Chapter Seven.A Shameful Truth.When at last the brilliant company moved on into the great ballroom she had an opportunity of walking among those men and women who, though they bent before her, cringing and servile, were, she knew, eagerly seeking her ruin. The Ministers, Stuhlmann, Hoepfner, and Meyer, all three creatures of the King, bowed low to her, but she knew they were her worst enemies. The Countess Hupertz, a stout, fair-haired, masculine-looking woman, also bent before her and smiled—yet this woman had invented the foulest lies concerning her, and spread them everywhere. In all that brilliant assembly she had scarcely one single person whom she could term a friend. And for a very simple reason. Friendliness with the Crown Princess meant disfavour with the King, and none of those place-seekers and sycophants could afford to risk that.Yet, knowing that they were like a pack of hungry wolves about her, seeking to tear her reputation to shreds and cast her out of the kingdom, she walked among them, speaking with them, and smiling as though she were perfectly happy.Presently, when the splendid orchestra struck up and dancing commenced, she came across Hinckeldeym, the wily old President of the Council of Ministers, who, on many occasions, had showed that, unlike the others, he regarded her as an ill-used wife. A short, rather podgy, dark-haired man, in Court dress, he bowed, welcomed her back to Treysa, and inquired after her family in Vienna.Then, as she strolled with him to the farther end of the room, lazily fanning herself with her great ostrich-feather fan, she said in a low voice,—“Hinckeldeym, as you know, I have few friends here. I wonder whether you are one?”The flabby-faced old Minister pursed his lips, and glanced at her quickly, for he was a wily man. Then, after a moment’s pause, he said,—“I think that ever since your Imperial Highness came here as Crown Princess I have been your partisan. Indeed, I thought I had the honour of reckoning myself among your Highness’s friends.”“Yes, yes,” she exclaimed quickly. “But I have so many enemies here,” and she glanced quickly around, “that it is really difficult for me to distinguish my friends.”“Enemies!” echoed the tactful Minister in surprise. “What causes your Highness to suspect such a thing?”“I do not suspect—I know,” was her firm answer as she stood aside with him. “I have learnt what these people are doing. Why? Tell me, Hinckeldeym—why is this struggling crowd plotting against me?”He looked at her for a moment in silence. He was surprised that she knew the truth.“Because, your Imperial Highness—because they fear you. They know too well what will probably occur when you are Queen.”“Yes,” she said in a hard, determined voice. “When I am Queen I will sweep clear this Augean stable. There will be a change, depend upon it. This Court shall be an upright and honourable one, and not, as it now is, a replica of that of King Charles the Second of England. They hate me, Hinckeldeym—they hate me because I am a Hapsbourg; because I try and live uprightly and love my child, and when I am Queen I will show them that even a Court may be conducted with gaiety coupled with decorum.”The Minister—who, though unknown to her, was, perhaps, her worst enemy, mainly through fear of the future—listened to all she said in discreet silence. It was a pity, he thought, that the conspiracy had been betrayed to her, for although posing as her friend he would have been the first to exult over her downfall. It would place him in a position of safety.He noted her threat. It only confirmed what the Court had anticipated—namely, that upon the death of the infirm old monarch, all would be changed, and that brilliant aristocratic circle would be sent forth into obscurity—and by an Austrian Archduchess, too!The Princess Claire unfortunately believed the crafty Hinckeldeym to be her friend, therefore she told him all that she had learnt; of course, not betraying the informer.“From to-day,” she went on in a hard voice, “my attitude is changed. I will defend myself. Against those who have lied about me, and invented their vile scandals, I will stand as an enemy, and a bitter one. Hitherto I have been complacent and patient, suffering in silence, as so many defenceless women suffer. But for the sake of this kingdom, over which I shall one day be Queen, I will stand firm; and you, Hinckeldeym, must remain my friend.”“Your Imperial Highness has but to command me,” replied the false old courtier, bowing low with the lie ever ready upon his lips. “I hope to continue as your friend.”“From the day I first set foot in Treysa, these people have libelled me and plotted my ruin,” she went on. “I know it all. I can give the names of each of my enemies, and I am kept informed of all the scandalous tales whispered into my husband’s ears. Depend upon it that those liars and scandalmongers will in due time reap their reward.”“I know very little of it,” the Minister declared in a low voice, so that he could not be overheard. “Perhaps, however, your Highness has been indiscreet—has, I mean, allowed these people some loophole through which to cast their shafts?”“They speak of Leitolf,” she said quite frankly. “And they libel me, I know.”“I hear to-day that Leitolf is recalled to Vienna, and is being sent as attaché to Rome,” he remarked. “Perhaps it is as well in the present circumstances.”She looked him straight in the face as the amazing truth suddenly dawned upon her.“Then you, too, Hinckeldeym, believe that what is said about us is true!” she exclaimed hoarsely, suspecting, for the first time, that the man with the heavy, flabby face might play her false.And she had confessed to him, of all men, her intention of changing the whole Court entourage the instant her husband ascended the throne! She saw how terribly injudicious she had been.But the cringing courtier exhibited his white palms, and with that clever exhibition of sympathy which had hitherto misled her, said,—“Surely your Imperial Highness knows me sufficiently well to be aware that in addition to being a faithful servant to his Majesty the King, I am also a strong and staunch friend of yours. There may be a plot,” he said; “a vile, dastardly plot to cast you out from Marburg. Yet if you are only firm and judicious, you must vanquish them, for they are all cowards—all of them.” She believed him, little dreaming that the words she had spoken that night had sealed her fate. Heinrich Hinckeldeym was a far-seeing man, the friend of anybody who had future power in his hands—a man who was utterly unscrupulous, and who would betray his closest friend when necessity demanded. And yet, with his courtly manner, his fat yet serious face, his clever speech, and his marvellous tact, he had deceived more than one of the most eminent diplomatists in Europe, including even Bismarck himself.He looked at her with his bright, ferret-like eyes, debating within himself when the end of her should be. He and his friends had already decided that the blow was soon to be struck, for every day’s delay increased their peril. The old King’s malady might terminate fatally at any moment, and once Queen, then to remove her would be impossible.She had revealed to him openly her intention, therefore he was determined to use in secret her own words as a weapon against her, for he was utterly unscrupulous.The intrigues of Court had a hundred different undercurrents, but it was part of his policy to keep well versed in them all. His finger was ever upon the pulse of that circle about the throne, while he was also one of the few men in Marburg who had the ear of the aristocratic old monarch with whom etiquette was as a religion.“Your Imperial Highness is quite right in contemplating the Crown Prince’s accession to the throne,” he said ingeniously, in order to further humour her. “The doctors see the King daily, and the confidential reports made to us Ministers are the reverse of reassuring. In a few months at most the end must come—suddenly in all probability. Therefore the Crown Prince should prepare himself for the responsibilities of the throne, when your Highness will be able to repay your enemies for all their ill-nature.”“I shall know the way, never fear,” she answered in a low, firm voice. “To-day their power is paramount, but to-morrow mine shall be. I shall then live only for my husband and my child. At present I am living for a third reason—to vindicate myself.”“Then your Imperial Highness contemplates changing everything?” he asked simply, but with the ingenuity of a great diplomatist. Every word of her reply he determined to use in order to secure her overthrow.“I shall change all Ministers of State, Chamberlains, every one, from the Chancellor of the Orders down to the Grand Master of the Ceremonies. They shall all go, and first of all thedames du palais—those women who have so cleverly plotted against me, but of whose conspiracy I am now quite well aware.” And she mentioned one or two names—names that had been revealed to her by the obscure functionary Steinbach.The Minister saw that the situation was a grave, even desperate one. He was uncertain how much she knew concerning the plot, and was therefore undecided as to what line he should adopt. In order to speak in private they left the room, pacing the long, green-carpeted corridor that, enclosed in glass, ran the whole length of that wing of the palace. He tried by artful means to obtain from her further details, but she refused to satisfy him. She knew the truth, and that, she declared, was all sufficient.Old Hinckeldeym was a power in Marburg. For eighteen years he had been the confidant of the King, and now fearing his favour on the wane, had wheedled himself into the good graces of the Crown Prince, who had given him to understand, by broad hints, that he would be only too pleased to rid himself of the Crown Princess. Therefore, if he could effect this, his future was assured. And what greater weapon could he have against her than her own declaration of her intention to sweep clear the Court of its present entourage?He had assuredly played his cards wonderfully well. He was a past master in deception and double-dealing. The Princess, believing that he was at least her friend, had spoken frankly to him, never for one moment expecting a foul betrayal.Yet, if the truth were told, it was that fat-faced, black-eyed man who had first started the wicked calumny which had coupled her name with Leitolf; he who had dropped scandalous hints to the Crown Prince of his beautiful wife’spenchantfor the good-lookingchef du cabinet; he who had secretly stirred up the hostility against the daughter of the Austrian Archduke, and whose fertile brain had invented lies which were so ingeniously concocted that they possessed every semblance of truth.A woman of Imperial birth may be a diplomatist, versed in all the intricacies of Court etiquette and Court usages, but she can never be at the same time a woman of the world. Her education is not that of ordinary beings; therefore, as in the case of the Princess Claire, though shrewd and tactful, she was no match for the crafty old Minister who for eighteen years had directed the destiny of that most important kingdom of the German Empire.The yellow-haired