The last moments of a loved friend or relative are, and must be, sacred.
Let it suffice, therefore, that for some minutes after my poor brother
had drawn his last breath I knelt beside the bed in silent prayer, then,
with one last look at the face I loved so well, I left the room, taking
Bertram with me. General Groplau would, I knew, make all the necessary
arrangements. In the meantime it behoved me to summon another council,
and that done, to despatch messengers to the capital with the sad
intelligence. Within an hour a proclamation had been issued, and it was
known that the King, who had been missing for so long, had in reality
been serving with his army, and had given his life, as unostentatiously
as its humblest unit, for the country he loved so well. The announcement
was received with a sort of stupefaction by the army. If the news caused
a sensation in their ranks, however, I could imagine how much greater
the surprise would be in Europe generally. Remembering this, one of my
first acts was to communicate with Ottilie, in order that she might hear
the sad intelligence from me personally, before receiving it from any
other source. For you to realise the effect that the finding of Max,
under such mournful circumstances, had upon me would be impossible.
Indeed, every one and everything around me seemed to share the
impression. The silent, almost deserted streets, the unhappy townsfolk
(though they were unhappy from another cause), and even the dull, leaden
sky overhead, seemed to mourn with me. We had won a great victory, it is
true, but at what a cost to me and to the nation of which I was now the
head!
The council being over, and the official communication of the news sent
forth to the world, I gave orders that Bertram should be admitted to my
presence. So far I had not had much opportunity of observing him; now,
however, I found him a tall, well-set-up young Englishman of the higher
middle class.
"Mr. Bertram," I said in English, "you may remember what my poor brother
said to me concerning you, just before he died. He said he trusted that
you would be as good a friend to me as you had been to him. May I hope
that you will enter my service, as he wished?"
"I will do so, if your Majesty really desires it," he answered. "Though
I scarcely know in what capacity I can serve you."
"You can do so by proving yourself my friend," I answered.
Traces of grief still remained upon his face. It was certain that the
affection he had shown to Max was genuine, and that he mourned him
almost as sincerely as I did myself.
"And now," I said, "I want you to tell me as much as you can of his life
since you first met him. Remember, I know nothing. It is all mystery to
me. Where did you meet him, and how does it come about that you're in
Pannonia together?"
Thereupon he furnished me with a summary of Max's life from the time
when they first met in Brazil, beginning with the unhappy diamond
expedition, and continuing until the moment was reached when Max fell
mortally wounded on the steps of the church in the market-square. From
his narrative, I was able to gather something, not only of Max's past
life, but also of the character of the man I had before me now. Never
once during his recital of the tale did he sound his own praises, or
represent himself as playing anything but a secondary part in the drama
that was destined to end so tragically. Instinctively I took a liking to
the man; perhaps not so much because of the fact that he had been Max's
friend as because of what I felt to be his inherent good qualities.
When, at my request, he consented to serve me as one of my
gentlemen-in-waiting, I felt that I had secured a friend whose fidelity
was in no way dependent upon the rewards or emoluments he might receive.
That evening the body of my brother was to be conveyed to the Council
Hall, where it would remain closely guarded until the time should arrive
for it to be removed to the capital for interment in our grand
cathedral, where repose so many of our House. Before Max's remains were
taken from the house, I had a last look at his face, and Bertram and I
walked quickly back, for the night was cold, to the residence where I
had taken up my abode. We had only just left the market-square, and were
approaching our destination, when we were suddenly confronted by a man.
So cutting was the wind, so keen the sleet that was now driving straight
into our faces, that we did not become aware of his proximity until he
had collided with Bertram.
"Why don't you look where you are going, my friend?" inquired the other,
with a somewhat foreign accent. "Have you no eyes in your head?"
Then he uttered a cry of surprise, and next moment was running down the
street as fast as his legs could carry him.
"That was an unmannerly fellow," I said to Bertram, who was standing on
the pavement watching the other's receding figure.
To my surprise, however, he did not answer. When he turned his face to
me again, dark though it was, I could see that there was a look of
extreme astonishment, if not of almost consternation, upon it.
"What is the matter?" I inquired, I fear a little sharply. "Why do you
look like that?"
"That man," he answered. "I must be mistaken, and yet----"
"And yet what?" I inquired. "Come, my friend, tell me the reason of your
extraordinary behaviour."
Bertram hesitated again before he replied.
"I only caught a glimpse of his face," he said at length, "and yet I
feel almost certain that the person who ran into me, and who bade me
look where I was going, was none other than Rodriguez, one of the men
who accompanied us on that fatal journey to the diamond fields in
Brazil."
