isn’t; he’s a vicious mongrel; if he had the Book, you can rest assured
he destroyed it.”
But she shook her head.
“Your facts proved him innocent;” she smiled, “and so they don’t appeal
to me to-day. I’m as sure he won’t destroy the Laws as I am that he
killed Adolph; what troubles me is how to recover them.”
“We have a year——”
“I don’t intend to wait a year for your crowning, Sire,” she broke in.
“Nor half a year, either.”
He smiled indulgently, and pressing lightly the small fingers that still
lay in his.
“The little Kingmaker,” he laughed.
“No, no!” she said, “not I; Mr. Courtney is your Warwick and Valeria’s
benefactor—he saved us from Lotzen.”
“Then, your work is not finished, old man,” the Archduke remarked;
“there’s a lot of saving to be done, I fear.”
Courtney nodded rather gravely; he was quite of the same mind.
“Warwick will hold to the work,” he answered, “and aid you all he may;
but, for the immediate present, I would advise that we sit tight and give
the enemy a chance to blunder. And in the meantime, Armand, I suggest you
change the combinations on all the vaults here, and at the Castle.”
“It was done ten days ago.”
“The Book isn’t in any vault,” the Princess remarked; “they all have been
thoroughly searched.”
“But something else may be in them, which will be needed—one can never
know,” the Ambassador answered. “Leastwise, it won’t hamper us, and may
hamper Lotzen—or some one.”
“It’s only a wise precaution,” the Archduke added—“the vault in the
King’s library, both here and at the Castle, is filled with records and
other valuables, and upon both I changed the combinations myself—I didn’t
trust it to a workman, who could be found and bribed.”
And it was this change of combination that the Duke of Lotzen had
discovered that afternoon.
At the Archduke’s firm insistence, Colonel Moore, his junior Aide, had
been detached from his staff and assigned as Adjutant to the Regent; and
a portion of the King’s suite, including his library, allotted to him for
quarters. This, also, was at the Archduke’s personal order—he, himself,
might not be there always to guard Dehra, so he gave her the gallant
Irishman, with the best sword in the Kingdom and a heart as true as his
sword. Lotzen’s bravos and his blandishment would be alike powerless
against him.
And the Duke, when he saw the order, smiled in quiet satisfaction; and
Bigler chuckled and read it to Rosen at the Club—“Thank Heaven we shan’t
have the other damned foreigner to contend with when we go after the
American,” he had said.
But when the Duke learned who occupied the library, he cursed Moore and
the luck that had put him there—with the Book in the vault, and to be
got, and none but him to get it. For no one, not even his closest
associates, might know he had found it—he could not trust even their
loyalty against the fetish of the Laws. So it was for him alone to obtain
it; and now the task—delicate enough at best—had become almost impossible
for one man. Under every precedent, the King’s suite should have remained
unoccupied, awaiting his successor; but, instead, this Irishman; this
fellow with the quickest sword and surest eye in the Army; this devoted
follower of the American, and, after him, the one man in Valeria whom he
hated the fiercest and feared even more; he was—though thank God he did
not know it!—guarding the Book for his master.
It was, in truth, the first faint frown of his Goddess, but Lotzen was
too good a gambler to flout her at the loss of a single turn. It meant
either a little more careful play or a little more recklessness. And, on
the whole, the recklessness was rather more appealing than the care. If
he could not easily recover the Book, he could, at least, adventure
leaving it where it was—and let the Regent’s Adjutant guard it for him,
too. And he smiled his cold smile—and longed to make a second Adolph of
the Irishman, knowing well that he, skillful fencer though he was, could
never reach Moore’s heart save from the rear.
And that day, he had thought to take a reconnoissance, and he had come to
the Summer Palace, trusting for an opportunity to gain admission to the
library, to open the vault. There was a possibility that the King’s
effects had been removed from it, and the box might also have been taken;
and, if so, it might be lying in some room, quite unguarded. Yet he
deluded himself little on that score; the chance was too slight even to
consider seriously; there was really no occasion for emptying the vault;
on the contrary, Moore’s presence was the very best reason for leaving it
untouched. Nevertheless, it was well enough to make sure.
And here again luck bent to him. As he turned the corner of the corridor
at the end farthest from the King’s suite, Colonel Moore came out and
hurried down the stairway opposite, without a glance aside.
