“Oh, as to that, my dear cousin,” said Lotzen from the window, the instant the valet had gone, “I am altogether willing to admit, and for the Council to assume, that the Book was safely in the box and the box safely in the vault when Frederick died. Don’t try to obscure the point at issue—what we want to know is what you have—I beg your pardon—what has happened to it since that time.”
Armand waited with polite condescension until the Duke had finished, then he ignored him and addressed the Council.
“My lords,” he said, “you are confronted by a most unpleasant duty: Valeria must have a King, and you must choose him, either Ferdinand of Lotzen or myself. We cannot wait until the Laws are found. I claim the throne by presumptive right; he, by a right admitted to be subordinate to mine. In the absence of the decrees my title is paramount, and the royal dignity falls on me. If the Laws be recovered, and under them I am not King, I will abdicate, instantly.”
Lotzen had come back to the table and resumed his favorite attitude of leaning over the back of a chair.
“Charming, indeed, charming!” he chuckled. “Make me King, and if the Laws unmake me I will abdicate when they are recovered—when—they—are—recovered! Do you fancy, messieurs, they would ever be recovered?”
Count Epping saved the Archduke the necessity of answer.
“Your Highness’ argument,” he observed, “is predicated on the hypothesis that the Archduke Armand has possession of the Book of Laws and is concealing it because it would, if exhibited, prove him ineligible to the Throne.”
“Admirably stated!” said Lotzen.
“But,” Epping went on, “you cannot expect the Council to accept any such hypothesis”—and all the Ministers nodded—“we must assume that neither you nor the Archduke knows aught of the Book, and whatever action we do take must be, upon the distinct condition, agreed to, here and now, by you both, that when the Laws are found—as found they surely will be—the Succession shall be determined instantly by them. Are you willing,”—addressing Lotzen—“that the Council, of which you are one, shall settle it, pending the recovery of the Laws?”
“No, I am not,” said the Duke abruptly; “but pending election by the House of Nobles, I am content.”
The Prime Minister watched the Duke meditatively for a moment, then turned to the Archduke inquiringly.
“I am content, even as His Highness of Lotzen,” said Armand; he saw where the play was leading, and the other’s next move, and he was not minded to balk him; there was likely to be a surprise at the end.
The Count faced the Council.
“The matter is before you,” he said. “Having in view the Laws and circumstances, as we know them, to whom shall we confide the government?” and with a bland smile, he looked at the Minister of Justice—who, as the junior member, would have to vote first.
Retz stirred uneasily and glanced furtively at Lotzen. He was not inclined to go so rapidly, or, at least, so openly. Had he apprehended any such proceeding he would have remained at home, ill, and let his dear colleagues bear the unpleasant burdens. It was an appalling dilemma. He wanted to vote for Lotzen—yet he was sure that Armand would be chosen. If he voted for Armand, he would bear the Duke’s everlasting enmity, and, in the end, the Laws or the Nobles might give him the Crown. If he voted for Lotzen, and Armand were chosen, he lifted himself out of the Council, and ended his career if eventually the American won. He ran his eye around the table and caught the smile on every face, and mentally he consigned them all to death and perdition. Then he heard Epping’s voice again:
“We are waiting, Monsieur le Baron.”
But Lotzen came to his relief—quite unintentionally; he alone had not noted Retz’s embarrassment, having been reading a paper he had taken from his pocket-book.
“One moment, if you please,” he said. “I take it, that what may give the Archduke Armand preference over me in his claim for the Crown, is the presumptive right of the eldest male. If, however, by the Laws, he is specifically deprived of that right and made ineligible to the Crown, save under two conditions, I assume the presumption would be reversed, and he would be disqualified for the Succession until he had proved, by the Laws themselves, his rehabilitation?”
The words were addressed to Epping, and the answer was prompt and to the point:
“Your proposition begs the situation,” he said; “it needs the Laws to prove it.”
The Duke laughed. “No, it doesn’t. I will prove it out of the mouth of the Archduke Armand himself.” He held up the paper. “Here is a copy of the Great Henry’s decree reinstating Hugo. I made it months ago, being, it would seem, wiser than I knew. With the first portion the Council is already familiar, Frederick having quoted it to you the day the Archduke Armand was presented; but of the last sentence, unfortunately, he made no mention; and it is that which governs now. His Royal Highness is fully acquainted with the original, and if my copy is not accurate he can make denial—nay, further, if he deny, I will accept whatever correction he may offer.... Surely, cousin, that is fair and honest—shall I read it—or will you?”