For a moment, for some reason that was not quite apparent to me, he
seemed almost beside himself. He must have communicated this feeling to
me, for I remember taking him by the arm and laughing loudly, though,
Heaven knows, I was not in the humour to laugh at anything.
"Have you taken leave of your senses?" I inquired scornfully, as soon as
I had somewhat recovered my self-control. "How could he be here now, and
why, since he was then in South America, should he be in Zaarfburg, of
all places in the world?"
But Bertram did not answer. For the moment it looked as if the shock he
had received had been too much for him. Whoever, or whatever, this man
Rodriguez may have been, it is quite certain that the mere thought of
meeting him again was sufficient to exert a powerful influence over
Max's faithful friend. In silence we resumed our walk, and presently
reached the house in which I had, for the time being, taken up my
residence. Two hours later my poor brother's coffin was conveyed from
the clockmaker's house to the city hall, the great council chamber of
which had been converted into an impromptu _chapelle ardente_. A guard
was placed upon it, while additional sentries were posted at the outer
doors.
At the council meeting that evening, it had been arranged that the
remains should be conveyed to Pannonia on the day following, and that I
should accompany them to the capital. Accordingly, at noon, amidst the
thunder of artillery and the respectful homage of the army, we set out,
escorted by a regiment of cavalry, of which Max, as a boy, had been
colonel-in-chief. Bertram, who was now a recognised member of my suite,
accompanied me.
My story has taken so long to tell that I have no time or space left me
in which to do more than briefly summarise that mournful journey. Let it
suffice, therefore, that every hamlet and town through which we passed
received us with tokens of respect and sorrow. Whenever I think of that
mournful time, the picture of our return rises before my mind's eye.
Dusk was falling as we entered our ancient capital--the dusk of a cold,
raw day, quite in keeping with the sorrow which filled our hearts. We
found the streets crowded to their utmost holding capacity. Signs of
mourning were to be observed on every hand. Short though the notice had
been, the majority of the houses were draped in black, while overhead
sounded the mournful tolling of bells. At the entrance to the city I
gave up my horse, and for the remainder of the distance followed the
_cortege_ my suite, the governor of the city and his staff, the chief
burgomaster and his councillors, imitating my example. As we passed
slowly along the Graben towards the cathedral, I recalled the night when
Max and I, with our father and mother, had said good-bye to the capital,
and had gone into exile. My father and mother had never seen their
country again, and now Max was coming back to it, unconscious of the
fact, to take his last long rest in the old grey cathedral in which so
many of our race lay buried. Slowly and solemnly, to the accompaniment
of wailing bands, we crossed the King's Square and approached the
majestic pile, whose roofs and parapets towered above us, thickly coated
with snow. The deep tones of the bell echoed mournfully in the gathering
darkness, while the troops that lined the streets presented arms, and
the crowd stood bareheaded as we passed. At last we reached the foot of
the cathedral steps, where the white-robed clergy, with the
archbishop--the same who had baptised us--at their head, were waiting to
receive us. The coffin having been removed from the hearse, and a new
procession formed, we entered the church and passed up the central
aisle, to the music of the Dead March, towards the spot where a
catafalque had been prepared for the lying-in-state. Upon this we placed
the casket that contained the remains of our dear one, and when a short
service had been conducted, and the guard of honour mounted, we left the
cathedral and returned, through the still waiting crowd, to the palace
on the other side of the square. On the morrow and the next day there
was to be a public lying-in-state; and on the day following, the funeral
would take place. In the meantime there was much for us to do. There
were the representatives of the various European sovereigns to be
received and lodged, the precedence of each to be settled, and their
positions allotted by the chamberlains; while there was also the
progress of the war, to which it was necessary that I should give almost
unremitting attention. Fortunately, however, that was nearly at an end.
Indeed, it was as if Max's death had set the final seal upon it. As a
matter of fact, it was rumoured that proposals for peace were already in
course of formation, and were soon to be submitted. Later in the evening
came the news by telegram that Ottilie and her father had crossed the
Channel, and were on their way to Pannonia. I had scarcely received it
when old Antoine, my ever-faithful groom of the chambers, entered my
study to inform me that the Count von Marquart had arrived at the
palace, and craved an audience with me.
"Admit him at once," I said; and, indeed, I was glad to see him. His
devotion to our House had never wavered. He had been one of the first to
greet me on my return to Pannonia, and it seemed only fit and proper
that he should hasten to my side when I was in such dire distress as
now. Needless to say I greeted him most cordially, and I could see that
he was much touched by my reception of him.
