As the twilight fell on the following afternoon a fiacre drew up before
the Hotel Imperial, one of the best and most select hotels in the
Kartner Ring, in Vienna, and from it descended a lady attired in the
deep mourning of a widow.
Of the gold-laced concierge she inquired for Count Carl Leitolf, and was
at once shown into the lift and conducted to a private sitting-room on
the second floor, where a young, fair-moustached, good-looking man, with
well-cut, regular features and dark brown eyes, rose quickly as the door
opened and the waiter announced her.
The moment the door had closed and they were alone he took his visitor's
hand and raised it reverently to his lips, bowing low, with the
exquisite grace of the born courtier.
In an instant she drew it from him and threw back her veil, revealing
her pale, beautiful face--the face of her Imperial Highness the Crown
Princess Claire.
"Highness!" the man exclaimed, glancing anxiously at the door to
reassure himself that it was closed, "I had your note this morning,
but--but are you not running too great a risk by coming here? I could
not reply, fearing that my letter might fall into other hands; otherwise
I would on no account have allowed you to come. You may have been
followed. There are, as you know, spies everywhere."
"I have come, Carl, because I wish to speak to you," she said, looking
unflinchingly into his handsome face. "I wish to know by what right you
have followed me here--to Vienna?"
He drew back in surprise, for her attitude was entirely unexpected.
"I came here upon my own private affairs," he answered.
"That is not the truth," she declared in quick resentment. "You are
here because you believed that you might meet me at the reception after
the State dinner to-night. You applied for a card for it in order that
you could see me--and this, after what passed between us the other day!
Do you consider that you are treating me fairly? Cannot you see that
your constant attentions are compromising me and causing people to
talk?"
"And what, pray, does your Imperial Highness care for this idle Court
gossip?" asked the well-dressed, athletic-looking man, at the same time
placing a chair for her and bowing her to it. "There has been enough of
it already, and you have always expressed the utmost disregard of
anything that might be said, or any stories that might be invented."
"I know," she answered. "But this injudicious action of yours in
following me here is utter madness. It places me in peril. You are
known in Vienna, remember."
"Then if that is your view, your Highness, I can only apologise," he
said most humbly. "I will admit that I came here in order to be able to
get a few minutes' conversation with you to-night. At our Court at home
you know how very difficult it is for me to speak with you, for the
sharp eye of the Trauttenberg is ever upon you."
The Princess's arched brows contracted slightly. She recollected what
Steinbach had revealed to her regarding her lady-in-waiting.
"And it is surely best that you should have difficulty in approaching
me," she said. "I have not forgotten your foolish journey to Paris,
where I had gone incognito to see my old nurse, and how you compelled me
to go out and see the sights in your company. We were recognised. Do
you know that?" she exclaimed in a hard voice. "A man who knew us both
sent word to Court that we were in Paris together."
"Recognised!" he gasped, the colour fading instantly from his face.
"Who saw us?"
"Of his identity I'm not aware," she answered, for she was a clever
diplomatist, and could keep a secret well. She did not reveal Scheel's
name. "I only know that our meeting in Paris is no secret. They
suspect me, and I have you to thank for whatever scandal may now be
invented concerning us."
The lithe, clean-limbed man was silent, his head bent before her. What
could he reply? He knew, alas! too well, that in following her from
Germany to Paris he had acted very injudiciously. She was believed to
be taking the baths at Aix, but a sudden caprice had seized her to run
up to Paris and see her old French nurse, to whom she was much attached.
He had learnt her intention in confidence, and had met her in Paris and
shown her the city. It had been an indiscretion, he admitted.
Yet the recollection of those few delightful days of freedom remained
like a pleasant dream. He recollected her childish delight of it all.
It was out of the season, and they believed that they could go hither
and thither, like the crowds of tourists do, without fear of
recognition. Yet Fate, it seemed, had been against them, and their
secret meeting was actually known!
"Cannot you see the foolishness of it all?" she asked in a low, serious
voice. "Cannot you see, Carl, that your presence here lends colour to
their suspicions? I have enemies--fierce, bitter enemies--as you must
know too well, and yet you imperil me like this!" she cried
reproachfully.
"I can make no defence, Princess," he said lamely. "I can only regret
deeply having caused you any annoyance."
"Annoyance!" she echoed in anger. "Your injudicious actions have placed
me in the greatest peril. The people have coupled our names, and you
are known to have followed me on here."
Her companion was silent, his eyes downcast, as though not daring to
meet her reproachful gaze.
"I have been foolish--very foolish, I know," she cried. "In the old
days, when we knew each other at Wartenstein, a boy-and-girl affection
sprang up between us; and then, when you left the University, they sent
you as attache to the Embassy in London, and we gradually forgot each
other. You grew tired of diplomacy, and returned to find me the wife of
the Crown Prince; and in a thoughtless moment I promised, at your
request, to recommend you to a post in the private cabinet of the King.
Since that day I have always regretted. I ought never to have allowed
you to return. I am as much to blame as you are, for it was an entirely
false step. Yet how was I to know?"
"True, my Princess!" said the man in a low, choking voice. "How were
you to know that I still loved you in silence, that I was aware of the
secret of your domestic unhappiness, that I--"
"Enough!" she cried, drawing herself up. "The word love surely need not
be spoken between us. I know it all, alas! Yet I beg of you to
remember that I am the wife of another, and a woman of honour."
