While the absent-minded hunter strode down toward the lower town, and Maurice sipped his cognac, the king lay in his bed in the palace and aimlessly fingered the counterpane. There was now no beauty in his face. It was furrowed and pale, and an endless fever burned in the sunken eyes—eyes like coals, which suddenly flare before they turn to ash.
The archbishop nor the chancellor could see anything in the dim corners of the royal bed chamber, but he could. It was the mocking finger of death, and it was leveled at him. Spring had come, and summer and autumn and winter, and spring again, but he had not wandered through the green fields, except in dreams, and the byways he loved knew him no more. Ah, to sit still like a spectator and to see the world pass by! To be a part of it, and yet not of it! To see the glory of strength and vigor just beyond one's grasp, the staffs to lean on crumble to the touch, and the stars of hope fade away one by one from the firmament of one's dreams! Here was weariness for which there was no remedy.
Day by day time pressed him on toward the inevitable. No human hand could stay him. He could think, but he could not act. He could move, but he could not stand nor walk. And that philosophy which had in other days sustained him was shattered and threadbare. He was dead, yet he lived. Fate has so many delicate ironies.
He had tried to make his people love him, only to acquire their hate. He had reduced taxation, only to be scorned. He had made the city beautiful, only to be cursed. A paralytic, the theme of ribald verse, the butt of wineroom wits, the object of contumely to his people, his beneficiaries!
The ingratitude of kings bites not half so deep as the ingratitude of the people. Tears filled his eyes, and he fumbled his lips. There were only two bright spots in his futile life. The first was his daughter, who read to him, who was the first in the morning to greet him and last at night to leave him. The second was the evening hour when the archbishop and the chancellor came in to discuss the affairs of state.
“And Prince Frederick has not yet been heard from?” was his first inquiry.
“No, Sire,” answered the chancellor. “The matter is altogether mysterious. The police can find no trace of him. He left Carnavia for Bleiberg; he stopped at Ehrenstein, directed his suite to proceed; there, all ends. The ambassador from Carnavia approached me to-day. He scouts the idea of a peasant girl, and hinted at other things.”
“Yes,” said the king, “there is something behind all this. Frederick is not a youth of peccadilloes. Something has happened to him. But God send him safe and sound to us, so much depends on him. And Alexia?”
“Says nothing,” the archbishop answered, “a way with her when troubled.”
“And my old friend, Lord Fitzgerald?”
The prelate shook his head sadly. “We have just been made acquainted with his death. God rest his kindly soul.”
The king sank deeper into his pillows.
“But we shall hear from his son within a few days,” continued the prelate, taking the king's hand in his own. “My son, cease to worry. Alexia's future is in good hands. I have confidence that the public debt will be liquidated on the twentieth.”
“Or renewed,” said the chancellor. “Your Majesty must not forget that Prince Frederick sacrifices his own private fortune to adjust our indebtedness. That is the wedding gift which he offers to her Highness. One way or the other, we have nothing to fear.”
“O!” cried the king, “I had forgotten that magnanimity. His disappearance is no longer a mystery. He is dead.”
His auditors could not repress the start which this declaration caused them to make.
“Sire,” said the chancellor, quietly, “princes are not assassinated these days. Our worry is perhaps all needless. The prince is young, and sometimes youth flings off the bridle and runs away. But he loves her Highness, and the Carnavians are not fickle.”
The prelate and the statesman had different ideas in regard to the peasant girl. To the prelate a woman was an unknown quantity, and he frowned. The statesman, who had once been young, knew a deal about woman, and he smiled.
“Sometimes, my friends,” said the king, “I can see beyond the human glance. I hear the crumbling of walls. But for that lonely child I could die in peace. The crown I wear is of lead; God hasten the day that lifts it from my brow.” When the king spoke again, he said: “And that insolent Von Rumpf is gone at last? I am easier. He should have been sent about his business ten years ago. What does Madame the duchess say?”
“So little,” answered the chancellor, “that I begin to distrust her silence. But she is a wise woman, though her years are but five and twenty, and she will not make any foolish declaration of war which would only redound to her chagrin.”
“What is the fascination in these crowns of straw?” said the king to the prelate. “Ah, my father, you strive for the crown to come; and yet your earnest but misguided efforts placed this earthly one on my head. You were ambitious for me.”
“Nay,” and the prelate bent his head. “It was self that spoke, worldly aggrandizement. I wished—God forgive me!—to administer not to the prince but to the king. I am punished. The crown has broken your life. It was the passing glory of the world; and I fell.”
“And were not my eyes as dazzled by the crown as yours were by the robes? Why did we leave the green hills of Osia? What destiny writes, fate must unfold. And oh, the dreams I had of being great! I am fifty-eight and you are seventy. And look; I am a broken twig, and you tower above me like an ancient oak, and as strong.” To the chancellor he said: “And what is the budget?”
