Whatever passed between the Emperor and his niece, whether she confessed
the truth or defied him, one fact was plain--she had been moved to
bitter tears.
When, half an hour later, she went back through those long corridors,
her rich train sweeping over the red carpets, her white-gloved hands
were clenched, her teeth set hard, her eyes red, her countenance
changed. Her face was changed; it was that of a woman heart-broken and
desperate.
She did not return to the ballroom, but descended to the courtyard,
where one of the Imperial servants called her carriage, and she returned
alone to her father's splendid palace in the Parkring.
Ascending straight to her room, she dismissed the Countess de
Trauttenberg, her lady-in-waiting, and Henriette, her French maid; and
then locking the door, she tore off her tiara and her jewels and sank
upon her knees upon the old carved prie-dieu before the ivory crucifix
placed opposite her bed.
Her hands were clasped, her fair head bent, her sweet lips moved in
fervent prayer, her eyes the while streaming with tears. Plunged in
grief and unhappiness, she besought the Almighty to aid and counsel her
in the difficult situation in which she now found herself.
"Help me, my Father!" she sobbed aloud. "Have mercy upon me--mercy upon
a humble woman who craves Thy protection and direction." And her
clasped hands trembled in the fervency of her appeal.
Those who had seen her an hour ago, the gay, laughing figure, blazing
with jewels, the centre of the most brilliant Court of Europe, would
have been astounded to see her at that moment prostrated before her
Maker. In Austria, as in Germany, she was believed to be a rather giddy
woman, perhaps by reason of her uncommon beauty, and perhaps because of
her easy-going light-heartedness and disregard for all Court etiquette.
Yet the truth was that the strong religious principles instilled into
her by her mother, the deceased Archduchess Charles, had always
remained, and that no day passed without one hour set apart for her
devotions, in secret even from the Countess, from Henriette, and from
the Crown Prince, her husband.
She was a Catholic, of course, like all her Imperial house, but upon one
point she disagreed--that of confession.
Her husband, though he professed Catholicism, at heart scoffed at
religion; and more than once when he had found her in the private chapel
of the palace at Treysa had jeered at her. But she bore it all in
patience. She was his wife, and she had a duty to perform towards his
nation--to become its queen.
For nearly an hour she remained upon her knees before the crucifix, with
the tiny oil-light flickering in its cup of crimson glass, kneeling in
mute appeal, strong in her faith, yet humble as the humblest commoner in
the land.
"My God!" she cried aloud at last. "Hear me! Answer my prayer! Give
me strength and courage, and direct my footsteps in the right path. I
am a weak woman, after all; a humble sinner who has repented. Help me,
O God! I place all my trust in Thee! Amen."
And, crossing herself, she rose slowly with a deep-drawn breath that
sounded weirdly through the fine room, and walking unsteadily towards
the big cheval glass, gazed at her own reflection.
She saw how pale and haggard was her face, and looked at her trembling
hands.
The ribbons and stars at the edge of her bodice caught her eye, and with
a sudden movement she tore them off and cast them heedlessly upon the
table as though the sight of them annoyed her. They had been conferred
upon her on her marriage. She sighed as she looked back at them.
Ah, the hollow mockery of it all!
She glanced out of the window, and saw in the bright moonlight the
sentry pacing up and down before the palace. Across the wide boulevard
were the dark trees of the park. It recalled to her the appointment she
had made there for the next evening.
"I wonder why Steinbach has followed me here?" she exclaimed to herself.
"How did he obtain entrance to the Court ball? Probably he has some
friend here. But surely his mission is urgent, or he would never have
run this risk. I was, however, foolish to speak to him before them
all--very foolish. Yet," she added slowly to herself, "I wonder what he
has to tell me? I wonder--" And, without concluding her sentence, she
stood gazing out upon the dark park, deep in thought, her mind full of
grave apprehensions of the future.
She was a Hapsbourg--and evil fate follows a Hapsbourg always. She had
prayed to God; for God alone could save her.
She, the most brilliant and the most envied woman in the Empire, was
perhaps the most heart-broken, the most unhappy. Casting herself into
an armchair before the log fire, she covered her drawn, white face with
her hands and sobbed bitterly, until at last she sat immovable, staring
straight into the embers watching the spark die out, until she fell
asleep where she sat.
Next day her sweet, fresh face bore no traces of her desperation of the
night. She was as gay and merry as ever, and only Henriette noticed in
her eyes a slight redness, but discreetly said nothing.
The Countess, a rather pleasant-faced but stiff-mannered person, brought
her her engagement-book, from which it appeared that she was due at a
review by the Emperor at eleven o'clock; therefore, accompanied by her
lady-in-waiting, she drove there, and was everywhere admired by the
great crowds assembled. The Austrian people called her "our Claire,"
and the warm-hearted Viennese cheered when they recognised that she was
back again among them.
It was a brilliant scene in the bright spring sunlight, for many of the
Imperial Court were present, and the troops made a brave show as they
marched past his Majesty and the assembled members of the Imperial
house.
