there lay a small gray flannel petticoat to warm the legs of one of the poor.
The sister went out, her black habit dragging, but she did not sew. She was reading a book on the miracles accomplished by pilgrimages to the shrine of Our Lady of the Angels, in the mountains. Could the old King but go there, she felt, he would be cured. Or failing that, if there should go for him some emissary, pure in heart and of high purpose, it might avail. Over this little book she prayed for courage to make the suggestion. Had she thought of it sooner, she would have spoken to Father Gregory. But the old priest had gone back to his people, to his boys’ school, to his thousand duties in the hills.
Sometime later she heard bitter crying in the royal bedchamber, and the King’s tones, soothing now and very sad.
“There is a higher duty than happiness,” he said. “There are greater things than love. And one day you will know this.”
When she went in Hedwig had gone, and the old King, lying in his bed, was looking at the portrait a his dead son.
The following morning the Countess Loschek left for a holiday. Minna, silent and wretched, had packed her things for her, moving about the room like a broken thing. And the Countess had sat in a chair by a window, and said nothing. She sent away food untasted, took no notice of the packing, and stared, hour after hour, ahead of her.
Certain things were clear enough. Karl could not now be reached by the old methods. She had, casting caution to the winds, visited the shop where Peter Niburg was employed. But he was not there, and the proprietor, bowing deeply, disclaimed all knowledge of his whereabouts. She would have to go to Karl herself, a difficult matter now. She would surely be watched. And the thousand desperate plans that she thought of for escaping from the country and hiding herself,—in America, perhaps,—those were impossible for the same reason. She was helpless.
She had the choice of but two alternatives, to do as she had been commanded, for it amounted to that, or to die. The Committee would not kill her, in case she failed them. It would be unnecessary. Enough that they place the letter and the code in the hands of the authorities, by some anonymous means. Well enough she knew the Chancellor’s inflexible anger, and the Archduchess Annunciata’s cold rage. They would sweep her away with a gesture, and she would die the death of all traitors.
A week! Time had been when a week of the dragging days at the Palace had seemed eternity. Now the hours flew. The gold clock on her dressing-table, a gift from the Archduchess, marked them with flying hands.
She was, for the first time, cut off from the gossip of the Palace. The Archduchess let her severely alone. She disliked having anything interfere with her own comfort, disliked having her routine disturbed. But the Countess surmised a great deal. She guessed that Hedwig would defy them, and that they would break her spirit with high words. She surmised preparations for a hasty marriage—how hasty she dared not think. And she guessed, too, the hopeless predicament of Nikky Larisch.
She sat and stared ahead.
During the afternoon came a package, rather unskillfully tied with a gilt cord. Opening it, the Countess disclosed a glove-box of wood, with a design of rather shaky violets burnt into the cover. Inside was a note:
I am very sorry you are sick. This is to put your gloves inwhen you travel. Please excuse the work. I have done it ina hurry.FERDINAND WILLIAM OTTO.
Suddenly the Countess laughed, choking hysterical laughter that alarmed Minna; horrible laughter, which left her paler than ever, and gasping.
The old castle of the Loscheks looked grim and inhospitable when she reached it that, night. Built during the years when the unbeliever overran southern Europe, it stood in a commanding position over a valley, and a steep, walled road led up to it. The narrow windows of its turrets were built, in defiance of the Moslem hordes, in the shape of the cross. Its walls had been hospitable enough, however, when the crusaders had thronged by to redeem the Holy Sepulcher from the grasp of the infidel. Here, in its stone hall, they had slept in weary rows on the floor. From its battlements they had stared south and east along the road their feet must follow.
But now, its ancient glory and good repute departed, its garrison gone, its drawbridge and moat things of the past, its very hangings and furnishings mouldering from long neglect, it hung over the valley, a past menace, an empty threat.
To this dreary refuge the Countess had fled. She wanted the silence of its still rooms in which to think. Wretched herself, its wretchedness called her. As the carriage which had brought her from, the railway turned into its woods; and she breathed the pungent odor of pine and balsam, she relaxed for the first time.
Why was she so hopeless? She could escape.