“Sire, it is fairly quiet in the lower town. The native troops have been paid, and all signs of discontent abated. The duchess can do nothing but replace von Rumpf. The Marshal is a straw in the wind; von Wallenstein and Mollendorf, I hold a sword above their necks. Nearly half the Diet is with us. There has been some strange meddling in the customs. Englishmen have brought me complaints, through the British legation, regarding such inspections as were never before heard of in a country at peace. I consulted the chief inspector and he affirmed the matter. He was under orders of the minister of police. It appears to me that a certain Englishman is to be kept out of the country for reasons well known to us. I have suspended police power over the customs. Ah, Sire, if you would but agree with Monseigneur to dismiss the cabinet.”
“It is too late,” said the king.
“There is only one flaw,” continued the chancellor. “This flaw is Colonel Beauvais, chief in command of the cuirassiers, who in authority stands between the Marshal and General Kronau. I fear him. Why? Instinct. He is too well informed of my projects for one thing; he laughs when I suggest in military affairs. Who is he? A Frenchman, if one may trust to a name; an Austrian, if one may trust from whence he came, recommended by the premier himself. He entered the cuirassiers as a Captain. You yourself, Sire, made him what he is—the real military adviser of the kingdom. But what of his past? No one knows, unless it be von Wallenstein, his intimate. I, for one, while I may be wrong, trust only those whose past I know, and even then only at intervals.”
“Colonel Beauvais?” murmured the king. “I am sure that you are unjustly suspicious. How many times have I leaned on his stout arm! He taught Alexia a thousand tricks of horse, so that to-day she rides as no other woman in the kingdom rides. Would that I stood half so straight and looked at the world half so fearlessly. He is the first soldier in the kingdom.”
“All men are honest in your Majesty's eyes,” said the archbishop.
“All save the man within me,” replied the king.
At this juncture the king's old valet came in with the evening meal; and soon after the prelate and the chancellor withdrew from the chamber.
“How long will he live?” asked the latter.
“A year; perhaps only till to-morrow. Ah, had he but listened to me several years ago, all this would not have come to pass. He would see nothing; he persisted in dreams. With the death of Josef he was convinced that his enemies had ceased to be. Had he listened, I should have dismissed the cabinet, and found enough young blood to answer my purposes; I should have surrounded him with a mercenary army two thousand strong; by now he should have stood strongly entrenched.
“They have robbed him, but you and I were permitted to do nothing. Where is the prosperity of which we formerly boasted? I, too, hear crumbling walls. Yet, the son of this Englishman, whose strange freak is still unaccountable, will come at the appointed time; I know the race. He will renew the loan for another ten years. What a fancy! Lord Fitzgerald was an eccentric man. Given a purpose, he pursued it to the end, neither love nor friendship, nor fear swerved him. Do you know that he made a vow that Duke Josef should never sit on this throne, nor his descendants? What were five millions to him, if in giving them he realized the end? The king would never explain the true cause of this Englishman's folly, but I know that it was based on revenge, the cause of which also is a mystery. If only the prince were here!”
“He will come; youth will be youth.”
“Perhaps.”
“You have never been young.”
“Not in that particular sense to which you refer,” dryly.
* * * * * *
In the chamber of finance Colonel Beauvais leaned over the desk and perused the writing on a slip of paper which the minister had given him. Enough daylight remained to permit the letters to stand out legibly. When he had done the Colonel tossed back the missive, and the minister tore it into shreds and dropped them into the waste basket.
“So much for your pains,” said Beauvais. “The spy, who has eaten up ten thousand crowns, is not worth his salt. He has watched this man Hamilton for two days, been his guide in the hills, and yet learns nothing. And the rigor of the customs is a farce.”
“This day,” replied the minister, “the police lost its jurisdiction over the customs. Complaints have been entered at the British legation, which forwarded them to the chancellor.”
“O ho!” The Colonel pulled his mustache.
“I warned you against this. The chancellor is a man to be respected, whatever his beliefs. I warned you and Mollendorf of the police what the result would be. The chancellor has a hard hand when it falls. He was always bold; now he is more so since he practically stands alone. In games of chance one always should play close. You are in a hurry.”
“I have waited six years.”
“And I have waited fourteen.”
“Well, then, I shall pass into the active. I shall watch this Englishman myself. He is likely to prove the agent. Count, the time for waiting is gone. If the debt is liquidated or renewed—and there is Prince Frederick to keep in mind—we shall have played and lost. Disgrace for you; for me—well, perhaps there is a power behind me too strong. The chancellor? Pouf! I have no fear of him. But you who laugh at the archbishop—”
“He is too old.”
