She came close, climbed the steps of the catafalque and leant against his arm:
"How peaceful his little face is!" she murmured. "Oh, Othomar, I have not yet given him my last kiss! And to-morrow he will no longer belong to me: all those people will then be filing past."
"But now, mamma, he still belongs to us ... to you...."
"Othomar ..."
"Mamma ..."
"Shall I not have ... to lose you also?"
"No, mamma, not me.... I shall go on living ... for you...."
He embraced her; she looked up at him, surprised at his voice. Then she looked again at her dead child. She released herself from her son's arms, raised herself still higher, bent over the little white face and kissed the forehead. But, when the stony coldness of the dead flesh met her lips, she drew back and stared stupidly at the corpse, as though she understood for the first time. Her arms grew stiff with cramp; she wrung her fingers; she fell straight back upon Othomar.
And her eyes became moist with the first tears that she had shed for Berengar's death and she hid her head in Othomar's arms and sobbed and sobbed....
Then he led her carefully, slowly, down the steps of the catafalque, led her out of the hall. In the corridor they came across Barzia; the prince's calm and quiet face, as he supported his mother, eased the professor's mind....
So soon as the empress and crown-prince had left the knights' hall, four knights of St. Ladislas entered in their blue robes. They took up their positions on either side of the catafalque and stood motionless in the candle-light, staring before them, watching in the night of mourning over the little imperial corpse, on which the blue light of the moon now descended.... The priests too entered and prayed....
The palace was silent. When Othomar had consigned his mother, at the door of her apartments, to the care of Hélène of Thesbia, he went through the galleries to his own rooms. But, on turning a corridor, he started. The great state-staircase yawned, faintly lighted, at his feet, with beneath it the hollow space of the colossal entrance-hall. Upholsterers were occupied in draping the banisters of the staircase with crape gauze, for the time when the coffin should be carried downstairs. With wide arms they measured out the mists of black, threw black cloud upon cloud; the clouds of crape heaped themselves up with a dreary flimsiness, up and up and up, seeming to fill the whole staircase and to rise stair upon stair as though about to conquer the whole palace with their gloom....
The upholsterers did not see the crown-prince and worked on, silently, in the faint light. But a cold thrill passed through Othomar. In deathly pallor he stared at the men there, at his feet, measuring out the crape and sending clouds of it up to him. He recalled his dream: the streets of Lipara overflowing with crape till the very sun reeled.... His blood seemed to freeze in his veins....
Then he made the sign of the Cross:
"O God, give me strength!" he prayed in consternation....
Next day, through the guard of honour of the grenadiers, the people filed past the little prince's body. The following morning, it was removed to Altara and interred in the imperial vault in St. Ladislas' Cathedral. Princes Gunther and Herman of Gothland had come over for the ceremony, but the Duke of Xara was forbidden by Professor Barzia to take part in it: he remained at Lipara.
The Gothlandic princes and their suite returned with the Emperor Oscar to the capital, where, at her sister's pressing request, Queen Olga had also come, with Princess Wanda. And, in the mourning stillness of the Imperial, the family drew together in a narrow circle of intimacy. After her first tears, the Empress Elizabeth had lost her unnatural calm and constantly gave way to violent fits of sorrow, which Queen Olga or Othomar had difficulty in allaying. The emperor was inconsolable, indulging his grief with childish vehemence. Nobody had ever seen him like that before, nobody recognized him. The fact that he had lost his favourite child aroused his soul to rebellion against God. In addition to this, he had very much taken to heart his last conversation with Othomar, in which the prince had spoken to him of abdicating. The emperor had not returned to the subject, but it was never out of his thoughts. He feared that he would have to discuss it with Othomar again. He was furious when he felt how powerless he was to prevent the crown-prince from taking this desperate resolution. And he pictured the legal results if the prince maintained his purpose: the Archduchess of Carinthia empress, the archduke prince-consort and the house of Czyrkiski no longer reigning in the male line on the throne of Liparia. The possibility of this contingency, taken in conjunction with his sorrow at Berengar's death, made the Emperor Oscar suffer with that very special suffering of a monarch in whose veins still flows all the hereditary attachment to the greatness of his ancestors and who hopes to see this endure for all time. And he was also inconsolable for the loss of the child whom he loved best, more profoundly but also more silently, in greater secrecy, since he did not speak of it; and this probably made him feel more bitterly the thought of the future which he saw imaged before him. He had not even mentioned it to the empress, because of a certain superstitious dread.
And with this mental sorrow—that his robust soul, which had always retained a touch of childishness, was allowing itself to feel weak, as though it were the soul of any other mortal instead of his, a monarch's—there was mingled his substantial annoyance about the army bill. There would be three hundred millions needed: one hundred millions had already been voted for the increase of the infantry; the other two hundred, for the artillery, Count Marcella, the minister for war, had not yet succeeded in obtaining. The majority of the army committee was against this colossal arming of the frontier-forts; the minister already expected a violent opposition in the house of deputies and was fully prepared for his fall. None of the three—Oscar, Myxila or Marcella—was willing to make the least compromise. And Oscar moreover was prepared to support his minister to the point of impossibility.
It was at this time that Othomar made General Ducardi teach him the question, thoroughly, that he studied the staff-charts and military statistics and reports of the committee, that he followed the parliamentary discussions from out of his solitude. He held long deliberations with the general. He had, however, not for months attended the morning conferences in his father's room. But one morning he dressed himself—as was now no longer his regular habit—in uniform and sent a chamberlain to ask Oscar whether the emperor would permit him to be present at Count Marcella's audience. The emperor shrugged his shoulders in surprise, but combated his antipathy and sent word to his son that he might come. So soon as the minister and the imperial chancellor were with the emperor, Othomar joined them. He had grown still more slender and the silver frogs of his lancer's uniform barely sufficed to lend a slight breadth to his slimness; he was pale and a little sunken in the cheeks; but the glance of his eyes had lost its former feverish restlessness and recovered its melancholy calm, together with a certain stiffness and haughtiness. He refrained at first from taking part in the discussion, let the emperor curse, the chancellor shrug his shoulders and rely on the impossible, the minister declared that he would never give in. Then, however, he asked Oscar for leave to interpose a word. He took a pencil; with a few short, decided lines of demonstration on the maps, with a few simple, accurate indications on the registers, with a few figures which he quoted, correctly, by heart, he showed that he was quite conversant with the subject. He expressed the opinion that, in so far as he could gather from the reports of the committee, from the mood of the house of deputies, it remained an undoubted fact that the two hundred millions would be refused ... and that the minister would fall. He repeated these last words with emphasis and then looked firmly first at his father and then at Count Marcella. Then, in his soft voice, which rose and fell in logical tones, with serene words of conviction, he asked why they should not submit to circumstances and make the best of them. Why not accept the one hundred millions for the infantry as so much gained and—for this after all would be possible without immediate danger—endeavour to distribute the other two hundred over a period of four or five years. He felt certain that an increase of twenty millions or so a year would not meet with such violent opposition. By this arrangement Count Marcella would be able to maintain himself in office and to be supported by the emperor....
When he had ceased, his words were succeeded by a pause. His advice, if not distinguished by genius, was at least practical and made the most of this critical situation. Count Myxila slowly nodded his head in approval. The emperor and Count Marcella could not at once adhere to Othomar's idea and were obstinate, as though they still hoped to force the army bill through, unchanged as conceived at first. But the chancellor took the same view as the crown-prince, proved still more clearly that an arrangement of this sort would be the only one by which his majesty would be able to retain Count Marcella's services. And the end of the matter was that the Duke of Xara's proposal should be taken into consideration.
