That night, six hours later, when the great palace was silent save for
the tramping of the sentries, the Princess sat in the big chair at her
window, looking out upon the park, white beneath the bright moonbeams.
The room was in darkness, save for the tiny silver lamp burning before
the picture of the Madonna. The Trauttenberg had found her lying
insensible, and with Henriette's aid had restored her to consciousness
and put her to bed. Then the Countess had gone along to the Crown
Prince and told him that his wife had been seized with a fainting fit,
and was indisposed.
And the three guests, when he told them, exchanged significant glances,
and were silent.
In the darkness, with the moonlight falling across the room, the
Princess, in her white silk dressing-gown, sat staring straight before
her out upon the fairy-like scene presented below. No word escaped her
pale lips, yet she shuddered, and drew her laces about her as though she
were chilled.
She was recalling those hard words of her husband's which she had
overheard--the words that revealed to her the ghastly truth. If ever
she had suffered during her married life, she suffered at that moment.
It was cruel, unjust, dastardly. Was there no love or justice for her?
The truth was a ghastly one. Those three strangers whom her husband had
introduced to her table as guests were doctors, two from Berlin and the
third from Cologne--specialists in mental disease. They had come there
for the purpose of adding their testimony and certificates to that of
Veltman, the crafty, thin-nosed Court physician, to declare that she was
insane!
What fees were promised those men, or how that plot had been matured,
she could only imagine. Yet the grim fact remained that her enemies,
with the old King and her husband at their head, intended to confine her
in an asylum.
She had heard her husband himself suggest that on the morrow they should
meet Veltman, a white-bearded, bald-headed old charlatan whom she
detested, and add their testimony to his that she was not responsible
for her actions. Could anything be more cold-blooded, more absolutely
outrageous? Those words of her husband showed her plainly that in his
heart there now remained not one single spark either of affection or of
sentiment. He was anxious, at all hazards and at whatever cost, by fair
means or foul, to rid himself of her.
Her enemies were now playing their trump card. They had no doubt bribed
those three men to certify what was a direct untruth. A royal sovereign
can, alas I command the services of any one; for everybody, more or
less, likes to render to royalty a service in the hope of decoration or
of substantial reward. Most men are at heart place-seekers. Men who
are most honest and upright in their daily lives will not hesitate to
perjure themselves, or "stretch a point" as they would doubtless put it,
where royalty is concerned.
Gazing out into the brilliant moonlight mirrored upon the smooth surface
of the lake, she calmly reviewed the situation.
She was in grave peril--so grave, indeed, that she was now utterly
bewildered as to what her next step should be. Once certified as a
lunatic and shut up in an asylum somewhere away in the heart of the
country, all hope of the future would be cut off. She would be entirely
at the mercy of those who so persistently and unscrupulously sought her
end. Having failed in their other plot against, her, they intended to
consign her to a living tomb.
Yet by good fortune had her curiosity been aroused, and she had
overheard sufficient to reveal to her the truth. Her face was now hard,
her teeth firmly set. Whatever affection she had borne her husband was
crushed within her now that she realised how ingeniously he was
conspiring against her, and to what length he was actually prepared to
go in order to rid himself of her.
She thought of Ignatia, poor, innocent little Ignatia, the child whom
its father had cursed from the very hour of its birth, the royal
Princess who one day might be crowned a reigning sovereign. What would
become of her? Would her own Imperial family stand by and see their
daughter incarcerated in a madhouse when she was as sane as they
themselves--more sane, perhaps?
She sat bewildered.
With the Emperor against her, however, she had but little to hope for in
that quarter. His Majesty actually believed the scandal that had been
circulated concerning Leitolf, and had himself declared to her face that
she must be mad.
Was it possible that those hot words of the Emperor's had been seized
upon by her husband to obtain a declaration that she was really insane?
Insane? She laughed bitterly to herself at such a thought.
"Ah!" she sighed sadly, speaking hoarsely to herself. "What I have
suffered and endured here in this awful place are surely sufficient to
send any woman mad. Yet God has been very good to me, and has allowed
me still to preserve all my faculties intact. Why don't they have some
assassin to kill me?" she added desperately. "It would surely be more
humane than what they now intend."
Steinbach, her faithful but secret friend, was on his way to Vienna.
She wondered whether, after reading the letter, the Emperor would relent
towards her? Surely the whole world could not unite as her enemy.
There must be human pity and sympathy in the hearts of some, as there
was in the heart of the humble Steinbach.
Not one of the thirty millions over whom she would shortly rule was so
unhappy as she that night. Beyond the park shone the myriad lights of
the splendid capital, and she wondered whether any one living away there
so very far from the world ever guessed how lonely and wretched was her
life amid all that gorgeous pomp and regal splendour.
