Madame, like a statue of expectancy, riveted her gaze on the throne.
Hers at last! Her dreams were realized. She was no longer a duchess by
patent; she was a queen by right of inheritance; she was now to be a
power among the great. The kingdom of her forefathers was hers. She had
reached the goal without bloodshed; she had been patient, and this was
her reward. The blaze of her ambition dimmed all other stars. Her bosom
heaved, triumph flashed in her beautiful eyes, and a smile parted
her lips. Her first thought had been to establish headquarters in
the parlors of the Continental Hotel, and from there to summon the
archbishop, as a conqueror summons the chief of the vanquished. But no;
she could not wait; above all things she desired the satisfaction of the
eye. The throne of her forefathers!
“Mine!” she murmured.
Over her shoulders peered eager faces, in which greed and pleasure and
impassibility were written. One face, however, had on it the dull red of
shame. Not until now did the full force of his intended dishonesty
come home to the Englishman; not until now did he realize the complete
degradation to which his uniform had lowered him. His had been the hand
to stay this misfortune, and he had not lifted it. This king had been
his father's friend; and he had taken up arms against him. O, he had
begun life badly; he was making the end still more dismal. Would this
woman ever be his? Her promises were not worth the air that had carried
them to his ear. He, the consort of a queen? A cold sweat dampened his
forehead. How he loved her! And that kiss.... Queen or not, he would not
be her dupe, his would not be a tame surrender.
From the Platz and the Park, where the two armies had bivouacked, came
an intermittent cheering. The flames of bonfires were reflected on the
windows, throwing out in dull, yellow relief the faces of Madame and her
staff.
Between the private apartments of the king and the throne room was
a wide sliding door. Suddenly this opened and closed. With his back
against it, a pistol in one hand and a saber in the other, stood Captain
von Mitter, his face cold and resolute. All eyes were instantly directed
toward him.
“Captain,” said Madame, imperiously, “summon to me Monseigneur the
archbishop!”
Her command fell on ears of stone. Von Mitter made no sign that he heard
her.
“Take care, Monsieur,” she warned; “I am mistress here. If you will not
obey me, my officers will.”
“Madame, I acknowledge no mistress save the daughter of the king. No one
shall pass this door to announce your presence to Monseigneur.”
This reply was greeted with sundry noises, such as sabers coming from
scabbards, clicking of pistol locks, and the moving of feet. Madame
put out her hand suggestively, and the noise ceased. Von Mitter smiled
disdainfully, but did not stir.
“I warn you, Madame,” he said, “that this is war. I accept all the
responsibilities of my position. I know nothing of any surrender or
victory. To me you are simply an enemy. I will kill any one who attempts
to pass. I should be pleased if General Kronau would make the first step
to question my sincerity.”
Kronau's fingers twitched around his revolver, but Madame touched his
arm. She could read faces. The young Captain was in earnest. She would
temporize.
“Captain, all here are prisoners of war,” she said. “Do not forget that
soon there will be benefits for those who serve me.”
He laughed rudely. “I ask no benefits from your hands, Madame. I would
rather stand on the corner and beg.” He sent an insolent, contemptuous
glance at Kronau, who could not support it. “And now that you have
gratified your curiosity, I beg you to withdraw to the street. To-night
this palace is a tomb, and woe to those who commit sacrilege.”
“The king?” she said, struck by a thought which caused a red spot to
appear on each cheek.
“Is dead. Go and leave us in peace.”
The wine which had tasted so sweet was full of lees, and the cup
wormwood. Madame looked down, while her officers moved uneasily and
glanced over their shoulders. Kronau brushed his forehead, to find it
wet. Madame regretted the surrendering to the impulse. Her haste to
triumph was lacking both in dignity and judgment. She had given the king
so little place in her thoughts that the shock of his death confused
her. And there was something in the calm, fearless contempt of the young
soldier which embarrassed her.
“In that case, Captain,” she said, her voice uncertain and constrained,
“bid Monseigneur to wait on me at the Continental.”
“Whenever that becomes convenient, Madame, Monseigneur will certainly
confer with you and your rascally pack of officers.” He longed for some
one to spring at him; he longed to strike a blow in earnest.
As he leaned against the door he felt it move. He stepped aside.
The door rolled back, and her Royal Highness, the archbishop and the
chancellor passed in. The princess's eyes were like dim stars, but
her fine nostrils palpitated, and her mouth was rigid in disdain. The
chancellor looked haggard and dispirited, and he eyed all with the
listlessness of a man who has given up hope. The prelate's face was as
finely drawn as an ancient cameo, and as immobile. He gazed at Madame
with one of those looks which penetrate like acid; and, brave as she
was, she found it insupportable. There was a tableau of short duration.
“Madame,” said her Royal Highness, with a noble scorn, “what would you
say if one desecrated your father's tomb while you were kneeling beside
it? What would you say? In yonder room my father lies dead, and your
presence here, in whatever role, is an insult. Are you, indeed, a woman?
Have you no respect for death and sorrow? Was the bauble so precious to
your sight that you could not wait till the last rites were paid to
the dead? Is your heart of stone, your mind devoid of pity and of
conscience? Are you lacking in magnanimity, which is the disposition of
great souls? Ah, Madame, you will never be great, for you have stooped
to treachery and deceit. You, a princess! You have purchased with
glittering promises that which in time would have been given to you.
