There comes a moment to every man, who faces an imminent danger, when the mental vision expands and he sees beyond. By this transient gift of prescience he knows what the end will be, whether he is to live or die. As Maurice looked into the merciless eyes of his enemy, a dim knowledge came to him that this was to be an event and not a catastrophe, a fragment of a picture yet to be fully drawn. His confidence and courage returned. He thanked God, however, that the light above equalized their positions, and that the shadows were behind them.
The swords came together with a click light but ominous. Immediately Beauvais stepped back, suddenly threw forward his body, and delivered three rapid thrusts. Maurice met them firmly, giving none.
“Ah!” cried Beauvais; “that is good. You know a little. There will be sport, besides.”
Maurice shut his lips the tighter, and worked purely on the defensive. His fencing master had taught him two things, silence and watchfulness. While Beauvais made use of his forearm, Maurice as yet depended solely on his wrist. Once they came together, guard to guard, neither daring to break away until by mutual agreement, spoken only by the eyes, both leaped backward out of reach. There was no sound save the quick light stamp of feet and the angry murmur of steel scraping against steel. Sometimes they moved circlewise, with free blades, waiting and watching. Up to now Beauvais's play had been by the book, so to speak, and he began to see that his opponent was well read.
“Which side is the pretty rose?” seeking to distract Maurice. “Tell me, and I will pin it to you.”
Not a muscle moved in Maurice's face.
“It is too, bad,” went on Beauvais, “that her Highness finds a lover only to lose him. You fool! I read your eyes when you picked up that rose. Princesses are not for such as you. I will find her a lover, it will be neither you nor Prince Frederick—ah! you caught that nicely. But you depend too much on the wrist. Presently it will tire; and then—pouf!”
Now and then a a flame, darting from the grate, sparkled on the polished steel, and from the steel it shot into the watchful eyes. A quarter of an hour passed; still Maurice remained on the defensive. At first Beauvais misunderstood the reason, and thought Maurice did not dare run the risk of passing from defensive to offensive. But by and by the froth of impatience crept into his veins. He could not penetrate above or below that defense. The man before him was of marble, with a wrist of iron; he neither smiled nor spoke, there was no sign of life at all, except in the agile legs, the wrist, and eyes. The Colonel decided to change his tactics.
“When I have killed you,” he said, “I shall search your pockets, for I know that you lie when you say that you have not those certificates. Madame was a fool to send you. No man lives who may be trusted. And what is your game? Save the Osians? Small good it will do you. Her Highness will wed Prince Frederick—mayhap—and all you will get is cold thanks. And in such an event, have you reckoned on Madame the duchess? War! And who will win? Madame; for she has not only her own army, but mine. Come, come! Speak, for when you leave this room your voice will be silent. Make use of the gift, since it is about to leave you.”
The reply was a sudden straightening of the arm. The blade slipped in between the Colonel's forearm and body, and was out again before the soldier fully comprehended what had happened. Maurice permitted a cold smile to soften the rigidity of his face. Beauvais saw the smile, and read it. The thrust had been rendered harmless intentionally. An inch nearer, and he had been a dead man. To accomplish such a delicate piece of sword play required nothing short of mastery. Beauvais experienced a disagreeable chill, which was not unmixed with chagrin. The boy had held his life in his hand, and had spared it. He set his teeth, and let loose with a fury before which nothing could stand; and Maurice was forced back step by step until he was almost up with the wall.
“You damned fool!” the Colonel snarled, “you'll never get that chance again.”
For the next few minutes it took all the splendid defense Maurice possessed to keep the spark in his body. The Colonel's sword was no longer a sword, it was a flame; which circled, darted, hissed and writhed. Twice Maurice felt the bite of it, once in the arm and again in the thigh. These were not deep, but they told him that the end was but a short way off. He had no match for this brilliant assault. Something must be done, and that at once. He did not desire the Colonel's death, and the possibility of accomplishing this was now extremely doubtful. But he wanted to live. Life was just beginning—the rough road had been left behind. He was choosing between his life and the Colonel's. Beauvais, after the fashion of the old masters, was playing for the throat. This upward thrusting, when continuous, is difficult to meet, and Maurice saw that sooner or later the blade would reach home. If not sudden death, it meant speechlessness, and death as a finality. Then the voice of his guardian angel spoke.
“I do not wish your life,” he said, breaking the silence, “but at the same time I wish to live—ah!” Maurice leaped back just in time. As it was, the point of his enemy's blade scratched his chin.
