But when the Duke learned who occupied the library, he cursed Moore and the luck that had put him there—with the Book in the vault, and to be got, and none but him to get it. For no one, not even his closest associates, might know he had found it—he could not trust even their loyalty against the fetish of the Laws. So it was for him alone to obtain it; and now the task—delicate enough at best—had become almost impossible for one man. Under every precedent, the King’s suite should have remained unoccupied, awaiting his successor; but, instead, this Irishman; this fellow with the quickest sword and surest eye in the Army; this devoted follower of the American, and, after him, the one man in Valeria whom he hated the fiercest and feared even more; he was—though thank God he did not know it!—guarding the Book for his master.
It was, in truth, the first faint frown of his Goddess, but Lotzen was too good a gambler to flout her at the loss of a single turn. It meant either a little more careful play or a little more recklessness. And, on the whole, the recklessness was rather more appealing than the care. If he could not easily recover the Book, he could, at least, adventure leaving it where it was—and let the Regent’s Adjutant guard it for him, too. And he smiled his cold smile—and longed to make a second Adolph of the Irishman, knowing well that he, skillful fencer though he was, could never reach Moore’s heart save from the rear.
And that day, he had thought to take a reconnoissance, and he had come to the Summer Palace, trusting for an opportunity to gain admission to the library, to open the vault. There was a possibility that the King’s effects had been removed from it, and the box might also have been taken; and, if so, it might be lying in some room, quite unguarded. Yet he deluded himself little on that score; the chance was too slight even to consider seriously; there was really no occasion for emptying the vault; on the contrary, Moore’s presence was the very best reason for leaving it untouched. Nevertheless, it was well enough to make sure.
And here again luck bent to him. As he turned the corner of the corridor at the end farthest from the King’s suite, Colonel Moore came out and hurried down the stairway opposite, without a glance aside.
Lotzen smiled, and went on to the library door—and smiled still more broadly when he saw it was open wide. Really, the thing was getting too easy! He stopped and tapped lightly on the jamb with his sword hilt—then stepped in and glanced quickly around. The shades were half drawn, but there was enough light for him to see that the room was empty. Going swiftly to the vault, he whirled the knob through the combination that Adolph hadgiven him, dropped it at the final number and seized the handle.... The bolts refused to move. With a frown, he spun the knob again; and again they stood firm. A third time he tried, carefully and slowly, not overrunning the marks by the shade of a hair—and still the bolts stayed fixed.
With a muttered curse he stepped back, and from the paper in his pocket verified the formula he had used—though he knew he had made no mistake.... Could the valet have lied—have given him a wrong combination—have actually played him for a fool to his very face!... Impossible—quite impossible—he could recognize fear when he saw it; and no servant ever lied adroitly under such terror as had gripped Adolph at that moment. He stared at the vault and at the paper ... and, then, of a sudden, he understood—the combination had been changed.... Why—by whom, did not matter now. Enough, that behind that iron door the Book was surely lying, and he powerless to obtain it.... Well, so be it—he must chance the risk; the reckless game had been forced upon him by his enemies, and he would play it out. They did not imagine the Book was in the box—they would seek it elsewhere—and the American would lead in the seeking—on—on—on to Lotzenia, and the castle on the mountain, high above the foaming Dreer—and then!... A fell smile crossed his face, and his eyes narrowed malevolently—there would be no need for the Book, when they came back to Dornlitz.
As he stepped into the corridor, the door opposite, in the Princess’ suite, opened and Mademoiselle d’Essoldé came out.
“Your Highness!” she said, dropping him a bit of a curtsy.
“My lady!” he answered, bowing over her hand; then motioned behind him. “Who occupies his Majesty’s apartments?” he asked.
“The Adjutant to Her Royal Highness,” she answered, knowing well he knew.
“True,” said he; “I quite forgot. Colonel Moore has pleasant quarters,” and he smiled.
His inference was too evident to miss. She was of the Regent’s Household and Moore was her most persistent suitor. She made no pretense to conceal her displeasure, though she echoed his laugh.
“Yes, very pleasant,” she answered, “yet they won’t be his for long—he but holds them for another.”
