at the table, and she let him know she understood him, by a smile and a
shake of her handsome head. It was not exactly a reproof, and yet neither
was it an encouragement to do the like again.
“Please read it,” she said.
It was very brief—reciting the death of Frederick the Fourth, the
disappearance of the Book of Laws, the stipulation of the Archduke and
the Duke relative to the Succession remaining in abeyance, the creation
of a Regency during the inter-regnum and the Princess’ acceptance of the
office.
When he had done, she asked if there were any suggestions, and none being
offered, she signed it and returned it to the Count. Immediately the
Council arose and she and Armand retired, by the same way they had
entered.
As they passed through the library, Dehra went over to the desk.
“Here is where the King sat that last night,” she said, “and here the
Book of Laws lay, and here was the box. I can’t imagine what he did with
the Book—nor why he removed it from the box—and the box was in its usual
place in the vault when I gave it to you to take to the Council——”
A door latch clicked, and Adolph, the valet, came in hurriedly.
“Well?” said the Archduke, seeing he wished to speak.
“The box, my lord,” he answered; “you left it in the council-chamber—is
it to remain there?”
“No,” said the Princess—“bring it here at once.” She went to the vault
and opened it.... “Put it on the shelf in the rear,” she ordered, when
Adolph returned. He obeyed and gave her the key.
“There was no need to lock it,” she remarked.
“It has a spring lock, mademoiselle,” said the man. “It snapped when I
closed the lid.”
Dehra nodded indifferently. “So it has.... Shut the vault door.” Then
motioned to him in dismissal.
“It’s of small consequence,” she remarked to Armand, as she gave the
combination a twirl, “the box is of little use without the Book.”
As she turned away, her glance fell on the big portrait of her father
that hung high on the opposite wall—and of a sudden the reaction came,
and the tears started, and her lips twitched. She reached out her hand
appealingly to Armand. In silence, he put his arm around her and led her
quickly from the room.
VI
THE REWARD OF A MEDDLER
When Ferdinand of Lotzen left the Council, he passed leisurely down the
corridor toward one of the private exits. The pressing business that was
demanding his immediate attention seemed to bother him no longer, and he
even took the trouble to acknowledge the salute of the guard who paced
before the main stairway; whereat the man stared after him in unfeigned
surprise, until the Duke, suddenly looking back, caught him in the
act—and with a frown sent him to the about-face and the far end of his
beat.
So no one saw His Highness step quickly over and try the door of the
King’s library, and, when it opened to him—as he had anticipated it
would, the Princess having come that way to the Council—go in and close
it softly behind him. Dropping the lock, he went to the door of the
private cabinet (which was between the library and the room used for the
Council meetings) and listened. Hearing nothing, he opened it very
cautiously and peered inside; no one was there and he fixed the door a
bit ajar, so as to be warned if anyone entered from the Council.
The library was a large room, paneled ceiling and sides in wood painted
an ivory white; the great, wide windows were half hidden by the Gobelin
blue tapestries that hung in folds to the floor; heavy bookcases of
carved mahogany lined the walls; the furniture was of the massive Empire
style, but the desk was a big, oblong, flat-topped affair that had been
made over Frederick’s own design—and which more than compensated in
utility for what it lacked in artistry. It pleased its owner and so
fulfilled its mission. It stood a little way back from the center of the
room, the great crystal chandelier above its outer edge, and all the
doors directly in focus of the revolving chair behind it.
It was to this chair that the Duke went and began hurriedly to go through
the papers on the desk, yet taking the utmost care not to disturb their
arrangement, and replacing them exactly as he found them. Evidently
whatever he was seeking was of the sort that needed no examination to
prove it, for he passed over letters and written documents without a
glance at their contents. It was not on the desk and he began on the
drawers, none of which was locked. One after another was searched without
success, and the Duke’s brow went blacker and blacker, until, as the last
proved barren, he flung himself into the chair, and again ran over the
documents on top—and again without finding what he sought.
“It was only a chance,” he muttered, sending his glance around the room,
“only a feeble chance;... ‘He was blotting a page as I entered,’ was what
she said ... and if it were a fresh blotter it might tell the story.” He
went over to the vault, the front of which was painted white and paneled
to correspond to the walls, and tried the door.... “Locked, of course——”
Suddenly he turned toward the King’s cabinet, listening; then sprang
quickly behind one of the window curtains; and its swaying had not ceased
when the Princess and Armand entered, on their return from the Council.
