we will take the escort.” He considered a moment. “Or, rather, we will
have it on hand for need. I’ll see to it that a troop of Lancers shall be
passing the Inn a little before four o’clock, and halt there, while their
captain discusses the weather with the landlord. And we will ride up with
a great show of confidence or contempt, whichever way the One Who Knows
may view it.”
“Shall I tell Her Highness of the letter, and your purpose?” Moore asked.
“Not on your life, man! She would send a Brigade with us, even if she
didn’t forbid our going. I’ll get you leave for the afternoon—and not a
word to Bernheim, either; he would have nervous prostration, and load me
down with a suit of plate-mail and a battle-axe. You and I will just have
this little adventure on the side.” He got up. “I tell you what it is,
Moore, the pair of us could make a brisk fight of it if we had to—hey,
man?”
The Irishman laughed joyously.
“And may we have to, sir!” he cried; “may we have to!”—and made as though
he were sending home a finishing thrust.
The Archduke shook his head. “There can’t be any doubt of it; you would
have a most dangerous influence over me; it is well you’re with the
Regent. But for this afternoon, I suggest that you select your favorite
sword, and see that it doesn’t drag in the scabbard—and half-after-two at
the Titian gate.”
Moore paused at the door.
“Of course,” said he, “Your Highness will wear the steel vest.”
“I’ll wear it,” was the answer; and the Colonel went out, wondering at
the ready acquiescence, where he had anticipated a curt refusal. Before
he had crossed the ante-room, the Archduke called him.
“I saw you were surprised,” said he. “I had a little adventure the other
night that you don’t know about. Sit down a minute, and I’ll tell you of
Bernheim’s and my visit to the De Saure house at two in the morning.”...
“I always said Bernheim was the man for a close pinch,” Moore remarked,
at the end, “but he is even better than I imagined. The chest is simply
delicious.” He paused, in sudden thought. “And, now, I reckon I
understand why Count Bigler has his ear done up in surgeon’s plaster. I
noticed it at the Club yesterday, and heard him explain it as a ‘sore.’
To-morrow, I’ll ask him if he caught the ‘sore’ in the De Saure house.”
“And don’t tell Bernheim,” said Armand; “if he knows he had such a good
chance at Bigler, and then missed him, it will make him miserable for
days.”
“Days! It will sour him for life. Next to the Duke of Lotzen, the Colonel
hates Bigler most.”
When Moore had gone, the Archduke took up the letter and envelope and
again examined them; looked for a water mark—there was none; went over
the writing—man’s or woman’s he could not decide; postmarked at the main
office in Dornlitz at ten P.M. of yesterday; not a scintilla any place to
indicate the origin. Well, it did not matter; he would accept the offer;
and there was an end of it, now—the solution could come this afternoon at
four. So he put up the letter, and pushed the button for his secretary,
quite forgetting to telephone the Princess as to borrowing her Adjutant.
Then, after a while, she, herself, called him; and as they finished their
talk, the bell sounded the first stroke of noon.
He arose, and hooking the frogs of his dark green jacket, the gold braid
of his marshal’s insignia heavy on the sleeve, he went over to the large
window, and raising the sash stood in full view of the avenue.
It was the hour when it was busiest; on the sidewalks a pushing,
hurrying, good-natured crowd, at their mid-day recreation; in the
road-way, a tangled mass of vehicles—not of the society folk, they came
three hours later, but the wagons, and drays and vans of trade and
traffic. He recognized an occasional face in the throng, usually some
officer hurrying to Headquarters for the reception he always held for
half an hour at noon. To-day it would have to start five minutes late.
Presently some one caught sight of him, and saluted with raised hat;
others looked up, and did the same; and in a moment the crowd was passing
in review, the men uncovering, the women greeting him with smiles. He
answered with bows and hand-waves; and if a bit of satisfied pride
stirred his heart and warmed his face, small wonder. He was still new in
his royalty; and even if he were not, at this critical period, such
demonstration of esteem by the general populace would have been very
gratifying and particularly welcome. And he stayed a trifle longer than
the required time; then, with a last bow and a wave of especial
graciousness, he turned away, and rang for the doors to be opened.
