“But what of the Nobility,” he objected; “in Valeria they still lead the people.”
“True,” she answered instantly, “true; but you forget again that the Nobles are sworn to maintain the Laws of the Dalbergs; and that for centuries none has ever broken faith. No, no, Armand, they will be true to their oaths; they will uphold the decree.”
“Don’t you think, dear,” he smiled, “you are making it rather too assured? If the people are for me (or at least are not for Lotzen) and the Nobles will abide by the Laws, nothing remains but to mount the Throne and seize the sceptre.”
“Just about that, I fancy,” she replied.
“And, meanwhile, what will Lotzen be doing?”
She frowned. “Whatever the Head of his House orders him to do. As a Dalberg he is bound to obey.”
“And you think he will obey?”
“I surely do. I cannot imagine a Dalberg dishonoring the Book of Laws.”
“I fear you do not know Ferdinand of Lotzen,” said Armand seriously. “He intends to dispute the Succession. I have never told you how, long ago, he warned me what to expect if I undertook to ‘filch the Crown,’ as he put it. It was the afternoon he insulted me at headquarters—the Vierle Masque was in the evening.”
The Princess nodded eagerly. “Yes,” said she, “yes—I know—the time he wanted you to toss up a coin for me. What did he say?”
The Archduke reflected a moment. “I can give you his exact words: ‘Do you think,’ he said, ‘that I, who have been the Heir Presumptive since the instant of my birth, almost, will calmly step aside and permit you to take my place? Do you fancy for an instant that the people of Valeria would have a foreigner for King? And even if old Frederick were to become so infatuated with you that he would restore you to Hugo’s place in the line of Succession, do you imagine that the House of Nobles would hesitate to annul it the instant he died?’”
When he had finished, Dehra’s fingers were beating a tattoo on the chair’s arm, and her eyes were snapping—as once or twice he had seen Frederick’s snap.
“And I suppose you never told the King?” she exclaimed.
“Naturally not.”
“Of course, of course,” with a toss of the handsome head. “That’s a man’s way—his silly, senseless way—never tell tales about a rival. And as a result, see what a mess you have made. Had you informed the King, he instantly would have proclaimed you as his heir, and then disgraced Lotzen publicly and sent him into exile. And you would now be his successor, without a shadow of opposition.”
Armand subdued a smile. “You don’t understand, Dehra——” he began.
“Quite right,” she cut in; “quite right; I don’t. Why didn’t you tell me? I would have told the King, you may be sure.”
“Of course you would, little woman; that’s just the reason I didn’t tell you.”
She shrugged her shoulders, and the tattoo began afresh.
“I’ve no patience with such nonsense,” she declared; “Lotzen deserved no gentlemanly consideration; he would have shown none to you; and besides, it was your duty to your King and your House to uphold the Laws of the Dalbergs and to prevent any attempt to violate them.”
“I am very much afraid that lately, between Lotzen and myself, the Laws of the Dalbergs have been sadly slighted.”
His bantering jarred upon her. “To me, Armand,” she answered gravely, “our Laws are holy. For almost a thousand years they have been our unchallenged rule of governance. I can understand why, to you, they have no sacredness and no sentiment; but Lotzen has been born and bred under them, and should honor them with his life—and more especially as they alone made him the Heir Presumptive. But for the decree of the first Dalberg King, four hundred years ago, I would be the Queen-Regent of Valeria.”
“It’s a pity, a crying pity!” he exclaimed.
She looked down at him with shining eyes. “No, dear, it isn’t; once I thought it was; but now I’m quite content to be Queen-consort.”
He took both her hands and held them between his own. “That, dear, is what makes it possible, and worth the struggle; and if Valeria does accept me as its King, it will be solely for love of you, and to get you for its Queen.”
A smile of satisfaction crossed her face. “I hope the people do love me,” she said. “I would like to feel I may have helped you, even a little.”
“A little! but for you, my princess, I’d go back to America and leave the way clear for Lotzen.”
She laughed softly. “No, no, Armand, you would do nothing of the sort. A Dalberg never ran from duty—and least of all the Dalberg whom God has made in the image of the greatest of them all.”