Unseen, he was also unseeing; yet hearing, he had little need for eyes—it
was easy to picture all that occurred:—Dehra’s pointing out the positions
of the King, the Laws and the box; the entry of Adolph; the opening of
the vault; the valet’s return with the box; his dismissal; the locking
again of the vault. But what then happened always puzzled the Duke—that
it was something unexpected was proved by the sudden silence, and pause,
before either of them moved, followed at once by the closing of the
corridor door.
He waited a moment, until he was sure they had gone, then went to the
desk. What had disturbed the American and the Princess—why had their talk
ceased so abruptly—why did they wait, unmoving, and then go out together
and still unspeaking?... Had they seen him?... Impossible; even the
window did not show through the tapestry; and he had been against the
wall.... His gloves—had he let them lie somewhere?... no, they were drawn
through his sword belt.... He studied the desk top—the floor—the
chairs.... They told him nothing;... and, yet, it was very queer.... Had
any part of him been exposed beyond the curtain? He went back and got
behind it ... it completely covered him—and as he stood there the cabinet
door opened and Adolph came in softly.
He glanced around quickly, then went straight to the vault and began to
turn the knob, while the Duke, one eye just beyond the curtain’s edge,
watched him curiously. Could it be that this servant was familiar with
the combination of the lock, that only the King and Dehra were supposed
to know! If so ... the bolts shot back, the door opened, and the valet
disappeared in the vault. In a moment he came out with the box; but
Lotzen did not see him, having drawn behind the curtain; nor did he
venture again to look out except when assured that Adolph’s back was
toward him.
Placing the box on the desk, the valet laid back the lid and with another
furtive look around, went swiftly across to the wall, where hung the big,
life-sized portrait of the King, the escutcheon, on the top of the heavy
gold frame, almost against the ceiling. Under it was a tall,
straight-backed chair, with high arms; and, mounting on them, Adolph
reached behind the picture and, from the space between it and the wall,
drew out an ancient book, leather-bound and metal-hinged:—the Laws of the
Dalbergs.
With a faint chuckle, he sprang down and started toward the box; then
stopped—the Book slipped from his fingers—he gasped—his eyes widened in
terrified amazement—his face took on the gray pallor of awful fear; for
the Duke of Lotzen had emerged from behind the window curtain and was
coming slowly toward him.
“You seem startled, Adolph,” said the Duke, with an amused smile,
“doubtless you thought you were alone.” He sat down in the revolving
chair. “May I trouble you to give me the Book—the floor is hardly the
place for the Laws of the Dalbergs.”
The valet’s composure had returned, in a measure, at the tone of the
other’s voice, but his hand still trembled as he picked up the Book and
carried it to the desk.
“Thank you, Adolph,” said Lotzen, “thank you ... you seem a trifle shaky,
sit down and rest” (indicating a chair near by). “I shall need you
presently.”
He watched the man until he had obeyed, then opened the Laws and turned
quickly to the last decree.
Across the page lay a fresh, white blotter, used but twice, he noticed,
as he turned it over. He had come for this very bit of paper, that Dehra
had casually mentioned in her story to the Council—hoping vaguely that
the King had let it lie, and that it had not been destroyed by the
servants who cared for the desk. He would have been amply satisfied with
the faint chance it might give him of guessing the decree from the few
words the mirror would disclose. But, now, he had no need for guesses nor
mirrors; and with a light laugh he laid the blotter aside. Surely, the
Goddess of Fortune was with him! And to Ferdinand of Lotzen this meant
much; for to him there was only one other Divinity, and that other was a
female, too.
Thrice he read Frederick’s decree; first rapidly, then slowly, then word
by word, as it were.
And all the while Adolph watched him covertly, a sly smile in his small,
black eyes. He had quite recovered from his fright—though he might be led
to pretend otherwise—indeed, now that he had time to think, he could find
no reason why the Duke should punish him; rather did he deserve an ample
reward for having kept the Laws from the Council. In fact, why should he
not demand a reward, if it were not offered?—demand it discreetly, to be
sure, but none the less demand it. And, as the Duke read, and re-read,
the reward piled higher, and visions of Paris (it is strange how, under
certain conditions, the thoughts of a certain sort of people turn to
Paris as instinctively as the needle to the Pole) danced before his
eyes.... And presently he forgot the Duke, and the Laws, and Dornlitz—he
was sitting at a little table along the Boulevard des Italiens, an
absinthe at his hand, a merry girl, with sparkling eyes and perfumed
hair, at his elbow, a sensuous waltz song in his ears, and light, and
life, and love, and lingerie in every breath of air....
