THE PRINCESS
DEHRA
BY
JOHN REED SCOTT
AUTHOR OF “THE COLONEL OF THE RED HUZZARS,”
“BEATRIX OF CLARE,” ETC.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOR
BY CLARENCE F. UNDERWOOD
PHILADELPHIA AND LONDON
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
1908
Copyright, 1908, by John Reed Scott
Published May, 1906
Printed by J. B. Lippincott Company
The Washington Square Press, Philadelphia, U. S. A.
TO
THE REAL PRINCESS
THE PRINCESS DEHRA
I
THE RECALL
For the first time in a generation the Castle of Lotzen was entertaining
its lord. He had come suddenly, a month before, and presently there had
followed rumors of strange happenings in Dornlitz, in which the Duke had
been too intimately concerned to please the King, and as punishment had
been banished to his mountain estates. But Lotzenia was far from the
Capital and isolated, and the people cared more for their crops and the
amount of the tax levy than for the doings of the Court. And so it
concerned them very little why the red banner with the golden cross
floated from the highest turret of the old pile of stone, on the spur of
the mountain overhanging the foaming Dreer. They knew it meant the Duke
himself was in presence; but to them there was but one over-lord: the
Dalberg, who reigned in Dornlitz; and in him they had all pride—for was
not the Dalberg their hereditary chieftain centuries before he was the
King!
True, the Duke of Lotzen had long been the Heir Presumptive, and so, in
the prospective, entitled to their loyalty, but lately there had come
from across the Sea a new Dalberg, of the blood of the great Henry, who,
it was said, had displaced him in the line of Succession, and was to
marry the Princess Dehra.
And at her name every woman of them curtsied and every man uncovered;
blaming High Heaven the while, that she might not reign over them, when
Frederick the King were gone; and well prepared to welcome the new heir
if she were to be his queen.
At first the Duke had kept to the seclusion of his own domain, wide and
wild enough to let him ride all day without crossing its boundary, but
after a time he came at intervals, with a companion or two, into the
low-lands, choosing the main highways, and dallying occasionally at some
cross-road smithy for a word of gossip with those around the forge.
For Lotzen was not alone in his exile; he might be banished from the
Capital, but that was no reason for denying himself all its pleasures;
and the lights burned late at the Castle, and when the wind was from the
North it strewed the valley with whisps of music and strands of laughter.
And the country-side shook its head, and marveled at the turning of night
into day, and at people who seemed never to sleep except when others
worked; and not much even then, if the tales of such of the servants as
belonged to the locality were to be believed.
And the revelry waxed louder and wilder as the days passed, and many
times toward evening the whole company would come plunging down the
mountain, and, with the great dogs baying before them, go racing through
the valleys and back again to the Castle, as though some fiend were hot
on their trail or they on his.
And ever beside the Duke, on a great, black horse, went the same woman,
slender and sinuous, with raven hair and dead-white cheek; a feather
touch on rein, a careless grace in saddle. And as they rode the Duke
watched her with glowing eyes; and his cold face warmed with his
thoughts, and he would speak to her earnestly and persuasively; and she,
swaying toward him, would answer softly and with a tantalizing smile.
Then, one day, she had refused to ride.
“I am tired,” she said, when at the sounding of the horn he had sought
her apartments; “let the others go.”
He went over and leaned on the back of her chair.
“Tired—of what?” he asked.
“Of everything—of myself most of all.”
“And of everybody?” smiling down at her.
“One usually tires of self last.”
“And you want to leave me?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No, not you, Ferdinand—the others.”
“Shall I send them away?” he said eagerly.
“And make this lonely place more lonely still!”
“I despise the miserable place,” he exclaimed.
“Then why not to Paris to-night?” she asked.
“Why not, indeed?” he answered, gravely, “for the others and—you.”
“And you, too?” glancing up at him and touching, for an instant, his
hand.
He shrugged his shoulders. “You forget, there is a King in Dornlitz!”
“You would go incog. and old Frederick never be the wiser, nor care even
if he were.”
He laughed shortly. “Think you so, ma belle,—well, believe me, I want not
to be the one to try him.”
The horn rang out again from the court-yard; the Duke crossed to a
window.
“Go on,” he called, “we will follow presently;” and with a clatter and a
shout, they spurred across the bridge and away.
“Who leads?” she asked, going over and drawing herself up on the
casement.
He put his arm around her. “What matters,” he laughed, “since we are
here?” and bent his head to her cheek.
“Let us go to Paris, dear,” she whispered, caressingly; “to the
boulevards and the music, the life, and the color.”
He shook his head. “You don’t know what you ask, little one—once I might
have dared it, but not now—no, not now.”
She drew a bit nearer. “And would the penalty now be so very serious?”
she asked.
He looked at her a while uncertainly; and she smiled back persuasively.
She knew that he was in disfavor because of his plots against the
Archduke Armand’s honor and life; and that he had been sent hither in
disgrace; but all along what had puzzled her was his calm acquiescence;
his remaining in this desolation, with never a word of anger toward the
King, nor disposition to slip away surreptitiously to haunts beyond the
border. Why should he be so careful not to transgress even the spirit of
the royal order?—he who had not hesitated to play a false wife against
the Archduke Armand, to try assassination, and to arrange deliberately to
kill him in a duel. She remembered well that evening in her reception
room, at the Hotel Metzen in Dornlitz, when Lotzen’s whole scheme had
suddenly collapsed like a house of cards. She recalled the King’s very
words of sentence when, at last, he had deigned to notice the Duke. “The
Court has no present need of plotters and will be the better for your
absence,” he had said. “It has been over long since you have visited your
titular estates and they doubtless require your immediate attention. You
are, therefore, permitted to depart to them forthwith—and to remain
indefinitely.” Surely, it was very general and precluded only a return to
Dornlitz.