They broke and circled. The Colonel feinted. Maurice, with his elbow against his side and his forearm extended, waited. Again the Colonel lunged for the throat. This time, instead of meeting it in tierce, Maurice threw his whole force forward in such a manner as to bring the steel guard of his rapier full on the Colonel's point. There was a ringing sound of snapping steel, and the Colonel stood with nothing but a stump in his grasp.
“There you are,” said Maurice, a heat-flash passing over him. Had he swerved a hair's breadth from the line, time would have tacked finis to the tale. “Now, I am perfectly willing to talk,” putting his point to the Colonel's breast. “It would inconvenience me to kill you, but do not count too much on that.”
“Damn you!” cried the Colonel, giving way, his face yellow with rage, chagrin and fear. “Kill me, for I swear to God that one or the other of us must die! Damn you and your meddling nose!”
“Damn away, chevalier d'industrie; damn away. But live, live, live! That will be the keenest punishment. Live! O, my brave killer of boys, you thought to play with me as a cat with a mouse, eh? Eh, Captain Urquijo-Beauvais-and-What-is-your-name?” He pressed the point here, there, everywhere. “You were too confident. Pardon me if I appear to brag, but I have taken lessons of the best fencing masters in Europe, and three times, while you devoted your talents to monologues, I could have pinned you like one of those butterflies on the wall there. Have you ever heard of the sword of Damocles? Well, well; it hangs over many a head to-day. I will be yours. I give you forty-eight hours to arrange your personal affairs. If after that time you are still in this part of the country, I shall inform the proper authorities in Vienna. The republic has representation there. Of a noble Austrian house, on the eve of recall? I think not.”
Beauvais made a desperate attempt to clutch the blade in his hands.
“No, no!” laughed Maurice, making rapid prods which caused Beauvais to wince. “Now, back; farther, farther. I do not like the idea of having my back to the door.”
Beauvais suddenly wheeled and dashed for the mantel. But as he endeavored to lay hand on the revolver Maurice brought down the blade on the Colonel's knuckles, leaving a livid welt. Maurice took possession of the weapon, while a grimace of agony shot over the Colonel's face. Seeing that the chambers were loaded, Maurice threw down the sword.
“Well, well!” he said, cocking the weapon. “And I saw it when I entered the room. It would have saved a good deal of trouble.” Beauvais grew white. “O,” Maurice continued, “I am not going to shoot you. I wish merely to call your valet.” He aimed at the grate and pressed the trigger, and the report, vibrating within the four walls, was deafening.
A moment passed, and the valet, with bulging eyes and blanched face, peered in. Seeing how matters stood, he made as though to retreat.
Maurice leveled the smoking revolver. “Come in, Francois; your master will have need of you.”
Francois complied, vertigo in his limbs. “My God!” he cried, wringing his hands.
“Your master tried to murder me,” said Maurice. Francois had heard voices like this before, and it conveyed to him that a fine quality of anger lay close to the surface. “Take down yonder window curtain cord.” Francois did so. “Now bind your master's hands with it.”
“Francois,” cried the Colonel, “if you so much as lay a finger on me, I'll kill you.”
“Francois, I will kill you if you don't,” said Maurice.
“My God!” wailed the valet at loss which to obey when to obey either meant death. His teeth chattered.
“You may have all the time you want, Francois, to wring your hands when I am gone. Come; to work. Colonel, submit. I'm in a hurry and have no time to spare. While I do not desire to kill you, self-preservation will force me to put a bullet into your hide, which will make you an inmate of the city hospital. Bind his hands behind his back, and no more nonsense.”
“Monsieur,” appealingly to Beauvais, “my God, I am forced. He will kill me!”
“So will I,” grimly; “by God, I will!” Beauvais had a plan. If he could keep Maurice long enough, help might arrive. And he had an excellent story to tell. Still Francois doddered. With his eye on the Colonel and the revolver sighted, Maurice picked up the sword. He gave Francois a vigorous prod. Francois needed no further inducement. He started forward with alacrity. In the wink of an eye he threw the cord around Beauvais's arms and pinned them to his sides. Beauvais swore, but the valet was strong in his fright. He struggled and wound and knotted and tied, murmuring his pitiful “Mon Dieu!” the while, till the Colonel was the central figure of a Gordian knot.
