Maurice leaped to his feet, a menace in his eyes. The Colonel crossed his legs, rested his hands on the hilt of his saber, and smiled.
“I could not resist the desire to have a friendly chat with you.”
“You have come cursed inopportune,” snarled Maurice. “What do you want?”
“I want to give you the countersigns, so that when you start for Bleiberg to-morrow morning you'll have no trouble.”
“Bleiberg!” exclaimed Maurice.
“Bleiberg. Madame desires me to say to you that you are to start for that city in the morning, to fetch those slips of parchment which have caused us all these years of worry. Ah, my friend,” to Fitzgerald, “Madame would be cheap at twenty millions! You sly dog! And I never suspected it.”
Fitzgerald sent him a scowl. “You are damned impertinent, sir.”
“Impertinent?” The Colonel uncrossed his legs and brought his knees together. “Madame has been under my care since she was a child, Monsieur; I have a fatherly interest in her. At any rate, I am glad that the affair is at an end. It was very noble in you. If I had had my way, though, it would have been war, pure and simple. I left the duchess in Brunnstadt this morning; she will be delighted to attend the wedding.”
“She will attend it,” said Maurice, grimly; “but I would not lay odds on her delight. Colonel, the devil take me if I go to Bleiberg on any such errand.” He went to the window seat.
The Colonel rose and followed him. “Pardon me,” he said to Fitzgerald, who did not feel at all complimented by Madame's haste; “a few words in Monsieur Carewe's ear. He will go to Bleiberg; he will be glad to go.” He bent towards Maurice. “Go to Bleiberg, my son. A word to him about Madame, and off you go to Brunnstadt. Will you be of any use there? I think not. The little countess would cry out her pretty eyes if she heard that you were languishing in the city prison at Brunnstadt, where only the lowest criminals are confined. Submit gracefully, that is to say, like a soldier against whom the fortunes of war have gone. Go to Bleiberg.”
“I'll go. I give up.” It was not the threat which brought him to this decision. It was a vision of a madonna-like face. “I'll go, John. Where are the certificates?”
“Between the mattresses and the slats of my bed you will find a gun in a case. The certificates are in the barrels.” His countenance did not express any particular happiness; the lines about his mouth were sharper than usual.
“The devil!” cried the Colonel; “if only I had known that!” He laughed. “Well, I'll leave you. Six o'clock—what's this?” as he stooped and picked up Maurice's cast-off hussar jacket.
“I was about to use it as a door mat,” said Maurice, who was in a nasty humor. That Fitzgerald had surrendered did not irritate him half so much as the thought that he was the real puppet. His hands were tied, he could not act, and he was one that loved his share in games.
The Colonel reddened under his tan. “No; I'll not lose my temper, though this is cause enough. Curse me, but you lack courtesy. This is my uniform, and whatever it may be to you it is sacred to me. You were not forced into it; you were not compelled to wear it. What would you do if a man wore your uniform and flung it around in this manner?”
“I'd knock him down,” Maurice admitted. “I apologize, Colonel; it was not manly. But you must make allowances; my good nature has suffered a severe strain. I'll get into my own clothes to-morrow if you will have a servant sew on some buttons and mend the collar. By the way, who is eating three meals a day in the east corridor on the third floor?”
Their glances fenced. The Colonel rubbed his mustache.
“I like you,” he said; “hang me if I don't. But as well as I like you, I would not give a denier for your life if you were found in that self-same corridor. The sentinel has orders to shoot; but don't let that disturb you; you will know sooner or later. It is better to wait than be shot. A horse will be saddled at six. You will find it in the court. The countersigns are Weixel and Arnoldt. Good luck to you.”
“The same to you,” rejoined Maurice, “only worse.”
The Colonel's departure was followed by a period of temporary speechlessness. Maurice smoked several “Khedives,” while Fitzgerald emptied two or three pipe-bowls.
“You seem to be in bad odor, Maurice,” the latter ventured.
“In more ways than one. Where, in heaven's name, did you resurrect that pipe?”
“In the stables. It isn't the pipe, it's the tobacco. I had to break up some cigars.”
Then came another period in the conversation. It occurred to both that something yawned between them—a kind of abyss. Out of this abyss one saw his guilt arise.... A woman stood at his side. He had an accomplice. He had thrown the die, and he would stand stubbornly to it. His pride built yet another wall around him, impregnable either to protests or to sneers. He loved—that was recompense enough. A man will forgive himself of grave sins when these are debtors to his love.
As for the other, he beheld a trust betrayed, and he was powerless to prevent it. Besides, his self-love smarted, chagrin made eyes at him; and, more than all else, he recognized his own share in the Englishman's fall from grace. It had been innocent mischief on his part, true, but nevertheless he stood culpable. He had no business to talk to a woman he did not know. The more he studied the aspects of the situation the more whimsical it grew. He was the prime cause of a king losing his throne, of a man losing his honor, of a princess becoming an outcast.
“Your bride-elect,” he said, “seems somewhat over-hasty. Well, I'm off to bed.”
“Maurice, can you blame me?”
“No, John; whom the gods destroy they first make mad. You will come to your senses when it is too late.”
“For God's sake, Maurice, who is she?”
“What will you do if she breaks her promise?” adroitly evading the question.
