THE DEATH OF THE KING
It was noon when Fenton awoke the next day. He awoke to a sense of
unfamiliar surroundings. Above him was a ceiling of dingy, brownish
hue. The walls, he discovered on investigation, were similar to the
ceiling and unadorned save for a few dusty old French prints. The bed
on which he lay was hard and lumpy, the coverlet ancient and thin.
There was a faint mustiness observable in the atmosphere and through a
half-closed door came the sound of a bow softly scraping the strings of
a decrepit violin. Fenton sat bolt upright in bed and examined his
surroundings with much surprise and, truth to tell, a little alarm.
The fact that he was awake was thus communicated to the musician in the
other room; for a shuffling step crossed the floor and the head of
Monsieur Dubois was poked inquiringly through the door.
"Now I understand," said Fenton, putting one leg out of the bed, and
groaning with the effort--for a full day in the saddle will leave its
effects on the most experienced horseman.
"Monsieur is surprised," said the old Frenchman, coming into the room
with his violin in one hand--a rather crazy, poverty-stricken kind of
violin--and the bow in the other. "It was this way. Monsieur Fenton
was quite so fatigued that he fell sound asleep in the café and nothing
could arouse him. Luckily my lodgings were close by and, with the help
of a stout young fellow, who will return to-day for some compensation,
which I had to promise, not having anything by me"--this
apologetically--"we managed to get monsieur here and to bed. I trust
that monsieur is feeling much better?"
Fenton was already out of bed and in the middle of his toilet. He
dressed hurriedly, albeit stiffly.
"What news is there?" he asked gravely. "What of the King?"
An expression of sadness came into the fine eyes of the old exile.
"It is indeed the great catastrophe, monsieur," he said. "The King is
dying. I have just come from the palace where the official bulletins
are published. He has not recovered consciousness. The physicians
hold out no hope."
Fenton's worst fears were realised. It was some minutes before he
could recover sufficient composure to go on.
"Has the assassin been caught?" he asked.
Monsieur Dubois shook his head. Then lines of anger and determination
showed around his eyes and mouth. He elevated one arm and shook the
bow menacingly. "The arch assassin, he shall pay for this!" he
exclaimed. "It is told everywhere on the streets that it was Miridoff
who planned the murder of the King--the strong King who was needed to
lead Ironia to victory. Ironia has a heavy score to settle with
Miridoff."
"Miridoff is dead," said Fenton.
"How do you know?" demanded the musician eagerly. "There is nothing
known of the Grand Duke's whereabouts. Serajoz is full of the mystery."
"He is dead beyond all doubt," declared the Canadian. "I killed him
myself."
Followed a brief recital of some of the principal events in the
mountains which had led up to the capture of the hunting lodge, and the
release of the princess. Monsieur Dubois could hardly restrain
himself. At the conclusion of the narrative he seized Fenton by both
hands and poured out a volley of incoherent praise.
"My young friend has had a most great honour," he wound up by saying.
"It has fallen to his lot to rescue the Queen of Ironia. What honours
shall be heaped upon him!"
"What do you mean?" demanded Fenton, almost roughly.
"If Peter dies the throne will pass to the Princess Olga," explained
the other. "She is the last of the line. Alexander is childless, and
the princess is the only child of Peter. There is no one to dispute
the throne with our beautiful Olga, who, it is said, is just as good as
she is beautiful."
Fenton, who had suddenly sought a seat, did not say anything.
The musician rambled on:
"And a great heritage she will come into, this Queen Olga." The old
Frenchman, fond as he was of the country from which he was an exile,
had a very real regard for the welfare of the little land where he had
lived so long. "When the war is over," his voice droned on, "Ironia
will have added again the two provinces, Serania and Mulkovina. And I
shall throw up my hat nearly as joyfully for that as I shall for the
return into the victorious borders of La Belle France of
Alsace-Lorraine." This last appeared to overcome him for a moment, and
he paused before starting again.
"Ironia will then have a population of ten million, Monsieur Fenton.
Think of that. She will become a power in Europe on a scale long
looked forward to by her rulers. Then the young Queen will have a
great country to reign over."
Fenton raised his head and clutched at a figurative straw. "But can a
woman occupy the throne of Ironia?"
"But certainly. She will marry, of course. Indeed, even now they are
saying on the street that a match will be made for our Queen with a
prince of Serbia. It would be a fine stroke." The Frenchman mooned on
while Fenton sat dumbfounded. This old man was calmly and unwittingly
puncturing the bubbles of happiness that had engrossed the Canadian's
attention since the romantic episode of the hills. "It would cement
once again the Balkan confederacy. Some of the glory of the past would
be theirs, and more glory than the past ever knew."