“That will do,” said Maurice. “Now, Francois, good and faithful servant, take your master over to the lounge, and sit down beside him until I get into my clothes. Yes; that's it.” He shoved his collar and tie into a pocket, slipped on his vest and coat, put on his hat and slung his topcoat over his arm. During these maneuvers the revolver remained conspicuously in sight. “Now, Francois, lead the way to the street door. By the time you return to your illustrious master, who is the prince or duke of something or other, pursuit will be out of the question. Now, as for you,” turning to Beauvais, “the forty-eight hours hold good. During that time I shall go armed. Forty-eight hours from now I shall inform the authorities at the nearest consulate. If they catch you, that's your affair. Off we go, Francois.”
“By God!—” began Beauvais, struggling to his feet.
“Come so far as this door,” warned Maurice, “and, bound or not, I'll knock you down. Hang you! Do you think my temper will improve in your immediate vicinity? Do you think for a moment that I do not lust for your blood as heartily as you lust for mine? Go to the devil your own way; you'll go fast enough!” He caught Francois by the shoulders and pushed him into the hall, followed, and closed the door. Francois had been graduated from the stables, therefore his courage never rose to sublime heights. All the way down the stairs he lamented; and each time he turned his head and saw the glitter of the revolver barrel he choked with terror.
“If you do not kill me, Monsieur, he will; he will, I know he will! My God, how did it happen? He will kill me!” and the voice sank into a muffled sob.
Despite the gravity of the situation, Maurice could not repress his laughter. “He will not harm you; he threatened you merely to delay me. Open the door.” He stepped out into the refreshing air. “By the way, tell your master not to go to the trouble of having me arrested, for the first thing in the morning I shall place a sealed packet in the hands of the British minister, to be opened if I do not call for it within twenty-four hours. And say to your master that I shall keep the rose.”
“Mon Dieu! A woman! I might have known!” ejaculated Francois, as the door banged in his face.
Maurice, on reaching the pavement, took to his legs, for he saw three men rapidly approaching. Perhaps they had heard the pistol shot. He concluded not to wait to learn. He continued his rush till he gained his room. It was two o'clock. He had been in the Colonel's room nearly three hours. It seemed only so many minutes. He hunted for his brandy, found it and swallowed several mouthfuls. Then he dropped into a chair from sheer exhaustion. Reaction laid hold of him. His hands shook, his legs trembled, and perspiration rolled down his cheek.
“By George!” This exclamation stood alone, but it was an Odyssey. He remained stupefied, staring at his shoes, over which his stockings had fallen. His shirt buttons were gone, and the bosom was guiltless of its former immaculateness. After a time he became conscious of a burning pain in the elbow of his right arm. He glanced down at his hand, to find it covered with drying blood. He jumped up and cast about his clothes. One leg of his trousers was soaked, and the dull ache in his thigh told the cause. He salved the wounds and bound them in strips of handkerchiefs, which he held in place by using some of the cast-off cravats.
“That was about as close to death as a man can get and pull out. I feel as if I had swallowed that cursed blade of his. I am an ass, sure enough. I've always a bad cold when there's a rat about; can't smell him. And the rascal remembered me! Will he stay in spite of my threat? I'll hang on here till to-morrow. If he stays—I won't. He has the devil's own of a sword. Hang it, my nerves are all gone to smash.”
Soon some gentler thought took hold, and he smiled tenderly. He brought forth the rose, turned it this way and that, studied it, stroked it, held it to his lips as a lover holds the hand of the woman he loves. Her rose; somehow his heart told him that she had laughed because Beauvais had stooped in vain.
“Ah, Maurice,” he said, “you are growing over fond. But why not? Who will know? To have loved is something.”
He crept into bed; but sleep refused him its offices, and he tossed about in troubled dreams. He fought all kinds of duels with all sorts of weapons. He was killed a half dozen times, but the archbishop always gave him something which rekindled the vital spark. A thousand Beauvaises raged at him. A thousand princesses were ever in the background, waiting to be saved. He swore to kill these Beauvaises, and after many fruitless endeavors, he succeeded in smothering them in their gray pelisses. Then he woke, as dreamers always wake when they pass some great dream-crisis, and found himself in a deadly struggle with a pillow and a bed-post. He laughed and sprang out of bed.
“It's no use, I can't sleep. I am an old woman.”
So he lit his pipe and sat dreaming with his eyes open, smoking and smoking, until the sickly pallor of dawn appeared in the sky, and he knew that day had come.