“And the other?” maliciously driving her to the choice between the Archduke and himself.
She raised her eyebrows.
“There could be but one, my lord,” she answered, looking at him with calm directness.
He laughed. “May be we do not guess alike; and I fear me, whenmyother comes, the dashing Colonel will have to make a far move—beyond the border.”
The blue eyes snapped. “I can well believe Your Highness,” she retorted. “When you move in, Colonel Moore would scorn to stay this side the border.”
Elise d’Essoldé never forgot the look that came in Lotzen’s eyes. It was, she said afterwards to the Regent, as though he had actually struck her in the face. And, for a little while, he did not speak. Then as she drew back into the room, he bowed, his hand upon his heart.
“My thanks, my lady, my thanks for your candor,” his voice soft and very kind—“I shall see to it that your Colonel does not go alone.”
“Small danger,” she replied, as she slowly closed the door, “Your Highness has been seeing to that with fine success, these many years—au revoir, mon Prince,” and the latch clicked between them.
With a shrug, the Duke turned away. What a vixen she was!—and how very sure Dehra must be of the American’s succession, when one of her Household would venture to flout Ferdinand of Lotzen to his face. His mouth hardened. Damn the woman who played with statecraft—who meddled with the things she knew nothing of—who would impose a foreigner upon an ancient Kingdom, just because he was her lover. Damn the whole tribe—they were fit only to play with clothes, and to serve man’s idle moment....
The rattle of a sword and click of spurs sounded on the stairway, and the Regent’s Adjutant turned the corner.
“Ah, Colonel, well met!” said Lotzen briskly, as Moore came to attention and salute; “I took the liberty, as I passed your quarters, of looking at His late Majesty’s portrait; I wish to have a copy made—the door was open, so I assumed I might go in,” and with a pleasant smile and nod he passed on—then stopped. “My congratulations on your promotion—though as the smartest soldier in the army it belonged to you.”
Moore looked after him thoughtfully.
“What particularly fine bit of deviltry are you up to now,” he muttered; “and what were you really doing in the library?”
Half way down the corridor Moore met Elise d’Essoldé.
“Whither away, my lady, whither away?” he asked, sweeping the floor with his cap.
“I’m not your lady,” she answered, making to pass by, but smiling sidelong at him.
“Egad, I wish you wouldn’t tell me that so often—have some regard for my poor heart.”
She tossed her head. “Your heart, indeed! which heart? An Irishman has a hundred and a different girl for every one.”
“This Irishman has a million hearts—and the same girl for them all.”
She put the tip of her parasol to the wall, and leaned lightly against it.
“And how many hearts has she?” she asked.
He shook his head sadly. “None—none—not the faintest trace of one.”
She bent further over, and tightened the bow of blue ribbon on the staff.
“May be you’re not the one to find it,” she smiled—“another man——” and the merry eyes glinted gaily through the long lashes.
“Oh, I’m the man—and she knows it.”
A little laugh rippled forth—“And does she know, also, your stupendous self sufficiency?”
“Yes, she knows that, too—and likes me just the same.”
“Which would seem to be very little—as it should be.... My parasol if you please, I’m going.”
He kept his hold.
“You little witch,” he said; “I don’t know why I let you walk upon me so.”
The saucy mouth drooped at the corners. “Nor I why I walk—the way is surely very stony.... My parasol, I said.”
He glanced up and down the corridor.
“Do you know,” he said seriously, “I believe that hat is so big I could kiss you, and no one see us.”
She dropped the sun-shade and sprang back.
“Yes, I believe you could—and I believe you actually would—but you shan’t.”
He opened the parasol, and drew the circle close behind his head.
“It’s not quite so large as your hat,” he went on, “but I think, if you don’t struggle too much, I can manage to hold it properly.”
He went slowly toward her—she retreated.
“Come,” she commanded;... “cease this foolishness ... my parasol;... I’m going....”
He did not answer.
“Ralph,” she exclaimed, “are you crazy!”
He shook his head and came on.
She was on the stairway now—a glance:—no one was below her. She lifted her skirts with both hands, and backed down the steps, smiling up at him the while, tantalizingly.