“So you say. But he has dreams unknown to us. He has ceased to act; why? He is waiting for the curtain to rise. Nothing escapes him; he is letting us go to what end we will, only, if we do not act at once, to draw us to a sudden halt. Now to this meddling Englishman: we have offered him a million—five millions for four. He laughs. He is a millionaire. With characteristic bombast he declares that money has no charms. For six months, since his father's death, we have hounded him, in vain. It is something I can not understand. What is Leopold to these Englishmen that they risk a princely fortune to secure him his throne? Friendship? Bah, there is none.”
“Not in France nor in Austria. But this man was an Englishman; they leave legacies of friendship.”
The Colonel walked to the window and looked down into the gardens. He remained there for a time. Von Wallenstein eyed him curiously. Presently the soldier returned to his seat.
“We are crossing a chasm; a man stands in our way; as we can not go around him, we, being the stronger, push him aside. Eh?”
“You would not kill—” began the minister.
“Let us use the French meaning of the word `suppress.' And why not? Ambition, wherever it goes, leaves a trail of blood. What is a human life in this game we play? A leaf, a grain of sand.”
“But, since the prince promises to liquidate the debt, what matters it if the Englishman comes? It is all one and the same.”
“Within twenty, nay, within fifteen days, what may not happen?”
“You are ambitious,” said von Wallenstein, slyly.
“And who is not?”
“Is a Marshal's baton so much, then, above your present position? You are practically the head of the army.”
“A valiant army!” laughing; “five thousand men. Why, Madame the duchess has six thousand and three batteries.”
“Her army of six thousand is an expedient; you can raise volunteers to the amount of ten thousand.”
“To be sure I could; but supposing I did not want to?”
The minister dropped his gaze and began fingering the paper cutter. The Colonel's real purpose was still an enigma to him. “Come, you have the confidence of the king, the friendship of her Royal Highness. What do you gain in serving us? The baton?”
“You embarrass me. Questions? I should not like to lie to you. Batons were fine things when Louises and Napoleons conferred them. I have thrown my dice into the common cup; let that be sufficient.”
“A man who comes from a noble house such as you come from—”
“Ah, count, that was never to be referred to. Be content with my brain and sword. And then, there is the old saying, Give a man an ell, and look to your rod. We are all either jackals or lions, puppets or men behind the booth. I am a lion.” He rose, drew his saber half-way from the scabbard, and sent it slithering back. “In a fortnight we put it to the touch to win or lose it all, as the poet says. Every man for himself, and let the strongest win, say I.”
“You are playing two games,” coldly.
“And you? Is it for pure love of Madame the duchess that you risk your head? Come, as you say; admit that you wish to see my hand without showing yours. A baton is not much for me, as you have hinted, but it is all that was promised me. And you, if we win, will still be minister of finances? What is that maggot I see behind your eyes? Is it not spelled `chancellor'? But, remember, Madame has friends to take care of in the event of our success. We can not have all the spoils. To join the kingdom and the duchy will create new offices, to be sure, but we can have only part of them. As to games, I shall, out of the kindness in my heart, tell you that I am not playing two, but three. Guess them if you can. Next to the chancellorship is the embassy to Vienna, and an embassy to Paris is to be created. Madame is a superior woman. Who knows?” with a smile that caused the other to pale.
“You are mad to dream of that.”
“As you say, I come of a noble house,” carelessly.
“You are mad.”
“No, count,” the soldier replied. “I have what Balzac calls a thirst for a full life in a short space.”
“I would give a deal to read what is going on in that head of yours.”
“Doubtless. But what is to become of our friends the Marshal and Mollendorf? What will be left for them? Perhaps there will be a chamber of war, a chamber of the navy. As a naval minister the Marshal would be nicely placed. There would be no expense of building ships or paying sailors, which would speak well for the economy of the new government. The Marshal is old; we shall send him to Servia. At least the office will pay both his vanity and purse to an extent equal to that of his present office. By the way, nothing has yet been heard from Prince Frederick. Ah, these young men, these plump peasant girls!”
Both laughed.
“Till this evening, then;” and the Colonel went from the room.
The minister of finance applied a match to the tapers. He held the burning match aloft and contemplated the door through which the soldier had gone. The sting of the incipient flame aroused him.
“What,” he mused aloud, as he arranged the papers on his desk, “is his third game?”
“It appears to me,” said a voice from the wall behind, “that the same question arises in both our minds.”
The minister wheeled his chair, his mouth and brows puckered in dismay. From a secret panel in the wall there stepped forth a tall, thin, sour-visaged old man of military presence. He calmly sat down in the chair which Beauvais had vacated.
“I had forgotten all about you, Marshal!” exclaimed the count, smiling uneasily.