Armand smiled indifferently. “You can do it with much better effect,” he answered.
“Will you have all of it or only the last sentence?”
“All of it.”
Lotzen smiled maliciously. “The sweet as well as the bitter, cousin mine, with the bitter at the end.” Then he tossed the paper across to Epping. “Will Your Excellency read it?” he said.
With a glance at the Archduke for permission, the Count complied:
“‘Section one hundred twenty-fifth—Whereas, we have learned that our second son, Hugo, hath served with much honour in the American Army under General Washington, and hath, since the termination of hostilities, married into a good family in one of the said American States, called Maryland, and hath assumed residence therein; and whereas he hath never sought aid from us nor sued for pardon; Now, therefore, in recognition of his valour and self reliance and true Dalberg independence, it is decreed, that Section one hundred twenty-one, supra, be annulled; and Hugo’s name is hereby reinstated on the Family Roll in its proper place, the same as though never stricken therefrom. And it is further decreed that the marriage of Hugo and the marriage of his descendants shall be deemed lawful, the same as though their respective consorts were of the Blood Royal. The titles conferred upon Hugo shall, however, remain in abeyance until claimed anew by him or by his right heir male——’”
“‘Section one hundred twenty-fifth—Whereas, we have learned that our second son, Hugo, hath served with much honour in the American Army under General Washington, and hath, since the termination of hostilities, married into a good family in one of the said American States, called Maryland, and hath assumed residence therein; and whereas he hath never sought aid from us nor sued for pardon; Now, therefore, in recognition of his valour and self reliance and true Dalberg independence, it is decreed, that Section one hundred twenty-one, supra, be annulled; and Hugo’s name is hereby reinstated on the Family Roll in its proper place, the same as though never stricken therefrom. And it is further decreed that the marriage of Hugo and the marriage of his descendants shall be deemed lawful, the same as though their respective consorts were of the Blood Royal. The titles conferred upon Hugo shall, however, remain in abeyance until claimed anew by him or by his right heir male——’”
“And now, my lords, attend,” Lotzen cut in. “Your pardon, Monsieur le Comte, pray proceed.”
The old man paused a moment in rebuke, then resumed:
“‘Nor shall the latter be eligible to the Crown unless hereinafter specifically decreed so to be—or in event of a vacancy in the royal dignity without such decree having been so made, then, by special Act of the House of Nobles.“‘Henry III., Rex.“‘Ye 17th of September, A.D. 1785.’”
“‘Nor shall the latter be eligible to the Crown unless hereinafter specifically decreed so to be—or in event of a vacancy in the royal dignity without such decree having been so made, then, by special Act of the House of Nobles.
“‘Henry III., Rex.“‘Ye 17th of September, A.D. 1785.’”
The Prime Minister slowly put down the paper, and every one looked at the Archduke—what would be his answer? There was no doubt that Lotzen had scored heavily, so heavily, indeed, that Retz made no effort to restrain his smile.
“Does His Royal Highness deny the correctness of the copy and that the decree is as read?” the Duke asked.
“I have never seen the decree,” said Armand, “and my—pray have the courtesy, sir,” (as Lotzen laughed and shrugged his shoulders) “to wait until I’ve finished—and my only knowledge of it is from hearing it read by the King, the day he offered me my inheritance; but if my recollection be accurate, the decree is as you have it.”
In a flash the situation had become reversed, and it was now Armand against whom the presumption ran; and it was he, and not Ferdinand, who required the Laws to prove his claim.
A heavy silence followed. Then into the stillness cut the Duke’s taunting laugh.
“Exit the American,” he sneered. “Vale the foreign pretender.”
It was, he knew, into Armand’s most vulnerable spot and, like thecoup de grâce, he had saved it until last; yet, to his astonishment, it brought only a contemptuous smile and an ignoring stare.
“His Grace of Lotzen seems to have discovered a mare’s nest,” said Armand. “The decree that is required to make me eligible to the Crown and to restore me to my proper place in the Line of Succession was executed by Frederick the Fourth the night before he died.”
And once again came Lotzen’s taunting laugh.
“The nightafterhe died, you mean, cousin,” he exclaimed.
The Prime Minister turned upon him with a frown.
“Your Royal Highness will permit me to suggest,” said he, “the propriety, under the circumstances, of neither you nor the Archduke addressing each other.”
And Lotzen, discerning that the Council was of the same mind, nodded easily.
“I cry pardon,” he replied. “Your Excellency is quite right—but you will understand, I deny the existence of this suspiciously timely decree. As to it, at least, there is no presumption of execution—the Laws alone can prove it.”