"This is a sad meeting indeed," said he, as I gave him my hand. "It has
affected me more deeply than I can say."
I could see that what he said was true, for the old man, as he stood
before me, was visibly overcome. He asked me certain questions
concerning all that had transpired, and furnished me with an outline of
the various arrangements he had made. Never before had I realised the
extent of the ceremonial which must be observed in such cases. We were
still discussing this important matter when Antoine, with a scared
expression upon his face, an expression which even his long training
could not conceal, entered the room. Through the half-open door I could
see old Strekwitz, the Grand Chamberlain, and several people standing
outside. Something was undoubtedly wrong, but what that something was I
could not even conjecture.
"The Count von Strekwitz craves an audience," said Antoine, more
abruptly, I think, than he had ever addressed me before.
"Ask him to be good enough to see me in the morning," I answered
sharply. "Do you not notice that I am engaged with the Count von
Marquart?"
"But, your Majesty, he states that his business is of the most important
nature," Antoine persisted. "He implores you to see him at once, and
says that there is not a moment to lose."
"Something has evidently gone wrong with his arrangements," said von
Marquart. "Perhaps it would be as well if he were admitted."
"As you please, as you please," I continued, I am afraid, with a little
irritation. Then, pulling out my watch, I added, as I looked at it, "It
is nearly eleven o'clock. What possible business can he have with me
that will not keep until the morning?"
"You will very soon discover," the Count replied. "Perhaps you would
wish me to withdraw?"
"By no means," I answered. "It is possible I may stand in need of your
advice."
A moment later Strekwitz entered the room, and from the moment that I
looked at his face I saw that, whatever his news might be, it was
certain he had not disturbed me without good cause. The man was more
upset than I had ever yet seen him; his face was as white as the paper
upon which I am now writing, while his hand, when he rested it upon the
table beside which he stood, shook so that the pens upon the pen-rack
trembled and rattled against each other.
"Well, Count, what is the matter?" I inquired. "What brings you here at
this hour of the night?"
"The saddest news possible," he replied. "I scarcely know how to tell
your Highness."
On hearing this a great fear took possession of me. What was I to learn?
Could any disaster have befallen Ottilie? Had that been so, however, von
Marquart would have known it before Strekwitz, and I should have heard
before both; but it was impossible to be logical at such a moment. When
next I spoke I scarcely recognised my own voice, so anxious was it.
"There is nothing to be gained by beating about the bush," I said.
"Whatever your tidings may be, let me know the worst. Have you bad news
concerning the Princess?"
He shook his head.
"No, it does not concern her Highness," he answered, "yet I fear it will
distress your Majesty as much. For my own part, I do not know what to
think."
"For goodness sake, man, get on with what you have to say," I answered.
"Can't you see how you are distressing me? Let me hear your story at
once."
"Your Majesty gave me orders to make the necessary arrangements for the
lying-in-state of your lamented brother."
"I did," I replied. "What of that? I know you better than to imagine
that you have failed in your duties. What has occurred?"
"Your Majesty informed me that you had brought the body from Zaarfburg?"
"I did. And you were present when it was admitted to the cathedral. What
has happened since? Why do you not speak, man?"
"I fear that I must so far contradict your Majesty as to say that I was
not present when it was admitted to the cathedral. A great crime has
been committed. I mean that it cannot be laid in state, _since it is not
there_!"
"Not there?" I cried, springing to my feet, scarcely able to believe
that I had heard aright. "What do you mean by making such a statement?
What makes you say such a thing? Are you not aware that I brought it
with me from Zaarfburg?"
"I venture to say that it is not there," he returned. "The necessary
preparations were made in my presence. On opening the coffin, however,
we were amazed to find it empty, save for a few heavy weights. If the
body had ever been placed in it while in the city, it must have been
removed, either there or _en route_ for this place."
"My God! what can this mean?" I cried. "Can you swear, Strekwitz, that
what you say is correct? Be careful, for I give you my word I am in no
mood to be played with."
"Your Majesty should know me well enough by this time to be aware that I
would not trifle with you upon such a matter," he answered, somewhat
reproachfully. "It has caused me the acutest sorrow. Alas! however, it
is as I state."
"In that case what is to be done?"
For the moment the news stunned me, but it was not very long before I
realised its dread importance. Von Marquart must also have done so, for
once more came the question, this time from him: "What is to be done?"
We had not only ourselves, and the country, but the whole of Europe to
consider. Von Marquart was the first to recover his composure. Turning
to Strekwitz, he said,--
"How many people know this?"