Marshal Kampf, wrapt in his military cloak, with the peak of his cap drawn over his eyes, sat on one of the rustic benches in the archbishop's gardens and reflected. The archbishop had announced an informal levee, the first since the king's illness. He had impressed the Marshal with the fact that his presence was both urgent and necessary. Disturbed as he was by the unusual command, the Marshal had arrived an hour too early. Since the prelate would not rise until nine, the Marshal told the valet that he would wait in the gardens.
An informal levee, he mused. What was the meaning of it? Had that master of craft and silence found a breach in the enemy's fortifications? He rubbed the chill from his nose, crossed and re-crossed his legs and teetered till the spurs on his boots set up a tuneful jingle.
So far as he himself was concerned, he was not worried. The prelate knew his views and knew that he would stand or fall with them. He had never looked for benefits, as did those around him. He had offered what he had without hope of reward, because he had considered it his duty. And, after all, what had the Osian done that he should be driven to this ignominious end? His motives never could be questioned; each act had been in some way for the country's good. Every king is a usurper to those who oppose him.
Would the kingdom be bettered in having a queen against whom the confederation itself was opposed? Would it not be adding a twofold burden to the one? The kingdom was at peace with those countries from which it had most to fear. Was it wise to antagonize them? Small independent states were independent only by courtesy. Again, why had Austria contrived to place an alien on the throne, in face of popular sentiment? Would Austria's interests have been less safe in the advent of rightful succession? Up to now, what had Austria gained by ignoring the true house? Outwardly nothing, but below the surface? Who could answer?
For eleven years he had tried to discover the secret purpose of Austria, but, like others, he had failed; and the Austrian minister was less decipherable than the “Chinese puzzle.” He was positive that none of the arch-conspirators knew; they were blinded by self-interest. And the archbishop? The Marshal rubbed his nose again, not, however, because it was cold. Did any one know what was going on behind the smiling mask which the reticent prelate showed to the world? The Marshal poked his chin above his collar, and the wrinkles fell away from his gray eyes.
The sky was clear and brilliant, and a tonic from the forests sweetened the rushing air. The lake was ruffled out of its usual calm, and rolled and galloped along the distant shores and flashed on the golden sands. Above the patches of red and brown and yellow the hills and mountains stood out in bold, decided lines.
Water fowl swept along the marshes. The doves in twos and threes fluttered down to the path, strutted about in their peculiarly awkward fashion, and doubtfully eyed the silent gray figure on the bench, as if to question his right to be there this time of the morning, their trysting hour. Presently the whole flock came down, and began cooing and waltzing at the Marshal's feet. He soon discovered the cause.
Her Royal Highness was coming through the opening in the hedgerow which separated the two confines. She carried a basket on her arm, and the bulldog followed at her heels, holding his injured leg in the air, and limping on the remaining three. At the sight of her the doves rose and circled above her head. She smiled and threw into the air handful after handful of cake and bread crumbs. In their eagerness the doves alighted on her shoulders, on the rim of the basket, and even on the broad back of the dog, who was too sober to give attention to this seeming indignity. He kept his eye on his mistress's skirts, moved when she moved, and stopped when she stopped. A gray-white cloud enveloped them.
The Marshal, with a curious sensation in his heart, observed this exquisite, living picture. He was childless; and though he was by nature undemonstrative, he was very fond of this youth. Her cheeks were scarlet, her rosy lips were parted in excitement, and her eyes glistened with pleasure. With all her twenty years, she was but ten in fancy; a woman, yet a child, unlettered in worldly wit, wise in her love of nature. Not until she had thrown away the last of the crumbs did she notice the Marshal. He rose and bowed.
“Good morning, your Highness. I am very much interested in your court. And do you hold it every morning?”
“Even when it rains,” she said, smiling. “I am so glad to see you; I wanted to talk to you last night, but I could not find the opportunity. Let me share the bench with you.”
And youth and age sat down together. The bulldog planted himself in the middle of the path and blinked at his sworn enemy. The Marshal had no love for him, and he was well aware of it; at present, an armistice.
The princess gazed at the rollicking waters, at her doves, thence into the inquiring gray eyes of the old soldier.
“Do you remember,” she said, “how I used to climb on your knees, ever so long ago, and listen to your fairy stories?”
“Eh! And is it possible that your Highness remembers?” wrinkles of delight gathering in his cheeks. “But why `ever so long ago'? It was but yesterday. And your Highness remembers!”