“What shall I do?” He emptied the ashes from his pipe, and rose; all that was aggressive came into his face. “I will bind her hands and feet and carry her to the altar, and shoot the priest that refuses to marry us. O Maurice, rest easy; no woman lives who will make a fool of me, and laugh.”
“That's comfort;” and Maurice turned in.
This night it was the Englishman who sat up till the morning hours. Sylvia Amerbach.... A fear possessed him. If it should be, he thought; if it should be, what then?
Midnight in Madame's boudoir; no light save that which streamed rosily from the coals in the grate. The countess sat with her slippered feet upon the fender. She held in her hand a screen, and if any thoughts marked her face, they remained in blurred obscurity.
“Heu!” said Madame from the opposite side; “it is all over. It was detestable. I, to suffer this humiliation! Do you know what I have done? I have promised to be his wife! His wife, I! Is it not droll?” There was a surprising absence of mirth in the low laugh which followed.
“I trust Madame will find it droll.”
“And you?”
“And I, Madame?”
“Yes; did you not bring the clown to your feet?”
“No, Madame.”
“How? You did not have the joy denied me—of laughing in his face?”
“No, Madame.” With each answer the voice grew lower.
“Since when have I been Madame to you?”
“Since to-day.”
Madame reached out a hand and pressed down the screen. “Elsa, what is it?”
“What is what, Madame?”
“This strange mood of yours.”
Silence.
“You were gay enough this morning. Tell me.”
“There is nothing to tell, Madame, save that my sacrifices are at an end. I have nothing left.”
“What! You forsake me when the end is won?” in astonishment.
“I did not say that I should desert you; I said that I had no more sacrifices to make.” The Countess rose. “For your sake, Madame, because you have always been kind to me, and because it is impossible not to love you, I have degraded myself. I have pretended to love a man who saw through the artifice and told me so, to save me further shame. O Madame, it is all execrable!
“And you will use this love which you have gained—this first love of a man who has known no other and will know no other while he lives!—to bring about his ruin? This other, at whose head you threw me—beware of him. He is light-hearted and gay, perhaps. You call him a clown; he is cunning and brave; and unless you judge him at his true value, your fabric of schemes will fall ere it reaches its culmination. Could even you trick him with words? No. You were compelled to use force. Is he not handsome, Madame?” with a feverish gaiety. “Is there a gentleman at your court who is a more perfect cavalier? Why, he blushes like a woman! Is there in your court—” But her sentence broke, and she could not go on.
“Elsa, are you mad?”
“Yes, Madame, yes; they call it a species of madness.” Then, with a sudden gust of wrath: “Why did you not leave me in peace? You have destroyed me! O, the shame of it!” and she fled into her own room.
Madame sat motionless. This, among other things, she had not reckoned on.
Only the troopers and the servants slept in peace that night.
Maurice was up betimes next morning. The hills and valleys lay under a mantle of sparkling rime, and the very air, keen of edge and whistling, glistened in the sunlight. The iron shoes of the horses beat sharply on the stone flooring of the court yard. Maurice examined his riding furniture; pulled at the saddle, tugged at the rein buckles, lifted the leather flaps and tried the stirrup straps. It was not that he doubted the ability of the groom; it was because this particular care was second nature to him.
Fitzgerald watched him, and meditated. Some of his thoughts were not pleasant. His eyes were heavy. At times he would lift his shoulders and permit half a smile to flicker over his lips; a certain thought caused this. The Colonel sat astride a broad-chested cavalry horse, spotless white. He was going to accompany Maurice to the frontier. He had imbibed the exhilarating tonic of the morning, and his spirits ran high. At length Maurice leaped into the saddle, caught the stirrups well, and signaled to the Colonel that he was ready.
“You understand, Maurice?” Fitzgerald asked.
“Yes, John; all the world loves a lover. Besides, it is a glorious morning for a ride. Up, portcullis, down drawbridge!” waving his hand to the Colonel.
And away they went through the gateway, into the frosted road. Maurice felt the spirit of some medieval ancestor creep into his veins and he longed for an hour of the feudal days, to rescue a princess from some dungeon-keep and to harry an over-lord. After all, she was a wonderful woman, and Fitzgerald was only a man. To give up all for the love of woman is the only sacrifice a man can make.
“En avant!” cried the Colonel. “A fine day, a fine day for the house of Auersperg!”
“And a devilish bad one for the houses of Fitzgerald and Carewe. Woman's ambition, coupled with her deceit, is the root of all evil; money is simply an invention of man to protect himself from her encroachments. Eve was ambitious and deceitful; all women are her daughters. When the pages of history grow dull—”
“Time puts a maggot in my lady's brain,” supplemented the Colonel. “It is like a row of dominoes. The power behind the throne, the woman behind the power; an impulse moves the woman, and lo! how they clatter down. But without woman, history would be poor reading. The greatest battles in the world, could we but see behind, were fought for women. Men are but footnotes, and unfortunately history is made up of footnotes. But it is a fine thing to be a footnote; that is my ambition.
“Ah, if you but knew what a pleasure it is for an old man like me to have a finger in the game time plays! To meddle with affairs, directly or indirectly! Kingdoms are but judy shows, kings and queens but puppets; but we who pull the strings—Ah, that is it! To play a game of chess with crowns!”
“There are exceptions; Madame seems to hold the strings in this instance.”