“Come on,” she said, as he halted at the top; “I need the parasol; come on.”
“You little devil,” he laughed; “You’ll tempt me once too often.... Here, take your sun-shade—I may have need of it another time.”
“Merci—amant, merci,” she inflected softly, then flung him a kiss from her finger tips—“and you take that—I won’t need it another time—and, if I do, I’ve others.”
“Many others?” he asked.
She faced about, and raising the parasol swung it between them.
“A million—for your hearts,” she answered, and ran quickly down the steps.
Meanwhile the Duke of Lotzen, passing along the lower corridor, had caught, in a mirror, the reflection of the scene on the stairs, and had paused to watch it.
“A pretty picture, Mademoiselle; truly, a pretty picture,” he said, as they met; “and most charming from the rear—and below—oh! most charming.”
Her cheeks and brow went red as flame, as she caught his meaning.
“You vile peeper,” she exclaimed; “doubtless, you’re an experienced judge,” and dropping the parasol in his face, nor caring that the silk struck him, she hurried by.
The Duke looked after her contemplatively. Really, this girl was worth while—he must take a hand in the Irishman’s game—that hair, those eyes, that walk, that figure—oh, decidedly, she was quite worth while.
With an evil little laugh, he put her out of his mind, for the moment, and turned toward the terrace and to business. He had learned of the alfresco luncheon near the pergola, and he appreciated that there was the place to make the first move in his new plot.
Yet when, from the sun-dial, as he feigned to study it, he saw the Princess, through the rhododendrons—with the American across the table from her, where he himself ought to have been; and watched her lavish upon Armand the adorable smilethat should have been his; and knew, afresh, that, come what may, the glorious woman yonder was lost to him forever—his anger welled so high he dared not risk a meeting, lest in his rage he wreck his cause completely. So he braced his shoulders against the fierce desire that tugged him toward them, and went on, giving no glance aside.
Then the Princess called him; and when the only voice able, hitherto, to touch a soft chord in his heart, struck now a jarring dissonance, the fury passed; and again he was the man of cold, calm hate and ruthless purpose. So he turned aside, and to his enemies—her and the foreigner—deliberating how to make his play quickly, yet naturally and with seeming inadvertence. The faintest blunder would be fatal with Courtney watching; Armand he despised.
And at Dehra’s sudden question, he had almost laughed aloud—was it always to be so easy! But he bound his face to his part, and made his answer, and went his way; whistling softly, and all unknowingly, a little song, that a slender, sinuous woman, with raven hair and dead-white cheek, had sung to him in the North.
And when, presently, it came to him whose the song was, and where he had heard it, he laughed gaily.
“An omen!” he said aloud, “an omen! On to Lotzenia—and a dead Archduke.”
The Archduke Armand tossed the end of his fourth cigar into the grate and looked at the big clock in the corner. It was only a bit after eleven, and that was, he knew by experience, the blush of the evening at the American Embassy, where there were no women-folk to repress the youngsters nor to necessitate the closing of the house at conventional hours. Courtney had only bachelors in his official family; and he housed them all with him in the big residence on Alta Avenue, and gave them free rein to a merry life, fully assured they would not abuse the liberty; he had known every one of them as boys, and their fathers before them.
The Archduke reached over and pressed a button.
“Bring me a cap and a light cape,” he said to the servant;—“and a stick.”
The man went out, and Armand crossed to a window and drew aside the curtain.
“Put them on a chair,” he said without looking around, as the door opened again. “You may go.”
The door closed. For a little while he watched the gay street, stretching southward for half a mile to the center of the city, where the lights blazed variegatedly and brightest. The theatreshad tossed out their crowds, and below him the van of the carriage column was hurrying homeward, to the fashionable district out the Avenue, or to the Hanging Garden above the Lake. Occasionally a face, usually a woman’s, would lean close to the door and look at the Epsau curiously—it housed the man who was likely to be King. And the man smiled with half bitter cynicism, and wondered what words followed the look, and who spoke them, and to whom. Once, he recognized Count Epping’s lean visage, and in that carriage, at least, he felt that the words were friendly; a moment later, the snake eyes of Baron Retz went glittering by—but never a glance did he turn aside.