That the question of the succession was behind it all, she was very well
persuaded; the family laws of the Dalbergs were secret, undisclosed to
any but the ranking members of the House, but the Crown had always
descended by male primogeniture. The advent of Armand, the eldest male
descendant of Hugo Dalberg (who had been banished by his father, the
Great Henry, when he had gone to America and taken service under
Washington) had tangled matters, for Armand was senior in line to Lotzen.
It was known that Henry, shortly before his death, had revoked the former
decree and restored Hugo and his children to their rank and estates; and
Frederick had proclaimed this decree to the Nation and had executed it in
favor of Armand, making him an Archduke and Colonel of the Red Huzzars.
But what no one knew was whether Lotzen had hereby been displaced as Heir
Presumptive. How far did the Great Henry’s decree of restoration extend?
How far had Frederick made it effective? In short, would the next King be
Ferdinand, Duke of Lotzen, or Armand, Archduke of Valeria?
And to Madeline Spencer the answer was of deep concern; and she had been
manœuvering to draw it from the Duke ever since she had come to the
Castle. But every time she had led up to it, he had led away, and with
evident deliberation. Plainly there was something in the Laws that made
it well for him to drive the King no further; and what could it be but
the power to remove him as Heir Presumptive.
And as Lotzen knew the answer, she would know it, too. If he were not to
be king, she had no notion to entangle herself further with him; he was
then too small game for her bow; and there would be a very chill welcome
for her in Dornlitz from Queen Dehra. But should he get the Crown—well,
there are worse positions than a king’s favorite—for a few months—the
open-handed months.
So she slipped an arm about his shoulders and let a whisp of perfumed
hair flirt across his face.
“Tell me, dear,” she said, “why won’t you go to Paris?”
He laughed and lightly pinched her cheek. “Because I’m surer of you here.
Paris breeds too many rivals.”
“Yet I left them all to come here,” she answered.
“But now you would go back.”
She smiled up at him. “Yes, but with you, dear—not alone.” Her hand stole
into his. “Tell me, sweetheart, why you will not go—might it cause
Frederick to deprive you of the succession?”
For a space the Duke made no answer, gazing the while steadily into the
distance, with eyebrows slightly drawn. And she, having dared so far,
dared further.
“Surely, dear, he would not wrong you by making Armand king!” she
exclaimed, as though the thought had but that moment come.
He turned to her with quick sympathy, a look of warm appreciation in his
eyes. The answer she had played for trembled on his lips—then died
unspoken.
He bent down and kissed her forehead.
“We of the Dalbergs still believe, my dear, that the King can do no
wrong,” he said, and swung her to the floor. “Come, let us walk on the
wall, and forget everything except that we are together, and that I love
you.”
She closed her eyes to hide the flash of angry disappointment, though her
voice was calm and easy.
“Love!” she laughed; “love! what is it? The infatuation of the moment—the
pleasure of an hour.”
“And hence this eagerness for Paris?”
She gave him a quick glance. “May be, my lord, to prolong our moment; to
extend our hour.” He paused, his hand upon the door.
“And otherwise are they ended?” he asked quietly.
She let her eyes seek the door. “No—not yet.” He slowly closed the door
and leaned against it.
“My dear Madeline,” he said, “let us deal frankly with each other. I am
not so silly as to think you love me, though I’m willing to admit I wish
you did. You have fascinated me—ever since that evening in the Hanging
Garden when you made the play of being the Archduke Armand’s wife. Love
may be what you style it: ‘the infatuation of the moment; the pleasure of
an hour.’ If so, for you, my moment and my hour still linger. But with
you, I know, there is a different motive; you may like me passing well—I
believe you do—yet it was not that which brought you here, away from
Paris—‘the boulevards and the music.’ You came because—well, what matters
the because: you came; and for that I am very grateful; they have been
pleasant days for me——“
She had been gazing through the window; now she looked him in the eyes.
“And for me as well,” she said.
“I am glad,” he answered gravely—”and it shall not be I that ends them.
You wish to know if I am still the Heir Presumptive. You shall have your
answer: I do not know. It rests with the King. He has the power to
displace me in favor of Armand.”
She smiled comprehendingly. It was as she had feared.
“And the Princess Royal is betrothed to Armand,” she commented.
Lotzen shrugged his shoulders. “Just so,” he said. “Do you wonder I may
not go to Paris?”
She went over to the fireplace, and sitting on the arm of a chair rested
her slender feet on the fender, her silk clad ankles glistening in the
fire-light.
“I don’t quite understand,” she said, “why, when the American was
restored to Hugo’s rank, he did not, by that very fact, become also Heir
Presumptive—his line is senior to yours.”
There was room on the chair arm for another and he took it.
“You have touched the very point,” he said. “Henry the Third himself
restored Hugo and his heirs to rank and estate; but it needs Frederick’s
decree to make him eligible to the Crown.”
“And has he made it?”
He shook his head. “I do not know——”
“But, surely, it would be promulgated, if he had.”
“Very probably; but not necessarily. All that is required is a line in
the big book which for centuries has contained the Laws of the Dalbergs.”
She studied the tip of her shoe, tapping it the while on the fender rod.
“When will this marriage be solemnized?” she asked.
He laughed rather curtly. “Never, I hope.”