“Madame follows my advice in all she does.”
Maurice opened his eyes at this statement.
“Would you believe an old man like me could lay such a train? All this was my idea. It was difficult to get Madame to agree with my views. War? I am not afraid of it; I am suspicious of it. One day your friend returned a personal letter of Madame's having written across it, `I laugh at you.' It was very foolish. No man laughs at Madame more than once. She will, one day, return this letter to him. A crown, a fine revenge, in one fell swoop.”
“She will ruin him utterly?”
“Utterly.”
“Have you any idea what sort of man my friend is?”
“He lacks the polish of a man of affairs, and he surrenders too easily.”
“He will never surrender—Madame.”
“How?”
“You remember his father; he will prove his father's son, every inch of him. O, my Colonel, the curtain has only risen. One fine morning your duchy will wake up without a duchess.”
“What do you imply—an abduction?” The Colonel laughed.
“That is my secret.”
“And the pretty countess?” banteringly.
“It was rather bad taste in Madame. It was putting love and patriotism to questionable purposes. I am a gentleman.”
“It was out of consideration for you; Madame was not quite sure about you. But you are right; all of it has rather a dark shade. You may rob a man of his valuables and give them back; a broken word is not to be mended. Why did you keep the hiding place so secret? I could have got those consols, and all this would have been avoided.”
“How should I know where they were? It was none of my affair.”
“We are trusting you; I might have gone myself. You will return with the treasure. Why have I not asked your word? Curiosity will bring you back; curiosity. Besides this, you have an idea that with your presence about, a flaw in the glass may be found. Yes, you will be back. History is to be made; when you are old you will glance at the page and say: `Look there; rather a pretty bit, eh? Well, I helped to make it; indeed, had it not been for me and my curiosity it would not have been made at all.' Above all things, do not stop to talk to veiled women.”
There was a chuckling sound. “I say, your Englishman is clever now and then. In the gun barrels! Who would have looked for them there? But why did he come himself? Why did he not trust to his bankers? Why did he not turn over the affair to his representative, the British minister? There were a hundred ways of averting the catastrophe. Why did he not use a little fore-thought when he knew how anxious we were for his distinguished person?”
“Why does the moon rise at night and the sun at dawn? I am no Cumaean Sybil. Perhaps it is the impulse which moves the woman behind the power behind the throne; they call it fate. Had I been in his place I dare say I should have followed his footsteps.”
Not long after they arrived at the frontier where they were to separate, to meet again under conditions disagreeable to both. The Colonel gave him additional instructions.
“Go; return as quickly as possible.”
“Never fear; I should not like to miss the finale to this opera bouffe.”
“Rail on, my son; call it by any name you please, only do not interrupt the prompter;” and with this the Colonel waved him an adieu.
Maurice began the journey through the mountain pass, thinking and planning and scheming. However he looked at the situation, the end was the same: the Osians were doomed. If he himself played false and retained the certificates until too late to be of benefit to the duchess, war would follow; and the kingdom would be soundly beaten.... Would Prince Frederick still hold to his agreement and marry her Royal Highness, however ill the fortunes of war fared? There was a swift current of blood to his heart. The Voiture-verse of a countess faded away.... Supposing Prince Frederick withdrew his claims? Some day her Highness would be free; free, without title or money or shelter. It was a wild dream. Was there not, when all was said, a faint hope for his own affairs in the fall of Fitzgerald?
She was lonely, friendless, personally known to few. Still, she would be an Osian princess for all her misfortunes. But an Osian princess was not so great that love might not possess her. Without royalty she would be only a woman. What would Austria do; what would Austria say? If Austria had placed Leopold on the throne, certainly it was to shut out the house of Auersperg.
And who was this man Beauvais, who served one house openly and another under the rose? Where had he met him before, and why did the thought of him cause unrest? To rescue her somehow, to win her love, to see the glory of the world light the heavens in her eyes! If the dream was mad, it was no less pleasant.
He was a commoner; he had nothing in the world but his brain and his arm. Fitzgerald, now, possessed a famous title and an ancient name. These kings and princes hereabout could boast of but little more than he; and there were millions to back him. He could dream of princesses and still be sane. Maurice did not envy the Englishman's riches, but he coveted his right of way.
How often had he indulged in vain but pleasant dreams! Even in the old days he was always succoring some proud beauty in distress. Sometimes it was at sea, sometimes in railroad wrecks, sometimes in the heart of flames; but he was ever there, like a guardian angel. It was never the same heroine, but that did not matter; she was always beautiful and rich, high placed and lovable, and he never failed to brush aside all obstacles that beset the path to the church door. He had dreamed of paladins, and here at last was his long-sought opportunity—but he could do nothing! He laughed. How many such romances lay beneath the banter and jest of those bald bachelor diplomat friends of his? Had fate reserved him for one of these?
It was noon when he entered the city of Bleiberg. He went directly to his hotel, where a bath and a change of clothes took the stiffness from his limbs. He was in no great hurry to go to the Grand Hotel; there was plenty of time. Happily there was no mail for him; he was not needed in Vienna.