He glanced in the tall mirror across the room. He was wearing the dress uniform of the Red Huzzars (who had been inspected immediately before the Foot Guards; and he, as titular Colonel, had led them in the march by), and there was no denying he made a handsome figure, in the brilliant tunic and black, fur-bound dohlman, his Orders sparkling, his sword across his knees.
She put her head close beside his and smiled at him in the mirror.
“Henry the Great was not at all bad looking,” she said.
He smiled back at her. “But with a beastly bad temper, at times, I’m told.”
“I’m not afraid—I mean his wife wasn’t afraid; tradition is, she managed him very skilfully.”
“Doubtless,” he agreed; “any clever woman can manage a man if she take the trouble to try.”
“And shall I try, Armand?”
“Try!” he chuckled; “you couldn’t help trying; man taming is your natural avocation. By all means, manage me—only, don’t let me know it.”
“I’ll not,” she laughed—“the King never——” and she straightened sharply. “I forgot, dear, I forgot!” And she got up suddenly, and went over to the window. Nor did he follow her; but waited silently, knowing well it was no time for him even to intrude.
After a while she came slowly back to him, a wistfully sad look in her eyes. And as he met her she gave him both her hands.
“I shall never be anything but a thoughtless child, Armand,” she said, with a wan, little smile. “So be kind to me, dear—and don’t forget.”
He drew her arms about his neck. “Let us always be children to each other,” he answered, “forgetting, when together, everything but the joy of living, the pleasures of to-day, the anticipations of to-morrow.”
She shook her head. “A woman is always a child in love,” she said; “it’s the man who grows into maturity, and sobers with age.”
He knew quite well she was right, and for the moment he had no words to answer; and she understood and helped him.
“But this is no time for either of us to be children,” she went on; “there is work to do and plans to be arranged.” She drew a chair close to the table and, resting both arms upon it, looked up at the Archduke expectantly. “What is first?”
He hesitated.
“Come, dear,” she said; “Frederick was my father and my dearest friend, but there remains for him now only the last sad offices the living do the dead; we will do them; but we will also do what he has decreed. We will seat you in his place, and confound Lotzen and his satellites.”
He took her hand and gravely raised it to his lips.
“You are a rare woman, Dehra,” he said, “a rare woman. No man can reach your level, nor understand the beauty of your faith, the meaning of your love. Yet, at least, will I try to do you honor and to give you truth.”
She drew him down and kissed him lightly on the cheek.
“You do not know the Dalberg women, dear,” she said—“to them the King is next to God—and the line that separates is very narrow.”
“But I’m not yet the King,” he protested.
“You’ve been king, in fact, since the moment—Frederick died. With us, the tenet still obtains in all its ancient strength; the throne is never vacant.”
“So it’s Lotzen or I, and to-morrow the Book will decide.”
“Yes,” she agreed; “to-morrow the Book will decide for the Nation; butweknow it will be you.”
“Not exactly,” he smiled; “we think we know; we can’t be sure until we see the decree.”
“I have no doubt,” she averred, “my father’s words can bear but one construction.”
“It would seem so—yet I’ve long learned that, in this life, it’s the certain things that usually are lost.”
She sprang up. “Why not settle it at once—let us send for the Book; of course it is at the Palace—it was there last night.”
He shook his head decisively. “No, dear, no; believe me it is not wise now for either of us to touch the Book. It were best that it be opened only by the Prime Minister in presence of the Royal Council. We must give Lotzen no reason to cry forgery.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Small good would it do him, as against Frederick’s writing and my testimony. However, we can wait—the Council meets in the morning, I assume?”
“Yes; at ten o’clock, at the Palace.”
She looked up quickly. “The key?” she asked; “it was always on his watch chain—have you got it?”
“No,” said he; “I never thought of it.”
She rang the bell and sent for the Chamberlain.
“Bring me King Frederick’s watch, and the Orders he was wearing,” she said. When they came she handed the Orders to Armand.