She gave him a quick look. “So—the wound still hurts. I beg your pardon;
I did not mean to be unkind. I was only thinking that, if the decree were
not yet made, the wedding would be sure to bring it.”
He put his arm around her waist and drew her over until the black hair
pressed his shoulder.
“Nay, Madeline, you are quite wrong,” he said. “The Princess is nothing
to me now—nothing but the King’s daughter and the American’s chief
advocate. I meant what you did:—that the marriage will lose me the
Crown.”
For a moment she suffered his embrace, watching him the while through
half closed eyes; then she drew away.
“I suppose there is no way to prevent the marriage,” she remarked, her
gaze upon the fire.
He arose and, crossing to the table, found a cigarette.
“Can you suggest a way?” he asked, his back toward her, the match aflame,
poised before his face.
She had turned and was watching him with sharp interest, but she did not
answer, and when he glanced around, in question, she was looking at the
fire.
“Want a cigarette?” he said.
She nodded, and he took it to her and held the match for its lighting.
“I asked you if you could suggest a way,” he remarked.
She blew a smoke ring toward the ceiling. “Yes, go back to Dornlitz and
kill the American.”
“Will you go with me?” banteringly.
“Indeed I won’t,” with a reminiscent smile; “I have quite too vivid a
memory of my recent visit there.”
“And the killing—shall I do it by proxy or in person?”
“Any way—so it is done—though one’s best servant is one’s self, you
know.”
He had thought her jesting, but now he leaned forward to see her face.
“Surely, you do not mean it,” he said uncertainly.
“Why not?” she asked. “It’s true you have already tried both ways—and
failed; but that is no assurance of the future. The second, or some other
try may win.”
A tolerant smile crossed his lips. “And meanwhile, of course, the
American would wait patiently to be killed.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “You seem to have forgot that steel vests do
not protect the head; and that several swords might penetrate a guard
which one could not.”
“Surely,” he exclaimed, “surely, you must have loved this man!”
She put his words aside with a wave of her hand.
“My advice is quite impersonal,” she said—“and it is only trite advice at
that, as you know. You have yourself considered it already scores of
times, and have been deterred only by the danger to yourself.”
He laughed. “I’m glad you cannot go over to my enemies. You read my mind
too accurately.”
“Nonsense,” she retorted; “Armand knows it quite as well as I, though
possibly he may not yet have realized how timid you have grown.”
“Timid!”
She nodded. “Yes, timid; you had plenty of nerve at first, when the
American came; but it seems to have run to water.”
“And I shall lose, you think?”
She tossed the cigarette among the red ashes and arose.
“Why should you win, Ferdinand?” she asked—then a sly smile touched her
lips—“so far as I have observed, you haven’t troubled even so much as to
pray for success.”
He leaned forward and drew her back to the place beside him.
“Patience, Madeline, patience,” said he; “some day I’m going back to
Dornlitz.”
“To see the Archduke Armand crowned?” she scoffed.
He bent his head close to her ear. “I trust so—with the diadem that never
fades.”
She laughed. “Trust and hope are the weapons of the apathetic. Why don’t
you, at least, deal in predictions; sometimes they inspire deeds.”
“Very good,” he said smilingly. “I predict that there is another little
game for you and me to play in Dornlitz, and that we shall be there
before many days.”
“You are an absent-minded prophet,” she said; “I told you I would not go
to Dornlitz.”
“But if I need you, Madeline?”
She shook her head. “Transfer the game to Paris, or any place outside
Valeria, and I will gladly be your partner.”
He took her hand. “Will nothing persuade you?”
She faced him instantly. “Nothing, my lord, nothing, so long as Frederick
is king.”
The Duke lifted her hand and tapped it softly against his cheek.
“Tres bien ma chère, tres bien,” he said; then frowned, as Mrs. Spencer’s
maid entered.
“Pour Monsieur le Duc,” she curtsied.
Lotzen took the card from the salver and turned it over.
“I will see him at once,” he said; “have him shown to my private
cabinet.... It is Bigler,” he explained.
“Why not have him here?”
He hesitated.
“Oh, very well; I thought you trusted me.”
He struck the bell. “Show Count Bigler here,” he ordered. Then when the
maid had gone: “There, Madeline, that should satisfy you, for I have no
idea what brings him.”
She went quickly to him, and leaning over his shoulder lightly kissed his
cheek.
“I knew you trusted me, dear,” she said, “but a woman likes to have it
demonstrated, now and then.”
He turned to catch her; but she sprang away.
“No, Ferdinand, no,” as he pursued her; “the Count is coming—go and sit
down.”—She tried to reach her boudoir, but with a laugh he headed her
off, and slowly drove her into a corner.
“Surrender,” he said; “I’ll be merciful.”
For answer there came the swish of high-held skirts, a vision of black
silk stockings and white lace, and she was across a huge sofa, and, with
flushed face and merry eyes, had turned and faced him.
And as they stood so, Count Bigler was announced.
“Welcome, my dear Bigler, welcome!” the Duke exclaimed, hurrying over to
greet him; “you are surely Heaven sent.... Madame Spencer, I think you
know the Count.”
She saw the look of sharp surprise that Bigler tried to hide by bowing
very low, and she laughed gayly.
“Indeed, you do come in good time, my lord,” she said; “we were so put to
for amusement we were reduced to playing tag around the room—don’t be
shocked; you will be playing it too, if you are here for long.”
“If it carry the usual penalty,” he answered, joining in her laugh, “I am
very ready to play it now.”