“I am like my father; I never forget!” She looked toward the waters again. “I can recall only one story. It was about a princess who lost all her friends through the offices of a wicked fairy. I remember it because it was the only story you told me that had a sad ending. It was one of Andersen's. Her father and mother died, and the moment she was left alone her enemies set to work and toppled over her throne. She was cast out into the world, having no friend but a dog; but the dog always found something to eat, and protected her from giants and robbers and wolves.
“Many a time I thought of her, and cried because she was so unhappy. Well, she traveled from place to place, footsore and weary, but in her own country no one dared aid her, for fear of displeasing the wicked fairy, who at this time was all powerful. So she entered a strange land, where some peasants took her in, clothed and fed her, and gave her a staff and a flock of geese to tend. And day after day she guarded the flock, telling her sorrows to the dog, how she missed the dear ones and the home of her childhood.
“One day the reigning prince of this strange land passed by while hunting, and he saw the princess tending her geese. He made inquiries, and when he found that the beautiful goose-girl was a princess, he offered to marry her. She consented to become his wife, because she was too delicate to drudge. So she and her dog went to live at the palace. Once she was married the dog behaved strangely, whining softly, and refusing to be consoled. The prince was very kind to them both.
“Alas! It seems that when she left her own country the good fairy had lost all track of her, to find her when it was too late. The dog was a prince under a wicked spell, and when the spell fell away the princess knew that she loved him, and not her husband. She pined away and died. How many times I have thought of her, poor, lonely, fairy-tale princess!”
The old soldier blinked at the doves, and there was a furrow between his eyes. Yes; how well he remembered telling her that story. But, as she repeated it, it was clothed with a strange significance. Somehow, he found himself voiceless; he knew not how to reply.
“Monsieur,” she said suddenly, “tell me, what has my poor father done that these people should hate him and desire his ruin?”
“He has been kind to them, my child,” his gaze still riveted on the doves; “that is all. He has given them beautiful parks, he has made them a beautiful city. A king who thinks of his people's welfare is never understood. And ignorant and ungrateful people always hate those to whom they are under obligations. It is the way of the world.”
“And—and you, Marshal?” timidly.
“And I?”
“Yes. They whisper that—that—O, Marshal, is it you who will forsake us in our need? I have heard many things of late which were not intended for my ears. My father and I, we are so alone. I have never known the comradeship of young people; I have never had that which youth longs for—a confidant of my own age. The young people I know serve me simply for their own ends, and not because they love me.
“I have never spoken thus before to-day, save to this dog. He has been my confidant; but he can not speak except with his kind old eyes, and he can not understand as I would have him. And they hate even him because they know that I love him. Poor dog!
“What my father has done has always been wrong in his own eyes, but he sinned for my sake, and God will forgive him. He gave up the home he loved for my sake. O, that I had known and understood! I was only six. We are so alone; we have no place to go, no friends save two, and they are helpless. And now I am to make a sacrifice for him to repay him for all he has done for me. I have promised my hand to one I do not love; even he forsakes me. But love is not the portion of princesses. Love to them is a fairy story. To secure my father's throne I have sacrificed my girlhood dreams. Ah! and they were so sweet and dear.”
She put a hand to her throat as if something had tightened there. “Marshal, I beg of you to tell me the truth, the truth! Is my father dying? Is he? He—they will not tell me the truth. And I. .. never to hear his voice again! The truth, for pity's sake!” She caught at his hands and strove to read his eyes. “For pity's sake!”
He drew his breath deeply. He dared not look into her eyes for fear she might see the tears in his; so he bent hastily and pressed her hands to his lips. But in his heart he knew that his promise to the dead was gone with the winds, and that he would shed the last drop of blood in his withered veins for the sake of this sad, lonely child.
“Your father, my child, will never stand up straight again,” he said. “As for the rest, that is in the hands of God. But I swear to you that this dried-up old heart beats only for you. I will stand or fall with you, in good times or bad.” And he rubbed his nose more fiercely than ever. “Had I a daughter—But there! I have none.”
“My heart is breaking,” she said, with a little sob. She sank back, her head drooped to the arm of the bench, and she made no effort to stem the flood of tears. “I have no mother, and now my father is to leave me. And I love him so, I love him so! He has sacrificed all his happiness to secure mine—in vain. I laugh and smile because he asks me to, and all the while my heart is breaking, breaking.”