When Myxila and Marcella had gone, the emperor asked the prince to wait a moment longer:
"Othomar," he said, "it gives me great pleasure to see you once more occupying yourself with the affairs of our country...."
He hesitated an instant, almost anxiously:
"What conclusion may I draw from this ... for the future?" he continued at last, slowly.
The crown-prince understood him:
"Papa," he said, gently, "I have had my moments of discouragement. I shall perhaps have them again. But forget ... what we were discussing just before Berengar's death. I have given up all thought of abdicating...."
The emperor drew a deep breath.
"I am religious, papa, and I have faith," continued the prince. "Perhaps an almost superstitious faith. I plainly see, in what has happened, the hand of God...."
He passed his hand over his forehead, with a meditative gaze:
"The hand of God," he repeated. "I had a presentiment that one of us would die within this year. I thought that I myself should be the one to die. That is perhaps why, papa, I did not see how monstrous it was of me to take the resolution which I did. I was not thinking of myself, who was bound to die in any event; I thought only of Berengar. But now he is dead and I am alive; and I shall now think of myself. For I feel that I do not belong to myself. And I feel that it is this that should support us through life: this feeling that we do belong not to ourselves but to others. I have always loved our people and I have wished to help them vaguely, in the abstract; I threw out my hands, without knowing why, and when I did not make good, it drove me to despair...."
He suddenly stopped and looked timidly at his father, as though he had gone too far in delivering his thoughts. But Oscar sat calmly listening to him; and he continued:
"And I now know that this despair is not right, because with this despair we keep ourselves for ourselves and cannot give ourselves to others. You see—" he rose and smiled—"I cannot manage to cure myself of my philosophy, but I hope now that it will tend to strengthen me instead of enervating me, as it now flows from quite a different principle."
The emperor gave a little shrug of the shoulders:
"Every one must work out his own theory of life, Othomar. I can only give you this advice: do not be carried away by enthusiasm and keep your point of view high. Do not analyse yourself out of all existence, for such abnegation does not last and inevitably harks back to the old rights. I do not reflect so much as you do; I am more spontaneous and impulsive. But I will not condemn you for being different: you can't help it. Perhaps you belong to this age more than I do. I only wish to look at the result of your reflections; and this result is that you're giving yourself back to ordinary life and to the interests of your country. And this rejoices me, Othomar. Nor do I wish to look too far into the future; I dare say that later too you will not have my ideas, I dare say that later you will reign with a brand-new constitution, with an elected upper house. I expect you will encounter much opposition from the authoritative party among the nobles.... But, as I say, I do not wish to go into that too far and I am content to rejoice at your moral convalescence. And I am very grateful to you for the advice you gave us just now. It was quite simple, but we should never have thought of it by ourselves. We are too conservative for that. I think now that what you propose will be the best thing to be done and that it can't be done otherwise...."
He held out his hand; Othomar grasped it.
"And," he continued with the great magnanimity which, for all his despotic haughtiness, lay at the very root of his soul, "do not bear any malice because of ... of the words I used to you, Othomar. I am violent and passionate, as you know. I was fonder of Berengar than of you. But you yourself loved the boy. Bear me no malice, for his sake.... You are my son too and I love you, if only because of the fact that you are my son and the last of my race.... Forgive my candour."
Then he pressed Othomar in his arms. It struck him painfully to feel the frailty of the prince in his firm embrace, so immediately upon his words: "the last of my race...." A strange, bitter despair shot through his soul; yet he clearly divined the mystery of this frailty: an unknown moral spring, which he himself lacked, in the direct simplicity of his nature, but which, to his great surprise, he felt in his son. When the prince was gone and Oscar, left alone, thought of this and sought that spring in what he knew of his son, he did not find it, yet felt that, whatever it might be, it was something to be envied, a strength tougher than muscular strength. He looked about him; his eyes fell upon a portrait of the empress on his writing-table. How often had he not stared at it in irritation because of their successor, who was so wholly her son! But, as though a gleam of light passed before his eyes, he now looked at the delicate features without the old annoyance; and a grateful warmth began to glow within him. Whatever it were, Othomar had derived this mysterious strength from his mother. It saved him and spared him for his country, for his race. And—who knew?—perhaps this mystery was just the element which their race needed, a necessary constituent of its new lease of life.... He did not seek to penetrate any farther; the future—even though it was now emerging more clearly out of its first dimness—had no attraction for him. He loved the past, those iron centuries with their heroes of emperors. But he felt that everything was not lost. In his pious belief in the Almighty, he thought, as did his son, of the hand of God. If it must be so, it was right. God's will was inscrutable.
And grateful to the empress, grateful for the light that shone before him, he bent his knees to the crucifix on the wall and prayed for his two sons. He prayed long for the son who was to bear his crown, but longer for the soul of the child of his own blood, whose loss would be the grief that would always be as wormwood in the depths of his soul, which was now outpoured in gratitude....
From the Diary of Alexa Duchess of Yemena, Countess of Vaza.
"—November, 18—.
"The crown-prince has not come with the emperor. Professor Barzia forbade it, because he considered that the big hunting-parties with which the emperor wishes to divert his thoughts from his grief for our little prince would be too fatiguing for my sweet invalid. Still, I hear from Dutri that he is making distinct progress and has already resumed his daily morning rides.
"It is all over with me. Poor sinful heart within me, die! For, after this last flower of passion that blossomed in you, I wish you to die to the world. For the sake of the purity of my imperial flower, I wish you now to die. Nothing after this, nothing but the new life which I see lifting before me....
"And yet I am still young; I look no older in my glass than I did a year ago. I have no need to abdicate my feminine powers unless I wish to. And that is how every one looks at it, for I know that they whisper of the Duke of Mena-Doni, as though he would be happy to replace my adored crown-prince in my affections. But it's not true, it's not true. And I'm so glad of it, that they do not realize me and do not know anything, that they do not understand that I want to let my imperial love fade away in purity and wish to cherish no earthly love after it.
"Dear love of my heart, you have raised me to my new life! You were still a sin, but yet you purified me, because you yourself were purified by the contact of that sacred something which is in majesty. Oh, you were the last sin, but already you were purer than the one before! For I have been a great sinner: I have immolated up all my sinful woman's life to consuming passion; and it has left nothing but ashes in my heart! Great scorching love of my life for him who is now dead—may his soul rest in peace!—I will not deny you, because you have been my most intense earthly pleasure, because through you I first learnt to know that I possessed a soul and because you thus brought me nearer to what I now see before me; but yet, what were you but earthliness? And my chaster imperial love, what were you too but earthliness? Gentle sovereign of my soul, what will God have you be but earthly? An empire awaits you, a crown, a sceptre, an empress. God wills it and therefore it is good, that you are earthly, while your earthliness is at the same time consecrated by your pious faith. But I, I have been less than merely earthly: I was sinful. And now I wish that my heart should wholly die within me, because it is nothing than sin. Then shall my heart be born again, in new life....