“Doubtless,” said the Duke dryly, motioning him to a chair. “But first,
tell us the gossip of the Capital; we have heard nothing for weeks.
What’s my dear cousin Armand up to—not dying, I fear?”
“Dying! Not he—not while there are any honors handy, with a doting King
to shower them on him, and a Princess waiting for wife.”
The Duke’s face, cold at best, went yet colder.
“Has the wedding date been announced?” he asked.
“Not formally, but I understand it has been fixed for the
twenty-seventh.”
Lotzen glanced at a calendar. “Three weeks from to-morrow—well, much may
happen in that time. Come,” he said good-naturedly, shaking off the
irritation, “tell us all you know—everything—from the newest dance at the
opera to the tattle of the Clubs. I said you were Heaven sent—now prove
it. But first—was it wise for you to come here? What will Frederick say?”
The Count laughed. “Oh, I’m not here; I’m in Paris, on two weeks leave.”
“Paris!” the Duke exclaimed. “Surely, this Paris fever is the very devil;
are you off to-night or in the morning?”
Bigler shot a quick glance at Mrs. Spencer, and understood.
“I’m not to Paris at all,” he said, “unless you send me.”
“He won’t do that, Monsieur le Comte,” the lady laughed; and Lotzen, who
had quite missed the hidden meaning in their words, nodded in affirmance.
“Come,” he said, “your budget—out with it. I’m athirst for news.”
The Count drew out a cigar and, at Mrs. Spencer’s smile of permission, he
lighted it, and began his tale. And it took time in the telling, for the
Duke was constant in his questions, and a month is very long for such as
he to be torn from his usual life and haunts.
And, through it all, Mrs. Spencer lay back in sinuous indolence among the
cushions on the couch before the fire, one hand behind her shapely head,
her eyes, languidly indifferent, upon the two men, her thoughts seemingly
far away. And while he talked, Count Bigler watched her curiously, but
discreetly. This was the first time he had seen the famous “Woman in
Black” so closely, and her striking beauty fairly stunned him. He knew
his Paris and Vienna well, but her equal was not there—no, nor elsewhere,
he would swear. Truly, he had wasted his sympathy on Lotzen—he needed
none of it with such a companion for his exile.
And she, unseeing, yet seeing all, read much of his thoughts; and
presently, from behind her heavy lashes, she flashed a smile upon
him—half challenge, half rebuke—then turned her face from him, nor
shifted it until the fading daylight wrapped her in its shadow.
“There, my tale is told,” the Count ended. “I’m empty as a broken
bottle—and as dry,” and he poured himself a glass of wine from the
decanter on a side table.
“You are a rare gossip, truly,” said the Duke; “but you have most
carefully avoided the one matter that interests me most:—what do they say
of me in Dornlitz?”
Bigler shrugged his shoulders. “Why ask?” he said. “You know quite well
the Capital does not love you.”
“And, therefore, no reason for me to be sensitive. Come, out with it.
What do they say?”
“Very well,” said Bigler, “if you want it, here it is:—they have the
notion that you are no longer the Heir Presumptive, and it seems to give
them vast delight.”
The Duke nodded. “And on what is the notion based?”
“Originally, on hope, I fancy; but lately it has become accepted that the
King not only has the power to displace you, but has actually signed the
decree.”
“And Frederick—does he encourage the idea?”
The Count shook his head. “No, except by his open fondness for the
American.”
“I’ve been urged to go to Dornlitz and kill the American,” Lotzen
remarked, with a smile and a nod toward Mrs. Spencer.
“If you can kill him,” said Bigler instantly, “the advice is excellent.”
“Exactly. And if I can’t, it’s the end of me—and my friends.”
“I think your friends would gladly try the hazard,” the Count answered.
“It is dull prospect and small hope for them, even now. And candidly, my
lord, to my mind, it’s your only chance, if you wish the Crown; for,
believe me, the Archduke Armand is fixed for the succession, and the day
he weds the Princess Royal will see him formally proclaimed.”
The Duke strode to the far end of the room and back again.
“Is that your honest advice—to go to Dornlitz?” he asked.
The other arose and raised his hand in salute. “It is, sir; and not mine
alone, but Gimels’ and Rosen’s and Whippen’s, and all the others’—that is
what brought me here.”
“And have you any plan arranged?”
The Count nodded ever so slightly, then looked the Duke steadily in the
face—and the latter understood.
He turned to Madeline Spencer. “Come nearer, my dear,” he said, “we may
need your quick wit—there is plotting afoot.”
She gave him a smile of appreciation, and came and took the chair he
offered, and he motioned for Bigler to proceed.
“But, first, tell me,” he interjected, “am I to go to Dornlitz openly or
in disguise? I don’t fancy the latter.”
“Openly,” said the Count. “Having been in exile a month, you can venture
to return and throw yourself on Frederick’s mercy. We think he will
receive you and permit you to remain—but, at least, it will give you two
days in Dornlitz, and, if our plan does not miscarry, that will be quite
ample.”
“Very good,” the Duke commented; “but my going will depend upon how I
like your plot; let us have it—and in it, I trust you have not overlooked
my fiasco at the Vierle Masque and so hung it all on my single sword.”
“Your sword may be very necessary, but, if so, it won’t be alone. We have
several plans—the one we hope to——”
A light tap on the door interrupted him, and a servant entered, with the
bright pink envelope that, in Valeria, always contained a telegram.
“My recall to Court,” laughed the Duke, and drawing out the message
glanced at it indifferently.