"Supposing the princess were already married, though?" said Fenton
slowly and in a strained tone.
"Eh?" The old Frenchman opened his eyes sharply. "A--what you
call--morganatic marriage?"
"No," said the other impatiently. "Supposing that the princess, not
expecting to be Queen of Ironia, had married someone quietly--not
expecting to be Queen," he repeated, as if to urge to himself and the
old man every possible means of exit from this _cul-de-sac_ that, for
the first time, he realised he had landed in. "What then?"
"It would make no difference." Monsieur Dubois shook his head
decidedly. "It would be set aside, my young friend. Nothing can be
allowed to stand in the way of matters of State."
Fenton was silent for a moment. Then he stood up and straightened his
shoulders. He felt as if he must be alone at once. "Monsieur Dubois,"
he said, "you have spoken to me about the one aim you have--to get back
to France. You have been very kind to me. Will you permit me to
reciprocate ever so little and advance the necessary means?"
The old man shook his head and smiled. "They may not take me back in
La Belle France. I am an old man. But here, young and old, all will
get a chance. I shall stay, monsieur."
He too rose and squared his shoulders. His frame was a little bent,
his hands trembled, but there was a look of profound determination and
of profounder pride in his eyes as he shook back his tousled grey hair.
"Maybe we shall meet at the front, Monsieur Fenton," he said.
They did. It was two months afterward in a field hospital along the
frontier. A shell had shattered the musician's leg. He did not
recognise Fenton, and babbled incoherently of France and freedom.
* * * * *
Leaving the lodgings of Monsieur Dubois, Fenton hurried to the palace.
Varden, he felt sure, would be there.
The streets were strangely different from what he had known them when,
barely a week before, he had arrived in Serajoz fur the first time.
The city seemed to be one gigantic military camp. Troops passed and
repassed. The rumble of artillery was a familiar sound, and occasioned
little specific interest. The crowds were smaller already. Thousands
of men had enlisted. They had been talking about war for months. They
were prepared.
Fenton found Varden at the palace. The latter was coming down the
corridor which led from the personal suite of the King. Silently
Varden gripped the hand of the Canadian, and for a moment did not
speak. Then, "Peter is dead," he said in a low tone.
Fenton asked the question very quietly: "When?"
"He died a few minutes ago," returned the other. "Come."
Varden turned and led the way down the corridor through knots of
officials, and through the antechamber where stood a few chosen friends
and councillors, conversing in low tones, to a small detached office.
They sat down.
"Don," said Varden, "you've done wonderful work. I've heard all about
it. The princess arrived this morning with Mademoiselle Petrowa and
that strange fellow Crane you picked up _en route_. He's a queer fish,
but I like him. I haven't had a chance to see the princess, but the
others are full of your exploits."
"The princess will be Queen now?" Fenton tried to keep his voice calm,
but his mind was in a turmoil.
"Yes. I'm afraid this cooks your goose, old chap," said Varden easily.
"She's bound to have some princeling or other for a husband now. In
fact, a match is already spoken of."
Fenton nodded. Varden's remarks had convinced him on one score. Anna
and Crane had said nothing about the ceremony over the tongs. Fenton
stood up, restraint and determination mingling in his bearing. "It's
quite impossible, I suppose, for me to see--Her Majesty"--his voice
trembled slightly, then grew quite firm again. "Percy," he said, "you
can fix me up with a post in the army? I want to be right up at the
front."
Varden nodded without any particular enthusiasm.
"Wish I could go too," he said. "I'll get there, of course, as soon as
the matter of the Queen's accession is settled. Until then I feel it
my duty to stay here and watch things. And that means I'll miss the
opening of the campaign."
"Is there any doubt," asked Fenton slowly, "as to the accession of Olga
to the throne?"
"No," replied Varden. "But these are parlous times, Don. The new
ruler is a woman, and there are some ambitious men at the head of the
state at present. I have no doubt that Danilo Vanilis would not
scruple to sweep her aside and seize the vacant throne himself if it
were not for the fact that there are several others quite as ambitious
and almost as powerful as himself who wouldn't stand by. Dynasties are
unstable things in the Balkans, Don. Still, I am counting on the
mutual jealousy of the leaders to provide the means for Olga to step
quietly into her rights."
Fenton straightened up. In the face of this hint of a possible plot
against the woman he loved, all mental uncertainty vanished.
"Is there anything I can do?" he asked. "Nothing must stand between
the princess and her rights. If money would be any inducement to quiet
these trouble-makers, I'm willing to contribute all that I have."
"Quite unnecessary, Mr Quixote," said Varden. "There is a powerful
faction to watch the interests of our little Olga. Never fear, she
shall be Queen of Ironia."