“A statement which I am most ready to believe,” replied old Marshal Kampf, with a glance which caused the minister yet more uneasiness. “What impressed me among other things was, `But what is to become of our friends the Marshal and Mollendorf?' I am Marshal; I am about to risk all for nothing. Why should I not remain Marshal for the remainder of my days? It is a pleasant thing to go to Vienna once the year and to witness the maneuvers, with an honorary position on the emperor's staff. To be Marshal here is to hold a sinecure, yet it has its compensations. The uniforms, gray and gold, are handsome; it is an ostrich plume that I wear in my chapeau de bras; the medals are of gold. My friend, it is the vanity of old age which forgives not.” And the Marshal, the bitterest tongue in all Bleiberg, reached over and picked up the cigar which lay by the inkwells. He lit it at one of the tapers, and sank again into the chair. “Count, how many games are you playing?”
“My dear Marshal, it was not I who spoke of games. I am playing no game, save for the legitimate sovereign of this kingdom. I ask for no reward.”
“Disinterested man! The inference is, however, that, since you have not asked for anything, you have been promised something. Confess it, and have done.”
“Marshal!”
“Well?”
“Is it possible that you suspect me?” The cold eyes grew colder, and the thin lips almost disappeared.
“When three men watch each other as do Beauvais, Mollendorf and you, it is because each suspects the other of treachery. You haven't watched me because I am old, but because I am old I have been watching you. Mollendorf aspires to greatness, you have your gaze on the chancellorship, and curse me if the Colonel isn't looking after my old shoes! Am I to give up my uniform, my medals and my plume—for nothing? And who the devil is this man Beauvais, since that is not his name? Is he a fine bird whose feathers have been plucked?”
The minister did not respond to the question; he began instead to fidget in his chair.
“When I gave my word to his Highness the duke, it was without conditions. I asked no favors; I considered it my duty. Let us come to an understanding. Material comfort is necessary to a man of my age. Fine phrases and a medal or two more do not count. I am, then, to go to Servia. You were very kind to hide me in your cabinet.”
“It was to show you that I had no secrets from you,” quickly.
“Let us pass on. Mollendorf is to go to Paris, where he will be a nonentity, while in his present office he is a power in the land—Devil take me, but it seems to me that we are all a pack of asses! Our gains will not be commensurate with our losses. The navy? Well, we'll let that pass; the Colonel, I see, loves a joke.”
“You forget our patriotism for the true house.”
“Why not give it its true name—self-interest?”
“Marshal, in heaven's name, what has stirred your bile?” The minister was losing his patience, a bad thing for him to do in the presence of the old warrior.
“It is something I've been swallowing this past year.” The Marshal tipped the ash of his cigar into the waste basket.
“Marshal, will you take the word not of the minister, but of the von Wallenstein, that whatever my reward shall be for my humble services, yours shall not be less?”
“Thanks, but I have asked for no reward. If I accepted gain for what I do, I should not be too old to blush.”
“I do not understand.”
“Self-interest blinds us. I have nothing but pity for this king whose only crime is an archbishop; and I can not accept gain at his expense; I should blush for shame. Had I my way, he should die in peace. He has not long to live. The archbishop—well, we can not make kings, they are born. But there is one thing more: Over all your schemes is the shadow of Austria.”
“Austria?”
“Yes. The Colonel speaks of a power behind him. Bismarck looks hungrily toward Schleswig-Holstein. Austria casts amorous eyes at us. A protectorate? We did not need it. It was forced on us. When Austria assumed to dictate to us as to who should be king, she also robbed us of our true independence. Twenty years ago there was no duchy; it was all one kingdom. Who created this duchy when Albrecht came on the throne? Austria. Why? If we live we shall read.” He rose, shook his lean legs. “I have been for the most part neutral. I shall remain neutral. There is an undercurrent on which you have failed to reckon. Austria, mistress of the confederation. There are two men whom you must watch. One is the archbishop.”
“The archbishop?” The minister was surprised that the Marshal should concur with the Colonel. “And the other?”
“Your friend the Colonel,” starting for the door.
The minister smiled. “Will you not dine with me?” he asked.
“Thanks. But I have the Servian minister on my hands to-night. A propos, tell the Colonel that I decline Belgrade. I prefer to die at home.” And he vanished.
Von Wallenstein reviewed the statements of both his visitors.
“I shall watch Monseigneur the archbishop.” Then he added, with a half-smile: “God save us if the Marshal's sword were half so sharp as his tongue! It was careless of me to forget that I had shut him up in the cabinet.”
Meanwhile Beauvais walked slowly toward his quarters, with his saber caught up under his arm. Once he turned and gazed at the palace, whose windows began to flash with light.
“Yes, they are puppets and jackals, and I am the lion. For all there shall serve my ends. I shall win, and when I do—” He laughed silently. “Well, I am a comely man, and Madame the duchess shall be my wife.”