But it seemed to take him unduly long to read it; and when, at length, he
folded it, his face was very grave; and he sat silent, staring at the
floor, creasing and recreasing the sheet with nervous fingers, and quite
oblivious to the two who were watching him, and the servant standing
stiffly at attention at his side.
Suddenly, from without, arose a mad din of horses’ hoofs and human
voices, as the returning cavalcade dashed into the courtyard, women and
men yelling like fiends possessed. And it roused the Duke.
“You may go,” to the footman; “there is no answer now.” He waited until
the door closed; then held up the telegram. “His Majesty died, suddenly,
this afternoon,” he said.
Count Bigler sprang half out of his chair.
“Frederick dead! the King dead!” he cried—“then, in God’s name, who now
is king—you or the American?”
The Duke arose. “That is what we are about to find out,” he said, very
quietly. “Come, we will go to Dornlitz.”
II
TO-MORROW AND THE BOOK
Frederick of Valeria had died as every strong man wants to die: suddenly
and in the midst of his affairs, with the full vigor of life still upon
him and no premonition of the end. It had been a sharp straightening in
saddle, a catch of breath, a lift of hand toward heart, and then, with
the great band of the Foot Guards thundering before him, and the regiment
swinging by in review, he had sunk slowly over and into the arms of the
Archduke Armand. And as he held him, there was a quick touch of surgeon’s
fingers to pulse and breast, a shake of head, a word; and then,
sorrowfully and in silence, they bore him away; while the regiment,
wheeling sharply into line, spread across the parade and held back the
populace. And presently, as the people lingered, wondering and fearful,
and the Guards stood stolid in their ranks, the royal standard on the
great tower of the Castle dropped slowly to half staff, and the mellow
bell of the Cathedral began to toll, to all Valeria, the mournful message
that her King was dead.
And far out in the country the Princess Dehra heard it, but faintly; and
drawing rein, she listened in growing trepidation for a louder note. Was
it the Cathedral bell?—the bell that tolled only when a Dalberg died! For
a while she caught no stroke, and the fear was passing, when down the
wind it came, clear and strong—and again—and yet again.
And with blanched cheek and fluttering heart she was racing at top speed
toward Dornlitz, staying neither for man nor beast, nor hill nor stream,
the solemn clang smiting her ever harder and harder in the face. There
were but two for whom it could be speaking, her father and her lover—for
she gave no thought to Lotzen or his brother, Charles. And now,
which?—which?—which? Mile after mile went behind her in dust and flying
stones, until six were passed, and then the outer guard post rose in
front.
“The bell!” she cried, as the sentry sprang to attention, “the bell, man,
the bell?”
The soldier grounded arms.
“For the King,” he said.
But as the word was spoken she was gone—joy and sorrow now fighting
strangely in her heart—and as she dashed up the wide Avenue, the men
uncovered and the women breathed a prayer; but she, herself, saw only the
big, gray building with the drooping flag, and toward it she sped, the
echo of the now silent bell still ringing in her ears.
The Castle gates were closed, and before them with drawn swords, stern
and impassive, sat two huge Cuirassiers of the Guard; they heard the
nearing hoof beats, and, over the heads of the crowd that hung about the
entrance, they saw and understood.
“Stand back!” they cried; “stand back—the Princess comes!”
And the gates swung open, and the big sorrel horse, reeking with sweat
and flecked with foam and dust, flashed by, and on across the courtyard.
And Colonel Moore, who was about to ride away, sprang down and swung her
out of saddle.
“Take me to him,” she said quietly, as he stood aside to let her pass.
She swayed slightly at the first step, and her legs seemed strangely
stiff and heavy, but she slipped her hand through his arm and drove
herself along. And so he led her, calm and dry-eyed, down the long
corridor and through the ante-room to the King’s chamber, and all who met
them bowed head and drew back. At the threshold she halted.
“Do you please bid all retire,” she said. “I would see my father alone.”
And when he had done her will, he came and held open the door for her a
little way, then stood at attention and raised his hand in salute; and
the Princess went in to her dead.
Meanwhile, the Archduke Armand was searching for the Princess. The moment
he had seen the King at rest in the Castle, declining all escort, he had
galloped away for the Summer Palace, first ordering that no information
should be conveyed there by telephone. It was a message for him to
deliver in person, though he shrank from it, as only a man can shrink
from such a duty. But he knew nothing of the Cathedral bell and its
tolling, and when, as he neared the Park, the first note broke upon him,
he listened in surprise; then he grasped its meaning, and with an
imprecation, spurred the faster, racing now with a brazen clapper as to
which should tell the Princess first. And the sentry at the gate stared
in wonder; but the officer on duty at the main entrance ran out to meet
him, knowing instantly for whom the bell was tolling and for whom the
Archduke came.
“Her Highness is not here,” he cried. “She rode away alone by the North
Avenue a short while ago.”
“Make report to the Castle the instant she returns,” Armand called, and
was gone—to follow her, as he thought, on the old forge road.
“Ye Gods!” the officer exclaimed, “that was the King—the new King!” and
mechanically he clicked his heels together and saluted.
Nor did he imagine that all unwittingly he had sent his master far
astray; for the Princess had gone but a little way by the North Avenue,
and then had circled over to the South gate.
And so Armand searched vainly, until at last, bearing around toward
Dornlitz, he struck the main highway and learned that she had passed long
since, making for the Capital as fast as horse could run. And he knew
that the Bell had been the messenger, and that there was now naught for
him to do but to return with all speed and give such comfort as he might.
Though what to do or to say he had no idea—for never before had he been
called upon to minister to a woman’s grief; and he pondered upon it with
a misgiving that was at its deepest when, at length, he stood outside her
door and heard her bid the servant to admit him.