At two o'clock he set out for the lower town. On the way he picked up odd ends of news. The king was rapidly sinking; he had suffered another stroke, and was now without voice. There was unusual activity in the barracks. The students of the university were committing mild depredations, such as building bonfires, holding flambeau processions, and breaking windows which contained the photographs of Prince Frederick of Carnavia, who, strangely enough, was still wrapt in obscurity. When Maurice entered the Grand Hotel he looked casually among the porters, but the round-faced one was missing. He approached the desk. The proprietor did not recognize him.
“No, my friend,” said Maurice, affably, as a visitors' book was pushed forward, “I am not going to sign. Instead, I wish to ask a favor. A week ago a party of the king's troopers met upstairs.”
The proprietor showed signs of returning memory, together with a strange agitation.
“There was a slight disturbance,” went on Maurice, still using the affable tone. “Herr—ah—Hamilton, I believe—”
The proprietor grew limp and yellow. “I—I do not know where he is.”
“I do,” replied Maurice. “Don't you recognize me? Have I changed so since I came here to doctor a sprained ankle?”
“You?—Before God, Herr, I was helpless; I had nothing to do with it!” terrified at the peculiar smile of the victim.
“The key to this gentleman's room,” was the demand.
“I—”
“The key, and be quick about it.”
The key came forth. “You will say nothing, Herr; it would ruin my business. It was a police affair.”
“Has any one been in this room since?”
“No, Herr; the key has been in my pocket.”
“Where is the porter who brought me here?”
“He was not a porter; he was with the police.”
Maurice passed up the stairs. He found the room in disorder, but a disorder rather familiar to his eyes. He had been the cause of most of it. Here was where he broke the baron's arm and thumped three others on the head. It had been a good fight. Here was a hole in the wall where one of the empty revolvers had gone—missing the Colonel's head by an inch.
There was a smudge on the carpet made by the falling candles. He saw Fitzgerald's pipe and picked it up. No; the chamber maid had not yet been there. He went over to the bed, stared at it and shrugged. He raised the mattress. There was the gun case. He drew it forth and took out the gun, not, however, without a twist of his nerves.
Four millions of crowns, a woman's love, the fall of one dynasty and the rise of another, all wadded in those innocent looking gun barrels! He hesitated for a space, then unlocked the breech and held the tubes toward the window. There was nothing in the barrels, nothing but the golden sunlight, which glinted along the polished steel.
On making this discovery Maurice was inclined to declaim in that vigorous vocabulary which is taboo. He had been tricked. He was no longer needed at the Red Chateau. Four millions in a gun barrel; hoax was written all over the face of it, and yet he had been as unsuspicious as a Highland gillie. Madame had tricked him; the countess had tricked him, the Colonel and Fitzgerald.
That Madame had tricked him created no surprise; what irritated him most was the conviction that Fitzgerald was laughing in his sleeve, and that he had misjudged the Englishman's capacity for dissimulation. Very well. He threw the gun on the bed; he took Fitzgerald's pipe from his pocket and cast it after the gun, and with a gesture which placed all the contents of the room under the ban of his anathema, he strode out into the corridor, thence to the office.
Here the message to Madame from Beauvais flashed back. The Colonel of the royal cuirassiers had lied; he had found the certificates. But still there was a cloud of mystery; to what use could Beauvais put them? He threw the key to the landlord.
“You lied to me when you said that no one had entered that room,” he said.
“O, Herr, I told you that no one but the police had been in the room since your departure. They made a search the next morning. Herr Hamilton was suspected of being a spy of the duchy's. I could not interfere with the police.”
Maurice saw that there was nothing to be got from the landlord, who was as much in the dark as he. He passed into the street and walked without any particular end in view. O, he would return to the Red Chateau, if only to deliver himself of the picturesque and opinionated address on Madame. Once he saw his reflection in a window glass, and he stopped and muttered at it.
“Eh, bien, as Madame herself says, we develop with crises, and certainly there is one not far distant. I never could write what I wish to say to Madame; I'll go back to-morrow morning.”
Situated between the university and the Grand Hotel on the left hand side of the Konigstrasse, east, stood an historical relic of the days when Austria, together with the small independent states, strove to shake off the Napoleonic yoke. In those days students formed secret societies; societies full of strange ritual, which pushed devotion to fanaticism, which stopped at nothing, not even assassination. To exterminate the French, to regain their ancestral privileges, to rescue their country from its prostrate humiliation, many sacrificed their lives and their fortunes.
Napoleon found no means of reaching these patriots, for they could not be purchased. This convinced Napoleon of their earnestness, for he could buy kings and princes. The students were invisible, implacable, and many a brilliant officer of the imperial guard disappeared, never to return.
This historic relic of the Konigstrasse had been the headquarters of one of the branches of these numerous societies; and the students still held to those ancient traditions. But men and epochs pass swiftly; only the inanimate remain. This temple of patriotism is simply an inn to-day, owned by one Stuler, and is designated by those who patronize it as “Old Stuler's.” It is the gathering place of the students. It consists of a hall and a garden, the one facing the street, the other walled in at the rear.
The hall is made of common stone, bald and unadorned save by four dingy windows and a tarnished sign, “Garten,” which hangs obliquely over the entrance. At the curb stands a post with three lamps pendant; but these are never lit because Old Stuler can keep neither wicks nor glass beyond the reach of canes.
Old Stuler was well versed in the peculiarities of students. In America they paint statues; in Austria they create darkness. On warm, clear nights the students rioted in the garden; when it rained, chairs and tables were carried into the hall, which contained a small stage and a square gallery. Never a night passed without its animated scene.