She knew the woods well. None who followed her could know them so well. She would get away, and somewhere, in a new world, make a fresh start. Surely, after all, peace was the greatest thing in the world.
Peace! The word attracted her. There were religious houses where one would be safe enough, refuges high-walled and secure, into which no alien foot ever penetrated. And, as if to answer the thought, she saw at that moment across the valley the lights of Etzel, the tower of the church, with its thirteen bells, the monastery buildings behind it, and set at its feet, like pilgrims come to pray, the low houses of the peasants. For the church at Etzel contained a celebrated shrine, none other than that of Our Lady of the Angels, and here came, from all over the kingdom, long lines of footsore and weary pilgrims, seeking peace and sanctity, and some a miracle.
The carriage drove on; Minna, on the box, crossed herself at sight of the church, and chatted with the driver, a great figure who crowded her to the very edge of the seat.
“I am glad to be here,” she said. “I am sick of grandeur. My home is in Etzel.” She turned and inspected the man beside her. “You are a newcomer, I think?”
“I have but just come to Etzel.”
“Then you cannot tell me about my people.” She was disappointed.
“And you,” inquired the driver,—“you will stay for a visit?”
“A week only. But better than nothing.”
“After that, you return to the city?”
“Yes. Madame the Countess—you would know, if you were Etzel-born—Madame the Countess is lady-in-waiting to Her Royal Highness, the Archduchess Annunciata.”
“So!” said the driver. But he was not curious, and the broken road demanded his attention. He was but newly come, so very newly that he did not know his way, and once made a wrong turning.
The Countess relaxed. She had not been followed. None but themselves had left the train. She was sure of that. And looking back, she satisfied herself that no stealthy foot-traveler dogged their slow progress. She breathed quietly, for the first time.
She slept that night. She had wired ahead of her coming, and the old caretaker and his wife had opened a few rooms, her boudoir and dressing-room, and a breakfast-room on the first floor. They had swept the hall too, and built a fire there, but it had been built for a great household, and its emptiness chilled her.
At four o’clock in the morning she roused at the ringing of a bell, telling that masses had already begun at the church. For with the approach of Lent pilgrimages had greatly increased in numbers. But she slept again, to waken to full sunlight, greatly refreshed.
When she had breakfasted and dressed, she went out on a balcony, and looked down at the valley. It was late. Already the peasants of Etzel had gone out to their fields. Children played along its single streets. A few women on the steps of the church made rosaries of beads which they strung with deft fingers. A band of pilgrims struggled up the valley, the men carrying their coats, for the sun was warm, and the women holding their skirts from the dust.
As they neared the church, however, coats were donned. The procession took on order and dignity. The sight was a familiar one to the Countess. Her eyes dropped to the old wall below, where in the sunshine the caretaker was beating a rug. Close to him, in intimate and cautious conversation, was the driver of the night before. Glancing up, they saw her and at once separated.
Gone was peace, then. The Countess knew knew certainly. “Our eyes see everywhere.” Eyes, indeed, eyes that even now the caretaker raised furtively from his rug.
Nevertheless, the Countess was minded to experiment, to be certain. For none is so suspicious, she knew, as one who fears suspicion. None so guilty as the guilty. During the forenoon she walked through the woods, going briskly, with vigorous, mountainbred feet. No crackle of underbrush disturbed her. Swift turnings revealed no lurking figures skulking behind the trunks of trees. But where an ancient stone bridge crossed a mountain stream, she came on the huge driver of the night before reflectively fishing.
He saluted her gravely, and the Countess paused and looked at him. “You have caught no fish, my friend?” she said.
“No, madame. But one plays about my hook.”
She turned back. Eyes everywhere, and arms, great hairy arms. And feet that, for all their size, must step lightly!
Restlessness followed her. She was a virtual Prisoner, free only in name. And the vigilance of the Terrorists obsessed her. She found a day gone, and no plan made. She had come here to think, and consecutive thought was impossible. She went to vespers at the church, and sat huddled in a corner. She suspected every eye that turned on her in frank curiosity. When, during the “Salve Regina,” the fathers, followed by their pupils, went slowly down the aisle, in reverent procession between rows of Pilgrims, she saw in their habits only a grim reminder of the black disguises of the Terrorists.
