At eight o'clock of the following evening, that is to say, the
nineteenth of September, Maurice mounted the Thalian pass and left the
kingdom in the valley behind him. He was weary, dusty, lame and out of
humor; besides, he had a new weight on his conscience. The night before
he had taken the life of a man. True, this had happened before, but
always in warfare. He had killed in a moment of rage and chagrin a
poor devil who was at most only a puppet. There was small credit in the
performance. However, the rascal would have suffered death in any event,
his act being one of high treason.
In the long ride he had made up his mind to lock away forever the silly
dream, the tender, futile, silly dream. All men die with secrets locked
in their hearts; thus he, too, would die. His fancy leaped across the
chasm of intervening years to the day of his death, and the thought
was a happy one! He smiled sadly, as young men smile when they pity
themselves. He knew that he would never get over it--in a day. But
to-morrow, or to-morrow's to-morrow..
He took the pass's decline; the duchy spread away toward the south. A
quarter of a mile below him he saw the barrack and the customs office
which belonged to Madame the duchess. The corporal inspected him and
his papers, spoke lowly to the customs inspector, who returned to his
office.
“It is all right, Monsieur Carewe,” said the corporal; “I ought to
recognize the horse a mile away. You will arrive just in time.”
“Just in time for what?”
“Ah, true. Her Highness gives a grand ball at the chateau to-night. The
court has arrived from Brunnstadt. Some will reside at the chateau, some
at General Duckwitz's, others at the Countess Herzberg's.”
“Has the duchess arrived at last, then?” was the cynical inquiry.
“She will arrive this evening,” answered the corporal, grinning. “A
pleasant journey to you.”
Maurice proceeded. “And that blockhead of an Englishman has not tumbled
yet! The court here? A grand ball? What else can it mean but that Madame
is celebrating a victory to come? If the archbishop has those consols,
she will wage war; and this is the prelude.” He jogged along. He had
accomplished a third of the remaining distance, when he was challenged.
The sentry came forward and scrutinized the rider.
“O, it is Monsieur Carewe!” he cried in delighted tones. He touched his
cap and fell back into the shadows.
A mile farther, and the great chateau, scintillating with lights, loomed
up against the yellow sky. He felt a thrill of excitement. Doubtless
there would be some bright passages before the night drew to a close. He
would make furious love to the pretty countess; it would be something in
the way of relaxation. How would they greet him? What would be Madame's
future plans in regard to Fitzgerald? How would she get him out of the
way, now that he had served her purpose? He laughed.
“The future promises much,” he said, half aloud. “I am really glad that
I came back.”
“Halt!”
Maurice drew up. A sentry stepped out into the road.
“O, it is Monsieur Carewe!” he cried. With a short laugh he disappeared.
“Hang me,” grumbled Maurice as he went on, “these fellows have
remarkable memories. I can't recollect any of them.” He was mystified.
Shortly he came upon the patrol. The leader ordered him to dismount, an
order be obeyed willingly, for he was longing to stand again. He shook
his legs, while the leader struck a match.
“Why, it is Monsieur Carewe!” he cried. “Good! We are coming out to meet
you. This is a pleasure indeed.”
Maurice gazed keenly into the speaker's face, and to his surprise beheld
the baron whose arm he had broken a fortnight since. He climbed on his
horse again.
“I am glad you deem it a pleasure, baron,” he said dryly. “From what you
imply, I should judge that you were expecting me.”
“Nothing less! Your departure from Bleiberg was known to us as early as
two o'clock this after-noon,” answered the baron. “Permit us to escort
you to the chateau before the ladies see you. 'Tis a gala night; we are
all in our best bib and tucker, as the English say. We believed at one
time that you were not going to honor us with a second visit. Now
to dress, both of us; at ten Madame the duchess arrives with General
Duckwitz and Colonel Mollendorf, who is no relation to the late minister
of police in Bleiberg.”
Underneath all this Maurice discerned a shade of mockery, and it
disturbed him.
“First, I should like to know--” he began.
“Later, later!” cried the baron. “The gates are but a dozen rods away.
To your room first; the rest will follow.”
“The only clothes I have with me are on my back,” said Maurice.
“We shall arrange that. Your guard-hussar uniform has been reserved for
you, at the suggestion of the Colonel.”
And Maurice grew more and more disturbed.
“Were they courteous to you on the road?”
“Yes. But--”
“Patience! Here we are at the rear gates.”
Maurice found it impossible to draw back; three troopers blocked the
rear, the baron and another rode at his sides, and four more were in
advance. The rear gates swung open, and the little troop passed into
the chateau confines. Maurice snatched a glimpse of the front lawns
and terraces. The trees and walls were hung with Chinese lanterns;
gay uniforms and shimmering gowns flitted across his vision. Somewhere
within the chateau an orchestra was playing the overture from “Linda
di Chamounix.” Indeed, with all these brave officers, old men in black
bedecked with ribbons, handsome women in a brilliant sparkle of jewels,
it had the semblance of a gay court. It was altogether a different scene
from that which was called the court of Bleiberg. There was no restraint
here; all was laughter, music, dancing, and wines. The women were young,
the men were young; old age stood at one side and looked on. And the
charming Voiture-verse of a countess, Maurice was determined to seek
her first of all. He vaguely wondered how Fitzgerald would carry himself
throughout the ordeal.
