KRAVONIA
I
THE NAME-DAY OF THE KING
The ancient city of Slavna, for a thousand years or more and under many
dynasties the capital of Kravonia, is an island set in a plain. It lies
in the broad valley of the Krath, which at this point flows due east.
Immediately above the city the river divides into two branches, known as
the North and the South rivers; Slavna is clasped in the embrace of
these channels. Conditioned by their course, its form is not circular,
but pear-shaped, for they bend out in gradual broad curves to their
greatest distance from one another, reapproaching quickly after that
point is passed till they meet again at the end--or, rather, what was
originally the end--of the city to the east; the single reunited river
may stand for the stalk of the pear.
In old days the position was a strong one; nowadays it is obviously much
less defensible; and those in power had recognized this fact in two
ways--first by allocating money for a new and scientific system of
fortifications; secondly by destroying almost entirely the ancient and
out-of-date walls which had once been the protection of the city. Part
of the wall on the north side, indeed, still stood, but where it had
escaped ruin it was encumbered and built over with warehouses and
wharves; for the North River is the channel of commerce and the medium
of trade with the country round about. To the south the wall has been
entirely demolished, its site being occupied by a boulevard, onto which
faces a line of handsome modern residences--for as the North River is
for trade, so the South is for pleasure--and this boulevard has been
carried across the stream and on beyond the old limits of the city, and
runs for a mile or farther on the right bank of the reunited Krath,
forming a delightful and well-shaded promenade where the citizens are
accustomed to take their various forms of exercise.
Opposite to it, on the left bank, lies the park attached to the Palace.
That building itself, dating from 1820 and regrettably typical of the
style of its period, faces the river on the left bank just where the
stream takes a broad sweep to the south, giving a rounded margin to the
King's pleasure-grounds. Below the Palace there soon comes open country
on both banks. The boulevard merges in the main post-road to Volseni and
to the mountains which form the eastern frontier of the kingdom. At this
date, and for a considerable number of years afterwards, the only
railway line in Kravonia did not follow the course of the Krath (which
itself afforded facilities for traffic and intercourse), but ran down
from the north, having its terminus on the left bank of the North River,
whence a carriage-bridge gave access to the city.
To vote money is one thing, to raise it another, and to spend it on the
designated objects a third. Not a stone nor a sod of the new forts was
yet in place, and Slavna's solitary defence was the ancient castle which
stood on the left bank of the river just at the point of bisection,
facing the casino and botanical gardens on the opposite bank.
Suleiman's Tower, a relic of Turkish rule, is built on a simple plan--a
square curtain, with a bastion at each corner, encloses a massive
circular tower. The gate faces the North River, and a bridge, which
admits of being raised and lowered, connects this outwork with the north
wall of the city, which at this point is in good preservation. The fort
is roomy; two or three hundred men could find quarters there; and
although it is, under modern conditions, of little use against an enemy
from without, it occupies a position of considerable strength with
regard to the city itself. It formed at this time the headquarters and
residence of the Commandant of the garrison, a post held by the heir to
the throne, the Prince of Slavna.
In spite of the flatness of the surrounding country, the appearance of
Slavna is not unpicturesque. Time and the hand of man (the people are a
color-loving race) have given many tints, soft and bright, to the roofs,
gables, and walls of the old quarter in the north town, over which
Suleiman's Tower broods with an antique impressiveness. Behind the
pleasant residences which border on the southern boulevard lie handsome
streets of commercial buildings and shops, these last again glowing with
diversified and gaudy colors. In the centre of the city, where, but for
its bisection, we may imagine the Krath would have run, a pretty little
canal has been made by abstracting water from the river and conducting
it through the streets. On either side of this stream a broad road runs.
Almost exactly midway through the city the roads broaden and open into
the spacious Square of St. Michael, containing the cathedral, the fine
old city hall, several good town-houses dating two or three hundred
years back, barracks, and the modern but not unsightly Government
offices. Through this square and the streets leading to it from west
and east there now runs an excellent service of electric cars; but at
the date with which we are concerned a crazy fiacre or a crazier omnibus
was the only public means of conveyance. Not a few good private
equipages were, however, to be seen, for the Kravonians have been from
of old lovers of horses. The city has a population bordering on a
hundred thousand, and, besides being the principal depot and centre of
distribution for a rich pastoral and agricultural country, it transacts
a respectable export trade in hides and timber. It was possible for a
careful man to grow rich in Slavna, even though he were not a politician
nor a Government official.
Two or three years earlier, an enterprising Frenchman of the name of
Rousseau had determined to provide Slavna with a first-rate modern hotel
and _café_. Nothing could have consorted better with the views of King
Alexis Stefanovitch, and Monsieur Rousseau obtained, on very favorable
terms, a large site at the southeast end of the city, just where the
North and South rivers reunite. Here he built his hostelry and named it
_pietatis causâ_, the Hôtel de Paris. A fine terrace ran along the front
of the house, abutting on the boulevard and affording a pleasant view of
the royal park and the Palace in the distance on the opposite bank.
On this terrace, it being a fine October morning, sat Sophy, drinking a
cup of chocolate.
The scene before her, if not quite living up to the name of the hotel,
was yet animated enough. A score of handsome carriages drove by, some
containing gayly dressed ladies, some officers in smart uniforms. Other
officers rode or walked by; civil functionaries, journalists, and a
straggling line of onlookers swelled the stream which set towards the
Palace. Awaking from a reverie to mark the unwonted stir, Sophy saw the
leaders of the informal procession crossing the ornamental iron bridge
which spanned the Krath, a quarter of a mile from where she sat, and
gave access to the King's demesne on the left bank.
"Right bank--left bank! It sounds like home!" she thought to herself,
smiling perhaps rather bitterly. "Home!" Her home now was a single room
over a goldsmith's shop, whither she had removed to relieve Marie
Zerkovitch from a hospitality too burdensome, as Sophy feared, for her
existing resources to sustain.
The reverie bore breaking; it had been none too pleasant; in it sad
memories disputed place with present difficulties. Some third or so
remained of Lady Meg's hundred-pound note. Necessity had forced a use of
the money at any cost to pride. When all was gone, Sophy would have to
depend on what is so often a last and so often a vain refuge--the
teaching of French; it was the only subject which she could claim to
teach. Verily, it was a poor prospect; it was better to look at the
officers and the ladies than to think of it--ay, better than to think of
Casimir and of what lay in the past. With her strong will she strove to
steel herself alike against recollection and against apprehension.
The _café_ was nearly deserted; the hour was too early for the citizens,
and Sophy's own chocolate had been merely an excuse to sit down. Yet
presently a young officer in a hussar uniform stopped his horse opposite
the door, and, giving over the reins to an orderly who attended him,
nimbly dismounted. Tall and fair, with a pleasant, open face, he wore
his finery with a dashing air, and caressed a delicate, upturned
mustache as he glanced round, choosing his seat. The next moment he
advanced towards Sophy; giving her a polite salute, he indicated the
little table next to hers.
"Mademoiselle permits?" he asked. "She has, I fear, forgotten, but I
have the honor to be an acquaintance of hers."
"I remember," smiled Sophy. "Captain Markart? We met at Madame
Zerkovitch's."
"Oh, that's pleasant of you!" he cried. "I hate being clean forgotten.
But I fear you remember me only because I sang so badly!"
"I remember best that you said you wanted to go and help France, but
your General wouldn't let you."
"Ah, I know why you remember that--you especially! Forgive me--our
friend Marie Zerkovitch told me." He turned away for a moment to give an
order to the waiter.
"What's going on to-day?" asked Sophy. "Where's everybody going?"
"Why, you are a stranger, mademoiselle!" he laughed. "It's the King's
name-day, and we all go and congratulate him."
"Is that it? Are you going?"