Then she had a luncheon engagement with the Archduchess Gisela, the wife
of Prince Leopold of Bavaria, afterwards drove in the Ringstrasse and
the Prater, dined early at her father's palace, after giving Henriette
leave of absence for the evening, and also allowing the Countess de
Trauttenberg her freedom, saying that she intended to remain at home.
Then, shortly before eight o'clock, she ascended to her room, exchanged
her turquoise-blue dinner-gown for a plain, stiff, tailor-made dress,
put on a hat with a lace veil that concealed her features, and managed
to slip across the courtyard of the domestic offices and out of the
palace unseen.
The night was cloudy and dark, with threatening rain, as she crossed the
broad Parkring, entering the park near the Kursalon, and traversing the
deserted walks towards the River Wien. The chill wind whistled in the
budding trees above, sweeping up the dust in her path, and the
statuesque guard whom she passed in the shadow glanced inquisitively at
her, of course not recognising her.
There was no one in the Stadtpark at that hour, and all was silent,
gloomy, and dismal, well in keeping with her own sad thoughts. Behind
her, the street lamps of the Parkring showed in a long, straight line,
and before her were the lights on the Caroline Bridge, the spot
appointed for the meeting.
Her heart beat quickly. It was always difficult for her to escape
without the knowledge of De Trauttenberg or Henriette. The former was,
as a good lady-in-waiting should be, ever at her side, made her
engagements for her, and saw that she kept them. That night, however,
the Countess desired to visit her sister who was in Vienna with her
husband, therefore it had happened opportunely; and, freed of Henriette,
she had now little to fear.
The dress she wore was one she used when in the country. She had thrown
a short cape of Henriette's about her shoulders, and was thus
sufficiently disguised to avoid recognition by people in the streets.
As she came around a sudden bend in the pathway to the foot of the
bridge the dark figure of a man in a black overcoat emerged from the
shadow, and was next instant at her side, holding his hat in his hand
and bowing before her.
"I began to fear that your Imperial Highness would not come," he said
breathlessly in German. "Or that you had been prevented."
"Is it so very late, then?" she inquired in her sweet, musical voice, as
the man walked slowly at her side. "I had difficulty in getting away in
secret."
"No one has followed you, Princess?" he said, glancing anxiously behind
him. "Are you quite sure?"
"No one. I was very careful. But why have you asked me to come here?
Why were you at the ball last night? How did you manage to get a card?"
"I came expressly to see you, Princess," answered the young man in a
deep earnest voice. "It was difficult to get a command to the ball, but
I managed it, as I could approach you by no other way. At your
Highness's own Court you, as Crown Princess, are unapproachable for a
commoner like myself, and I feared to write to you, as De Trauttenberg
often attends to your correspondence."
"But you are my friend, Steinbach," she said. "I am always to be seen
by my friends."
"At your own risk, your Highness," he said quickly. "I know quite well
that last night when you stopped and spoke to me it was a great breach
of etiquette. Only it was imperative that I should see you to-night.
To you, Princess, I owe everything. I do not forget your great kindness
to me; how that I was a poor clerk out of work, with my dear wife ill
and starving, and how, by your letter of recommendation, I was appointed
in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, first as French translator, and now
as a secretary. Were it not for you, Princess, I and my family would
have starved. You saved me from ruin, and I hope you are confident that
in me, poor and humble though I am, you at least have a friend."
"I am sure of that, Steinbach," was her Highness's kindly reply. "We
need not cross the bridge," she said. "It is quiet along here, by the
river. We shall meet no one."
For a few moments a silence fell between them, and the Princess began to
wonder why he had asked her there to meet him.
At last, when they were in a dark and narrower pathway, he turned
suddenly to her and said,--
"Princess, I--I hardly know how to speak, for I fear that you may take
what I have to say in a wrong sense. I mean," he faltered, "I mean that
I fear you may think it impertinent of me to speak to you, considering
the great difference in our stations."
"Why?" she asked calmly, turning to him with some surprise. "Have you
not just told me that you are my friend?"
She noticed at that moment that he still held his hat in his hand, and
motioned to him to reassume it.
"Yes. I am your Highness's friend," he declared quickly. "If I were
not, I would not dare to approach you, or to warn you of what at this
moment is in progress."
"What is in progress?" she exclaimed in surprise. "Tell me."
She realised that this man had something serious to say, or surely he
would never have followed her to Vienna, and obtained entrance to the
Imperial Court by subterfuge.
"Your Highness is in peril," he declared in a low voice, halting and
standing before her. "You have enemies, fierce, bitter enemies, on
every side; enemies who are doing their utmost to estrange you from your
husband; relentless enemies who are conspiring might and main against
you and the little Princess Ignatia. They--"
"Against my child?" cried the Princess, amazed. "Do you really mean
that there is actually a conspiracy against me?"
"Alas! that is so, Highness," said the man, seriously and distinctly.