Countess Hupertz, one of Hinckeldeym’s puppets, watched the Princess and Minister walking in the corridor, and smiled grimly. While the orchestra played those dreamy waltzes, the tragedy of a throne was being enacted, and a woman—a sweet, good, lovable woman, upright and honest—was being condemned to her fate by those fierce, relentless enemies by which she was, alas! surrounded.As she moved, her splendid diamonds flashed and glittered with a thousand fires, for no woman in all the Court could compare with her, either for beauty or for figure. And yet her husband, his mind poisoned by those place-hunters—a man whose birth was but as a mushroom as compared with that of Claire, who possessed an ancestry dating back a thousand years—blindly believed that which they told him to be the truth.De Trauttenberg, in fear lest she might lose her own position, was in Hinckeldeym’s pay, and what she revealed was always exaggerated—most of it, indeed, absolutely false.The Court of Marburg had condemned the Crown Princess Claire, and from their judgment there was no appeal. She was alone, defenceless—doomed as the victim of the jealousies and fears of others.Returning to the ballroom, she left the Minister’s side; and, by reason of etiquette, returned to join that man in the dark-blue uniform who cursed her—the man who was her husband, and who ere long was to reign as sovereign.Stories of his actions, many of them the reverse of creditable, had reached her ears, but she never gave credence to any of them. When people discussed him she refused to listen. He was her husband, the father of her little Ignatia, therefore she would hear nothing to his discredit.Yes. Her disposition was quiet and sweet, and she was always loyal to him. He, however, entirely misjudged her.An hour later, when she had gone to her room, her husband burst in angrily and ordered the two maids out, telling them that they would not be wanted further that night. Then, when the door was closed, he strode up to where she sat before the great mirror, lit by its waxen candles, for Henriette had been arranging her hair for the night.“Well, woman!” he cried, standing before her, his brows knit, his eyes full of fire, “and what is your excuse to me this time?”“Excuse?” she echoed, looking at him in surprise and very calmly. “For what, Ferdinand?”“For your escapade in Vienna!” he said between his teeth. “The instant you had left, Leitolf received a telegram calling him to Wiesbaden, but instead of going there he followed you.”“Not with my knowledge, I assure you,” she said quickly. “Why do you think so ill of me—why do you always suspect me?” she asked in a low, trembling voice of reproach.“Why do I suspect you? You ask me that, woman, when you wrote to the man at his hotel, made an appointment, and actually visited him there? One of our agents watched you. Do you deny it?”“No,” she answered boldly. “I do not deny going to the Count’s hotel. I had a reason for doing so.”He laughed in her face.“Of course you had—you, who pretend to be such a good and faithful wife, and such a model mother,” he sneered. “I suppose you would not have returned to Treysa so soon had he not have come back.”“You insult me!” she cried, rising from her chair, her Imperial blood asserting itself.“Ah!” he laughed, taunting her. “You don’t like to hear the truth, do you? It seems that the scandal concerning you has been discovered in Vienna, for De Lindenau has ordered the fellow to return to the diplomatic service, and is sending him away to Rome.”She was silent. She saw how every word and every action of hers was being misconstrued.“Speak, woman!” he cried, advancing towards her. “Confess to me that you love the fellow.”“Why, Ferdinand, do you wish me to say what is untrue?” she asked in a low voice, quite calm again, notwithstanding his threatening attitude.“Ah, you deny it! You lie to me, even when I know the truth—when all the Court discuss your affection for the fellow whom you yourself introduced among us. You have been with him in Paris. Deny that!”“I deny nothing that is true,” she answered. “I only deny your right to charge me with what is false.”“Oh yes,” he cried. “You and your brat are a pretty pair. You believe we are all blind; but, on the contrary, everything is known. Confess!” he muttered between his teeth. “Confess that you love that man.”She was silent, standing before him, her beautiful eyes fixed upon the carpet.He repeated his question in a harder tone than before, but still she uttered no word. She was determined not to repeat the denial she had already given, and she recognised that he had some ulterior motive in wringing from her a confession which was untrue.“You refuse to speak!” he cried in a quick paroxysm of anger. “Then take that!” and he struck her with his fist a heavy blow full in the face, with such force, indeed, that she reeled, and fell backwards upon the floor.“Another time perhaps you’ll speak when I order you to,” he said through his set teeth, as with his foot he kicked her savagely twice, the dull blows sounding through the big, gilt-ceilinged room.Then with a hard laugh of scorn upon his evil lips the brute that was a Crown Prince, and heir to a European throne, turned and left with an oath upon his lips, as he slammed the door after him.In the big, gorgeous room, where the silence was broken by the low ticking of the ormolu clock, poor, unhappy Claire lay there where she had fallen, motionless as one dead. Her beautiful face was white as death, yet horribly disfigured by the cowardly blow, while from the corner of her mouth there slowly trickled a thin red stream.
When at last the brilliant company moved on into the great ballroom she had an opportunity of walking among those men and women who, though they bent before her, cringing and servile, were, she knew, eagerly seeking her ruin. The Ministers, Stuhlmann, Hoepfner, and Meyer, all three creatures of the King, bowed low to her, but she knew they were her worst enemies. The Countess Hupertz, a stout, fair-haired, masculine-looking woman, also bent before her and smiled—yet this woman had invented the foulest lies concerning her, and spread them everywhere. In all that brilliant assembly she had scarcely one single person whom she could term a friend. And for a very simple reason. Friendliness with the Crown Princess meant disfavour with the King, and none of those place-seekers and sycophants could afford to risk that.
Yet, knowing that they were like a pack of hungry wolves about her, seeking to tear her reputation to shreds and cast her out of the kingdom, she walked among them, speaking with them, and smiling as though she were perfectly happy.
Presently, when the splendid orchestra struck up and dancing commenced, she came across Hinckeldeym, the wily old President of the Council of Ministers, who, on many occasions, had showed that, unlike the others, he regarded her as an ill-used wife. A short, rather podgy, dark-haired man, in Court dress, he bowed, welcomed her back to Treysa, and inquired after her family in Vienna.
Then, as she strolled with him to the farther end of the room, lazily fanning herself with her great ostrich-feather fan, she said in a low voice,—
“Hinckeldeym, as you know, I have few friends here. I wonder whether you are one?”
The flabby-faced old Minister pursed his lips, and glanced at her quickly, for he was a wily man. Then, after a moment’s pause, he said,—
“I think that ever since your Imperial Highness came here as Crown Princess I have been your partisan. Indeed, I thought I had the honour of reckoning myself among your Highness’s friends.”
“Yes, yes,” she exclaimed quickly. “But I have so many enemies here,” and she glanced quickly around, “that it is really difficult for me to distinguish my friends.”
“Enemies!” echoed the tactful Minister in surprise. “What causes your Highness to suspect such a thing?”
“I do not suspect—I know,” was her firm answer as she stood aside with him. “I have learnt what these people are doing. Why? Tell me, Hinckeldeym—why is this struggling crowd plotting against me?”
He looked at her for a moment in silence. He was surprised that she knew the truth.
“Because, your Imperial Highness—because they fear you. They know too well what will probably occur when you are Queen.”
“Yes,” she said in a hard, determined voice. “When I am Queen I will sweep clear this Augean stable. There will be a change, depend upon it. This Court shall be an upright and honourable one, and not, as it now is, a replica of that of King Charles the Second of England. They hate me, Hinckeldeym—they hate me because I am a Hapsbourg; because I try and live uprightly and love my child, and when I am Queen I will show them that even a Court may be conducted with gaiety coupled with decorum.”
The Minister—who, though unknown to her, was, perhaps, her worst enemy, mainly through fear of the future—listened to all she said in discreet silence. It was a pity, he thought, that the conspiracy had been betrayed to her, for although posing as her friend he would have been the first to exult over her downfall. It would place him in a position of safety.
He noted her threat. It only confirmed what the Court had anticipated—namely, that upon the death of the infirm old monarch, all would be changed, and that brilliant aristocratic circle would be sent forth into obscurity—and by an Austrian Archduchess, too!
The Princess Claire unfortunately believed the crafty Hinckeldeym to be her friend, therefore she told him all that she had learnt; of course, not betraying the informer.
“From to-day,” she went on in a hard voice, “my attitude is changed. I will defend myself. Against those who have lied about me, and invented their vile scandals, I will stand as an enemy, and a bitter one. Hitherto I have been complacent and patient, suffering in silence, as so many defenceless women suffer. But for the sake of this kingdom, over which I shall one day be Queen, I will stand firm; and you, Hinckeldeym, must remain my friend.”
“Your Imperial Highness has but to command me,” replied the false old courtier, bowing low with the lie ever ready upon his lips. “I hope to continue as your friend.”
“From the day I first set foot in Treysa, these people have libelled me and plotted my ruin,” she went on. “I know it all. I can give the names of each of my enemies, and I am kept informed of all the scandalous tales whispered into my husband’s ears. Depend upon it that those liars and scandalmongers will in due time reap their reward.”
“I know very little of it,” the Minister declared in a low voice, so that he could not be overheard. “Perhaps, however, your Highness has been indiscreet—has, I mean, allowed these people some loophole through which to cast their shafts?”
“They speak of Leitolf,” she said quite frankly. “And they libel me, I know.”
“I hear to-day that Leitolf is recalled to Vienna, and is being sent as attaché to Rome,” he remarked. “Perhaps it is as well in the present circumstances.”
She looked him straight in the face as the amazing truth suddenly dawned upon her.
“Then you, too, Hinckeldeym, believe that what is said about us is true!” she exclaimed hoarsely, suspecting, for the first time, that the man with the heavy, flabby face might play her false.