At this juncture the doves rose hurriedly. The Marshal discovered the archbishop's valet making toward him.
“Monsieur the Marshal, Monseigneur breakfasts and requests you to join him.”
“Immediately;” and the Marshal rose. He placed his hand on the dark head. “Keep up your heart, my child,” he said, “and we shall see if I have grown too old for service.” He squared his shoulders and followed the valet, who viewed the scene with a valet's usual nonchalance. When the Marshal reached the steps to the side entrance, he looked back. The dog had taken his place, and the girl had buried her face in his neck. A moment later the old soldier was ushered into the archbishop's presence, but neither with fear nor uneasiness in his heart.
“Ah! Good morning, Marshal,” said the prelate. “Be seated. Did you not find it chilly in the gardens?”
“Not the least. It is a fine day. I have just left her Royal Highness.”
The prelate arched his eyebrows, and an interrogation shot out from under them.
“Yes,” answered the observant soldier. “My heart has ever been hers; this time it is my hand and brain.”
The prelate's egg spoon remained poised in mid-air; then it dropped with a clatter into the cup! But a moment gone he had held a sword in his hand; he was disarmed.
“I have promised to stand and fall with her.”
“Stand and fall? Why not 'or'?” with a long, steadfast gaze.
“Did I say 'and'? Well, then,” stolidly, “perhaps that is the word I meant to use. If I do the one I shall certainly do the other.”
The archbishop absently stirred his eggs.
“God is witness,” said the Marshal, “I have always been honest.”
“Yes.”
“And neutral.”
“Yes; honest and neutral.”
“But a man, a lonely man like myself, can not always master the impulses of the heart; and I have surrendered to mine.”
The listener turned to some documents which lay beside the cup, and idly fingered them. “I am glad; I am very glad. I have always secretly admired you; and to tell the truth, I have feared you most of all—because you are honest.”
The Marshal shifted his saber around and drew his knees together. “I return the compliment,” frankly. “I have never feared you; I have distrusted you.”
“And why distrusted?”
“Because Leopold of Osia would never have forsaken his birthright, nor looked toward a throne, had you not pointed the way and coveted the archbishopric.”
“I wished only to make him great;” but the prelate lowered his eyes.
“And share his greatness,” was the shrewd rejoinder. “I am an old man, and frankness in old age is pardonable. There are numbers of disinterested men in the world, but unfortunately they happen to be dead. O, I do not blame you; there is human nature in most of us. But the days of Richelieus and Mazarins are past. The Church is simply the church, and is no longer the power behind the throne. I have served the house of Auersperg for fifty years, that is to say, since I was sixteen; I had hoped to die in the service. Perhaps my own reason for distrusting you has not been disinterested.”
“Perhaps not.”
“And as I now stand I shall die neither in the service of the house of Auersperg nor of Osia. It is not the princess; it is the lonely girl.”
“I need not tell you,” said the prelate quietly, “that I am in Bleiberg only for that purpose. And since we are together, I will tell you this: Madame the duchess will never sit upon this throne. To-day I am practically regent, with full powers from his Majesty. I have summoned von Wallenstein and Mollendorf for a purpose which I shall make known to you.” He held up two documents, and gently waving them: “These contain the dismissal of both gentlemen, together with my reasons. There were three; one I shall now destroy because it has suddenly become void.” He tore it up, turned, and flung the pieces into the grate.
The Marshal glanced instinctively at his shoulder straps, and saw that they had come very near to oblivion.
“There is nothing more, Marshal,” went on the prelate. “What I had to say to you has slipped my mind. Under the change of circumstances, it might embarrass you to meet von Wallenstein and Mollendorf. You have spoken frankly, and in justice to you I will return in kind. Yes, in the old days I was ambitious; but God has punished me through those I love. I shall leave to you the selection of a new Colonel of the cuirassiers.”
“What! and Beauvais, too?” exclaimed the Marshal.
“Yes. My plans require it. I have formed a new cabinet, which will meet to-night at eight. I shall expect you to be present.”
The two old men rose. Suddenly, a kindly smile broke through the austereness of the prelate's countenance, and he thrust out his hand; the old soldier met it.
“Providence always watches over the innocent,” said the prelate, “else we would have been still at war. Good morning.”
The Marshal returned home, thoughtful and taciturn. What would be the end?
Ten minutes after the Marshal's departure, von Wallenstein and Mollendorf entered the prelate's breakfast room.