"I have prayed. For hours I lay on the cold marble in the chapel, till my knees pained me and my limbs were stiff. I have confessed my sinful life to my sainted confessor, his lordship of Vaza. Oh, the sweetness of absolution and the ecstasy of prayer! Why do we not earlier feel the blessed consolation that lies in the performance of our religious duties! Oh, if I could lose myself utterly in that sweet mystery, in God; if I could go into a convent! But I have my two stepdaughters. I must bring them into society; it is my duty. And the bishop thinks that that is my penance and my punishment: never to be able to withdraw into a hallowed seclusion, but to continue breathing the sinful atmosphere of the world.
"I will give my castle in Lycilia, where we never go—my own castle and estate—to our Holy Church for a convent for Ursulines of gentle birth. I went there with the bishop the other day. Oh, the great gloomy rooms, the shadowy frescoes, the sombre park! And the chapel, when the new windows are added, through which the light will fall in a mystic medley of colour! My dearest wish is to be allowed to grow old there, and to die far away from the world: but shall I ever be permitted? Holy Mother of God, shall I ever be permitted?
"Am I sincere? Who knows? What do I myself know? Do I truly feel this purification of my soul, or do I remain the woman I am? A dreadful doubt rises in me; it is Satan entering into me! I will pray: Blessed Virgin, pray for me!
"I have become calmer; prayer has strengthened me. Oh, full of anguish are the doubts which tear me from my conviction! Then Satan says that I am deluding myself into this conviction, to console myself in my destitution, and that I have become religious for want of occupation. At such times I see myself in the glass, young, a young woman. But, when I pray, the doubts retire from my sinful mood and I look back shuddering upon my wicked past. And then the new life of my future once more shines up before me....
"Beloved prince, sovereign of my soul, here in these pages which none shall ever read I take leave of you, because it was not vouchsafed me to bid you farewell at a moment of tangible reality. Oh, I shall often, perhaps from day to day, still see you in the crush of the world, in the ceremonial of palaces; but you will never again belong to me and so I take leave of you! Whatever I may be—a twofold sinner perhaps, longing only for Heaven because the earth has lost its charm for me—I have been true to you, as I always have been, in love. I have seen you bowed down, you so frail, beneath your heavy yoke of empire; and I have felt my heart brimming over with pity for you. I have tried to give you my poor sinful consolation as best I could. May Heaven forgive me! I met you at a moment when the tears were flowing from your dear eyes with bitterness because people hated you and had dared with sacrilegious hands to strike at your imperial body; and I tried to give you what I could of sweetness, so as to make you forget that bitterness. Ah, perhaps I was even then not quite sincere; perhaps I am even not so now! But that would be too terrible; that would make me despise myself as I cannot do! And I will at least retain this illusion, that I was sincere, that I did wish to comfort you, that, sinful though it was, I did comfort you, that I did, in very truth, love you, that I still love you now, that I shall no longer love you—because I must not—as your mistress, but that I shall do so as your subject. The blood in my veins loves yours, your golden blood! And, when I myself have found peace and no longer doubt and hesitate, my last days shall be spent only in prayer for you, that you also may receive peace and strength for your coming task of government. I feel no jealousy of her who will be my future empress. I know that she is beautiful and that she is younger than I. But I do not compare myself with her. I shall be her subject as I am yours. For I love you for yourself and I love everything that will be yours. You are my emperor; you are already my emperor, more than Oscar! Farewell, my prince, my crown-prince, my emperor! When I see you again, you will be nothing more to me than my emperor and my emperor alone!
"To HIS IMPERIAL HIGHNESS THE DUKE OF XARA,
"LIPARA."CASTEL VAZA,"—November, 18—.
"MY BELOVED PRINCE,
"Pardon me if I venture to send you the accompanying pages. I meant at first to send you a long letter, a letter of farewell. And I did write you many, but did not send them to you and destroyed them. Then I wrote to you only for myself, took leave of you for myself. But can I trace what goes on within me, what I think from one moment to the other? I did miss it so: my sweet farewell, which would still bind me in some intimate way to you! And so I could not refrain—at last, after much vacillation of mind—from sending you these pages, which I had written only for myself. At your feet I implore you graciously to accept them, graciously to read them. Then destroy them. Through them you will learn the last thoughts that I have dared to consecrate to the mystery that was our love....
"I press my lips to your adored hands.
"ALEXA."
The Empress Elizabeth rode with Hélène of Thesbia in a victoria, preceded by an outrider, from St. Ladislas to the Old Palace, which, together with the cathedral and the Episcopal, formed one gigantic building. Here, at Altara, the Archduke Albrecht and the Archduchess Eudoxie, with the imperial bride, had taken up their abode on the previous day. From the tall fortress—a broad mass of granite with crenulated plateaus and squat towers, overlooking Altara—the road wandered downwards, indistinguishable beneath the old chestnut-trees, in tortuous zig-zags. The dust flew up under the wheels; on both sides lay villas, with terraces gay with vases and flowers and statues, sloping lower and lower towards the town. The villas blazed with bunting; the blue-and-white flags with the white crosses revelled in all their gaudy newness among the dusty foliage of the old trees and acacias.
It was June, six months after the death of the little prince; but the mourning had been lightened because of the approaching nuptials of the Duke of Xara, which the emperor wished to see celebrated as early as possible. The empress, however, still wore heavy mourning, which she would not lay aside before the day of the wedding; Hélène was in grey; the liveries were grey.
Many pedestrians, horsemen, carriages passed along the road and stopped respectfully; the empress bowed to left and right; she received cheers and salutations from the balconies of the villas. In this warm summer weather a mellow welcome, a soft gaiety reigned all along the road; the road, with its villas where the people sat in groups, emitted a friendliness which affected the empress pleasantly and made her heart swell in her breast with a gentle melancholy. Children ran about and played in white summer suits; they stopped suddenly and, like well-bred children, accustomed to seeing members of the imperial family pass daily, they bowed low, the boys awkwardly, the girls with new-learnt curtseys. Then they went on playing again.... And the empress smiled at a large family, old and young people together, who sat on a terrace, doubtless celebrating a birthday, and laughed and drank, with many glasses and decanters before them, the children with their mouths full of cake. So soon as they saw the outrider, they all stood up and waved, some with their glasses still in their hands, and the empress, laying aside her usual stiffness, bowed back with a winning smile.
And it was as though she were driving through a huge, luxurious village; for a moment she forgot the light obsession that depressed her, forgot why she was this day going to Valérie and allowed herself to be lulled by her delight in the love that she divined all round her. It was the love of the old Liparian patrician families—noble or not noble—for their sovereigns. It was a caress which she never felt at Lipara. And she remembered Othomar's letter, at the time of last year's inundations:
"Why are we not oftener at Altara?"
She could not for a moment desist from bowing. But she was now approaching the town: the old houses shifted like the wings at a theatre; the whole town shifted nearer, gay with flags, which threw an air of youth over its old stonework. The streets were full: thousands of visitors, native and foreign, were at Altara; there was not a room to be had in the hotels. And the empress could scarcely speak a word to Hélène; she could do nothing but bow and bow, perpetually....
In the fore-court of the Old Palace, the infantry composing the guard of honour of the Austrian bride were drawn up and presented arms as the empress drove in. The Archduchess Eudoxie was awaiting the empress.
"How is Valérie?" Elizabeth at once asked.
"Better, calmer," replied the archduchess. "Much better than I dared hope. But she will receive no one...."
"Do send to ask whether I can see her...."
The archduchess' lady-in-waiting left the room: she returned with the message that her imperial highness was expecting the empress.
