Valeria must have a King, and you must choose him, either Ferdinand of
Lotzen or myself. We cannot wait until the Laws are found. I claim the
throne by presumptive right; he, by a right admitted to be subordinate to
mine. In the absence of the decrees my title is paramount, and the royal
dignity falls on me. If the Laws be recovered, and under them I am not
King, I will abdicate, instantly.”
Lotzen had come back to the table and resumed his favorite attitude of
leaning over the back of a chair.
“Charming, indeed, charming!” he chuckled. “Make me King,
and if the Laws unmake me I will abdicate when they are
recovered—when—they—are—recovered! Do you fancy, messieurs, they would
ever be recovered?”
Count Epping saved the Archduke the necessity of answer.
“Your Highness’ argument,” he observed, “is predicated on the hypothesis
that the Archduke Armand has possession of the Book of Laws and is
concealing it because it would, if exhibited, prove him ineligible to the
Throne.”
“Admirably stated!” said Lotzen.
“But,” Epping went on, “you cannot expect the Council to accept any such
hypothesis”—and all the Ministers nodded—“we must assume that neither you
nor the Archduke knows aught of the Book, and whatever action we do take
must be, upon the distinct condition, agreed to, here and now, by you
both, that when the Laws are found—as found they surely will be—the
Succession shall be determined instantly by them. Are you
willing,”—addressing Lotzen—“that the Council, of which you are one,
shall settle it, pending the recovery of the Laws?”
“No, I am not,” said the Duke abruptly; “but pending election by the
House of Nobles, I am content.”
The Prime Minister watched the Duke meditatively for a moment, then
turned to the Archduke inquiringly.
“I am content, even as His Highness of Lotzen,” said Armand; he saw where
the play was leading, and the other’s next move, and he was not minded to
balk him; there was likely to be a surprise at the end.
The Count faced the Council.
“The matter is before you,” he said. “Having in view the Laws and
circumstances, as we know them, to whom shall we confide the government?”
and with a bland smile, he looked at the Minister of Justice—who, as the
junior member, would have to vote first.
Retz stirred uneasily and glanced furtively at Lotzen. He was not
inclined to go so rapidly, or, at least, so openly. Had he apprehended
any such proceeding he would have remained at home, ill, and let his dear
colleagues bear the unpleasant burdens. It was an appalling dilemma. He
wanted to vote for Lotzen—yet he was sure that Armand would be chosen. If
he voted for Armand, he would bear the Duke’s everlasting enmity, and, in
the end, the Laws or the Nobles might give him the Crown. If he voted for
Lotzen, and Armand were chosen, he lifted himself out of the Council, and
ended his career if eventually the American won. He ran his eye around
the table and caught the smile on every face, and mentally he consigned
them all to death and perdition. Then he heard Epping’s voice again:
“We are waiting, Monsieur le Baron.”
But Lotzen came to his relief—quite unintentionally; he alone had not
noted Retz’s embarrassment, having been reading a paper he had taken from
his pocket-book.
“One moment, if you please,” he said. “I take it, that what may give the
Archduke Armand preference over me in his claim for the Crown, is the
presumptive right of the eldest male. If, however, by the Laws, he is
specifically deprived of that right and made ineligible to the Crown,
save under two conditions, I assume the presumption would be reversed,
and he would be disqualified for the Succession until he had proved, by
the Laws themselves, his rehabilitation?”
The words were addressed to Epping, and the answer was prompt and to the
point:
“Your proposition begs the situation,” he said; “it needs the Laws to
prove it.”
The Duke laughed. “No, it doesn’t. I will prove it out of the mouth of
the Archduke Armand himself.” He held up the paper. “Here is a copy of
the Great Henry’s decree reinstating Hugo. I made it months ago, being,
it would seem, wiser than I knew. With the first portion the Council is
already familiar, Frederick having quoted it to you the day the Archduke
Armand was presented; but of the last sentence, unfortunately, he made no
mention; and it is that which governs now. His Royal Highness is fully
acquainted with the original, and if my copy is not accurate he can make
denial—nay, further, if he deny, I will accept whatever correction he may
offer.... Surely, cousin, that is fair and honest—shall I read it—or will
you?”
Armand smiled indifferently. “You can do it with much better effect,” he
answered.
“Will you have all of it or only the last sentence?”
“All of it.”
Lotzen smiled maliciously. “The sweet as well as the bitter, cousin mine,
with the bitter at the end.” Then he tossed the paper across to Epping.