“Dreaming, Adolph,” said Lotzen, “dreaming?... of what, pray?”
“Of Paris, my lord,” he answered unthinkingly.
The Duke regarded him in frowning surprise.
“Paris!” he muttered, “Paris! has everyone gone Paris mad?”
“It was of the Boulevards, my lord—the music and the lights and the——”
“Shut up!” exclaimed Lotzen; “to the devil with your Paris and its
Boulevards!... How did this Book get behind that picture?”
“I put it there, monsieur.”—The reward was not piled quite as high as he
had fancied.
“Why?”
“To hide it, monsieur—until I could replace it in the box.”—The reward
was dwindling marvellously fast.
“Then you stole the Laws of the Dalbergs?”
Adolph did not answer.... It was queer how chilly the room had got. It
had seemed warm enough, a moment ago.
The Duke regarded him meditatively.
“Come,” he said presently; “tell me how you managed it. My time is
short—speak up.”
The valet slunk a furtive look at his face; it was expressionlessly
pitiless.—The reward had disappeared.
“Your Highness will believe me?” he asked.
“Believe you, Adolph! surely—a valet never lies! Go on.”
The man gulped—ran his tongue over his lips—gulped again—then began, his
voice husky, full of quavers and sudden stops; while the Duke, with
steady gaze and searching eye, drove him on as with a lash.
“Your Highness heard my story to the Council,” said Adolph; “all of it
was true except as to the last time I saw the Book of Laws.... I happened
to witness the scene between Her Royal Highness and the King. It was just
as she related it, monsieur. When she had gone, His Majesty sat, doing
nothing—and presently he dropped asleep.... I came to the room a number
of times, and always that Book stared at me, and my curiosity as to the
decree grew hotter every minute. After a while, the King awoke and told
me to put the Book in the box and return it to its place in the
vault—then he went over to the sideboard and poured out a drink.... Here,
monsieur, was my opportunity—I laid the Book in the box and lowered the
lid, but slipped in an envelope to prevent it locking, then put it in the
vault—which the King himself closed. After he had retired, I opened the
vault and got out the Book——”
“How did you know the combination?” the Duke asked.
“By—by—watching the King, monsieur ... I had picked up the numbers one by
one ... long ago.”
Lotzen tossed him a bit of paper and a pencil.
“Write out the combination,” he ordered—and smiled at the servant’s
trembling hand and labored motions.... “Thank you;”—glancing at the paper
and dropping it carelessly in his pocket—“proceed—you had just got the
Book out of the vault.”
“While I was examining it, monsieur,” Adolph resumed, “I thought I heard
the King moving about in his room. I sprang inside the vault, drew the
door shut, but not quite tight, and tried to put the Book in the box. But
I must have been nervous, monsieur, for, in some way, I struck the lid
and knocked it down; and it locked, leaving the book in my hand. I could
not open the box—the only key was under the King’s pillow, on his watch
chain. What was to be done? I dared not try for it that night; the King
was too light a sleeper;—nor did I dare leave the Book in the vault,
there was no place to conceal it, and he was sure to go in there in the
morning. What was to do, monsieur? I listened—everything seemed quiet; I
opened the door very slowly—no one was in the room—I stepped out, and the
King’s portrait confronted me—I stared at it a moment, frightened as
though it were my master—then, of a sudden, I knew I had found the hiding
place, and I sprang up and put the Book behind the picture.... And in the
morning, monsieur, I forgot the Book—forgot it until His Majesty had gone
to the city.—Then, in desperation, I tried every key I could find—tried
to pick the lock—in vain.... I knew the Archduke Armand was to dine here
that evening, and from what the King had said to the Princess I knew,
also, the Book would have to be in the box before then. I felt, however,
that I would have a good chance at the key when my master dressed for
dinner. Then, my lord, came the awful news of his death, and once again I
forgot the Book—nor ever thought of it, until I saw the Council
gather—and then——” he threw up his hand, expressively.