Elizabeth found Valérie lying on a sofa, wearing a white lace tea-gown, looking very pale, with great, dark, dull eyes; she rose, however:
"Forgive me, ma'am," she said, in apology.
Elizabeth embraced her with great tenderness; the archduchess added:
"I was not well, I felt so tired...."
But then her eyes met Elizabeth's and she saw that the empress did not expect her to exhibit superhuman endurance. She nestled up against her and cried softly, as one cries who has already wept long and passionately and is now exhausted with weeping and has not the strength to weep except very, very softly. The empress made her sit down, sat down beside her and caressed her with a soothing movement of her hand. Neither of the two spoke; neither of the two found words in the difficult relation which at that moment they bore one to the other.
Two days ago, the day before that fixed for the bride's journey to Altara, the news had arrived that Prince von Lohe-Obkowitz had shot himself in Paris. The actual reason of this suicide was not known. Some thought that the prince had taken much to heart the disfavour of the Emperor of Austria and the quarrel with his own family; others that he had lost a fortune at baccarat and that his ruin was completed by the bohemian extravagance of his wife, the notorious Estelle Desvaux, who herself had been ruined more than once in her life, but had always retrieved her position by means of a theatrical tour and the sale of a few diamonds. Others again maintained that Prince Lohe had never been able to forget his love for the future Duchess of Xara. But, whatever might be suggested in Viennese court-circles, nothing was known for certain. Valérie had by accident read the report, which they had tried to conceal from her, in the same newspaper in which, now almost a year ago, she had, also by accident, on the terrace at Altseeborgen, read the news of Prince Lohe's proposed marriage and surrender of his rights. Her soul, which had no tendency to mysticism, nevertheless, in the shock of despair that now passed through it, became almost superstitious because of this repetition of cruelty. But when, months ago, she had combated and worn out her sorrow, it had been followed by an indifference to any further suffering that she might yet have to experience in life. The death of her illusions was a final death; after her betrothal she had as it were found herself with a new soul, hardened and girt about with indifference. It was strange that in this indifference the only thing to which she continued sensible was that exquisiteness in Othomar's character: his delicacy in sparing her at Altseeborgen, against Oscar's desire; his wide feeling of universal love for his people; all his gentle nature and simple sense of duty.... But, however indifferent she might generally think herself to be, this second incident struck her cruelly, as though a refinement of fate had chosen the moment for it. The official journey from Sigismundingen to Altara had been a martyrdom. Valérie had endured like an automaton the receptions on the frontiers, the welcome at the Central Station at Altara, with the greeting of her imperial bridegroom, who had there kissed her, and the addresses of the authorities, the offering of bread and salt by the canons of the chapter of St. Ladislas. She had swallowed it, their bread and salt. And then the drive through the town, gay with bunting and with triumphal arches erected from street to street, to the Old Palace, in the open landau with the emperor and her bridegroom, amid the cheering of the populace which cut her ears and her overexcited nerves as though with sharp-edged knives! Then, at the palace, it had struck Othomar how like a hunted fawn she looked, with her frightened eyes. Prince Lohe's death was known at Altara; and, though the people had cheered, cheered from true affection for the future crown-princess, they had stared at her because of that tragedy, curious and eager to see an august anguish shuddering in the midst of their festivities, hunted through arches of green and bunting. They had seen nothing. Valérie had bowed, smiled, waved her hand to them from the balcony of the Old Palace, standing by Othomar's side! They had seen nothing, nothing, for all their tense expectation. But then Valérie's strength had come to an end. Her part was played: let the curtain fall. Othomar left her alone, with a pressure of the hand. For hours she sat lifelessly; then night came; she could not sleep, but she was able to sob.
Now it was next day; she was lying down exhausted, but really she had shed her last tear, fought her last fight, recovered her indifference: no sorrows that were still in store for her could ever hurt her now!
Yet the fond embrace of Othomar's mother softened her; and she again found her tears.
They exchanged barely a few words and yet they felt a mutual sympathy passing between them. And through the midst of her sorrow Valérie could see her duty, which would at the same time be her strength: no bitter indifference, but an acquiescence in what her life might be. Oh, she had imagined it differently in her dreams as a young girl: she had pictured it to herself as more agreeable and smiling and as finding its expression more naturally, more spontaneously and without so much calculation! But she had awakened from her dreams; and where else should she seek her strength but in her duty?... And she conquered herself, whatever might be destroyed in her soul, by an unsuspected vitality—her real nature—even more than by her thoughts. She dried her eyes, mentioned that it was near the time when a deputation of young Liparian ladies was to come and offer her a wedding-present; and the empress left her alone, that she might dress.
She appeared presently, in a white costume embroidered with dull gold, in the drawing-room where her parents sat with the empress and with Hélène of Thesbia and the Austrian ladies-in-waiting. Shortly after, Othomar came too, with his sisters and the Archduke of Carinthia. And, when the deputation of young ladies of rank was announced and appeared, with Eleonore of Yemena in its midst, Valérie listened with her usual smile to the address recited by the little marchioness, with a gracious gesture accepted from the hands of two other girls the great case which they caused to fly open, showing, upon light velvet, a triple necklace of great pearls. And she was able to find a few pretty phrases of thanks: she uttered them in a clear voice; and no one who heard her would have suspected that she had passed a sleepless night, bathed in tears, with before her eyes the lifeless body of a young man with shattered temples.
The young ladies of the deputation were permitted to see the wedding-presents, which were displayed in a large room; Princess Thera and the ladies-in-waiting accompanied them. There, in that room, it was like a sudden gleam of brilliancy, flashing in the daylight from the long tables on which the presents stood surrounded by flowers: the heavily-gilt candelabra, gilt and crystal table- and tea-services, gilt and silver caskets from various towns, an Altara Cathedral in silver, silver ships with delicate, swelling sails from naval institutions and jewelled gifts from all the royal friends and relations in Europe. On a satin cushion lay, like a fairy trinket, a sparkling duchess' diadem of big sapphires and brilliants, one of the presents of the bride's future parents-in-law. And very striking was Princess Thera's present: the Duke of Xara's portrait, a work of art that had already been seen at exhibitions in both capitals. But it had little likeness to the original left and was therefore the despair of the princess. It was younger, more indecisive, feebler than the prince looked now: a little thinner than of old, but with a fuller moustache and a lightly curling beard on his cheeks. The melancholy eyes had acquired more of the Empress Elizabeth's cold glance; in other respects too Othomar resembled his mother more than before. But what was still noticeable in the young prince, in his nervous refinement, was the look of race, his trenchant distinction, his air of lawful haughtiness. He had lost much of his rigidity, his stiff tactlessness, and had gained something more resolute and assured; and, in spite of his colder look, this inspired more confidence in a crown-prince than his always winning but somewhat feeble presence of former days. The thoughts seemed to be more sharply outlined on his features, the words to come more pointedly from between his lips; he seemed to have more self-reliance, to care less for what others might think of him. It was, although not yet quite consciously, that unique princely feeling awakening within him: his simple, proud, innate confidence in the single drop of golden blood which ran through his veins and gave him his rights....
It was Professor Barzia especially who, attached as he was to Othomar and treating him personally every day, had aroused this self-confidence with his words, which were prompted both by his knowledge of mankind and by his love for the dynasty, as well as by a personal affection for the crown-prince. The cold-water douches had braced the prince up, but the suggestions of the professor, who had aroused Othomar's latent practical qualities as it were from their subconscious hiding-place, had probably been a still more efficacious remedy. The prince had learnt to govern himself and had become dearer to the professor than ever....
