The cuirassiers stationed in the guardroom of the royal palace walked
gently on the tiling, when occasion required them to walk, and when they
entered or left the room, they were particularly careful to avoid
the chink of the spur or the clank of the saber. Although the royal
bedchamber was many doors removed, the Captain had issued a warning
against any unnecessary noise. A loud laugh, or the falling of a saber
carelessly rested, drew upon the unlucky offender the scowling eyes of
the commander, who reclined in front of the medieval fireplace, in
which a solitary log burned, and brooded over past and present. The high
revels in the guardroom were no more, the cuirassiers were no longer
made up of the young nobles of the kingdom; they were now merely watch
dogs.
Twenty years ago the commander had come from Dresden as an instructor in
arms, and after the first year had watched over the royal household, in
the service of the late king and the king who lay dying. He had come of
good family, but others had come off better, and had carried off court
honors, though his post in early days had been envied by many. He was
above all else a soldier, the embodiment of patience and integrity, and
he scorned to murmur because fortune had passed over his head. As he
sucked at his pipe, he recalled the days of Albrecht and his opera
singers, the court scandals, and his own constant employment as
messenger in the king's love intrigues.
Albrecht had died a widower and childless, and with him had died the
flower of court life. The courtiers and sycophants had flocked to the
standard of the duke, and had remained there, primarily because Leopold
of Osia promised a sedate and exemplary life. Sometimes the Captain
shook his head, as if communing with some unpleasant thought. On each
side of him sat a soldier, also smoking and ruminating.
At the mess table a dozen or so whiled away the time at cards. The
wavering lights of the candle and hearth cast warring shadows on the
wall and floor, and the gun and saber racks twinkled. If the players
spoke, it was in tones inaudible to the Captain's ears.
“Our bread and butter,” said the Captain softly, “are likely to take
unto themselves the proverbial wings and fly away.”
No one replied. The Captain was a man who frequently spoke his thoughts
aloud, and required no one to reply to his disjointed utterances.
“A soldier of fortune,” he went on, “pins his faith and zeal to
standards which to-day rise and to-morrow fall. Unfortunately, he takes
it at flood tide, which immediately begins to ebb.”
The men on either side of him nodded wisely.
“The king can no longer speak. That is why the archbishop has dismissed
the cabinet. While he could speak, his Majesty refused to listen to the
downfall of his enemies. Why? Look to heaven; heaven only can answer.
How many men of the native troops are quartered in these buildings? Not
one--which is bad. Formerly they were in the majority. Extraordinary.
His Majesty would have made friends with them, but the archbishop, an
estimable man in his robes, practically ostracized them. Bad, very bad.
Had we been comrades, there might be a different end.
“Faugh! if one of us sticks his head into the city barracks a breath
of ice is our reward. Kronau never attends the receptions. A little
flattery, which costs nothing, and they would have been willing to die
for his Majesty. Now--” He knocked his pipe on the firedog. “Now,
they would not lift a finger. A soldier will forgive all things but
premeditated neglect.
“As for me, when the time comes I shall return to Dresden and die of old
age. Maybe, though, I shan't. When his Majesty dies there is like to be
a clash. The duchess is a clever woman, but she would make a balky wife;
a capillary affection which runs in the family. Red hair in a man
is useful; in a woman it is unmanageable.” He refilled his pipe and
motioned toward the tongs. The soldier nearest caught up a brand and
held it out. The Captain laid his pipe against it and drew. “It's
a dreary watch I have from ten till daylight, in his Majesty's
antechamber, but he will trust no other man at that post.” And with this
he fell into silence.
Some time passed. Twice the Captain pulled out his watch and looked at
it. Shortly after nine o'clock the beat of hoofs came up the driveway,
and the Captain turned his head toward the entrance and waited. A moment
later the door opened and three men stood framed in the doorway. Two of
them--one in civilian dress--were endeavoring to hold up a third between
them. The central figure presented an alarming picture. His cuirass and
white trousers were splashed with blood, and his head rolled from side
to side, almost insensibly.
“A thousand devils!” exclaimed the Captain at the sight of this
unexpected tableau. He sprang up, toppling over his chair. “What's this?
Von Mitter? Blood? Have those damned students--”
“A brush on the lake road,” interrupted Sharfenstein, breathlessly.