"By mere chance I have learnt of it, and being unable to approach you at
your own Court, I am here to give you timely warning of what is
intended." She was silent, gazing straight into her companion's face,
which was, however, hardly distinguishable in the darkness. She could
scarcely believe the truth of what this commoner told her. Could this
man, whom she had benefited by her all-powerful influence, have any
ulterior motive in lying to her?
"And what is intended?" she inquired in a strange, hard voice, still
half dubious and half convinced.
"There is a plot, a dastardly, widespread conspiracy to cause your
Highness's downfall and part you from the Crown Prince before he comes
to the throne," was his answer.
"But why? For what motive?" she inquired, starting at the amazing
revelation.
"Cannot your Highness discern that your jealous enemies are in fear of
you?" he said. "They know that one day ere long our invalid King must
die, and your husband will then ascend the throne. You will be Queen,
and they feel convinced that the day of your accession will be their
last day at Court--frankly, that having seen through their shams and
intrigues, you will dismiss them all and change the entire entourage."
"Ah! I see," replied the Crown Princess Claire in a hoarse, bitter
voice. "They fear me because they have realised their own shortcomings.
So they are conspiring against me to part me from my husband, and drive
me from Court! Yes," she sighed heavily, "I know that I have enemies on
every side. I am a Hapsbourg, and that in itself is sufficient to
prejudice them against me. I have never been a favourite with their
Majesties the King and Queen because of my Liberal tendencies. They
look upon me as a Socialist; indeed, almost as a revolutionist. Their
sycophants would be glad enough to see me banished from Court. And yet
the Court bow to me with all that hateful obsequiousness."
"Your Highness is, unfortunately, quite right," declared the man
Steinbach. "The Crown Prince is being enticed farther and farther from
you, as part of the ingenious plot now afoot. The first I knew of it
was by accident six months ago, when some letters from abroad fell into
my hands at the Ministry. The conspiracy is one that permeates the
whole Court. The daily talk of your enemies is the anticipation of your
downfall."
"My downfall! But how is that to be accomplished?" she demanded, her
fine eyes flashing with indignation. "I surely have nothing to fear--
have I? I beg of you to be quite candid with me, Steinbach. In this
affair your information may be of greatest service, and I am deeply
indebted to you. It staggers me. What have I done that these people
should seek my ruin?" she cried in blank dismay.
"Will your Highness pardon me if I tell the truth?" asked the man at her
side, speaking very seriously. "You have been too free, too frank, and
too open-minded. Every well-meant action of yours is turned to account
by those who seek to do you evil. Those whom you believe to be your
friends are your worst antagonists. I have longed to approach you and
tell you this for months, but I always feared. How could I reach you?
They are aware that the secret correspondence passed through my hands,
and therefore they suspect me of an intention of betraying them."
"Then you are here at imminent risk to yourself, Steinbach," she
remarked very slowly, looking again straight into his dark face.
"I am here as your Highness's friend," replied the young man simply.
"It is surely worth the risk to save my gracious benefactress from
falling victim to their foul, dastardly conspiracy?"
"And who, pray, are my worst antagonists?" she asked hoarsely.
He gave her rapidly half a dozen names of Court officials and persons in
the immediate entourage of their Majesties.
"And," he added, "do not trust the Countess de Trauttenberg. She is
playing you false. She acts as spy upon you and notes your every
action."
"The Countess--their spy!" she gasped, utterly taken aback, for if there
was one person at Court in whom she had the utmost confidence it was the
woman who had been in her personal service ever since her marriage.
"I have documentary proof of it," the man said quietly. "I would beg of
your Highness to make no sign whatever that the existence of the plot is
known to you, but at the same time exercise the greatest caution, both
for your own sake and that of the little Princess."
"Surely they do not mean to kill me, Steinbach?" she exclaimed in alarm.
"No--worse. They intend to banish your Highness from Court in disgrace,
as a woman unworthy to reign over us as Queen. They fear you because
you have discovered their own intrigues, corruptions, and scandals, and
they intend that, at all costs, you shall never ascend the throne."
"But my husband! He should surely know this!"
"Princess," exclaimed the clean-shaven young man, speaking very slowly
and seriously, "I regret that it is I who am compelled to reveal this to
you, but the Crown Prince already believes ill of you. He suspects; and
therefore whatever lies they, now invent concerning you he accepts as
truth. Princess," he added in a low, hard voice, "you are in deadly
peril. There, the truth is out, for I cannot keep it from you longer.
I am poor, unknown, without influence. All I can do is to give you this
warning in secret, because I hope that I may call myself your friend."
The unhappy daughter of the Imperial house was silent. The revelation
was startling and amazing. She had never realised that a plot was afoot
against her in her husband's kingdom. Words entirely failed her. She
and her little daughter Ignatia were marked down as victims. She now
for the first time realised her peril, yet she was powerless to stem the
tide of misfortune that, sooner or later, must overwhelm her and crush
her. She stood there a defenceless woman.