But if he looked for tears and trembling he was disappointed, for she met
him as she had met those in the corridor and the ante-room, dry-eyed and
calmly. And in silence he took her in his arms, and held her close, and
stroked her shining hair.
And presently she put his arms aside, and stepping back, she curtsied low
and very gravely.
“Life to Your Majesty!” she said; “long live the King!” and kissed his
hand.
He raised her quickly. “Never bend knee to me, Dehra,” he said. “And
believe me, I had quite forgot everything except that you had lost your
father.”
She went back to him. “And so had I, dear, until you came; but now, since
he is gone, you are all I have—is it very selfish, then, for me to think
of you so soon?”
He drew her to a chair and stood looking down at her.
“If it is,” he said, “I am surely not the one to judge you.”
She shook her head sadly. “There is no one to judge but—him,” she
answered; “and he, I know, would give me full approval.” She was silent
for a while, her thoughts in the darkened room across the court, where
the tapers burned dimly, and a Captain of the Guard kept watch. And her
heart sobbed afresh, though her lips were mute and her eyes undimmed. At
last she spoke.
“Is the Book of Laws at the Summer Palace or here?” she asked.
“I do not know,” said Armand, “I have never seen it except the day that
the King read old Henry’s decree and offered me Hugo’s titles and
estates.”
“Well, at least, he spoke of it to you to-day.”
Armand shook his head. “Never a word; neither to-day nor for many days.”
A faint frown showed between her eyes. “Didn’t he mention to you, this
afternoon, the matter of the Succession?”
“No.”
She sat up sharply. “It can’t be he didn’t——”
The Archduke dropped on the floor at her feet and took her hand. “I
assure you, Dehra, the King didn’t speak a single word to me on such a
matter.”
“No, no,” she said, “you don’t understand. I mean it can not be he didn’t
make the decree.”
“The decree!” Armand exclaimed, though he knew well there was but one she
would refer to; and his pulse bounded fiercely and his face grew very
hot.
“Yes, dear—the decree—that would have made you Heir Presumptive—and now
King.”
“And you think it was drawn?”
“I am sure of it.”
“The King told you so?”
“Not directly, but by inference. I came upon him late last night in his
library, with the Laws open before him and a pen in his hand; and when I
ventured to voice my curiosity, he smiled and closed the book, saying,
‘You may see it to-morrow, child; after I have told Armand.’”
“Doubtless he intended to tell me after the review.”
The Princess leaned over and put her arm around his neck.
“And now you are the King, dear; as he had always intended you should
be,” she whispered. “Thank God, the decree was made in time.”
For a while Armand toyed with her slender fingers, and did not answer. Of
course, she was right:—it was the decree they both had been hoping for so
earnestly, but which neither had dared mention to the King. And now, when
it had come, and in such fashion, was it really worth the while. Worth
the turmoil and the trouble, and, may be, the fighting, that was sure to
follow his assumption of the royal dignity. Had Frederick lived to
proclaim the decree and to school the Nation into accepting him as his
successor, the way would have been easy and well assured. But it was
vastly different now—with Frederick dead, the decree yet to be announced,
and few, doubtless, of those in authority around him, to be depended on
to aid him hold the throne. Dalberg though he was, and now, by birth, the
Head of the House, yet he was a foreigner, and no people take kindly to a
foreign King. Frederick had died too soon—another year——
And Dehra, bending down questioning his abstraction, read his face and
understood his thoughts.
“Come, dear,” she said, “the crisis is here, and we must face it. Dismiss
the idea that you’re a foreigner. Only you and Lotzen and I are familiar
with our Laws. You forget that the people do not know it required a
special decree to make you eligible for the Crown; and to them you have
been the next King ever since you were proclaimed as Hugo’s heir. And
surely they have shown you a rare good will, and an amazing preference
over the Duke. He has spent his whole life in cultivating their dislike;
do you fancy it won’t bring its harvest now?”
He had turned and was watching her with an indulgent smile. It was sweet
to hear her argue so; to see her intense devotion to his cause; her
passionate desire that he should sit in her father’s place and rule the
ancient monarchy. And at her first words, and the sight of her loving
eyes and flushed cheeks, his doubts had vanished, and his decision had
been made. Yet, because he liked to see her so, he led her on.
“But what of the Nobility,” he objected; “in Valeria they still lead the
people.”
“True,” she answered instantly, “true; but you forget again that the
Nobles are sworn to maintain the Laws of the Dalbergs; and that for
centuries none has ever broken faith. No, no, Armand, they will be true
to their oaths; they will uphold the decree.”
“Don’t you think, dear,” he smiled, “you are making it rather too
assured? If the people are for me (or at least are not for Lotzen) and
the Nobles will abide by the Laws, nothing remains but to mount the
Throne and seize the sceptre.”
“Just about that, I fancy,” she replied.
“And, meanwhile, what will Lotzen be doing?”
She frowned. “Whatever the Head of his House orders him to do. As a
Dalberg he is bound to obey.”
“And you think he will obey?”
“I surely do. I cannot imagine a Dalberg dishonoring the Book of Laws.”
“I fear you do not know Ferdinand of Lotzen,” said Armand seriously. “He
intends to dispute the Succession. I have never told you how, long ago,
he warned me what to expect if I undertook to ‘filch the Crown,’ as he
put it. It was the afternoon he insulted me at headquarters—the Vierle
Masque was in the evening.”