“Help him over to a chair, Monsieur Carewe. That's it.”
“Have you a knife, Captain?” asked Maurice.
The Captain whipped out his knife, locked it, and gave it to Maurice.
“Riemer,” he called to one of the cuirassiers, who were rising from the
mess table, “bring out your box of instruments; and you, Scharfenstein,
a basin of cold water. Quick!”
Maurice knelt and deftly cut away the Lieutenant's boot. A pool of blood
collected on the floor.
“God save us!” cried the Captain, “his boot is full of blood.” He
turned to Scharfenstein, who was approaching with the basin. “What has
happened, Max?”
Scharfenstein briefly explained.
“And Kopf?”
“Got away, curse him!”
“And the others?” with a lowering brow.
“They all got away,” adding an oath under his breath. Max set the basin
on the floor.
“Bad, very bad. Why didn't you shoot?”
“He was afraid of hitting Mademoiselle Bachelier,” Maurice interposed.
Max threw him a grateful look.
“Humph!” The Captain called his men around him. “Two of you--. But wait.
Who's back of Kopf?”
“Our distinguished Colonel,” snapped Max, “who was this day relieved of
his straps. A case of revenge, probably.”
“Beauvais! Ah, ah!” The Captain smiled grimly. He had always hated
Beauvais, who had, for no obvious reason, passed him and grasped the
coveted colonelcy, and because, curiously enough, the native troops had
made an idol of him. “Beauvais? I am not surprised. An adventurer, with
neither kith nor country.”
“He is Prince Walmoden,” said Maurice, “and for some reason not known,
the emperor has promised to recall him.”
This information caused the Captain to step back, and he muttered the
name several times. “Austria....” A gloom settled on his face. “No
matter. Prince or no prince, or had he one thousand emperors behind him,
no matter. Four of you seek him and arrest him. If he offers resistance,
knock him on the head, but arrest him. A traitor is without name,
country or respect. His purpose... Never mind.
“Four of you seek for Kopf. Look into Stuler's, in at the opera, and
follow Kopf's woman home. I'll take it upon myself to telegraph the
frontier to allow no one to cross on the pain of being shot. Pass the
word to the officers in the stables. Hurry away before the archbishop
hears of the matter. Away with you, and quietly. And one of you seek
that blockhead of a coachman, who did not know enough to come back here
and inform us. Beauvais, make him a prisoner, you are not to know
why. As for Kopf, dead or alive--alive will be less convenient for all
concerned. Off with you!”
The guardroom was at once emptied, and the cuirassiers turned off toward
the stables, where the main body of the troops was stationed.
Riemer, who was both surgeon and soldier, probed the wound in von
Miner's leg and extracted the bullet, which had lodged in the fleshy
part of the calf. He applied cold water, lints and bandages. All the
while von Mitter sat in the chair, his eyes shut and his lips closed
tightly.
“There!” said the surgeon, standing up, “that's better. The loss of
blood is the worst part of it.” Next he took a few stitches in the cut
on the cheek and threw his cloak over the wounded man's knee. “He'll be
all right in a day or so, though he'll limp. Carl?”
“O, I'm sound enough,” answered von Mitter, opening his eyes. “A little
weak in the knees, that's all. I shouldn't have given in, only Kopf got
away when we had him fair and fast. We found his horse wandering about
the Frohngarten, but no sign of Johann. He's got it, though, square in
the back.”
“I'm sure of it,” said Maurice, who leaned over the back of the
speaker's chair.
The Captain eyed him inquiringly.
“Pardon me,” said Scharfenstein. “Captain, Monsieur Carewe, an American
tourist, formerly of the United States cavalry. And a pretty shot, too,
by the book! It would have gone badly with us but for him.”
“My thanks,” said the Captain, with a jerky nod. “Max, come, give me the
whole story.”
And Scharfenstein dropped into a chair and recounted in picturesque
diction the adventure; how they had remained by the royal carriage till
the nurse, recovering from her faint, had rushed out and told them of
the abduction; and the long race on the south shore. While he listened
the Captain smoked thoughtfully; and when the story was done, he rose
and wagged his head.
“Call it revenge,” he said, “if it strikes you in that light. Monsieur
Carewe, what is your opinion?”