It was the Archduke’s rule that entire informality should be observed at
these affairs, and he emphasized it by sauntering around, speaking to
everyone, and not obliging them to go up to him, for a stiff bow and a
word. He laughed with this group, joked with another, argued with a
third, until not a man but had come under his eye, at least for an
instant, and he under theirs. He had begun the receptions soon after he
became Governor of Dornlitz, more particularly for the purpose of getting
acquainted with the officers on duty under him; but it was not limited to
them—any one was welcome—and the result had been rather more satisfactory
than even he had hoped for. There was not an official in his district to
whom he had not given a hearty hand-shake and a pleasant word; and as he
happened to have a truly royal knack of remembering faces, and the names
that went with them, many a young lieutenant—and indeed, not a few higher
in rank—had gone away with a flattered heart and an ardent enthusiasm,
openly proclaimed, for the Marshal-Prince who would condescend to
remember an unimportant subordinate, and seem glad to see him again, and
to tell him so. And the contrast it offered to the Duke of Lotzen’s
ungracious and domineering ways was little to the latter’s advantage; and
the fruit of it had been ripening fast, within these last few weeks.
So, to-day, the room was crowded, and the welcome the Archduke received
was such as might have made even Lotzen pause and think, had he seen it.
And this thought occurred to Armand; and he ran his eyes over the many
faces, wondering which of them belonged, to-day, to the Duke’s spy; for
that there usually was one present he had no doubt.
And presently he found him; and, catching his eye, motioned for him to
approach.
“I am glad to see you, Monsieur le Comte,” he said, relieving himself
from offering his hand by readjusting his sword. “When was it I saw you
last?”
Count Bigler’s lips twitched with suppressed amusement.
“Here, Your Highness?” he answered, “I am ashamed to confess I haven’t
been here for many weeks.”
“Yet, surely, Count, I’ve seen you somewhere since then, and very
recently, too—where was it?”
Bigler feigned to think.—“One sees Your Highness so many times, it is
difficult to remember the last ... on the Field of Mars, last Monday,
wasn’t it?”
The Archduke shook his head. “No,” he said, “no; it was in the evening—I
recall that very distinctly.” Then he looked with deliberate inference at
the bandaged ear—“oh, I have it: it was at the De Saure’s; you were there
when I came, and you left first and—rather hurriedly. It all comes back
to me now. Surely, Count, you can’t have forgot such a pleasant evening!”
Bigler assumed a look of guileless innocence.
“It is not permitted to contradict Your Highness,” he answered, “but I
may, I think, at least venture the truism:—what one has not remembered,
one cannot forget.”
“Or restated, my dear Count, to be quite in point:—what is inconvenient
to remember, is best denied.”
“Just as Your Highness will have it,” Bigler grinned, and impudently
fingered his ear.
“And confidentially, Count,” said Armand smilingly, “while we are dealing
in truisms, I give you these two:—‘every man’s patience has its limit,’
and, ‘who plays with fire gets burnt’—fatally.”
Bigler’s grin broadened.
“Is Your Highness the man with the patience or the man with the fire?” he
asked.
“Study it out, sir,” said the Archduke, as he passed on; “and let your
master help you; the answer may concern you both.”
The last thing before leaving his office, that afternoon, he wrote a note
to the American Ambassador, enclosing the anonymous letter, and telling
him his intention in reference to it; and adding that if Courtney had not
heard from him by morning he should do whatever he thought best. This he
dispatched by an orderly; and then, choosing a long, light sword, he rang
for his horse.
Just outside his door, he met General Durand and stopped for a word with
him; as they separated he saw Ferdinand of Lotzen coming down the
corridor.
Between them it had long been a salute given and acknowledged, but now
the Duke halted, fingers at visor.
“May I have a word with Your Highness?” he said.
Armand’s hand dropped slowly, and he only half paused in his walk.
“I’m in a particular hurry, cousin,” he replied, “won’t to-morrow do as
well?”
Lotzen’s eye-brows went up.
“Isn’t to-morrow rather uncertain for—both of us?” he asked.
“Yes,” said the Archduke instantly, “yes, it is; and hence what need of
talk between us, at least so late in the day. Wait until we have a
to-morrow.”
“What I wish to say has nothing to do with futures, cousin, only with the
past, with the De Saure house—oh! that surprises you, does it?”
“Not half as much as the amazing mess you made of it,” said Armand.
“That, my dear cousin, is just what I came to explain,” said Lotzen
quickly. “I had nothing whatever to do with the silly affair; it was a
clever idea, but sadly bungled; I heard of it only the next day, and I
want to assure you it was not my work—though, as I say, it was a clever
idea—too clever, indeed, to be wasted so fruitlessly.”
The Archduke regarded him in speculative silence;—just what manner of man
was this; and what could be his ulterior purpose in such an astonishing
avowal!