"Certainly; in attendance on my General--General Stenovics. My lodgings
are near here, his house at the other end of the boulevard, so he gave
me leave to meet him here. I thought I would come early and fortify
myself a little for the ordeal. To mademoiselle's good health!" He
looked at her with openly admiring eyes, to which tribute Sophy accorded
a lazy, unembarrassed smile. She leaned her chin on her hand, turning
her right cheek towards him. Sophy was never disdainful, never
neglectful; her pose now was good.
"What sort of a man is the King?" she asked.
"The King is most emphatically a very good sort of fellow--a very good
old fellow. I only wish his son was like him! The Prince is a Tartar.
Has he gone by yet?"
"I don't think so. I suppose he'd have an escort, wouldn't he? I don't
know him by sight yet. Does everybody call the King a good fellow?"
"Some people are so extremely righteous!" pleaded Markart, ruefully.
"And, anyhow, he has reformed now."
"Because he's old?"
"Fifty-nine! Is that so very old? No; I rather attribute it--you're
discreet, I hope? I'm putting my fortunes in your hands--to Madame la
Comtesse."
"The Countess Ellenburg? Marie has told me something about her."
"Ah! Madame Zerkovitch is a friend of hers?"
"Not intimate, I think. And is the Countess oppressively respectable,
Captain Markart?"
"Women in her position always are," said the Captain, with an affected
sigh: his round, chubby face was wrinkled with merriment. "You see, a
morganatic marriage isn't such a well-established institution here as in
some other countries. Oh, it's legal enough, no doubt, if it's agreed to
on that basis. But the Stefanovitches have in the past often made
non-royal marriages--with their own subjects generally. Well, there was
nobody else for them to marry! Alexis got promotion in his first
marriage--an Italian Bourbon, which is always respectable, if not very
brilliant. That gave us a position, and it couldn't be thrown away. So
the second marriage had to be morganatic. Only--well, women are
ambitious, and she has a young son who bears the King's name--a boy
twelve years old."
He looked reflectively at his polished boots. Sophy sat in thoughtful
silence. A jingle of swords and the clatter of hoofs roused them. A
troop of soldiers rode by. Their uniform was the same smart tunic of
light blue, with black facings, as adorned Captain Markart's shapely
person.
"Ah, here's the Prince!" said Markart, rising briskly to his feet. Sophy
followed his example, though more in curiosity than respect.
The young man at the head of the troop returned Markart's salute, but
was apparently unconscious of the individual from whom it proceeded. He
rode by without turning his head or giving a glance in the direction of
the _café_ terrace. Sophy saw a refined profile, with a straight nose,
rather short, and a pale cheek: there was little trace of the Bourbon
side of the pedigree.
"He's on his promotion, too," continued the loquacious and irreverent
Captain, as he resumed his seat. "They want a big fish for
him--something German, with a resounding name. Poor fellow!"
"Well, it's his duty," said Sophy.
"Somebody who'll keep the Countess in order, eh?" smiled Markart,
twirling his mustache. "That's about the size of it, I expect, though
naturally the General doesn't show me his hand. I only tell you common
gossip."
"I think you hardly do yourself justice. You've been very interesting,
Captain Markart."
"I tell you what," he said, with an engaging candor, "I believe that
somehow the General makes me chatter just to the extent he wants me to,
and then stops me. I don't know how he does it; it's quite unconscious
on my part. I seem to say just what I like!"
They laughed together over this puzzle. "You mean General Stenovics?"
asked Sophy.
"Yes, General Stenovics. Ah, here he is!" He sprang up again and made a
low bow to Sophy. "Au revoir, mademoiselle. A thousand thanks!"
He saluted her and hurried to the side of the pavement. General
Stenovics rode up, with two orderlies behind him. Saluting again,
Markart mounted his horse. The General brought his to a stand and waited
the necessary moment or two with a good-humored smile. His eye wandered
from the young officer to the presumable cause of his lack of vigilance.
Sophy felt the glance rest on her face. In her turn she saw a stout,
stumpy figure, clad in a rather ugly dark-green uniform, and a heavy,
olive-tinted face adorned with a black mustache and a stubbly gray
beard. General Stenovics, President of the Council of Ministers, was not
an imposing personage to the outward view. But Sophy returned the regard
of his prominent pale-blue eyes (which sorted oddly with the complexion
of his face) with vivid attention. The General rode on, Markart
following, but turning in his saddle to salute once more and to wave his
hand in friendly farewell.
For the first time since her arrival in Slavna, Sophy was conscious of a
stir of excitement. Life had been dull and heavy; the mind had enjoyed
little food save the diet of sad memories. To-day she seemed to be
brought into sight of living interests again. They were far off, but
they were there; Markart's talk had made a link between them and her.
She sat on for a long while, watching the junction of the streams and
the broad current which flowed onward past the Palace, on its long
journey to the sea. Then she rose with a sigh; the time drew near for a
French lesson. Marie Zerkovitch had already got her two pupils.
When General Stenovics had ridden three or four hundred yards, he
beckoned his aide-de-camp and secretary--for Markart's functions were
both military and civil--to his side.
"We're last of all, I suppose?" he asked.
"Pretty nearly, sir."
"That must be his Royal Highness just crossing the bridge?"
"Yes, sir, that's his escort."
"Ah, well, we shall just do it! And who, pray"--the General turned round
to his companion--"is that remarkable-looking young woman you've managed
to pick up?"
Markart told what he knew of Mademoiselle de Gruche; it was not much.
"A friend of the Zerkovitches? That's good. A nice fellow,
Zerkovitch--and his wife's quite charming. And your friend--?"
"I can hardly call her that, General."
"Tut, tut! You're irresistible, I know. Your friend--what did you tell
her?"
"Nothing, on my honor." The young man colored and looked a trifle
alarmed. But Stenovics's manner was one of friendly amusement.
"For an example of your 'nothing,'" he went on, "you told her that the
King was an amiable man?"
"Oh, possibly, General."
"That the Countess was a little--just a little--too scrupulous?"
"It was nothing, surely, to say that?"
"That we all wanted the Prince to marry?"
"I made only the most general reference to that, sir."
"That--" he looked harder at his young friend--"the Prince is not
popular with the army?"
"On my honor, no!"
"Think, think, Markart."
Markart searched his memory; under interrogation it accused him; his
face grew rueful.
"I did wish he was more like his Majesty. I--I did say he was a Tartar."
Stenovics chuckled in apparent satisfaction at his own perspicacity. But
his only comment was: "Then your remarkably handsome young friend knows
something about us already. You're an admirable cicerone to a stranger,
Markart."
"I hope you're not annoyed, sir. I--I didn't tell any secrets?"
"Certainly not, Markart. Three bits of gossip and one lie don't make up
a secret between them. Come, we must get along."
Markart's face cleared; but he observed that the General did not tell
him which was the lie.
This day Sophy began the diary; the first entry is dated that afternoon.
Her prescience--or presentiment--was not at fault. From to-day events
moved fast, and she was strangely caught up in the revolutions of the
wheel.
II
AT THE GOLDEN LION
It was the evening of the King's name-day. There was a banquet at the
Palace, and the lights in its windows twinkled in sympathetic response
to the illuminations which blazed on the public buildings and principal
residences of Slavna. Everywhere feasting and revelry filled the night.
The restaurant of the Hôtel de Paris was crowded, every seat on its
terrace occupied; the old Inn of the Golden Lion, opposite the barracks
in the Square of St. Michael, a favorite resort of the officers of the
garrison, did a trade no less good; humbler hostelries were full of
private soldiers, and the streets themselves of revellers male and
female, military and civil, honest and dishonest, drunk and sober.
Slavna had given itself up to a frolic; for, first, a _fête_ is a
_fête_, no matter what its origin; secondly, King Alexis was the most
popular man in his dominions, though he never did a decent day's work
for them; lastly, there is often no better way to show how much you hate
one man than by making a disproportionate fuss about another. It was
well understood that by thus honoring King Alexis, its Monarch, by thus
vociferously and untiringly wishing him the longest of reigns, Slavna
was giving a stinging back-hander to Prince Sergius, its titular Prince
and Commandant. You would see the difference when the Prince's day came
round! When General Stenovics pointed to the lights gleaming across the
Krath from the Palace windows and congratulated his Royal Highness on
the splendid popularity of the reigning House, the Prince's smile may
well have been ironical.