The Count turned to the Archduke. “Your Highness has seen the decree?” he asked.
“I have not.”
“Did the King tell you it was executed?”
“He did not—but he told another.”
“And that other——?”
“Is the Princess Royal,” said the Archduke.
The Count paused a moment to give the situation emphasis—and Lotzen, chagrin and anger consuming him, yet smiling and unabashed, drew out a cigarette and carefully lit it.
“Do you think Her Highness would honor the Council with the facts?” Epping asked.
“I will acquaint her with your desires,” said Armand.
The Princess’ suite was across the corridor from the King’s, and in a moment the Archduke was with her.
“Your Majesty!” she cried, and curtsied.
He raised her quickly. “Not yet, sweetheart,” he said, “not yet—and, may be, never.”
She stepped back and regarded him in puzzled surprise.
“You are jesting, dear,” she said; “surely, you are jesting!”
He shook his head and went toward her.
“But the decree—the decree!” she exclaimed, again stepping back.
“The Laws have disappeared,” he said, “the box is empty and the Book cannot be found.”
In bewildered amazement she let him lead her to a chair, and listened, frowning and impatient, to his story. Only once did she interrupt—when he mentioned the Duke’s unexpected entrance—then she struck her hand sharply on the table at her side. “Lotzen! Oh, Lotzen!” she cried, and with such threatening vehemence that Armand looked at her in sudden wonder.
At the end, she sprang up.
“Come!” she commanded. “Come; take me to the Council—I can at least assure they won’t make Lotzen king,” and seizing his hand she made for the door.
He slipped his arm around her waist and detained her.
“Are you sure, Dehra, you ought to mix in this unfortunate squabble?” he asked. “Is it——”
She turned upon him sharply. “Squabble! Do you call a contest for Valeria’s Throne a squabble?”—then suddenly she smiled—that sweet, adorable smile she ever had for him. “Be very careful, sir, or I shall tumble both you and Lotzen aside, and take the Throne myself.... Now, will you escort me!”
He looked at her thoughtfully, then smiled and patted her cheek.
“Come, Your Majesty,” he said; “come, and claim your Crown; it’s yours by right, and I shall be the first to swear allegiance.”
“And the first to rebel, dear,” she laughed.
They entered the council chamber through the King’s cabinet, and as the Princess halted a moment in the doorway the Ministers sprang to their feet and stood waiting, while Ferdinand of Lotzen advanced and bowed low; not offering, however, to take her hand, fearing it would not be given, and having no notion to risk a snub in such company.
To his astonishment, Dehra extended her hand and let him kiss it.
“You come on a sad errand, cousin,” she said.... “I would you were still in Lotzenia.” The words were so innocently fitting, yet the double meaning was so deliberate.
The Duke slowly straightened, discomfiture and amusement struggling for control, while Armand smiled openly and the Ministers looked away.
Meanwhile, the Princess passed on serenely to the table and took the chair at its head. Then, led by Count Epping, the Council came forward and made obeisance. She received them with just that touch of dignified sadness which the circumstances demanded, and which, with men, a woman must measure with the exactness of fine gold. And with it there was the low, sweet voice, the winning graciousness, and the dazzling smile—now softened just a trifle—that never yet had failed to conquer, and that had made her the toast of the Army and the pride of the Nation. And Armand had watched her, with glistening eyes, as one after another she sent the Ministers back to their places, bound to her chariot wheels; captive and content.
And Ferdinand of Lotzen, seeing, understood; and for the first time he realized fully what her aid meant to his rival, and how little chance he had to win, save with the Laws. And straightway the last faint scruple perished, and he set his cold heart against her, as well. Henceforth, for him, there was but one object in life—the Crown of his ancestors, and for all who interfered there would be neither consideration nor mercy.
And the Princess’ eye, resting for an instant on his face, read something of his mind, and with a lift of the chin and a careless smile she turned to the Council.
“My lords,” she said, “His Royal Highness has acquainted me with your desires, and I am glad indeed if I can serve you. His Majesty, the night before he died, executed the decree necessary to make the Archduke Armand his successor.”
“You saw the decree?” Count Epping asked.
“No, I did not, but what I know is this. Late that night I went into the King’s library; he was sitting at his desk, with the Book of Laws open before him and a pen in his hand. He was blotting a page as I entered. ‘You have made Armand’s decree?’ I cried, and went to his side to read it; but he laughed and closed the Book, saying: ‘You may see it to-morrow, child, after I have told Armand.’”
