assume the government until after the Council to-morrow—it will do no
harm to delay the proclamation for a few hours. And, in the interim, you
will oblige Her Royal Highness and me by keeping this key, which she
removed from King Frederick’s watch chain, but a moment before you came.”
The Count nodded and took the key.
“I recognize it,” he replied. “I know the lock it opens.”
“Good,” said Armand; “the box is at the Palace, and doubtless you also
know what it contains. For reasons you may easily appreciate, I desire to
avoid any imputation that the Book has been touched since His Majesty’s
demise. You will produce this key at the meeting to-morrow, explaining
how and where you got it; and then, in the presence of the Council, I
shall open the box and if, by the Laws of the Dalbergs, I am Head of the
House, I will enter into my heritage and try to keep it.”
The Prime Minister got up; gladness in his heart, though his face was
quite impassive. He had come in doubt and misgiving; he was easy now—here
was a man who led, a man to be served; he asked no more—he was content.
“I understand,” he said; “the proclamation can wait;” then he drew
himself to his full height. “God save Your Majesty!” he ended.
III
THE ROYAL COUNCIL
Count Epping was the last of the five Ministers to arrive at the Council,
the following morning. He came in, a few minutes before the hour,
acknowledged with grave courtesy, but brief words, the greetings of the
others, and when his secretary had put his dispatch box on the table he
immediately opened it and busied himself with his papers. It was his
way—and none of them had ever seen him otherwise; but now there seemed to
be a special significance in his silence and preoccupation.
The failure of the Court Journal to appear that morning had broken a
custom that ante-dated the memory of man, and the information which was
promptly conveyed to the Ministers that it was delayed until evening, and
by the personal order of the Prime Minister, had provoked both amazement
and expectancy. It could mean only that the paper was being held for
something that must be in that day’s issue, and as they had promptly
disclaimed to one another all responsibility, the inference was not
difficult that it had to do with the new King’s first proclamation.
“The Count was at the Castle last evening,” Duval, the War Minister, had
remarked, “and I assumed it was to submit the proclamation and have it
signed.”
Baron Retz, the Minister of Justice, shrugged his shoulders.
“May be you assumed correctly,” he remarked.
The others looked at him with quick interest, but got only a smile and
another shrug.
“Then why didn’t he sign it?” Duval demanded.
The Baron leaned back in his chair and studied the ceiling. “When you say
‘he,’ you mean——?”
“The King, of course,” the other snapped. “Who the devil else would I
mean?”
“And by ‘the King,’” drawled Retz, “you mean——?”
There was a sudden silence—then General Duval brought his fist down on
the table with a bang.
“Monsieur le Baron,” he exclaimed, “you understand perfectly whom I meant
by the King—the Archduke Armand. If he is not the King, and you know it,
it is your duty as a member of the Council to disclose the fact to us
forthwith; this is no time nor place to indulge in innuendoes.”
The Baron’s small grey eyes turned slowly and, for a brief instant,
lingered, with a dull glitter, on the War Minister’s face.
“My dear General,” he laughed, “you are so precipitate. If you ever lead
an army you will deal only in frontal attacks—and defeats. I assure you I
know nothing; but to restate your own question: if the Archduke Armand be
the King, why didn’t he sign the proclamation?”
Steuben, the grey-bearded Minister of the Interior, cut in with a growl.
“What is the profit of all these wonderful theories?” he demanded, eyeing
Retz. “The ordinary and reasonable explanation is that the proclamation
is to be submitted to us this morning.”
“In which event,” said the Baron, “we shall have the explanation in a
very few minutes,” and resumed his study of the ceiling.
“And in the meantime,” remarked Admiral Marquand, “I am moved to inquire,
where is the Duke of Lotzen?”
Steuben gave a gruff laugh. “Doubtless the Department of Justice can also
offer a violent presumption on that subject.”
“On the contrary, my friend,” said Retz, “it will offer the very natural
presumption that the Duke of Lotzen is hastening to Dornlitz; to the
funeral—and the coronation.”
“Whose coronation?” Duval asked quickly.
“My dear General,” said the Baron, “there can’t be two Kings of Valeria,
and it would seem that the Army has spoken for the Archduke Armand.”
“And the Department of Justice for whom?” the General exclaimed.
A faint sneer played over Retz’s lips. “Monsieur le General forgets that
when the Army speaks, Justice is bound and gagged.”