“You little reptile,” the Archduke muttered aloud, “you ought to crawl, not ride.”
He dropped the curtain and turned away—then stopped, and his lips softened; and presently he laughed. Just inside the door, and standing stiffly at attention, was Colonel Bernheim, holding the cape and cap and stick the servant had been sent for.
“Now what’s the trouble?” Armand demanded.
“Your Highness desired these?” said Bernheim.
“Yes—but I didn’t send for you.” The tone was very kindly.
“But you are going out, sir?”
“Yes.”
“And I’m on duty to-night.”
“You’re excused—go to bed.”
The old soldier shook his head. “I’m going with you.”
“Nonsense,” said Armand, “nonsense! I’m for only a short walk up the Avenue.”
“I must go with you, sir,” the Aide insisted.
The Archduke looked at him in some surprise.
“Positively, Bernheim,” he said, “if you keep this up you will have nervous prostration. Quit it, man, quit it.” He flung on the cape, and taking cap and cane went toward the door. “Good night.”
The Colonel stood aside, hand at the salute. “Your pardon, sir—but I must go with you—it is the Regent’s personal order.”
“What!”
“She telephoned me this evening always to see that you had an escort, after dark.”
The Archduke sat on the end of the writing-table and laughed until the tears came—and even old Bernheim condescended to emit, at intervals, a grim sort of chuckle.
“What hour are you to put me to bed, nurse?” Armand asked.
“The orders did not run to that point, sir,”—with a louder chuckle—“but I should say not later than midnight.”
“Then I’ve a few minutes’ grace, and I’ll spend them playing on the sidewalk, while you warm the sheets and get the milk,” and with another laugh he went out. “Don’t forget the milk,” he added over his shoulder.
Bernheim held open the door.
“I’ll not, sir,” he said, and followed him.
At the street, Armand stopped.
“Where are you going, Colonel?” he asked.
The heels clicked together and the hand went up.
“For the milk, sir.”
He recognized the futility of further opposition; with the Regent’s command to sustain him, Bernheim would not be denied.
“Come, along, then,” he ordered—“and if they have a cow at the American Embassy I’ll set you to milking it, or I’m a sailor.”
The old fellow answered with the faintest suggestion of a grin.
All Dornlitz was familiar with the features of the Great Henry, and so it was quite impossible for the Archduke Armand to escape recognition—and to-night, as he and Bernheim went out the Avenue, the people made way for him with a respect and deference that even he could not but feel was honest and sincere, and of the quietly enthusiastic sort that is most dependable.
“Does it look as though I had need for an escort?” he asked.
“Not at this moment,” the Aide agreed.
“Nor at any moment on Alta Avenue;” he put his hand on the other’s arm—“you know, Bernheim, it’s not you I object to, it’s the idea. I always like you with me.”
The Colonel’s face flushed, and for an instant he did not reply; when he did, his voice was low and faintly husky.
“Sire!” he said, “Sire!”
The Archduke glanced at him in quick surprise, and understood; sometimes Bernheim’s intense devotion overflowed.
“Brace up, Colonel,” he exclaimed, with sudden gayety, “brace up! you won’t have to milk that cow.”
Then both men laughed, and the normal situation was resumed.
The bells began to chime midnight, as they reached the Embassy.
“Don’t wait for me,” Armand said; “I may be late. Go back and send an orderly.”
The other smiled. “I’ll wait, myself, sir, if you will permit; they have a game here I rather like.”
“Take care, Colonel; those boys will skin you out of your very uniform—better look on.”
“I do, sir, when I’ve a poor draw;” he answered seriously, and wondered at the Archduke’s chuckling laugh.
Courtney greeted his friend with a nod and a wave of his hand.
“I’m glad you came in,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about you—sit down.... Scotch?”
“No, rye—and seltzer, please.” He took the chair across the desk from Courtney and waited until the man had placed the decanters and glasses and retired. “And I’ve been thinking about you, too,” he said. “You got me into this infernal mess, and now it’s up to you to help me out.”
Courtney slowly lit a cigarette and scrutinized the coal, critically.
“I see,” he remarked, “that you have already developed the ungratefulness of kings—I have high hopes for your reign ... if you live to reign.”