“They are yours now, dear,” she said. She took the watch and held up the chain, from the end of which hung the small, antique key of the brass bound box, in which the Book of Laws had been kept for centuries that now reached back to tradition. She contemplated, for a moment, the swaying bit of gold and bronze, then loosed it from the ring.
“This also is yours, Sire,” she said, and proffered it to him.
But he declined. “To-morrow,” he said.
“And in the meantime?”
“If Count Epping is still in the Castle, we will let him hold it.”
The Princess nodded in approval. “Doubtless that is wiser,” she said, “though quite unprecedented; none but the King ever holds that key, save when he rides to war.”
“We are dealing with a situation that has no precedents,” he smiled; “we must make some.”
As he went toward the bell, a servant entered with a card.
“Admit him,” he said.... “It is Epping,” he explained.
The Prime Minister of Valeria was one of those extraordinary exceptions that occasionally occur in public officials; he had no purpose in life but to serve his King. Without regard to his own private ends or personal ambition, he had administered hisoffice for a generation, and Frederick trusted him as few monarchs ever trusted a powerful subject. To the Nation, he was honesty and justice incarnate, and only the King and the Princess Royal excelled him in popularity and respect. Seventy years had passed over the tall and slender figure, leaving a crown of silver above the pale, lean face, with its tight-shut mouth, high cheek bones and faded blue eyes; but they had brought no stoop to the shoulders, nor feebleness to the step, nor dullness to the brain.
He saluted Armand with formal dignity; then bent over Dehra’s hand, silently and long—and when he rose a tear was trembling on his lashes. He dashed it away impatiently and turned to the Archduke.
“Sire,” he said—and Armand, in sheer surprise, made no objection—“I have brought the proclamation announcing His late Majesty’s death and your accession. It should be published in the morning. Will it please you to sign it now?”
There are moments in life so sharp with emotion that they cut into one’s memory like a sculptor’s tool, and, ever after, stand clear-lined and cameoed against the blurred background of commonplace existence. Such was the moment at the Palace when Frederick had handed him the patents of an Archduke, and such now was this. “Sire!” the word was pounding in his brain. “Sire!” he, who,less than a year ago, was but a Major in the American Army; “Sire!” he—he—King of Valeria!
Then, through the mirage, he saw Dehra’s smiling face, and he awoke suddenly to consciousness and the need for speech, and for immediate decision. Should he sign the proclamation on the chance that the decree was in his favor, and that he was, in truth, the King? He hesitated just an instant—tempted by his own desires and by the eager eyes of the fair woman before him; then he straightened his shoulders and chose the way of prudence.
He waved the Prime Minister to a chair.
“Your pardon, my lord,” he said; “your form of address was so new and unexpected, it for the moment bound my tongue.”
The old man bowed. “I think I understand, Sire,” he said, with a smile that, for an instant, softened amazingly his stern face. “Yet, believe me, one says it to you very naturally”—and his glance strayed deliberately to the wall opposite, where hung a small copy of the Great Henry’s portrait in the uniform of the Red Huzzars. “It is very wonderful,” he commented;—“and I fancy it won you instant favor and, even now, may be, makes us willing to accept you as our King. Sometimes, Your Majesty, sentiment dominates even a nation.”
“Then I trust sentiment will be content with the physical resemblance and not examine the idol too closely.”
The Count smiled again; this time rather coldly.
“The first duty of a king is to look like one,” he said; “and sentiment demands nothing else;” and, with placid insistence, he laid the proclamation on the table beside Armand.
The latter picked it up and read it—and put it down.
“My lord,” he said, “I prefer not to exercise any prerogative of kingship until the Royal Council has examined the Book of Laws and confirmed my title under the decrees.”
The faded blue eyes looked at him contemplatively.
“I assumed there was no question as to the Succession,” he remarked.
“Nor did I mean to intimate there was,” Armand answered.
“Then, with all respect, Sire, I see no reason why you should not sign the proclamation.”
Armand shook his head. “May be I am foolish,” he said; “but I will not assume the government until after the Council to-morrow—it will do no harm to delay the proclamation for a few hours. And, in the interim, you will oblige Her Royal Highness and me by keeping this key, which she removed from King Frederick’s watch chain, but a moment before you came.”