And she had confessed to him, of all men, her intention of changing the whole Court entourage the instant her husband ascended the throne! She saw how terribly injudicious she had been.
But the cringing courtier exhibited his white palms, and with that clever exhibition of sympathy which had hitherto misled her, said,—
“Surely your Imperial Highness knows me sufficiently well to be aware that in addition to being a faithful servant to his Majesty the King, I am also a strong and staunch friend of yours. There may be a plot,” he said; “a vile, dastardly plot to cast you out from Marburg. Yet if you are only firm and judicious, you must vanquish them, for they are all cowards—all of them.” She believed him, little dreaming that the words she had spoken that night had sealed her fate. Heinrich Hinckeldeym was a far-seeing man, the friend of anybody who had future power in his hands—a man who was utterly unscrupulous, and who would betray his closest friend when necessity demanded. And yet, with his courtly manner, his fat yet serious face, his clever speech, and his marvellous tact, he had deceived more than one of the most eminent diplomatists in Europe, including even Bismarck himself.
He looked at her with his bright, ferret-like eyes, debating within himself when the end of her should be. He and his friends had already decided that the blow was soon to be struck, for every day’s delay increased their peril. The old King’s malady might terminate fatally at any moment, and once Queen, then to remove her would be impossible.
She had revealed to him openly her intention, therefore he was determined to use in secret her own words as a weapon against her, for he was utterly unscrupulous.
The intrigues of Court had a hundred different undercurrents, but it was part of his policy to keep well versed in them all. His finger was ever upon the pulse of that circle about the throne, while he was also one of the few men in Marburg who had the ear of the aristocratic old monarch with whom etiquette was as a religion.
“Your Imperial Highness is quite right in contemplating the Crown Prince’s accession to the throne,” he said ingeniously, in order to further humour her. “The doctors see the King daily, and the confidential reports made to us Ministers are the reverse of reassuring. In a few months at most the end must come—suddenly in all probability. Therefore the Crown Prince should prepare himself for the responsibilities of the throne, when your Highness will be able to repay your enemies for all their ill-nature.”
“I shall know the way, never fear,” she answered in a low, firm voice. “To-day their power is paramount, but to-morrow mine shall be. I shall then live only for my husband and my child. At present I am living for a third reason—to vindicate myself.”
“Then your Imperial Highness contemplates changing everything?” he asked simply, but with the ingenuity of a great diplomatist. Every word of her reply he determined to use in order to secure her overthrow.
“I shall change all Ministers of State, Chamberlains, every one, from the Chancellor of the Orders down to the Grand Master of the Ceremonies. They shall all go, and first of all thedames du palais—those women who have so cleverly plotted against me, but of whose conspiracy I am now quite well aware.” And she mentioned one or two names—names that had been revealed to her by the obscure functionary Steinbach.
The Minister saw that the situation was a grave, even desperate one. He was uncertain how much she knew concerning the plot, and was therefore undecided as to what line he should adopt. In order to speak in private they left the room, pacing the long, green-carpeted corridor that, enclosed in glass, ran the whole length of that wing of the palace. He tried by artful means to obtain from her further details, but she refused to satisfy him. She knew the truth, and that, she declared, was all sufficient.
Old Hinckeldeym was a power in Marburg. For eighteen years he had been the confidant of the King, and now fearing his favour on the wane, had wheedled himself into the good graces of the Crown Prince, who had given him to understand, by broad hints, that he would be only too pleased to rid himself of the Crown Princess. Therefore, if he could effect this, his future was assured. And what greater weapon could he have against her than her own declaration of her intention to sweep clear the Court of its present entourage?
He had assuredly played his cards wonderfully well. He was a past master in deception and double-dealing. The Princess, believing that he was at least her friend, had spoken frankly to him, never for one moment expecting a foul betrayal.
Yet, if the truth were told, it was that fat-faced, black-eyed man who had first started the wicked calumny which had coupled her name with Leitolf; he who had dropped scandalous hints to the Crown Prince of his beautiful wife’spenchantfor the good-lookingchef du cabinet; he who had secretly stirred up the hostility against the daughter of the Austrian Archduke, and whose fertile brain had invented lies which were so ingeniously concocted that they possessed every semblance of truth.
A woman of Imperial birth may be a diplomatist, versed in all the intricacies of Court etiquette and Court usages, but she can never be at the same time a woman of the world. Her education is not that of ordinary beings; therefore, as in the case of the Princess Claire, though shrewd and tactful, she was no match for the crafty old Minister who for eighteen years had directed the destiny of that most important kingdom of the German Empire.
The yellow-haired Countess Hupertz, one of Hinckeldeym’s puppets, watched the Princess and Minister walking in the corridor, and smiled grimly. While the orchestra played those dreamy waltzes, the tragedy of a throne was being enacted, and a woman—a sweet, good, lovable woman, upright and honest—was being condemned to her fate by those fierce, relentless enemies by which she was, alas! surrounded.
As she moved, her splendid diamonds flashed and glittered with a thousand fires, for no woman in all the Court could compare with her, either for beauty or for figure. And yet her husband, his mind poisoned by those place-hunters—a man whose birth was but as a mushroom as compared with that of Claire, who possessed an ancestry dating back a thousand years—blindly believed that which they told him to be the truth.
De Trauttenberg, in fear lest she might lose her own position, was in Hinckeldeym’s pay, and what she revealed was always exaggerated—most of it, indeed, absolutely false.
The Court of Marburg had condemned the Crown Princess Claire, and from their judgment there was no appeal. She was alone, defenceless—doomed as the victim of the jealousies and fears of others.
Returning to the ballroom, she left the Minister’s side; and, by reason of etiquette, returned to join that man in the dark-blue uniform who cursed her—the man who was her husband, and who ere long was to reign as sovereign.
Stories of his actions, many of them the reverse of creditable, had reached her ears, but she never gave credence to any of them. When people discussed him she refused to listen. He was her husband, the father of her little Ignatia, therefore she would hear nothing to his discredit.
Yes. Her disposition was quiet and sweet, and she was always loyal to him. He, however, entirely misjudged her.
An hour later, when she had gone to her room, her husband burst in angrily and ordered the two maids out, telling them that they would not be wanted further that night. Then, when the door was closed, he strode up to where she sat before the great mirror, lit by its waxen candles, for Henriette had been arranging her hair for the night.
“Well, woman!” he cried, standing before her, his brows knit, his eyes full of fire, “and what is your excuse to me this time?”
“Excuse?” she echoed, looking at him in surprise and very calmly. “For what, Ferdinand?”
“For your escapade in Vienna!” he said between his teeth. “The instant you had left, Leitolf received a telegram calling him to Wiesbaden, but instead of going there he followed you.”
“Not with my knowledge, I assure you,” she said quickly. “Why do you think so ill of me—why do you always suspect me?” she asked in a low, trembling voice of reproach.
“Why do I suspect you? You ask me that, woman, when you wrote to the man at his hotel, made an appointment, and actually visited him there? One of our agents watched you. Do you deny it?”
“No,” she answered boldly. “I do not deny going to the Count’s hotel. I had a reason for doing so.”
He laughed in her face.
“Of course you had—you, who pretend to be such a good and faithful wife, and such a model mother,” he sneered. “I suppose you would not have returned to Treysa so soon had he not have come back.”
“You insult me!” she cried, rising from her chair, her Imperial blood asserting itself.
“Ah!” he laughed, taunting her. “You don’t like to hear the truth, do you? It seems that the scandal concerning you has been discovered in Vienna, for De Lindenau has ordered the fellow to return to the diplomatic service, and is sending him away to Rome.”
She was silent. She saw how every word and every action of hers was being misconstrued.
“Speak, woman!” he cried, advancing towards her. “Confess to me that you love the fellow.”
“Why, Ferdinand, do you wish me to say what is untrue?” she asked in a low voice, quite calm again, notwithstanding his threatening attitude.
“Ah, you deny it! You lie to me, even when I know the truth—when all the Court discuss your affection for the fellow whom you yourself introduced among us. You have been with him in Paris. Deny that!”
“I deny nothing that is true,” she answered. “I only deny your right to charge me with what is false.”
“Oh yes,” he cried. “You and your brat are a pretty pair. You believe we are all blind; but, on the contrary, everything is known. Confess!” he muttered between his teeth. “Confess that you love that man.”
She was silent, standing before him, her beautiful eyes fixed upon the carpet.
He repeated his question in a harder tone than before, but still she uttered no word. She was determined not to repeat the denial she had already given, and she recognised that he had some ulterior motive in wringing from her a confession which was untrue.
“You refuse to speak!” he cried in a quick paroxysm of anger. “Then take that!” and he struck her with his fist a heavy blow full in the face, with such force, indeed, that she reeled, and fell backwards upon the floor.
“Another time perhaps you’ll speak when I order you to,” he said through his set teeth, as with his foot he kicked her savagely twice, the dull blows sounding through the big, gilt-ceilinged room.
Then with a hard laugh of scorn upon his evil lips the brute that was a Crown Prince, and heir to a European throne, turned and left with an oath upon his lips, as he slammed the door after him.
In the big, gorgeous room, where the silence was broken by the low ticking of the ormolu clock, poor, unhappy Claire lay there where she had fallen, motionless as one dead. Her beautiful face was white as death, yet horribly disfigured by the cowardly blow, while from the corner of her mouth there slowly trickled a thin red stream.