“Will you tell me, cousin,” he asked, “why you should trouble to disclaim
participation in an outrage, whose only offense, in your eyes, was its
failure?”
Again Lotzen’s eye-brows went up. “I thought you would understand that it
is in justice to myself; I would not have you think me guilty of so
stupid a piece of work.”
“Doubtless, then, it will gratify you, monsieur, that I never doubted
your complicity, however much I may have marvelled at the unskilled
execution—you would have arranged it rather differently. Indeed, I was
sorry that you, yourself, were not in command. I left a message, both
upstairs and down, that I thought you might understand.”
Lotzen smiled, rather warmly for him.
“I understood,” he said; “your writing was exceedingly legible.”
“And I sent you another message, a little while ago, by the man with the
wounded ear,” said the Archduke, his eyes upon the other’s bandaged hand.
“I suppose you got it?”
The Duke laughed and held up his hand, the back and palm covered with
plaster.
“This wasn’t made by a bullet, cousin;” he replied; “I got it this
morning from a new pet I was trying to train.—No, I didn’t get your last
message.”
“Better get it to-day, cousin,” said the Archduke, as he turned away;
“to-morrow is rather uncertain.”
XV
FOUR O’CLOCK AT THE INN
Ten miles out, on the Titian Road, is the Inn of the Twisted Pines.
Something more than two centuries of storms and sunshine have left its
logs and plaster wrinkled and weather-beaten, yet the house stands as
stanch and strong as the day the last pin was driven, and the painted
sign and the bunch of furze hung above the entrance.
The old soldier who built it had lived long enough to marry a young wife,
and leave it to her and a sturdy boy; and, thereafter, there was always a
son to take the father’s place; and with the heirship seemed to go the
inherited obligation to maintain the house exactly as received. No
modernity showed itself within or without; the cooking alone varied, as
it reflected the skill or whim of the particular mistress; and it chanced
that the present one was of unusual ability in that particular; and the
knowledge of it coming to the Capital, had brought not a little trade of
riding parties and the officers of the garrison.
And so Captain Hertz, of the Third Lancers, had not done quite the usual
growl, when he got the order to march at once with his troop, selecting
such a route as would bring him to the Inn a few minutes before four
o’clock, taking care to approach it from the West; and to halt there and
await further instructions.
He had confided to his subaltern that it was a crazy sort of proceeding
to be manœuvring against old Scartman’s Inn; but if it had to be done, it
was at least considerate to choose as the objective point, a place where
they could have a good meal to eat, and the keeper’s pretty daughters to
philander.
And between thinking of the victuals and the damsels, the Captain so
hurried the march that they reached the Inn unnecessarily early; yet they
had no reason to regret it, for the tap-room was cool and pleasant, the
food to their taste, and the girls’ cheeks prettier and softer than
ever—though it would seem that, lately, the last were becoming much more
difficult to taste.
“What’s got into the hussies?” Hertz demanded, rubbing his face, as the
Lieutenant and he went out into the courtyard; “They used to be mild
enough.”
“You’ve been falling off in looks the last year, my dear fellow,” Purkitz
laughed—“can’t say I much blame the girl—I’ve no finger marks on my
cheek, you see!”
“Huh!” grunted Hertz, “solid brass; wouldn’t show the kick of a
mule.—What in Heaven’s name are we sent here for any way!—‘await further
orders’—that may mean a week.”
“And why not,” the Lieutenant laughed; “the victuals are delicious, and
the girls——”
“Oh, go to the devil!”
“And even father, himself, will do for company in a pinch.”
The Captain laughed, too. “Not if I can get away—did you ever see such a
countenance? It positively makes me ill.”
“Poor old Scartman,” said Purkitz; “he’s a good man, but there is no
denying that ‘the Lord made him as ugly as He could and then hit him in
the face.’”
From the eastward, came the sound of a galloping horse.
“Our orders, I hope,” Hertz exclaimed. He glanced at his watch. “A
quarter of four—I wonder what silly business we’re to be sent on, now.”
The hoof-beats drew swiftly nearer, but from where the two officers were
standing, the high wall of the courtyard obscured the road, and they
sauntered slowly across toward the gateway. As they reached it, a big
black horse swept around the corner and was upon them before the rider
could draw rein.
Hertz gave a cry of warning and sprang aside, tripped on his spur, and
sprawled in the deep dust; while Purkitz’s wild jump landed him with both
feet on his superior’s back, whence he slid off and brought up on Hertz’s
head, thereby materially augmenting the fine flow of super-heated
language that was bubbling from the Captain’s dirt-filled mouth—nor did
the loud guffaw and the shrieks of feminine laughter, that came from the
house, serve to reduce either the temperature or the volume.