The Count nodded and took the key.
“I recognize it,” he replied. “I know the lock it opens.”
“Good,” said Armand; “the box is at the Palace, and doubtless you also know what it contains. For reasons you may easily appreciate, I desire to avoid any imputation that the Book has been touched since His Majesty’s demise. You will produce this key at the meeting to-morrow, explaining how and where you got it; and then, in the presence of the Council, I shall open the box and if, by the Laws of the Dalbergs, I am Head of the House, I will enter into my heritage and try to keep it.”
The Prime Minister got up; gladness in his heart, though his face was quite impassive. He had come in doubt and misgiving; he was easy now—here was a man who led, a man to be served; he asked no more—he was content.
“I understand,” he said; “the proclamation can wait;” then he drew himself to his full height. “God save Your Majesty!” he ended.
Count Epping was the last of the five Ministers to arrive at the Council, the following morning. He came in, a few minutes before the hour, acknowledged with grave courtesy, but brief words, the greetings of the others, and when his secretary had put his dispatch box on the table he immediately opened it and busied himself with his papers. It was his way—and none of them had ever seen him otherwise; but now there seemed to be a special significance in his silence and preoccupation.
The failure of the Court Journal to appear that morning had broken a custom that ante-dated the memory of man, and the information which was promptly conveyed to the Ministers that it was delayed until evening, and by the personal order of the Prime Minister, had provoked both amazement and expectancy. It could mean only that the paper was being held for something that must be in that day’s issue, and as they had promptly disclaimed to one another all responsibility, the inference was not difficult that it had to do with the new King’s first proclamation.
“The Count was at the Castle last evening,” Duval, the War Minister, had remarked, “and I assumed it was to submit the proclamation and have it signed.”
Baron Retz, the Minister of Justice, shrugged his shoulders.
“May be you assumed correctly,” he remarked.
The others looked at him with quick interest, but got only a smile and another shrug.
“Then why didn’t he sign it?” Duval demanded.
The Baron leaned back in his chair and studied the ceiling. “When you say ‘he,’ you mean——?”
“The King, of course,” the other snapped. “Who the devil else would I mean?”
“And by ‘the King,’” drawled Retz, “you mean——?”
There was a sudden silence—then General Duval brought his fist down on the table with a bang.
“Monsieur le Baron,” he exclaimed, “you understand perfectly whomImeant by the King—the Archduke Armand. If he is not the King, and you know it, it is your duty as a member of the Council to disclose the fact to us forthwith; this is no time nor place to indulge in innuendoes.”
The Baron’s small grey eyes turned slowly and, for a brief instant, lingered, with a dull glitter, on the War Minister’s face.
“My dear General,” he laughed, “you are so precipitate. If you ever lead an army you will deal only in frontal attacks—and defeats. I assure you Iknownothing; but to restate your own question: if the Archduke Armand be the King, why didn’t he sign the proclamation?”
Steuben, the grey-bearded Minister of the Interior, cut in with a growl.
“What is the profit of all these wonderful theories?” he demanded, eyeing Retz. “The ordinary and reasonable explanation is that the proclamation is to be submitted to us this morning.”
“In which event,” said the Baron, “we shall have the explanation in a very few minutes,” and resumed his study of the ceiling.
“And in the meantime,” remarked Admiral Marquand, “I am moved to inquire, where is the Duke of Lotzen?”
Steuben gave a gruff laugh. “Doubtless the Department of Justice can also offer a violent presumption on that subject.”
“On the contrary, my friend,” said Retz, “it will offer the very natural presumption that the Duke of Lotzen is hastening to Dornlitz; to the funeral—and the coronation.”
“Whose coronation?” Duval asked quickly.
“My dear General,” said the Baron, “there can’t be two Kings of Valeria, and it would seem that the Army has spoken for the Archduke Armand.”
“And the Department of Justice for whom?” the General exclaimed.
A faint sneer played over Retz’s lips. “Monsieur le General forgets that when the Army speaks, Justice is bound and gagged.”