Lotzen smiled, and went on to the library door—and smiled still more
broadly when he saw it was open wide. Really, the thing was getting too
easy! He stopped and tapped lightly on the jamb with his sword hilt—then
stepped in and glanced quickly around. The shades were half drawn, but
there was enough light for him to see that the room was empty. Going
swiftly to the vault, he whirled the knob through the combination that
Adolph had given him, dropped it at the final number and seized the
handle.... The bolts refused to move. With a frown, he spun the knob
again; and again they stood firm. A third time he tried, carefully and
slowly, not overrunning the marks by the shade of a hair—and still the
bolts stayed fixed.
With a muttered curse he stepped back, and from the paper in his pocket
verified the formula he had used—though he knew he had made no
mistake.... Could the valet have lied—have given him a wrong
combination—have actually played him for a fool to his very face!...
Impossible—quite impossible—he could recognize fear when he saw it; and
no servant ever lied adroitly under such terror as had gripped Adolph at
that moment. He stared at the vault and at the paper ... and, then, of a
sudden, he understood—the combination had been changed.... Why—by whom,
did not matter now. Enough, that behind that iron door the Book was
surely lying, and he powerless to obtain it.... Well, so be it—he must
chance the risk; the reckless game had been forced upon him by his
enemies, and he would play it out. They did not imagine the Book was in
the box—they would seek it elsewhere—and the American would lead in the
seeking—on—on—on to Lotzenia, and the castle on the mountain, high above
the foaming Dreer—and then!... A fell smile crossed his face, and his
eyes narrowed malevolently—there would be no need for the Book, when they
came back to Dornlitz.
As he stepped into the corridor, the door opposite, in the Princess’
suite, opened and Mademoiselle d’Essoldé came out.
“Your Highness!” she said, dropping him a bit of a curtsy.
“My lady!” he answered, bowing over her hand; then motioned behind him.
“Who occupies his Majesty’s apartments?” he asked.
“The Adjutant to Her Royal Highness,” she answered, knowing well he knew.
“True,” said he; “I quite forgot. Colonel Moore has pleasant quarters,”
and he smiled.
His inference was too evident to miss. She was of the Regent’s Household
and Moore was her most persistent suitor. She made no pretense to conceal
her displeasure, though she echoed his laugh.
“Yes, very pleasant,” she answered, “yet they won’t be his for long—he
but holds them for another.”
“And the other?” maliciously driving her to the choice between the
Archduke and himself.
She raised her eyebrows.
“There could be but one, my lord,” she answered, looking at him with calm
directness.
He laughed. “May be we do not guess alike; and I fear me, when my other
comes, the dashing Colonel will have to make a far move—beyond the
border.”
The blue eyes snapped. “I can well believe Your Highness,” she retorted.
“When you move in, Colonel Moore would scorn to stay this side the
border.”
Elise d’Essoldé never forgot the look that came in Lotzen’s eyes. It was,
she said afterwards to the Regent, as though he had actually struck her
in the face. And, for a little while, he did not speak. Then as she drew
back into the room, he bowed, his hand upon his heart.
“My thanks, my lady, my thanks for your candor,” his voice soft and very
kind—“I shall see to it that your Colonel does not go alone.”
“Small danger,” she replied, as she slowly closed the door, “Your
Highness has been seeing to that with fine success, these many years—au
revoir, mon Prince,” and the latch clicked between them.
With a shrug, the Duke turned away. What a vixen she was!—and how very
sure Dehra must be of the American’s succession, when one of her
Household would venture to flout Ferdinand of Lotzen to his face. His
mouth hardened. Damn the woman who played with statecraft—who meddled
with the things she knew nothing of—who would impose a foreigner upon an
ancient Kingdom, just because he was her lover. Damn the whole tribe—they
were fit only to play with clothes, and to serve man’s idle moment....
The rattle of a sword and click of spurs sounded on the stairway, and the
Regent’s Adjutant turned the corner.
“Ah, Colonel, well met!” said Lotzen briskly, as Moore came to attention
and salute; “I took the liberty, as I passed your quarters, of looking at
His late Majesty’s portrait; I wish to have a copy made—the door was
open, so I assumed I might go in,” and with a pleasant smile and nod he
passed on—then stopped. “My congratulations on your promotion—though as
the smartest soldier in the army it belonged to you.”
Moore looked after him thoughtfully.
“What particularly fine bit of deviltry are you up to now,” he muttered;
“and what were you really doing in the library?”
Half way down the corridor Moore met Elise d’Essoldé.
“Whither away, my lady, whither away?” he asked, sweeping the floor with
his cap.