This devotion, born of a discovery of what others did not know to exist—high qualities of temperament—was enhanced by Barzia's fostering of those same qualities; and, when the prince's marriage could be fixed, the professor looked with as much pride as affection upon his patient, whom he declared to be physically cured and considered, in his own mind, to be morally cured as well....
Two days later was the day of the imperial wedding. The town swarmed from early morning with the people who had streamed in from the environs and who noisily thronged the narrower streets. For already at an early hour the main thoroughfares had been closed by the infantry, from the fortress to the Old Palace and the cathedral. And Altara, usually grey, old, weather-beaten, was unrecognizable, gaudy with flags, fresh with festoons of greenery, decked with draperies and tapestries hanging from its balconies. A warm, southern May sun shed patches of light over the town; and the red and blue and white and green of the waiting uniforms, with the even flash of the bayonets above them, drew broad lines of colour through the city, with a gaiety almost floral, right up to the Castle of St. Ladislas.
Through the streets, closed to public traffic, court-carriages drove to and fro, filled with glittering uniforms: royal guests who were being carried to St. Ladislas or the Old Palace. There were Russian, German, British, Austrian, Gothlandic uniforms; briskly, as though preparing for the ceremonial moment, they flashed through Altara, through its long, empty streets lined with soldiers.
Beneath the chestnuts on the Castle Road the villas also teemed with spectators, sitting or moving in the gardens and terraces; and, in the sunbeams that filtered through the foliage of the trees, the ladies' light summer costumes and coloured sun-shades cast variegated patches: it was as though garden-parties were taking place from villa to villa, while people waited for the procession of the bridegroom, who, in accordance with Liparian etiquette, was to drive from St. Ladislas to fetch his bride from the Old Palace.
Eleven o'clock. From the Fort of St. Ladislas booms the first gun; other guns boom after it minute by minute. A buzz of excitement passes along the whole of the Castle Road. On the almost imperceptible incline appear trumpets and kettle-drums, preceding heralds on horseback. Behind them come the slashing throne-guards, round the gilt and crystal gala-carriages. The court chamberlain, the Count of Threma, in the first; in the second, with the imperial crown and the plumed team of eight greys caparisoned in scarlet—and the cheering from the villas rises higher and higher—the emperor with the Duke of Xara by his side; in the following coaches the assembled majesties and highnesses of Europe: the Empress of Liparia, the German Emperor and Empress, the King and Queen of Gothland, Russian grand-dukes, the Duke of Sparta and the Prince of Naples.... The imperial chancellor, the ministers, the robed members of the house of peers.... And the endless procession passes slowly amid the roar of the cannon down the Castle Road, through the main streets and into the heart of the city. There, in the Old Palace, the bride is waiting with all her Austrian relations: the emperor and empress, the Archduke Albrecht and the Archduchess Eudoxie....
It is here that the marriage-treaty is signed, on the gilt table, covered with gold brocade, upon which the emperors and empresses of Liparia have written their signatures since centuries, upon which, after the imperial bride and bridegroom, the august witnesses sign the contract....
Now the whole procession goes through gallery after gallery to the New Sacristy. It is a ceremonious parade of some minutes' duration: the trumpeters, the heralds, the masters of ceremonies; the blue-robed knights of St. Ladislas: the white-and-gold throne-guards; the Emperor Oscar with the Duke of Xara, the Emperor of Austria with the bride.... Slowly she walks by her uncle's side, her head a little bent, as though beneath the weight of her princess' coronet, from which the lace veil floats, lightly shading her bare neck, which is studded with drops of brilliants. Her gown is of stiff, heavy satin brocade, embroidered with silver-thread in front and smothered in emblematic patterns of pearls; great, white velvet puffed sleeves burgeon at her shoulders; the train of silver brocade and white velvet is so long that six maids-of-honour bear it after her, swaying from its silver loops. Behind the maids-of-honour follow the bridesmaids, dressed all alike, carrying similar bouquets: they are Princess Thera, Princess Wanda, German, English and Austrian princesses. And the majesties and highnesses follow; the procession flows into the New Sacristy; here the cardinal-archbishop, Primate of Liparia, with all his mitred clergy, receives the bridegroom and the bride....
In the cathedral waits the crowd of invited guests. Despite the beams of the summer sun, a mystic twilight of shadow hovers through the tall and stately arches of the cathedral and the daylight blossoms only on the motley windows of the side-chapels; in the vaultings it is even dark. But the high altar is one blaze of innumerable candles....
The imperial chancellor, the ministers, the ambassadors, the whole diplomatic body, the members of both houses of parliament, the judges of the high court have entered; they fill the tiers that have been erected to right and left. And the whole cathedral is filled: one great swarm of heavy, rustling silks—the low-necked dresses of the ladies, whose jewels twinkle and flash—and one blaze of gold on the glittering military and diplomatic uniforms, which like great sparks light up the twilight of the cathedral.
Then the trumpets sound, the organ peals its jubilant tones in the solemn festival-march; the first procession enters through the sacristy: the German Emperor with the Empress Elizabeth of Liparia, the Archduchess Eudoxie and a long retinue.... Now the trumpets sound, the organ peals unceasingly; and the invited majesties with their suites and the representatives of the foreign powers enter in group after group. The canopied spaces to right and left of the choir begin to fill up.
Soon the second procession follows: the dignitaries in front, with the insignia of state; the Emperor Oscar, leading the Duke of Xara: both wear over their golden uniforms the long draped blue robes of St. Ladislas, with the large white cross gleaming on the left arm; four crown-princes follow as the bridegroom's four witnesses: the Duke of Wendeholm, the Czarevitch, the Duke of Sparta and the Prince of Naples; the knights of St. Ladislas, the officers of the throne-guards, equerries and pages follow after....
And suddenly a choir of high voices vibrates crystal-clear and proclaims a blessing on the bride, who cometh in the name of the Lord.... The third procession has entered the cathedral: the Emperor of Austria and the Archduke Albrecht, leading the bride, with her maids of honour and her bridesmaids; and she seems to be one white wealth of illustrious maidenhood among her white and floral-fragrant retinue. And the anthem scatters its notes as with handfuls of silver lilies before her feet; her solemn advent arouses an emotion that quivers through all that whirl of splendour, through the whole cathedral. Now, at last, appears the fourth procession: the cardinal-archbishop, Primate of Liparia, with his bishops and canons and chaplains; the high ecclesiastics take their seats in the tall carved choir-stalls; the rite begins....
The sun seems to have waited till this moment to come shooting down, through the tall, party-coloured, pointed windows, in which the life of St. Ladislas glitters with its small, square, gem-like pictures, shooting down in a slanting sheaf of rays upon the choir, upon the priests, upon the canopies under which the majesties are sitting, upon the bride-groom and bride.... And all the colours—the old gold of the altar, the new gold of the uniforms, the brocades, the crown-jewels—flame up as though the sun were setting them ablaze: one fire of changing sparks which, together with the numberless candles on the altar, suddenly irradiates the church. The diadems of the princesses are like crowns of flame, the orders of the princes like a firmament of stars. The acolytes swing incense which is wafted misty blue, delicate, transparent in the sunshine; the sunshine filters through the blonde lace veil of the kneeling bride, lights a glowing fire over her white-and-silver train, illuminates her as with an apotheosis of light that reflects a maidenly pallor upon her. Her bridegroom kneels beside her, wholly enfolded in his blue robe, with on his arm the sheen of the white cross. Both now hold long tapers in their hands. And the primate, with his jewelled mitre and his stiff gold dalmatic covered with jewelled scrolls, raises his eyes, spreads his hands on high and stretches them in benediction above the bent imperial heads....