On the second day she made a desperate resolve, and characteristically put it into execution at once. She sent for the caretaker. When he came, uneasy, for the Loscheks were justly feared in the country side, and even the thing of which he knew gave him small courage, she lost no time in evasion.
“Go,” she said; “and bring here your accomplice—”
“My accomplice, madame! I do not—”
“You heard me,” she said.
He turned, half sullen, half terrified, and paused. “Which do you refer to, madame?”
She had seen only the one. Then there were others. Who could tell how many others?
“The one who drove here.”
So he went, leaving her to desperate reflection. When he returned, it was to usher in the heavy figure of the spy.
“Which of you is in authority?” she demanded.
“I, madame.” It was the spy who spoke.
She dismissed the caretaker with a gesture.
“Have you any discretion over me? Or must you refer matters to those who sent you?”
“I must refer to them.”
“How long will it take to send a message and receive a reply?”
He considered. “Until to-morrow night, madame.”
Another day gone, then, and nothing determined!
“Now, listen,” she said, “and listen carefully. I have come here to decide a certain question. Whether you know what that question is or not, does not matter. But before I decide it I must take a certain journey. I wish to make that journey. It is into Karnia.”
She watched him. “It is impossible. My instructions—”
“I am not asking your permission. I wish to send a letter to the Committee. They, and they alone, will determine this thing. Will you send the letter?”
When he hesitated, perplexed, she got up and moved to her writing-table.
“I shall write the letter,” she said haughtily. “See that it is sent. When I report at the end of the time that I have sent such a letter, you can judge better than I the result if it has not been received.”
He was still dubious, but she wrote the letter and gave it to him, her face proud and scornful. But she was not easy, for all that, and she watched from her balcony to see if any messenger left the castle and descended the mountain road. She was rewarded, an hour later, by seeing a figure leave the old gateway and start afoot toward the village, a pale-faced man with colorless hair. A part of the hidden guard that surrounded her, she knew, and somehow familiar. But, although she racked her brains, she could not remember where she had seen him.
For the next twenty-four hours she waited. Life became one long endurance. She hated the forest, since she might not visit it alone. She hated the castle, because it was her prison. She stood for hours that first day on her balcony, surveying with scornful eyes the procession of the devout, weary women, perspiring men, lines of children going to something they did not comprehend, and carrying clenched in small, warm hands drooping bunches of early mountain flowers.
And always, calling her to something she scorned, rang the bells for mass or for vespers. The very tower below beckoned her to peace—her, for whom there would never again be peace. She cursed the bell savagely, put her fingers in her ears, to be wakened at dawn the next morning to its insistent call.
There was no more sleep for her. She lay there in her bare room and gave herself to bitter reflection. Here, in this very castle, she had met Karl. That was eleven years before. Prince Hubert was living. During a period of peace between the two countries a truce had been arranged, treaties signed, with every prospect of permanence. During that time Karl and Hubert, glad of peace, had come here for the hunting. She remembered the stir about their coming, her father’s hurried efforts to get things in order, the cleaning and refurbishing, the peasants called in to serve the royal guests, and stripped of their quaint costumes to be put into ill-fitting livery.
They had bought her a new frock for evening wear, the father who was now dead, and the old aunt who had raised her—an ugly black satin, too mature for her. She had put it on in that very room, and wept in very despair.
Then came the arrival, her father on the doorstep, she and her aunt behind him, and in the hall, lines of uneasy and shuffling peasants. How awkward and ill at ease they must have seemed! Then came the carriage, Hubert alighting first, then Karl. Karl had seen her instantly, over her father’s bent back.
Lying there, seeing things with the clear vision of the dawn, she wondered whether, had she met Karl later, in her sophisticated maturity, she would have fallen in love with him. There was no way to know. He had dawned on her then, almost the first man of rank she had ever seen. She saw him, not only with fresh eyes, but through the halo of his position. He was the Crown Prince of Karnia then, more dashing than Hubert, who was already married and had always been a serious youth, handsomer, a blond in a country of few blond men. His joyous smile had not taken on the mocking twist it acquired later. His blue eyes were gay and joyous.
When she had bowed and would have kissed his hand, it had been Karl who kissed hers, and straightened to smile down at her.