The Archduke put down his glass and regarded him in exasperated surprise.
“Damn it, man, you too?” he exclaimed. “If I were given to nerves I would be seeing daggers and bullets all around me—Bernheim croaks death; and so does Moore; and now you join the chorus—pretty soon the boys will be whistling it on the Avenue.”
Courtney picked up an Embassy official envelope that lay before him, and tossed it across to the Archduke.
“I’ve done a little work on my own account, lately,” he said, “and here is what I got this evening. I have always found this—agent, reliable.”
It was only a few words, scratched hastily in pencil on a sheet torn from a small note-book:—
“Danger very imminent—under no circumstance go out at night without an escort.”
“Danger very imminent—under no circumstance go out at night without an escort.”
“Nice sort of country this, you brought me to,” said Armand.
“It’s not the country, my dear boy,” Courtney observed; “it is beyond reproach. The trouble is that one of your own family still is a barbarian; and you insist upon treating him as though he were civilized. For my part, I have no patience with your altruism; you’ve had quite sufficient warning—he tried twice to kill you at the Vierle Masque; and he has told you to your face that you would never be king. Yet you persist in regarding him as fighting square and in the open. Bernheim and Moore are wise—they know your dear cousin—and you,—well, you’re a fool if you don’t know him, too.”
It was a very long speech for Courtney, and Armand had listened in surprise—it was most unusual for his imperturbable friend to grow emphatic, either in voice or gesture, and it impressed him as Bernheim and Moore never had. In truth, he had no particular scruples against meeting Lotzen in the good, old-fashioned, cloak-and-dagger way; but what irked him was the necessity of being always on thequi viveto resist assault or to avoid a trap; and the seeming absurdity of it in Dornlitz of the twentieth century. It made him feel such a simpleton, to be looking for bravos in dark alleys, or to wear steel vests, or to be eternally watchful and suspicious of every one and everything.
“What do you want me to do,” he asked; “go down to Lotzen’s palace and stick my sword through him?”
“It’s a pity you may not—it’s what he would do to you, if he could—but that’s not our way; we’re civilized ... to a certain point. But what you may do is to take every precaution against him; and then, if you get the chance in fair justification, kill him as unconcernedly as he would kill you.”
The Archduke sat silent, his cigar between his teeth, the smoke floating in a thin strand across his face, his eyes upon the desk before him.
“Of course, my boy,” Courtney went on, after a pause, “I assume you are in the game to the end, and in to win. If you’re not, the whole matter is easy of adjustment—renounce the Crown and marry the Princess ... and live somewhere beyond the borders of Valeria—come back to America, indeed; I’ll see that you have again your commission in the Engineer’s——”
Armand’s lips closed a bit tighter on his cigar, his fingers began to play upon the chair-arm, and his glance shifted for an instant to the other’s face, then back to the desk. And Courtney read his mind and pressed on to clinch the purpose.
“But if you’re in to win—and it’s your duty to your friends to win; it’s your duty to your friends to win, I repeat—your first obligation is to keep alive; a dead archduke is of no earthly use in the king business we have in hand. You may go straight to Glory, but that won’t help out the poor devils you leave here in Lotzen’s clutches, and who have been true to you, never doubting that you would be true to them. Your life belongs to them, now; and you have no right to fritter it away in silly, stubborn recklessness.... There, I’ve spoken my mind, and quite too frankly, may be; but I’ll promise never to bother you again. After all, it’s for you to decide—not for a meddling friend.”
The Archduke smiled. “And just to prove that the friend isn’t meddling, I shall accept his advice—bearing in mind, however, that this is particularly an exigency where prudence must be subordinate to daring. Prudence is all very well in the abstract, but it is more dangerous to our success than recklessness. I’m playing for a Crown and a Nation’s favor—let my personal courage be questioned for an instant, and the game is lost as surely as though I were dead. As for my dear cousin of Lotzen, I assure you I’ve not the least scruple about killing him, under proper opportunity. In fact, I’m inclined to think I should rather enjoy it. I admit now that there have been times when I regret I didn’t run him through at the Vierle Masque.”