And you will not fulfill these promises, for honesty has no part in your
affair. Shame on you, Madame. By dishonorable means you have gained this
room. By dishonorable means you destroyed all those props on which my
father leaned. You knew that he had not long to live. Had you come to
me as a woman; had you opened your heart to me and confided your
desires--Ah, Madame, how gladly would I have listened. Whatever it
signifies to you, this throne is nothing to me. Had you come then--but,
no! you must come to demand your rights when I am defenseless. You must
come with a sword when there is none to defend. Is it possible that in
our veins there runs a kindred blood? And yet, Madame, I forgive you.
Rule here, if you will; but remember, between you and your crown
there will always be the shadow of disgrace. Monsieur,” turning toward
Fitzgerald, whose shame was so great that it engulfed him, “your father
and mine were friends--I forgive you. Now, Madame, I pray you, go, and
leave me with my dead.”
The girlhood of Princess Alexia was gone forever.
To Madame this rebuke was like hot iron on the flesh. It left her
without answer. Her proud spirit writhed. Before those innocent eyes her
soul lay bare, offering to the gaze an ineffaceable scar. For the
first time she saw her schemes in their true light. Had any served her
unselfishly? Aye, there was one. And strangely enough, the first thought
which formed in her mind when chaos was passed, was of him.
How would this rebuke affect her in his eyes? What was he to her that
she cared for his respect, his opinion, good or bad? What was the
meaning of the secret dread? How she hated him for his honesty to her;
for now perforce she must look up to him. She had stepped down from
the pinnacle of her pride to which she might never again ascend. He
had kissed her. How she hated him! And yet... Ah, the wine was flat,
tinctured with the bitterness of gall, and her own greed had forced the
cup to her lips. She could not remain silent before this girl; she must
reply; her shame was too deep to resolve itself into silence.
“Mademoiselle,” she said, “I beg of you to accept my sympathies; but the
fortunes of war--”
“Ah, Madame,” interrupted the prelate, lifting his white, attenuated
hand, “we will discuss the fortunes of war--later.”
Madame choked back the sudden gust of rage. She glanced covertly at the
Englishman. But he, with wide-astonished eyes, was staring at the foot
of the throne, from which gradually rose a terrible figure, covered with
blood and caked with drying clay. The figure leaned heavily on the hilt
of a saber, and swayed unsteadily. He drew all eyes.
“Ha!” he said, with a prolonged, sardonic intonation, “is that you,
Madame the duchess? You are talking of war? What! and you, my lord the
Englishman? Ha! and war? Look at me, Madame; I have been in a battle,
the only one fought to-day. Look at me! Here is the mark of that friend
who watched over your interests. But where is he? Eh? Where? Did you
pick him up on the way?.... He is dead. For all that he was a rascal,
he died like a man... .. as presently I shall die! Princes and kings and
thrones; the one die and the other crumble, but truth lives on. And you,
Madame, have learned the truth. Shame on your mean and little souls!
There was only one honest man among you, and you dishonored him. The
Marshal... I do not see him. An honest man dies but once, but a traitor
dies a thousand deaths. Kronau... is that your name? It was an
honest one once. And the paltry ends you gain!.... The grand duchess
of Gerolstein!.... What a comic opera! Not even music to go by! Eh,
you,--you Englishman, has Madame made you a Lieutenant?--a Captain?--a
General? What a farce! Nobles, you? I laugh at you all for a pack of
thieves, who are not content with the purse, but must add honor to the
bag. A man is what he makes himself. Medals and clothes, medals and
clothes; that is the sum of your nobility!” He laughed, but the laughter
choked in his throat, and he staggered a few paces away from the throne.
“Seize him!” cried Madame.
When the men sprang forward to execute this command, Fitzgerald barred
the way.
“No,” he said doggedly; “you shall not touch him.”
“Stand aside, Monsieur,” said Madame, determined to vent her rage on
some one.
“Madame,” said von Mitter, “I will shoot down the first man who lays a
hand on Monsieur Carewe.”
The princess, her heart beating wildly at the sudden knowledge that lay
written on the inner vision, a faintness stealing away her sight, leaned
back against the prelate.
“He is dying,” she whispered; “he is dying for me!”
Maurice was now in the grasp of the final delirium. “Come on!” he cried;
“come on! I will show you how a brave man can die. Come on, Messieurs
Medals and Clothes! Aye, who will go out with me?” He raised the saber,
and it caught the flickering light as it trailed a circle above his
head. He stumbled toward them, sweeping the air with the blade. Suddenly
there came a change. He stopped. The wild expression faded from his
face; a surprised look came instead. The saber slipped from his fingers
and clanged on the floor. He turned and looked at the princess, and that
glance conveyed to her the burden of his love. “Mademoiselle....” His
knees doubled, he sank, rolled face downward, and a dark stain appeared
and widened on the marble floor.
“Go, Madame,” said the prelate. “This palace is indeed a tomb.” He felt
the princess grow limp on his arm. “Go.”
“Maurice!” cried Fitzgerald, springing to the side of the fallen man.
“My God! Maurice!”