“What ill wind blew you back to Dornlitz?” he asked presently; and she
almost cried out in surprise at the deliberate menace in his voice. And
Moore marvelled and was glad—the old Henry was being aroused, at last.
“Ill wind?” she said—leaning carelessly against the window ledge where
the sun played through her wonderful hair, and tinged the flawless face
from dead-white to a faint, soft pink—“ill wind for whom, Armand?—surely
not for you; why am I here?”
The Archduke gave a sarcastic laugh. “That is precisely what I should
like to know.”
“You doubt the letter?”
A shrug was his answer.
She leaned a bit toward him.
“If I show you the Book of Dalberg Laws, will you believe?” she asked.
“That they are the Laws, yes.”
She smiled rather sadly.
“The facts will have to prove my honest motive, I see; and I came from
Paris, hoping that I could render you this service, as a small requital
for the injury I did you a little while ago.”
The Archduke laughed in her face.
“And for how much in gold coin of the realm, from some one of my
enemies?” he asked.
She put the words aside with another smile.
“I’ve been in Dornlitz for more than two weeks,” she went on; “can you
guess where?—yes, I see you can; the only place I could have been, and
you not know of it.”
“And you mean to say the Book is in Ferida Palace?” said Armand.
“I do.”
“And you are ready to restore it to the Regent?”
“No,” said she, “I’m not ready to restore it to the Regent; I’m ready to
give it to you if I were able, but I’m not—it will be for you to recover
it.”
“How do you know it is the Book of Laws—did the Duke tell you?”
She laughed her soft, sweet laugh. “Oh, no, he didn’t tell me—he has no
idea that I know he has it; I saw it by accident——”
“How could you recognize the Book?” he interrupted; “only three people in
the Kingdom have ever seen it.”
“By intuition, mainly; and by the secrecy with which the Duke handles
it—let me describe it:—a very old book; leather-covered, brass-bound and
brass-hinged; the pages, of parchment—those in front illumined in colors
with queer letters, and, further on, more modern writing—it is the Book,
isn’t it, Armand?”
“Or Lotzen has described it to you,” he answered.
She made a gesture of discouragement.
“You are hard to convince,” she said—“you will have to be shown—will you
take the trouble?”
The Archduke smiled. “Now we come to the kernel,” he remarked; “the rest
was only the shell. Quite candidly, madame, I’m not inclined to play the
spy in Ferida Palace; there are easier deaths to die, though doubtless
none that would be more sure.”
“You didn’t used to be so timid or careful, Armand,” she mocked; “there
are no dangers other than those of my boudoir—and if you fear them you
may send a substitute—even one of your friend Courtney’s secret
agents.—For the last few nights the Duke has been going over this Book
page by page; his apartments are across a small court from mine, and his
private cabinet is directly in view from my boudoir. Send some one there
this evening at eleven, and with my field glass he can see everything the
Duke does, and every article on his desk. Surely, that should be enough
to satisfy the most suspicious.”
“Rather too much,” said he; “it brings us back to the question of
motive:—why should you, who have had so much of my dear cousin’s money,
and have enjoyed his kind and courteous hospitality for so long, suddenly
turn against him, and betray him?—for believe me, madame, I take no stock
in your pretty story of requiting injury, and coming all the way from
Paris to help me find the Book.”
“But, my dear Archduke, what matters my motive, if you recover the
Book—besides, now you can send the police this instant and search the
Palace and seize the Book, if it’s there, and they can find it—doesn’t
that in itself attest my honesty?”
“Not in the least. You know very well that I would not venture to take
such drastic action against the Duke unless I were sure, not only that he
had the Book, but that it would be found—hence it’s safe to tell this
story. And as your motive—it all comes back to that—can’t be to assist
me, it must be to assist the Duke; and so—” he shrugged his shoulders.
It had never occurred to her that he would be so difficult to convince;
she had thought that her bait, and particularly the privilege to send any
one to verify it, and her description of the Book, would capture him
instantly. But she had failed to appreciate how thoroughly Armand
despised her, and how deeply he mistrusted her, and, more than all, how
intensely repugnant it would be to accept a service from her, or to have
any dealings with her except à outrance.
She bent forward and looked him in the eyes.
“Why might it not be to assist myself?” she asked—“to revenge myself, if
you please, Armand.”
“Yes?” he said questioningly.