Courtney nodded. “It would have saved you all this trouble—I wanted to call to you to make an end of him.”
“I can’t do murder; I had disarmed him. Next time, I’ll make a different play.”
“There won’t be a next time, if the Duke has the choosing. He isn’t the sort to seek death, and he knows you are his master. You’ll have to kill him in a melée, or manœuvre him into a position where he has no option but to fight.”
“He is manœuvring himself into a position where he will have to contend with a far more formidable blade than mine.”
Courtney’s eye-brows lifted expressively. Than the Archduke himself there was but one better swordsman in the kingdom.
“What has Lotzen been doing to Moore?” he asked.
“Insulting Elise d’Essoldé.”
“By making advances?”
Armand nodded. “And in a particularly nasty way.”
“He isn’t bothered about Moore,” said Courtney. “He thinks he is safe from any one that isn’t of his station.”
“He doesn’t know the Irishman—Moore would kill him without a thought.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Courtney. “Moore is bred to respect for royalty; he would hesitate to use sword against one of the Blood except in defense.”
“Lotzen would best not bank much on that for immunity if he pursue d’Essoldé.”
“Well, so much the better; between you, the trick should be turned; though, as a matter of abstract justice, it’s your particular work.”
“And I shan’t shirk it,” said Armand—then he laughed—“on the whole, I’m something of a savage myself; Lotzen hasn’t got all of it for the family, it would seem.”
Courtney shrugged his shoulders. “We all are savages at the core—it’s only a question of the veneer’s thickness.”
“Of its thinness, I should say. However, now that you have saved my precious life, and dedicated me to care and prudence and to killing my enemies, we can get down to business. You had something to tell me.”
“I have told you,” said Courtney. “I wanted to show you that note and save your precious life.”
The Archduke picked up the paper, and read it again.
“May be the party who wrote this,” he said, “can help you answer the question I came to ask: what brought Lotzen to the Summer Palace, this afternoon; and, in particular, why did he go into the King’s library?”
Courtney lit a fresh cigarette and watched the match burn to a cinder.
“Isn’t your second question the answer to the first?” he asked.
“Doubtless; but what’s the answer to the second?”
Courtney shook his head. “I pass—unless you can give me some details.”
“Here’s everything I know,” said Armand. “Moore, as Adjutant to the Regent, occupies part of the King’s suite as his quarters. This afternoon, he went out, leaving open the corridor door of the library. A little later Mademoiselle d’Essoldé saw Lotzen come from the library—subsequently he met Moore and casually remarked to him that, as he passed his quarters, the door being open, he had taken the liberty of looking at His late Majesty’s portrait, which he wished to have copied.”
Courtney considered a bit.
“It’s really most interesting to study your cousin’s methods,” he said presently. “He seems to take particular pleasure in telling one what he knows will not be believed. It was quite absurd to offer such a fool explanation, if he really wished to explain—and none knows it better than Lotzen. It was just as though he had said to Moore: ‘Tell the Archduke Armand, I’ve been in the library, I’ve accomplished what I went for, and he may go to the devil, with my compliments.’”
“That’s very well, as an exposition of Lotzen’s methods,” said Armand; “but what concerns me is his motive; what was it he went for?”
“The Book of Laws, possibly,” Courtney replied.
“Nonsense—he knows it’s not in the library—if it were, I would have had it days ago.”
“And how does he know you haven’t got it?”
“How! Because I’d have produced it to prove my title.”
Courtney smiled. “Certainly you would—if it proved your title; but if it didn’t?”
“You overlook Frederick’s decree.”
“No, I don’t—you overlook the fact that no one has ever seen that decree, and that Lotzen is entitled to assume it was not executed—that the whole story is fabricated, and that you have made away with the Book in order to throw the election into the House of Nobles; and so to have a chance for the Crown, when, in reality, you are entitled to none.”
“Lotzen understands perfectly that Dehra told the truth,” said Armand; “and that I’ve not got the Book—for my part, I’m almost ready to accept her notion that he has it.”
Courtney leaned back in his chair, and studied the smoke rings he sent whirling upwards.