“I’m not your lady,” she answered, making to pass by, but smiling
sidelong at him.
“Egad, I wish you wouldn’t tell me that so often—have some regard for my
poor heart.”
She tossed her head. “Your heart, indeed! which heart? An Irishman has a
hundred and a different girl for every one.”
“This Irishman has a million hearts—and the same girl for them all.”
She put the tip of her parasol to the wall, and leaned lightly against
it.
“And how many hearts has she?” she asked.
He shook his head sadly. “None—none—not the faintest trace of one.”
She bent further over, and tightened the bow of blue ribbon on the staff.
“May be you’re not the one to find it,” she smiled—“another man——” and
the merry eyes glinted gaily through the long lashes.
“Oh, I’m the man—and she knows it.”
A little laugh rippled forth—“And does she know, also, your stupendous
self sufficiency?”
“Yes, she knows that, too—and likes me just the same.”
“Which would seem to be very little—as it should be.... My parasol if you
please, I’m going.”
He kept his hold.
“You little witch,” he said; “I don’t know why I let you walk upon me
so.”
The saucy mouth drooped at the corners. “Nor I why I walk—the way is
surely very stony.... My parasol, I said.”
He glanced up and down the corridor.
“Do you know,” he said seriously, “I believe that hat is so big I could
kiss you, and no one see us.”
She dropped the sun-shade and sprang back.
“Yes, I believe you could—and I believe you actually would—but you
shan’t.”
He opened the parasol, and drew the circle close behind his head.
“It’s not quite so large as your hat,” he went on, “but I think, if you
don’t struggle too much, I can manage to hold it properly.”
He went slowly toward her—she retreated.
“Come,” she commanded;... “cease this foolishness ... my parasol;... I’m
going....”
He did not answer.
“Ralph,” she exclaimed, “are you crazy!”
He shook his head and came on.
She was on the stairway now—a glance:—no one was below her. She lifted
her skirts with both hands, and backed down the steps, smiling up at him
the while, tantalizingly.
“Come on,” she said, as he halted at the top; “I need the parasol; come
on.”
“You little devil,” he laughed; “You’ll tempt me once too often.... Here,
take your sun-shade—I may have need of it another time.”
“Merci—amant, merci,” she inflected softly, then flung him a kiss from
her finger tips—“and you take that—I won’t need it another time—and, if I
do, I’ve others.”
“Many others?” he asked.
She faced about, and raising the parasol swung it between them.
“A million—for your hearts,” she answered, and ran quickly down the
steps.
Meanwhile the Duke of Lotzen, passing along the lower corridor, had
caught, in a mirror, the reflection of the scene on the stairs, and had
paused to watch it.
“A pretty picture, Mademoiselle; truly, a pretty picture,” he said, as
they met; “and most charming from the rear—and below—oh! most charming.”
Her cheeks and brow went red as flame, as she caught his meaning.
“You vile peeper,” she exclaimed; “doubtless, you’re an experienced
judge,” and dropping the parasol in his face, nor caring that the silk
struck him, she hurried by.
The Duke looked after her contemplatively. Really, this girl was worth
while—he must take a hand in the Irishman’s game—that hair, those eyes,
that walk, that figure—oh, decidedly, she was quite worth while.
With an evil little laugh, he put her out of his mind, for the moment,
and turned toward the terrace and to business. He had learned of the
alfresco luncheon near the pergola, and he appreciated that there was the
place to make the first move in his new plot.
Yet when, from the sun-dial, as he feigned to study it, he saw the
Princess, through the rhododendrons—with the American across the table
from her, where he himself ought to have been; and watched her lavish
upon Armand the adorable smile that should have been his; and knew,
afresh, that, come what may, the glorious woman yonder was lost to him
forever—his anger welled so high he dared not risk a meeting, lest in his
rage he wreck his cause completely. So he braced his shoulders against
the fierce desire that tugged him toward them, and went on, giving no
glance aside.
Then the Princess called him; and when the only voice able, hitherto, to
touch a soft chord in his heart, struck now a jarring dissonance, the
fury passed; and again he was the man of cold, calm hate and ruthless
purpose. So he turned aside, and to his enemies—her and the
foreigner—deliberating how to make his play quickly, yet naturally and
with seeming inadvertence. The faintest blunder would be fatal with
Courtney watching; Armand he despised.