“Ferdinand of Lotzen and I have come to the parting place,” she said with
quick bitterness—“the brute struck me yesterday; no man ever did so
twice—and none ever once, that I didn’t punish promptly. I did come from
Paris thinking I might aid you, for some how I was sure he had that book;
he was glad enough to have me; and then he was so kind and liberal I—you
won’t believe it I know, Armand, but it’s true—I couldn’t bring myself to
betray him; nor should I, but for yesterday. Now I want revenge; and I
can get it quickest and best through you. There, you have my true motive;
and even you should not doubt it, for, God knows, a woman hates to
confess that a man has struck her.”
She turned away and looked through the window, her fingers playing
nervously on the sill; while the Archduke, doubtful, yet half convinced,
glanced at Moore uncertainly.
Instantly the Colonel motioned to accept, and that he would go to the
Ferida; and Armand smiled, and indicated that both would go—if any went;
then he crossed to the great fireplace and stood before it, staring
thoughtfully into the cinders. Suddenly he straightened his shoulders,
and faced around—and Moore knew that the decision was made, and finally.
“Mrs. Spencer,” he said, “we will lay aside the questions of motive and
personality: You, an individual, come to me, the Governor of Dornlitz,
and offer information which, if true, will lead to the recovery of an
article of great value, that belongs to the Government and has
mysteriously disappeared. It is my duty, as Governor, to investigate the
story, and I will do it, either in person or by subordinate. If the story
be true, and the article in question be recovered by your aid, then you
will be entitled to the proper thanks of the Government and a suitable
recompense.—So much for that. But I also wish to assure you that Armand
Dalberg, himself, declines your offer and your aid; and should your
information result to his personal profit and advancement, it will be a
life-long regret.”
She heard him without turning—and Moore thought he detected the faintest
shiver at the end; and, in truth, the words and tone were enough to chill
even a colder heart than hers.
But when she faced him, it was with one of the soft and caressing smiles
she could use with such fatal fascination, and which made Moore catch his
breath and stare, though it touched the Archduke not at all.
“I thank His Royal Highness, the Governor of Dornlitz,” she said,
dropping him another curtsy, “for his consideration and trust, and the
promised reward; the latter I decline.... As for Armand Dalberg, I can
assure him he will owe me no obligation: it will give me a life-long
pleasure to be the means of causing him a life-long regret.”
The Archduke smiled indifferently.
“To that extent, then, I shall feel less obligated,” he replied.
“Meanwhile, let us be seated, and receive madame’s instruction for
to-night. I shall want the Book seen by more than one person—how many can
you arrange to admit?”
“How many do you wish?”
“Three, possibly four.”
“You may bring half a dozen if you like,” she said, “though the fewer,
the less chance of failure.”
“Very good—how is it to be managed?”
She drew off her gauntlets, and from one of them took a sheet of note
paper—stamped with the Duke’s arms—on which she had sketched roughly so
much of the Ferida and its grounds as entered into her plan. Spreading it
out, she explained how they were to gain entrance to her apartments; and
that there might be no mistake, she went over it again, cautioning them
that it must be followed with the most careful precision. At the end, she
gave the map to Moore.
“Of course, I shall not expect Your Highness to-night,” she said; “but I
hope you will send Colonel Moore; it will be well to have some one who
can, if necessary, use both head and sword—though I don’t anticipate the
remotest difficulty in your——”
A volley of cheers from without drowned her voice. It could only be the
soldiers, and yet it was such an extraordinary thing, and with the
Field-Marshal, himself, within sound, that the two men looked at each
other in puzzled surprise; and when the noise not only continued but
actually grew louder, the Archduke frowned and went to the window.
And what he saw made him frown still more, and he swore softly to
himself, as a man does, sometimes, when unpleasantly surprised and
obliged to think quickly, and to act on the thinking, with a heavy
penalty awaiting a mistake.
Crossing the courtyard, with Hertz and Purkitz walking on either side,
were the Regent of Valeria and Mlle. d’Essoldé. And even as Armand stood
there, they were out of saddle and Dehra was running lightly up the
steps.
“Send Scartman to us in the big room, if you please, Captain,” she
called—then stopped, her eyes fixed on two horses standing a little way
off—a Field-Marshal’s insignia on the saddle cloth of one and a Colonel’s
of her Household on the other. So! so! and they were too busy with
appointments at four to ride with them. She caught Mlle. d’Essoldé by the
arm.