"I shall go and see all this merriment for myself at close quarters
presently, General," said he. "I think the Commandant had best return to
the city to-night as early as the King will allow."
"An admirable devotion to duty, sir," answered the General gravely, and
without any effort to dissuade the zealous Prince.
But even in this gay city there was one spot of gloom, one place where
sullen rancor had not been ousted by malicious merriment. The first
company of his Majesty's Guards was confined to its barracks in the
Square of St. Michael by order of the Commandant of Slavna; this by
reason of high military misdemeanors--slackness when on duty, rioting
and drunkenness when on leave; nor were the officers any better than the
men. "You are men of war in the streets, men of peace in the ranks,"
said the Commandant to them that morning in issuing his decree. "You
shall have a quiet evening to think over your short-comings." The order
was reported to the King; he sighed, smiled, shook his head, said that,
after all, discipline must be vindicated, and looked at his son with
mingled admiration and pity. Such a faculty for making himself, other
people, and things in general uncomfortable! But, of course, discipline!
The Commandant looked stern, and his father ventured on no opposition or
appeal. General Stenovics offered no remonstrance either, although he
had good friends in the offending company. "He must do as he likes--so
long as he's Commandant," he said to Markart.
"May I go and see them and cheer them up a bit, sir, instead of coming
with you to the Palace?" asked that good-natured young man.
"If his Royal Highness gives you leave, certainly," agreed the General.
The Commandant liked Markart. "Yes--and tell them what fools they are,"
he said, with a smile.
Markart found the imprisoned officers at wine after their dinner; the
men had resigned themselves to fate and gone to bed. Markart delivered
his message with his usual urbane simplicity. Lieutenant Rastatz giggled
uneasily--he had a high falsetto laugh. Lieutenant Sterkoff frowned
peevishly. Captain Mistitch rapped out a vicious oath and brought his
great fist down on the table. "The evening isn't finished yet," he said.
"But for this cursed fellow I should have been dining with Vera at the
Hôtel de Paris to-night!"
Whereupon proper condolences were offered to their Captain by his
subalterns, who, in fact, held him in no small degree of fear. He was a
huge fellow, six feet three and broad as a door; a great bruiser and a
duellist of fame; his nickname was Hercules. His florid face was flushed
now with hot anger, and he drank his wine in big gulps.
"How long are we to stand it?" he growled. "Are we school-girls?"
"Come, come, it's only for one evening," pleaded Markart. "One quiet
evening won't hurt even Captain Hercules!"
The subalterns backed him with a laugh, but Mistitch would have none of
it. He sat glowering and drinking still, not to be soothed and decidedly
dangerous. From across the square came the sound of music and singing
from the Golden Lion. Again Mistitch banged the table.
"Listen there!" he said. "That's pleasant hearing while we're shut up
like rats in a trap--and all Slavna laughing at us!"
Markart shrugged his shoulders and smoked in silence; to argue with the
man was to court a quarrel; he began to repent of his well-meant visit.
Mistitch drained his glass.
"But some of us have a bit of spirit left, and so Master Sergius shall
see," he went on. He put out a great hand on either side and caught
Sterkoff and Rastatz by their wrists. "We're the fellows to show him!"
he cried.
Sterkoff seemed no bad choice for such an enterprise--a wiry, active
fellow, with a determined, if disagreeable, face, and a nasty squint in
his right eye. But Rastatz, with his slim figure, weak mouth, and high
laugh, promised no great help; yet in him fear of Mistitch might
overcome all other fear.
"Yes, we three'll show him! And now"--he rose to his feet, dragging the
pair up with him--"for a song and a bottle at the Golden Lion!"
Rastatz gasped, even Sterkoff started. Markart laughed: it could be
nothing more than a mad joke. Cashiering was the least punishment which
would await the act.
"Yes, we three together!" He released them for a moment and caught up
his sword and cap. Then he seized Rastatz's wrist again and squeezed it
savagely. "Come out of your trap with me, you rat!" he growled, in
savage amusement at the young man's frightened face.
Sterkoff gained courage. "I'm with you, Hercules!" he cried. "I'm for
to-night--the devil take to-morrow morning!"
"You're all drunk," said Markart, in despairing resignation.
"We'll be drunker before the night's out," snarled Mistitch. "And if I
meet that fellow when I'm drunk, God help him!" He laughed loudly. "Then
there might be a chance for young Alexis, after all!"
The words alarmed Markart. Young Count Alexis was the King's son by
Countess Ellenburg. A chance for young Alexis!
"For Heaven's sake, go to bed!" he implored.
Mistitch turned on him. "I don't want to quarrel with anybody in Slavna
to-night, unless I meet one man. But you can't stop me, Markart, and
you'll only do mischief by trying. Now, my boys!"
They were with him--Sterkoff with a gleam in his squinting eye, Rastatz
with a forced, uneasy giggle and shaking knees. Mistitch clapped them on
the back.
"Another bottle apiece and we'll all be heroes!" he cried. "Markart, you
go home to your mamma!"
Though given in no friendly way, this advice was wise beneath its
metaphor. But Markart did not at once obey it. He had no more authority
than power to interfere; Mistitch was his senior officer, and he had no
special orders to act. But he followed the three in a fascinated
interest, and with the hope that a very brief proof of his freedom would
content the Captain. Out from the barracks the three marched. The sentry
at the gate presented arms, but tried to bar their progress. With a
guffaw and a mighty push Mistitch sent him sprawling. "The Commandant
wants us, you fool!" he cried--and the three were in the square.
"What the devil will come of this business?" thought Markart, as he
followed them over the little bridge which spanned the canal, and thence
to the door of the Golden Lion. Behind them still he passed the seats on
the pavement and entered the great saloon. As Mistitch and his
companions came in, three-fourths of the company sprang to their feet
and returned the salute of the new-comers; so strongly military in
composition was the company--officers on one side of a six-feet-high
glass screen which cut the room in two, sergeants and their inferiors on
the other. A moment's silence succeeded the salute. Then a young officer
cried: "The King has interfered?" It did not occur to anybody that the
Commandant might have changed his mind and reversed his decree; for good
or evil, they knew him too well to think of that.
"The King interfered?" Mistitch echoed, in his sonorous, rolling, thick
voice. "No; we've interfered ourselves, and walked out! Does any one
object?"
He glared a challenge round. There were officers present of superior
rank--they drank their beer or wine discreetly. The juniors broke into a
ringing cheer; it was taken up and echoed back from behind the glass
screen, to which a hundred faces were in an instant glued, over which,
here and there, the head of some soldier more than common tall suddenly
projected.
"A table here!" cried Mistitch. "And champagne! Quick! Sit down, my
boys!"
A strange silence followed the impulsive cheers. Men were thinking.
Cheers first, thoughts afterwards, was the order in Slavna as in many
other cities. Now they recognized the nature of this thing, the fateful
change from sullen obedience to open defiance. Was it only a drunken
frolic--or, besides that, was it a summons to each man to choose his
side? Choosing his side might well mean staking his life.
A girl in a low-necked dress and short petticoats began a song from a
raised platform at the end of the room. She was popular, and the song a
favorite. Nobody seemed to listen; when she ended, nobody applauded.
Mistitch had been whispering with Sterkoff, Rastatz sitting silent,
tugging his slender, fair mustache. But none of the three had omitted to
pay their duty to the bottle; even Rastatz's chalky face bore a patch of
red on either cheek. Mistitch rose from his chair, glass in hand.
"Long life to the King!" he shouted. "That's loyal, isn't it? Ay,
immortal life!"
The cheers broke out again, mingled with laughter. A voice cried: "Hard
on his heir, Captain Hercules!"
"Ay!" Mistitch roared back. "Hard as he is on us, my friend!"
Another burst of cheering--and again that conscience-smitten silence.