It was at that moment that Count Epping had entered.
When the clock on the mantel chimed the hour the Count sat down and
motioned the others to attend.
“Will not the King be present?” Retz asked casually, as he took his
place.
The Prime Minister looked at him in studious comprehension.
“Patience, monsieur, patience,” he said softly, “His Majesty will
doubtless join us in proper time. Have you any business that requires his
personal attention?”
The Baron shook his head. “No—nothing. I was only curious as to what
uniform he would wear.”
A faint smile touched the Count’s thin lips.
“But more particularly curious as to who would wear it,” he remarked
dryly.
Retz swung around and faced him.
“My lord,” he said, “I would ask you, who is King in Valeria: the
Archduke Armand or Ferdinand of Lotzen?”
The old Minister’s smile chilled to a sneer.
“That is a most astonishing question from the chief law officer of the
kingdom,” he said.
“But not so astonishing as that he should be compelled to ask it,” was
the quick answer.
“Is there, then, monsieur, any doubt in your mind as to the eldest male
of the House of Dalberg?”
“None whatever; but can you assure us that he is king?”
“What has my assurance to do with the matter?” the Count asked. “By the
laws of the Dalbergs the Crown has always passed to the eldest male.”
The Baron laughed quietly. “At last we near the point—the Laws. There is
no doubt that, by birth, the Archduke Armand is the eldest male; yet what
of the decree of the Great Henry as to Hugo? As I remember, Frederick
explained enough of it to the Council to cover Armand’s assumption of his
ancestor’s rank and estates, but said no word as to the Crown.” He leaned
forward and looked the old Count in the eyes. “And I ask you now, my
lord, if, under the decree, Armand became the Heir Presumptive, why was
it that, at all our sessions, the Duke of Lotzen, until his banishment,
retained his place on the King’s right, and Armand sat on the left? Is it
not a fair inference, from the actions of the three men who know the
exact words of the decree, that, though it restored Hugo’s heir to
archducal rank, it specifically barred him from the Crown?”
The Prime Minister had listened with an impassive face and now he nodded
curtly.
“There might be some weight to your argument, Monsieur le Baron,” he
said, “if you displayed a more judicial spirit in its presentation—and if
you did not know otherwise.”
“I shall not permit even you——” Retz broke in.
The Count silenced him with a wave of his hand. “You have sat at this
board with us, and since the Duke of Lotzen’s absence, at least, you have
seen our dead master treat the Archduke Armand, in every way, as his
successor; and on one occasion, in your hearing and to your knowledge—for
I saw you slyly note the exact words, on your cuff—he referred to him as
the one who would ‘come after.’ Hence, I say, you are not honest with the
Council.”
“I felicitate your lordship on your powers of observation and
recollection,” said Retz suavely; “they are vastly more effective and
timely than mine, which, I confess, hesitate at miracles. But with due
modesty, I submit there is a very simple way to settle this question
quickly and finally. Let us have the exact words of Henry’s decree. I am
well aware it is unprecedented for any but a Dalberg to see the Dalberg
Laws; but we are facing an unprecedented condition. Never before has a
Dalberg king failed to have a son to follow him. Now, we hearken back for
generations, with a mysterious juggle intervening; and it is for him who
claims the Throne to prove his title. Before the coming of the American
there was no question that Lotzen was the Heir Presumptive. Did he lose
the place when Armand became an Archduke? The decree alone can determine;
let it be submitted to the Royal Council for inspection.”
“The Minister of Justice is overdoing his part,” said the old Count,
addressing the other Ministers. “It is not for him nor his Department to
dictate the method by which the Dalbergs shall decide their kingship, nor
does it lie in the mouth of any of us to demand an inspection of the Book
of Laws. So much for principle and ancient custom. It may be the pleasure
of the Archduke to confirm his right by exhibiting to us the Laws; or the
Duke of Lotzen may challenge his title, and so force their submission to
us or to the House of Nobles for decision. But, as the matter stands now,
the Council has no discretion. We must accept the eldest male Dalberg as
King of Valeria; and, as you very well know” (looking directly at Retz)
“none but a Dalberg may dispute his claim—do you, Monsieur le Baron, wish
to be understood as speaking for the Duke of Lotzen?”
Retz leaned back in his chair and laughed.