“And he did not tell you the words of the decree,” the Count asked, after a pause, “neither then nor the following day?”
The Princess closed her eyes and lowered her head. “No,” she said; “no—I never saw my father again—alive.”
There was a distressing silence—then Armand spoke:
“The Council will understand that His Majesty had no opportunity to tell me of the decree. I was with him yesterday only at the review; naturally he would not speak of it then.”
“And that was, I suppose, the last time you saw the Book of Laws?” Epping asked, addressing the Princess, who had recovered her composure.
“Yes—it was lying on the table when I left.”
“May I ask Your Highness,” said Steuben, “why, when you saw that His Majesty had been writing in the Book of Laws, you assumed, instantly, that it was ‘Armand’s decree,’ as you put it?”
“You must know, my lords,” she responded, “that it is rare, indeed, that a new law is made for the Dalbergs, there have been but five in the last hundred years, and the making is ever due to some extraordinary circumstance, which is known, of course, to all the family. We had been anticipating the decree, restoring Armand to his rightful place in the Line of Succession as Hugo’s heir, and hence it was very natural to assume it was that which His Majesty had written.” She paused, and, for an instant, her glance strayed to the Duke of Lotzen. “But it was particularly natural,” she went on, “inasmuch as the King had mentioned the matter to me twice within the week, the last time that very morning, and referring to it as ‘Armand’s decree.’”
Steuben nodded. “I am satisfied,” he said—and Duval and Marquand nodded.
The Prime Minister turned to Ferdinand.
“We would be glad to hear Your Royal Highness,” he said.
The Duke laughed softly in sneering amusement. He was still standing behind his chair, and now he tilted it forward and leaned across it, his arms folded on the rail.
“Small chance have I against such a Portia,” he answered. “Yet I would remind the Council that, where kingdoms are concerned, a pretty woman is a dangerous advocate to follow—and thrice dangerous when against her is the written Law and with her only—conjecture.”
“Our cousin of Lotzen does not mean to question my veracity?” the Princess asked quickly.
“Your veracity?—never, I assure you—only your inferences.”
“And yet, sir, what other inferences can be drawn?”
He shrugged his shoulders and turned to the Prime Minister.
“I reiterate my claim to the Crown,” he said; “and the only Law of the Dalbergs that is before you confirms it. I cannot conceive that the Royal Council of Valeria will arrogate to itself the right to annul a decree of Henry the Third.”
“His Highness of Lotzen misses the point,” said Armand. “I do not ask the Council to annul that decree, but only to assume from Her Royal Highness’ story that it was duly and legally annulled by Frederick the Fourth.”
“Exactly, my lords, exactly,” the Duke retorted; “inference against fact—guesses against an admitted Law.”
Then Armand made the play he had had in mind since it was certain that the Book of Laws was lost. He was standing behind the Princess’ chair—now he stepped forward and addressed the Duke.
“Cousin,” he said, “we are putting a grievous burden on the Ministers in obliging them to choose between us, with the proofs seemingly so strong on either side. It is not fair to them to drive them to the embarrassment nor to the misfortune that would attend a mistake. There ought to be no doubt in the mind of the Nation as to the title of the king; he who occupies the Throne should have his tenure unquestioned; and such cannot be if the one of us who is to-day made king is liable to be displaced to-morrow by the other. Besides, as I understand Henry the Third’s decree, the Council has no jurisdiction except by our agreement. You assert the decree of eligibility was not made by Frederick. If that be true, then, there being ‘a vacancy in the royal dignity without such decree being made,’ it is for the House of Nobles to enact my eligibility and so give me the Crown, or to refuse and so give it to you. Therefore, I propose that for the space of a year, or pending the recovery meanwhile of the Book of Laws, we let the question of succession remain in abeyance. If, at the end of the year, the Book has not been found, then the House of Nobles shall choose between us. And as in the interval there must be some one in supreme authority, let Her Royal Highness be proclaimed Regent of Valeria.”
Never before had there been such instant, open and cordial unanimity among the Ministers of the Royal Council. Here was a complete solution of the vexing problem, and one, moreover, that would relieve them of a most undesirable duty. Baron Retz’s smile was positively gleeful, and the others nodded enthusiastically and turned to the Duke expectantly.
And Lotzen saw that he was losing—and with rage and hatred in his heart, but with calm face and voice softer even than usual, he made his last play, knowing well that though it might not win, it would at least work a sweet revenge upon his rival.