The chant swells high again: theTe Deum laudamus, as though the waves of the voices were rising upon the waves of the organ, higher and higher, up through the cathedral to the sky in one ecstasy of sacred music. The old, granite, giant fabric seems to quiver with emotion, as though the music became its soul, and sends forth over Altara from all its bells a swelling sea of sound, bronze in the depths and molten out of every metal into gold of crystal purity in the highest height of audible sound....
An hour later. On the closed Cathedral Square movement begins again, among the waiting gala-carriages. Now the procession returns to St. Ladislas, but behind the Emperor Oscar's carriage Othomar and Valérie now ride together. And the city cheers and shouts its hurrahs; the houses groan with the clamour among all the flags and trophies. The guards present arms; and amid this festive uproar it passes unperceived how yonder in the smaller streets fighting goes on, arrests are made, a well-known anarchist is almost murdered by the imperialistic populace....
With its costly pageant, now heightened by the white presence of the young Duchess of Xara and her own retinue, the endless and endless procession returns, through the town, up the Castle Road; and there too the villas now obtain a sight of Valérie and cheer and cheer and cheer....
It is in the white throne-room that Othomar and Valérie hold their court; one and all defile before them: the ministers and ambassadors, the members of both houses, of the courts of justice, corporations and deputations. After the court, the breakfast, at which the table glitters with the ceremonial gold and jewelled plate, used only at imperial weddings. After the breakfast, the last observance: in the gold hall—a vast low hall, Byzantine in architecture and decoration, ages old and unchanged—the torch-dance; the procession of the ministers, who carry long, lighted links in gilt handles, while Othomar and Valérie keep on inviting the highnesses according to rank, invite all the highnesses in turns and march round behind the ministers.... It is a monotonous ceremony, continually repeated: the ministers with the torches, Othomar with a princess and surrounded by the Knights of St. Ladislas, Valérie with a prince and all her white suite; and it is a relief when the function is finished and the newly-married couple have withdrawn to change their dress. Then they appear: Othomar as commanding officer of the Xara Cuirassiers, Valérie in her white cloth travelling-dress and hat with white feathers; and they make their adieus. An open landau awaits them; and with a compact escort of Xara Cuirassiers they drive anew through the town, drive in every direction, showing themselves everywhere, bowing to one and all, and at last drive out to the castle where they will spend the first days of the honeymoon: Castle Zanthos, quite near the town, on the broad river....
And the old weather-beaten capital, which remains full of majesties, which still flutters with pennants, which in the evening is one yellow flame and red glow of fireworks and illumination, seems all the same, without the newly-married couple, to have lost the attraction which turned it into a centre of festivity and splendour and imperial ceremony; and in the evening, despite the illuminations and fireworks and gala-performances, the Central Station is besieged by thousands who are leaving....
It was months after the wedding of the Duke of Xara that the Emperor Oscar, entering his work-room very early in the morning and moving towards his writing-table, caught sight of a piece of cardboard, with large, black letters pasted on it, lying on the floor by the window. He did not pick it up; though he was alone, he did not turn pale, but on his low forehead the thick veins swelled with rage to feel that he was not safe from their treason even in his own room. He rang and asked for his valet, a trusted man:
"Pick up that thing!" he commanded. And he roared, through the silence, "How did it get here?"
The valet turned pale. He read the threatening words of abuse, with their big, fat letters, on the ground before stooping and taking the card in his trembling hand.
"How did it get here?" repeated the emperor, stamping his foot.
The valet swore that he did not know. In the morning no one was allowed to enter the room except himself; he had come half an hour ago to open the windows and then had seen nothing:
"The only explanation, sir, is that some one must have stolen into the park and flung it through the window...."
This doubtless was the only explanation, but it was an explanation that irritated the emperor greatly. It was not the first time that the emperor had found such notices in the intimacy of his writing-room. The result was the sudden arrest of servants, of soldiers belonging to the various guards in the Imperial; but arrests and enquiries had brought nothing to light and therefore made an all the more painful impression. The guards of the palaces, the guards at the gilt railings of the park, where this merged into the Elizabeth Parks—the public gardens of the capital—were already increased; the secret police, the emperor's own police, even kept a sharp watch on the guards themselves.
The Emperor Oscar looked fixedly at the valet; for a moment the thought rose in him to have the man himself examined, but he at once realized the absurdity of any such suspicion: the man had been his personal servant for years and years, was entirely devoted to him and stood answering Oscar's long stare with calm, respectful eyes, evidently pondering the mystery of the strange riddle.
"Burn that thing," commanded the emperor, "and don't talk about it."
Subsequently Oscar had a long interview with the head of his secret police, with whom he had lately had every reason to be satisfied: secret printing-presses of anarchist papers, which were continually being distributed, had been ferreted out; a plot to wreck the imperial train on its way from Castel Xaveria, the summer-palace in Xara, to Lipara had been frustrated; suspicion of being connected with anarchist committees had fallen upon a clerk in one of the government-offices and even upon a young officer and it was proved that the suspicion was correct in both cases. Quite recently the police had discovered a workshop in which men were taught how to manufacture dynamite-bombs and infernal machines. But who the insolent miscreants were who succeeded in flinging their threatening letters into the emperor's own room: this they had not been able to discover. For a whole week the windows had been watched from the park and all that time nothing had been seen; it was now a couple of days since that secret watch had been given up. The head of the secret police felt convinced that the culprits were lurking in the Imperial itself and acquainted with the emperor's private habits. Sudden visits were paid to the rooms of any servants at the Imperial of whom there was the least doubt; and, when a groom was found to be in possession of an anarchist leaflet containing words of insult directed against the emperor, the man was banished to one of the convict sections of the eastern quick-silver-mines. This banishment was the introduction to numberless other banishments; they followed one another in quick succession; the victims were soldiers, sailors, many minor provincial officials: the press had even ceased to report all the banishments. The censorship was rendered more severe; newspapers were continually being suspended, their editors fined and imprisoned; the imperialist papers, Count Myxila's organs, almost despotically indicated the required tone. A socialist meeting was dispersed by hussars with drawn swords; serious disturbances followed in the capital and infected the other large towns, Thracyna, Xara, even Altara. A strike of dock-labourers filled Lipara for weeks with rising insubordination; policemen were cruelly murdered at the docks in broad daylight.
The Duke of Mena-Doni was the Emperor Oscar's right hand during this period; and his rough displays of force kept the capital so far in subjection that no riot burst out, that the everyday life of sunny, laughing luxury went on, that the elegant carriages continued every afternoon at five o'clock to stream to the Elizabeth Parks, where the Empress or the Duchess of Xara still showed themselves daily for a moment. But thousands of protecting eyes were secretly supervising this apparent carelessness; the troops were confined to barracks; gleaming escorts of cuirassiers accompanied the imperial landaus.