And at Dehra’s sudden question, he had almost laughed aloud—was it always
to be so easy! But he bound his face to his part, and made his answer,
and went his way; whistling softly, and all unknowingly, a little song,
that a slender, sinuous woman, with raven hair and dead-white cheek, had
sung to him in the North.
And when, presently, it came to him whose the song was, and where he had
heard it, he laughed gaily.
“An omen!” he said aloud, “an omen! On to Lotzenia—and a dead Archduke.”
X
A QUESTION OF VENEER
The Archduke Armand tossed the end of his fourth cigar into the grate and
looked at the big clock in the corner. It was only a bit after eleven,
and that was, he knew by experience, the blush of the evening at the
American Embassy, where there were no women-folk to repress the
youngsters nor to necessitate the closing of the house at conventional
hours. Courtney had only bachelors in his official family; and he housed
them all with him in the big residence on Alta Avenue, and gave them free
rein to a merry life, fully assured they would not abuse the liberty; he
had known every one of them as boys, and their fathers before them.
The Archduke reached over and pressed a button.
“Bring me a cap and a light cape,” he said to the servant;—“and a stick.”
The man went out, and Armand crossed to a window and drew aside the
curtain.
“Put them on a chair,” he said without looking around, as the door opened
again. “You may go.”
The door closed. For a little while he watched the gay street, stretching
southward for half a mile to the center of the city, where the lights
blazed variegatedly and brightest. The theatres had tossed out their
crowds, and below him the van of the carriage column was hurrying
homeward, to the fashionable district out the Avenue, or to the Hanging
Garden above the Lake. Occasionally a face, usually a woman’s, would lean
close to the door and look at the Epsau curiously—it housed the man who
was likely to be King. And the man smiled with half bitter cynicism, and
wondered what words followed the look, and who spoke them, and to whom.
Once, he recognized Count Epping’s lean visage, and in that carriage, at
least, he felt that the words were friendly; a moment later, the snake
eyes of Baron Retz went glittering by—but never a glance did he turn
aside.
“You little reptile,” the Archduke muttered aloud, “you ought to crawl,
not ride.”
He dropped the curtain and turned away—then stopped, and his lips
softened; and presently he laughed. Just inside the door, and standing
stiffly at attention, was Colonel Bernheim, holding the cape and cap and
stick the servant had been sent for.
“Now what’s the trouble?” Armand demanded.
“Your Highness desired these?” said Bernheim.
“Yes—but I didn’t send for you.” The tone was very kindly.
“But you are going out, sir?”
“Yes.”
“And I’m on duty to-night.”
“You’re excused—go to bed.”
The old soldier shook his head. “I’m going with you.”
“Nonsense,” said Armand, “nonsense! I’m for only a short walk up the
Avenue.”
“I must go with you, sir,” the Aide insisted.
The Archduke looked at him in some surprise.
“Positively, Bernheim,” he said, “if you keep this up you will have
nervous prostration. Quit it, man, quit it.” He flung on the cape, and
taking cap and cane went toward the door. “Good night.”
The Colonel stood aside, hand at the salute. “Your pardon, sir—but I must
go with you—it is the Regent’s personal order.”
“What!”
“She telephoned me this evening always to see that you had an escort,
after dark.”
The Archduke sat on the end of the writing-table and laughed until the
tears came—and even old Bernheim condescended to emit, at intervals, a
grim sort of chuckle.
“What hour are you to put me to bed, nurse?” Armand asked.
“The orders did not run to that point, sir,”—with a louder chuckle—“but I
should say not later than midnight.”
“Then I’ve a few minutes’ grace, and I’ll spend them playing on the
sidewalk, while you warm the sheets and get the milk,” and with another
laugh he went out. “Don’t forget the milk,” he added over his shoulder.
Bernheim held open the door.
“I’ll not, sir,” he said, and followed him.
At the street, Armand stopped.
“Where are you going, Colonel?” he asked.
The heels clicked together and the hand went up.
“For the milk, sir.”
He recognized the futility of further opposition; with the Regent’s
command to sustain him, Bernheim would not be denied.
“Come, along, then,” he ordered—“and if they have a cow at the American
Embassy I’ll set you to milking it, or I’m a sailor.”
The old fellow answered with the faintest suggestion of a grin.
All Dornlitz was familiar with the features of the Great Henry, and so it
was quite impossible for the Archduke Armand to escape recognition—and
to-night, as he and Bernheim went out the Avenue, the people made way for
him with a respect and deference that even he could not but feel was
honest and sincere, and of the quietly enthusiastic sort that is most
dependable.