“This is a very happy day, Countess,” he had said.
Then the old aunt had hustled forward, and the peasants had bowed nervously, and bustle and noise had filled the old place.
For four days the royal hunters had stayed. On the third day Karl had pleaded fatigue, and they had walked through the pine woods. On that very devil’s bridge he had kissed her. They had had serious talks, too. Karl was ambitious, even then. The two countries were at peace, but for how long? Contrary to opinion, he said, it was not rulers who led their people into war. It was the people who forced those wars. He spoke of long antagonisms, old jealousies, trade relations.
She had listened, flattered, had been an intelligent audience. Even now, she felt that it was her intelligence as much as her beauty that had ensnared Karl. For ensnared he had been. She had dreamed wild dreams that night after he kissed her, dreams of being his wife. She was not too young to know passion in a man’s eyes, and Karl’s had burned with it.
Then, the next day, while the hunters were away, her aunt had come to her, ugly, dowdy, and alarmed. “Little fool!” she had said. “They play, these princes. But they are evil with women, and dangerous. I have seen your eyes on him, sick with love. And Karl will amuse himself—it is the blood—and go away, laughing.”
She had been working with the satin dress, trying to make it lovely for him. Over it her eyes had met her aunt’s, small and twitching with anxiety. “But suppose he cares for me?” she had asked. “Sometimes I think—Why should you say he is evil?”
“Bah!”
She had grown angry then and, flinging the dress on the floor, had risen haughtily. “I think he will marry me,” she had announced, to be met with blank surprise, followed by cackling old laughter.
Karl had gone away, kissing her passionately, before he left her, in the dark hall. And many things had followed. A cousin, married into Karnia became lady-in-waiting to the old Queen. Olga Loschek had visited her. No accident all this, but a carefully thought-out plan of Karl’s. She had met Karl again. She was no longer the ill-dressed, awkward girl of the mountains, and his passion grew, rather than died.
He had made further love to her then, urged her to go away with him on a journey to the eastern end of the kingdom, would, indeed, have compromised her hopelessly. But, young as she was, she had had courage and strength; perhaps shrewdness too. Few women could have resisted him. He was gentleness itself with her, kindly, considerate, passionate. But she had kept her head.
And because she had kept her head, she had kept him. Through his many lapses, his occasional mad adventures, he had always come back to her. Having never possessed her, he had always wanted her. But not enough, she said drearily to herself, to pay the price of marriage.
She was fair enough to him. Nothing but a morganatic marriage would be possible, and this would deprive his children of the throne. But less than marriage she would not have.
The old Queen died. Her cousin retired to the country, and raised pheasants for gayety. Olga Loschek’s visits to Karnia ceased. In time a place was made for her at the Court of Livonia and a brilliant marriage for her was predicted. But she did not marry. Now and then she retired to the castle near the border, and Karl visited her there. And, at last, after years, the inevitable happened.
She was deeply in love, and the years were passing. The burden of resistance had always been on her, and marriage was out of the question. She was alone now. Her father had died, and the old aunt was in seclusion in a nunnery, where she pottered around a garden and knitted endless garments for the poor.
For a time Olga had been very happy. Karl’s motor crossed the mountains, and he came on foot through the woods. No breath of scandal touched her. And, outwardly, Karl did not change. He was still her ardent lover. But the times when they could meet were few.
And the Court of Livonia heard rumors—a gamekeeper’s daughter, an actress in his own capital, these were but two of the many. Olga Loschek was clever. She never reproached him or brought him to task. She had felt that, whatever his lapses, the years had made her necessary to him.
The war that followed the truce had seen her Karl’s spy in Livonia. She had undertaken it that the burden of gratitude should be on him—a false step, for men chafe under the necessity for gratitude.
Then had come another peace, and his visit to the summer palace. There he had seen Hedwig, grown since his last visit to lovely girlhood, and having what Olga Loschek could never again possess, youth.
And now he would marry her, and Olga Loschek, his tool and spy, was in danger of her life.
That day, toward evening, the huge man presented himself. He brought no letter, but an oral message. “Permission is given, madame,” he said. “I myself shall accompany you.”