Markart had found a seat, near the door and a good way from the
redoubtable Mistitch and his companions. He looked at his watch--it was
nearly ten; in half an hour General Stenovics would be leaving the
Palace, and it was meet that he should know of all this as soon as
possible. Markart made up his mind that he would slip away soon; but
still the interest of the scene, the fascination of this prelude--such
it seemed to him--held his steps bound.
Suddenly a young man of aristocratic appearance rose from a table at the
end of the room, where he had been seated in company with a pretty and
smartly dressed girl. A graceful gesture excused him to his fair
companion, and he threaded his way deftly between the jostling tables to
where Mistitch sat. He wore Court dress and a decoration. Markart
recognized in the young man Baron von Hollbrandt, junior Secretary of
the German Legation in Slavna.
Hollbrandt bowed to Mistitch, with whom he was acquainted, then bent
over the giant's burly back and whispered in his ear.
"Take a friend's advice, Captain," he said. "I've been at the Palace,
and I know the Prince had permission to withdraw at half-past nine. He
was to return to Slavna then--to duty. Come, go back. You've had your
spree."
"By the Lord, I'm obliged to you!" cried Mistitch. "Lads, we're obliged
to Baron von Hollbrandt! Could you tell me the street he means to come
by? Because"--he rose to his feet again--"we'll go and meet him!"
Half the hall heard him, and the speech was soon passed on to any out of
hearing. A sparse cheer sputtered here and there, but most were silent.
Rastatz gasped again, while Sterkoff frowned and squinted villanously.
Hollbrandt whispered once more, then stood erect, shrugged his
shoulders, bowed, and walked back to his pretty friend. He sat down and
squeezed her hand in apology; the pair broke into laughter a moment
later. Baron von Hollbrandt felt that he at least had done his duty.
The three had drunk and drunk; Rastatz was silly, Sterkoff vicious, the
giant Mistitch jovially and cruelly reckless, exalted not only by liquor
but with the sense of the part he played. Suddenly from behind the glass
screen rose a mighty roar:
"Long live Mistitch! Down with tyrants! Long live Captain Hercules!"
It was fuel to the flames. Mistitch drained his glass and hurled it on
the floor.
"Well, who follows me?" he cried.
Half the men started to their feet; the other half pulled them down.
Contending currents of feeling ran through the crowd; a man was reckless
this moment, timid the next; to one his neighbor gave warning, to
another instigation. They seemed poised on the point of a great
decision. Yet what was it they were deciding? They could not tell.
Markart suddenly forgot his caution. He rushed to Mistitch, with his
hands out and "For God's sake!" loud on his lips.
"You!" cried Mistitch. "By Heaven! what else does your General want?
What else does Matthias Stenovics want? Tell me that!"
A silence followed--of dread suspense. Men looked at one another in fear
and doubt. Was that true which Mistitch said? They felt as ordinary men
feel when the edge of the curtain is lifted from before high schemes or
on intrigues of the great.
"If I should meet the Prince to-night, wouldn't there be news for
Stenovics?" cried Mistitch, with a roar of laughter.
If he should meet the Prince! The men at the tables could not make up
their minds to that. Mistitch they admired and feared, but they feared
the proud Prince, too; they had many of them felt the weight of his
anger. Those who had stood up sank back in their places. One pot-bellied
fellow raised a shout of hysterical laughter round him by rubbing his
fat face with a napkin and calling out: "I should like just one minute
to think about that meeting, Captain Hercules!"
Markart had shrunk back, but Mistitch hurled a taunt at him and at all
the throng.
"You're curs, one and all! But I'll put a heart in you yet! And now"--he
burst into a new guffaw--"my young friends and I are going for a walk.
What, aren't the streets of Slavna free to gentlemen? My friends and I
are going for a walk. If we meet anybody on the pavement--well, he must
take to the road. We're going for a walk."
Amid a dead silence he went out, his two henchmen after him. He and
Sterkoff walked firm and true--Rastatz lurched in his gait. A thousand
eyes followed their exit, and from five hundred throats went up a long
sigh of relief that they were gone. But what had they gone to do? The
company decided that it was just as well for them, whether collectively
or as individuals, not to know too much about that. Let it be hoped that
the cool air outside would have a sobering effect and send them home to
bed! Yet from behind the glass screen there soon arose again a busy
murmur of voices, like the hum of a beehive threatened with danger.
"A diplomatic career is really full of interest, ma chère," observed
Baron von Hollbrandt to his fair companion. "It would be difficult to
see anything so dramatic in Berlin!"
His friend's pretty blue eyes lit up with an eager intensity as she took
the cigarette from between her lips. Her voice was full of joyful
excitement:
"Yes, it's to death between that big Mistitch and the Prince--the blood
of one or both of them, you'll see!"
"You are too deliciously Kravonian," said Hollbrandt, with a laugh.
Outside, big Mistitch had crossed the canal and come to the corner where
the Street of the Fountain opens on to St. Michael's Square. "What say
you to a call at the Hôtel de Paris, lads?" he said.
"Hist!" Sterkoff whispered. "Do you hear that step--coming up the street
there?"
The illuminations burned still in the Square and sent a path of light
down the narrow street. The three stopped and turned their heads.
Sterkoff pointed. Mistitch looked--and smacked his ponderous thigh.
III
THE VIRGIN WITH THE LAMP
Whatever Marie Zerkovitch's feelings might be, Fate had its hand on her
and turned her to its uses. It was she who had directed Sophy's steps to
the old house ten doors down the Street of the Fountain from St.
Michael's Square. It was no more than half a mile from her own villa on
the south boulevard (from which the Street ran to the Square), and she
had long known the decent old couple--German Jews--who lived and carried
on their trade in the house over whose front hung the sign of the Silver
Cock. The face of the building was covered with carved timbers of great
age; the door of the shop stood far back within a black and ancient
porch. Behind the shop were a couple of rooms where Meyerstein and his
wife lived; above it one large room, with a window which jutted far out
over the narrow street. In this room, which was reached by a separate
door in the left side of the porch and a crazy flight of a dozen winding
stairs, lived Sophy, and thence she sallied out daily to give her
lessons to her two pupils.
By the window she sat on the night of the King's name-day, on a low
chair. The heavy figure of a girl carrying a lamp--a specimen of her
landlord's superfluous stock--stood unemployed on the window-sill. The
room was dark, for the path of light from the illuminations, which made
the roadway below white, threw hardly a gleam on to its sombre walls;
but Sophy had no need of a lamp and every need to save her money. She
sat in the gloom, busy in thought, the fresh evening air breathing soft
and cool on her brow from the open window.
Swift to build on slenderest foundations, avid to pile imagination on
imagination till the unsubstantial structure reached the skies, her mind
was at work to-night. The life and stir, the heat and tumult, of the
city, were fuel to her dreams. Chances and happenings were all about
her; they seemed to lie, like the water for Tantalus, just beyond the
reach of her finger-tips; her eyes pierced to the vision of them through
the dusky blackness of the ancient room. In response to the confused yet
clamorous cry of the life around her, her spirit awoke. Dead were the
dear dead; but Sophy was alive. But to be a starving French mistress at
Slavna--was that a chance? Yes, a better than being cook-maid at
Morpingham; and even in the kitchen at Morpingham Fortune had found her
and played with her awhile. For such frolics and such favor, however
fickle, however hazardous, Sophy Grouch of Morpingham was ever ready.
Dunstanbury had come to Morpingham--and Lady Meg. Paris had brought the
sweet hours and the gracious memory of Casimir de Savres. Should Slavna
lag behind? Who would come now? Ever the highest for Sophy Grouch! The
vision of the royal escort and its pale young leader flashed in the
darkness before her eagerly attendant eyes.
Suddenly she raised her head. There was a wild, quick volley of
cheering; it came from the Golden Lion, whose lights across the Square a
sideways craning of her neck enabled her to see. Then there was silence
for minutes. Again the sound broke forth, and with it confused shoutings
of a name she could not make out. Yes--what was it? Mistitch--Mistitch!
