play upon the chair-arm, and his glance shifted for an instant to the
other’s face, then back to the desk. And Courtney read his mind and
pressed on to clinch the purpose.
“But if you’re in to win—and it’s your duty to your friends to win; it’s
your duty to your friends to win, I repeat—your first obligation is to
keep alive; a dead archduke is of no earthly use in the king business we
have in hand. You may go straight to Glory, but that won’t help out the
poor devils you leave here in Lotzen’s clutches, and who have been true
to you, never doubting that you would be true to them. Your life belongs
to them, now; and you have no right to fritter it away in silly, stubborn
recklessness.... There, I’ve spoken my mind, and quite too frankly, may
be; but I’ll promise never to bother you again. After all, it’s for you
to decide—not for a meddling friend.”
The Archduke smiled. “And just to prove that the friend isn’t meddling, I
shall accept his advice—bearing in mind, however, that this is
particularly an exigency where prudence must be subordinate to daring.
Prudence is all very well in the abstract, but it is more dangerous to
our success than recklessness. I’m playing for a Crown and a Nation’s
favor—let my personal courage be questioned for an instant, and the game
is lost as surely as though I were dead. As for my dear cousin of Lotzen,
I assure you I’ve not the least scruple about killing him, under proper
opportunity. In fact, I’m inclined to think I should rather enjoy it. I
admit now that there have been times when I regret I didn’t run him
through at the Vierle Masque.”
Courtney nodded. “It would have saved you all this trouble—I wanted to
call to you to make an end of him.”
“I can’t do murder; I had disarmed him. Next time, I’ll make a different
play.”
“There won’t be a next time, if the Duke has the choosing. He isn’t the
sort to seek death, and he knows you are his master. You’ll have to kill
him in a melée, or manœuvre him into a position where he has no option
but to fight.”
“He is manœuvring himself into a position where he will have to contend
with a far more formidable blade than mine.”
Courtney’s eye-brows lifted expressively. Than the Archduke himself there
was but one better swordsman in the kingdom.
“What has Lotzen been doing to Moore?” he asked.
“Insulting Elise d’Essoldé.”
“By making advances?”
Armand nodded. “And in a particularly nasty way.”
“He isn’t bothered about Moore,” said Courtney. “He thinks he is safe
from any one that isn’t of his station.”
“He doesn’t know the Irishman—Moore would kill him without a thought.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Courtney. “Moore is bred to respect for royalty;
he would hesitate to use sword against one of the Blood except in
defense.”
“Lotzen would best not bank much on that for immunity if he pursue
d’Essoldé.”
“Well, so much the better; between you, the trick should be turned;
though, as a matter of abstract justice, it’s your particular work.”
“And I shan’t shirk it,” said Armand—then he laughed—“on the whole, I’m
something of a savage myself; Lotzen hasn’t got all of it for the family,
it would seem.”
Courtney shrugged his shoulders. “We all are savages at the core—it’s
only a question of the veneer’s thickness.”
“Of its thinness, I should say. However, now that you have saved my
precious life, and dedicated me to care and prudence and to killing my
enemies, we can get down to business. You had something to tell me.”
“I have told you,” said Courtney. “I wanted to show you that note and
save your precious life.”
The Archduke picked up the paper, and read it again.
“May be the party who wrote this,” he said, “can help you answer the
question I came to ask: what brought Lotzen to the Summer Palace, this
afternoon; and, in particular, why did he go into the King’s library?”
Courtney lit a fresh cigarette and watched the match burn to a cinder.
“Isn’t your second question the answer to the first?” he asked.
“Doubtless; but what’s the answer to the second?”
Courtney shook his head. “I pass—unless you can give me some details.”
“Here’s everything I know,” said Armand. “Moore, as Adjutant to the
Regent, occupies part of the King’s suite as his quarters. This
afternoon, he went out, leaving open the corridor door of the library. A
little later Mademoiselle d’Essoldé saw Lotzen come from the
library—subsequently he met Moore and casually remarked to him that, as
he passed his quarters, the door being open, he had taken the liberty of
looking at His late Majesty’s portrait, which he wished to have copied.”
Courtney considered a bit.
“It’s really most interesting to study your cousin’s methods,” he said
presently. “He seems to take particular pleasure in telling one what he
knows will not be believed. It was quite absurd to offer such a fool
explanation, if he really wished to explain—and none knows it better than
Lotzen. It was just as though he had said to Moore: ‘Tell the Archduke
Armand, I’ve been in the library, I’ve accomplished what I went for, and
he may go to the devil, with my compliments.’”