“It occurs to me,” answered Maurice, rubbing the scratch the late
Colonel's sword had left on his chin, “it occurs to me that the man
played his hand a few days too late.”
“Which is to say?”
“Well, I do not call it revenge,” Maurice admitted, unwilling to venture
any theory.
“No more do I;” and the Captain began drumming on the mantel. “What say,
Max; how would the illustrious Colonel look with the shadow of a crown
on his head? He comes from Austria, who, to my thinking, is cognizant of
all he does and has done.”
The answer was not spoken. The door, leading to the main palace through
the kitchens, opened, and the Marshal, the princess, and the maid of
honor came down the steps. The Captain, Max and the surgeon stood at
salute. Maurice, however, drew back into the shadows at the side of
the grate. The old soldier gazed down at the pale face of the young
Lieutenant, and smiled kindly.
“Even the best of soldiers make mistakes,” he said; “even the best. No,”
as von Mitter made an attempt to speak. “I've heard all about it, and
from a most reliable source,” nodding toward the anxious maid of
honor. “Colonel,” he addressed the Captain, whose eyes started at this
appellation, “Colonel, you will report to me in the morning to assume
your new duties. You have been a faithful Captain and a good soldier. I
know your value, your name and your antecedents, which till now was more
than I knew of your late predecessor. Von Mitter will take upon himself
your duties as Captain of the household troop; and you, Scharfenstein,
will hereafter take charge of her Royal Highness's carriage, and you may
choose whom you will as your comrade.”
“I have always tried to do my duty,” said von Mitter. He felt a small
hand secretly press his.
“And you have always succeeded, Captain,” said a voice which made
Maurice's foolish heart leap. “See, I am the first to give you your new
rank. How you must suffer!”
“God bless your Royal Highness!” murmured the fellow, at once racked
with pain and happiness. “But I am not the one you must thank for this
night's work.”
The Marshal peered at the silent figure beyond the fireplace. Maurice
was compelled to stand forth. “Ah!” said the Marshal.
“Yes,” went on von Mitter, “but for him no one knows what the end might
have been. And I, thinking him one of the abducting party coming up from
the rear, shot at him.”
The princess took a step forward, anxiety widening her dark eyes; and
the swift glance added to the fever in the recipient's veins.... How
beautiful she was, and how far away! He laid his hand on the top of von
Mitter's chair.
“Monsieur Carewe,” said the Marshal, “seems to have plenty of leisure
time on his hands--fortunately for us. You were not hit?”
“O, no,” said Maurice, blushing. He had discerned an undercurrent of
raillery in the Marshal's tones. “The ball came close to my ear, that
was all. It is strange how that fellow got away. I am positive that I
hit him.”
“We shall find him,” said the Marshal, with a look at the
newly-appointed Colonel which said: “Your straps hang in the balance.”
He rubbed his nose. “Well, is your Royal Highness satisfied that there
is no danger?”
“Yes, Marshal; but think, if he should have been killed! Ah, what does
it all mean? What had this man against me, who have always been kind to
him?”
“We shall, with your Highness's permission,” said the Marshal, “leave
all questions to the future. Let us return to the archbishop, who
is doubtless awaiting the news. Take good care of yourself, Captain.
To-morrow, Colonel; good evening to you, Monsieur Carewe;” and the terse
old soldier proceeded to the door and held it open for the women.
“Good night, Messieurs,” said her Highness. “I shall not forget. Thanks
to you, Captain.” One more glance, and she was gone. But this glance
blossomed in one heart into a flower of hope.
The Marshal, having closed the door behind the women, returned to the
group before the fireplace. They watched him interestedly.
“Colonel,” he said, “make no effort to seek Beauvais. As for Kopf, that
is different. But Beauvais--”
“To let him go?” exclaimed the Colonel in dismay.
“Aye, to let him go. We do not seek bears with birdshot, and that is all
we have. He will leave the country.”
“And go to the duchy!”
“So much the better; when the time comes, our case against him will
be so much the stronger. Mind you, this is not from sentiment. I have
none,” glaring around to see if any dared refute this assertion. “It is
policy, and Monseigneur concurs with me.”
“But I have sent men after him!” cried the Colonel, in keen
disappointment.
“Send men after them to rescind the order.”
“And if they should catch him?”