Chapter Eight.Is Mainly about the Count.Next morning, when she saw her reflection in the mirror, she sighed heavily, and hot tears sprang to her eyes.Her beautiful countenance, bruised and swollen, was an ugly sight; her mouth was cut, and one of her even, pretty teeth had been broken by the cowardly blow.Henriette, the faithful Frenchwoman, had crept back to her mistress’s room an hour after the Crown Prince had gone, in order to see if her Highness wanted anything, when to her horror she discovered her lying insensible where she had been struck down.The woman was discreet. She had often overheard the Prince’s torrents of angry abuse, and in an instant grasped the situation. Instead of alarming the other servants, she quickly applied restoratives, bathed her mistress’s face tenderly in eau de Cologne, washing away the blood from the mouth, and after half an hour succeeded in getting her comfortably to bed.She said nothing to any one, but locked the door and spent the remainder of the night upon the sofa near her Princess.While Claire was seated in her wrap, taking her chocolate at eight o’clock next morning, the Countess de Trauttenberg, her husband’s spy, who probably knew all that had transpired, entered with the engagement-book.She saw what a terrible sight the unhappy woman presented, yet affected not to notice it.“Well, Trauttenberg?” asked the Princess in a soft, weary voice, hardly looking up at her, “what are our engagements to-day?”The lady-in-waiting consulted the book, which upon its cover bore the royal crown above the cipher “C,” and replied,—“At eleven, the unveiling of the monument to Schilling the sculptor in the Albert-Platz; at one, luncheon with the Princess Alexandrine, to meet the Duchess of Brunswick-Lunebourg; at four, the drive; and to-night, ‘Faust,’ at the Opera.”Her Highness sighed. The people, the enthusiastic crowd who applauded her, little knew how wearying was that round of daily duties, how soul-killing to a woman with a broken heart. She was “their Claire,” the woman who was to be their Queen, and they believed her to be happy!“Cancel all my engagements,” she said. “I shall not go out to-day. Tell the Court newsman that I am indisposed—a bad cold—anything.”“As your Imperial Highness commands,” responded De Trauttenberg, bowing, and yet showing no sign that she observed the disfiguration of her poor face.The woman’s cold formality irritated her.“You see the reason?” she asked meaningly, looking into her face.“I note that your Imperial Highness has—has met with a slight accident,” she said. “I trust it is not painful.”That reply aroused the fire of the Hapsbourg blood within her veins. The woman was her bitter enemy. She had lied about her, and had poisoned her husband’s mind against her. And yet she was helpless. To dismiss her from her duties would only be a confirmation of what the woman had, no doubt, alleged.It was upon the tip of her tongue to charge her openly as an enemy and a liar. It was that woman, no doubt, who had spied upon her when she had called upon Count Leitolf, and who on her return to Treysa had gone straight to the Crown Prince with a story that was full of vile and scandalous inventions.“Oh, dear, no,” she said, managing to control her anger by dint of great effort. “It is not at all painful, I assure you. Perhaps, Trauttenberg, you had better go at once and tell the newsman, so that my absence at the Schilling unveiling will be accounted for.”Thus dismissed, the woman, with her false smiles and pretended sympathy, went forth, and the journals through Germany that day reported, with regret, that the Crown Princess Claire of Marburg was confined to her room, having caught a severe chill on her journey from Vienna, and that she would probably remain indisposed for a week.When her maids had dressed her she passed on into her gorgeous little blue-and-gold boudoir, her own sanctum, for in it were all the little nick-nacks, odds and ends which on her marriage she had brought from her own home at Wartenstein. Every object reminded her of those happy days of her youth, before she was called upon to assume the shams of royal place and power; before she entered that palace that was to her but a gilded prison.The long windows of the room looked out upon the beautiful gardens and the great lake, with its playing fountains beyond, while the spring sunlight streaming in gave it an air of cheerfulness even though she was so despondent and heavy of heart. The apartment was gorgeously furnished, as indeed was the whole of the great palace. Upon the backs of the chairs, embroidered in gold upon the damask, was the royal crown and cipher, while the rich carpet was of pale pastel blue. For a long time she stood at the window, looking out across the park.She saw her husband in his cavalry uniform riding out with an escort clattering behind him, and watched him sadly until he was out of sight. Then she turned and glanced around the cosy room which everywhere bore traces of her artistic taste and refinement. Upon the side-tables were many photographs, signed portraits of her friends, reigning sovereigns, and royal princes; upon the little centre-table a great old porcelain bowl of fresh tea-roses from the royal hot-houses. Her little buhl escritoire was littered with her private correspondence—most of it being in connection with charities in various parts of the kingdom in which she was interested, or was patroness.Of money, or of the value of it, she knew scarcely anything. She was very wealthy, of course, for her family were one of the richest in Europe, while the royal house of Marburg was noted for its great wealth; yet she had never in her life held in her possession more than a few hundred marks at a time. Her bills all went to the official of the household whose duty it was to examine and pay them, and to charities she sent drafts through that same gold-spectacled official.She often wondered what it was like to be poor, to work for a daily wage like the people she saw in the street and in the theatres. They seemed bright, contented, happy, and at least they had their freedom, and loved and married whom they chose.Only the previous night, when she had entered her carriage at the station, a working-man had held his little child up to her for her to pat its head. She had done so, and then sighed to compare the difference between the royal father and that proud father of the people.Little Ignatia, sweet and fresh, in her white frock and pale pink sash, was presently brought in by Allen to salute her mother, and the latter snatched up the child gladly in her arms and smothered its chubby face with fond kisses.But the child noticed the disfigured countenance, and drew herself back to look at it.“Mother is hurt,” she said in English, in her childish speech. “Poor mother!”“Yes, I fell down, darling,” she answered. “Wasn’t that very unfortunate? Are you sorry?”“Very sorry poor mother is hurt,” answered the child. “And, why!—one of poor mother’s tooths have gone.” The Princess saw that Allen was looking at her very hard, therefore she turned to her and explained,—“It is nothing—nothing; a slight accident. I struck myself.”But the child stroked its mother’s face tenderly with the soft, chubby little hand, saying,—“Poor mother must be more careful another time or I shall scold her. And Allen will scold her too.”“Mother will promise to be more careful,” she assured the little one, smiling. And then, seating herself, listened for half an hour to the child’s amusing prattle, and her joyous anticipation of the purchase of a perambulator for her dolly.With tender hands the Crown Princess retied the broad pink ribbon of the sash, and presently produced some chocolates from the silver bon-bon box which she kept there on purpose for her little one.And Allen, the rather plain-faced Englishwoman, who was the best of nurses, stood by in silence, wondering how such an accident could have happened to her Imperial mistress, but, of course, unable to put any question to her.“You may take Ignatia to buy the perambulator, Allen,” said she at last in English. “Get a good one; the best you can. And after luncheon let me see it. I shall not go out to-day, so you can bring the Princess back to me at two o’clock.”“Very well, your Highness.”And both she and the child withdrew, the latter receiving the maternal kiss and caramels in each hand.Again alone, Claire sat for a long time in deep thought. The recollection of those cruel, bitter accusations which her husband had uttered was still uppermost in her mind. What her humble friend Steinbach had told her was, alas! only too true. At Court it was said that she loved Leitolf, and the Crown Prince believed the scandalous libel.“Ah, if Ferdinand only knew!” she murmured to herself. “If he could only read my heart! Then he would know the truth. Perhaps, instead of hating me as he does, he would be as forbearing as I try to be. He might even try to love me. Yet, alas!” she added bitterly, “such a thing cannot be. The Court of Marburg have decided that, in the interests of their own future, I must be ruined and disgraced. It is destiny, I suppose,” she sighed; “my destiny!”Then she was silent, staring straight before her at Bronzino’s beautiful portrait of the Duchess Eleanor on the wall opposite. The sound of a bugle reached her, followed by the roll of the drums as the palace guard was changed. The love of truth, the conscientiousness which formed so distinct a feature in Claire’s character, and mingled with its picturesque delicacy a certain firmness and dignity, she maintained consistently always.The Trauttenberg returned, but she dismissed her for the day, and when she had left the boudoir the solitary woman murmured bitterly aloud,—“A day’s leave will perhaps allow you to plot and conspire further against the woman to whom you owe everything, and upon whose charity your family exist. Go and report to my husband my appearance this morning, and laugh with your friends at my unhappiness!” She rose and paced the room, her white hands clasped before her in desperation.“Carl! Carl!” she cried in a hoarse, low voice. “I have only your indiscretion to thank for all this! And yet have I not been quite as indiscreet? Why, therefore, should I blame you? No,” she said in a whisper, after a pause, “it is more my own fault than yours. I was blind, and you loved me. I foolishly permitted you to come here, because your presence recalled all the happiness of the past—of those sweet, idyllic days at Wartenstein, when we—when we loved each other, and our love was but a day-dream never to be realised. I wonder whether you still recollect those days, as I remember them—those long rambles over the mountains alone by the by-paths that I knew from my childhood days, and how we used to stand together hand in hand and watch the sinking sun flashing upon the windows of the castle far away. Nine years have gone since those days of our boy-and-girl love—nine long, dark years that have, I verily believe, transformed my very soul. One by one have all my ideals been broken and swept away, and now I can only sit and weep over the dead ashes of the past. The past—ah! what that means to me—life and love and freedom. And the future?” she sighed. “Alas! only black despair, ignominy, and shame.” Again she halted at the window, and hot tears coursed down her pale cheeks. Those words, uttered almost without consciousness on her own part, contained the revelation of a life of love, and disclosed the secret burden of a heart bursting with its own unuttered grief. She was repulsed, she was forsaken, she was outraged where she had bestowed her young heart with all its hopes and wishes. She was entangled inextricably in a web of horrors which she could not even comprehend, yet the result seemed inevitable.