“No, no, my lord, no, no!” he said. “I speak no more for Lotzen than you
do for Armand.”
“So it would seem—though not with the same motives,” the Count
sneered—then arose hastily. “The King, my lords, the King!” he exclaimed,
as the door in the far corner opened and Armand entered, unattended, and
behind him came a manservant bearing a brass-bound, black-oak box, inlaid
with silver.
Never had any of the Council seen it, yet instantly all surmised what it
contained; and, courtiers though they were, they (save the old Count)
stared at it so curiously that the Archduke, with an amused glance at the
latter, turned and motioned the servant to precede him.
“Place it before His Excellency, the Prime Minister,” he said; and now
the stares shifted, in unfeigned astonishment to Armand—while the Count’s
thin lips twitched ever so slightly, and, for an instant, his faded blue
eyes actually sparkled, as they lingered in calm derision on the Baron’s
face.
And Retz, turning suddenly, caught the look and straightway realized he
had been outplayed. He understood, now, that the Count had been aware,
all along, of the Archduke’s purpose to produce the Laws to the Council,
this morning, and that he, by his very persistence, had given the grim
old diplomat an opportunity to demonstrate, in the most effective
fashion, the unprecedented honor Armand was now doing them. It was
irritating enough to be out-manœuvered, but to have his own ammunition
seized and used to enhance another’s triumph was searing to his pride;
and, in truth, this was not the first time that the Prime Minister had
left his scar and a score to settle between them.
“Be seated, my lords,” said Armand, “and accept my apologies for my
tardiness,” and he took the chair at the head of the table.
Count Epping drew his sword and raised it high.
“Valeria hails the Head of the House of Dalberg as the King!” he cried.
And back from the others, as their blades rang together above the table,
came the echo:
“We hail the Dalberg King!”
It was the ancient formula, which had always been used to welcome the new
ruler upon his first entrance to the Royal Council.
And it had come as yet another scar to Retz, for it put him to the
choice—whether to play the fool now, or the dastard later—and that with
every eye upon him, even the Archduke’s, whose glance had instinctively
followed the others’. Yet he had made it instantly, smiling mockingly at
the Count; and his voice rang loud and his sword was the last to fall.
But Armand knew nothing of this old ceremony, and the surprise of it
brought him sharply to his feet, with his hand at the salute, while his
face and brow went ruddy and his fingers chill. It was for him to speak,
he knew, yet speak he could not. But when led by Count Epping, they
crowded close about him and bent knee and would have kissed his hand, he
drew back and waved them up.
“I thank you, my lords, I thank you from my heart,” he said gravely,
“though not yet will I assume to accept either the homage or the
greeting. They belong to him who is King of Valeria, and whether I be he
I do not know. As the eldest male, the presumption is with me; yet as the
monarch has full power to choose his successor from any of the Dalbergs,
it may have been his pleasure, under the peculiar conditions now
existing, to name another as his heir. Hence it is my purpose to submit
to you the Book of Laws, that you may inspect the decrees and ascertain
to whom the Crown descends. I am informed this is a proceeding utterly
unknown; that the Dalberg Laws are seen only by Dalberg eyes. Yet, as I
apprehend there will be another claimant, who will have a hearty
following, and as, in the end, it is the Laws that will decide between
us, it is best they should decide now. If, by them, I am King of Valeria
I will assume the Crown and its prerogatives; and if I am not King, then
I will do homage to him who is, and join with you in his service.”
He paused, and instantly General Duval flashed up his sword.
“God save Your Royal Highness!” he cried. “God grant that you be King.”
And as the others gave it back for answer, their blades locked above the
Archduke’s head, the corridor door behind them swung open, and Ferdinand
of Lotzen entered and, unnoticed, came slowly down the room.
All night, with a clear track and a special train, he had been speeding
to the Capital, anxious and fearful, for in an inter-regnum hours count
as days against the absent claimant to a throne. But when, at the
station, he learned from Baron Rosen that the Proclamation had not yet
been issued and the Council had been called for ten o’clock, the prospect
brightened, and he hurried to the Palace.