“Look, Elise!” she said, “look at those saddle cloths yonder.”
The Archduke followed her motion, and understood. It was a most
infernally unfortunate contretemps, but it would have to be met, and at
once.
“The Regent is on the porch,” he said. “I do not care for her to know of
this meeting nor its purport, until after to-night. Madame, will you
please be good enough to conceal yourself; the door is the only exit, and
it is impossible now—I will try to prevent Her Highness entering here,
but I may fail; I likely shall. Come, Moore,” and he hurried out.
But Madeline Spencer only laughed, and, winding the veil into place, went
and stood by the chimney—here was a very god-given opportunity, and
assuredly she had no notion to let it pass unused.
And the landlord, slumbering in the hall, had been tardily aroused by the
cheering, and coming forth, still half asleep, he met the Princess just
at the entrance.
“Scartman,” she said sharply, “where are His Highness and Colonel Moore?”
The landlord awoke with a suddenness that was painful, and which left him
staring at her in silly-eyed speechlessness.
“What ails you, man?” she demanded—“tell the Archduke I’m here—we shall
be in the large room.”
This brought back a bit of his senses, and he bowed to the ground, hoping
to get back more of them before he need come up.
“I will find His Royal Highness at once,” he said; “I did not know he was
here—I’ve been asleep—but if Your Majesty—Your Regency—Your Highness, I
mean, will permit—the large room is occupied, I will——”
At that moment, Armand and Moore came out.
“So it would seem,” the Princess remarked dryly.
“Don’t blame the poor fellow, Dehra,” the Archduke laughed; “he did the
best he could, doubtless, and at my order. We are here on the business I
spoke of this morning—it’s finished now, and we will ride back with you,
if we may.”
Dehra held out her hand, and gave him the smile she knew he loved.
“Of course you may,” she said, “and gladly; but first I want a cup of
tea—Scartman, the kettle instantly!”—and before Armand could detain her,
she was past him and into the room.
As she crossed the threshold, she caught the faint perfume that a woman
always carries, and which often-times is so individualized, as to betray
her identity instantly. It was a peculiar odor—the blended fragrance of
many flowers—and she recognized that she had known it before;—but what
was it doing in this room, now!—it was too fresh to be many minutes old.
“Armand,” she said, “what woman has been here?” glancing laughingly
around.—“And is here still!” and pointed with her crop to the veiled
figure in the shadow near the chimney.
The Archduke ground back an oath, and stepping forward bowed to Madeline
Spencer.
“Madame,” said he, “will you do the Governor of Dornlitz the favor to
excuse him, and to accept his thanks for your service? Colonel Moore,
madame’s horse.”
“Je vous remercie, Monsieur le Prince,” she murmured, taking Moore’s arm,
and moving with sinuous grace toward the door. But as she passed the
Princess Regent, who had stepped aside to give her way, the veil slipped
from her face, and the two women looked into each other’s eyes—the one
with a smile of mocking impertinence, the other with a calmly ignoring
stare, and showing, by not so much as the quiver of a muscle, her anger
and surprise.
And when they had gone, the Princess turned her gaze upon the Archduke,
the blue eyes ominous in their steadiness; and as he would have spoken,
she repelled him with an imperious gesture, and gave him her back.
“Come, Elise!” she said, and left the room.
In the courtyard, Colonel Moore had just swung Mrs. Spencer to saddle,
and was fixing her skirt. Dehra paused in the entry until the black horse
had passed the gate; then she went leisurely down the steps, waved Moore
to Mlle. d’Essoldé, and let the groom put her up.
Acknowledging Moore’s farewell salute, with her crop, but no smile, and
with never a glance toward the window, behind whose curtain she must have
known the Archduke would surely be, she rode away—the Lancers again
cheering her devotedly as she passed.
XVI
A TOO CONVINCING ARGUMENT
Colonel Moore went slowly up the steps and into the room, through the
half open door of which he saw the Archduke standing, with chin on breast
and back to the fireplace. He looked up, as the Adjutant paused at the
threshold, and nodded for him to come in.
“Ordinarily it would be proper now for us to have a good, stiff drink,
may be several of them,” he remarked, “but the only kind that fits this
situation, so far as I’m concerned, is straight whisky, and I don’t
believe this cursed place can supply it.”
“Quite right; it can’t,” said Moore; “I tried the other day—won’t
anything else do?”