“These people condemn me! They utter their foul calumnies, and cast me from them unjustly,” she cried, pushing her wealth of fair hair from her brow in her desperation. “Is there no justice for me? Can a woman not retain within her heart the fond remembrance of the holy passion of her youth—the only time she has loved—without it being condemned as a sin? without—”The words died on her dry lips, for at that moment there was a tap at the door, and she gave permission to enter.One of the royal servants in gorgeous livery bowed and advanced, presenting to her a small packet upon a silver salver, saying,—“The person who brought this desired that it should be given into your Imperial Highness’s hands at once.”She took the packet, and the man withdrew.A single glance was sufficient to show her that the gummed address label had been penned by Count Carl Leitolf’s own hand. Her heart beat quickly as she cut the string and opened the packet, to find within a book—a dull, uninteresting, philosophical treatise in German. There was no note or writing of any kind.She ran through the leaves quickly, and then stood wondering. Why had he sent her that? The book was one that she certainly could never read to understand. Published some fifteen years before, it bore signs of not being new. She was much puzzled.That Leitolf had a motive in sending it to her she had no doubt. But what could it denote? Again and again she searched in it to find some words or letters underlined—some communication meant for her eye alone.Presently, utterly at a loss to understand, she took up the brown-paper wrapping, and looked again at the address. Yes, she was not mistaken. It was from Carl.For a few moments she held the paper in her hand, when suddenly she detected that the gummed address label had only been stuck on lightly by being wetted around the edge, and a thought occurred to her to take it off and keep it, together with the book.Taking up the large ivory paper-knife, she quickly slipped it beneath the label and removed it, when to her astonished eyes there were presented some written words penned across the centre, where the gum had apparently been previously removed.The words, for her eye alone, were in Carl’s handwriting, lightly written, so that they should not show through the label.The message—the last message from the man who loved her so fondly, and whose heart bled for her in her gilded unhappiness—read:—“Adieu, my Princess. I leave at noon to-day, because you have willed it so. I have heard of what occurred last night. It is common knowledge in the palace. Be brave, dear heart. May God now be your comforter. Recollect, though we shall never again meet, that I shall think ever and eternally of you, my Princess, the sweet-faced woman who was once my own, but who is now, alas! lost to me for ever. Adieu, adieu. I kiss your hand, dear heart, adieu!”It was his last message. His gentle yet manly resignation, the deep pathos of his farewell, told her how full of agony was his own heart. How bitter for her, too, that parting, for now she would stand alone and unprotected, without a soul in whom to confide, or of whom to seek advice.As she re-read those faintly-traced words slowly and aloud the light died from her face.“I kiss your hand, dear heart, adieu!” she murmured, and then, her heart overburdened by grief, she burst into a flood of emotion.
Next morning, when she saw her reflection in the mirror, she sighed heavily, and hot tears sprang to her eyes.
Her beautiful countenance, bruised and swollen, was an ugly sight; her mouth was cut, and one of her even, pretty teeth had been broken by the cowardly blow.
Henriette, the faithful Frenchwoman, had crept back to her mistress’s room an hour after the Crown Prince had gone, in order to see if her Highness wanted anything, when to her horror she discovered her lying insensible where she had been struck down.
The woman was discreet. She had often overheard the Prince’s torrents of angry abuse, and in an instant grasped the situation. Instead of alarming the other servants, she quickly applied restoratives, bathed her mistress’s face tenderly in eau de Cologne, washing away the blood from the mouth, and after half an hour succeeded in getting her comfortably to bed.
She said nothing to any one, but locked the door and spent the remainder of the night upon the sofa near her Princess.
While Claire was seated in her wrap, taking her chocolate at eight o’clock next morning, the Countess de Trauttenberg, her husband’s spy, who probably knew all that had transpired, entered with the engagement-book.
She saw what a terrible sight the unhappy woman presented, yet affected not to notice it.
“Well, Trauttenberg?” asked the Princess in a soft, weary voice, hardly looking up at her, “what are our engagements to-day?”
The lady-in-waiting consulted the book, which upon its cover bore the royal crown above the cipher “C,” and replied,—
“At eleven, the unveiling of the monument to Schilling the sculptor in the Albert-Platz; at one, luncheon with the Princess Alexandrine, to meet the Duchess of Brunswick-Lunebourg; at four, the drive; and to-night, ‘Faust,’ at the Opera.”
Her Highness sighed. The people, the enthusiastic crowd who applauded her, little knew how wearying was that round of daily duties, how soul-killing to a woman with a broken heart. She was “their Claire,” the woman who was to be their Queen, and they believed her to be happy!
“Cancel all my engagements,” she said. “I shall not go out to-day. Tell the Court newsman that I am indisposed—a bad cold—anything.”
“As your Imperial Highness commands,” responded De Trauttenberg, bowing, and yet showing no sign that she observed the disfiguration of her poor face.
The woman’s cold formality irritated her.
“You see the reason?” she asked meaningly, looking into her face.
“I note that your Imperial Highness has—has met with a slight accident,” she said. “I trust it is not painful.”
That reply aroused the fire of the Hapsbourg blood within her veins. The woman was her bitter enemy. She had lied about her, and had poisoned her husband’s mind against her. And yet she was helpless. To dismiss her from her duties would only be a confirmation of what the woman had, no doubt, alleged.
It was upon the tip of her tongue to charge her openly as an enemy and a liar. It was that woman, no doubt, who had spied upon her when she had called upon Count Leitolf, and who on her return to Treysa had gone straight to the Crown Prince with a story that was full of vile and scandalous inventions.
“Oh, dear, no,” she said, managing to control her anger by dint of great effort. “It is not at all painful, I assure you. Perhaps, Trauttenberg, you had better go at once and tell the newsman, so that my absence at the Schilling unveiling will be accounted for.”
Thus dismissed, the woman, with her false smiles and pretended sympathy, went forth, and the journals through Germany that day reported, with regret, that the Crown Princess Claire of Marburg was confined to her room, having caught a severe chill on her journey from Vienna, and that she would probably remain indisposed for a week.
When her maids had dressed her she passed on into her gorgeous little blue-and-gold boudoir, her own sanctum, for in it were all the little nick-nacks, odds and ends which on her marriage she had brought from her own home at Wartenstein. Every object reminded her of those happy days of her youth, before she was called upon to assume the shams of royal place and power; before she entered that palace that was to her but a gilded prison.
The long windows of the room looked out upon the beautiful gardens and the great lake, with its playing fountains beyond, while the spring sunlight streaming in gave it an air of cheerfulness even though she was so despondent and heavy of heart. The apartment was gorgeously furnished, as indeed was the whole of the great palace. Upon the backs of the chairs, embroidered in gold upon the damask, was the royal crown and cipher, while the rich carpet was of pale pastel blue. For a long time she stood at the window, looking out across the park.
She saw her husband in his cavalry uniform riding out with an escort clattering behind him, and watched him sadly until he was out of sight. Then she turned and glanced around the cosy room which everywhere bore traces of her artistic taste and refinement. Upon the side-tables were many photographs, signed portraits of her friends, reigning sovereigns, and royal princes; upon the little centre-table a great old porcelain bowl of fresh tea-roses from the royal hot-houses. Her little buhl escritoire was littered with her private correspondence—most of it being in connection with charities in various parts of the kingdom in which she was interested, or was patroness.
Of money, or of the value of it, she knew scarcely anything. She was very wealthy, of course, for her family were one of the richest in Europe, while the royal house of Marburg was noted for its great wealth; yet she had never in her life held in her possession more than a few hundred marks at a time. Her bills all went to the official of the household whose duty it was to examine and pay them, and to charities she sent drafts through that same gold-spectacled official.
She often wondered what it was like to be poor, to work for a daily wage like the people she saw in the street and in the theatres. They seemed bright, contented, happy, and at least they had their freedom, and loved and married whom they chose.
Only the previous night, when she had entered her carriage at the station, a working-man had held his little child up to her for her to pat its head. She had done so, and then sighed to compare the difference between the royal father and that proud father of the people.
Little Ignatia, sweet and fresh, in her white frock and pale pink sash, was presently brought in by Allen to salute her mother, and the latter snatched up the child gladly in her arms and smothered its chubby face with fond kisses.
But the child noticed the disfigured countenance, and drew herself back to look at it.
“Mother is hurt,” she said in English, in her childish speech. “Poor mother!”
“Yes, I fell down, darling,” she answered. “Wasn’t that very unfortunate? Are you sorry?”
“Very sorry poor mother is hurt,” answered the child. “And, why!—one of poor mother’s tooths have gone.” The Princess saw that Allen was looking at her very hard, therefore she turned to her and explained,—
“It is nothing—nothing; a slight accident. I struck myself.”
But the child stroked its mother’s face tenderly with the soft, chubby little hand, saying,—
“Poor mother must be more careful another time or I shall scold her. And Allen will scold her too.”
“Mother will promise to be more careful,” she assured the little one, smiling. And then, seating herself, listened for half an hour to the child’s amusing prattle, and her joyous anticipation of the purchase of a perambulator for her dolly.