Yet there was small encouragement in the scene before him, though the
words of the acclaim and the black box on the table puzzled him. Why,
with the Laws at their disposal, should there be any doubt as to who was
King! So he leaned upon a chair and waited, a contemptuous smile on his
lips, a storm of hate and anger in his heart. Those shouts, those swords,
those ardent faces should all have been his; would all have been his, but
for this foreigner, this American, this usurper, this thief. And his
fingers closed about his sword’s hilt and, for the shadow of an instant,
he was tempted to spring in and drive the blade through his rival’s
throat. But instead he laughed—and when at the sound they whirled around,
he laughed again, searching the while every face with his crafty eyes,
and, save in Retz’s, finding no trace of confusion nor regret.
“A pretty picture, messieurs,” he jeered, “truly, a pretty picture—pray
don’t let me disturb it; though I might inquire, since when has the Royal
Council of Valeria gone in for private theatricals!”
And Armand promptly gave him back his laugh.
“Our cousin of Lotzen appears in good time,” he said very softly. “Will
he not come into the picture?”
Ferdinand shook his head. “In pictures of that sort, there can be but one
central figure,” he answered.
The Archduke swung his hand toward the Ministers.
“True, quite true,” said he; “but there is ample space for Your Royal
Highness in the background.”
Lotzen’s face went white, and he measured Armand with the steady stare of
implacable hate, though on his lips the sneering smile still lingered.
And presently he answered: “I trust, monsieur, you will not mistake my
meaning, when I assure you that there isn’t space enough in such a
picture to contain us both.”
“It is a positive pleasure, Monsieur le Duc,” returned Armand quickly,
“to find, at last, one matter in which our minds can meet.”
And so, for a time, they stood at gaze, while the others watched them,
wondering and in silence. Then the Archduke spoke again:
“And now, my dear cousin, since we understand each other, I suggest we
permit the Royal Council to continue its session. Be seated, messieurs;”
and with a nod to the Ministers, he resumed his place at the head of the
table.
Instantly Lotzen stepped forward.
“My lords,” he cried, “as Heir Presumptive I claim the Throne of Valeria.
I call upon you, in the name of the House of Dalberg, to acknowledge me
and to proclaim my accession.”
“Upon what does Your Royal Highness rest your claim?” Count Epping asked
formally.
The Duke pointed to the box; he saw now it was shut tight and the key not
in the lock—and this, with what had occurred as he entered, undoubtedly
indicated either that the Book had not yet been examined or that it
contained no decree fixing the Succession. In either event, he stood a
chance to win; and, at least, he had need for time.
“Upon the Laws of the Dalbergs,” he replied, raising his hand in salute;
“and under which, as you all well know, I have been the Heir Presumptive
since my father’s death.”
“And you will accept them as final arbiter between us?” asked Armand
quickly.
Ferdinand turned and looked at him fixedly.
“For the Crown, yes,” he said very softly; and not a man but understood
the limitation and the challenge.
And the Archduke smiled, and answered in a voice even softer and more
suave.
“So be it—I will chance the rest.” Then he addressed the Council. “His
Excellency, the Prime Minister, has the key to the box; with your
permission I will ask him to explain when and under what circumstances he
got it.”
And the Count took care that Armand should lose nothing in the telling,
and when he had finished, he drew out the queer little key, and holding
it so all could see looked at the two Dalbergs inquiringly.
“Shall I unlock the box?” he asked; and both nodded.
But the key would enter only a little way; and while the Count worked
with it, Armand remembered suddenly the unusual motion Frederick had used
the day he showed him the Laws.
“Turn the bit sidewise and push down and in,” he said. And at once the
key slipped into place and the lock snapped open.
At the sound, the Ministers eagerly craned forward; but the Count did not
offer to lift the lid until he received the Archduke’s nod; then he
slowly laid it back, and leaning over peered inside. And he peered so
long, that Lotzen grew impatient.
“The Laws, Epping, the Laws,” he said sharply; “let us have them, man.”
The Count looked at him and then at Armand.
“The box is empty,” he said.
IV
THE PRESUMPTION SHIFTS
Into the silence of amazement that ensued, came the Duke’s sneering
laugh.
“Surely, surely, you didn’t think to find it otherwise!” he said.
His insinuation was so apparent that the Archduke turned upon him
instantly.
“Don’t be a coward, Ferdinand of Lotzen,” he said. “Speak plainly; do you
mean to charge me with having removed the Book from the box?”
The Duke bowed. “Just that, Your Royal Highness,” he said; “just that,
since you must have it—you Americans are so blunt of speech.”