“An admirable compromise for you, cousin mine,” he laughed; “and clever, very clever—you and Dehra are to be married on the twenty-seventh. What difference, think you, will there be between you as King and you as Consort of the Princess Regent?” Then he faced the Council and flung his last card: “Otherwise, my lords,” he said with suave frankness, “I would willingly accept His Highness’ proposition—or I will accept it, if it is engaged that the wedding shall abide the termination of the Regency ... how say you, cousin?”
Once again had the Duke turned the situation by his devilish cleverness, and Armand’s fingers itched to take him by the throat and choke the life out of him; and Lotzen, reading something of this in his eyes, grinned malevolently.
“How say you, cousin?” he repeated, “how say you?”
The Archduke deliberately gave him his back. “My lords,” he said, “it seems the Duke of Lotzen would force you to the choice.”
But the old Count did not intend to forego the compromise. He wanted Armand for king because Armand was,de facto, the Head of the House, because he was convinced the decree had been executed, because it would make Dehra the Queen, and because he despised Lotzen. With the Princess as Regent, there would be ample means to swing the Nobles to the Archduke, and to prepare the public for his accession. Of course, it would also give Lotzen time to campaign, yet he who fights the government has a rough road to travel, and usually falls by the way. Leastwise, the Count was very ready to adventure it. But he needed aid now; and aid that could come from but one quarter and which he could seek only by indirection—Dehra alone controlled the situation.
“The compromise suggested is admirable,” he said, “and though there is force in the objection made to it, yet, my lord,” (addressing Lotzen) “you cannot expect the Archduke to accept your amendment. It is not for the man to change the wedding day——”
The Princess sat up sharply. When Armand had suggested her as Regent she had leaned forward to decline, but catching Epping’s eye she had read an almost imperious order to wait; and having full faith in him, she had obeyed. Now she saw what he wanted; and though it was against her heart’s desire and a cheerless business, yet her own judgment told her he was right.
“It is not for the man,” the Count repeated, looking at her hard, “to change the wedding day, and least of all——”
“Wait, monsieur,” she broke in. “It seems that unwittingly I have been drawn into the situation, and put in a position where I am obliged to speak. Does the Royal Council approve this compromise, and desire me to become Regent of Valeria?”
The Count smiled in supreme satisfaction.
“I can assure Your Highness we are of one mind that, in this exigency, it is your duty to assume the office.”
The Princess arose. “Then, my lords,” she said gravely, “I accept, hereby engaging that my wedding shall abide the termination of the Regency.”
The Archduke made a gesture of protest, but Dehra flashed him her subduing smile and shook her head, and there was naught for him to do but to smile back—and add one more to the score that, some day, Ferdinand of Lotzen would have to settle.
The Prime Minister looked at the Duke with a bland smile of triumph, and then at Armand.
“Is it your joint wish,” he asked, “that we ratify the stipulation and proclaim the Regency?”
“It is,” said the Archduke; but Lotzen only bowed.
Count Epping drew his sword.
“Valeria hails the Princess Dehra as Regent,” he cried. It was the ancient formula changed to fit the occasion.
And this time Armand’s blade rang with the others across the table, and his voice joined exultantly in the answer that echoed through the room.
“We hail the Princess Regent!”
As the sound died Ferdinand of Lotzen stepped forward and bent knee.
“God save Your Royal Highness!” he said, and again Dehra gave him her hand.
“And grant me strength,” she answered.
“Amen,” said the Count gravely. “Amen.”
It was Lotzen who broke the stillness.
“With Your Highness’ permission I will withdraw,” he said; “there are pressing personal affairs which demand my presence elsewhere.” He turned to go.
“One moment, cousin,” said she—then to the Prime Minister: “Will the Council need His Highness?”
There was the same gracious manner, the same soft voice, and yet, in those few words, she warned them all that there was now a Regent in Valeria—and a Dalberg regent, too.
“There is nothing now but to draw the Proclamation for your signature,” said the Count—“the other matters can abide for the time.”
And Lotzen, at the Princess’ nod of permission, went slowly from the room, his surprise still stronger than his anger; though, in the end, it was the latter that lingered and left its mark in his unforgiving soul.
While the Count was drafting the Proclamation made necessary by the changed conditions, the Princess sat in silence, gazing in abstracted contemplation through the window. Regent of Valeria! the second the kingdom had known; the first had been a woman, too—Eleanor, mother of the infant, Henry the Third of glorious memory—yet, was it wise—was it in fact her duty—her duty to her House; to her beloved? Surely it was not to her pleasure—she who had been happy in her nearing wedding day—her lover placed next the Throne—his bright future and her joy for it. And now—the wait—the struggle—the obligation of right, of justice; the putting off the woman, the putting on the ruler where the woman interfered. Her father! she turned that thought aside sharply—she had turned it aside many times since yesterday, as he had bade her to do:—“When I go, child, do not grieve.” Yet, when two have been comrades for years it is not easy.