The empress also had asked Othomar to abandon his solitary morning rides and never to show himself unattended. The Duke and Duchess of Xara inhabited the Crown Palace, a comparatively new building on the quays, where they kept up an extensive court; and in this palace the emperor also caused domiciliary visits to be made and it appeared that there were anarchists lurking among the staff.
This treason within their very palaces kept the empress in a constant shudder of terror: she lived in these days an unceasing life of dread whenever she was separated from the emperor. For she was least terrified when she showed herself by Oscar's side, at exhibitions, at public ceremonies, at the Opera; and this was strange: she did not at such times think of him, but, if they were not with her, thought rather of her children, as though the catastrophe could happen only at some place where she would not be present.
The empress saw in Othomar so very much her own son that, in the intimacy of their morning conversations—for the crown-prince still paid his mother a short visit every morning—she was surprised not to find in him her own dread, but on the contrary all her own resignation, which was the reverse side of it. But since his marriage she had found him altogether changed, no longer, in these short moments of their private intercourse, complaining, hesitating, searching, but speaking calmly of what he must do, filled with an evident harmony that gave a restful assurance to his words, his gestures and even his actions. With this assurance he retained a quiet, dignified modesty: he did not put his views forward at all violently; he continued to possess that receptiveness for the views of others which had always been one of his most prominent and attractive qualities. He was undoubtedly old for his young years: any one who did not know better would have given him more than his twenty-three years, now that he was allowing his crisp beard to grow.... And yet, yet, especially in these troubled days, his old fears would often well up within him and he would remain sitting alone for minutes at a time, staring at a vague point in his room, listening to the murmurs of the future, as he had listened in that haunting night among his forefathers at Castel Vaza. He then felt that, suddenly, as with a garment, all his new resignation in life was slipping from him, falling from his shoulders. But he had learnt so to govern himself that nobody, not his father, not his mother, not even the crown-princess, noticed anything of this mental dizziness, which left him ice-cold in his short periods of solitude, doubting his right, full of strange, soft compassion for his people....
It was, actually, the old illness which thus, periodically, seethed in him again like an evil sap, flowing through his veins, enfeebling his nerves, crushing him internally, as though he would never be cured of it. But he grew accustomed to it, no longer felt despair because of it, even knew, during the few minutes that the malady lasted, that it would pass and afterwards regained that sense of harmony which above all constituted his resignation.
It was in these days of silent fermentation that there was talk of a marriage between Princess Thera and the Prince of Naples; nothing was yet decided between the two families, but the young prince was invited to Lipara to attend the great autumn manoeuvres. Shoots were arranged; different festivities followed one upon the other. Othomar had in these days to combat those sudden weaknesses more than ever: a strange feeling, a shivering, a mysterious terror remained with him and no longer left him, a terror which he dared not analyse, for fear of discovering motives which would cause him to lose his calmness entirely. There revived within him the recollection of the fact that shortly after his marriage he had dreamt a dream more or less similar to his former dream: the sinister capital filling with crape. It happened while he was still residing with his young wife at Castel Zanthos and he had attached no importance to it, because he considered that this second dream was only a shadow of the former one, only the remembrance of what had already happened and nothing more. But now, in these days of busy celebrations in honour of the prince who was visiting their court, with the ferment of popular discontent like a turbid, gloomy element beneath the surface brilliancy of all their imperial display, the memory of it revived and the terrors and shudders became more and more plainly defined in his imagination and at one moment he felt his former nervous weakness come over him to such an extent that he found an excuse to summon Professor Barzia from Altara and had a long interview with the specialist of which he did not even speak to the Duchess of Xara. When the professor had gone, Othomar felt relieved and strengthened; only the thought lingered within him that it was not right for a future sovereign to be so much under the influence of a stronger mind as he was under that of Barzia; and he proposed next time not to call in the professor's power of suggestion, but to cure himself, in the privacy of his own soul. This plan, to rely on his own strength in future, made him find himself again for good and all....
The day after his interview with Barzia, he spent the whole morning and afternoon in the company of the Prince of Naples, with whom he visited different places and, in so doing, displayed a gaiety and liveliness which were rarely witnessed in the Duke of Xara. The members of their suite were astonished at this radiant cheerfulness of the crown-prince, in whom they had grown used to perceiving always a strain of melancholy. That evening there was a great state-banquet at the Imperial. After dinner, the imperial family were to accompany their guest to the Opera, where a gala-performance was to take place and a famous tenor was to sing.
In these days, whenever the imperial family appeared in public, severe precautionary measures were taken under the guise of glittering display. A strong and close-packed escort of cuirassiers pranced round the carriages which drove that night to the great opera-house. The street at the side of the building containing the emperor's private entrance was closed off; a guard of honour lined the staircase; the secret police mingled with the expectant audience, which included all the smart society of the capital....
The imperial box, with its dark-violet draperies and gold tassels, was just over the stage of the colossal theatre. The first act was finished—they were playingAïda—when the trumpet-blasts clanged out from the orchestra and the august personages appeared: the emperor, the empress, the Prince of Naples, the Duke and Duchess of Xara, Princess Thera. And their entry seemed to electrify the hitherto dull, waiting, nervously indifferent mood of the crowded house, as though, upon their appearance, the light in the lustres shone more brilliantly, the house blazed out with all the changeful flickerings of its jewels, all its flashing gilt, all the curiosity of the bright eyes that gazed at the imperial centre-group; as though the ladies' costumes suddenly blossomed out with one rustle of heavy silken fabrics, while the unfurled fans fluttered to and fro as though a breeze were blowing through many flowers in unstinted light....
Then the curtain rising on the second act, with all its melodrama of royal Egyptian state: the victory after the war and the consequent dances; the hero's love for the Ethiopian slave; and the Pharaoh's jealous daughter and the procession of the gods with the sackbuts: all sung, orchestrated, swelling symphonically in a square frame against a painted background; a stirring picture of royal Egyptian antiquity chanted before the eyes of modern royalty, of a modern audience, indifferent to the rest so long as they met wherever society decided that they should meet at the moment, under the eyes of the emperor and his family and his illustrious young guest.... The passions on the stage unbridling themselves in swelling bursts of music, a world of music, of love and despair, of war and triumph and priestly ambition in music, all music, as though life were music, music the soul and essence of the world.... And, beneath the glamour of this music and of this factitious life, the visible acting of the players, the glory of the famous tenor, with his too-modern head, his dress marked by unreal because unwarlike splendour, his bows and his smile aimed at the real world outside his small, framed world of make-believe, aimed at the audience that applauded after the emperor had deigned to clap his hands....
It was at this moment, this moment of ovation, this moment of lustrous triumph for the tenor, of applause led by the imperial hands. It was at this moment: the Emperor Oscar turning to his aide-de-camp, the Marquis of Xardi, behind him ... the aide listening respectfully to his majesty's command that he should summon the singer to the withdrawing-room of the imperial box ... the Empress Elizabeth and the Duchess of Xara, glittering in their gala, their jewels, in smiling conversation with the young foreign crown-prince who was their guest ... Othomar still with his gaiety of the afternoon, jesting with Thera and the ladies-in-waiting ... the whole house gazing, when the curtain had fallen for the last time, at all of them, in their blaze of luxury and light....