Armand leaned forward. “The only way to deal with a liar,” he answered,
“is to put him where he can’t lie out.”
Ferdinand shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly. “You play it very
cleverly, cousin mine, but the logic of elimination is against you. I
assume you will not accuse our dear dead master of having hid the Laws;
and since his decease, the key, you admit, has been with only you and His
Excellency, the Prime Minister. I assume also you will acquit Count
Epping—I am quite sure I will—and so we come back to—you.”
The Archduke had long ago learned that in an encounter with Lotzen it was
the smiling face that served him best; so he controlled his anger and
turned to the Ministers.
“His Highness overlooks the logic of opportunity,” he said. “I was not in
the Summer Palace, since the King’s death, until this morning.”
Ferdinand laughed again. “Naturally not; you’re not such a bungler.”
Baron Steuben, who had been pulling thoughtfully at his beard, eyeing
first one and then another, here broke in, addressing Armand.
“Would Your Highness care to tell us when you last saw the Book of Laws?”
he inquired.
“I shall gladly answer any question the Council may ask. The only time I
ever saw either Book or box was the day the King offered me my
inheritance as the heir of Hugo.”
And once again came Lotzen’s sneering interruption.
“And yet you could instruct Count Epping just how to manipulate the
key:—‘turn the bit sidewise and push down and in.’”
Retz half closed his eyes and smiled; Epping’s lips grew tighter; Duval
and Marquand frowned; Steuben, with a last fierce tug at his beard,
relapsed into silence.
But Armand met the issue squarely.
“It is my word against your inference,” he said. “I am quite content to
let the Council choose. They, too, have seen that key used but once, and
yet I venture that a year hence they also will remember the peculiar
motion it requires.”
“They are much more likely to remember your ready wit and clever tongue,”
Lotzen retorted.
The Archduke turned from him to the Council.
“My lords,” he said, “there is small profit to you in these personal
recriminations. The question is, who is King of Valeria, Ferdinand of
Lotzen or myself—and as only the Book of Laws can answer, I ask that you,
yourselves, search King Frederick’s apartments and interrogate his
particular attendants.”
Count Epping arose. “Will the Minister of Justice aid in the search,” he
said—“and also Your Royal Highness?” addressing Lotzen.
The latter smiled. “No; I thank you—what is the good in searching for
something that isn’t there!”—then he turned upon Armand. “I assume you
brought the box here,” pointing to the table, “and that you found it in
the vault, where it is always kept—may I inquire how you got into the
vault?”
“Through the door,” said the Archduke dryly.
“Then you know the combination—something the King never told even me.
Observe, my lords, the logic of opportunity!”
But Armand shook his head. “No,” said he, “I do not know the
combination.”
And Lotzen, seeing suddenly the pit that yawned for him if he pursued
farther, simply smiled incredulously and turned away.
The old Count, however, saw it too, and had no mind to let the
opportunity slip.
“Who opened the door?” he asked bluntly.
“Her Royal Highness the Princess,” said the Archduke.
And Epping nodded in undisguised satisfaction; while Ferdinand of Lotzen,
sauntering nonchalantly over to the nearest window, cursed him under his
breath for a meddler and a fool.
As the Duke had predicted, the search of the King’s apartments and the
vault proved barren; and then, his particular servants and such
attendants as were in the Palace were summoned and examined, and also
without result; indeed none of them remembered having seen either box or
Book—save one: Adolph, Frederick’s valet. He said that, recently, his
master had spent many hours in the evenings studying the Laws, going
through them with great care, making notations and marking certain pages
with slips of paper; that no one else was ever present at such times, and
once, when he had unthinkingly approached the desk, the King had angrily
bade him leave the room. Asked when he had last seen the Book, he
answered the fourth day before His Majesty’s demise; which, he added, he
felt sure was also the last time it had been used; but admitting,
frankly, when pressed by the Archduke, that his only reason for so
thinking was that he had not seen it in that interval.
“Oh, as to that, my dear cousin,” said Lotzen from the window, the
instant the valet had gone, “I am altogether willing to admit, and for
the Council to assume, that the Book was safely in the box and the box
safely in the vault when Frederick died. Don’t try to obscure the point
at issue—what we want to know is what you have—I beg your pardon—what has
happened to it since that time.”
Armand waited with polite condescension until the Duke had finished, then
he ignored him and addressed the Council.