“And, now, what were you about to do?” asked Lotzen.
“Put the Book in the box, monsieur, and return it to its place in the
vault.”
The Duke looked at him in surprise.
“Clever, clever, indeed,” he muttered.... “I thought you gave the key to
Her Highness.”
Adolph smiled—his spirit was never long in travail. “I did, monsieur—I
didn’t need it;—and it was a good play to give it up at once. Never
having had the key to the box, it could not be I who replaced the Book.”
Lotzen studied the little valet a bit.
“Clever,” he repeated, “clever ... quite too clever, I fear.” He leaned
across and tried the closed lid of the box; it lifted to his hand—and out
on the desk dropped the little square of folded paper that had held the
lock just out of catch.
“Altogether, too clever,” he concluded, picking it up and looking at it.
“I fixed that in the Council chamber,” Adolph explained; then he stared
knowingly at the Duke—“monsieur was behind the curtain when I brought
back the box.”
Decidedly, this fellow was not to Lotzen’s liking. He made no reply
beyond a quick, sidelong glance, drumming with his finger tips softly on
his knee. Then he turned to the desk and tapped the Book of Laws.
“You read this, I suppose, Adolph?” he remarked indifferently.
“King Frederick’s, you mean?—yes, my lord, I did; but that is all—I had
no time to read more.”
The Duke nodded, his eyes on the Book.
The valet was becoming uneasy; he fidgeted in his chair, locked and
unlocked his hands, listened toward all the doors.
“My lord,” he said, at length, “we may be found here!”
Lotzen closed the Book. “True, Adolph, true,” he answered, getting up and
stepping back. “Put the Laws in the box—don’t let it lock.”
The valet sprang to obey; and as he leaned across the desk—his back to
the Duke—and dropped the Book into the box, Ferdinand of Lotzen whipped
out his sword, and, with the sure hand of the skilled fencer, drove the
rapier-like blade through the man’s heart.
Without cry or struggle, Adolph sank forward; and the box locked, as the
lid fell under him.
For a moment, the Duke held the body with his sword; then he slowly drew
out the blade and wiped it on his handkerchief; while the dead man
slipped from the desk and crumpled on the floor.
Lotzen looked down at him and shrugged his shoulders.
“You poor fool,” he muttered—“why did you read what didn’t concern
you!”... He stooped and turned the body on its face. “No blood!—a neat
thrust, truly.”
He knew the room overlooked the King’s private gardens, and, going to a
window, he cautiously raised the sash. It was as he had thought:—below
was a thick hedge of box-wood, that grew to within a foot of the palace
wall, which at that point was blank. Fortune was still his friend, it
seemed; and, with a smile, he carried the valet’s body to the window
and—after a quick survey of the garden to assure that no one was in
sight—balanced it an instant on the casement, then dropped it behind the
hedge.
Drawing down the window he rearranged the curtains and returned to the
desk.
“Damnation!” he exclaimed, as his eyes fell upon the box—“Locked!—the
fool must have fallen on it.”
He stood looking at it, frowning in indecision. He had intended to take
the Book with him, trusting to conceal it under his short cavalry
cape—but the box was impossible; not only was it considerably larger than
the Laws, but its weight was amazing for its size.... Then he saw the
open vault, and what to do was plain—he would follow the valet’s plan.
None now would look in the box, and, for a time, the Book would be safer
there than with him; later, he could arrange to get it—he knew the
combination.... He laughed cynically—it was a pretty game, and the
pleasanter because it would be played directly under the American’s eye.
He carried the box into the vault, closed and locked the door, and,
returning to the desk, put in place the papers disarranged by the valet’s
fall. Among them lay the blotter that had been in the Book of Laws. He
studied it a moment ... made as though to tear it ... then folded it and
put it in the inside pocket of his jacket. A last glance around the room
assured him that everything was as he had found it. With a satisfied
smile, he turned toward the corridor door, and his eyes rested on the
portrait of His late Majesty. He stopped, and the smile changed to a
sneer, and doffing his cap he bowed mockingly.
“My thanks, Sire, for dying so opportunely,” he said; “may the devil keep
you.”
VII
THE ARMISTICE OF MOURNING
And so Frederick the Fourth of Valeria slept with his fathers, and Dehra,
his daughter, ruled, as Regent, in his stead.