It was at that moment that Count Epping had entered.
When the clock on the mantel chimed the hour the Count sat down and motioned the others to attend.
“Will not the King be present?” Retz asked casually, as he took his place.
The Prime Minister looked at him in studious comprehension.
“Patience, monsieur, patience,” he said softly, “His Majesty will doubtless join us in proper time. Have you any business that requires his personal attention?”
The Baron shook his head. “No—nothing. I was only curious as to what uniform he would wear.”
A faint smile touched the Count’s thin lips.
“But more particularly curious as towhowould wear it,” he remarked dryly.
Retz swung around and faced him.
“My lord,” he said, “I would ask you, who is King in Valeria: the Archduke Armand or Ferdinand of Lotzen?”
The old Minister’s smile chilled to a sneer.
“That is a most astonishing question from the chief law officer of the kingdom,” he said.
“But not so astonishing as that he should be compelled to ask it,” was the quick answer.
“Is there, then, monsieur, any doubt in your mind as to the eldest male of the House of Dalberg?”
“None whatever; but can you assure us that he is king?”
“What has my assurance to do with the matter?” the Count asked. “By the laws of the Dalbergs the Crown has always passed to the eldest male.”
The Baron laughed quietly. “At last we near the point—the Laws. There is no doubt that, by birth, the Archduke Armand is the eldest male; yet what of the decree of the Great Henry as to Hugo? As I remember, Frederick explained enough of it to the Council to cover Armand’s assumption of his ancestor’s rank and estates, but said no word as to the Crown.” He leaned forward and looked the old Count in the eyes. “And I ask you now, my lord, if, under the decree, Armand became the Heir Presumptive, why was it that, at all our sessions, the Duke of Lotzen, until his banishment, retained his place on the King’s right, and Armand sat on the left? Is it not a fair inference, from the actions of the three men who know the exact words of the decree, that, though it restored Hugo’s heir to archducal rank, it specifically barred him from the Crown?”
The Prime Minister had listened with an impassive face and now he nodded curtly.
“There might be some weight to your argument, Monsieur le Baron,” he said, “if you displayed a more judicial spirit in its presentation—and if you did not know otherwise.”
“I shall not permit even you——” Retz broke in.
The Count silenced him with a wave of his hand. “You have sat at this board with us, and since the Duke of Lotzen’s absence, at least, you have seen our dead master treat the Archduke Armand, in every way, as his successor; and on one occasion, in your hearing and to your knowledge—for I saw you slyly note the exact words, on your cuff—he referred to him as the one who would ‘come after.’ Hence, I say, you are not honest with the Council.”
“I felicitate your lordship on your powers of observation and recollection,” said Retz suavely; “they are vastly more effective and timely than mine, which, I confess, hesitate at miracles. But with due modesty, I submit there is a very simple way to settle this question quickly and finally. Let us have the exact words of Henry’s decree. I am well aware it is unprecedented for any but a Dalberg to see the Dalberg Laws; but we are facing an unprecedented condition. Never before has a Dalberg king failed to have a son to follow him. Now, we hearken back for generations, with a mysterious juggle intervening; and it is for him who claims the Throne to prove his title. Before the coming of the American there was no question that Lotzen was the Heir Presumptive. Did he lose the place when Armand became an Archduke? The decree alone can determine; let it be submitted to the Royal Council for inspection.”
“The Minister of Justice is overdoing his part,” said the old Count, addressing the other Ministers. “It is not for him nor his Department to dictate the method by which the Dalbergs shall decide their kingship, nor does it lie in the mouth of any of us to demand an inspection of the Book of Laws. So much for principle and ancient custom. It may be the pleasure of the Archduke to confirm his right by exhibiting to us the Laws; or the Duke of Lotzen may challenge his title, and so force their submission to us or to the House of Nobles for decision. But, as the matter stands now, the Council has no discretion. We must accept the eldest male Dalberg as King of Valeria; and, as you very well know” (looking directly at Retz) “none but a Dalberg may dispute his claim—do you, Monsieur le Baron, wish to be understood as speaking for the Duke of Lotzen?”