That was her first hearing of the name.
Silence fell again, and she sank back into her chair. The lights, the
stir, the revelry were not for her, nor the cheers nor the shouts. A
moment of reaction and lassitude came on her, a moment when the present,
the actual, lapped her round with its dim, muddy flood of vulgar
necessity and sordid needs. With a sob she bowed her head to meet her
hands--a sob that moaned a famine of life, of light, of love. "Go back
to your scullery, Sophy Grouch!" What voice had said that? She sprang to
her feet with fists clinched, and whispered to the darkness: "No!"
In the street below, Mistitch slapped his thigh.
Sophy pushed her hair back from her heated forehead and looked out of
the window. To the right, some twenty yards away and just at the end of
the street, she saw the figures of three men. In the middle was one who
bulked like a young Falstaff--Falstaff with his paunch not grown; he was
flanked by two lean fellows who looked small beside him. She could not
see the faces plainly, since the light from the Square was behind them.
They seemed to be standing there and looking past the sign of the Silver
Cock along the street.
A measured, military footfall sounded on her left. Turning her head, she
saw a young man walking with head bent down and arms behind him. The
line of light struck full on him, he was plain to see as by broadest
day. He wore a costume strange to her eyes--a black sheepskin cap, a
sheepskin tunic, leather breeches, and high, unpolished boots--a rough,
plain dress; yet a broad, red ribbon crossed it, and a star glittered on
the breast; the only weapon was a short, curved scimitar. It was the
ancient costume of the Bailiff of Volseni, the head of that clan of
shepherds who pastured their flocks on the uplands. The Prince of Slavna
held the venerable office, and had been to Court in the dress
appropriate to it. He had refused to use his carriage, sending his
aides-de-camp home in it, and walked now through the streets of the city
which he had in charge. It was constantly his habit thus to walk; his
friends praised his vigilance; his foes reviled his prowling, spying
tricks; of neither blame nor praise did he take heed.
Sophy did not know the dress, but the face she knew; it had been but
lately before her dreaming eyes; she had seen it in the flesh that
morning from the terrace of the Hôtel de Paris.
The three came on from her right, one of the lean men hanging back,
lurking a little behind. They were under her window now. The Prince was
but a few yards away. Suddenly he looked up with a start--he had become
aware of their approach. But before he saw them the three had melted to
one. With a shrill cry of consternation--of uneasy courage oozing
out--Rastatz turned and fled back to the Square, heading at his top
speed for the Golden Lion. In the end he was unequal to the encounter.
Sterkoff, too, disappeared; but Sophy knew the meaning of that; he had
slipped into the shelter of the porch. Her faculties were alert now; she
would not forget where Sterkoff was! Mistitch stood alone in the centre
of the narrow street, his huge frame barely leaving room for a man to
pass on either side.
For a moment the Prince stood still, looking at the giant. Incredulity
had seemed to show first in his eyes; it changed now to a cold anger as
he recognized the Captain. He stepped briskly forward, and Sophy heard
his clear, incisive tones cut the air:
"What extraordinary emergency has compelled you to disobey my orders,
Captain Mistitch?"
"I wanted a breath of fresh air," Mistitch answered, in an easy,
insolent tone.
The Prince looked again; he seemed even more disgusted than angry now.
He thought Mistitch drunk--more drunk than in truth he was.
"Return to barracks at once and report yourself under stringent arrest.
I will deal with you to-morrow."
"And not to-night, Sergius Stefanovitch?" At least he was being as good
as his word, he was acting up to the vaunts he had thrown out so boldly
in the great hall of the Golden Lion.
"To-morrow we shall both be cooler." He was almost up to Mistitch now.
"Stand out of my way, sir."
Mistitch did not budge. "There's room for you to pass by," he said. "I
won't hurt you. But the middle of the road belongs to me to-night."
His voice seemed to grow clearer with every word; the critical encounter
was sobering him. Yet with sobriety came no diminution of defiance.
Doubtless he saw that he was in for the worst now, that forward was the
word, and retreat impossible. Probably from this moment he did not
intend the Prince to pass alive. Well, what he intended was the wish of
many; he would not lack shelter, friends, or partisans if he dared the
desperate venture. Be it said for him that there were few things he did
not dare. He dared now, growing sober, to stand by what the fumes of
wine had fired his tongue to.
For a moment after the big man's taunt the Prince stood motionless. Then
he drew his scimitar. It looked a poor, weak weapon against the sword
which sprang in answer from Mistitch's scabbard.
"A duel between gentlemen!" the Captain cried.
The Prince gave a short laugh. "You shall have no such plea at the
court-martial," he said. "Gentlemen don't waylay one another in the
streets. Stand aside!"
Mistitch laughed, and in an instant the Prince sprang at him. Sophy
heard the blades meet. Strong as death was the fascination for her
eyes--ay, for her ears, too, for she heard the quick-moving feet and the
quicker breathing of a mortal combat. But she would not look--she tried
not even to listen. Her eyes were for a man she could not see, her ears
for a man she could not hear. She remembered the lean fellow hidden in
the porch, straight under her window. She dared not call to warn the
Prince of him; a turn of the head, a moment of inattention, would cost
either combatant his life. She took the man in the porch for her own
adversary, his undoing for her share in the fight.
Very cautiously, making no sound, she took the heavy lamp--the massive
bronze figure of the girl--raised it painfully in both her hands, and
poised it half-way over the window-sill. Then she turned her eyes down
again to watch the mouth of the porch. Her rat was in that hole! Yet
suddenly the Prince came into her view; he circled half-way round
Mistitch, then sank on one knee; she heard him guard the Captain's
lunges with lightning-quick movements of his nimble scimitar. He was
trying the old trick they had practised for hundreds of years at
Volseni--to follow his parry with an upward-ripping stroke under the
adversary's sword, to strike the inner side of his forearm and cut the
tendons of the wrist. This trick big Captain Mistitch, a man of the
plains, did not know.
A jangle--a slither--a bellow of pain, of rage! The Prince had made his
stroke, the hill-men of Volseni were justified of their pupil.
Mistitch's big sword clattered on the flags. Facing his enemy, with his
back to the porch, the Prince crouched motionless on his knee; but it
was death to Mistitch to try to reach the sword with his unmaimed hand.
It was Sophy's minute; the message that it had come ran fierce through
all her veins. Straining to the weight, she raised the figure in her
hands and leaned out of the window. Yes, a lean hand with a long knife,
a narrow head, a spare, long back, crept out of the darkness of the
porch--crept silently. The body drew itself together for a fatal spring
on the unconscious Prince, for a fatal thrust. It would be death--and to
Mistitch salvation torn from the jaws of ruin.
"Surrender yourself, Captain Mistitch," said the Prince.
Mistitch's eyes went by his conqueror and saw a shadow on the path
beside the porch.
"I surrender, sir," he said.
"Then walk before me to the barracks." Mistitch did not turn. "At once,
sir!"
"Now!" Mistitch roared.
The crouching figure sprang--and with a hideous cry fell stricken on the
flags. Just below the neck, full on the spine, had crashed the Virgin
with the lamp. Sterkoff lay very still, save that his fingers scratched
the flags. Turning, the Prince saw a bronze figure at his feet, a bronze
figure holding a broken lamp. Looking up, he saw dimly a woman's white
face at a window.
Then the street was on a sudden full of men. Rastatz had burst into the
Golden Lion, all undone--nerves, courage, almost senses gone. He could
stammer no more than: "They'll fight!" and could not say who. But he had
gone out with Mistitch--and whom had they gone to meet?
A dozen officers were round him in an instant, crying: "Where? Where?"
He broke into frightened sobs, hiding his face in his hands. It was Max
von Hollbrandt who made him speak. Forgetting his pretty friend, he
sprang in among the officers, caught Rastatz by the throat, and put a
revolver to his head. "Where? In ten seconds--where?" Terror beat
terror. "The Street of the Fountain--by the Silver Cock!" the cur
stammered, and fell to his blubbering again.