Here it was that the evils of monarchical systems were discussed, the army service, the lack of proper amusement, the restrictions at the stage entrance to the opera; here it was that they concocted their exploits, fought their duels, and planned means of outwitting Old Stuler's slate.
Stuler was a good general; he could keep the students in order, watch his assistants draw beer, the Rhine wine, and the scum (dregs of the cask, muddy and strong), and eye the accumulating accounts on the slate. This slate was wiped out once the month; that is to say, when remittances came from home. The night following remittances was a glorious one both to Stuler and the students. There were new scars, new subjects for debate, and Stuler got rid of some of his prime tokayer. The politics of the students was socialism, which is to say they were always dissatisfied. Tourists seldom repeated their visits to Stuler's. There was too much spilling of beer in laps, dumping of pipe ash into uncovered steins, and knocking off of stiff hats.
It was in front of Old Stuler's that Maurice came to a pause. He had heard of the place and the praise of its Hofbrau and Munich beers. He entered. He found the interior dark and gloomy, though outside the sun shone brilliantly. He ordered a stein of Hofbrau, and carried it into the main hall, which was just off the bar-room. It was much lighter here, though the hall had the tawdry appearance of a theater in the day-time; and the motes swam thickly in the beams of sunshine which entered through the half-closed shutters. It was only at night that Stuler's was presentable.
Scarcely a dozen men sat at the tables. In one corner Maurice saw what appeared to be a man asleep on his arms, which were extended the width of the table. It was the cosiest corner in the hall, and Maurice decided to establish himself at the other side of the table, despite the present incumbent. Noiselessly he crossed the floor and sat down. The light was at his back, leaving his face in the shadow, but shone squarely on the sleeper's head.
“I do not envy his headache when he wakes up,” thought Maurice. He had detected the vinous odor of the sleeper's breath. “These headaches, while they last, are bad things. I know; I've had 'em. I wonder,” lifting the stein and draining it, “who the duffer was who said that getting drunk was fun? His name has slipped my memory; no matter.” He set down the stein and banged the lid.
The sleeper stirred. “Rich,” he murmured; “rich, rich! I'm rich! A hundred thousand crowns!”
“My friend, I'm not in the position to dispute with you on that subject,” said Maurice, smiling. He rapped the stein again.
The sleeper raised his head and stared stupidly,
“Rich, aye, rich!” He was still in half a dream. “Rich, I say!”
“Hang it, I'm not arguing on that,” Maurice laughed.
The other swung upright at this, his round, oily face sodden, his black eyes blinking. He threw off the stupor when he saw that it was a man and not the shadow of one.
“Who the devil are you?” he asked, thickly.
Maurice seldom forgot a face. He recognized this one. “Oho!” he said, “so it's you, eh? I did not expect to meet you. Happily I had you in mind. You are not employed at present as a porter at the Grand Hotel? So it is you, my messenger!”
“Who are you and what are you talking about? I don't know you.”
“Wait a moment and I'll refresh your memory.” Maurice theatrically thrust a cigar between his teeth and struck a match. As the flame illumined his features the questioner started. “So you do not recognize me, eh? You haven't the slightest remembrance of Herr Hamilton and his sprained ankle, eh? Sit down or I'll break your head with this stein, you police spy!” dropping the bantering tone.
The other sat down, but he whistled sharply; and Maurice saw the dozen or so rise from the other tables and come hurriedly in his direction. He pushed back his chair and rose, his teeth firmly embedded in the cigar, and waited.
“What's the trouble, Kopf?” demanded the newcomers.
“This fellow accuses me of being a spy and threatens to break my head.”
“O! break your head, is it? Let us see. Come, brothers; out with this fellow.”
Maurice saw that they were about to charge him, and his hand went to his hip pocket and rested on the butt of the revolver which the Colonel had given him. “Gentlemen,” he said, quietly, “I have no discussion with you. I have a pistol in my pocket, and I'm rather handy with it. I desire to talk to this man, and talk to him I will. Return to your tables; the affair doesn't concern you.”
The intended assault did not materialize. They scowled, but retired a few paces. They saw the movement toward the hip pocket, and they noted the foreign twist of the tongue. Moreover, they did not like the angle of the speaker's jaws. They shuffled, looked questioningly at one another, and, as if all of a single mind, went slowly back to their chairs. Kopf grew pale. Indeed, his pallor was out of all proportion with the affair, which Maurice took to be no more than a comedy.
“Brothers,” he said, huskily, “he will not dare.”
“Don't you doubt it for a moment,” interrupted Maurice, taking out the revolver and fondling it. “Any interference will mean one or more cases for the hospital. Come, I'm not the police,” to Kopf. “I am not going to hurt you. I wish only to ask you a few questions, which is my right after what has passed between us. We'll go to my hotel, where we shan't be disturbed.”
Together they left the hall. As they passed through the bar-room Stuler looked questions, but refrained from asking them. Maurice put away the revolver. As they went out into the street he drew Kopf's arm within his own.
“What do you want?” asked Johann, savagely.
“First. What is your place in this affair?”
“What affair?”
“The abduction.”
“I had nothing to do with it, Herr, on my honor. I was only a porter, and I supposed my errand was in good faith.”