“No—nothing else; and it’s just as well I can’t get the whisky; I may
need a clear head to night.”
“You are not going, sir!”
Armand nodded. “Going? of course I’m going—why not? and I only hope I’ll
get a chance at my sweet cousin. We promised only to look—to raise no
disturbance—and on Spencer’s account it is right enough that we should do
nothing to betray her; but if Lotzen get in the way, Colonel, we are not
obligated to avoid him.”
“Why should Your Highness walk deliberately into the tiger’s lair—when
another can go quite as well, and without danger?” Moore protested.
The Archduke took a cigarette and tossed the case across to the Adjutant.
“Because I’m really hunting the tiger,” he laughed; “and I like
excitement in good company—though I fear it will be a very tame affair.”
The other shook his head dubiously. “It’s not right, sir, for you to
expose yourself so unnecessarily—let me go in command.”
“Nonsense, Ralph, you’re getting in Bernheim’s class; quit it. What I
wish you would tell me is whether Spencer dropped her veil intentionally
or by accident.”
“It seemed so accidental it must have been intentional,” said Moore.
“If I were sure of it, that would cancel a trifle more of my obligation.”
“Her Highness will know—” the Colonel began, and stopped abashed at his
blunder.
“And so will Mademoiselle d’Essoldé,” said Armand. “I may have to depend
on you for information.”
“Then Your Highness will likely have to get it, yourself,” Moore laughed.
“We’re not speaking either, it seems; she let me put her up, because the
Regent sent me to her, but—I’m chilly yet. Did you ever notice, sir, how
disconcerting it is to think you’re talking to a woman, and then find
it’s a mistake and that really you’re talking only to yourself?”
The Archduke smiled. “Yes,” said he, “I’ve noticed it; and we may have a
rather frigid atmosphere for a few moments this evening until I can
explain—we are to dine with Her Highness and Mademoiselle.”
“If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll violate propriety and let you arrive first;
your explanation will do for both—and besides, I fancy such things are
best done à deux.”
“You fancy!—you innocent-Irishman-afraid-of-a-woman!” He drew on his
gloves. “Come along—put on a brave front and I’ll take you home. Five
minutes talk will set matters right.”
“If you’re not talking to yourself,” Moore observed.
The landlord was awaiting them in distress and trepidation almost
pitiful. Such ill luck had not befallen the Inn in all its years of busy
life. The Regent and the Governor! It was the end of his favor—the end of
the Twisted Pines. To-morrow—may be to-day—would come the police, and the
nails would go into the doors, and boards across the windows, and the big
gates, that had always swung open at daybreak, would swing no more, and
in disgrace and shame he and his would be turned out, with the curt
admonition to seek a harbor in another land.
He almost dropped as the Archduke’s hand fell on his shoulder.
“Scartman,” said he kindly, yet incisively, “doubtless your mind is much
too occupied to remember everything that happens here—but let me suggest
that it would be well even to make a special effort to forget what has
occurred this afternoon. I have known such forgetfulness to merit special
reward.”
The landlord looked up in bewildered joy.
“But Her Highness, sir—she will not——”
“Tush, man,” Armand interrupted, “I’ll answer for the Regent.”
The old man began to cry, and through his tears he groped for the
Archduke’s hand and kissed the gauntlet fervently.
“God bless Your Highness!” he said—and was still repeating it when the
latter passed the gate.
The Archduke rode slowly along the line of Lancers, scrutinizing every
man as he went; then motioned the officers to him.
“Messieurs,” he said, “my compliments on your troop.—Captain Hertz, you
may return to barracks.”
Hertz saluted, faced his men and raised his sword. And Armand, galloping
down the road, turned in saddle and with his cap answered the wild cheer
they sent after him.
“Purkitz,” said the Captain, before giving the order to break into
column, “now is your opportunity to prove you can actually know something
and not tell it.”
“And yours also, O wiser than serpents,” the Lieutenant laughed, “to
prove you actually do know something that you tell.”
But the Archduke had not deemed it necessary to caution either of them;
here, even the dullest witted soldier in the Army would have the sense to
hold his tongue.
