"AN OPEN SCANDAL!"
At Klosterneuberg, six miles from Vienna, Leitolf kissed her hand in
deep reverence, taking sad leave of her, for on arrival at the capital
she would probably be recognised, and they both deemed it judicious that
she should be alone.
"Good-bye," he said earnestly, holding her hand as the train ran into
the suburban station. "This meeting of ours has been a strange and
unexpected one, and this is, I suppose, our last leave-taking. I have
nothing to add," he sighed. "You know that I am ever your servant, ever
ready to serve your Imperial Highness in whatsoever manner you may
command. May God bless and comfort you. Adieu."
"Good-bye, Carl," she said brokenly. It was all she could say. She
restrained her tears by dint of great effort.
Then, when he had gone and closed the carriage door, she burst into a
fit of sobbing. By his absence it seemed to her that the light of her
life had been extinguished. She was alone, in hopeless despair.
Darkness had now fallen, and as the train rushed on its final run along
the precipitous slopes of the Kahlenberg, little Ignatia placed her arms
around her mother's neck and said,--
"Mother, don't cry, or I shall tell Allen, and she'll scold you. Poor,
dear mother!"
The Princess kissed the child's soft arms, and at length managed to dry
her own eyes, assuming her hat and veil in preparation for arrival at
the capital. And none too soon, for ere she had dressed Ignatia and
assumed her own disguise the train slowed down and stopped, while the
door was thrown open and a porter stood ready to take her wraps.
She took Ignatia in her arms and descended in the great station, bright
beneath its electric lamps, and full of bustle and movement. She saw
nothing more of Leitolf, who had disappeared into the crowd. He had
wished her farewell for ever.
A fiacre conveyed her to her father's magnificent palace in the
Parkring, where on arrival the gorgeous concierge, mistaking her for a
domestic, treated her with scant courtesy.
"His Imperial Highness the Archduke is not in Vienna," was his answer.
"What's your business with him, pray?"
The Princess, laughing, raised her veil, whereupon the gruff old fellow,
a highly-trusted servant, stammered deep apologies, took off his hat,
and bent to kiss the hand of the daughter of the Imperial house.
"My father is away, Franz? Where is he?"
"At Wartenstein, your Imperial Highness. He left yesterday," and he
rang the electric bell to summon the major-domo.
She resolved to remain the night, and then resume her journey to the
castle. Therefore, with little Ignatia still in her arms, she ascended
the grand staircase, preceded by the pompous servitor, until she reached
the small green-and-gilt salon which she always used when she came
there.
Two maids were quickly in attendance, electric lights were switched on
everywhere, and the bustle of servants commenced as soon as the news
spread that the Archduchess Claire had returned.
Several of the officials of the Archducal Court came to salute her, and
the housekeeper came to her to receive orders, which, being simple, were
quickly given.
She retired to her room with little Ignatia, and after putting the child
to bed, removed the dust of travel and went to one of the smaller
dining-rooms, where two men in the Imperial livery served her dinner in
stiff silence.
Her father being absent, many of the rooms were closed, the furniture
swathed in holland, and the quiet of the great, gorgeous place was to
her distinctly depressing. She was anxious to know how her father would
take her flight--whether he would approve of it or blame her.
She sent distinct orders to Franz that no notice was to be given to the
journals of her unexpected return, remarking at the same time that he
need not send to the station, as she had arrived without baggage. If it
were known in Vienna that she had returned, the news would quickly be
telegraphed back to Treysa. Besides, when the fact of her presence in
the Austrian capital was known, she would, as Crown Princess, be
compelled by Court etiquette to go at once and salute her uncle the
Emperor. This she had no desire to do just at present. His hard,
unjust words at her last interview with him still rankled in her memory.
His Majesty was not her friend. That had recently been made entirely
plain.
So, after dining, she chatted for a short time with De Bothmer, her
father's private secretary, who came to pay his respects to her, and
then retired to her own room--the room with the old ivory crucifix where
the oil light burnt dimly in its red glass.
She crossed herself before it, and her lips moved in silent prayer.
A maid came to her and reported that little Ignatia was sleeping
soundly, but that was not sufficient. She went herself along the
corridor to the child's room and saw that she was comfortable, giving
certain instructions with maternal anxiety.
Then she returned to her room accompanied by the woman, who, inquisitive
regarding her young mistress's return, began to chat to her while she
brushed and plaited her hair, telling her all the latest gossip of the
palace.