Meanwhile, the cause of it all—a slender, sinuous woman, black gowned and
black veiled—sat the big horse motionless and silent, waiting for the
human tangle to unloose itself.
Coated with dust—his uniform unrecognizable, his face smeared and
dirty—Hertz scrambled up.
“What in hell do you——a woman!” he ended, and stood staring.
“Yes, my man, a woman,” said she, “and one very sorry for your fall—you
are the landlord, I presume.”
Lieutenant Purkitz gave a shout, and leaned against the gate.
“Landlord!” he gasped, “landlord!—that face—oh, that face!” and went off
into a fit of suppressed mirth.
The woman looked at him and then at Hertz, and though the thick veil hid
her features completely, there was no doubt of her irritation.
The Captain bowed. “Madame will pardon the ill manners of my clownish
servant,” he said, indicating Purkitz; “I am Captain Hertz, of Her
Highness’ Third Lancers. Yonder is the landlord; permit me to call him.”
She leaned down and offered him her hand.
“A thousand apologies, my dear Captain, for my reckless riding and my
awkward tongue—there is small excuse for the former, I admit, but my veil
may explain the latter.—You are not hurt?”
A voice so soft and sweet must have a face to match it, and Hertz went a
step nearer.
“Madame can cure everything but my heart, if she but raise the veil,” he
said.
The voice laughed softly.
“Then, sir, I am afraid to raise it—your heart would not survive the
shock. Good-bye, and thank you,” and she spurred across to where old
Scartman was standing near the stables.
“I am to meet some one here at four o’clock,” she said; “has my party
come?”
Boniface’s shrewd little eyes had taken her in at a single glance.
“Gentleman, I suppose?” he asked.—“None of them?” jerking his thumb
toward the two lancers.—“No? then he’s not here yet.”
She glided gracefully out of saddle, and hooked up her skirt.
“Put my horse in the stall nearest the door,” she ordered; and herself
saw it done. “Now, I want a room—the big one on the lower floor—for an
hour or so.”
The inn-keeper bowed.
“Certainly, madame—and the gentleman?”
She considered.... “He is one high in rank, very high—indeed, no one in
Valeria is higher—tell him I’m here; and admit him instantly; but don’t,
do you hear me, don’t tell him I’m a woman.”
Old Scartman coughed and hesitated.
“But please you, madame,” he ventured, “if I’m to tell him you’re here,
but not to tell him you’re a woman, how’s he to be sure you are you?”
“True, O patron of rendezvous!” she laughed. “If he ask for proof, you
may tell him I’m the one who knows.”
“Now, that’s more to rule,” he said, with a nod and a chuckle.
They went into the house, and he opened the door into the big room.
“This is what madame wishes?”
“Yes,” said she—“and remember, no interruptions, now nor
later—understand?”
He bowed with rather unusual grace, for one of his appearance and
calling.
“Perfectly, madame—does madame think I look so like a fool?”
She surveyed him an instant.
“No, my good man, I don’t,” and closed the door; “but I wouldn’t care to
tell you what you do look like,” she ended.
Going over to the window, she fixed the curtain so as to permit her to
see in front of the house, and then, removing her veil, she drew out a
tiny mirror and deftly touched to place the hair that was disarranged. As
she finished, she heard horses approaching, and she saw, through the open
gateway, a sudden commotion among the Lancers who were lounging at ease
by the roadside, their mounts picketed under the trees. She knew that her
man was coming.
A sergeant ran in and said a word to Hertz who, free now of his dust and
anger, was sitting on the steps with Purkitz, hoping to get a glimpse of
the face behind the veil, and staring at the windows with calm
persistency.
“My God!” she heard Hertz exclaim, as both sprang up, and, frantically
buttoning tunics and drawing on gloves, ran out into the road and swung
to horse. There was a snap of commands, a stamping of hoofs, and the
lances rose high above the wall in a line of fluttering pennons; they
dipped, and the next moment the Archduke and the Regent’s Adjutant drew
up before the gate.
The former raised his hand, and Hertz rode forward and saluted.
“How long have you been here, Captain Hertz?” he asked.
“Since a few minutes after three, sir.”
“Has any one come to the Inn in that time?”
Hertz’s spine went cold, and his voice trembled—she was the Archduke’s,
and he had dared to ogle her.
“No one, Your Highness,” he answered—“no one but a woman—only a few
minutes ago—on horseback—alone.”