“How about the gentle push you gave me when the door opened? My friend, I'm no infant. Lies will do you no good. I know everything, and wish only to verify. You are a police spy, in the employ of the duchess.” Maurice felt the arm draw, and bore down on it.
“If I was, do you suppose I'd fool my time on this side of the Thalians?” Johann shrugged.
“I'm not sure about that,” said Maurice, puffing into Johann's face. “When cabinet ministers play spy, small fry like you will not cavil at the occupation. And you are not in their pay?” Johann glared. “I want to know,” Maurice went on, “what you know; what you know of Colonel Beauvais, his plans, his messengers to the duchy, what is taking place underneath.”
Johann's face cleared and a cunning light brightened his eyes. “If that is all you are after, I'll tell you. I'm a spy no longer; they have no more use for me, despite their promises. I'll play them off for quits.”
“If that's all,” repeated Maurice, “what did you think I wanted to ask you?”
Johann bit his lip. “I'm wanted badly by the chancellor, curse you, if you must know. I thought he might be behind you.”
“Don't worry about that,” said Maurice, to whom this declaration seemed plausible. “We'll talk as we go along.”
And Johann loosened his tongue and poured into Maurice's ear a tale which, being half a truth, had all the semblance of straightforwardness. What he played for was time; to gain time and to lull his captor's suspicions. Maurice was not familiar with the lower town; Johann was. A few yards ahead there was an alley he knew, and once in it he could laugh at all pursuit. It might be added that if Maurice knew but little of the lower town, he knew still less about Johann.
Suddenly, in the midst of his narrative, Johann put his leg stiffly between his enemy's and gave a mighty jerk with his arm, with the result that Maurice, wholly unprepared, went sprawling to the pavement. He was on his feet in an instant, but Johann was free and flying up the alley. Maurice gave chase, but uselessly. Johann had disappeared. The alley was a cul de sac, but was lined with doors; and these Maurice hammered to ease his conscience. No one answered. Deeply disgusted with his lack of caution, Maurice regained the street, where he brushed the dust from his knees.
“I'll take it out of his hide the next time we meet. He wasn't worth the trouble, anyway.”
A sybil might have whispered in his ear that a very large fish had escaped his net, but Maurice continued, conscious of nothing save chagrin and a bruised knee. He resumed the piecing together of events, or rather he attempted to; very few pieces could be brought together. If Beauvais had the certificates, what was his object in lying to Madame? What benefit would accrue to him? After all, it was a labyrinth of paths which always brought him up to the beginning. He drooped his shoulders dejectedly. There was nothing left for him to do but return to the Red Chateau and inform them of the fruitlessness of his errand. He would start on the morrow. Tonight he wanted once more to hear the band, to wander about the park, to row around the rear of the archbishop's garden.
“A fine thing to be born in purple—sometimes,” he mused. “I never knew till now the inconveniences of the common mold.”
He tramped on, building chateaux en Espagne. That they tumbled down did not matter; he could rebuild in the space of a second, and each castle an improvement on its predecessor.
His attention was suddenly drawn away from this idle but pleasant pursuit. In a side street he saw twenty or thirty students surging back and forth, laughing and shouting and jostling. In the center of this swaying mass canes rose and fell. It was a fight, and as he loved a fight, Maurice pressed his hat firmly on his head and veered into the side street. He looked around guiltily, and was thankful that no feminine eyes were near to offer him their reproaches. He jostled among the outer circle, but could see nothing. He stooped. Something white flashed this way and that, accompanied by the sound of low growls. A dog fight was his first impression, and he was on the point of leaving, for, while he secretly enjoyed the sight of two physically perfect men waging battle, he had not the heart to see two brutes pitted against each other, goaded on by brutes of a lower caste. But even as he turned the crowd opened and closed, and the brief picture was enough for him.
Her dog! And the students were beating it because they knew it to be defenseless. Her dog! toothless and old, who could not hold when his jaws closed on an arm or leg, but who, with that indomitable courage of his race, fought on and on, hopelessly and stubbornly.
He was covered with blood, one of his legs was hurt, but still the spirit burned. It was cowardly. Maurice's jaws assumed a particularly ferocious angle. Her dog! Rage choked him. With an oath he flung this student aside and that, fought his way to the center. A burly student, armed with a stout cane, was the principal aggressor.
Maurice doubled his fist and swung a blow which had one hundred and sixty pounds behind it, and it landed squarely on the cheek of the student, who dropped face downward and lay still. This onslaught was so sudden and unexpected that the students were confounded. But Maurice, whose plans crystallized in moments like these, picked up the cane and laid it about him.
The students swore and yelled and stumbled over one another in their wild efforts to dodge the vindictive cane. Maurice cleared a wide circle. The dog, half blinded by his blood and not fully comprehending this new phase in the tide of events, lunged at Maurice, who nimbly eluded him. Finally the opportunity came. He flung the cane into the yelling pack, with his left arm caught the dog about the middle, and leaped back into the nearest doorway. The muscles of his left arm were sorely tried; the dog considered his part in the fray by no means ended, and he tugged and yelped huskily. With his right hand Maurice sought his revolver, cocked and leveled it. There came a respite. The students had not fully recovered from their surprise, and the yells sank into murmurs.
“You curs!” said Maurice, panting. “Shame on you! and an old dog that can't defend himself! You knew he had no teeth.”