Retz leaned back in his chair and laughed.
“No, no, my lord, no, no!” he said. “I speak no more for Lotzen than you do for Armand.”
“So it would seem—though not with the same motives,” the Count sneered—then arose hastily. “The King, my lords, the King!” he exclaimed, as the door in the far corner opened and Armand entered, unattended, and behind him came a manservant bearing a brass-bound, black-oak box, inlaid with silver.
Never had any of the Council seen it, yet instantly all surmised what it contained; and, courtiers though they were, they (save the old Count) stared at it so curiously that the Archduke, with an amused glance at the latter, turned and motioned the servant to precede him.
“Place it before His Excellency, the Prime Minister,” he said; and now the stares shifted, in unfeigned astonishment to Armand—while the Count’s thin lips twitched ever so slightly, and, for an instant, his faded blue eyes actually sparkled, as they lingered in calm derision on the Baron’s face.
And Retz, turning suddenly, caught the look and straightway realized he had been outplayed. He understood, now, that the Count had been aware, all along, of the Archduke’s purpose to produce the Laws to the Council, this morning, and that he, by his very persistence, had given the grim old diplomat an opportunity to demonstrate, in the most effective fashion, the unprecedented honor Armand was now doing them. It was irritating enough to be out-manœuvered, but to have his own ammunition seized and used to enhance another’s triumph was searing to his pride; and, in truth, this was not the first time that the Prime Minister had left his scar and a score to settle between them.
“Be seated, my lords,” said Armand, “and accept my apologies for my tardiness,” and he took the chair at the head of the table.
Count Epping drew his sword and raised it high.
“Valeria hails the Head of the House of Dalberg as the King!” he cried.
And back from the others, as their blades rang together above the table, came the echo:
“We hail the Dalberg King!”
It was the ancient formula, which had always been used to welcome the new ruler upon his first entrance to the Royal Council.
And it had come as yet another scar to Retz, for it put him to the choice—whether to play the fool now, or the dastard later—and that with every eye upon him, even the Archduke’s, whose glance had instinctively followed the others’. Yet he had made it instantly, smiling mockingly at the Count; and his voice rang loud and his sword was the last to fall.
But Armand knew nothing of this old ceremony, and the surprise of it brought him sharply to his feet, with his hand at the salute, while his face and brow went ruddy and his fingers chill. It was for him to speak, he knew, yet speak he could not. But when led by Count Epping, they crowded close about him and bent knee and would have kissed his hand, he drew back and waved them up.
“I thank you, my lords, I thank you from my heart,” he said gravely, “though not yet will I assume to accept either the homage or the greeting. They belong to him who is King of Valeria, and whether I be he I do not know. As the eldest male, the presumption is with me; yet as the monarch has full power to choose his successor from any of the Dalbergs, it may have been his pleasure, under the peculiar conditions now existing, to name another as his heir. Hence it is my purpose to submit to you the Book of Laws, that you may inspect the decreesand ascertain to whom the Crown descends. I am informed this is a proceeding utterly unknown; that the Dalberg Laws are seen only by Dalberg eyes. Yet, as I apprehend there will be another claimant, who will have a hearty following, and as, in the end, it is the Laws that will decide between us, it is best they should decide now. If, by them, I am King of Valeria I will assume the Crown and its prerogatives; and if I am not King, then I will do homage to him who is, and join with you in his service.”
He paused, and instantly General Duval flashed up his sword.
“God save Your Royal Highness!” he cried. “God grant that you be King.”
And as the others gave it back for answer, their blades locked above the Archduke’s head, the corridor door behind them swung open, and Ferdinand of Lotzen entered and, unnoticed, came slowly down the room.
All night, with a clear track and a special train, he had been speeding to the Capital, anxious and fearful, for in an inter-regnum hours count as days against the absent claimant to a throne. But when, at the station, he learned from Baron Rosen that the Proclamation had not yet been issued and the Council had been called for ten o’clock, the prospect brightened, and he hurried to the Palace.