“Did you happen to look at her, Captain? If you did, you might describe
her.”
“I cannot, Your Highness; her face was covered with a thick, black veil.”
The Archduke smiled. “You’re a good soldier, I see; a pretty face comes
first.”
“But her figure, sir—it’s wonderful, black habit and black horse—and she
can ride—and her voice—”
“At least, Captain, your inability to describe her isn’t due to lack of
observation,” the Archduke remarked dryly. “You have aroused my
curiosity; I must see this remarkable woman—and do you remain here. I may
have need of you presently; if you hear a whistle, come to me instantly.”
“Very clever, my lord,” Hertz muttered; “but you can’t cozen this bird;
you’re here to meet her, and we are not expected. If the Regent knew
it—whew!” and dismounting, he nodded to the sergeant.
“This looks about as harmless as a game of ping-pong,” said Armand, as
they went into the courtyard; then, suddenly, an amazing idea flashed
upon him; and he swung around, and motioned Hertz to him.
“What color was the woman’s hair?” he asked.
“Black. Your Highness, black as her gown.”
He dismissed Hertz with a look.
“Moore,” he said, and without moving on, “this plot is tangling fast. Can
you guess who this woman is?”
“‘The one who knows,’” said the Colonel promptly.
“Yes, and more—it is Madeline Spencer.”
“Impossible!”
“I hope so, God knows,” the Archduke answered; “I’ve had enough of that
devil—Scartman, is any one awaiting me?”
The old fellow had come up at a run.
“Your Highness’ pardon,” he cried, bowing almost into the dirt; “had I
known you were coming I would have been at the gate to receive you——”
“Never mind the reception, my man, answer my question—is any one awaiting
me?”
“I think so, Your Highness—”
“Don’t you know—what name did she give for me?”
“‘The one who knows,’ sir—but I wasn’t to tell you, sir, she is a
woman—she was most particular as to that.”
The Archduke laughed. “Well, you didn’t; I knew it—where is she?”
“I will conduct your——”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” said Armand, dismounting and flinging
his rein to his orderly; “where is the lady?”
Old Scartman knew enough to palaver no longer.
“The large room on the right, Your Highness,” he answered promptly.
“Come along, Moore,” said the Archduke, “let us have a look at her—and
pray heaven it isn’t Spencer.”
But the landlord shook his head dubiously.
“It’s queer doings, sure enough!” he muttered;—“leastwise, it’s no love
meeting they’re up to;” and he followed them as far as the hall, to be
within call if needed.
Shielded by the curtain, Madeline Spencer had watched the scene in the
courtyard, laughing quietly, the while, at Hertz’s confusion and at what
she knew was in his mind, as to the Archduke and herself; now she flung
the veil lightly around her head, and put her chair where the sun would
be behind her. Moore’s presence had surprised and disappointed her; but,
on the whole, she preferred him to Bernheim—and particularly if one of
them were to be at the interview. Though she had rather counted upon
Armand coming alone, if only to show his contempt for the permission to
bring an escort—that he had sent the troop of Lancers she did not credit
for a moment, though it might do to twit him with it.
Cool player that she was, and skillful beyond most women, yet even her
heart beat a little faster, and her hand showed the trace of a tremble,
as she heard the rattle of swords and spurs in the hall-way, followed by
the sharp knock upon her door. And she let the knock come a second time
before she answered it. She had not seen Armand since that night in her
reception room in the Hotel Metzen, when the King and he had surprised
her and Lotzen together, and, after tumbling the Duke’s schemes about his
ears, had sent him to Lotzenia in disgrace and her across the border;
and, now, the sight of him, and the sound of his voice, had stirred again
the old fondness that would not down. And though, to his face, she might
laugh at his anger and mock at his contempt, and feel it so then, yet
afterward, in the depression that in such natures always follows periods
of excitement, the recollection of it hurt her sadly, scorn it as she
might, despise it as she did—destroy him as she meant to do, and would.
“Entrez!” she called, “entrez!” and with the words, the tremble passed,
and she was serene and undisturbed again.
“Your Royal Highness!” she said, very low, and swept him a quick curtsy.
Instead of offering his hand to raise her, he answered with a slight bow.
“Madame desired to see me?” he asked; and crossing over obliged her to
turn so that the light from the window fell upon her sideways. And,
despite the heavy veil, that gave him only a black mask of crape instead
of her face, he was satisfied he had surmised correctly.
Suddenly she caught the veil and flung it away.
“You know me, I see,” she laughed, “so we will dispense with this
covering—it is very warm.”