The troopers dismounted in the courtyard.
“I'm a trifle too stiff to dance,” Maurice innocently acknowledged.
The baron laughed. “You will have to take luck with me in the
stable-barrack; the chateau is filled. The armory has been turned into a
ballroom, and the guard out of it.”
“Lead on!” said Maurice.
At the entrance to the guardroom, which occupied the left wing of the
stables, stood a Lieutenant of the hussars.
“This is Monsieur Carewe,” said the baron, “who will occupy a corner in
the guardroom.”
“Ah! Monsieur Carewe,” waving his hand cavalierly; “happy to see you
again.”
Maurice was growing weary of his name.
“Enter,” said the baron, opening the door.
Maurice entered, but not without suspicion. However, he was in a hurry
to mingle with the gay assembly in the chateau. But that body was doomed
to proceed without the honor or the knowledge of his distinguished
presence. Several troopers were lounging about. At the sight of the
baron they rose.
“Messieurs,” he said, “this is Monsieur Carewe, who was expected.”
“Glad to see you!” they sang out in chorus. They bowed ironically.
Maurice gazed toward the door. As he did so four pairs of arms enveloped
him, and before he could offer the slightest resistance, he was bound
hand and foot, a scarf was tied over his mouth, and he was pushed most
disrespectfully into a chair. The baron's mouth was twisted out of
shape, and the troopers were smiling.
“My faith! but this is the drollest affair I ever was in;” and the baron
sat on the edge of the table and held his sides. “Monsieur Carewe! Ha!
ha! You are a little too stiff to dance, eh? Shall I tender your excuses
to the ladies? Ass! did you dream for a moment that such canaille as
you, might show your countenance to any save the scullery maids? Too
stiff to dance! Ye gods, but that was rich! And you had the audacity
to return here! I must go; the thing is killing me.” He slipped off the
table, red in the face and choking. “The telegraph has its uses; it came
ahead of you. We trembled for fear you would not come! Men, guard him
as your lives, while I report to Madame, I dare say she will make it
droller in the telling.”
He stepped to the door, turned, looking into the prisoner's glaring
eyes; he doubled up again. “We are quits; I forgive you the broken
arm; this laugh will repay me. How Madame the countess will laugh! And
Duckwitz--the General will die of apoplexy! O, but you are a sorry ass;
and how neatly we have clipped your ears!” And into the corridor he
went, still laughing, heartily and joyously, as if what had taken place
was one of the finest jests in the world.
Maurice, white and furious, was positive that he never would laugh
again. And the most painful thought was that his honesty had brought him
to this pass--or, was it his curiosity?
* * * * *
Fitzgerald stood alone in the library. The music of a Strauss waltz came
indistinctly to him. He was troubled, and the speech of it lay in his
eyes. From time to time he drummed on the window sill, and followed with
his gaze the shadowy forms on the lawns. He was not a part of this fairy
scene. He was out of place. So many young and beautiful women eyeing him
curiously confused him. In every glance he innocently read his disgrace.
At Madame's request he had dressed himself in the uniform of a
Lieutenant-Colonel, which showed how deeply he was in the toils.
Though it emphasized the elegant proportions of his figure, it sat
uncomfortably upon him. His vanity was not equal to his sense of guilt.
The uniform was a livery of dishonor. He could not distort it into a
virtue, try as he would. He lacked that cunning artifice which a man of
the world possesses, that of winning over to the right a misdeed.
And Carewe, on whose honesty he would have staked his life, Carewe had
betrayed him. Why, he could not conceive. He saw how frail his house
of love was. A breath and it was gone. What he had until to-day deemed
special favors were favors common to all these military dandies. They,
too, could kiss Madame's hand, and he could do no more. And yet she held
him. Did she love him? He could not tell. All he knew was that it was
impossible not to love her. And to-night he witnessed the culmination
of the woman beautiful, and it dazzled him, filled him with fears and
oppressions.... To bind her hand and foot, to carry her by force to the
altar, if need; to call her his in spite of all.
If she were playing with him, making a ball of his heart and her fancy
a cup, she knew not of the slumbering lion within. He himself was but
dimly conscious of it. Princess? That did not matter. Since that morning
the veil had fallen from his eyes, but he had said nothing; he was
waiting for her to speak. Would she laugh at him? No, no! The knowledge
that had come to him had transformed wax into iron. Princess? She was
the woman who had promised to be his wife.
Only two candles burned on the mantel-piece. The library was a room
apart from the festivities. A soft, rose-colored darkness pervaded the
room. Presently a darker shadow tiptoed over the threshold. He turned,
and the shadow approached. Madame's gray eyes, full of lambent fires,
looked into his own.