"Ah yes," he exclaimed, his trembling hand resting on the back of the
chair upon which she sat. "Honour--yes. I love you, Claire--you surely
know that well. But we do not speak of it; it is a subject not to be
discussed by us. Day after day, unable to speak to you, I watch you in
silence. I know your bitterness in that gilded prison they call the
Court, and long always to help you and rescue you from that--that man to
whom you are, alas! wedded. It is all so horrible, so loathsome, that I
recoil when I see him smiling upon you while at heart he hates you. For
weeks, since last we spoke together, how I have lived I scarcely know--
utter despair, insane hopes alternately possess me--but at last the day
came, and I followed you here to speak with you, my Princess."
She remained silent, somewhat embarrassed, as he took her gloved hand
and again kissed it.
She was nervous, but next instant determined.
"Alas! I have not failed to notice your strong affection for me, Carl,"
she said with a heavy sigh, her beautiful face slightly flushed. "You
must therefore control this passion that seems to have been rekindled
within your heart. For my sake go, and forget me," she implored.
"Resign your appointment, and re-enter the diplomatic service of the
Emperor. I will speak to Lindenau, who will give you an appointment,
say, in Rome or Paris. But you must not remain at Treysa. I--I will
not allow it."
"But, Princess," he cried in dismay, "I cannot go and leave you there
alone among your enemies. You--"
"You must; for, unintentionally, because you have my interests at heart,
you are my worst enemy. You are indiscreet, just as every man is who
loves a woman truly."
"Then you really believe I love you still, Claire," he cried, bending
towards her. "You remember those delightfully happy days at Wartenstein
long ago, when--"
She held up her hand to stop the flow of his words.
He looked at her. For an instant her glance wavered and shrank.
She was his idol, the beautiful idol with eyes like heaven.
Yes, she was very beautiful--beautiful with all the beauty of woman now,
not with the beauty of the girl.
And she, with her sad gaze fixed upon him, remembered all the past--the
great old castle in the far-off Tyrol, her laughter at his awkwardness;
their chats in English when both were learning that language; the
quarrel over the lilac blossom. At Arcachon--the shore and the pine
forest; the boyish kiss stolen under the mistletoe; the declaration of
their young love on that lonely mountain-side with the world lying at
their feet; the long, sweet, silent kisses exchanged on their homeward
walk; the roses she had given him as farewell pledge when he had left
for London.
All had gone--gone for ever.
Nevertheless, though everything was past, she could not resist an
impulse to recall it--oh, very briefly--in a few feeling words, as one
may recall some sweet and rapturous dream.
"We were very foolish," she said.
He was silent. His heart was too full for words. He knew that a woman
who can look back on the past--on rapture, delight, the first thrilling
kiss, the first fervent vow--and say, "We were very foolish," is a woman
changed beyond recall.
In other days, had he heard such sacrilegious words a cry of horror
would have sprung from his lips. But now, though he shuddered with
anguish, he simply said,--
"I shall always remember it, Princess;" adding, with a glance at her,
"and you."
Her wonderful eyes shrank once more and her lips quivered, as though for
one second touched again by the light wing of love--as if, indeed, she
felt she had done something unworthy of her, something which might bring
her regret hereafter.
In the midst of his confusion, the man remained victorious. She would
never be his, and yet she would be his for ever. No matter how she
might strive, she would never entirely forget.
She sighed, and rising, walked unsteadily to the window, where, below,
the street lamps were just being lit. Daylight had faded, and in the
room it was almost dark.
"To-night, Carl, we meet for the last time," she said with an effort, in
a hard, strained voice. "Both for you and for me it is best that we
should part and forget. I did wrong to recommend you to the post at
Court, and I ought to have foreseen the grave peril of the situation.
Fortunately, I have realised it in time, even though our enemies already
believe ill and invent lies concerning us. You must not return to
Court. Remember, I forbid you. To-night, at the State dinner, I will
speak to Lindenau and ask him to send you as attache to Rome or to
Petersburg. It is the wisest course."
"Then your Highness really intends to banish me?" he said hoarsely, in a
low, broken voice of reproach.
"Yes," she faltered. "I--I must--Carl--to--to save myself."
"But you are cruel--very cruel--Princess," he cried, his voice trembling
with emotion.
"You must realise my peril," she said seriously. "Your presence at
Court increases my danger hourly, because"--and she hesitated--"because,
Carl, I confess to you that I do not forget--I never shall forget," she
added as the tears sprang to her blue eyes. "Therefore, go! Let me
bear my own burden as best I can alone, and let me remember you as what
you have always been--chivalrous to an unhappy woman; a man of honour."
Slowly she moved across the room towards the door, but he arrested her
progress, and took her small hand quickly in his grasp.
For some moments, in the falling gloom, he looked into her sweet,
tearful face without speaking; then crushing down the lump that arose in
his throat, he raised to his hot, passionate lips the hand of the woman
he loved, and, imprinting upon it a tender, lingering kiss, murmured,--
"Adieu, Claire--my Princess--my first, my only love!" She drew her hand
away as his passionate words fell upon her ear, sighed heavily, and in
silence opened the door and passed out from his presence.
And thus were two brave hearts torn asunder.