The public park at night was a revelation to Maurice, who, lonely and restless, strolled over from the hotel in quest of innocent amusement. He was none the worse for his unintended bath; indeed, if anything, he was much the better for it. His imagination was excited. It was not every day that a man could, at one and the same time, fall out of a boat and into the presence of a princess of royal blood.
He tried to remember all he had said to her, but only two utterances recurred to him; yet these caused him an exhilaration like the bouquet of old wine. He had told her that she was beautiful, indirectly, it was true; she had accepted his friendship, also indirectly, it was true. Now the logical sequence of all this was—but he broke into a light laugh. What little vanity he possessed was without conceit. Princesses of royal blood were beyond the reach of logical sequence; and besides, she was to be married on the twentieth of the month.
He followed one of the paths which led to the pavilion. It was a charming scene, radiant with gas lamps, the vivid kaleidoscope of gowns and uniforms. Beautiful faces flashed past him. There were in the air the vague essences of violet, rose and heliotrope. Sometimes he caught the echo of low laughter or the snatch of a gay song. The light of the lamps shot out on the crinkled surface of the lake in tongues of quivering flame, which danced a brave gavot with the phantom stars; and afar twinkled the dipping oars. The brilliant pavilion, which rested partly over land and partly over water, was thronged.
The band was playing airs from the operas of the day, and Maurice yielded to the spell of the romantic music. He leaned over the pavilion rail, and out of the blackness below he endeavored to conjure up the face of Nell (or was it Kate?) who had danced with him at the embassies in Vienna, fenced and ridden with him, till—till—with a gesture of impatience he flung away the end of his cigar.
Memory was altogether too elusive. It was neither Nell nor Kate he saw smiling up at him, nor anybody else in the world but the Princess Alexia, whose eyes were like wine in a sunset, whose lips were as red as the rose of Tours in France, and whose voice was sweeter than that throbbing up from the 'cello. If he thought much more of her, there would be a logical sequence on his side. He laughed again—with an effort—and settled back in his chair to renew his interest in the panorama revolving around him.
“They certainly know how to live in these countries,” he thought, “for all their comic operas. All I need, to have this fairy scene made complete, is a woman to talk to. By George, what's to hinder me from finding one?” he added, seized by the spirit of mischief. He turned his head this way and that. “Ah! doubtless there is the one I'm looking for.”
Seated alone at a table behind him was a woman dressed in gray. Her back was toward him, but he lost none of the beautiful contours of her figure. She wore a gray alpine hat, below the rim of which rebellious little curls escaped, curls of a fine red-brown, which, as they trailed to the nape of the firm white neck, lightened into a ruddy gold. Her delicate head was turned aside, and to all appearances her gaze was directed to the entrance to the pavilion. A heavy blue veil completely obscured her features; though Maurice could see a rose-tinted ear and the shadow of a curving chin and throat, which promised much. To a man there is always a mystery lurking behind a veil. So he rose, walked past her, returned and deliberately sat down in the chair opposite to hers. The fact that gendarmes moved among the crowd did not disturb him.
“Good evening, Mademoiselle,” he said, politely lifting his hat.
She straightened haughtily. “Monsieur,” she said, resentment, consternation and indignation struggling to predominate in her tones, “I did not give you permission to sit down. You are impertinent!”
“O, no,” Maurice declared. “I am not impertinent. I am lonesome. In all Bleiberg I haven't a soul to talk to, excepting the hotel waiters, and they are uninteresting. Grant me the privilege of conversing with you for a moment. We shall never meet again; and I should not know you if we did. Whether you are old or young, plain or beautiful, it matters not. My only wish is to talk to a woman, to hear a woman's voice.”
“Shall I call a gendarme, Monsieur, and have him search for your nurse?” The attitude which accompanied these words was anything but assuring.
He, however, evinced no alarm. He even laughed. “That was good! We shall get along finely, I am sure.”
“Monsieur,” she said, rising, “I repeat that I do not desire your company, nor to remain in the presence of your unspeakable effrontery.”
“I beseech you!” implored Maurice, also rising. “I am a foreigner, lonesome, unhappy, thousands of miles from home—”
“You are English?” suddenly. She stood with the knuckle of her forefinger on her lips as if meditating. She sat down.
Maurice, greatly surprised, also sat down.
“English?” he repeated. His thought was: “What the deuce! This is the third time I have been asked that. Who is this gay Lothario the women seem to be expecting?” To her he continued: “And why do you ask me that?”
“Perhaps it is your accent. And what do you wish to say to me, Monsieur?” It was a voice of quality; all the anger had gone from it. She leaned on her elbows, her chin in her palms, and through the veil he caught the sparkle of a pair of wonderful eyes. “Let us converse in English,” she added. “It is so long since I have had occasion to speak in that tongue.” She repeated her question.