“God save your Excellency!” laughed a student in the rear, who had not tasted the cane; “you may be sure we knew he had no teeth or we wouldn't have risked our precious calves. Don't let him scare you with the popgun, comrades. At him, my brave ones; he will be more sport than the dog! Down with the Osians, dogs, followers and all!”
“Come on, then,” said Maurice, whose fighting blood was at heat. “Come on, if you think it isn't over. There are six bullets in this popgun, and I don't give a particular damn where they go. Come on!”
Whether or not this challenge would have been accepted remains unwritten. There now came on the air the welcome sound of galloping hoofs, and presently two cuirassiers wheeled into the street. What Maurice had left undone with the cane the cuirassiers completed with the flat of their sabers. They had had a brush with the students the night before, and they went at them as if determined to take both interest and principal. The students dispersed like leaves in the wind—all save one. He rose to his feet, his hands covering his jaw and a dazed expression in his eyes. He saw Maurice with the revolver, the cuirassiers with their sabers, and the remnant of his army flying to cover, and he decided to follow their example. The scene had changed somewhat since he last saw it. He slunk off at a zigzag trot.
One of the cuirassiers dismounted, his face red from his exertions.
“Eh?” closely scanning Maurice's white face. “Well, well! is it you, Monsieur Carewe?”
“Lieutenant von Mitter?” cried Maurice, dropping the dog, who by now had grasped the meaning of it all. “You came just in time!”
They shook hands.
“I'll lay odds that you put up a good fight,” the Lieutenant said, pleasantly. “Curse these students! If I had my way I'd coop them all up in their pest-hole of a university and blow them into eternity.”
“And how did the dog come in this part of the town?” asked Maurice, picking up his hat.
“He was with her Royal Highness. This is charity afternoon. She drives about giving alms to the poor, and when she enters a house the dog stands at the entrance to await her return. She came out of another door and forgot the dog. Max there remembered him only when we were several blocks away. A dozen or so of those rascally students stood opposite us when we stopped here. It flashed on me in a minute why the dog did not follow us. And we came back at a cut, leaving her Highness with no one but the groom. Max, take the dog to her Highness, and tell her that it is Monsieur Carewe who is to be thanked.”
Maurice blushed. “Say nothing of my part in the fracas. It was nothing at all.”
“Don't be modest, my friend,” said the cuirassier, laughing, while his comrade dismounted, took the dog under his arm, and made off. “This is one chance in a lifetime. Her Royal Highness will insist on thanking you personally. O, I know Mademoiselle's caprices. And there's your hat, crushed all out of shape. Truly, you are unfortunate with your headgear.”
“It's felt,” said Maurice, slapping it against his leg. “No harm done to the hat. Well, good day to you, Lieutenant, and thanks. I must be off.”
“Nay, nay!” cried the Lieutenant. “Wait a moment. `There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood—' How does that line go? I was educated in England and speak English as I do my mother tongue—”
“Won't you let me go?” asked Maurice. “Look at my clothes.”
“You ought to be thankful that they are dry this time. Come; you'll have a good story to carry back to Vienna. Princesses do not eat people.”
“No,” said Maurice.
“Ye gods, listen to that! One would think by the tone of your voice that you wished they did!”
There was no resisting this good humor; and Maurice wanted only an excuse to wait. He sat down on the steps, sucked the knuckles of his hand, and contemplated the grin on the cuirassier's face.
“I like you,” said the Lieutenant; “I like your sangfroid. The palace is a devil of a dull place, and a new face is a positive relief. I suppose you know that affairs here are bad; no honesty anywhere. Everybody has his hands tied. The students know this, and do as they please. Think of two hundred gendarmes in the city, and an affair like this takes place without one of them turning up!
“I tell you frankly that it is all I can do to withhold the edge of my saber when I meet those students. Last night they held a noisy flambeau procession around the Hohenstaufenplatz, knowing full well that the king had had another stroke and quiet was necessary. They would have waked the dead. I have an idea that I forgot to use the flat of my sword; at least, the hospital report confirms my suspicions. Ah, here comes Max.”
“Her Royal Highness desires to thank Monsieur Carewe, and commands that he be brought to her carriage.”
Lieutenant von Mitter smiled, and Maurice stood up and brushed himself. The troopers sprang into the saddle and started on a walk, with Maurice bringing up behind on foot. The thought of meeting the princess, together with his recent exertions, created havoc with his nerves. When he arrived at the royal carriage, his usual coolness forsook him. He fumbled with his hat, tongue-tied. He stood in the Presence.
“Monsieur,” said the Voice, “I thank you with all my heart for your gallant service. Poor, poor dog!”
“It was nothing, your Highness; any man would have done the same thing.” The red in the wheel-spokes bothered his eyes.
“No, no! you must not belittle it.”
“If it had not been for Lieutenant von Mitter—”
“Whither were you going, Monsieur?” interrupted the Voice.
“Nowhere; that is, I was going toward my hotel.”
“The Continental?”
“Yes, your Highness.”
“Step into the carriage, Monsieur;” the Voice had the ring of command. “I will put you down there. It is the least that I can do to show my gratitude.”