“Good morning, Messieurs,” said the churchman, the expression on his face losing its softness, and the glint of triumph stealing into his keen eyes. “I am acting on behalf of his Majesty this morning,” presenting a document to each. “Observe them carefully.” He turned and left the room. The archbishop had not only eaten a breakfast, he had devoured a cabinet.
Count von Wallenstein watched the retreating figure of the prelate till the door closed behind it; then he smiled at Mollendorf, who had not the courage to return it, and who stared at the parchment in his hand as if it were possessed of basilisk eyes.
“Monseigneur,” said the count, as he glanced through the contents of the document, “has forestalled me. Well, well; I do not begrudge him his last card. He has played it; let us go.”
“Perhaps,” faltered Mollendorf, “he has played his first card. What are you going to do?”
“Remain at home and wait. And I shall not have long to wait. The end is near.”
“Count, I tell you that the archbishop is not a man to play thus unless something strong were behind him. You do wrong not to fear him.”
Von Wallenstein recalled the warning of the Colonel of the cuirassiers. “Nevertheless, we are too strong to fear him.”
“Monseigneur is in correspondence with Austria,” said the minister of police, quietly.
“You said nothing of this before,” was the surprised reply.
“It was only this morning that I learned it.”
The count's gaze roamed about the room, and finally rested on the charred slips of paper in the grate. He shrugged.
“If he corresponds with Austria it is too late,” he said. “Come, let us go.” He snapped his fingers in the air, and Mollendorf followed him from the room.
* * * * * *
The princess still remained on the rustic bench; her head was bowed, but her tears were dried.
“O, Bull,” she whispered, “and you and I shall soon be all alone!”
A few doves fluttered about her; the hills flamed beneath the chill September sky, the waters sang and laughed, but she saw not nor heard.
Maurice, who had wisely slept the larger part of the day, and amused himself at solitary billiards until dinner, came out on the terrace to smoke his after-dinner cigar. He watched the sun as, like a ball of rusted brass, it slid down behind the hills, leaving the glowing embers of a smoldering day on the hilltops. The vermilion deepened into charred umber, and soon the west was a blackened grate; another day vanished in ashes. The filmy golden pallor of twilight now blurred the landscape; the wind increased with a gayer, madder, keener touch; the lake went billowing in shadows of gray and black, and one by one the lamps of the city sprang up, vivid as sparks from an anvil. Now and again the thin, clear music of the band drifted across from the park. The fountain glimmered in the Platz, the cafes began to glitter, carriages rolled hither and thither. The city had taken on its colorful night.
“Well, here's another day gone,” he mused, rubbing his elbow, which was yet stiff. “I am anxious to know what that sinner is doing. Has he pulled up stakes or has he stayed to get a whack at me? I hope he's gone; he's a bad Indian, and if anything, he'll want my scalp in his belt before he goes. Hang it! It seems that I have poked my head into every bear trap in the kingdom. I may not get out of the next one. How clever I was, to be sure! It all comes from loving the dramatic. I am a diplomat, but nobody would guess it at first sight. To talk to a man as I talked to him, and to threaten! He said I was young; I was, but I grow older every day. And the wise word now is, don't imitate the bull of the trestle,” as he recalled an American cartoon which at that day was having vogue in the American colony in Vienna.
“I like adventure, I know, but I'm going to give the Colonel a wide berth. If he sees me first, off the board I go. Where will he go—to the duchy? I trust not; we both can not settle in that territory; it's too small. And yet I am bound to go back; it is not my promise so much as it is my cursed curiosity. By George!” rubbing his elbow gently. “And to think, Maurice, that you might not have witnessed this sunset but for a bit of fencing trickery. What a turn that picture of Inez gave me! I knew him in a second—and like the ass I was, I told him so. And to meet him here, almost a left-handed king; no wonder I did not recognize him.
“I should like to come in on Fitzgerald to-night. His father must have had a crazy streak in him somewhere. Four millions to throw away; humph! And who the deuce has those certificates?” He lolled against the parapet. “If I had four millions, and if Prince Frederick had disappeared for good.... Why are things so jumbled up, at sixes and sevens? We are all human beings; why should some be placed higher than others? A prince is no better than I am, and may be not half so good.
“Sometimes I like to get up high somewhere and look down on every one else; every one else looks so small that it's comforting. The true philosopher has no desire; he sits down and views the world as if he were not a part of it. Perhaps it is best so. Yes, I would like four millions and a principality.... Heigho! how bracing the air is, and what a night for a ride! I've a mind to exercise Madame's horse. A long lone ride on the opposite side of the lake, on the road to Italy; come, let's try it. Better that than mope.”