“O, I had no definite plan outlined,” he answered; “just generalities, with the salt of repartee to season.” He pondered over this sudden transition from wrath to mildness. An Englishman? Very well; it might grow interesting.
“Is it customary among the English to request to speak to strangers without the usual formalities of an introduction?”
“I can not say that it is,” he answered truthfully enough; “but the procedure is never without a certain charm and excitement.”
“Ah; then you were led to address me merely by the love of adventure?”
“That is it; the love of adventure. I should not have spoken to you had you not worn the veil.” He remarked that her English was excellent.
“You differ from the average Englishman, who is usually wrapt up in himself and has no desire to talk to strangers. You have been a soldier.”
The evolutions of his cane ceased. “How in the world did you guess that?” surprised beyond measure.
“Perhaps there is something suggestive in your shoulders.”
He tried to peer behind the veil, but in vain. “Am I speaking to one I have met before?”
“I believe not; indeed, sir, I am positive.”
“I have been a soldier, but my shoulders did not tell you that.”
“Perhaps I have the gift of clairvoyance,” gazing again toward the entrance.
“Or perhaps you have been to Vienna.”
“Who knows? Most Englishmen are, or have been, soldiers.”
“That is true.” Inwardly, “There's my friend the Englishman again. She's guessing closer than she knows. Curious; she has mistaken me for some one she does not know, if that is possible.” He was somewhat in a haze. “Well, you have remarkable eyes. However, let us talk of a more interesting subject; for instance, yourself. You, too, love adventure, that is, if I interpret the veil rightly.”
“Yes; I like to see without being seen. But, of course, behind this love of adventure which you possess, there is an important mission.”
“Ah!” he thought; “you are not quite sure of me.” Aloud, “Yes, I came here to witness the comic opera.”
“The comic opera? I do not understand?”
“I believed there was going to be trouble between the duchy and the kingdom, but unfortunately the prima donna has refused the part.”
“The prima donna!” in a muffled voice. “Whom do you mean?”
“Son Altesse la Grande Duchesse! 'Voici le sabre de mon pere!'” And he whistled a bar from Offenbach, his eyes dancing.
“Sir!—I!—you do wrong to laugh at us!” a flash from the half-hidden eyes.
“Forgive me if I have offended you, but I—”
“Ah, sir, but you who live in a powerful country think we little folk have no hearts, that we have no wrongs to redress, no dreams of conquest and of power. You are wrong.”
“And whose side do you defend?”
“I am a woman,” was the equivocal answer.
“Which means that you are uncertain.”
“I have long ago made up my mind.”
“Wonderful! I always thought a woman's mind was like a time-table, subject to change without notice. So you have made up your mind?”
“I was born with its purpose defined,” coldly.
“Ah, now I begin to doubt.”
“What?” with a still lower degree of warmth.
“That you are a woman. Only goddesses do not change their minds—sometimes. Well, then you are on the weaker side.”
“Or the stronger, since there are two sides.”
“And the stronger?” persistently.
“The side which is not the weaker. But the subject is what you English call 'taboo.' It is treading on delicate ground to talk politics in the open—especially in Bleiberg.”
“What a diplomat you would make!” he cried with enthusiasm. Certainly this was a red-letter day in his calendar. This adventure almost equalled the other, and, besides, in this instance, his skin was dry; he could enjoy it more thoroughly. Who could this unknown be? “If only you understood the mystery with which you have enshrouded yourself!”
“I do.” She drew the veil more firmly about her chin.
“Grant me a favor.”
“I am talking to you, sir.”
This candor did not disturb him. “The favor I ask is that you will lift the corner of your veil; otherwise you will haunt me.”
“I am doomed to haunt you, then. If I should lift the corner of my veil something terrible would happen.”
“What! Are you as beautiful as that?”
There was a flash of teeth behind the veil, followed by the ripple of soft laughter. “It is difficult to believe you to be English. You are more like one of those absurd Americans.”
Maurice did not like the adjective. “I am one of them,” wondering what the effect of this admission would be. “I am not English, but of the brother race. Forgive me if I have imposed on you, but it was your fault. You said that I was English, and I was too lonesome to enlighten you.”
“You are an American?” She began to tap her gloved fingers against the table.
“Yes.”
Then, to his astonishment, she gave way to laughter, honest and hearty. “How dense of me not to have known the moment you addressed me! Who but the American holds in scorn custom's formalities and usages? Your grammar is good, so good that my mistake is pardonable. The American is always like the terrible infant; and you are a choice example.”
Maurice was not so pleased as he might have been. His ears burned. Still, he went forward bravely. “A man never pretends to be an Englishman without getting into trouble.”
“I did not ask to speak to you. No one ever pretends to be an American. Why is it you are always ashamed of your country?” with malice aforethought.