“Let him go; that is my order. The servant will be sufficient for our
needs. Monsieur Carewe, I rely on your discretion;” and the Marshal
passed into the kitchens.
The men looked at each other in silence. A moment later the Colonel
dashed from the room, off to the stables.
“Well, I'm off,” said Maurice. The desire to tell what he knew was
beginning to master him. It was too late now, he saw that. Besides, they
might take it into their heads to detain him. He put on his hat. “Good
night; and good luck to your leg, Captain.”
“Till to-morrow,” said von Mitter, who had taken a fancy to the
smooth-faced young American, who seemed at home in all places.
“I am going away to-morrow,” said Maurice, pressing the Lieutenant's
hand. “I shall return in a day or so.”
He led his horse to the hotel stables, lit a fresh cigar and promenaded
the terrace. “Some day,” he mused, “perhaps I'll be able to do something
for myself. To-morrow we'll take a look at Fitzgerald's affairs, like
the good fairy we are. If the Colonel is there, so much the worse for
one or the other of us.” He laughed contentedly. “Beauvais took my
warning and lit out, or his henchman would never have made a botch of
the abduction. It is my opinion that Madame wanted a hostage, for it
is impossible to conceive that the man made the attempt on his own
responsibility. I shall return to the duchy in a semi-official character
as an envoy extraordinary to look into the whereabouts of one Lord
Fitzgerald. Devil take me, but I did make a mess of it when I slapped
him on the shoulder that night.” The princess had not addressed a word
to him. Why?
When the princess and her maid of honor had passed through the kitchens
into the princess's boudoir, the maid suddenly caught her mistress's
hand and imprinted a hasty kiss on it, to the latter's surprise and
agitation. There was something in that kiss which came nearer to sincere
affection than Mademoiselle Bachelier had ever shown before.
“Camille?”
“God bless your Highness!” whispered the girl, again pressing the cold
hand to her lips. What had given rise to this new-born affection she
herself could not say, but a sudden wave of pity rushed into her
heart. Perhaps it was because she loved and was loved that caused this
expansion of heart toward her mistress, who was likely never to love or
beget love, who stood so lonely. Tears came into her eyes.
“You are hysterical!” said the princess.
“No; it is because--because--” She stopped and a blush suffused her face
and temples.
The princess took the face between her hands and gazed long and
earnestly into it. “Have you discovered a belated pity in your heart
for me? Or is it because you thought him wounded unto death, and he was
not?”
“It is both!” weeping.
The princess put her arms around the maid. “And you weep for happiness?
Let us weep together, then; only--I can not weep for happiness.”
To return to the flight of Kopf. As he dashed down the road he heard two
reports. At the second he experienced a terrible burning blow under
the right shoulder-blade, and immediately his arm became paralyzed.
He coughed. With a supreme effort he managed to recover his balance.
Already his collar-bone had been cracked by a bullet either from von
Mitter or from Scharfenstein.
“God's curse on them all!” he sobbed, pushing his knees into his horse;
“God's curse!” He bit his lips; and when he drew his breath the pain
which followed almost robbed him of his senses. Behind him the sound of
hoofs came no nearer; he had a chance. He could not look back to see if
he gained, however, as his neck was stiffening.
“Curse him and his damned gold! He never warned me as he said he would.”
On he rode. The moon became obscured, and when it flashed again he could
see it but indistinctly.... To reach the city, to reach Gertrude's, to
give the horse a cut and send him adrift, this was his endeavor. But
would he reach the city--alive? Was he dying? He could not see... Yet
again he shut his jaws and drew on his entire strength. He was keeping
in the saddle by will power alone. If the horse faltered he was lost. To
Gertrude; she could use them. And after all he loved her. If he died she
would be provided for.
The first of the city lamps. He sobbed. Into this street he turned,
into that, expecting each moment to be challenged, for the white saddle
blanket of the cuirassiers stood out conspicuously. At last he had but
a corner to turn. He stopped, slid from the saddle and gave the animal
a cut across the face. The horse reared, then plunged forward at a wild
gallop. Johann staggered along the street, fumbling in his pockets for
his keys.