With tender hands the Crown Princess retied the broad pink ribbon of the sash, and presently produced some chocolates from the silver bon-bon box which she kept there on purpose for her little one.
And Allen, the rather plain-faced Englishwoman, who was the best of nurses, stood by in silence, wondering how such an accident could have happened to her Imperial mistress, but, of course, unable to put any question to her.
“You may take Ignatia to buy the perambulator, Allen,” said she at last in English. “Get a good one; the best you can. And after luncheon let me see it. I shall not go out to-day, so you can bring the Princess back to me at two o’clock.”
“Very well, your Highness.”
And both she and the child withdrew, the latter receiving the maternal kiss and caramels in each hand.
Again alone, Claire sat for a long time in deep thought. The recollection of those cruel, bitter accusations which her husband had uttered was still uppermost in her mind. What her humble friend Steinbach had told her was, alas! only too true. At Court it was said that she loved Leitolf, and the Crown Prince believed the scandalous libel.
“Ah, if Ferdinand only knew!” she murmured to herself. “If he could only read my heart! Then he would know the truth. Perhaps, instead of hating me as he does, he would be as forbearing as I try to be. He might even try to love me. Yet, alas!” she added bitterly, “such a thing cannot be. The Court of Marburg have decided that, in the interests of their own future, I must be ruined and disgraced. It is destiny, I suppose,” she sighed; “my destiny!”
Then she was silent, staring straight before her at Bronzino’s beautiful portrait of the Duchess Eleanor on the wall opposite. The sound of a bugle reached her, followed by the roll of the drums as the palace guard was changed. The love of truth, the conscientiousness which formed so distinct a feature in Claire’s character, and mingled with its picturesque delicacy a certain firmness and dignity, she maintained consistently always.
The Trauttenberg returned, but she dismissed her for the day, and when she had left the boudoir the solitary woman murmured bitterly aloud,—
“A day’s leave will perhaps allow you to plot and conspire further against the woman to whom you owe everything, and upon whose charity your family exist. Go and report to my husband my appearance this morning, and laugh with your friends at my unhappiness!” She rose and paced the room, her white hands clasped before her in desperation.
“Carl! Carl!” she cried in a hoarse, low voice. “I have only your indiscretion to thank for all this! And yet have I not been quite as indiscreet? Why, therefore, should I blame you? No,” she said in a whisper, after a pause, “it is more my own fault than yours. I was blind, and you loved me. I foolishly permitted you to come here, because your presence recalled all the happiness of the past—of those sweet, idyllic days at Wartenstein, when we—when we loved each other, and our love was but a day-dream never to be realised. I wonder whether you still recollect those days, as I remember them—those long rambles over the mountains alone by the by-paths that I knew from my childhood days, and how we used to stand together hand in hand and watch the sinking sun flashing upon the windows of the castle far away. Nine years have gone since those days of our boy-and-girl love—nine long, dark years that have, I verily believe, transformed my very soul. One by one have all my ideals been broken and swept away, and now I can only sit and weep over the dead ashes of the past. The past—ah! what that means to me—life and love and freedom. And the future?” she sighed. “Alas! only black despair, ignominy, and shame.” Again she halted at the window, and hot tears coursed down her pale cheeks. Those words, uttered almost without consciousness on her own part, contained the revelation of a life of love, and disclosed the secret burden of a heart bursting with its own unuttered grief. She was repulsed, she was forsaken, she was outraged where she had bestowed her young heart with all its hopes and wishes. She was entangled inextricably in a web of horrors which she could not even comprehend, yet the result seemed inevitable.
“These people condemn me! They utter their foul calumnies, and cast me from them unjustly,” she cried, pushing her wealth of fair hair from her brow in her desperation. “Is there no justice for me? Can a woman not retain within her heart the fond remembrance of the holy passion of her youth—the only time she has loved—without it being condemned as a sin? without—”
The words died on her dry lips, for at that moment there was a tap at the door, and she gave permission to enter.
One of the royal servants in gorgeous livery bowed and advanced, presenting to her a small packet upon a silver salver, saying,—
“The person who brought this desired that it should be given into your Imperial Highness’s hands at once.”
She took the packet, and the man withdrew.
A single glance was sufficient to show her that the gummed address label had been penned by Count Carl Leitolf’s own hand. Her heart beat quickly as she cut the string and opened the packet, to find within a book—a dull, uninteresting, philosophical treatise in German. There was no note or writing of any kind.
She ran through the leaves quickly, and then stood wondering. Why had he sent her that? The book was one that she certainly could never read to understand. Published some fifteen years before, it bore signs of not being new. She was much puzzled.
That Leitolf had a motive in sending it to her she had no doubt. But what could it denote? Again and again she searched in it to find some words or letters underlined—some communication meant for her eye alone.
Presently, utterly at a loss to understand, she took up the brown-paper wrapping, and looked again at the address. Yes, she was not mistaken. It was from Carl.
For a few moments she held the paper in her hand, when suddenly she detected that the gummed address label had only been stuck on lightly by being wetted around the edge, and a thought occurred to her to take it off and keep it, together with the book.
Taking up the large ivory paper-knife, she quickly slipped it beneath the label and removed it, when to her astonished eyes there were presented some written words penned across the centre, where the gum had apparently been previously removed.
The words, for her eye alone, were in Carl’s handwriting, lightly written, so that they should not show through the label.
The message—the last message from the man who loved her so fondly, and whose heart bled for her in her gilded unhappiness—read:—
“Adieu, my Princess. I leave at noon to-day, because you have willed it so. I have heard of what occurred last night. It is common knowledge in the palace. Be brave, dear heart. May God now be your comforter. Recollect, though we shall never again meet, that I shall think ever and eternally of you, my Princess, the sweet-faced woman who was once my own, but who is now, alas! lost to me for ever. Adieu, adieu. I kiss your hand, dear heart, adieu!”
It was his last message. His gentle yet manly resignation, the deep pathos of his farewell, told her how full of agony was his own heart. How bitter for her, too, that parting, for now she would stand alone and unprotected, without a soul in whom to confide, or of whom to seek advice.
As she re-read those faintly-traced words slowly and aloud the light died from her face.
“I kiss your hand, dear heart, adieu!” she murmured, and then, her heart overburdened by grief, she burst into a flood of emotion.
Chapter Nine.The Three Strangers.By noon all Treysa knew, through the papers, of the indisposition of the Crown Princess; and during the afternoon many smart carriages called at the gates of the royal palace to inquire after her Imperial Highness’s health.The pompous, scarlet-liveried porters told every one that the Princess had, unfortunately, caught a severe chill on her journey from Vienna, and her medical advisers, although they did not consider it serious, thought, as a precaution, it was best that for a few days she should remain confined to her room.Meanwhile the Princess, in her silent, stunning, overwhelming sorrow, was wondering how she might call Steinbach. She was unapproachable to any but the Court set, therefore to call a commoner would be an unheard-of breach of etiquette. And yet she desired to see him and obtain his advice. In all that gay, scheming circle about her he was the only person whom she could trust. He was devoted to her service because of the little charitable actions she had rendered him. She knew that he would if necessary lay down his very life in order to serve her, for he was one of the very few who did not misjudge her.The long day dragged by. She wrote many letters—mostly to her family and friends in Vienna. Then taking a sheet of the royal notepaper from the rack, she again settled herself, after pacing the boudoir in thought for some time, and penned a long letter, which when finished she re-read and carefully corrected, afterwards addressing it in German to “His Imperial Majesty the Emperor, Vienna,” and sealing it with her own private seal.“He misjudges me,” she said to herself very gravely; “therefore it is only right that I should defend myself.”Then she rang, and in answer to her summons one of the royal footmen appeared.“I want a special messenger to carry a letter for me to Vienna. Go at once to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and ask the Under-Secretary, Fischer, whether Steinbach may be placed at my service,” she commanded.“Yes, your Imperial Highness,” answered the clean-shaven, grave-faced man, who bowed and then withdrew.Allen soon afterwards brought in little Ignatia to show the doll’s perambulator, with which the child was delighted, wheeling it up and down the boudoir. With the little one her mother played for upwards of an hour. The bright little chatterbox caused her to forget the tragedy of her own young life, and Allen’s kindly English ways were to her so much more sympathetic than the stiff formalities of her treacherous lady-in-waiting.The little one in her pretty speeches told her mother of her adventures in the toy-shops of Treysa, where she was, of course, recognised, and where the shopkeepers often presented her little Royal Highness with dolls and games. In the capital the tiny Ignatia was a very important and popular personage everywhere; certainly more popular with the people than the parrot-faced, hard-hearted old King himself.Presently, while the Crown Princess was carrying her little one pick-a-pack up and down the room, the child crowing with delight at its mother’s romping and caresses, there came a loud summons at the door, the rap that announced a visitor, and the same grave-faced manservant opened the long white doors, saying,—“Your Imperial Highness. Will it please you to receive Herr Steinbach of the Department of Foreign Affairs?”