The Princess nodded eagerly. “Yes,” said she, “yes—I know—the time he
wanted you to toss up a coin for me. What did he say?”
The Archduke reflected a moment. “I can give you his exact words: ‘Do you
think,’ he said, ‘that I, who have been the Heir Presumptive since the
instant of my birth, almost, will calmly step aside and permit you to
take my place? Do you fancy for an instant that the people of Valeria
would have a foreigner for King? And even if old Frederick were to become
so infatuated with you that he would restore you to Hugo’s place in the
line of Succession, do you imagine that the House of Nobles would
hesitate to annul it the instant he died?’”
When he had finished, Dehra’s fingers were beating a tattoo on the
chair’s arm, and her eyes were snapping—as once or twice he had seen
Frederick’s snap.
“And I suppose you never told the King?” she exclaimed.
“Naturally not.”
“Of course, of course,” with a toss of the handsome head. “That’s a man’s
way—his silly, senseless way—never tell tales about a rival. And as a
result, see what a mess you have made. Had you informed the King, he
instantly would have proclaimed you as his heir, and then disgraced
Lotzen publicly and sent him into exile. And you would now be his
successor, without a shadow of opposition.”
Armand subdued a smile. “You don’t understand, Dehra——” he began.
“Quite right,” she cut in; “quite right; I don’t. Why didn’t you tell me?
I would have told the King, you may be sure.”
“Of course you would, little woman; that’s just the reason I didn’t tell
you.”
She shrugged her shoulders, and the tattoo began afresh.
“I’ve no patience with such nonsense,” she declared; “Lotzen deserved no
gentlemanly consideration; he would have shown none to you; and besides,
it was your duty to your King and your House to uphold the Laws of the
Dalbergs and to prevent any attempt to violate them.”
“I am very much afraid that lately, between Lotzen and myself, the Laws
of the Dalbergs have been sadly slighted.”
His bantering jarred upon her. “To me, Armand,” she answered gravely,
“our Laws are holy. For almost a thousand years they have been our
unchallenged rule of governance. I can understand why, to you, they have
no sacredness and no sentiment; but Lotzen has been born and bred under
them, and should honor them with his life—and more especially as they
alone made him the Heir Presumptive. But for the decree of the first
Dalberg King, four hundred years ago, I would be the Queen-Regent of
Valeria.”
“It’s a pity, a crying pity!” he exclaimed.
She looked down at him with shining eyes. “No, dear, it isn’t; once I
thought it was; but now I’m quite content to be Queen-consort.”
He took both her hands and held them between his own. “That, dear, is
what makes it possible, and worth the struggle; and if Valeria does
accept me as its King, it will be solely for love of you, and to get you
for its Queen.”
A smile of satisfaction crossed her face. “I hope the people do love me,”
she said. “I would like to feel I may have helped you, even a little.”
“A little! but for you, my princess, I’d go back to America and leave the
way clear for Lotzen.”
She laughed softly. “No, no, Armand, you would do nothing of the sort. A
Dalberg never ran from duty—and least of all the Dalberg whom God has
made in the image of the greatest of them all.”
He glanced in the tall mirror across the room. He was wearing the dress
uniform of the Red Huzzars (who had been inspected immediately before the
Foot Guards; and he, as titular Colonel, had led them in the march by),
and there was no denying he made a handsome figure, in the brilliant
tunic and black, fur-bound dohlman, his Orders sparkling, his sword
across his knees.
She put her head close beside his and smiled at him in the mirror.
“Henry the Great was not at all bad looking,” she said.
He smiled back at her. “But with a beastly bad temper, at times, I’m
told.”
“I’m not afraid—I mean his wife wasn’t afraid; tradition is, she managed
him very skilfully.”
“Doubtless,” he agreed; “any clever woman can manage a man if she take
the trouble to try.”
“And shall I try, Armand?”
“Try!” he chuckled; “you couldn’t help trying; man taming is your natural
avocation. By all means, manage me—only, don’t let me know it.”
“I’ll not,” she laughed—“the King never——” and she straightened sharply.
“I forgot, dear, I forgot!” And she got up suddenly, and went over to the
window. Nor did he follow her; but waited silently, knowing well it was
no time for him even to intrude.
After a while she came slowly back to him, a wistfully sad look in her
eyes. And as he met her she gave him both her hands.
“I shall never be anything but a thoughtless child, Armand,” she said,
with a wan, little smile. “So be kind to me, dear—and don’t forget.”
He drew her arms about his neck. “Let us always be children to each
other,” he answered, “forgetting, when together, everything but the joy
of living, the pleasures of to-day, the anticipations of to-morrow.”
She shook her head. “A woman is always a child in love,” she said; “it’s
the man who grows into maturity, and sobers with age.”
He knew quite well she was right, and for the moment he had no words to
answer; and she understood and helped him.
“But this is no time for either of us to be children,” she went on;
“there is work to do and plans to be arranged.” She drew a chair close to
the table and, resting both arms upon it, looked up at the Archduke
expectantly. “What is first?”
He hesitated.
“Come, dear,” she said; “Frederick was my father and my dearest friend,
but there remains for him now only the last sad offices the living do the
dead; we will do them; but we will also do what he has decreed. We will
seat you in his place, and confound Lotzen and his satellites.”
He took her hand and gravely raised it to his lips.
“You are a rare woman, Dehra,” he said, “a rare woman. No man can reach
your level, nor understand the beauty of your faith, the meaning of your
love. Yet, at least, will I try to do you honor and to give you truth.”
She drew him down and kissed him lightly on the cheek.