“Does it look as though I had need for an escort?” he asked.
“Not at this moment,” the Aide agreed.
“Nor at any moment on Alta Avenue;” he put his hand on the other’s
arm—“you know, Bernheim, it’s not you I object to, it’s the idea. I
always like you with me.”
The Colonel’s face flushed, and for an instant he did not reply; when he
did, his voice was low and faintly husky.
“Sire!” he said, “Sire!”
The Archduke glanced at him in quick surprise, and understood; sometimes
Bernheim’s intense devotion overflowed.
“Brace up, Colonel,” he exclaimed, with sudden gayety, “brace up! you
won’t have to milk that cow.”
Then both men laughed, and the normal situation was resumed.
The bells began to chime midnight, as they reached the Embassy.
“Don’t wait for me,” Armand said; “I may be late. Go back and send an
orderly.”
The other smiled. “I’ll wait, myself, sir, if you will permit; they have
a game here I rather like.”
“Take care, Colonel; those boys will skin you out of your very
uniform—better look on.”
“I do, sir, when I’ve a poor draw;” he answered seriously, and wondered
at the Archduke’s chuckling laugh.
Courtney greeted his friend with a nod and a wave of his hand.
“I’m glad you came in,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about you—sit
down.... Scotch?”
“No, rye—and seltzer, please.” He took the chair across the desk from
Courtney and waited until the man had placed the decanters and glasses
and retired. “And I’ve been thinking about you, too,” he said. “You got
me into this infernal mess, and now it’s up to you to help me out.”
Courtney slowly lit a cigarette and scrutinized the coal, critically.
“I see,” he remarked, “that you have already developed the ungratefulness
of kings—I have high hopes for your reign ... if you live to reign.”
The Archduke put down his glass and regarded him in exasperated surprise.
“Damn it, man, you too?” he exclaimed. “If I were given to nerves I would
be seeing daggers and bullets all around me—Bernheim croaks death; and so
does Moore; and now you join the chorus—pretty soon the boys will be
whistling it on the Avenue.”
Courtney picked up an Embassy official envelope that lay before him, and
tossed it across to the Archduke.
“I’ve done a little work on my own account, lately,” he said, “and here
is what I got this evening. I have always found this—agent, reliable.”
It was only a few words, scratched hastily in pencil on a sheet torn from
a small note-book:—
“Danger very imminent—under no circumstance go out at night without an
escort.”
“Nice sort of country this, you brought me to,” said Armand.
“It’s not the country, my dear boy,” Courtney observed; “it is beyond
reproach. The trouble is that one of your own family still is a
barbarian; and you insist upon treating him as though he were civilized.
For my part, I have no patience with your altruism; you’ve had quite
sufficient warning—he tried twice to kill you at the Vierle Masque; and
he has told you to your face that you would never be king. Yet you
persist in regarding him as fighting square and in the open. Bernheim and
Moore are wise—they know your dear cousin—and you,—well, you’re a fool if
you don’t know him, too.”
It was a very long speech for Courtney, and Armand had listened in
surprise—it was most unusual for his imperturbable friend to grow
emphatic, either in voice or gesture, and it impressed him as Bernheim
and Moore never had. In truth, he had no particular scruples against
meeting Lotzen in the good, old-fashioned, cloak-and-dagger way; but what
irked him was the necessity of being always on the qui vive to resist
assault or to avoid a trap; and the seeming absurdity of it in Dornlitz
of the twentieth century. It made him feel such a simpleton, to be
looking for bravos in dark alleys, or to wear steel vests, or to be
eternally watchful and suspicious of every one and everything.
“What do you want me to do,” he asked; “go down to Lotzen’s palace and
stick my sword through him?”
“It’s a pity you may not—it’s what he would do to you, if he could—but
that’s not our way; we’re civilized ... to a certain point. But what you
may do is to take every precaution against him; and then, if you get the
chance in fair justification, kill him as unconcernedly as he would kill
you.”
The Archduke sat silent, his cigar between his teeth, the smoke floating
in a thin strand across his face, his eyes upon the desk before him.
“Of course, my boy,” Courtney went on, after a pause, “I assume you are
in the game to the end, and in to win. If you’re not, the whole matter is
easy of adjustment—renounce the Crown and marry the Princess ... and live
somewhere beyond the borders of Valeria—come back to America, indeed;
I’ll see that you have again your commission in the Engineer’s——”