The Archduke, her father, had, it appeared, gone to Wartenstein for a
fortnight, and had arranged to go afterwards to Vichy for the cure, and
thence to Paris; therefore, next morning, taking the maid with her to
look after little Ignatia, she left Vienna again for the Tyrol,
travelling by Linz and Salsburg to Rosenheim, and then changing on to
the Innsbruck line and alighting, about six o'clock in the evening, at
the little station of Rattenberg. There she took a hired carriage along
the post road into the beautiful Zillerthal Alps, where, high up in a
commanding position ten miles away, her old home was situated--one of
the finest and best-preserved mediaeval castles in Europe.
It was already dark, and rain was falling as the four horses, with their
jingling bells, toiled up the steep, winding road, the driver cracking
his whip, proud to have the honour of driving her Imperial Highness, who
until four years ago had spent the greater part of her life there.
Little Ignatia, tired out by so much travelling, slept upon her mother's
knee, and the Crown Princess herself dozed for a time, waking to find
that they were still toiling up through the little village of Fugen,
which was her own property.
Presently, three miles farther on, she looked out of the carriage
window, and there, high up in the darkness, she saw the lighted windows
of the great, grim stronghold which, nearly a thousand years ago, had
been the fortress of the ancient Kings of Carinthia, those warlike
ancestors of hers whose valiant deeds are still recorded in song and
story.
Half an hour later the horses clattered into the great courtyard of the
castle, and the old castellan came forth in utter amazement to bow
before her.
Electric bells were rung, servants came forward quickly, the Archduke's
chamberlain appeared in surprise, and the news spread in an instant
through the servants' quarters that the Archduchess Claire--whom the
whole household worshipped--had returned and had brought with her the
tiny Princess Ignatia.
Everywhere men and women bowed low before her as, preceded by the
black-coated chamberlain, she went through those great, old vaulted
halls she knew so well, and up the old stone winding stairs to the room
which was still reserved for her, and which had not been disturbed since
she had left it to marry.
On entering she glanced around, and sighed in relief. At last she was
back at home again in dear old Wartenstein. Her dream of liberty was
actually realised!
Little Ignatia and the nurse were given an adjoining room which she had
used as a dressing-room, and as she stood there alone every object in
the apartment brought back to her sweet memories of her girlhood, with
all its peaceful hours of bliss, happiness, and high ideals.
It was not a large room, but extremely cosy. The windows in the
ponderous walls allowed deep alcoves, where she loved to sit and read on
summer evenings, and upon one wall was the wonderful old
fourteenth-century tapestry representing a tournament, which had been a
scene always before her ever since she could remember. The bed, too,
was gilded, quaint and old-fashioned, with hangings of rich crimson silk
brocade of three centuries ago. Indeed, the only modern innovations
there were the big toilet-table with its ancient silver bowl and ewer,
and the two electric lights suspended above.
Old Adelheid, her maid when she was a girl, came quickly to her, and
almost shed tears of joy at her young mistress's return. Adelheid, a
stout, round-faced, grey-haired woman, had nursed her as a child, and it
was she who had served her until the day when she had left Vienna for
Treysa after her unfortunate marriage.
"My sweet Princess!" cried the old serving-woman as she entered, and,
bending, kissed her hand, "only this moment I heard that you had come
back to us. This is really a most delightful surprise. I heard that
you were in Vienna the other day, and wondered whether you would come to
see us all at old Wartenstein--or whether at your Court so far away you
had forgotten us all."
"Forgotten you, Adelheid!" she exclaimed quickly, pushing her fair hair
from her brow, for her head ached after her fatiguing journey; "why, I
am always thinking of the dear old place, and of you--who used to scold
me so."
"When you deserved it, my Princess," laughed the pleasant old woman.
"Ah!" she added, "those were happy times, weren't they? But you were
often really incorrigible, you know, especially when you used to go down
into the valley and meet young Carl Leitolf in secret. You remember--
eh? And how I found you out?"
Claire held her breath for a moment at mention of that name.
"Yes, Adelheid," she said in a somewhat changed tone. "And you were
very good. You never betrayed our secret."
"No. Because I believed that you both loved each other--that
boy-and-girl love which is so very sweet while it lasts, but is no more
durable than the thistledown. But let us talk of the present now. I'll
go and order dinner for you, and see that you have everything
comfortable. I hope you will stay with us a long, long time. This is
your first return since your marriage, remember."
"Where is my father?" her Highness asked, taking off her hat, and
rearranging her hair before the mirror.
"In the green salon. He was with the secretary, Wernhardt, but I passed
the latter going out as I came up the stairs. The Archduke is therefore
alone."