“That’s very well, as an exposition of Lotzen’s methods,” said Armand;
“but what concerns me is his motive; what was it he went for?”
“The Book of Laws, possibly,” Courtney replied.
“Nonsense—he knows it’s not in the library—if it were, I would have had
it days ago.”
“And how does he know you haven’t got it?”
“How! Because I’d have produced it to prove my title.”
Courtney smiled. “Certainly you would—if it proved your title; but if it
didn’t?”
“You overlook Frederick’s decree.”
“No, I don’t—you overlook the fact that no one has ever seen that decree,
and that Lotzen is entitled to assume it was not executed—that the whole
story is fabricated, and that you have made away with the Book in order
to throw the election into the House of Nobles; and so to have a chance
for the Crown, when, in reality, you are entitled to none.”
“Lotzen understands perfectly that Dehra told the truth,” said Armand;
“and that I’ve not got the Book—for my part, I’m almost ready to accept
her notion that he has it.”
Courtney leaned back in his chair, and studied the smoke rings he sent
whirling upwards.
“I can’t agree with you,” he said; “indeed, since his visit to the
library, I’m more convinced than ever that he hasn’t the Book. He
pretends to have it, so as to mislead you in your search.”
“More likely, in your view of him,” said Armand, “it is to decoy me into
a trap where he can make an end of me.”
“I believe you’ve guessed it,” said Courtney, after a moment’s thought;
“and what is more, it’s the key to Lotzen’s plan of campaign, and it
proves conclusively his murderous purpose. I’d be very shy of information
that points Book-ward, unless you know the informant; above everything,
don’t be fooled by the device of a rendezvous, or a tattling servant.”
“True enough; and yet I must not let slip any chance that might lead to
the recovery of the Book; my equivocal position demands that it be found,
both to vindicate Dehra’s story and to justify my own claim to the
Succession. Indeed, to my mind, I have no chance whatever unless
Frederick’s decree is produced. However, Lotzen won’t use such hoary
artifices; he will have some simple little plot that will enmesh me by
its very innocence. As a schemer against him I’m not even an ‘also ran.’”
“And, therefore, my dear Armand,” said Courtney quickly, “you must be
prepared to cut the meshes when they close; an escort—a sword—a pistol—a
steel vest—there’s where you get your chance at him. Between the schemer
and the ready fighter, I’ll gamble on the fighter every time.... It’s a
pity you’ve lost Moore—you and he would make a famous pair. Bernheim is a
good sort, but Moore is worth twenty of him in this business.”
The Archduke’s eyes brightened—the Irishman and he together could make a
merry fight—an altogether worth-while sort of fight—a fight that the
Great Henry himself, in his younger days, would have sought with eager
blade and joyful heart—a quick, sharp fight that gave the enemy no rest
nor quarter—a thrust—a fall—a careless laugh—a dripping point wiped on a
handkerchief. He saw it all, and his fingers tingled and his eyes went
brighter still.
And across the table Courtney blew ring upon ring of smoke, and watched
him curiously, until the intent look waned and passed.
“Well,” he said, “did you kill him?”
“Yes, I killed him ... and even wiped my sword—much ground have I to cast
reproach at Lotzen.” He got up. “I’m going; if I sit under your tutelage
any longer, I’ll be jabbling holes in the good citizens I meet on the
Avenue.”
“With that stick?” Courtney asked.
“I forgot—the good citizen is safe to-night.”
“But you’re not. Let me give you a sword or a revolver.” And when both
were declined, he held up the paper: “Danger imminent,” he warned.
“Bernheim will take care of me,” said Armand; “and a light stick isn’t a
bad sort of rapier, if it is handled properly. I’m glad for this talk,
and to have learned how very thin my veneer is.—I’m going back to the
Epsau now, and teach Bernheim the scalp dance. Good night.”
“And trade him to the Regent for Moore, the first thing in the morning,”
Courtney urged.
The Archduke paused at the threshold:
“Well, may be I shall,” he said; “I believe he is a bit more the savage.”
He faced about. “As for you, my dear Dick, you’re cut out for a typical
missionary—you would have the natives killing one another within an hour
after you landed.”
“Danger imminent!” called Courtney, and the door swung shut.
XI
FIRST BLOOD
The Archduke knew where to find his Aide, so he waved aside the servant
and went on to the billiard room.
“Don’t mind me, boys,” he said, as they sprang up; “go on with the
deal—unless,” motioning toward Bernheim’s big pile of chips, “you want to
be relieved of the beginner.”
