XXXVI
It was sundown and she stood on the terrace before the windows of the state dining-room on the eastern side of the castle, watching the shadows darken the woods rising almost perpendicularly before her. She heard the train go by high on the mountain, and sighed impatiently. She was at liberty to take any train up there she wished, and here she must remain in maddening unquiet. She even felt some impatience with Fessenden, who surely might have sent her a telegram.
But dinner had calmed her nerves—she had eaten no luncheon, and once more took her evening meal at the hour of five, that Maria Leopoldina might not add dyspepsia to her other burdens—and she made an effort to detach her thoughts from the fixed idea and subdue them before bedtime. There was an infinity of suggestion in her surroundings, and she conjured back the scene of nearly half a century ago when Maximilian and Carlotta had stood up in the boat at the foot of the water-steps down on her left, smiling farewell to the throng of relatives and friends who hung over the parapet or had crowded out upon the narrow mole as far as the sphinx at its point. Where the American yacht rode at anchor, a ship, in the gala dress of flags and banners and pennants, had waited to carry the brother of the Emperor to the imperial destiny in which he and the many who loved him found cause for pride. Some there may have been with misgivings, but they trusted in France; and that an Indian would in his dreams presume to treat an archduke of Austria as a mere rebel was beyond the imagination of any in that aristocratic throng—certainly unconceived by the gallant and smiling gentleman who looked his last upon Miramar. Throngs also—the people of Trieste—had stood on the long flight of stone steps with its three tiers, which led from Ranata’s feet to the broad terrace below, leading, in its turn, to the landing and the parapet; on the similar flight rising opposite; and on the steps beyond, ascending steeply to the quaint stiff old gardens. Ranata fancied the scoop bonnets, the ugly garments over the crinoline; and even the gay aftermath in the sky seemed to flaunt the colors that had bedecked the fatal vessel.
But visions and the past fled to their limbo. From the mountain came a wild peculiar cry, the supposed Indian war-whoop with which herself and Alexandrahad been accustomed to pierce the repose of Ischl and Schönbrunn, when younger. For a moment she believed it to be another delusion; but it was repeated and careless of the astonished sentry she answered it. She skirted the upper parapet and first garden with a fair assumption of dignity, and entered the dim twilight of a long arbor covered with wisteria vine and ivy. Here she picked up the tail of her gown and sped onward, and then up flight after flight of steps, along wild path and avenues and arbors, and up, up, again, until she suddenly came upon Alexandra followed by her maids and a score of the Hofburg servants. The girls kissed each other formally, although one was palpitating with more than exercise, and the other bulged with news repressed. When they finally reached the library Ranata had never been paler.
“Tell me quickly!” she exclaimed. “This change—these changes—why have I received no official information? What does it all mean?”
“That the Emperor has practically washed his hands of you, my dear, and that your day for receiving official information is over—for which I hope you are duly thankful. It has been a long and weary tussle, but Fessenden has won on every score but the last: he was set on marrying you in the Hofburg, but there your father held out. They were at it alone for two hours, and even Fessenden was limp when he left the palace, while the poor Emperor went to bed and slept ten hours instead of seven. No argument nor reasoning could move him. In so far as he could punish and humiliate you he would; moreover, he wishes the public to know nothing of the affair until it is over. Fessenden was forced to give way, partly because he didn’t want to be the death of him, partly because every delay involves too much risk. So, my dear, prepare for the shock—they are all comingto-morrow—the Emperor, my father and Fessenden, the Archdukes and Constitutional Cabinet—to witness the oath of renunciation, the Archbishop to administer it—not a woman but myself and Maria Leopoldina—no wedding-gown—I begged him to let me bring one, but he said you should be married in a travelling-dress and hat and go from the chapel to the yacht. He is fearfully upset, and I confess my knees shook when I received his summons to the Hofburg yesterday. He gave me my official instructions, if you like to call them that, in less than ten minutes, and then wouldn’t even shake hands with me, much less kiss me. Well—there you are! Of course, if you want to retreat it is not too late.”