The dozen officers, and more, were across the Square almost before he
had finished; Max von Hollbrandt, with half the now lessened company in
the inn, was hot on their heels.
For that night all was at an end. Sterkoff was picked up, unconscious
now. Sullen, but never cringing, Mistitch was marched off to the
guard-room and the surgeon's ministrations. Every soldier was ordered to
his quarters, the townsfolk slunk off to their homes. The street grew
empty, the glare of the illuminations was quenched. But of all this
Sophy saw nothing. She had sunk down in her chair by the window, and lay
there, save for her tumultuous breathing, still as death.
The Commandant had no fear, and would have his way. He stood alone now
in the street, looking from the dark splash of Mistitch's blood to the
Virgin with her broken lamp, and up to the window of the Silver Cock,
whence had come salvation.
IV
THE MESSAGE OF THE NIGHT
The last of the transparencies died out; the dim and infrequent
oil-lamps alone lit up the Street of the Fountain and St. Michael's
Square. They revelled still down at the Hôtel de Paris, whither Max von
Hollbrandt and a dozen others had hurried with the news of the evening's
great event. But here, on the borders of the old north quarter, all grew
still--the Golden Lion empty, the townsmen to their beds, the soldiers
to barracks, full of talk and fears and threats. Yet a light burned
still in the round room in the keep of Suleiman's Tower, and the
Commandant's servant still expected his royal master. Peter Vassip, a
sturdy son of Volseni, had no apprehensions--but he was very sleepy, and
he and the sentries were the only men awake. "One might as well be a
soldier at once!" he grumbled--for the men of the hills did not esteem
the Regular Army so high as it rated itself.
The Commandant lingered in the Street of the Fountain. Sergius
Stefanovitch was half a Bourbon, but it was the intellectual half. He
had the strong, concentrated, rather narrow mind of a Bourbon of before
the family decadence; on it his training at Vienna had grafted a
military precision, perhaps a pedantry, and no little added scorn of
what men called liberty and citizens called civil rights. What rights
had a man against his country? His country was in his King--and to the
King the Army was his supreme instrument. So ran his public creed, his
statesman's instinct. But beside the Bourbon mother was the Kravonian
father, and behind him the long line of mingled and vacillating fortunes
which drew descent from Stefan, Lord of Praslok, and famous reiver of
lowland herds. In that stock the temperament was different: indolent to
excess sometimes, ardent to madness at others, moderate seldom. When the
blood ran hot, it ran a veritable fire in the veins.
And for any young man the fight in the fantastically illuminated night,
the Virgin with the broken lamp, a near touch of the scythe of death,
and a girl's white face at the window? Behind the Commandant's stern
wrath--nay, beside--and soon before it--for the moment dazzling his
angry eyes--came the bright gleams of romance.
He knew who lodged at the sign of the Silver Cock. Marie Zerkovitch was
his friend, Zerkovitch his zealous follower. The journalist was back now
from the battle-fields of France and was writing articles for _The
Patriot_, a leading paper of Slavna. He was deep in the Prince's
confidence, and his little house on the south boulevard often received
this distinguished guest. The Prince had been keen to hear from
Zerkovitch of the battles, from Marie of the life in Paris; with Marie's
tale came the name, and what she knew of the story, of Sophie de Gruche.
Yet always, in spite of her praises of her friend, Marie had avoided any
opportunity of presenting her to the Prince. Excuse on excuse she made,
for his curiosity ranged round Casimir de Savres's bereaved lover. "Oh,
I shall meet her some day all the same," he had said, laughing; and
Marie doubted whether her reluctance--a reluctance to herself
strange--had not missed its mark, inflaming an interest which it had
meant to balk. Why this strange reluctance? So far it was proved
baseless. His first encounter with the Lady of the Red Star--Casimir's
poetical sobriquet had passed Marie's lips--had been supremely
fortunate.
From the splash of blood to the broken Virgin, from the broken Virgin to
the open window and the dark room behind, his restless glances sped.
Then came swift, impulsive decision. He caught up the bronze figure and
entered the porch. He knew Meyerstein's shop, and that from it no
staircase led to the upper floor. The other door was his mark, and he
knocked on it, raising first with a cautious touch, then more
resolutely, the old brass hand with hospitably beckoning finger which
served for knocker. Then he listened for a footstep on the stairs. If
she came not, the venturesome night went ungraced by its crowning
adventure. He must kiss the hand that saved him before he slept.
The door opened softly. In the deep shadow of the porch, on the winding,
windowless staircase of the old house, it was pitch dark. He felt a hand
put in his and heard a low voice saying: "Come, Monseigneur." From first
to last, both in speech and in writing, she called him by that title and
by none other. Without a word he followed her, picking his steps, till
they reached her room. She led him to the chair by the window; the
darkness was somewhat less dense there. He stood by the chair.
"The lamp's broken--and there's only one match in the box!" said Sophy,
with a low laugh. "Shall we use it now--or when you go, Monseigneur?"
"Light it now. My memory, rather than my imagination!"
She struck the match; her face came upon him white in the darkness, with
the mark on her cheek a dull red; but her eyes glittered. The match
flared and died down.
"It is enough. I shall remember."
"Did I kill him?"
"I don't know whether he's killed--he's badly hurt. This lady here is
pretty heavy."
"Give her to me. I'll put her in her place." She took the figure and set
it again on the window-sill. "And the big man who attacked you?"
"Mistitch? He'll be shot."
"Yes," she agreed with calm, unquestioning emphasis.
"You know what you did to-night?"
"I had the sense to think of the man in the porch."
"You saved my life."
Sophy gave a laugh of triumph. "What will Marie Zerkovitch say to that?"
"She's my friend, too, and she's told me all about you. But she didn't
want us to meet."
"She thinks I bring bad luck."
"She'll have to renounce that heresy now." He felt for the chair and sat
down, Sophy leaning against the window-sill.
"Why did they attack you?"
He told her of the special grudge which Mistitch and his company had
against him, and added: "But they all hate me, except my own fellows
from Volseni. I have a hundred of them in Suleiman's Tower, and they're
stanch enough."
"Why do they hate you?"
"Oh, I'm their school-master--and a very strict one, I suppose. Or, if
you like, the pruning-knife--and that's not popular with the rotten
twigs."
"There are many rotten twigs?"
She heard his hands fall on the wooden arms of the chair and pictured
his look of despair. "All--almost all. It's not their fault. What can
you expect? They're encouraged to laziness and to riot. They have no
good rifles. The city is left defenceless. I have no big guns." He broke
suddenly into a low laugh. "There--that's what Zerkovitch calls my fixed
idea; he declares it's written on my heart--big guns!"
"If you had them, you'd be--master?"
"I could make some attempt at a defence anyhow; at least we could cover
a retreat to the hills, if war came." He paused. "And in peace--yes, I
should be master of Slavna. I'd bring men from Volseni to serve the
guns." His voice had grown vindictive. "Stenovics knows that, I think."
He roused himself again and spoke to her earnestly. "Listen. This fellow
Mistitch is a great hero with the soldiers and the mob. When I have him
shot, as I shall--not on my own account, I could have killed him
to-night, but for the sake of discipline--there will very likely be a
disturbance. What you did to-night will be all over the city by
to-morrow morning. If you see any signs of disturbance, if any people
gather round here, go to Zerkovitch's at once--or, if that's not
possible or safe, come to me in Suleiman's Tower, and I'll send for
Marie Zerkovitch too. Will you promise? You must run no risk."
"I'll come if I'm afraid."
"Or if you ought to be?" he insisted, laughing again.
"Well, then--or if I ought to be," she promised, joining in his laugh.
"But the King--isn't he with you?"
"My father likes me; we're good friends. But 'like father, unlike son'
they say of the Stefanovitches. I'm a martinet, they tell me; well,
he--isn't. Nero fiddled--you remember? The King goes fishing. He's
remarkably fond of fishing, and his advisers don't discourage him. I
tell you all this because you're committed to our side now."
"Yes, I'm committed to your side. Who else is with you?"