“Your Highness is ready to go?” Bernheim asked.
Armand nodded. “But that mustn’t take you away; luck’s with you, it’s a
crime to desert her—I know the way home.”
The Colonel pushed his winnings into the centre of the table.
“I have to thank you for a delightful evening, messieurs,” he said, with
his stiff, military bow; “and since I must leave before the end of the
game, I make a John-pot of these for you.”
The Archduke took him by the arm.
“You may not do that, Colonel,” he laughed; “they cannot let you. You
must cash in, and give them a chance some other time.”
“But it is my pleasure, sir, for them to have back what I won.”
“And it will be their pleasure to take it back,” said Armand kindly, “but
not in that way—they must win it back from you.”
Bernheim drew himself up. “I understand, sir,” he said.—“Messieurs, I
salute you.”
When they came out on the Avenue, a fine rain was blowing in clouds, but
the Archduke declined the servant’s offer to ring the stables for a
carriage. The street was deserted; not a pedestrian, nor even a cab, was
in sight, either way. Both men wrapped their capes around them, and
strode off toward the Epsau.
“A dirty night, sir,” the Colonel observed—“it might have been well to
take the carriage.”
“I like it,” said Armand; “to walk in the rain or to ride in the snow.”
“The snow, yes—but we don’t have much of it in Dornlitz—one must go to
the mountains in the North—to Lotzenia—for it.”
“My dear cousin’s country!”
“His titular estates—but not his country,” said Bernheim. “He has the old
castle on the Dreer and a huge domain—that King Frederick’s father gave
to Lotzen’s father in a foolish moment of generosity—but he hasn’t the
heart of a single inhabitant; indeed, until his banishment there, I think
he had never even seen the place. But with the old castle of Dalberg,
across the valley—the cradle of your race, sir—it’s very different. Who
rules there is the idol of the Lotzenians; he is their hereditary lord;
and they can never forget that he belonged to them before he took the
Crown, and that they helped him in the taking.”
“And now that there is no king, whom will they serve until the new lord
comes?”
Bernheim raised his cap.
“Her Royal Highness the Regent—until they serve you.”
No man could be quite insensible to all that this implied of kingly
power, and the traditional homage of inherited devotion, the hot love for
him who was born their chief—given them of God, and their own before all
others. The Archduke’s fingers closed a bit tighter on his stick, his
blood pulsed faster, and the stubborn spirit of old Hugo awoke to new
life; and in that moment, in the dead of night, with the rain whipping
around them, as it wrapped the city in a cloud of glowing mist, he turned
his face forever from his old life, its memories and methods, and passed
finally into the New, its high destiny, its privileges, its
responsibilities, its dangers and its cares. He would make this fight in
the Duke’s own fashion, and end it in the Duke’s own way; if he fell in
the ending, he would see to it that the Duke fell first; not that he
cared for his company in the out-going—though, doubtless, it would matter
little then—but because it were not well to leave him behind to plague
the kingdom with his viciousness.
They now had left the more modern portion of the Avenue and were in the
older section, where the houses were smaller and stood only a little way
from the sidewalk; though occasionally a more pretentious one was set far
back, with trees and shrubbery around it, and a wall before, hiding it
almost entirely from the street.
In front of one of these residences, the Archduke suddenly stopped and
caught Bernheim’s arm.
“Listen!” he said, “I heard a cry.”
Bernheim, too, had heard it, but he was not minded to let his master
know.
“It was the wind, doubtless, sir,” he said.
“No, it wasn’t the wind—it was a voice, and a woman’s voice, I thought.”
A blast of rain and mist swept by them and through the trees, stirring
the leaves into a rustling as of the sighs of disembodied spirits, while
the swaying street lights flung the shadows hither and thither like
pursuing cerecloths struggling to re-shroud them in their forsaken garb.
Bernheim looked around to fix the location.
“It’s the De Saure house,” he said, “and has been unoccupied for
months—Your Highness must have been mistaken.”
The Archduke moved on. “Doubtless, the wind plays queer tricks with sound
on such a night; yet my ears rarely deceive me.”
They were passing the wide entrance gates, and he went nearer and peered
within—and as though in answer, from out the darkness came the shriek of
one in awful terror.
“Don’t strike me again! For God’s sake don’t strike me!”
The Archduke seized the gate.
“Come on, Bernheim,” he exclaimed; “it is a woman.”
The Aide caught his arm.
“Don’t, sir,” he said; “don’t—it is nothing for you to mix in—it is for
the police.”