At this moment, in the topmost gallery a sudden tumult, a struggle of soldiers and police with one man.... A sudden rough scrimmage up there in the midst of the most mundane expansion of aristocratic pageantry. And all eyes no longer directed to the imperial box, but upwards.... Then, the man, struggling, releasing himself with superhuman strength from the grasp of his assailants, surging forwards, from out of their throng, like a black lightning-flash of fate: dark, curly head, eyes flashing hatred, fixed and fanatical, one arm suddenly outstretched towards the imperial grandeur below, as though at a target, with inexorable aim. The whole house one tumult, one shout, one shriek; wide gestures of helpless arms: all this very quick, lasting barely a second.... A shot ... and yet another shot....
The emperor is hit in the breast; he falls against the empress, whose bare, jewelled bosom he suddenly soils with blood, which at once soaks his gold uniform through and through ... not golden blood: rich red blood.... But the empress throws up her arms in despair; her strident scream rings through the house. She falls back into the embrace of the Duchess of Xara. The emperor has sunk into the arms of Xardi and of Othomar; a furious oath forces its way through his tight-clenched teeth, while he tears open his gory uniform so fiercely that the buttons fly around him....
Outside, the Opera Square, brightly lighted with many-armed, monumental lamp-posts, had at once become dark and swarming, filled with a vast mob; the whole town poured into it from every street; the alarm drew everybody thither, as though with a magnet. Detachments of hussars were already moving through the town, keeping order among the excited populace; the Duke of Mena-Doni was everywhere at once, trampling down the revolution with the military at his command in whatsoever corner it seemed to lift its head. The sky above was dark and frowning. It began to rain....
The rumour sped that the emperor had died. It was not true. Wrestling for breath, the sovereign lay in the crush-room of the opera-house, amidst the panic of his family, of his suite, of the hurrying doctors. He must not be moved, they said. He insisted. He refused to die here. He was set on returning to his Imperial. And, straining the springs of his energy, he commanded, he drew himself up, with the blood spurting from his throat; Othomar and the aides supported him....
Outside, in the square, the mob grew in numbers, the panic increased, riot seethed up from among those black clusters of people. Continual fights burst out between groups of men, dock-labourers, and the guard in front of the building, the police. The court-carriages returned empty, under escort, to the palace.
Other carriages, cabs, tried here and there to force a way through the people; they were surrounded by cuirassiers, who protected them with drawn swords. Volumes of curses and abuse spattered up against them, against the vaguely transparent windows, behind which were patches of light colours, flashing sparks of jewels. Women's scared eyes peered out fixedly, askance, without moving.
In the corridors, on the huge, monumental staircase of the opera-house, people hustled one another, fought to get through; then suddenly all eyes, staring wide, looked up above: the emperor was passing, bleeding, panting for breath, surrounded by his kin.... A feeling of awe stopped the crush for a moment; then they pressed on again.... Ladies fled till they found themselves behind the scenes, where they mingled their aristocracy with the bohemianism of the actors and actresses, all mixed up, confused, amidst the terrified, humming crowd of ballet-girls, priestesses of Isis. Gratuities were lavished: anything for a carriage, a cab....
The Duchess of Yemena stood there with her daughters; they were looking out for their carriage, which they had sent for at least ten times.... A stage-carpenter shrugged his shoulders indifferently: he did not know where to get a carriage from.
"I won't wait any longer," said the duchess, shuddering.
The girls clung to her, sobbing hysterically. She obtained a leather bag from an actress; she hastily took off her jewels, ordered the girls to do the same. They crammed them into the bag. She slipped a gold coin into a dresser's hand, asked her to pin up their trains, to pin them high, asked her to find them some black shoes. Other ladies, waiting and half-swooning with fright, looked at her, saw her thus, strangely practical. She succeeded in buying three long black cloaks and three black hats from a group of chorus-girls, flung one cloak over herself, flung the others over the sobbing little marchionesses.
"I'm frightened, mamma!" sobbed Eleonore.
The duchess was determined to get home somehow:
"Come, come along!" she urged, driving the two girls before her.
The other ladies, in alarm, watched them disappear through a back-door into a side-street....
The duchess pressed the bag with the jewels to her:
"For God's sake, don't cry; keep your heads!" she ordered her daughters. "Walk on quietly and not too fast. Wrap your cloaks well round you."
She walked on, tall and erect between the two little trembling marchionesses, in those chorus-girls' clothes; rain poured down. Clusters of people ran up against them; they mingled with them; for a moment she lost Hélène:
"Wait a moment!" she said to Eleonore.
And they remained standing amid the press of people; troops came jogging on; socialistic songs of triumph carolled up coarsely.... Then she went back with Eleonore, pushing, shoving, giving Hélène an opportunity to get back to her:
"Now both give me an arm: here!..."
They did as they were told; thus, seemingly calm, slowly, slowly, as though they were sight-seers who had also come to look, they reached the Opera Square, where the mob was swarming up against the guards. Carriages passed, at a walking-pace, escorted by soldiers. A wretched old hired growler, with a gaunt hack, pushed a muddy wheel right up against her, grazing her knees; a cuirassier of the escort raised his sword threateningly against her....
"My God!" she cried, awe-struck, clutching the children.
She had first recognized the driver, in a dirty coat: a footman from the Imperial, whose face she remembered. Then, with a swift glance into the cab, she recognized—just close to a lamp-post with a number of ornamental branches—the emperor leaning against Othomar and her own stepson, Xardi. But the marquis did not recognize her, for, startled by the great light, he quickly turned his face away and bent, sombrely, protectingly, over the emperor and the crown-prince....
The girls had seen nothing; the duchess said nothing, afraid of betraying them.... She felt all her pluck and assurance forsake her; she shuddered from head to foot. She could not restrain her tears for her poor emperor, who was dying, who was returning to his palace in such a guise. A great, dark terror took possession of her. The rain trickled over her bosom....
"Keep your cloaks round you!" she again admonished her daughters.
Then she went on, dragging herself along and the girls as well, beside her, stumbling on their feet...
But a whirl of people swept across the Opera Square; there seemed to be a fight in progress: a heap of men, surrounding a group of police-constables and soldiers, in whose midst a madman wrestled with forcible gestures; a coarse clamour rose on high. At the lighted, open windows of the opera-house, above the perystile, still decked in its bright, festal illumination, face after face, appeared, actors still in costume looked on....
"Mamma, we shall never get through!" sobbed Eleonore, softly.
The duchess thought in despair of the great Empress Avenue in which their town-house stood; it was so far away: how would they ever reach it, how would they ever get home?...
"They're murdering him, they're murdering him, they shan't murder him!" bleated the people round them.
Then the duchess understood, then she saw and the girls also saw: the mob, furious, foaming at the mouth—avengers now, though at first malcontents, perhaps even anarchists: such were the Liparians!—the mob pressing against the soldiers and constables, in the midst of whom the emperor's murderer still made fight with his large, frenzied gestures. And the avengers stormed this circle of protecting police; they dragged the man out.... They dragged him right under the eyes of the duchess, of her daughters....
"Ugh, ugh, ugh!" they roared brutally, men and women alike.
They tore the clothes from his body, they beat him; and he howled back. They struck him to the ground with cudgels and trampled on him with coarse shoes; his blood flowed; his brains spattered from his crushed skull....
Then, at the sight of blood, they became like wild beasts; they grinned and smacked their lips with delight.
Eleonore fell back fainting against the duchess, but Alexa shook her by the arm:
"Keep up, keep up, for God's sake keep up, can't you?" she cried out aloud. "I can do nothing with you if you faint!"
Her strong hands goaded the little marchioness back into life and again she dragged them on, staggering....