“Bring Herr Steinbach here,” she commanded, and then, kissing the child quickly, dismissed both her and her nurse.A few moments later the clean-shaven, dark-haired man in sombre black was ushered in, and bending, kissed the Crown Princess’s hand with reverent formality.As soon as they were alone she turned to him, and, taking up the letter, said,—“I wish you, Steinbach, to travel to Vienna by the express to-night, obtain audience of the Emperor, and hand this to him. Into no other hand must you deliver it, remember. In order to obtain your audience you may say that I have sent you; otherwise you will probably be refused. If there is a reply, you will bring it; if not—well, it does not matter.”The quick-eyed man, bowing again, took the letter, glanced at the superscription, and placing it in the inner pocket of his coat, said,—“I will carry out your Imperial Highness’s directions.”The Princess crossed to the door and opened it in order to satisfy herself that there were no eavesdroppers outside. Then returning to where the man stood, she said in a low voice,—“I see that you are puzzled by the injury to my face when the papers are saying I have a chill. I met with a slight accident last night.” Then in the next breath she asked, “What is the latest phase of this conspiracy against me, Steinbach? Tell me. You need conceal nothing for fear of hurting my feelings.”The man hesitated a moment; then he replied,—“Well, your Imperial Highness, a great deal of chatter has been circulated regarding Count Leitolf. They now say that, having grown tired of him, you have contrived to have him transferred to Rome.”“Well?”“They also say that you visited Leitolf while you were in Vienna. And I regret,” he added, “that your enemies are now spreading evil reports of you among the people. Certain journalists are being bribed to print articles which contain hints against your Highness’s honour.”“This is outrageous!” she cried. “Having ruined me in the eyes of my husband and the King, they now seek to turn the people against me! It is infamous!”“Exactly. That really seems their intention. They know that your Highness is the most popular person in the whole Kingdom, and they intend that your popularity shall wane.”“And I am helpless, Steinbach, utterly helpless,” she cried in desperation. “I have no friend except yourself.”The man sighed, for he was full of sympathy for the beautiful but unjustly-treated woman, whose brave heart he knew was broken. He was aware of the love-story of long ago between the Count and herself, but he knew her too well to believe any of those scandalous tales concerning her. He knew well how, from the very first days of her married life, she had been compelled to endure sneers, insult, and libellous report. The King and Queen themselves had been so harsh and unbending that she had always held aloof from them. Her every action, either in private or in public, they criticised adversely. She even wore her tiaras, her jewels, and her decorations in a manner with which they found fault; and whatever dress she assumed at the various functions, the sharp-tongued old Queen, merely in order to annoy her, would declare that she looked absolutely hideous. And all this to a bride of twenty-one, and one of the most beautiful girls in Europe!All, from the King himself down to the veriest palace lackey, had apparently united to crush her, to break her spirit, and drive her to despair.“I hope, as I declared when we last met, Princess, that I shall ever remain your friend,” said the humble employé of the Foreign Ministry. “I only wish that I could serve you to some good purpose—I mean, to do something that might increase your happiness. Forgive me, your Highness, for saying so.”“The only way to give me happiness, Steinbach, is to give me freedom,” she said sadly, as though speaking to herself. “Freedom—ah, how I long for it! How I long to escape from this accursed palace, and live as the people live! I tell you,” she added in a low, half-whisper, her pale, disfigured face assuming a deadly earnest look—“I tell you that sometimes I feel—well, I feel that I can’t endure it much longer, and that I’m slowly being driven insane.”He started at her words, and looked her straight in the face. Should he tell her the truth of an amazing discovery he had made only on the previous day; or was it really kinder to her to hold his tongue?His very heart bled for her. To her influence he owed all—everything.No; he could not tell her of that new and dastardly plot against her—at least not yet. Surely it was not yet matured! When he returned from Vienna would be quite time enough to warn her against her increased peril. Now that Leitolf had left her, life might perhaps be a trifle more happy; therefore why should he, of all men, arouse her suspicions and cause her increased anxiety?Steinbach was a cautious man; his chief fault perhaps was his over-cautiousness. In this affair he might well have spoken frankly; yet his desire always was to avoid hurting the feelings of the woman with whom he so deeply sympathised—the Imperial Princess, to whom he acted as humble, devoted, and secret friend.“You must not allow such fears to take possession of you,” he urged. “Do not heed what is said regarding you. Remember only that your own conscience is clear, even though your life is, alas, a martyrdom! Let them see that you are heedless and defiant, and ere long they will grow tired of their efforts, and you will assume a power at Court far greater than hitherto.”“Ah no—never!” she sighed. “They are all against me—all. If they do not crush me by force, they will do so by subterfuge,” declared the unhappy woman. “But,” she added quickly with an effort, “do not let us speak of it further. I can only thank you for telling me the truth. Go to-night to Vienna, and if there is a reply, bring it to me immediately. And stay—what can I do to give you recompense? You have no decoration! I will write at once a recommendation for you for the cross of St. Michael, and whenever you wear it you will, I hope, remember the grateful woman who conferred it upon you.”“I thank your Highness most truly,” he said. “I have coveted the high honour for many years, and I can in turn only reassure you that any mission you may entrust to me will always be carried out in secret and faithfully.”“Then adieu, Steinbach,” she said, dismissing him. “Bon voyage, and a quick return from Vienna—my own dear Vienna, where once I was so very happy.”The man in black bent low and again kissed the back of the soft white hand, then, backing out of the door, bowed again and withdrew.When Henriette came that evening to change her dress the woman said in French,—“I ask your Imperial Highness’s pardon, but the Prince, who returned half an hour ago, commanded me to say that he would dine with you this evening, and that there would be three men guests.”“Guests!” she cried. “But the Prince must be mad! How can I receive guests in this state, Henriette?”“I explained that your Imperial Highness was not in a fit state to dine in public,” said the maid quietly; “but the Prince replied that he commanded it.”What fresh insult had her husband in store for her? Did he wish to exhibit her poor bruised face publicly before her friends? It was monstrous!Yet he had commanded; therefore she allowed Henriette to brush her fair hair and dress her in a black net dinner-gown, one that she often wore when dining in the privacy of her own apartments. Henriette cleverly contrived, by the aid of powder and a few touches of make-up, to half conceal her mistress’s disfiguration; therefore at eight o’clock the Princess Claire entered the fine white-and-gold reception-room, lit by its hundreds of small electric lamps, and there found her husband in uniform, speaking earnestly with three elderly and rather distinguished-looking men in plain evening dress.Turning, he smiled at her as though nothing had occurred between them, and then introduced his friends by name; but of their names she took no notice. They were strangers, and to her quite uninteresting.Yet she bowed, smiled, and put on that air of graciousness that, on account of her Court training, she could now assume at will.The men were from somewhere in North Germany, she detected by their speech, and at the dinner-table the conversation was mostly upon the advance of science; therefore she concluded, from their spectacled appearance and the technical terms they used, that they were scientists from Berlin to whom her husband wished to be kind, and had invited them quite without formality.Their conversation did not interest her in the least; therefore she remained almost silent throughout the meal, except now and then to address a remark to one or other of her guests. She noticed that once or twice they exchanged strange glances. What could it mean?At last she rose, and after they had bowed her out they reseated themselves, and all four began conversing in a lower tone in English, lest any servant should enter unexpectedly.Then ten minutes later, at a signal from the Prince, they rose and passed into thefumoir, a pretty room panelled with cedar-wood, and with great palms and plashing fountains, where coffee was served and cigars were lit.There the conversation in an undertone in English was again resumed, the Prince being apparently very interested in something which his guests were explaining. Though the door was closed and they believed themselves in perfect privacy, there was a listener standing in the adjoining room, where the cedar panelling only acted as a partition.It was the Princess Claire. Her curiosity had been aroused as to who the strangers really were.She could hear them speaking in English at first with difficulty, but presently her husband spoke. The words he uttered were clear. In an instant they revealed to her an awful, unexpected truth.She held her breath, her left hand upon her bare chest above her corsage, her mouth open, her white face drawn and haggard.Scarce believing her own ears, she again listened. Could it really be true?Her husband again spoke. Ah yes! of the words he uttered there could be not the slightest doubt. She was doomed.With uneven steps she staggered from her hiding-place along the corridor to her own room, and on opening the door she fell forward senseless upon the carpet.
By noon all Treysa knew, through the papers, of the indisposition of the Crown Princess; and during the afternoon many smart carriages called at the gates of the royal palace to inquire after her Imperial Highness’s health.
The pompous, scarlet-liveried porters told every one that the Princess had, unfortunately, caught a severe chill on her journey from Vienna, and her medical advisers, although they did not consider it serious, thought, as a precaution, it was best that for a few days she should remain confined to her room.
Meanwhile the Princess, in her silent, stunning, overwhelming sorrow, was wondering how she might call Steinbach. She was unapproachable to any but the Court set, therefore to call a commoner would be an unheard-of breach of etiquette. And yet she desired to see him and obtain his advice. In all that gay, scheming circle about her he was the only person whom she could trust. He was devoted to her service because of the little charitable actions she had rendered him. She knew that he would if necessary lay down his very life in order to serve her, for he was one of the very few who did not misjudge her.
The long day dragged by. She wrote many letters—mostly to her family and friends in Vienna. Then taking a sheet of the royal notepaper from the rack, she again settled herself, after pacing the boudoir in thought for some time, and penned a long letter, which when finished she re-read and carefully corrected, afterwards addressing it in German to “His Imperial Majesty the Emperor, Vienna,” and sealing it with her own private seal.
“He misjudges me,” she said to herself very gravely; “therefore it is only right that I should defend myself.”
Then she rang, and in answer to her summons one of the royal footmen appeared.
“I want a special messenger to carry a letter for me to Vienna. Go at once to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and ask the Under-Secretary, Fischer, whether Steinbach may be placed at my service,” she commanded.
“Yes, your Imperial Highness,” answered the clean-shaven, grave-faced man, who bowed and then withdrew.