The Count ceased his writing and, laying aside the pen, looked up.
“Will it please Your Highness to sign?” he said quickly—he had little liking at any time for a woman’s reverie, and none at all when it was of the sort he knew this reverie to be—and the woman had work to do.
And Dehra, preoccupied though she was, had missed nothing that was doing at the table, and she let him know she understood him, by a smile and a shake of her handsome head. It was not exactly a reproof, and yet neither was it an encouragement to do the like again.
“Please read it,” she said.
It was very brief—reciting the death of Frederick the Fourth, the disappearance of the Book of Laws, the stipulation of the Archduke and the Duke relative to the Succession remaining in abeyance, the creation of a Regency during the inter-regnum and the Princess’ acceptance of the office.
When he had done, she asked if there were any suggestions, and none being offered, she signed it and returned it to the Count. Immediately the Council arose and she and Armand retired, by the same way they had entered.
As they passed through the library, Dehra went over to the desk.
“Here is where the King sat that last night,” she said, “and here the Book of Laws lay, and here was the box. I can’t imagine what he did with the Book—nor why he removed it from the box—and the box was in its usual place in the vault when I gave it to you to take to the Council——”
A door latch clicked, and Adolph, the valet, came in hurriedly.
“Well?” said the Archduke, seeing he wished to speak.
“The box, my lord,” he answered; “you left it in the council-chamber—is it to remain there?”
“No,” said the Princess—“bring it here at once.” She went to the vault and opened it.... “Put it on the shelf in the rear,” she ordered, when Adolph returned. He obeyed and gave her the key.
“There was no need to lock it,” she remarked.
“It has a spring lock, mademoiselle,” said the man. “It snapped when I closed the lid.”
Dehra nodded indifferently. “So it has.... Shut the vault door.” Then motioned to him in dismissal.
“It’s of small consequence,” she remarked to Armand, as she gave the combination a twirl, “the box is of little use without the Book.”
As she turned away, her glance fell on the big portrait of her father that hung high on the opposite wall—and of a sudden the reaction came, and the tears started, and her lips twitched. She reached out her hand appealingly to Armand. In silence, he put his arm around her and led her quickly from the room.
When Ferdinand of Lotzen left the Council, he passed leisurely down the corridor toward one of the private exits. The pressing business that was demanding his immediate attention seemed to bother him no longer, and he even took the trouble to acknowledge the salute of the guard who paced before the main stairway; whereat the man stared after him in unfeigned surprise, until the Duke, suddenly looking back, caught him in the act—and with a frown sent him to the about-face and the far end of his beat.
So no one saw His Highness step quickly over and try the door of the King’s library, and, when it opened to him—as he had anticipated it would, the Princess having come that way to the Council—go in and close it softly behind him. Dropping the lock, he went to the door of the private cabinet (which was between the library and the room used for the Council meetings) and listened. Hearing nothing, he opened it very cautiously and peered inside; no one was there and he fixed the door a bit ajar, so as to be warned if anyone entered from the Council.
The library was a large room, paneled ceiling and sides in wood painted an ivory white; the great, wide windows were half hidden by the Gobelin blue tapestries that hung in folds to the floor; heavy bookcases of carved mahogany lined the walls; the furniture was of the massive Empire style, but the desk was a big, oblong, flat-topped affair that had been made over Frederick’s own design—and which more than compensated in utility for what it lacked in artistry. It pleased its owner and so fulfilled its mission. It stood a little way back from the center of the room, the great crystal chandelier above its outer edge, and all the doors directly in focus of the revolving chair behind it.
It was to this chair that the Duke went and began hurriedly to go through the papers on the desk, yet taking the utmost care not to disturb their arrangement, and replacing them exactly as he found them. Evidently whatever he was seeking was of the sort that needed no examination to prove it, for he passed over letters and written documents without a glance at their contents. It was not on the desk and he began on the drawers, none of which was locked. One after another was searched without success, and the Duke’s brow went blacker and blacker, until, as the last proved barren, he flung himself into the chair, and again ran over the documents on top—and again without finding what he sought.