Yet there was small encouragement in the scene before him, though the words of the acclaim and the black box on the table puzzled him. Why, with the Laws at their disposal, should there be any doubt as to who was King! So he leaned upon a chair and waited, a contemptuous smile on his lips, a storm of hate and anger in his heart. Those shouts, those swords, those ardent faces should all have been his; would all have been his, but for this foreigner, this American, this usurper, this thief. And his fingers closed about his sword’s hilt and, for the shadow of an instant, he was tempted to spring in and drive the blade through his rival’s throat. But instead he laughed—and when at the sound they whirled around, he laughed again, searching the while every face with his crafty eyes, and, save in Retz’s, finding no trace of confusion nor regret.
“A pretty picture, messieurs,” he jeered, “truly, a pretty picture—pray don’t let me disturb it; though I might inquire, since when has the Royal Council of Valeria gone in for private theatricals!”
And Armand promptly gave him back his laugh.
“Our cousin of Lotzen appears in good time,” he said very softly. “Will he not come into the picture?”
Ferdinand shook his head. “In pictures of that sort, there can be but one central figure,” he answered.
The Archduke swung his hand toward the Ministers.
“True, quite true,” said he; “but there is ample space for Your Royal Highness in the background.”
Lotzen’s face went white, and he measured Armand with the steady stare of implacable hate, though on his lips the sneering smile still lingered.
And presently he answered: “I trust, monsieur, you will not mistake my meaning, when I assure you that there isn’t space enough in such a picture to contain us both.”
“It is a positive pleasure, Monsieur le Duc,” returned Armand quickly, “to find, at last, one matter in which our minds can meet.”
And so, for a time, they stood at gaze, while the others watched them, wondering and in silence. Then the Archduke spoke again:
“And now, my dear cousin, since we understand each other, I suggest we permit the Royal Council to continue its session. Be seated, messieurs;” and with a nod to the Ministers, he resumed his place at the head of the table.
Instantly Lotzen stepped forward.
“My lords,” he cried, “as Heir Presumptive I claim the Throne of Valeria. I call upon you, in the name of the House of Dalberg, to acknowledge me and to proclaim my accession.”
“Upon what does Your Royal Highness rest your claim?” Count Epping asked formally.
The Duke pointed to the box; he saw now it was shut tight and the key not in the lock—and this, with what had occurred as he entered, undoubtedly indicated either that the Book had not yet been examined or that it contained no decree fixing the Succession. In either event, he stood a chance to win; and, at least, he had need for time.
“Upon the Laws of the Dalbergs,” he replied, raising his hand in salute; “and under which, as you all well know, I have been the Heir Presumptive since my father’s death.”
“And you will accept them as final arbiter between us?” asked Armand quickly.
Ferdinand turned and looked at him fixedly.
“For the Crown, yes,” he said very softly; and not a man but understood the limitation and the challenge.
And the Archduke smiled, and answered in a voice even softer and more suave.
“So be it—I will chance the rest.” Then he addressed the Council. “His Excellency, the Prime Minister, has the key to the box; with your permission I will ask him to explain when and under what circumstances he got it.”
And the Count took care that Armand should lose nothing in the telling, and when he had finished, he drew out the queer little key, and holding it so all could see looked at the two Dalbergs inquiringly.
“Shall I unlock the box?” he asked; and both nodded.
But the key would enter only a little way; and while the Count worked with it, Armand remembered suddenly the unusual motion Frederick had used the day he showed him the Laws.
“Turn the bit sidewise and push down and in,” he said. And at once the key slipped into place and the lock snapped open.
At the sound, the Ministers eagerly craned forward; but the Count did not offer to lift the lid until he received the Archduke’s nod; then he slowly laid it back, and leaning over peered inside. And he peered so long, that Lotzen grew impatient.
“The Laws, Epping, the Laws,” he said sharply; “let us have them, man.”
The Count looked at him and then at Armand.
“The box is empty,” he said.
Into the silence of amazement that ensued, came the Duke’s sneering laugh.
“Surely, surely, you didn’t think to find it otherwise!” he said.
His insinuation was so apparent that the Archduke turned upon him instantly.