“Will Your Excellency read it?” he said.
With a glance at the Archduke for permission, the Count complied:
“‘Section one hundred twenty-fifth—Whereas, we have learned that our
second son, Hugo, hath served with much honour in the American Army
under General Washington, and hath, since the termination of
hostilities, married into a good family in one of the said American
States, called Maryland, and hath assumed residence therein; and
whereas he hath never sought aid from us nor sued for pardon; Now,
therefore, in recognition of his valour and self reliance and true
Dalberg independence, it is decreed, that Section one hundred
twenty-one, supra, be annulled; and Hugo’s name is hereby reinstated on
the Family Roll in its proper place, the same as though never stricken
therefrom. And it is further decreed that the marriage of Hugo and the
marriage of his descendants shall be deemed lawful, the same as though
their respective consorts were of the Blood Royal. The titles conferred
upon Hugo shall, however, remain in abeyance until claimed anew by him
or by his right heir male——’”
“And now, my lords, attend,” Lotzen cut in. “Your pardon, Monsieur le
Comte, pray proceed.”
The old man paused a moment in rebuke, then resumed:
“‘Nor shall the latter be eligible to the Crown unless hereinafter
specifically decreed so to be—or in event of a vacancy in the royal
dignity without such decree having been so made, then, by special Act
of the House of Nobles.
“‘Henry III., Rex.
“‘Ye 17th of September, A.D. 1785.’”
The Prime Minister slowly put down the paper, and every one looked at the
Archduke—what would be his answer? There was no doubt that Lotzen had
scored heavily, so heavily, indeed, that Retz made no effort to restrain
his smile.
“Does His Royal Highness deny the correctness of the copy and that the
decree is as read?” the Duke asked.
“I have never seen the decree,” said Armand, “and my—pray have the
courtesy, sir,” (as Lotzen laughed and shrugged his shoulders) “to wait
until I’ve finished—and my only knowledge of it is from hearing it read
by the King, the day he offered me my inheritance; but if my recollection
be accurate, the decree is as you have it.”
In a flash the situation had become reversed, and it was now Armand
against whom the presumption ran; and it was he, and not Ferdinand, who
required the Laws to prove his claim.
A heavy silence followed. Then into the stillness cut the Duke’s taunting
laugh.
“Exit the American,” he sneered. “Vale the foreign pretender.”
It was, he knew, into Armand’s most vulnerable spot and, like the coup de
grâce, he had saved it until last; yet, to his astonishment, it brought
only a contemptuous smile and an ignoring stare.
“His Grace of Lotzen seems to have discovered a mare’s nest,” said
Armand. “The decree that is required to make me eligible to the Crown and
to restore me to my proper place in the Line of Succession was executed
by Frederick the Fourth the night before he died.”
And once again came Lotzen’s taunting laugh.
“The night after he died, you mean, cousin,” he exclaimed.
The Prime Minister turned upon him with a frown.
“Your Royal Highness will permit me to suggest,” said he, “the propriety,
under the circumstances, of neither you nor the Archduke addressing each
other.”
And Lotzen, discerning that the Council was of the same mind, nodded
easily.
“I cry pardon,” he replied. “Your Excellency is quite right—but you will
understand, I deny the existence of this suspiciously timely decree. As
to it, at least, there is no presumption of execution—the Laws alone can
prove it.”
The Count turned to the Archduke. “Your Highness has seen the decree?” he
asked.
“I have not.”
“Did the King tell you it was executed?”
“He did not—but he told another.”
“And that other——?”
“Is the Princess Royal,” said the Archduke.
The Count paused a moment to give the situation emphasis—and Lotzen,
chagrin and anger consuming him, yet smiling and unabashed, drew out a
cigarette and carefully lit it.
“Do you think Her Highness would honor the Council with the facts?”
Epping asked.
“I will acquaint her with your desires,” said Armand.
V
THE COMPROMISE
The Princess’ suite was across the corridor from the King’s, and in a
moment the Archduke was with her.
“Your Majesty!” she cried, and curtsied.
He raised her quickly. “Not yet, sweetheart,” he said, “not yet—and, may
be, never.”
She stepped back and regarded him in puzzled surprise.
“You are jesting, dear,” she said; “surely, you are jesting!”
He shook his head and went toward her.
“But the decree—the decree!” she exclaimed, again stepping back.
“The Laws have disappeared,” he said, “the box is empty and the Book
cannot be found.”