"In Slavna? Nobody! Well, the Zerkovitches, and my hundred in Suleiman's
Tower. And perhaps some old men who have seen war. But at Volseni and
among the hills they're with me." Again he seemed to muse as he reviewed
his scanty forces.
"I wish we had another match. I want to see your face close," said
Sophy. He rose with a laugh and leaned his head forward to the window.
"Oh no; you're nothing but a blur still!" she exclaimed impatiently.
Yet, though Sophy sighed for light, the darkness had its glamour. To
each the other's presence, seeming in some sense impalpable, seemed also
diffused through the room and all around; the world besides was
non-existent since unseen; they two alone lived and moved and spoke in
the dead silence and the blackness. An agitation stirred Sophy's
heart--forerunner of the coming storm. That night she had given him
life; he seemed to be giving back life to her life that night. How
should the hour not seem pregnant with destiny, a herald of the march of
Fate?
But suddenly the Prince awoke from his reverie--perhaps from a dream. To
Sophy he gave the impression--as he was to give it more than once
again--of a man pulling himself up, tightening the rein, drawing back
into himself. He stood erect, his words became more formal, and his
voice restrained.
"I linger too long," he said. "My duty lies at the Tower yonder. I've
thanked you badly; but what thanks can a man give for his life? We shall
meet again--I'll arrange that with Marie Zerkovitch. You'll remember
what I've told you to do in case of danger? You'll act on it?"
"Yes, Monseigneur."
He sought her hand, kissed it, and then groped his way to the stairs.
Sophy followed and went with him down to the porch.
"Be careful to lock your door," he enjoined her, "and don't go out
to-morrow unless the streets are quite quiet."
"Oh, but I've a French lesson to give at ten o'clock," she remonstrated
with a smile.
"You have to do that?"
"I have to make my living, Monseigneur."
"Ah, yes," he said, meditatively. "Well, slip out quietly--and wear a
veil."
"Nobody knows my face."
"Wear a veil. People notice a face like yours. Again thanks, and
good-night."
Sophy peeped out from the porch and watched his quick, soldierly march
up the street to St. Michael's Square. The night had lightened a little,
and she could make out his figure, although dimly, until he turned the
corner and was lost to sight. She lingered for a moment before turning
to go back to her room--lingered musing on the evening's history.
Down the street, from the Square, there came a woman--young or old,
pretty or ugly, fine dame or drudge, it was too dark to tell. But it was
a woman, and she wept as though her heart were broken. For whom and for
what did she weep like that? Was she mother, or wife, or sweetheart?
Perhaps she wept for Sterkoff, who lay in peril of death. Perhaps she
loved big Mistitch, over whom hovered the shadow of swift and relentless
doom. Or maybe her sorrow was remote from all that touched them or
touched the girl who listened to her sobs--the bitter sobs which she did
not seek to check, which filled the night with a dirge of immeasurable
sadness. In the darkness, and to Sophy's ignorance of anything
individual about her, the woman was like a picture or a sculpture--some
type or monument of human woe--a figure of embodied sorrow, crying that
all joy ends in tears--in tears--in tears.
She went by, not seeing her watcher. The sound of her sobbing softened
with distance, till it died down to a faint, far-off moan. Sophy herself
gave one choked sob. Then fell the silence of the night again. Was that
its last message--the last comment on what had passed? Tears--and then
silence? Was that the end?
Sophy never learned aught of the woman--who she was or why she wept. But
her memory retained the vision. It had come as the last impression of a
night no moment of which could ever be forgotten. What had it to say of
all the rest of the night's happenings? Sophy's exaltation fell from
her; but her courage stood--against darkness, solitude, and the
unutterable sadness of that forlorn wailing. Dauntlessly she looked
forward and upward still, yet with a new insight for the cost.
So for Sophy passed the name-day of King Alexis.
V
A QUESTION OF MEMORY
King Alexis was minded that all proper recognition should be made of
Sophy's service to his family. It had been her fortune to protect a life
very precious in his eyes. Alien from his son in temperament and
pursuits, he had, none the less, considerable affection for him. But
there was more than this. With the Prince was bound up the one strong
feeling of a nature otherwise easy and careless. The King might go
fishing on most lawful days, but it was always a Stefanovitch who
fished--a prince who had married a princess of a great house, and had
felt able to offer Countess Ellenburg no more than a morganatic union.
The work his marriage had begun his son's was to complete. The royal
house of Kravonia was still on its promotion; it lay with the Prince to
make its rank acknowledged and secure.
Thus Sophy's action loomed large in the King's eyes, and he was
indolently indifferent to the view taken of it in the barrack-rooms and
the drinking-shops of Slavna. Two days after Mistitch's attempt, he
received Sophy at the Palace with every circumstance of compliment. The
Prince was not present--he made military duty an excuse--but Countess
Ellenburg and her little son were in the room, and General Stenovics,
with Markart in attendance, stood beside the King's chair.
Sophy saw a tall, handsome, elderly man with thick, iron-gray hair, most
artfully arranged. (The care of it was no small part of the duty of
Lepage, the King's French body-servant.) His Majesty's manners were
dignified, but not formal. The warmth of greeting which he had prepared
for Sophy was evidently increased by the impression her appearance made
on him. He thanked her in terms of almost overwhelming gratitude.
"You have preserved the future of my family and of our dynasty," he
said.
Countess Ellenburg closed her long, narrow eyes. Everything about her
was long and narrow, from her eyes to her views, taking in, on the way,
her nose and her chin. Stenovics glanced at her with a smile of uneasy
propitiation. It was so particularly important to be gracious just
now--gracious both over the preservation of the dynasty and over its
preserver.
"No gratitude can be too great for such a service, and no mark of
gratitude too high." He glanced round to Markart, and called
good-humoredly, "You, Markart there, a chair for this lady!"
Markart got a chair. Stenovics took it from him and himself prepared to
offer it to Sophy. But the King rose, took it, and with a low bow
presented it to the favored object of his gratitude. Sophy courtesied
low, the King waited till she sat. Countess Ellenburg bestowed on her a
smile of wintry congratulation.
"But for you, these fellows might--or rather would, I think--have killed
my son in their blind drunkenness; it detracts in no way from your
service that they did not know whom they were attacking."
There was a moment's silence. Sophy was still nervous in such company;
she was also uneasily conscious of a most intense gaze directed at her
by General Stenovics. But she spoke out.
"They knew perfectly well, sir," she said.
"They knew the Prince?" he asked sharply. "Why do you say that? It was
dark."
"Not in the street, sir. The illuminations lit it up."
"But they were very drunk."
"They may have been drunk, but they knew the Prince. Captain Mistitch
called him by his name."
"Stenovics!" The King's voice was full of surprise and question as he
turned to his Minister. The General was surprised, too, but very suave.
"I can only say that I hear Mademoiselle de Gruche's words with
astonishment. Our accounts are not consistent with what she says. We
don't, of course, lay too much stress on the protestations of the two
prisoners, but Lieutenant Rastatz is clear that the street was decidedly
dark, and that they all three believed the man they encountered to be
Colonel Stafnitz of the Hussars. That officer much resembles his Royal
Highness in height and figure. In the dark the difference of uniform
would not be noticed--especially by men in their condition." He
addressed Sophy: "Mistitch had an old quarrel with Stafnitz; that's the
true origin of the affair." He turned to the King again. "That is
Rastatz's story, sir, as well as Mistitch's own--though Mistitch is, of
course, quite aware that his most unseemly, and indeed criminal, talk at
the Golden Lion seriously prejudices his case. But we have no reason to
distrust Rastatz."
"Lieutenant Rastatz ran away only because he was afraid," Sophy
remarked.
"He ran to bring help, mademoiselle," Stenovics corrected her, with a
look of gentle reproach. "You were naturally excited," he went on.
"Isn't it possible that your memory has played you a trick? Think
carefully. Two men's lives may depend on it."
"I heard Captain Mistitch call the Prince 'Sergius Stefanovitch,'" said
Sophy.