Maurice experienced the sting of many bees. “I see that your experience is limited to impostors. I, Mademoiselle, am proud of my country, the great, free land which stands aside from the turmoil and laughs at your petty squabbles, your kings, your princes. Laugh at me; I deserve it for not minding my own business, but do not laugh at my country.” His face was flushed; he was almost angry. It was not her words; it was the contempt with which she had invested them. But immediately he was ashamed of his outburst. “Ah, Mademoiselle, you have tricked me; you have found the vulnerable part in my armor. I have spoken like a child. Permit me to apologize for my apparent lack of breeding.” He rose, bowed, and made as though to depart.
“Sit down, Monsieur,” she said, picking up her French again. “I forgive you. I do more; I admire. I see that your freak had nothing behind it but mischief. No woman need fear a man who colors when his country is made the subject of a jest.”
All his anger evaporated. This was an invitation, and he accepted it. He resumed his seat.
“The truth is, as I remarked, I was lonesome. I know that I have committed a transgression, but the veil tempted me.”
“It is of no matter. A few moments, and you will be gone. I am waiting for some one. You may talk till that person comes.” Her voice was now in its natural tone; and he was convinced that if her face were half as sweet, she must possess rare beauty. “Hush!” as the band began to breathe forth Chopin's polonaise. They listened until the music ceased.
“Ah!” said he rapturously, “the polonaise! When you hear it, does there not recur to you some dream of bygone happy hours, the sibilant murmur of fragrant night winds through the crisp foliage, the faint call of Diana's horn from the woodlands, moon-fairies dancing on the spider-webs, the glint of the dew on the roses, the far-off music of the surges tossing impotently on the sands, the forgetfulness of time and place and care, and not a cloud 'twixt you and the heavens? Ah, the polonaise!”
“Surely you must be a poet!” declared the Veil, when this panegyric was done.
“No,” said he modestly, “I never was quite poor enough for that exalted position.” He had recovered his good humor.
“Indeed, you begin to interest me. What is your occupation when not in search of—comic operas?”
“I serve Ananias.”
“Ananias?” A pause. “Ah, you are a diplomat?”
“How clever of you to guess.”
“Yours is a careless country,” observed the Veil.
“Careless?” mystified.
“Yes, to send forth her green and salad youth. Eh, bien! There are hopes for you. If you live you will grow old; you will become bald and reserved; you will not speak to strangers, to while away an idle hour; for permit me, Monsieur, who am wise, to tell you that it is a dangerous practice.”
“And do I look so very young?”
“Your beard is that of a boy.”
“David slew Goliath.”
“At least you have a ready tongue,” laughing.
“And you told me that I had been a soldier.”
But to this she had nothing to say.
“I am older than you think, Mademoiselle of the Veil. I have been a soldier; I have seen hard service, too. Mine is no cushion sword. Youth? 'Tis a virtue, not a crime; and, besides, it is an excellent disguise.”
For some time she remained pensive.
“You are thinking of something, Mademoiselle.”
“Do you like adventure?”
“I subsist on it.”
“You have been a soldier; you are, then, familiar with the use of arms?”
“They tell me so,” modestly. What was coming?
“I have some influence. May I trust you?”
“On my honor,” puzzled, yet eager.
“There may be a comic opera, as you call it. War is not so impossible as to be laughed at. The dove may fly away and the ravens come.”
“Who in thunder might this woman be?” he thought.
“And,” went on the Veil, “an extra saber might be used. Give me your address, in case I should find it necessary to send for you.”
Now Maurice was a wary youth. Under ordinary circumstances he would have given a fictitious address to this strange sybil with the prophecy of war; for he had accosted her only in the spirit of fun. But here was the key which he had been seeking, the key to all that had brought him to Bleiberg. Intrigue, adventure, or whatever it was, and to whatever end, he plunged into it. He drew out a card case, selected a card on which he wrote “Room 12, Continental,” and passed it over the table. She read it, and slipped it into her purse.
Maurice thought: “Who wouldn't join the army with such recruiting officers?”
While the pantomime took place, a man pushed by Maurice's chair and crossed over to the table recently occupied by him. He sat down, lit a short pipe, rested his feet on the lowest rung of the ladder-like railing, and contemplated the western hills, which by now were enveloped in moon mists. Neither Maurice nor his mysterious vis-a-vis remarked him. Indeed, his broad back afforded but small attraction. And if he puffed his pipe fiercely, nobody cared, since the breeze carried the smoke waterward.
After putting the card into her purse, Mademoiselle of the Veil's gaze once more wandered toward the entrance, and this time it grew fixed. Maurice naturally followed it, and he saw a tall soldier in fatigue dress elbowing his way through the crush. Many moved aside for him; those in uniform saluted.