In bewildered amazement she let him lead her to a chair, and listened,
frowning and impatient, to his story. Only once did she interrupt—when he
mentioned the Duke’s unexpected entrance—then she struck her hand sharply
on the table at her side. “Lotzen! Oh, Lotzen!” she cried, and with such
threatening vehemence that Armand looked at her in sudden wonder.
At the end, she sprang up.
“Come!” she commanded. “Come; take me to the Council—I can at least
assure they won’t make Lotzen king,” and seizing his hand she made for
the door.
He slipped his arm around her waist and detained her.
“Are you sure, Dehra, you ought to mix in this unfortunate squabble?” he
asked. “Is it——”
She turned upon him sharply. “Squabble! Do you call a contest for
Valeria’s Throne a squabble?”—then suddenly she smiled—that sweet,
adorable smile she ever had for him. “Be very careful, sir, or I shall
tumble both you and Lotzen aside, and take the Throne myself.... Now,
will you escort me!”
He looked at her thoughtfully, then smiled and patted her cheek.
“Come, Your Majesty,” he said; “come, and claim your Crown; it’s yours by
right, and I shall be the first to swear allegiance.”
“And the first to rebel, dear,” she laughed.
They entered the council chamber through the King’s cabinet, and as the
Princess halted a moment in the doorway the Ministers sprang to their
feet and stood waiting, while Ferdinand of Lotzen advanced and bowed low;
not offering, however, to take her hand, fearing it would not be given,
and having no notion to risk a snub in such company.
To his astonishment, Dehra extended her hand and let him kiss it.
“You come on a sad errand, cousin,” she said.... “I would you were still
in Lotzenia.” The words were so innocently fitting, yet the double
meaning was so deliberate.
The Duke slowly straightened, discomfiture and amusement struggling for
control, while Armand smiled openly and the Ministers looked away.
Meanwhile, the Princess passed on serenely to the table and took the
chair at its head. Then, led by Count Epping, the Council came forward
and made obeisance. She received them with just that touch of dignified
sadness which the circumstances demanded, and which, with men, a woman
must measure with the exactness of fine gold. And with it there was the
low, sweet voice, the winning graciousness, and the dazzling smile—now
softened just a trifle—that never yet had failed to conquer, and that had
made her the toast of the Army and the pride of the Nation. And Armand
had watched her, with glistening eyes, as one after another she sent the
Ministers back to their places, bound to her chariot wheels; captive and
content.
And Ferdinand of Lotzen, seeing, understood; and for the first time he
realized fully what her aid meant to his rival, and how little chance he
had to win, save with the Laws. And straightway the last faint scruple
perished, and he set his cold heart against her, as well. Henceforth, for
him, there was but one object in life—the Crown of his ancestors, and for
all who interfered there would be neither consideration nor mercy.
And the Princess’ eye, resting for an instant on his face, read something
of his mind, and with a lift of the chin and a careless smile she turned
to the Council.
“My lords,” she said, “His Royal Highness has acquainted me with your
desires, and I am glad indeed if I can serve you. His Majesty, the night
before he died, executed the decree necessary to make the Archduke Armand
his successor.”
“You saw the decree?” Count Epping asked.
“No, I did not, but what I know is this. Late that night I went into the
King’s library; he was sitting at his desk, with the Book of Laws open
before him and a pen in his hand. He was blotting a page as I entered.
‘You have made Armand’s decree?’ I cried, and went to his side to read
it; but he laughed and closed the Book, saying: ‘You may see it
to-morrow, child, after I have told Armand.’”
“And he did not tell you the words of the decree,” the Count asked, after
a pause, “neither then nor the following day?”
The Princess closed her eyes and lowered her head. “No,” she said; “no—I
never saw my father again—alive.”
There was a distressing silence—then Armand spoke:
“The Council will understand that His Majesty had no opportunity to tell
me of the decree. I was with him yesterday only at the review; naturally
he would not speak of it then.”
“And that was, I suppose, the last time you saw the Book of Laws?” Epping
asked, addressing the Princess, who had recovered her composure.
“Yes—it was lying on the table when I left.”
“May I ask Your Highness,” said Steuben, “why, when you saw that His
Majesty had been writing in the Book of Laws, you assumed, instantly,
that it was ‘Armand’s decree,’ as you put it?”