From what the other said it appeared that there were only three people
in the secret, in which number he included himself. As soon as the
direful discovery was made he had been quick to insist upon the others
keeping the intelligence to themselves. He had been so imperative on
this point that there was very little fear, he assured me, of their
making mischief. To make sure, however, I gave orders that they should
be admitted to my presence in the morning, that I might further caution
them. Then addressing myself to von Marquart, I said:
"My poor brother's body must be recovered at any cost. But that will
take time, and how are we to set about the task? To offer a reward would
only be to publish the news abroad."
"Impossible, your Majesty, impossible," von Marquart replied. "In the
interests of the country that is not to be thought of. It would be taken
as a bad omen, and until the dynasty has been more firmly established,
public opinion must be considered before everything else. Let us review
the facts of the case and endeavour to discover when and where the crime
could have been perpetrated. Where did your Majesty see the dead man for
the last time?"
"In the clockmaker's house at Zaarfburg," I replied.
"And the house itself?"
"Was closely guarded," I answered. "From the house the coffin was
conveyed to the city hall, where it lay until we started on the journey
here."
"Would it have been possible, think you, for it to have been tampered
with while at the city hall?"
"Quite impossible, I should say. There were guards at the entrance to
the room itself, and sentries were posted at the great doors below. In
fact, I would be prepared to swear that no one entered the room save
myself and my brother's faithful friend."
"Your brother's friend?" von Marquart repeated suspiciously. "Who is he?
Perhaps he can throw some light upon the affair."
This point had never struck me, and I thereupon told Strekwitz to summon
Bertram to my presence without delay. He did so, and a few minutes
later, the man we wanted entered the room. Strekwitz had told him
nothing, so that he was quite unprepared for the news I had to give him.
On hearing it his grief was as great, and plainly as sincere, as my own
had been.
"I can scarcely believe it," he said, after he had heard what we had to
tell. "What possible motive can anyone have had for such a dastardly
deed?"
I could furnish him with no answer that would be in any way
satisfactory. Strekwitz inclined to the belief that it was the work of
the enemy--an act of revenge, in fact, for the defeat they had suffered
at our hands. Von Marquart, however, ridiculed the notion.
"No," he said, "there is more behind it than meets the eye. We must look
elsewhere for a solution of the mystery."
Suddenly Bertram uttered an exclamation.
"Why on earth didn't I think of it sooner?" he cried. "If I'm not
mistaken, I can explain everything."
"What do you mean?" I asked impatiently. "What do you remember? Tell us
quickly."
"The man I ran into, in the street at Zaarfburg," he replied.
"Rodriguez, who was with us in South America. Was it possible that his
appearance in the city was only a coincidence, or had he some more
sinister object in view? He was aware of the mysterious marks upon your
brother's body, and knew they were connected with the hidden diamonds.
Seeing that he was dead, and that he might never have another
opportunity, is it not quite possible that he would be anxious to
penetrate the secret before it was too late?"
All this was so much Greek to von Marquart and Strekwitz. They knew
nothing, it must be remembered, of Max's past life, consequently they
had not heard of Moreas, or of the now famous expedition in search of
the diamonds. In a few words I enlightened them, and then we fell to
considering the problem that Bertram had set before us. His theory,
though extraordinary, certainly seemed feasible enough.
"This is what puzzles me, however," said Bertram, who had been silent
for a few moments. "If he were able to get near enough to the body to
examine it, why did he take it away? It would be of no use to him, and
would be a source of continual danger. No! I am very much afraid that
there is something else behind it. Some other person is pulling the
strings. Rodriguez would be a mere tool."
"One thing is quite certain," said von Marquart, walking towards the
fireplace as he spoke, "and that is that we must find this man. If we
can once get hold of him we shall be able to discover a way to make him
speak. The rest should then be easy."
"But how on earth are we to catch him?" I inquired. "He would scarcely
be likely to remain in Zaarfburg. Besides, there is no time. It is only
three days before the State funeral will take place, and it is most
improbable that we shall be able to regain possession of the body in
that short space of time. It will be sad news indeed to give to the
world."
"It must not be given," said von Marquart imperatively. "They must know
nothing of it."
"But, good heavens! man," I cried, "how is the funeral to take place if
the body is still missing?"
"Very easily," he replied. "The public did not doubt you to-night when
you passed through the city to the cathedral; the archbishop did not
doubt you when he led the way up the aisle; and if every one else holds
his tongue, why should not the coffin be placed in the vault without
suspicion having been aroused?" Then, dropping his voice a little, and
speaking with even greater emphasis than before, he continued: "I tell
you as plainly as I can speak that we have no other course open to us.