Those three grave, spectacled men who had dined at her table and talked
their scientific jargon intended to denounce her. They had been quick
to recognise that a future king is a friend not to be despised, while
the bankers' drafts that certain persons had promised them in exchange
for their signatures as experts would no doubt be very acceptable.
Calmly she reviewed the situation, and saw that, so clearly had her
enemies estranged her from every one, she was without one single friend.
For her child's sake it was imperative for her to save herself. And she
could only save herself by flight. But whither? The only course open
to her was to leave secretly, taking little Ignatia with her, return to
her father, and lay before him the dastardly plot now in progress.
Each hour she remained at the palace increased her peril. Once
pronounced insane by those three specialists there would be no hope for
her. Her enemies would take good care that she was consigned to an
asylum, and that her actions were misconstrued into those of a person
insane.
Her heart beat quickly as she thought out the best means of secret
escape.
To leave that night was quite impossible. Allen was sleeping with
Ignatia; and besides, the guards at the palace gate, on seeing her make
her exit at that hour, would chatter among themselves, in addition to
which there were no express trains to Vienna in the night. The best
train was at seven o'clock in the evening, for upon it was a _wagon-lit_
and dining-car that went through to the Austrian capital, _via_ Eger.
About six o'clock in the evening would be the best time to secure the
child, for Allen and Henriette would then both be at dinner, and little
Ignatia would be in charge of the under-nurse, whom she could easily
send away upon some pretext. Besides, at that hour she could secure
some of Henriette's clothes, and with her veil down might pass the
sentries, who would probably take her for the French maid herself.
She calculated that her absence would not be noted by her servants till
nearly eight; for there was a Court ball on the morrow, and on nights of
the balls she always dressed later.
And so, determined to leave the great palace which to her was a prison,
she carefully thought over all the details of her flight. On the morrow
she would send to the royal treasurer for a sum of money, ostensibly to
make a donation to one of her charities.
Presently rising, she closed the shutters, and switching on the electric
light, opened the safe in the wall where her jewels were kept--mostly
royal heirlooms that were worth nearly a million sterling.
Case after case she drew out and opened. Her two magnificent tiaras,
her emerald and diamond necklet, the great emerald pendant, once the
property of Catherine di Medici, six wonderful collars of perfect pearls
and some other miscellaneous jewels, all of them magnificent, she
replaced in the safe, as they were heirlooms of the Kingdom. Those
royal tiaras as Crown Princess she placed in their cases and put them
away with a sigh, for she knew she was renouncing her crown for ever.
Her own jewels, quite equal in magnificence, she took from their cases
and placed together upon the bed. There was her magnificent long rope
of pearls, that when worn twice twisted around her neck hung to below
the knees, and was declared to be one of the finest in the world; her
two diamond collars, her wonderful diamond bodice ornaments, her many
pairs of earrings, antique brooches, and other jewels--she took them all
from their cases until they lay together, a brilliant, scintillating
heap, the magnificent gems flashing with a thousand fires.
At last she drew forth a leather case about six inches square, and
opening it, gazed upon it in hesitancy. Within was a large true-lover's
knot in splendid diamonds, and attached to it was the black ribbon and
the jewelled cross--her decoration as Dame de la Croix Etoilee of
Austria, the order bestowed upon the Imperial Archduchesses.
She looked at it wistfully. Sight of it brought to her mind the fact
that in renouncing her position she must also renounce that mark of her
Imperial birth. Yet she was determined, and with trembling fingers
detached the ribbon and cross from the diamond ornament, threw the
latter on to the heap upon the bed, and replaced the former with the
jewels she intended to leave behind.
The beautiful cross had been bestowed upon her by her uncle the Emperor
upon her marriage, and would now be sent back to him.
She took two large silk handkerchiefs from a drawer, and made two
bundles of the precious gems. Then she hid them away until the morrow,
and reclosing the safe, locked it; and taking the key off the bunch,
placed it in the drawer of her little escritoire.
Thus she had taken the first step towards her emancipation.
Her eye caught the Madonna, with its silver lamp, and she halted before
it, her head bowed, her lips moving in silent prayer as she sought help,
protection, and guidance in the act of renunciation she was about to
commit.
Then, after ten minutes or so, she again moved slowly across the room,
opening the great inlaid wardrobe where hung a few of her many dresses.
She looked upon them in silence. All must be left behind, she decided.
She could only take what she could carry in her hand. She would leave
her personal belongings to be divided up by that crowd of human wolves
who hungered to destroy her. The Trauttenberg might have them as her
perquisites--in payment for her treachery.
By that hour to-morrow she would have left Treysa for ever. She would
begin a new life--a life of simplicity and of freedom, with her darling
child.
Presently she slept again, but it was a restless, fevered sleep.