“You must know, my lords,” she responded, “that it is rare, indeed, that
a new law is made for the Dalbergs, there have been but five in the last
hundred years, and the making is ever due to some extraordinary
circumstance, which is known, of course, to all the family. We had been
anticipating the decree, restoring Armand to his rightful place in the
Line of Succession as Hugo’s heir, and hence it was very natural to
assume it was that which His Majesty had written.” She paused, and, for
an instant, her glance strayed to the Duke of Lotzen. “But it was
particularly natural,” she went on, “inasmuch as the King had mentioned
the matter to me twice within the week, the last time that very morning,
and referring to it as ‘Armand’s decree.’”
Steuben nodded. “I am satisfied,” he said—and Duval and Marquand nodded.
The Prime Minister turned to Ferdinand.
“We would be glad to hear Your Royal Highness,” he said.
The Duke laughed softly in sneering amusement. He was still standing
behind his chair, and now he tilted it forward and leaned across it, his
arms folded on the rail.
“Small chance have I against such a Portia,” he answered. “Yet I would
remind the Council that, where kingdoms are concerned, a pretty woman is
a dangerous advocate to follow—and thrice dangerous when against her is
the written Law and with her only—conjecture.”
“Our cousin of Lotzen does not mean to question my veracity?” the
Princess asked quickly.
“Your veracity?—never, I assure you—only your inferences.”
“And yet, sir, what other inferences can be drawn?”
He shrugged his shoulders and turned to the Prime Minister.
“I reiterate my claim to the Crown,” he said; “and the only Law of the
Dalbergs that is before you confirms it. I cannot conceive that the Royal
Council of Valeria will arrogate to itself the right to annul a decree of
Henry the Third.”
“His Highness of Lotzen misses the point,” said Armand. “I do not ask the
Council to annul that decree, but only to assume from Her Royal Highness’
story that it was duly and legally annulled by Frederick the Fourth.”
“Exactly, my lords, exactly,” the Duke retorted; “inference against
fact—guesses against an admitted Law.”
Then Armand made the play he had had in mind since it was certain that
the Book of Laws was lost. He was standing behind the Princess’ chair—now
he stepped forward and addressed the Duke.
“Cousin,” he said, “we are putting a grievous burden on the Ministers in
obliging them to choose between us, with the proofs seemingly so strong
on either side. It is not fair to them to drive them to the embarrassment
nor to the misfortune that would attend a mistake. There ought to be no
doubt in the mind of the Nation as to the title of the king; he who
occupies the Throne should have his tenure unquestioned; and such cannot
be if the one of us who is to-day made king is liable to be displaced
to-morrow by the other. Besides, as I understand Henry the Third’s
decree, the Council has no jurisdiction except by our agreement. You
assert the decree of eligibility was not made by Frederick. If that be
true, then, there being ‘a vacancy in the royal dignity without such
decree being made,’ it is for the House of Nobles to enact my eligibility
and so give me the Crown, or to refuse and so give it to you. Therefore,
I propose that for the space of a year, or pending the recovery meanwhile
of the Book of Laws, we let the question of succession remain in
abeyance. If, at the end of the year, the Book has not been found, then
the House of Nobles shall choose between us. And as in the interval there
must be some one in supreme authority, let Her Royal Highness be
proclaimed Regent of Valeria.”
Never before had there been such instant, open and cordial unanimity
among the Ministers of the Royal Council. Here was a complete solution of
the vexing problem, and one, moreover, that would relieve them of a most
undesirable duty. Baron Retz’s smile was positively gleeful, and the
others nodded enthusiastically and turned to the Duke expectantly.
And Lotzen saw that he was losing—and with rage and hatred in his heart,
but with calm face and voice softer even than usual, he made his last
play, knowing well that though it might not win, it would at least work a
sweet revenge upon his rival.
“An admirable compromise for you, cousin mine,” he laughed; “and clever,
very clever—you and Dehra are to be married on the twenty-seventh. What
difference, think you, will there be between you as King and you as
Consort of the Princess Regent?” Then he faced the Council and flung his
last card: “Otherwise, my lords,” he said with suave frankness, “I would
willingly accept His Highness’ proposition—or I will accept it, if it is
engaged that the wedding shall abide the termination of the Regency ...
how say you, cousin?”
Once again had the Duke turned the situation by his devilish cleverness,
and Armand’s fingers itched to take him by the throat and choke the life
out of him; and Lotzen, reading something of this in his eyes, grinned
malevolently.
“How say you, cousin?” he repeated, “how say you?”
The Archduke deliberately gave him his back. “My lords,” he said, “it
seems the Duke of Lotzen would force you to the choice.”