“It was only a chance,” he muttered, sending his glance around the room, “only a feeble chance;... ‘He was blotting a page as I entered,’ was what she said ... and if it were a fresh blotter it might tell the story.” He wentover to the vault, the front of which was painted white and paneled to correspond to the walls, and tried the door.... “Locked, of course——”
Suddenly he turned toward the King’s cabinet, listening; then sprang quickly behind one of the window curtains; and its swaying had not ceased when the Princess and Armand entered, on their return from the Council.
Unseen, he was also unseeing; yet hearing, he had little need for eyes—it was easy to picture all that occurred:—Dehra’s pointing out the positions of the King, the Laws and the box; the entry of Adolph; the opening of the vault; the valet’s return with the box; his dismissal; the locking again of the vault. But what then happened always puzzled the Duke—that it was something unexpected was proved by the sudden silence, and pause, before either of them moved, followed at once by the closing of the corridor door.
He waited a moment, until he was sure they had gone, then went to the desk. What had disturbed the American and the Princess—why had their talk ceased so abruptly—why did they wait, unmoving, and then go out together and still unspeaking?... Had they seen him?... Impossible; even the window did not show through the tapestry; and he had been against the wall.... His gloves—had he let them lie somewhere?... no, they were drawn throughhis sword belt.... He studied the desk top—the floor—the chairs.... They told him nothing;... and, yet, it was very queer.... Had any part of him been exposed beyond the curtain? He went back and got behind it ... it completely covered him—and as he stood there the cabinet door opened and Adolph came in softly.
He glanced around quickly, then went straight to the vault and began to turn the knob, while the Duke, one eye just beyond the curtain’s edge, watched him curiously. Could it be that this servant was familiar with the combination of the lock, that only the King and Dehra were supposed to know! If so ... the bolts shot back, the door opened, and the valet disappeared in the vault. In a moment he came out with the box; but Lotzen did not see him, having drawn behind the curtain; nor did he venture again to look out except when assured that Adolph’s back was toward him.
Placing the box on the desk, the valet laid back the lid and with another furtive look around, went swiftly across to the wall, where hung the big, life-sized portrait of the King, the escutcheon, on the top of the heavy gold frame, almost against the ceiling. Under it was a tall, straight-backed chair, with high arms; and, mounting on them, Adolph reached behind the picture and, from the space between it and the wall, drew out an ancient book, leather-bound and metal-hinged:—the Laws of the Dalbergs.
With a faint chuckle, he sprang down and started toward the box; then stopped—the Book slipped from his fingers—he gasped—his eyes widened in terrified amazement—his face took on the gray pallor of awful fear; for the Duke of Lotzen had emerged from behind the window curtain and was coming slowly toward him.
“You seem startled, Adolph,” said the Duke, with an amused smile, “doubtless you thought you were alone.” He sat down in the revolving chair. “May I trouble you to give me the Book—the floor is hardly the place for the Laws of the Dalbergs.”
The valet’s composure had returned, in a measure, at the tone of the other’s voice, but his hand still trembled as he picked up the Book and carried it to the desk.
“Thank you, Adolph,” said Lotzen, “thank you ... you seem a trifle shaky, sit down and rest” (indicating a chair near by). “I shall need you presently.”
He watched the man until he had obeyed, then opened the Laws and turned quickly to the last decree.
Across the page lay a fresh, white blotter, used but twice, he noticed, as he turned it over. He had come for this very bit of paper, that Dehra had casually mentioned in her story to the Council—hoping vaguely that the King had let it lie, and thatit had not been destroyed by the servants who cared for the desk. He would have been amply satisfied with the faint chance it might give him of guessing the decree from the few words the mirror would disclose. But, now, he had no need for guesses nor mirrors; and with a light laugh he laid the blotter aside. Surely, the Goddess of Fortune was with him! And to Ferdinand of Lotzen this meant much; for to him there was only one other Divinity, and that other was a female, too.
Thrice he read Frederick’s decree; first rapidly, then slowly, then word by word, as it were.
And all the while Adolph watched him covertly, a sly smile in his small, black eyes. He had quite recovered from his fright—though he might be led to pretend otherwise—indeed, now that he had time to think, he could find no reason why the Duke should punish him; rather did he deserve an ample reward for having kept the Laws from the Council. In fact, why should he not demand a reward, if it were not offered?—demand it discreetly, to be sure, but none the less demand it. And, as the Duke read, and re-read, the reward piled higher, and visions of Paris (it is strange how, under certain conditions, the thoughts of a certain sort of people turn to Paris as instinctively as the needle to the Pole) danced before his eyes.... And presently he forgot the Duke, and the Laws, and Dornlitz—he was sitting at a little table along the Boulevard des Italiens, an absinthe at his hand, a merry girl,with sparkling eyes and perfumed hair, at his elbow, a sensuous waltz song in his ears, and light, and life, and love, and lingerie in every breath of air....