“I was seeking you,” she said. The jewels in her hair threw a kind of
halo above her head.
“Have I the happiness to be necessary to you?” he asked.
“You have not been enjoying yourself.”
“No, Madame; my conscience is, unhappily, too green.” He turned to the
window again for fear he would lose control of himself.
“I have a confession to make to you,” she said humbly. How broad his
shoulders were, was her thought.
“It can not concern me,” he replied.
“How?”
“There is only one confession which I care to hear. You made it once,
though you are not willing to repeat it. But I have your word, Sylvia;
I am content. Not all the world could make me believe that you would
willingly retract that word.”
Her name, for the first time coming from his lips, caused her to start.
She sent him a penetrating glance, but it broke on a face immobile as
marble.
“I do not recollect granting you permission to use my given name,” she
said.
“O, that was before the world. But alone, alone as we are, you and I,
it is different.” The smile which accompanied these words was frankness
itself, but it did not deceive Madame, who read his eyes too well. “Ah,
but the crumbs you give this love of mine are so few!” “You are the only
man in the world permitted to avow love to me. You have kissed my hand.”
“A privilege which seems extended to all.”
Madame colored, but there was not light enough for him to perceive it.
“The hand you kissed is the hand of the woman; others kiss it to pay
homage. Monsieur, forgive me for having deceived you, you were so easy
to deceive.” His eyes met hers steadily.
“I am not Madame simply. I am Stephonia Sylvia Auersperg; the name I
assumed was my mother's.” His lack of surprise alarmed her.
“I am well aware of that,” he said. “You are the duchess.”
Something in his tone warned her of a crisis, and she put forth her
cunning to avert it. “And, you--you will not love me less?” her voice
vibrant as the string of a viol. “I am a princess, but yet a woman. In
me there are two, the woman and the princess. The princess is proud and
ambitious; to gain her ends she stops at nothing. As a princess she may
stoop to trickery and deceit, and step back untouched. But the woman-ah,
well; for this fortnight I have been most of all the woman.”
“And all this to me-is a preamble to my dismissal, since my promise
remains unfulfilled? Madame, do not think that because fate has willed
that my promise should become void, that my conscience acquits me of
dishonor. For love of you I have thrown honor to the winds. But do I
regret it? No. For I am mad, and being mad, I am not capable of reason.
I have broken all those ties which bind a man's respect to himself.
I have burned all bridges, but I laugh at that. It is only with the
knowledge that your love is mine that I can hold high my head.
“As the princess in you is proud, so is the man in me. A princess? That
is nothing; I love you. Were you the empress of all the Russias, the
most unapproachable woman in the world, I should not hesitate to profess
my love, to find some means of declaring it to you. I love you. To what
further depths can I fall to prove it?” Again he sought the window, and
leaned heavily on the sill. He waited, as a man waits for an expected
blow.
As she listened a delicious sensation swept through her heart, a
sensation elusive and intangible. She surrendered without question. At
this moment the Eve in her evaded all questions. Here was a man. The
mood which seized her was as novel as this love which asked nothing but
love, and the willingness to pay any price; and the desire to test both
mood and love to their full strength was irresistible. She was loved for
herself alone; hitherto men had loved the woman less and the princess
more. To surrender to both mood and love, if only for an hour or a day,
to see to what length this man would go at a sign from her.
He was almost her equal in birth; his house was nearly if not quite as
old and honored as her own; in his world he stood as high as she stood
in hers. She had never committed an indiscretion; passion had never
swayed her; until now she had lived by calculation. As she looked at
him, she knew that in all her wide demesne no soldier could stand before
him and look straight into his eyes. So deep and honest a book it was,
so easily readable, that she must turn to its final pages. Love him? No.
Be his wife? No. She recognized that it was the feline instinct to play
which dominated her. Consequences? Therein lay the charm of it.
“Patience, Monsieur,” she said. “Did I promise to be your wife? Did
I say that I loved you? _Eh, bien_, the woman, not the princess, made
those vows. I am mistress not only of my duchy, but of my heart.” She
ceased and regarded him with watchful eyes. He did not turn. “Look at
me, John!” The voice was of such winning sweetness that St. Anthony
himself, had he heard it, must have turned. “Look at me and see if I am
more a princess than a woman.”
He wheeled swiftly. She was leaning toward him, her face was upturned.
No jewel in her hair was half so lustrous as her eyes. From the threaded
ruddy ore of her hair rose a perfume like the fabulous myrrhs of
Olympus. Her lips were a cup of wine, and her eyes bade him drink,
and the taste of that wine haunted him as long as he lived. He made as
though to drain the cup, but Madame pushed down his arms, uttered a low,
puzzled laugh, and vanished from the room. He was lost! He knew it; yet
he did not care. He threw out his arms, dropped them, and settled his
shoulders. A smile, a warm, contented smile, came into his face and
dwelt there. For another such kiss he would have bartered eternity.
And Madame? Who can say?