“I can’t agree with you,” he said; “indeed, since his visit to the library, I’m more convinced than ever that he hasn’t the Book. He pretends to have it, so as to mislead you in your search.”
“More likely, in your view of him,” said Armand, “it is to decoy me into a trap where he can make an end of me.”
“I believe you’ve guessed it,” said Courtney, after a moment’s thought; “and what is more, it’s the key to Lotzen’s plan of campaign, and it proves conclusively his murderous purpose. I’d be very shy of information that points Book-ward, unless you know the informant; above everything, don’t be fooled by the device of a rendezvous, or a tattling servant.”
“True enough; and yet I must not let slip any chance that might lead to the recovery of the Book; my equivocal position demands that it be found, both to vindicate Dehra’s story and to justify my own claim to the Succession. Indeed, to my mind, I have no chance whatever unless Frederick’s decree is produced. However, Lotzen won’t use such hoary artifices; he will have some simple little plot that will enmesh me by its very innocence. As a schemer against him I’m not even an ‘also ran.’”
“And, therefore, my dear Armand,” said Courtney quickly, “you must be prepared to cut the meshes when they close; an escort—a sword—a pistol—a steel vest—there’s where you get your chance at him. Between the schemer and the ready fighter, I’ll gamble on the fighter every time.... It’s a pity you’ve lost Moore—you and he would make a famous pair. Bernheim is a good sort, but Moore is worth twenty of him in this business.”
The Archduke’s eyes brightened—the Irishman and he together could make a merry fight—an altogether worth-while sort of fight—a fight that the Great Henry himself, in his younger days, would have sought with eager blade and joyful heart—a quick, sharp fight that gave the enemy no rest nor quarter—a thrust—a fall—a careless laugh—a dripping point wiped on a handkerchief. He saw it all, and his fingers tingled and his eyes went brighter still.
And across the table Courtney blew ring upon ring of smoke, and watched him curiously, until the intent look waned and passed.
“Well,” he said, “did you kill him?”
“Yes, I killed him ... and even wiped my sword—much ground have I to cast reproach at Lotzen.” He got up. “I’m going; if I sit under your tutelage any longer, I’ll be jabbling holes in the good citizens I meet on the Avenue.”
“With that stick?” Courtney asked.
“I forgot—the good citizen is safe to-night.”
“But you’re not. Let me give you a sword or a revolver.” And when both were declined, he held up the paper: “Danger imminent,” he warned.
“Bernheim will take care of me,” said Armand; “and a light stick isn’t a bad sort of rapier, if it is handled properly. I’m glad for this talk, and to have learned how very thin my veneer is.—I’m going back to the Epsau now, and teach Bernheim the scalp dance. Good night.”
“And trade him to the Regent for Moore, the first thing in the morning,” Courtney urged.
The Archduke paused at the threshold:
“Well, may be I shall,” he said; “I believe he is a bit more the savage.” He faced about. “As for you, my dear Dick, you’re cut out for a typical missionary—you would have the natives killing one another within an hour after you landed.”
“Danger imminent!” called Courtney, and the door swung shut.
The Archduke knew where to find his Aide, so he waved aside the servant and went on to the billiard room.
“Don’t mind me, boys,” he said, as they sprang up; “go on with the deal—unless,” motioning toward Bernheim’s big pile of chips, “you want to be relieved of the beginner.”
“Your Highness is ready to go?” Bernheim asked.
Armand nodded. “But that mustn’t take you away; luck’s with you, it’s a crime to desert her—I know the way home.”
The Colonel pushed his winnings into the centre of the table.
“I have to thank you for a delightful evening, messieurs,” he said, with his stiff, military bow; “and since I must leave before the end of the game, I make a John-pot of these for you.”
The Archduke took him by the arm.
“You may not do that, Colonel,” he laughed; “they cannot let you. You must cash in, and give them a chance some other time.”
“But it is my pleasure, sir, for them to have back what I won.”
“And it will be their pleasure to take it back,” said Armand kindly, “but not in that way—they must win it back fromyou.”
Bernheim drew himself up. “I understand, sir,” he said.—“Messieurs, I salute you.”