In the great crypt of the Cathedral, among the other Dalbergs, they had
laid him away, with all the pomp and circumstance that befit a
king—within, the gorgeous uniforms and vestments, the chanting priests,
the floating incense; without, the boom of cannon, the toll of bells, the
solemn music of the bands, the click of hoofs, the rumble of the
caissons, the tramp of many feet.
When it was all done, the visiting Princes hurried away, the governmental
machinery sped on, the Capital took up its usual routine, and all that
remained externally to remind the people of a ruler just and righteous,
were the draped buildings and the crape upon the troops. And, at the
dead’s own express behest, even these had vanished on the fifteenth day
after his demise. “Let the period of mourning be limited strictly to a
fortnight, both for the Nation and my House,” he had written, in his own
hand, as a codicil to his Testament; and the Regent, with no shade of
hesitation, had ordered it as he wished. She knew it was Frederick’s last
kindness to his subjects. A Court in sackcloth buries the Capital in
ashes, drives the tradesmen into insolvency, and bores the Nobility well
nigh into insanity or revolt.
And as she ordered, so she did—though sadly and regretfully—and, with a
blessing upon her, the Court resumed its accustomed life and garb, and
Dornlitz its gayety and pleasures. Yet Valeria was sorry enough at
Frederick’s demise—sorrier far than he would have believed it could be.
At the best, a King is of use, these days, only as a head for the
Government—and when the new head is capable and popular, the old one is
not missed for long.
As it was, the people had scarcely realized that Frederick was dead when
they were met with the amazing Proclamation of Dehra’s Regency; with the
result that usually follows when sorrow and joy mingle, with joy mingling
last.
In the interval, there had been no developments as to the Book of Laws.
The Duke of Lotzen had observed the very strictest of mourning; not
transgressing, in the slightest particular, the most trivial canon of
propriety. He had remained practically secluded in his big residence on
the Alta Avenue, appearing in public only at intervals. He had paid his
brief visit of condolence to the Princess and had been greeted by her
with calm and formal dignity. He had made his call of ceremony upon the
Governor of Dornlitz—the Archduke Armand—and had been received by him in
the presence of half his Staff. Then, after the funeral of the dead King,
he had settled down to wait the termination of the two weeks of enforced
inactivity. He could well afford, for that long, to dally with the
future. So he subdued his natural indisposition to quiet and orderly
living, and sternly bade Bigler and the others do likewise, telling them
that the search for the Laws and the removal of the American could abide
for the time.
But never a word did he speak to them of having seen the Book and what
Frederick had written the night before he died.
Sometime before midnight, of the day that Adolph, the valet, had been
killed, the sergeant of the guard, in making his rounds, saw a man
skulking in the private garden. At the order to stand, the fellow had
dashed away, and, seemingly unharmed by the shot sent after him, he
leaped the low wall into the park, where among the trees and bushes, he
had little difficulty in escaping. The matter was duly reported to the
officer of the day and an entry made of it, but as such occurrences were
rather frequent in the park, due sometimes to petty pilferers from the
town, and sometimes to soldiers out without pass, it received no special
attention, beyond a cursory inspection of the locality the following
morning.
Two days later, Adolph’s body was discovered by a gardener who was
clipping the hedge; and then it was remembered that the valet had not
been seen since the morning after Frederick’s death. No one had given him
a thought—in truth, no one cared anything about him. Like most of his
class under such circumstances, he had won the cordial hatred of every
one about the Court—a spoiled, impudent and lying knave. Busy with the
royal funeral, and the great crowds it brought to the Capital, the police
gave the matter scant regard—the fellow was known to them as a night
prowler and a frequenter of questionable resorts, and to have had
numerous escapades with married women; and the autopsy indicating he had
been dead at least thirty-six hours, they had promptly ascribed the death
to the skulker shot at by the sergeant. There was no other clue to work
on, so, after a perfunctory search, they shrugged it over among the other
unsolved. What was the use of bothering about a valet, any way! Besides,
it was a case to let alone, unless special orders came from higher
powers.
So they saw to it that the affair was entirely suppressed—such happenings
around royal palaces are not for the public—and the information was
casually given out that the King’s valet was so distressed, by his royal
master’s death, he found it quite impossible to remain in Dornlitz, and
had returned to France.