Where the road for the Summer Palace took off at the old forge, the
Colonel left him, and Armand went on to the Capital. He rode these last
few miles at a slow jog, and thoughtfully. It was well enough to treat
the matter lightly to Moore, but, none the less, it troubled him. Dehra’s
conduct had been so extraordinary for her—who had refused to credit, for
an instant, Madeline Spencer’s claim to be his wife, though actually
supported by a marriage certificate—that he was puzzled and all sorts of
doubts and fears harassed him. It suggested some untoward influence; what
he could not imagine, nor how, nor whence it had come; but, even then,
everything would be very easy to explain, if she would give him the
opportunity, and not, in the natural perversity of a woman, refuse to see
him, and so make herself miserable, altogether needlessly. He had yet to
learn that sometimes it is well to let a woman inadvertently discipline
herself; it is more effective than if the man does it; and usually saves
him a vast amount of recrimination. Then, too, he did not want Dehra to
know of this intended night visit to the Ferida, where the natural
prospect was duplicity and murder, and only Madeline Spencer’s worthless
word to guarantee its safety. As it was now, if he explained at all, it
would have to be down to the minutest detail, and he could foresee what
the Regent would have to say about any such adventure on his part. Yet if
the Ferida party went he must lead it—and the Ferida party was going.
So when he reached the Epsau, he was almost hoping to find a message from
the Princess that he was not expected for dinner. But it was not there,
nor had it come when he started for the Palace, though he waited until
the very last moment.
He found Moore pacing the corridor, on watch for him, but with nothing to
clear up the situation.
“And I’ve spent most of the time since I got back,” he ended, “in
prancing up and down here, trying to get a glimpse of Mademoiselle, or
some one, who might give me an inkling of the temperature inside—all on
your account, sir, of course; I’m getting used to this freezing and
thawing process.”
“Very good, Colonel, then we will go right in, and you can be thawing
while I am explaining—come along, man, come along,” and taking him by the
arm they went on down the corridor, and entered the Princess’ small
reception room next her boudoir.
“Announce us,” said the Archduke to the footman, “but say to Her Highness
that I would like a few minutes private speech with her—and to
Mademoiselle d’Essoldé say that Colonel Moore has a message from me and
awaits her here.... I leave that message to your Irish wit,” he remarked,
when the servant had gone.
But the man was very slow in returning, and presently Moore laughed.
“It’s getting chilly,” he observed—“notice it?”
The boudoir room swung open and Mlle. d’Essoldé came in.
“Can’t say I do,” said the Archduke aside, as he acknowledged her curtsy;
“looks very charming to me.”
She gave the Archduke a smile, Moore a look of indifferent greeting, and
then Armand another smile.
“My mistress receives Your Highness,” she said, holding back the door;
and quite ignoring Moore’s effort, as he sprang forward to relieve her.
Under the chandelier, where sixty candles fluttered their mellow light
about her, the Regent of Valeria was standing; but her eyes were on the
red rose she was slowly pulling apart, nor did she lift them when Armand
entered. Having come in a little way, slowly and with purposeful
deliberation, he stopped, and leaning on his sword tarried for her to
speak; and willing that she should not, for a while, that so, he might
have this picture long enough to see it ever after—this white-robed,
fair-headed daughter of the Dalbergs, waiting to pass judgment on her
betrothed.
The last petal fell; she plucked another rose—a white one—from her
corsage, and looked up.
“You may speak, sir,” she said, in voice an impersonal monotone.
The Archduke bowed.
“I have nothing to say,” he replied.
She raised her eye-brows in polite surprise.
“I thought you had requested ten minutes private speech with me.”
“I did,” said Armand, “but I withdraw the request; explanations are vain,
when one has been already judged, and judged unheard.”
“One who is taken red-handed can have no explanation that explains,” said
she.
Then, of a sudden, out flashed the adorable smile, and she laughed, and
flung him the white rose.
“There, dear,” she said, “there, is your pardon—now, come,” and she held
out both hands; “come and forgive me for this afternoon.”
And when he had forgiven her, she put him in a chair and perched herself
on the arm beside him.
“Tell me, Armand,” she said, “are we never to be free of that awful
woman?—where did she come from?—how did she happen to be at the Inn?”
“And how did I happen to be with her there, you want to know,” he
laughed.
She nodded. “That more than all—yet I didn’t ask it.”
He took out the anonymous letter, which he had remembered to get from
Courtney; and when she had read it, he tore it into bits.
“Will you have the explanation that explains now or during dinner?” he
asked.
She sprang up.
“I forgot I was hungry! Come we will get Elise and Moore—that girl is a
rare coquette; she makes my poor Adjutant’s life very miserable.”