Allen soon afterwards brought in little Ignatia to show the doll’s perambulator, with which the child was delighted, wheeling it up and down the boudoir. With the little one her mother played for upwards of an hour. The bright little chatterbox caused her to forget the tragedy of her own young life, and Allen’s kindly English ways were to her so much more sympathetic than the stiff formalities of her treacherous lady-in-waiting.
The little one in her pretty speeches told her mother of her adventures in the toy-shops of Treysa, where she was, of course, recognised, and where the shopkeepers often presented her little Royal Highness with dolls and games. In the capital the tiny Ignatia was a very important and popular personage everywhere; certainly more popular with the people than the parrot-faced, hard-hearted old King himself.
Presently, while the Crown Princess was carrying her little one pick-a-pack up and down the room, the child crowing with delight at its mother’s romping and caresses, there came a loud summons at the door, the rap that announced a visitor, and the same grave-faced manservant opened the long white doors, saying,—
“Your Imperial Highness. Will it please you to receive Herr Steinbach of the Department of Foreign Affairs?”
“Bring Herr Steinbach here,” she commanded, and then, kissing the child quickly, dismissed both her and her nurse.
A few moments later the clean-shaven, dark-haired man in sombre black was ushered in, and bending, kissed the Crown Princess’s hand with reverent formality.
As soon as they were alone she turned to him, and, taking up the letter, said,—
“I wish you, Steinbach, to travel to Vienna by the express to-night, obtain audience of the Emperor, and hand this to him. Into no other hand must you deliver it, remember. In order to obtain your audience you may say that I have sent you; otherwise you will probably be refused. If there is a reply, you will bring it; if not—well, it does not matter.”
The quick-eyed man, bowing again, took the letter, glanced at the superscription, and placing it in the inner pocket of his coat, said,—
“I will carry out your Imperial Highness’s directions.”
The Princess crossed to the door and opened it in order to satisfy herself that there were no eavesdroppers outside. Then returning to where the man stood, she said in a low voice,—
“I see that you are puzzled by the injury to my face when the papers are saying I have a chill. I met with a slight accident last night.” Then in the next breath she asked, “What is the latest phase of this conspiracy against me, Steinbach? Tell me. You need conceal nothing for fear of hurting my feelings.”
The man hesitated a moment; then he replied,—
“Well, your Imperial Highness, a great deal of chatter has been circulated regarding Count Leitolf. They now say that, having grown tired of him, you have contrived to have him transferred to Rome.”
“Well?”
“They also say that you visited Leitolf while you were in Vienna. And I regret,” he added, “that your enemies are now spreading evil reports of you among the people. Certain journalists are being bribed to print articles which contain hints against your Highness’s honour.”
“This is outrageous!” she cried. “Having ruined me in the eyes of my husband and the King, they now seek to turn the people against me! It is infamous!”
“Exactly. That really seems their intention. They know that your Highness is the most popular person in the whole Kingdom, and they intend that your popularity shall wane.”
“And I am helpless, Steinbach, utterly helpless,” she cried in desperation. “I have no friend except yourself.”
The man sighed, for he was full of sympathy for the beautiful but unjustly-treated woman, whose brave heart he knew was broken. He was aware of the love-story of long ago between the Count and herself, but he knew her too well to believe any of those scandalous tales concerning her. He knew well how, from the very first days of her married life, she had been compelled to endure sneers, insult, and libellous report. The King and Queen themselves had been so harsh and unbending that she had always held aloof from them. Her every action, either in private or in public, they criticised adversely. She even wore her tiaras, her jewels, and her decorations in a manner with which they found fault; and whatever dress she assumed at the various functions, the sharp-tongued old Queen, merely in order to annoy her, would declare that she looked absolutely hideous. And all this to a bride of twenty-one, and one of the most beautiful girls in Europe!
All, from the King himself down to the veriest palace lackey, had apparently united to crush her, to break her spirit, and drive her to despair.
“I hope, as I declared when we last met, Princess, that I shall ever remain your friend,” said the humble employé of the Foreign Ministry. “I only wish that I could serve you to some good purpose—I mean, to do something that might increase your happiness. Forgive me, your Highness, for saying so.”
“The only way to give me happiness, Steinbach, is to give me freedom,” she said sadly, as though speaking to herself. “Freedom—ah, how I long for it! How I long to escape from this accursed palace, and live as the people live! I tell you,” she added in a low, half-whisper, her pale, disfigured face assuming a deadly earnest look—“I tell you that sometimes I feel—well, I feel that I can’t endure it much longer, and that I’m slowly being driven insane.”
He started at her words, and looked her straight in the face. Should he tell her the truth of an amazing discovery he had made only on the previous day; or was it really kinder to her to hold his tongue?
His very heart bled for her. To her influence he owed all—everything.
No; he could not tell her of that new and dastardly plot against her—at least not yet. Surely it was not yet matured! When he returned from Vienna would be quite time enough to warn her against her increased peril. Now that Leitolf had left her, life might perhaps be a trifle more happy; therefore why should he, of all men, arouse her suspicions and cause her increased anxiety?
Steinbach was a cautious man; his chief fault perhaps was his over-cautiousness. In this affair he might well have spoken frankly; yet his desire always was to avoid hurting the feelings of the woman with whom he so deeply sympathised—the Imperial Princess, to whom he acted as humble, devoted, and secret friend.
“You must not allow such fears to take possession of you,” he urged. “Do not heed what is said regarding you. Remember only that your own conscience is clear, even though your life is, alas, a martyrdom! Let them see that you are heedless and defiant, and ere long they will grow tired of their efforts, and you will assume a power at Court far greater than hitherto.”
“Ah no—never!” she sighed. “They are all against me—all. If they do not crush me by force, they will do so by subterfuge,” declared the unhappy woman. “But,” she added quickly with an effort, “do not let us speak of it further. I can only thank you for telling me the truth. Go to-night to Vienna, and if there is a reply, bring it to me immediately. And stay—what can I do to give you recompense? You have no decoration! I will write at once a recommendation for you for the cross of St. Michael, and whenever you wear it you will, I hope, remember the grateful woman who conferred it upon you.”
“I thank your Highness most truly,” he said. “I have coveted the high honour for many years, and I can in turn only reassure you that any mission you may entrust to me will always be carried out in secret and faithfully.”
“Then adieu, Steinbach,” she said, dismissing him. “Bon voyage, and a quick return from Vienna—my own dear Vienna, where once I was so very happy.”
The man in black bent low and again kissed the back of the soft white hand, then, backing out of the door, bowed again and withdrew.
When Henriette came that evening to change her dress the woman said in French,—
“I ask your Imperial Highness’s pardon, but the Prince, who returned half an hour ago, commanded me to say that he would dine with you this evening, and that there would be three men guests.”
“Guests!” she cried. “But the Prince must be mad! How can I receive guests in this state, Henriette?”
“I explained that your Imperial Highness was not in a fit state to dine in public,” said the maid quietly; “but the Prince replied that he commanded it.”
What fresh insult had her husband in store for her? Did he wish to exhibit her poor bruised face publicly before her friends? It was monstrous!
Yet he had commanded; therefore she allowed Henriette to brush her fair hair and dress her in a black net dinner-gown, one that she often wore when dining in the privacy of her own apartments. Henriette cleverly contrived, by the aid of powder and a few touches of make-up, to half conceal her mistress’s disfiguration; therefore at eight o’clock the Princess Claire entered the fine white-and-gold reception-room, lit by its hundreds of small electric lamps, and there found her husband in uniform, speaking earnestly with three elderly and rather distinguished-looking men in plain evening dress.
Turning, he smiled at her as though nothing had occurred between them, and then introduced his friends by name; but of their names she took no notice. They were strangers, and to her quite uninteresting.
Yet she bowed, smiled, and put on that air of graciousness that, on account of her Court training, she could now assume at will.
The men were from somewhere in North Germany, she detected by their speech, and at the dinner-table the conversation was mostly upon the advance of science; therefore she concluded, from their spectacled appearance and the technical terms they used, that they were scientists from Berlin to whom her husband wished to be kind, and had invited them quite without formality.
Their conversation did not interest her in the least; therefore she remained almost silent throughout the meal, except now and then to address a remark to one or other of her guests. She noticed that once or twice they exchanged strange glances. What could it mean?
At last she rose, and after they had bowed her out they reseated themselves, and all four began conversing in a lower tone in English, lest any servant should enter unexpectedly.
Then ten minutes later, at a signal from the Prince, they rose and passed into thefumoir, a pretty room panelled with cedar-wood, and with great palms and plashing fountains, where coffee was served and cigars were lit.
There the conversation in an undertone in English was again resumed, the Prince being apparently very interested in something which his guests were explaining. Though the door was closed and they believed themselves in perfect privacy, there was a listener standing in the adjoining room, where the cedar panelling only acted as a partition.
It was the Princess Claire. Her curiosity had been aroused as to who the strangers really were.
She could hear them speaking in English at first with difficulty, but presently her husband spoke. The words he uttered were clear. In an instant they revealed to her an awful, unexpected truth.
She held her breath, her left hand upon her bare chest above her corsage, her mouth open, her white face drawn and haggard.
Scarce believing her own ears, she again listened. Could it really be true?
Her husband again spoke. Ah yes! of the words he uttered there could be not the slightest doubt. She was doomed.
With uneven steps she staggered from her hiding-place along the corridor to her own room, and on opening the door she fell forward senseless upon the carpet.