"Then I will go and see him before I dine," she said; so, summoning all
her courage, she gave a final touch to her hair and went out, and down
the winding stairs, afterwards making her way to the opposite side of
the ponderous stronghold, where her father's study--called the green
salon on account of the old green silk hangings and upholstery--was
situated.
She halted at the door, but for an instant only; then, pale-faced and
determined, she entered the fine room with the groined roof, where, at a
table at the farther end, her father, in plain evening dress, was
writing beneath a shaded lamp.
He raised his bald head and glanced round to see who was the intruder
who entered there without knocking. Then, recognising his daughter, he
turned slowly in his writing-chair, his brows knit, exclaiming coldly
the single inquiry,--
"Well?"
His displeasure at her appearance was apparent. He did not even welcome
her, or inquire the reason of her return. The expression upon his thin,
grey face showed her that he was annoyed.
She rushed across to kiss him, but he put out his hand coldly, and held
her at arm's length.
"There is time for that later, Claire," he said in a hard voice. "I
understand that you have left Treysa?"
"Yes, I have. Who told you?"
"The Crown Prince, your husband, has informed me by telegraph of your
scandalous action."
"Scandalous action!" she cried quickly, while in self-defence she began
to implore the sympathy of the hard-hearted old Archduke, a man of iron
will and a bigot as regarded religion. In a few quick sentences, as she
stood before him in the centre of the room, she told him of all she had
suffered; of her tragic life in her gilded prison at Treysa; of the
insults heaped upon her by the King and Queen; of her husband's
ill-treatment; and finally, of the ingenious plot to certify her as
demented.
"And I have come to you, father, for protection for myself and my
child," she added earnestly. "If I remain longer at Treysa my enemies
will drive me really insane. I have tried to do my duty, God knows, but
those who seek my downfall are, alas! too strong. I am a woman, alone
and helpless. Surely you, my own father, will not refuse to assist your
daughter, who is the victim of a foul and dastardly plot?" she cried in
tears, advancing towards him. "I have come back to live here with my
child in seclusion and in peace--to obtain the freedom for which I have
longed ever since I entered that scandalous and unscrupulous Court of
Treysa. I implore of you, father, for my dear, dead mother's sake, to
have pity upon me, to at least stand by me as my one friend in all the
world--you--my own father!"
He remained perfectly unmoved. His thin, bloodless face only relaxed
into a dubious smile, and he responded in a hard voice,--
"You have another friend, Claire," Then he rose from his chair, his eyes
suddenly aflame with anger as he asked, "Why do you come here with such
lies as these upon your lips? To ask my assistance is utterly useless.
I have done with you. It is too late to-night for you to leave
Wartenstein, but recollect that you go from here before ten o'clock
to-morrow morning, and that during my lifetime you never enter again
beneath this roof!"
"But, father--why?" she gasped, staring at him amazed.
"Why? Why, because the whole world is scandalised by your conduct!
Every one knows that the reason of your unhappiness with the Crown
Prince is because you have a lover--that low-bred fellow Leitolf--a man
of the people," he sneered. "Your conduct at Treysa was an open
scandal, and in Vienna you actually visited him at his hotel. The
Emperor called me, and told me so. He is highly indignant that you
should bring such an outrageous scandal upon our house, and--"
"Father, I deny that Count Leitolf is my lover!" she cried, interrupting
him. "Even you, my own father, defame me," she added bitterly.
"Defame you!" he sneered. "Bah! you cannot deceive me when you have
actually eloped from Treysa with the fellow. See," he cried, taking a
telegram from the table and holding it before her, "do you deny what is
here reported--that you and he travelled together, and that he descended
from the train just before reaching Vienna, in fear of recognition.
No," he went on, while she stood before him utterly stunned and rendered
speechless by his words, which, alas! showed the terrible
misconstruction placed upon their injudicious companionship upon the
journey. "No, you cannot deny it! You will leave Wartenstein tomorrow,
for you have grown tired of your husband; you have invented the story of
the plot to declare you insane; and you have renounced your crown and
position in order to elope with Leitolf! From to-night I no longer
regard you as my daughter. Go!" and he pointed imperiously to the door.
"Go back to the people--the common herd of whom you are so very fond--
go back to your miserable lover if you wish. To me your future is quite
immaterial, and understand perfectly that I forbid you ever to return
beneath my roof. You have scandalised the whole of Europe, and you and
your lover may now act just as you may think proper."
"But, father!" she protested, heartbroken, bursting into bitter tears.
"Leitolf is not my lover! I swear to you it is all untrue!"
"Go!" he shouted, his face red with anger. "I have said all I need say.
Go! Leave me. I will never see you again--never--_never_!"