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.