After struggling with what at one time appeared to be insurmountable
difficulties, we have at last succeeded in replacing the Ramonyi dynasty
upon the throne. It behooves us, therefore, to proceed with the greatest
caution possible. One false step may result in destruction to all our
hopes. Your poor brother's mysterious absence did a vast amount of harm;
his death, however, fighting for his country as he did, retrieved it. I
must leave you to understand what the result will be if you reveal to
the nation this fresh catastrophe. The sensible will describe it as a
regrettable incident; the foolish will declare it to be a sign that
Heaven is against your house. That will be the opportunity your enemies
want, and they will be sure to make capital out of it."
"And when we have recovered that which we are seeking? What then?"
"Then his body can be laid to its rest, and what has been placed in the
vault in the meantime can be removed."
"Very well," I answered. "I suppose it must be so. And who is to carry
out the search?"
"There is one man who most certainly must go," von Marquart replied,
"since he is the only person who is familiar with the features of the
man you saw at Zaarfburg; our friend here must undertake the mission."
Then, turning to Bertram, he continued: "You understand, sir, I presume,
the difficulty of the task we are setting you? Believe me, it will be no
light one. Nor will the responsibility be lighter. You will have to
proceed with the utmost circumspection. His Majesty's honour, and the
honour of the country, will be in your hands. I do not doubt your
integrity, but I should like to be also assured of your discretion."
"I will answer for Mr. Bertram," I said. Then, turning to him, I
continued: "Mr. Bertram, my poor brother trusted you when he was alive;
I am sure you will do what you can for him, and for me, now that he is
dead."
"Your Majesty may trust me in everything," he returned simply, and with
a sincerity that spoke for itself. "I loved him, and would serve him
alive or dead."
For a minute we were all silent, then Bertram inquired when he should
start.
"The sooner the better," I answered. "I will give you a letter to
General Groplau, informing him that you are on personal business for
myself, and asking him to give you all the assistance that lies in his
power. You may imagine with what eagerness I shall await news from you.
And now you had better retire to rest. I will see you before you start."
Bertram accordingly left the room, and when he had gone Strekwitz
received his final instructions.
We discussed the arrangements for the funeral for a little longer, and
then Strekwitz and von Marquart withdrew, and I was left alone with my
gloomy thoughts.
When I retired to rest, I lay awake hour after hour, thinking of Max,
and of the vile deed of which his poor body was the innocent victim.
Long before it was light I had said good-bye to Bertram, and he had left
the city, after which I set myself to wait and hope. Of what transpired
during the next three days I scarcely like to think, even now. The grim
mockery that was daily taking place in the cathedral, and the knowledge
of the still grimmer one that was to follow it, weighed upon my heart
like lead. All day long, from my study window, I could see the crowd
passing into the building by one door and out by another. I could not
but watch it, though the sight irritated me beyond measure. Had it not
been for the constant letters of love and sympathy that I received from
Ottilie, I believe I could not have borne it as well as I did.
Of the funeral ceremony itself I will say but little. Its grandeur and
pomp could not have been excelled. I did my best to bear myself as a man
should, but as I looked at the coffin, and thought of what it contained,
my feelings well-nigh overcame me. When all was over, I left the
cathedral and entered the carriage that awaited me at the foot of the
steps. The great square was crowded, till it resembled one vast sea of
heads, upon which a gleam of wintry sunshine played as if with a
caressing hand. Slowly I drove along to the accompaniment of the
respectful salutations of the people, though, wrapt as I was in my own
thoughts, I was scarcely conscious of their presence. We were not
half-way across the square, however, before my feelings underwent a
complete change. Looking from the carriage I saw among the multitude of
faces one that stung me to instant action. I could scarcely believe the
evidence of my own eyes. I looked again, only to become doubly certain
that there was no mistake. To the best of my belief, there, looking up
at me, was the man we suspected, the individual who had cannoned into
Bertram at Zaarfburg, and to search for whom Bertram had returned to the
scene of Max's death. A moment later it had disappeared, and I was left
wondering what I should do. To stop the procession and to go in search
of the man was out of the question, and yet to continue our journey to
the palace would be to run the risk of allowing him to escape. Situated
as I was, there was nothing for it but to go on and to trust to
Providence for the rest. One thing, however, was quite certain. A
message must be sent to Bertram telling him to return to Pannonia at
once. Drawing Strekwitz aside as soon as we reached the palace, I told
him what had happened, and gave him the necessary instructions.
For the remainder of the day the memory of the face I had seen in the
crowd haunted me like that of a ghoul. Please God, Bertram would not be
too late to catch him after all.