“Dreaming, Adolph,” said Lotzen, “dreaming?... of what, pray?”
“Of Paris, my lord,” he answered unthinkingly.
The Duke regarded him in frowning surprise.
“Paris!” he muttered, “Paris! has everyone gone Paris mad?”
“It was of the Boulevards, my lord—the music and the lights and the——”
“Shut up!” exclaimed Lotzen; “to the devil with your Paris and its Boulevards!... How did this Book get behind that picture?”
“I put it there, monsieur.”—The reward was not piled quite as high as he had fancied.
“Why?”
“To hide it, monsieur—until I could replace it in the box.”—The reward was dwindling marvellously fast.
“Then you stole the Laws of the Dalbergs?”
Adolph did not answer.... It was queer how chilly the room had got. It had seemed warm enough, a moment ago.
The Duke regarded him meditatively.
“Come,” he said presently; “tell me how you managed it. My time is short—speak up.”
The valet slunk a furtive look at his face; it was expressionlessly pitiless.—The reward had disappeared.
“Your Highness will believe me?” he asked.
“Believe you, Adolph! surely—a valet never lies! Go on.”
The man gulped—ran his tongue over his lips—gulped again—then began, his voice husky, full of quavers and sudden stops; while the Duke, with steady gaze and searching eye, drove him on as with a lash.
“Your Highness heard my story to the Council,” said Adolph; “all of it was true except as to the last time I saw the Book of Laws.... I happened to witness the scene between Her Royal Highness and the King. It was just as she related it, monsieur. When she had gone, His Majesty sat, doing nothing—and presently he dropped asleep.... I came to the room a number of times, and always that Book stared at me, and my curiosity as to the decree grew hotter every minute. After a while, the King awoke and told me to put the Book in the box and return it to its place in the vault—then he went over to the sideboard and poured out a drink.... Here, monsieur, was my opportunity—I laid the Book in the box and lowered the lid, but slipped in an envelope to prevent it locking, then put it in the vault—which the King himself closed. After he had retired, I opened the vault and got out the Book——”
“How did you know the combination?” the Duke asked.
“By—by—watching the King, monsieur ... I had picked up the numbers one by one ... long ago.”
Lotzen tossed him a bit of paper and a pencil.
“Write out the combination,” he ordered—and smiled at the servant’s trembling hand and labored motions.... “Thank you;”—glancing at the paper and dropping it carelessly in his pocket—“proceed—you had just got the Book out of the vault.”
“While I was examining it, monsieur,” Adolph resumed, “I thought I heard the King moving about in his room. I sprang inside the vault, drew the door shut, but not quite tight, and tried to put the Book in the box. But I must have been nervous, monsieur, for, in some way, I struck the lid and knocked it down; and it locked, leaving the book in my hand. I could not open the box—the only key was under the King’s pillow, on his watch chain. What was to be done? I dared not try for it that night; the King was too light a sleeper;—nor did I dare leave the Book in the vault, there was no place to conceal it, and he was sure to go in there in the morning. What was to do, monsieur? I listened—everything seemed quiet; I opened the door very slowly—no one was in the room—I stepped out, and the King’s portrait confronted me—I stared at it a moment, frightened as though itwere my master—then, of a sudden, I knew I had found the hiding place, and I sprang up and put the Book behind the picture.... And in the morning, monsieur, I forgot the Book—forgot it until His Majesty had gone to the city.—Then, in desperation, I tried every key I could find—tried to pick the lock—in vain.... I knew the Archduke Armand was to dine here that evening, and from what the King had said to the Princess I knew, also, the Book would have to be in the box before then. I felt, however, that I would have a good chance at the key when my master dressed for dinner. Then, my lord, came the awful news of his death, and once again I forgot the Book—nor ever thought of it, until I saw the Council gather—and then——” he threw up his hand, expressively.
“And, now, what were you about to do?” asked Lotzen.
“Put the Book in the box, monsieur, and return it to its place in the vault.”
The Duke looked at him in surprise.
“Clever, clever, indeed,” he muttered.... “I thought you gave the key to Her Highness.”
Adolph smiled—his spirit was never long in travail. “I did, monsieur—I didn’t need it;—and it was a good play to give it up at once. Never having had the key to the box, it could not be I who replaced the Book.”
Lotzen studied the little valet a bit.