The words had dinned into Ranata’s ears like the inharmonious clashing of many bells, and her mental attitude was little less homogeneous. Her conquering sensation was one of profound humiliation, accompanied by a vivid appreciation of all she was renouncing. In less than forty-eight hours she would be no longer the daughter of a great empire, Archduchess of Austria and Princess of Hungary, but acitoyenne, a unit of a huge and heaving republic. And, barring the unavoidable ceremony of renunciation and the distinguished witnesses, she was to be married and despatched as were she one of her own maids. Was love so tremendous a thing that it was worth the barter of birthright and the loftiest state to which a mortal might be born? Ranata had driven forth most of her traditions, but she was the descendant of eight centuries of kings, and her Americanism was yet in the making. She looked hard into the future, and wondered. At this juncture Alexandra produced a letter.
“It is from Fessenden. I will leave you alone with it if you will tell me where I am to sleep. I dined on the train, but I’d like to get into something loose.”
Ranata took the letter. It warmed her hand and shesmiled. “You had better take my aunt’s room,” she said. “It has two beds, and to-morrow night I will sleep with you there. I have been using the state bedroom, as it has fewer associations, but I shall have to give that to my father. What on earth are we to do with all those people? Some will have to go to the villa up on the hill, or to the hotel in Trieste—this castle is not so large as it looks. I suppose Fessenden will sleep on the yacht? Thank Heaven there will be plenty to think about. What time do they arrive?”
“At half-past four, on a special train—so that the Emperor may dine as usual at five. The ceremonies are to be performed on the following morning, and your father’s train will leave for Vienna at twelve. My father and I start in the evening for Genoa, whence we sail for New York. I suspect the Emperor hates the thought of coming here, but in his present frame of mind it is the less of two evils.”
Ranata escorted Alexandra to the simple blue and gray bedroom with its two pathetic little beds, then went to the state bedchamber in which she had lodged for the past fortnight. It was a superb and stately room, in which, like the rest of the castle, one might yet be comfortable. The old French bedstead was of massive gilt, with high and twisted pillars, but open above; and on the walls and on the furniture was the crimson brocade wrought with the Mexican eagle and imperial crown; a tapestry which the prince who ordered it had never seen. Contemporary kings, a pope and a queen, with their coats-of-arms above the frames, covered much of the walls; and most of those who had sat to please their friend were dead. Beyond was the great audience-chamber, hung and furnished with the same imperial crimson, but with fewer paintings: the Emperor of Austria when young; Elizabeth in her exquisite and high-spiritedyouth; and Maximilian in his ermine, looking still, majestic as was his figure, the gentleman and the scholar and no more—the heavy open mouth the index to his failure in the alien rôle. Continuing the great suite were similar rooms, where the eagle and the crown deepened to blood shade in the twilight.
Ranata looked about her lingeringly. It was all a mockery, to be sure. Had her father possessed a proper sense of humor he would have burned the tapestries and the portrait, done all that he could to obliterate the memory of a fiasco which would have been one of the passing absurdities of history had it not been for the untimely finish of an estimable man and the more cruel fate of his wife; nevertheless it was impressive in its high and perfect harmonies and in its serious intent, and it expressed sufficiently all that she was about to renounce. Moreover, she was leaving the loveliest and most various country in Europe—for what? She might have this beautiful castle for her own did she remain Archduchess of Austria, and in Europe there must always be a thousand compensations that could never be found in a new country among a crude and alien people, were love less than she had dreamed. A composite of woman seemed to come forth from the shades and warn her that love was not all, nor yet enough, for man demands all, yet so little, giving less in return. The music of the Chardash rose, as the ghost of the dead women drifted on; and then the words of Sarolta. But in a moment she lit a candle and read Fessenden’s letter.