Constantly she wondered whether it would be possible for her to pass
those palace guards with little Ignatia. If they recognised the child
they might stop her, for only Allen herself was permitted to take her
outside the palace.
Yet she must risk it; her only means of escape was that upon which she
had decided.
Next day passed very slowly. The hours dragged by as she tried to
occupy herself in her boudoir, first with playing with the child, and
afterwards attending to her correspondence. She wrote no letter of
farewell, as she deemed it wiser to take her leave without a word. Yet
even in those last hours of her dignity as Crown Princess her thoughts
were with the many charitable institutions of which she was patroness,
and of how best she could benefit them by writing orders to the royal
treasurer to give them handsome donations in her name.
She saw nothing of her husband. For aught she knew, those three
grave-faced doctors might have already consulted with Veltman; they
might have already declared her insane.
The afternoon passed, and alone she took her tea in English fashion,
little Ignatia being brought to her for half an hour, as was the rule
when she was without visitors. She had already been to Henriette's room
in secret, and had secured a black-stuff dress and packet, a long black
travelling-coat and a felt canotte, all of which she had taken to her
own room and hidden in her wardrobe.
When Allen took the child's hand in order to lead her out, her mother
glanced anxiously at the clock, and saw that it was half-past five.
"You can leave Ignatia here while you go to dinner," she said in
English; "she will be company for me. Tell the servants that I am not
to be disturbed, even by the Countess de Trauttenberg."
"Very well, your Highness," was the Englishwoman's answer, as bowing she
left the room.
For another quarter of an hour she laughed and played with the child,
then said,--
"Come, darling, let us go along to my room." And taking her tiny hand,
led her gently along the corridor to her own chamber. Once within she
locked the door, and quickly throwing off her own things, assumed those
of the maid which she took from the wardrobe. Then upon Ignatia she put
a cheap dark coat of grey material and a dark-blue woollen cap which at
once concealed the child's golden curls. This concluded, she assumed a
thick black lace veil, which well concealed her features, and around her
throat she twisted a silken scarf. The collar of her coat, turned up,
hid the colour of her hair, and her appearance was in a few moments well
transformed. Indeed, she presented the exact prototype of her maid
Henriette.
The jewels were in a cheap leather hand-bag, also the maid's property.
This she placed in her dressing-bag, and with it in her hand she took up
little Ignatia, saying,--
"Hush, darling! don't speak a word. You'll promise mother, won't you?"
The child, surprised at all this preparation, gave her promise, but
still remained inquisitive.
Then the Crown Princess Claire gave a final glance around the room, the
scene of so much of her bitter domestic unhappiness. Sighing heavily,
she crossed herself before the Madonna, uttered a few low words in
prayer, and unlocking the door stole out into the long, empty corridor.
Those were exciting moments--the most exciting in all her life.
With her heart beating quickly she sped onward to the head of the great
marble gilt staircase. Along one of the side corridors a royal valet
was approaching, and the man nodded to her familiarly, believing her to
be Henriette.
At the head of the staircase she looked down, but saw nobody. It was
the hour when all the servants were at their evening meal. Therefore,
descending quickly, she passed through the great winter garden, a
beautiful place where, among the palms and flowers, were cunningly
placed tiny electric lamps. Across a large courtyard she went--as it
was a short cut from that wing of the palace in which her apartments
were situated--and at last she reached the main entrance, where stood
the head concierge in his cocked hat and scarlet livery, and where idled
an agent of police in plain clothes, reading the evening paper.
At her approach they both glanced at her.
She held her breath. What if they stopped her on account of the child?
But summoning all her courage she went forward, compelled to pass them
quite closely.
Then as she advanced she nodded familiarly to the gold-laced janitor,
who to her relief wished her good-evening, and she passed out into the
park.
She had successfully passed through one peril, but there was yet a
second--those carefully-guarded gilded gates which gave entrance to the
royal demesne. Day and night they were watched by palace servants and
the agents of police entrusted with his Majesty's personal safety.
She sped on down the broad gravelled drive, scarce daring to breathe,
and on arrival at the gatehouse passed in it, compelled to make her exit
through the small iron turnstile where sat two men, the faithful
white-bearded old gatekeeper, who had been fifty years in the royal
service, and a dark-faced brigadier of police. Recognition would mean
her incarceration in an asylum as insane.
Both men looked up as she entered. It was the supreme moment of her
peril. She saw that the detective was puzzled by her veil. But she
boldly passed by them, saying in French, in a voice in imitation of
Henriette's,--
"_Bon soir, messieurs_!"
The old gatekeeper, in his low, gruff German, wished her good-night
unsuspiciously, drew the lever which released the turnstile, and next
moment the Crown Princess Claire stepped out into the world beyond--a
free woman.