“I—I to ride with your Highness?” he stammered. “O, no! I—that is—it would scarcely be—”
“You are not afraid of me, Monsieur?” with a smile which, though it had a bit of the rogue in it, was rather sad. She moved to the other side of the seat and put the dog on the rug at her feet. “Perhaps you are proud? Well, Monsieur, I too am proud; so proud that I promise never to forgive you if you refuse to gratify my wish.”
“I was not thinking of myself, your Highness, or rather I was. I am not presentable. Look at me; my hat is out of shape, my clothes dusty, and I dare say that my face needs washing.”
The Presence replied to this remarkable defense with laughter, laughter in which Maurice detected an undercurrent of bitterness.
“Monsieur Carewe, you are not acquainted with affairs in Bleiberg, or you would know that I am a nobody. When I pass through the streets I attract little attention, I receive no homage. Enter: I command it.”
“If your Highness commands—”
“I do command it,” imperiously. “And you would have pleased me more fully if you had accepted the invitation and not obeyed the command.”
“I withdraw all objections,” he said hastily, “and accept the invitation.”
“That is better,” the Voice said.
Maurice, still uncovered, sat down on the front seat.
“Not there, Monsieur; beside me. Etiquette does not permit you to ride in front of me.”
As he took the vacant place beside her he felt a fire in his cheeks. The Voice and Presence were disquieting. As the groom touched the horses, Maurice was sensible of her sleeve against his, and he drew away. The Presence appeared unmindful.
“And you recognize me?” she asked.
“Yes, your Highness.” He tried to remember what he had said to her that day in the archbishop's garden. Two or three things came back and the color remounted his cheeks.
“Have you forgotten what you said to me?”
“I dare say I was impertinent,” vaguely.
“Ah, you have forgotten, then!”
In all his life he never felt so ill at ease. To what did she refer? That he would be proud to be her friend? That if the princess was as beautiful as the maid he could pass judgment?
“Yes, you have forgotten. Do you not remember that you offered to be my friend?” She read him through and through, his embarrassment, the tell-tale color in his cheeks. She laughed, and there was nothing but youth in the laughter. “Certainly you are afraid of me.”
“I confess I am,” he said. “I can not remember all I said to you.”
Suddenly she, too, remembered something, and it caused the red of the rose to ripple from her throat to her eyes. “Poor dog! Not that they hated him, but because I love him!” Tears started to her eyes. “See, Monsieur Carewe; princesses are human, they weep and they love. Poor dog! My playmate and my friend. But for you they might have killed him. Tell me how it happened.” She knew, but she wanted to hear the story from his own lips.
His narrative was rather disjointed, and he slipped in von Mitter as many times as possible, thinking to do that individual a good turn. Perhaps she noticed it, for at intervals she smiled. During the telling he took out his handkerchief, wiped the dog's head with it, and wound it tightly about the injured leg. The dog knew; he wagged his tail.
How handsome and brave, she thought, as she observed the face in profile. Not a day had passed during the fortnight gone that she had not conjured up some feature of that intelligent countenance; sometimes it had been the eyes, sometimes the chin and mouth, sometimes the shapely head. It was wrong; but this little sin was so sweet. She had never expected to see him again. He had come and gone, and she had thought that the beginning and the end. Ah, if only she were not a princess! If only some hand would sweep aside those insurmountable barriers called birth and policy! To be free, to be the mistress of one's heart, one's dreams, one's desires!
“And you did it all alone,” she said, softly; “all alone.”
“O, I had the advantage; I was not expected. It was all over before they knew what had happened.”
“And you had the courage to take a poor dog's part? Did you know whose dog it was?”
“Yes, your Highness, I recognized him.”
A secret gladness stole into her heart, and to cover the flame which again rose to her cheeks, she bent and smoothed the dog's head. This gave Maurice an opportunity to look at her. What a beautiful being she was! He was actually sitting beside her, breathing the same air, listening to her voice. She exhaled a delicate perfume such as incorporates itself in persons of high degree and becomes a natural emanation, an incense vague and indescribable. He felt that he was gazing on the culmination of youth, beauty, and elegance... Yes, Fitzgerald was right. To beggar one's self for love; honor and life, and all to the winds if only love remained.
Presently she straightened, and he centered his gaze on the back of the groom.
“Monsieur, place your hat upon your head,” smiling. “We have entered the Strasse, and I should not like to embarrass you with the attention of the citizens.”
He put on his hat. The impulse came to tell her all that he knew in regard to the kingdom's affairs; but his voice refused its offices. Besides, it was too late; the carriage was rolling into the Platz, and in a moment more it drew up before the terrace of the Continental Hotel. Maurice stepped out and bared his head.
“This evening, Monsieur, at nine, I shall expect to see you at the archbishop's reception to the corps diplomatique.” A hand was extended toward him. He did not know what to do about it. “I am offering you my hand to kiss, Monsieur Carewe; it is a privilege which I do not extend to all.”
As he touched it to his lips, he was sure that a thousand pairs of eyes were centered on him. The truth is, there were less than one hundred. It was the first time in many months that the Crown Princess had stopped before the Continental Hotel. To the guests it was an event; and some even went as far as to whisper that the handsome young man was Prince Frederick, incognito.
“God save your Royal Highness,” said Maurice, at loss for other words. He released her hand and stepped back.
“Until this evening, then, Monsieur;” and the royal barouche rolled away.
“Who loves me, loves my dog,” said Maurice, as he sped to his room.