He mounted to the veranda, and for the first time he noticed the suppressed excitement which lit the faces of those around him. Groups were gathered here and there, talking, gesticulating, and flourishing the evening papers. He moved toward the nearest group.
“The archbishop has dismissed the cabinet... crisis imminent.”
“The Austrian minister has recalled his invitations to the embassy ball.”
“The archbishop will not be able to form another cabinet.”
“Count von Wallenstein...”
“Mollendorf and Beauvais, too—”
“The king is dying... The archbishop has been given full powers.”
“The army will revolt unless Beauvais is recalled.”
“And the Marshal says here...”
Maurice waited to hear no more, but climbed through the window into the office.
“By George, something has happened since last night. I must have an evening paper.” He found one, and read an elaborate account of what had taken place during the day. Von Wallenstein had been relieved of the finance. Mollendorf of the police, Erzberg of foreign affairs, and Beauvais of his epaulettes. There remained only the archbishop, the chancellor and the Marshal. The editorial was virulent in its attack on the archbishop, blustered and threatened, and predicted that the fall of the dynasty was but a matter of a few hours. For it asserted that the prelate could not form another cabinet, and without a cabinet there could be no government. It was not possible for the archbishop to shoulder the burden alone; he must reinstate the ministry or fall.
“And this is the beginning of the end,” said Maurice, throwing aside the paper. “What will happen next? The old prelate is not a man to play to the gallery. Has he found out the double dealing of Beauvais? That takes a burden off my shoulders—unless he goes at once to the duchy. But why wasn't the cabinet dismissed ages ago? It is now too late. And where is Prince Frederick to the rescue? There is something going on, and what it is only the archbishop knows. That smile of his! How will it end? I'd like to see von Mitter, who seems to be a good gossip. And that poor, friendless, paralytic king! I say, but it makes the blood grow warm.”
He left the chair and paced the office confines. Only one thing went echoing through his brain, and that was he could do nothing. The sooner he settled down in the attitude of a spectator the better for him. Besides, he was an official in the employ of a foreign country, and it would be the height of indiscretion to meddle, even in a private capacity. It would be to jeopardize his diplomatic career, and that would be ridiculous.
A porter touched him on the shoulder.
“A letter for your Excellency.”
It was from the American minister in Vienna.
“My dear Carewe: I have a service to ask of you. The British minister is worried over the disappearance of a fellow-countryman, Lord Fitzgerald. He set out for Bleiberg, leaving instructions to look him up if nothing was heard of him within a week. Two weeks have gone. Knowing you to be in Bleiberg, I believed you might take the trouble to look into the affair. The British ambassador hints at strange things, as if he feared foul play. I shall have urgent need of you by the first of October; our charge d'affaires is to return home on account of ill-health, and your appointment to that office is a matter of a few days.”
Maurice whistled. “That is good news; not Haine's illness, but that I have an excuse to meddle here. I'll telegraph at once. And I'll take the ride besides.” He went to his room and buckled on his spurs, and thoughtfully slipped his revolver into a pocket. “I am not going to take any chances, even in the dark.” Once again in the office, he stepped up to the desk and ordered his horse to be brought around to the cafe entrance.
“Certainly,” said the clerk. Then in low tones “There has been a curious exchange in saddles, Monsieur.”
“Saddles?”
“Yes. The saddle in your stall is, curiously enough, stamped with the arms of the house of Auersperg. How that military saddle came into the stables is more than the grooms can solve.”
“O,” said Maurice, with an assumption of carelessness; “that is all right. It's the saddle I arrived on. The horse and saddle belong to Madame the duchess. I have been visiting at the Red Chateau. I shall return in the morning.”
“Ah,” said the clerk, with a furtive smile which Maurice lost; “that accounts for the mystery.”
“Here are two letters that must get in to-night's mails,” Maurice said; “and also this telegram should be sent at once.”
“As Monsieur desires. Ah, I came near forgetting. There is a note for Monsieur, which came this afternoon while Monsieur was asleep.”
The envelope was unstamped, and the scrawl was unfamiliar to Maurice. On opening it he was surprised to find a hurriedly written note from Fitzgerald. In all probability it had been brought by the midnight courier on his return from the duchy.