But the old Count did not intend to forego the compromise. He wanted
Armand for king because Armand was, de facto, the Head of the House,
because he was convinced the decree had been executed, because it would
make Dehra the Queen, and because he despised Lotzen. With the Princess
as Regent, there would be ample means to swing the Nobles to the
Archduke, and to prepare the public for his accession. Of course, it
would also give Lotzen time to campaign, yet he who fights the government
has a rough road to travel, and usually falls by the way. Leastwise, the
Count was very ready to adventure it. But he needed aid now; and aid that
could come from but one quarter and which he could seek only by
indirection—Dehra alone controlled the situation.
“The compromise suggested is admirable,” he said, “and though there is
force in the objection made to it, yet, my lord,” (addressing Lotzen)
“you cannot expect the Archduke to accept your amendment. It is not for
the man to change the wedding day——”
The Princess sat up sharply. When Armand had suggested her as Regent she
had leaned forward to decline, but catching Epping’s eye she had read an
almost imperious order to wait; and having full faith in him, she had
obeyed. Now she saw what he wanted; and though it was against her heart’s
desire and a cheerless business, yet her own judgment told her he was
right.
“It is not for the man,” the Count repeated, looking at her hard, “to
change the wedding day, and least of all——”
“Wait, monsieur,” she broke in. “It seems that unwittingly I have been
drawn into the situation, and put in a position where I am obliged to
speak. Does the Royal Council approve this compromise, and desire me to
become Regent of Valeria?”
The Count smiled in supreme satisfaction.
“I can assure Your Highness we are of one mind that, in this exigency, it
is your duty to assume the office.”
The Princess arose. “Then, my lords,” she said gravely, “I accept, hereby
engaging that my wedding shall abide the termination of the Regency.”
The Archduke made a gesture of protest, but Dehra flashed him her
subduing smile and shook her head, and there was naught for him to do but
to smile back—and add one more to the score that, some day, Ferdinand of
Lotzen would have to settle.
The Prime Minister looked at the Duke with a bland smile of triumph, and
then at Armand.
“Is it your joint wish,” he asked, “that we ratify the stipulation and
proclaim the Regency?”
“It is,” said the Archduke; but Lotzen only bowed.
Count Epping drew his sword.
“Valeria hails the Princess Dehra as Regent,” he cried. It was the
ancient formula changed to fit the occasion.
And this time Armand’s blade rang with the others across the table, and
his voice joined exultantly in the answer that echoed through the room.
“We hail the Princess Regent!”
As the sound died Ferdinand of Lotzen stepped forward and bent knee.
“God save Your Royal Highness!” he said, and again Dehra gave him her
hand.
“And grant me strength,” she answered.
“Amen,” said the Count gravely. “Amen.”
It was Lotzen who broke the stillness.
“With Your Highness’ permission I will withdraw,” he said; “there are
pressing personal affairs which demand my presence elsewhere.” He turned
to go.
“One moment, cousin,” said she—then to the Prime Minister: “Will the
Council need His Highness?”
There was the same gracious manner, the same soft voice, and yet, in
those few words, she warned them all that there was now a Regent in
Valeria—and a Dalberg regent, too.
“There is nothing now but to draw the Proclamation for your signature,”
said the Count—“the other matters can abide for the time.”
And Lotzen, at the Princess’ nod of permission, went slowly from the
room, his surprise still stronger than his anger; though, in the end, it
was the latter that lingered and left its mark in his unforgiving soul.
While the Count was drafting the Proclamation made necessary by the
changed conditions, the Princess sat in silence, gazing in abstracted
contemplation through the window. Regent of Valeria! the second the
kingdom had known; the first had been a woman, too—Eleanor, mother of the
infant, Henry the Third of glorious memory—yet, was it wise—was it in
fact her duty—her duty to her House; to her beloved? Surely it was not to
her pleasure—she who had been happy in her nearing wedding day—her lover
placed next the Throne—his bright future and her joy for it. And now—the
wait—the struggle—the obligation of right, of justice; the putting off
the woman, the putting on the ruler where the woman interfered. Her
father! she turned that thought aside sharply—she had turned it aside
many times since yesterday, as he had bade her to do:—“When I go, child,
do not grieve.” Yet, when two have been comrades for years it is not
easy.
The Count ceased his writing and, laying aside the pen, looked up.
“Will it please Your Highness to sign?” he said quickly—he had little
liking at any time for a woman’s reverie, and none at all when it was of
the sort he knew this reverie to be—and the woman had work to do.