“You do not know the Dalberg women, dear,” she said—“to them the King is
next to God—and the line that separates is very narrow.”
“But I’m not yet the King,” he protested.
“You’ve been king, in fact, since the moment—Frederick died. With us, the
tenet still obtains in all its ancient strength; the throne is never
vacant.”
“So it’s Lotzen or I, and to-morrow the Book will decide.”
“Yes,” she agreed; “to-morrow the Book will decide for the Nation; but we
know it will be you.”
“Not exactly,” he smiled; “we think we know; we can’t be sure until we
see the decree.”
“I have no doubt,” she averred, “my father’s words can bear but one
construction.”
“It would seem so—yet I’ve long learned that, in this life, it’s the
certain things that usually are lost.”
She sprang up. “Why not settle it at once—let us send for the Book; of
course it is at the Palace—it was there last night.”
He shook his head decisively. “No, dear, no; believe me it is not wise
now for either of us to touch the Book. It were best that it be opened
only by the Prime Minister in presence of the Royal Council. We must give
Lotzen no reason to cry forgery.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Small good would it do him, as against
Frederick’s writing and my testimony. However, we can wait—the Council
meets in the morning, I assume?”
“Yes; at ten o’clock, at the Palace.”
She looked up quickly. “The key?” she asked; “it was always on his watch
chain—have you got it?”
“No,” said he; “I never thought of it.”
She rang the bell and sent for the Chamberlain.
“Bring me King Frederick’s watch, and the Orders he was wearing,” she
said. When they came she handed the Orders to Armand.
“They are yours now, dear,” she said. She took the watch and held up the
chain, from the end of which hung the small, antique key of the brass
bound box, in which the Book of Laws had been kept for centuries that now
reached back to tradition. She contemplated, for a moment, the swaying
bit of gold and bronze, then loosed it from the ring.
“This also is yours, Sire,” she said, and proffered it to him.
But he declined. “To-morrow,” he said.
“And in the meantime?”
“If Count Epping is still in the Castle, we will let him hold it.”
The Princess nodded in approval. “Doubtless that is wiser,” she said,
“though quite unprecedented; none but the King ever holds that key, save
when he rides to war.”
“We are dealing with a situation that has no precedents,” he smiled; “we
must make some.”
As he went toward the bell, a servant entered with a card.
“Admit him,” he said.... “It is Epping,” he explained.
The Prime Minister of Valeria was one of those extraordinary exceptions
that occasionally occur in public officials; he had no purpose in life
but to serve his King. Without regard to his own private ends or personal
ambition, he had administered his office for a generation, and Frederick
trusted him as few monarchs ever trusted a powerful subject. To the
Nation, he was honesty and justice incarnate, and only the King and the
Princess Royal excelled him in popularity and respect. Seventy years had
passed over the tall and slender figure, leaving a crown of silver above
the pale, lean face, with its tight-shut mouth, high cheek bones and
faded blue eyes; but they had brought no stoop to the shoulders, nor
feebleness to the step, nor dullness to the brain.
He saluted Armand with formal dignity; then bent over Dehra’s hand,
silently and long—and when he rose a tear was trembling on his lashes. He
dashed it away impatiently and turned to the Archduke.
“Sire,” he said—and Armand, in sheer surprise, made no objection—“I have
brought the proclamation announcing His late Majesty’s death and your
accession. It should be published in the morning. Will it please you to
sign it now?”
There are moments in life so sharp with emotion that they cut into one’s
memory like a sculptor’s tool, and, ever after, stand clear-lined and
cameoed against the blurred background of commonplace existence. Such was
the moment at the Palace when Frederick had handed him the patents of an
Archduke, and such now was this. “Sire!” the word was pounding in his
brain. “Sire!” he, who, less than a year ago, was but a Major in the
American Army; “Sire!” he—he—King of Valeria!
Then, through the mirage, he saw Dehra’s smiling face, and he awoke
suddenly to consciousness and the need for speech, and for immediate
decision. Should he sign the proclamation on the chance that the decree
was in his favor, and that he was, in truth, the King? He hesitated just
an instant—tempted by his own desires and by the eager eyes of the fair
woman before him; then he straightened his shoulders and chose the way of
prudence.
He waved the Prime Minister to a chair.
“Your pardon, my lord,” he said; “your form of address was so new and
unexpected, it for the moment bound my tongue.”
The old man bowed. “I think I understand, Sire,” he said, with a smile
that, for an instant, softened amazingly his stern face. “Yet, believe
me, one says it to you very naturally”—and his glance strayed
deliberately to the wall opposite, where hung a small copy of the Great
Henry’s portrait in the uniform of the Red Huzzars. “It is very
wonderful,” he commented;—“and I fancy it won you instant favor and, even
now, may be, makes us willing to accept you as our King. Sometimes, Your
Majesty, sentiment dominates even a nation.”
“Then I trust sentiment will be content with the physical resemblance and
not examine the idol too closely.”
The Count smiled again; this time rather coldly.
“The first duty of a king is to look like one,” he said; “and sentiment
demands nothing else;” and, with placid insistence, he laid the
proclamation on the table beside Armand.
The latter picked it up and read it—and put it down.
“My lord,” he said, “I prefer not to exercise any prerogative of kingship
until the Royal Council has examined the Book of Laws and confirmed my
title under the decrees.”
The faded blue eyes looked at him contemplatively.
“I assumed there was no question as to the Succession,” he remarked.
“Nor did I mean to intimate there was,” Armand answered.
“Then, with all respect, Sire, I see no reason why you should not sign
the proclamation.”