“Monsieur,” came from behind the veil, “you may go now. I dismiss you. If I have need of you I promise to send for you.”
He stood up. “I thank you for the entertainment and the promise you extend. I shall be easily found,” committing himself to nothing. “I suppose you are a person of importance in affairs.”
“It is not unlikely. I see that you love adventure for its own sake, for you have not asked me if it be the duchy or the kingdom. Adieu, Monsieur,” with a careless wave of the gray-gloved hand. “Adieu!”
He took his dismissal heroically and shot a final glance at the approaching soldier. His brows came together.
“Where,” he murmured, “have I seen that picturesque countenance before? Not in Europe; but where?” He caught the arm of a passing gendarme. “Who is that gentleman in fatigue uniform, coming this way?”
“That, Monsieur,” answered the gendarme in tones not unmixed with awe, “is Colonel Beauvais of the royal cuirassiers.”
“Thanks.... Beauvais; I do not remember the name. Truly I have had experiences to-day. And for what house is Mademoiselle of the Veil? Ravens? War? `Voici le sabre de mon pyre!'” and with a gay laugh he went his way.
Meanwhile Colonel Beauvais arrived at the table, tipped his hat to the Veil, who rose and laid a hand on his arm. He guided her through the pressing crowds.
“Ah, Madame,” he said, “you are very brave to choose such a rendezvous.”
“Danger is a tonic to the ill-spirited,” was the reply.
“If aught should happen to you—”
“It was in accord with her wishes that I am here. She suffers from impatience; and I would risk much to satisfy her whims.”
“So would I, Madame; even life.” There was a tremor of passion in his voice, but she appeared not to notice it. “Here is a nook out of the lights; we may talk here with safety.”
“And what is the news?” she asked.
“This: The man remains still in obscurity. But he shall be found. Listen,” and his voice fell into a whisper.
“Austria?” Mademoiselle of the Veil pressed her hands together in excitement. “Is it true?”
“Did I not promise you? It is so true that the end is in sight. Conspiracy is talked openly in the streets, in the cafes, everywhere. The Osians will be sand in the face of a tidal wave. A word from me, and Kronau follows it. It all would be so easy were it not for the archbishop.”
“The archbishop?” contemptuously.
“Ay, Madame; he is a man so deep, with a mind so abyssmal, that I would give ten years of my life for a flash of his thoughts. He has some project; apparently he gives his whole time to the king. He loves this weak man Leopold; he has sacrificed the red hat for him, for the hat would have taken him to Italy, as we who procured it intended it should.”
“The archbishop? Trust me; one month from now he will be recalled. That is the news I have for you.”
“You have taken a weight from my mind. What do you think in regard to the rumor of the prince and the peasant girl?”
“It afforded me much amusement. You are a man of fine inventions.”
“Gaze toward the upper end of the pavilion, the end which we have just left. Yes—there. I am having the owner of those broad shoulders watched. That gendarme leaning against the pillar follows him wherever he goes.”
“Who is he?”
“That I am trying to ascertain. This much—he is an Englishman.”
Mademoiselle of the Veil laughed. “Pardon my irrelevancy, but the remembrance of a recent adventure of mine was too strong.”
Maurice could not regain his interest in the scene. He strolled in and out of the moving groups, but no bright eyes or winning smiles allured him. Impelled by curiosity, he began to draw near the shadowed nook. Curiosity in a journalist is innate, and time nor change can efface it. Curiosity in those things which do not concern us is wrong. Ethics disavows the practice, though philosophy sustains it. Perhaps in this instance Maurice was philosophical, not ethical. Perhaps he wanted to hear the woman's voice again, which was excusable. Perhaps it was neither the one nor the other, but fate, which directed his footsteps. Certain it is that the subsequent adventures would never have happened had he gone about his business, as he should have done.
“Who is this who stares at us?” asked Beauvais, with a piercing glance and a startled movement of his shoulders.
“A disciple of Pallas and a pupil of Mars,” was the answer. “I have been recruiting, Colonel. There is sharpness sometimes in new blades. Do not draw him with your eyes.”
The Colonel continued his scrutiny, however, and there was an ugly droop at the corners of his mouth, though it was partly hidden under his mustache.
Maurice, aware that he was not wanted, passed along, having in mind to regain his former seat by the railing.
“Colonel,” he mused, “your face grows more familiar every moment. It was not associated with agreeable things. But, what were they? Hang it! you shall have a place in my thoughts till I have successfully labeled you. Humph! Some one seems to have appropriated my seat.”
He viewed with indecision the broad back of the interloper, who at that moment turned his head. At the sight of that bronzed profile Maurice gave an exclamation of surprise and delight. He stepped forward and dropped his hand on the stranger's shoulder.
“John Fitzgerald, or henceforth garlic shall be my salad!” he cried in loud, exultant tones.