Armand made no answer; he was trying to find the latch.
“I pray Your Highness to refrain,” Bernheim begged; “an Archduke—”
“Help! For God’s sake help!” came the cry.
The latch yielded, and Armand flung back the gate.
“Come on,” he ordered, “I’m a man, and yonder a woman calls.”
He sprang down the path toward the house, which he could see now in black
forbiddingness among the trees far back from the street.
Again Bernheim ventured to protest.
“It may be Lotzen’s trap, sir,” he warned.
For the shadow of an instant the Archduke hesitated; and at that moment
the voice rang out again.
“Don’t strike me! Don’t str—” and a gurgling choke ended it.
“To the devil with Lotzen!” he exclaimed, and dashed on.
And Bernheim, with a silent curse, went beside him, loosening his sword
as he ran, and feeling for the small revolver he had slipped inside his
tunic, before they left the Epsau. To him, now, everything of mystery or
danger spelled Lotzen—but even if it were not he, there was trouble
enough ahead, and scandal enough, too, likely; scandal in which the
Governor of Dornlitz, an Archduke, may be the King, had no place, and
which could serve only to injure him before the people and in the esteem
of the Nobles. Better that half the women in Dornlitz should be beaten
and choked than that his master should be smirched by the tongue of
calumny. He had no patience with this Quixotism that succored foolish
females at foolish hours, in a place where neither the female nor they
had any right to enter—and where, for her, at least, to enter was a
crime. If he were able, he would have picked the Archduke up bodily, and
borne him back to the palace, and have left the infernal woman to shift
for herself, and to save herself or not, as her luck might rule.
Then they brought up suddenly in front of the house; and as they paused
to find the steps, a light flashed, for an instant, from the upper
windows, and disappeared—as if an electric switch had been turned on, and
off again. But its life had been long enough to show the broad entrance
porch, and the big doors beyond it—and that they were open wide.
At the sight, Bernheim swore a good round oath and seized the Archduke’s
arm.
“It’s a trap, my lord, it’s a trap!” he exclaimed.
And again Armand hesitated; and again the cry came, though muffled now
and indistinct.
“We will have to chance it,” he said, “I can’t desert a woman who calls
for help.”
“Very well, sir,” said Bernheim, knowing that further opposition was
useless, “but if it is a trap, she’ll be the first I kill.”
They went softly up the steps and into the vestibule; not a sound came
from within.
“Are you familiar with this house?” the Archduke whispered.
“Very, sir; I’ve been in it scores of times—salon on right, dining room
and library opposite.”
“And the stairs?”
“In the rear, on the left.”
“Can you find the electric switch?”
The Colonel drew his revolver and stepped quickly inside; he knew there
was a row of buttons near the library door, and he found them readily.
With a single motion he pushed them in, and every chandelier and
side-light in the entire lower floor sprang to life—illuminating rooms,
solitary and undisturbed.
Over the mantel in the library hung a pair of beautiful old duelling
rapiers, and the Archduke snatched one down and tried its balance; then
took the other and handed it to Bernheim.
“Take it, man,” he said, as the Colonel touched his own sword; “take it,
it’s worth an armory of those; its reach alone may save your life, if we
are crowded.” He made a pass in the air and laughed—it was sweet any time
to feel the hilt of such a weapon, but now it was doubly sweet, with
danger ahead and the odds he knew not what. He pointed upward.
“Come along,” he said—“now for the next floor and the clash of steel.”
But Bernheim shook his head.
“I pray you, my lord, be prudent,” he urged—“remember, to us you are the
King.”
Faintly, from somewhere above, the cry came—weak and suppressed, but
audible.
“Help! oh help!”
“Damn the woman!” Bernheim exclaimed, dashing forward to go first; and
failing, by four steps.
The upper hall was dark, save for the reflection from below, but Armand
caught the sheen of a switch plate and pressed the key. Five closed doors
confronted him—without hesitation he chose the rear one on the right, and
sprang toward it.
As he did so, the lights on the first floor went out, the front doors
closed with a bang, and a key turned in the lock and was withdrawn.
Instinctively he stopped and drew back; at the same moment, Bernheim
reached over and turned off their lights also, leaving the house in
impenetrable darkness.
The Archduke stepped quickly across toward Bernheim, and bumped into him
mid-way.
“It’s a trap,” he whispered; “the locking of the door proves it—these
rooms are empty, but we’ll have a look and not be caught between two
fires.”
“Damn the woman!” said Bernheim.