“Don’t be a coward, Ferdinand of Lotzen,” he said. “Speak plainly; do you mean to charge me with having removed the Book from the box?”
The Duke bowed. “Just that, Your Royal Highness,” he said; “just that, since you must have it—you Americans are so blunt of speech.”
Armand leaned forward. “The only way to deal with a liar,” he answered, “is to put him where he can’t lie out.”
Ferdinand shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly. “You play it very cleverly, cousin mine, but the logic of elimination is against you. I assume you will not accuse our dear dead master of having hid the Laws; and since his decease, the key, you admit, has been with only you and His Excellency, the Prime Minister. I assume also you will acquit Count Epping—I am quite sure I will—and so we come back to—you.”
The Archduke had long ago learned that in an encounter with Lotzen it was the smiling face that served him best; so he controlled his anger and turned to the Ministers.
“His Highness overlooks the logic of opportunity,” he said. “I was not in the Summer Palace, since the King’s death, until this morning.”
Ferdinand laughed again. “Naturally not; you’re not such a bungler.”
Baron Steuben, who had been pulling thoughtfully at his beard, eyeing first one and then another, here broke in, addressing Armand.
“Would Your Highness care to tell us when you last saw the Book of Laws?” he inquired.
“I shall gladly answer any question the Council may ask. The only time I ever saw either Book or box was the day the King offered me my inheritance as the heir of Hugo.”
And once again came Lotzen’s sneering interruption.
“And yet you could instruct Count Epping just how to manipulate the key:—‘turn the bit sidewise and push down and in.’”
Retz half closed his eyes and smiled; Epping’s lips grew tighter; Duval and Marquand frowned; Steuben, with a last fierce tug at his beard, relapsed into silence.
But Armand met the issue squarely.
“It is my word against your inference,” he said. “I am quite content to let the Council choose. They, too, have seen that key used but once, and yet I venture that a year hence they also will remember the peculiar motion it requires.”
“They are much more likely to remember your ready wit and clever tongue,” Lotzen retorted.
The Archduke turned from him to the Council.
“My lords,” he said, “there is small profit to you in these personal recriminations. The question is, who is King of Valeria, Ferdinand of Lotzen or myself—and as only the Book of Laws can answer, I ask that you, yourselves, search King Frederick’s apartments and interrogate his particular attendants.”
Count Epping arose. “Will the Minister of Justice aid in the search,” he said—“and also Your Royal Highness?” addressing Lotzen.
The latter smiled. “No; I thank you—what is the good in searching for something that isn’t there!”—then he turned upon Armand. “I assume you brought the box here,” pointing to the table, “and that you found it in the vault, where it is always kept—may I inquire how you got into the vault?”
“Through the door,” said the Archduke dryly.
“Then you know the combination—something the King never told even me. Observe, my lords, the logic of opportunity!”
But Armand shook his head. “No,” said he, “I do not know the combination.”
And Lotzen, seeing suddenly the pit that yawned for him if he pursued farther, simply smiled incredulously and turned away.
The old Count, however, saw it too, and had no mind to let the opportunity slip.
“Who opened the door?” he asked bluntly.
“Her Royal Highness the Princess,” said the Archduke.
And Epping nodded in undisguised satisfaction; while Ferdinand of Lotzen, sauntering nonchalantly over to the nearest window, cursed him under his breath for a meddler and a fool.
As the Duke had predicted, the search of the King’s apartments and the vault proved barren; and then, his particular servants and such attendants as were in the Palace were summoned and examined, and also without result; indeed none of them remembered having seen either box or Book—save one: Adolph, Frederick’s valet. He said that, recently, his master had spent many hours in the evenings studying the Laws, going through them with great care, making notations and marking certain pages with slips of paper; that no one else was ever present at such times, and once, when he had unthinkingly approached the desk, the King had angrily bade him leave the room. Asked when he had last seen the Book, he answered the fourth day before His Majesty’s demise; which, he added, he felt sure was also the last time it had been used; but admitting, frankly, when pressed by the Archduke, that his only reason for so thinking was that he had not seen it in that interval.