Gertrude of the opera company was usually in the ballet. To-night she
had left the stage after the first dance. She had complained of a
severe headache, and as the manager knew her worth he had permitted
her withdrawal from the corps. She lived off the Frohngarten, in an
apartment on the second floor, over a cheap restaurant. She was bathing
her temples in perfumed ammonia water, when she heard footsteps in the
corridor, and later the rasp of a key in the lock. As the door opened
she beheld a spectacle which caused her to scream.
“Hush! Gertrude, I am dying.... Brandy! I must talk to you! Silence!”
Johann tottered to a lounge and dropped on his side.
The woman, still trembling with fright and terror, poured into her palm
some of the pungent liquid with which she had been bathing her temples,
and held it under his nose. It revived him. And in a few broken
sentences he made known to her what had happened.
“Gertrude, I am lost!” He breathed with difficulty. “I have lived like
a rascal, and I die like one. But I have always loved you; I have always
been true to you; I have never beaten nor robbed you.” His eyes closed.
“O God,” she cried, “what shall I do? Johann, you must not die! We
will leave the country together. Johann, you do not speak! Johann!”
She kissed him, pressed him in her arms, regardless of the stains which
these frantic fondlings gathered from his breast. “Johann!”
“Rich,” he said dreamily; “rich... and to die like a dog!”
She left him and rushed to the sideboard, poured out a tumbler of
brandy, and returned to his side. She raised his head, but he swallowed
with effort.
“In the lungs,” he said. “God! how it burns! Rich; we are rich,
Gertrude; a hundred thousand crowns.... And I am dying!... What a
failure! Curse them all; they never offered to lend a hand unless it led
toward hell! Gertrude... I must tell you. Here; here, put your hand in
this pocket; yes. Draw them out... A hundred thousand crowns!”
The woman shuddered. Her hand and what it held were wet with blood.
“Hide them!” And Johann fainted away for the second time. When he came
to his senses, several minutes had passed. Quickly, with what remaining
strength he had, he unfolded his plan.
And her one idea was to save him. She drenched her handkerchief with the
ammonia, and bade him hold it to his nose, while she fetched a basin of
water and a sponge. Tenderly she drew back his coat and washed the blood
from his throat and lips, and moistened his hair.
“Listen!” he cried suddenly, rising on his elbow. “It is they! They
have found me! Quick! to the roof!” He struggled to his feet, with that
strength which imparts itself to dying men, super-human while it lasts.
He threw one arm around her neck. “Help me!”
And thus they gained the hall, mounted the flight to the roof, he
groaning and urging, she sobbing, hysterical, and frenzied. She climbed
the ladder with him, threw back the trap, and helped him on the roof.
“Now leave me!” he said, kissing her hand.
She gave him her lips, and went down to her rooms, and waited and
waited. This agony of suspense lasted a quarter of an hour, when again
came the clatter of hoofs. Would this, too, prove a false alarm? She
held her hand to her ear. If he were dying... They had stopped; they
were mounting the stairs; O God, they were beating on the door!
“Open!” cried a voice without; “open in the king's name!”
She gasped, but words would not come. She clenched her hands until the
nails sank into the flesh.
“Open, Madame, or down comes the door.”
The actress in her came to the rescue. The calm of despair took
possession of her.
“In a moment, Messieurs,” she said. Her voice was without agitation. She
opened the door and the cuirassiers pushed past her. “In heaven's name,
Messieurs, what does this mean?”
“We want Johann Kopf,” was the answer, “and we have it from good
authority that he is here. Do not interfere with us; you are in no wise
connected with the affair.”
“He is not here,” she replied. She wondered at herself, her tones were
so even, her mind was so clear.
One of the cuirassiers caught up her gown. “What's this, Madame?” he
demanded, pointing to the dark wet stains; “and this?” to her hands,
“and this?” to the spots on the carpet, the basin and the sponge. “To
the roof, men; he has gone by the roof! Up with you!”
The ballet dancer held forth her hands in supplication; life forsook her
limbs; she sank.
The cuirassiers rushed to the roof.... When they came down it was slowly
and carefully. What they had found on the roof was of no use to them.
They laid the inanimate thing on the lounge, and frowned. One of the
cuirassiers lifted the ballet dancer and carried her into her bed-room,
and laid her on the bed. He had not the heart to revive her. Death
softens all angers; even an enemy is no longer such when dead. And
Johann Kopf was dead.