Armand laughed softly. “Never mind her, we have other work on hand now.
You keep the stairway; put your sword into any one who tries to come up;
I’ll go through the rooms,” and he was gone before the Colonel could
protest.
Bernheim tip-toed over to the head of the stairs and, leaning on the
rail, listened. He could detect no sound in the hall below; the silence
was as utter as the blackness. He stooped and felt the carpet on the
stairs; it was soft and very thick, the sort that deadens noise. Behind
him, a door closed softly, and he saw the gleam of a faint light along a
sill, and, in a moment, along another further toward the front.
Evidently, the Archduke had met no misadventure yet. And so he stood
there, tense and expectant, while the darkness pressed hard upon his
eyes, and set them burning with the strain of striving to pierce through.
Presently he felt that some one was coming toward him, and then the
faintest whisper spoke his name. He reached out, and his fingers touched
the Archduke’s shoulder.
Armand put his mouth close to his Aide’s ear.
“Rooms deserted,” he whispered—“what’s on the third floor?”
“It’s a mere garret; the servants quarters are in a detached building in
the rear.”
“We’ll chance the garret—I laid a chair across the foot of those
stairs—and also at the head of the back stairs—anything doing below?”
“Quiet as the grave, sir.”
“An apt simile, Bernheim,” said the Archduke; “there is going to be a
death or two down there to-night, if we can manage it—just as a gentle
notice to our cousin of what he may expect.”
The old soldier’s hand sought impulsively his master’s.
“You mean it, my lord?” he asked eagerly.
“I do; I’m——” a stair creaked very faintly—“they’re coming,” he ended.
Both men bent forward listening ... the seconds passed ... no sound came
to them. Then Bernheim bethought himself of the rail, and laid his ear
upon it. Instantly he was up.
“They are coming,” he whispered, “I could hear them distinctly.”
“Good,” said Armand. “We will give them the steel as soon as they’re
within reach—be ready—I’ll take the right.”
The stairway was of more than medium width, and straight-away almost to
the lower floor, the turn being at the bottom. While the lights were on,
Bernheim had noticed a heavy oak chest against the wall near where they
were standing. Now it suddenly occurred to him how it could be used.
Asking the Archduke to bear aside a moment, he seized it in his powerful
arms, and carrying it to the head of the stairs hurled it, with all his
strength, down into the darkness.
There was a heavy thud as of human bodies struck, wild shrieks of pain
and terror, and then a deafening crash, as the chest broke asunder
against the wall below, followed directly by moans, and curses, and
struggles to get free.
Although Armand had not seen what his Aide had done, he could picture it
all now, and he laughed aloud.
“Clear away the débris, gentlemen!” he called. “On to the charge! Don’t
be a lot of quitters; we’ve plenty of ammunition left; en avant!”
But only the moans answered him. He drew Bernheim closer.
“What do you suggest,” he asked; “shall we go down?”—And the upsetting of
the chair at the rear stairs answered him.
“Turn on the lights when I whistle,” he ordered, and stole swiftly to the
rear of the hall.
Doubtless the purpose had been to attack them simultaneously in front and
rear, and here was the chance to give this detachment, also, a surprise.
He heard the chair being set carefully aside, followed by foot-falls such
as are made only by shoeless feet. The darkness was impenetrable, but he
knew they paused at the door, and then came slowly forward, passing him
so closely he could have touched them with his hand. The next instant he
gave the signal.
As the lights blazed out, disclosing three masked men with drawn swords,
the Archduke leaped forward and, with the hilt of his rapier, struck the
one nearest him behind the ear. The rogue dropped in his tracks. At the
same moment, Bernheim’s pistol cracked, and another went down, shot
through the head. The third stood irresolute; and him the Archduke
addressed.
“It’s the pistol, yonder, or the sword, here,” he said; “which will you
choose?”
The fellow chanced to be almost in line with the front stairs, and for
answer he sprang across the hall and dashed down them. Bernheim’s gun
spoke thrice: the first bullet struck the wall; the second, the newel
post; the third, fired into the semi-obscurity below, and as the knave’s
head was almost on a line with the floor, brought an answering cry; but
it did not disable him; they heard him stumble over the broken chest,
then the key was thrust into the lock, the front door was flung back, and
he crossed the porch at a run.
“He’s the last of them, I fancy,” said Armand.
Bernheim looked at the pistol in disgust.
“I never did have any patience with these toys,” he growled; “three shots
across a blanket, and only a touch!”
The Archduke pointed to the dead body.