When they came out on the Avenue, a fine rain was blowing in clouds, but the Archduke declined the servant’s offer to ring the stables for a carriage. The street was deserted; not a pedestrian, nor even a cab, was in sight, either way. Both men wrapped their capes around them, and strode off toward the Epsau.
“A dirty night, sir,” the Colonel observed—“it might have been well to take the carriage.”
“I like it,” said Armand; “to walk in the rain or to ride in the snow.”
“The snow, yes—but we don’t have much of it in Dornlitz—one must go to the mountains in the North—to Lotzenia—for it.”
“My dear cousin’s country!”
“His titular estates—but not his country,” said Bernheim. “He has the old castle on the Dreer and a huge domain—that King Frederick’s father gave to Lotzen’s father in a foolish moment of generosity—but he hasn’t the heart of a single inhabitant; indeed, until his banishment there, I think he had never even seen the place. But with the old castle of Dalberg, across the valley—the cradle of your race, sir—it’s very different. Who rules there is the idol of the Lotzenians; he is theirhereditary lord; and they can never forget that he belonged to them before he took the Crown, and that they helped him in the taking.”
“And now that there is no king, whom will they serve until the new lord comes?”
Bernheim raised his cap.
“Her Royal Highness the Regent—until they serve you.”
No man could be quite insensible to all that this implied of kingly power, and the traditional homage of inherited devotion, the hot love for him who was born their chief—given them of God, and their own before all others. The Archduke’s fingers closed a bit tighter on his stick, his blood pulsed faster, and the stubborn spirit of old Hugo awoke to new life; and in that moment, in the dead of night, with the rain whipping around them, as it wrapped the city in a cloud of glowing mist, he turned his face forever from his old life, its memories and methods, and passed finally into the New, its high destiny, its privileges, its responsibilities, its dangers and its cares. He would make this fight in the Duke’s own fashion, and end it in the Duke’s own way; if he fell in the ending, he would see to it that the Duke fell first; not that he cared for his company in the out-going—though, doubtless, it would matter little then—but because it were not well to leave him behind to plague the kingdom with his viciousness.
They now had left the more modern portion of the Avenue and were in the older section, where the houses were smaller and stood only a little way from the sidewalk; though occasionally a more pretentious one was set far back, with trees and shrubbery around it, and a wall before, hiding it almost entirely from the street.
In front of one of these residences, the Archduke suddenly stopped and caught Bernheim’s arm.
“Listen!” he said, “I heard a cry.”
Bernheim, too, had heard it, but he was not minded to let his master know.
“It was the wind, doubtless, sir,” he said.
“No, it wasn’t the wind—it was a voice, and a woman’s voice, I thought.”
A blast of rain and mist swept by them and through the trees, stirring the leaves into a rustling as of the sighs of disembodied spirits, while the swaying street lights flung the shadows hither and thither like pursuing cerecloths struggling to re-shroud them in their forsaken garb.
Bernheim looked around to fix the location.
“It’s the De Saure house,” he said, “and has been unoccupied for months—Your Highness must have been mistaken.”
The Archduke moved on. “Doubtless, the wind plays queer tricks with sound on such a night; yet my ears rarely deceive me.”
They were passing the wide entrance gates, and he went nearer and peered within—and as though in answer, from out the darkness came the shriek of one in awful terror.
“Don’t strike me again! For God’s sake don’t strike me!”
The Archduke seized the gate.
“Come on, Bernheim,” he exclaimed; “itisa woman.”
The Aide caught his arm.
“Don’t, sir,” he said; “don’t—it is nothing for you to mix in—it is for the police.”
Armand made no answer; he was trying to find the latch.
“I pray Your Highness to refrain,” Bernheim begged; “an Archduke—”
“Help! For God’s sake help!” came the cry.
The latch yielded, and Armand flung back the gate.
“Come on,” he ordered, “I’m a man, and yonder a woman calls.”
He sprang down the path toward the house, which he could see now in black forbiddingness among the trees far back from the street.
Again Bernheim ventured to protest.
“It may be Lotzen’s trap, sir,” he warned.
For the shadow of an instant the Archduke hesitated; and at that moment the voice rang out again.
“Don’t strike me! Don’t str—” and a gurgling choke ended it.