"This lady will be a most important witness," observed the King.
"Very, sir," Stenovics assented dryly.
Sophy had grown eager. "Doesn't the Prince say they knew him?"
"His Royal Highness hasn't been asked for any account at present,"
Stenovics answered.
"If they knew who it was, they must die," said the King in evident
concern and excitement.
Stenovics contented himself with a bow of obedience. The King rose and
gave Sophy his hand.
"We shall hope to see you again soon," he said, very graciously.
"Meanwhile, General Stenovics has something to say to you in my name
which will, I trust, prove agreeable to you." His eyes dwelt on her face
for a moment as she took her leave.
Stenovics made his communication later in the day, paying Sophy the high
compliment of a personal call at the sign of the Silver Cock for that
purpose. His manner was most cordial. Sophy was to receive an honorary
appointment in the Royal Household at an annual salary of ten thousand
paras, or some four hundred pounds.
"It isn't riches--we aren't very rich in Kravonia--but it will, I hope,
make you comfortable and relieve you from the tiresome lessons which
Markart tells me you're now burdened with."
Sophy was duly grateful, and asked what her appointment was.
"It's purely honorary," he smiled. "You are to be Keeper of the
Tapestries."
"I know nothing about tapestries," said Sophy, "but I dare say I can
learn; it'll be very interesting."
Stenovics leaned back in his chair with an amused smile.
"There aren't any tapestries," he said. "They were sold a good many
years ago."
"Then why do you keep a--"
"When you're older in the royal service, you'll see that it's convenient
to have a few sinecures," he told her, with a good-humored laugh. "See
how handy this one is now!"
"But I shall feel rather an impostor."
"Merely the novelty of it," he assured her consolingly.
Sophy began to laugh, and the General joined in heartily. "Well, that's
settled," said he. "You make three or four appearances at Court, and
nothing more will be necessary. I hope you like your appointment?"
Sophy laughed delightedly. "It's charming--and very amusing," she said.
"I'm getting very much interested in your country, General."
"My country is returning your kind compliment, I can assure you," he
replied. His tone had grown dry, and he seemed to be watching her now.
She waved her hands towards the Virgin with the lamp: the massive figure
stood in its old place by the window.
"What a lot I owe to her!" she cried.
"We all owe much," said Stenovics.
"The Prince thought some people might be angry with me--because Captain
Mistitch is a favorite."
"Very possible, I'm afraid, very possible. But in this world we must do
our duty, and--"
"Risk the consequences? Yes!"
"If we can't control them, Mademoiselle de Gruche." He paused a moment,
and then went on: "The court-martial on Mistitch is convened for
Saturday. Sterkoff won't be well enough to be tried for another two or
three weeks."
"I'm glad he's not dead, though if he recovers only to be shot--! Still,
I'm glad I didn't kill him."
"Not by your hand," said Stenovics.
"But you mean in effect? Well, I'm not ashamed. Surely they deserve
death."
"Undoubtedly--if Rastatz is wrong--and your memory right."
"The Prince's own story?"
"He isn't committed to any story yet."
Sophy rested her chin on her hand, and regarded her companion closely.
He did not avoid her glance.
"You're wondering what I mean?--what I'm after?" he asked her, smiling
quietly. "Oh yes, I see you are. Go on wondering, thinking, watching
things about you for a day or two--there are three days between now and
Saturday. You'll see me again before Saturday--and I've no doubt you'll
see the Prince."
"If Rastatz were right--and my memory wrong--?"
He smiled still. "The offence against discipline would be so much less
serious. The Prince is a disciplinarian. To speak with all respect, he
forgets sometimes that discipline is, in the last analysis, only a part
of policy--a means, not an end. The end is always the safety and
tranquillity of the State." He spoke with weighty emphasis.
"The offence against discipline! An attempt to assassinate--!"
"I see you cling to your own memory--you won't have anything to say to
Rastatz!" He rose and bowed over her hand. "Much may happen between now
and Saturday. Look about you, watch, and think!"
The General's final injunction, at least, Sophy lost no time in obeying;
and on the slightest thought three things were obvious: the King was
very grateful to her; Stenovics wished at any rate to appear very
grateful to her; and, for some reason or another, Stenovics wished her
memory to be wrong, to the end that the life of Mistitch and his
companion (the greater included the less) might be spared. Why did he
wish that?
Presumably--his words about the relation of discipline to policy
supported the conclusion--to avoid that disturbance which the Prince had
forecasted as the result of Mistitch's being put to death. But the
Prince was not afraid of the disturbance--why should Stenovics be? The
Commandant was all confidence--was the Minister afraid? In some sense he
was afraid. That she accepted. But she hesitated to believe that he was
afraid in the common sense that he was either lacking in nerve or
overburdened with humanity, that he either feared fighting or would
shrink from a salutary severity in repressing tumult. If he feared, he
feared neither for his own skin nor for the skin of others; he feared
for his policy or his ambition.
These things were nothing to her; she was for the Prince, for his policy
and his ambition. Were they the same as Stenovics's? Even a novice at
the game could see that this by no means followed of necessity. The King
was elderly, and went a-fishing. The Prince was young, and a martinet.
In age, Stenovics was between the two--nearly twenty years younger than
the King, a dozen or so older than the Prince. Under the present régime
he had matters almost entirely his own way. At first sight there was, of
a certainty, no reason why his ambitions should coincide precisely with
those of the Prince. Fifty-nine, forty-one, twenty-eight--the ages of
the three men in themselves illuminated the situation--that is, if
forty-one could manage fifty-nine, but had no such power over
twenty-eight.
New to such meditations, yet with a native pleasure in them, taking to
the troubled waters as though born a swimmer, Sophy thought, and
watched, and looked about. As to her own part she was clear. Whether
Rastatz was right--whether that most vivid and indelible memory of hers
was wrong--were questions which awaited the sole determination of the
Prince of Slavna.
Her attitude would have been unchanged, but her knowledge much
increased, could she have been present at a certain meeting on the
terrace of the Hôtel de Paris that same evening. Markart was there--and
little Rastatz, whose timely flight and accommodating memory rendered
him to-day not only a free man but a personage of value. But neither did
more than wait on the words of the third member of the party--that
Colonel Stafnitz of the Hussars who had an old feud with Mistitch, for
whom Mistitch had mistaken the Prince of Slavna. A most magnanimous,
forgiving gentleman, apparently, this spare, slim-built man with
thoughtful eyes; his whole concern was to get Mistitch out of the mess!
The feud he seemed to remember not at all; it was a feud of convenience,
a feud to swear to at the court-martial. He was as ready to accommodate
Stenovics with the use of his name as Rastatz was to offer the
requisite modifications of his memory. But there--with that supply of a
convenient fiction--his pliability stopped. He spoke to Markart, using
him as a conduit-pipe--the words would flow through to General
Stenovics.
"If the General doesn't want to see me now--and I can understand that he
mustn't be caught confabbing with any supposed parties to the
affair--you must make it plain to him how matters stand. Somehow and by
some means our dear Hercules must be saved. Hercules is an ass; but so
are most of the men--and all the rowdies of Slavna. They love their
Hercules, and they won't let him die without a fight--and a very big
fight. In that fight what might happen to his Royal Highness the
Commandant? And if anything did happen to him, what might happen to
General Stenovics? I don't know that either, but it seems to me that
he'd be in an awkward place. The King wouldn't be pleased with him; and
we here in Slavna--are we going to trouble ourselves about the man who
couldn't save our Hercules?"
Round-faced Markart nodded in a perplexed fashion. Stafnitz clapped him
on the shoulder with a laugh.
"For Heaven's sake don't think about it or you'll get it all mixed! Just
try to remember it. Your only business is to report what I say to the
General."
Rastatz sniggered shrilly. When the wine was not in him, he was a
cunning little rogue--a useful tool in any matter which did not ask for
courage.
"If I'd been here, Mistitch wouldn't have done the thing at all--or done
it better. But what's done is done. And we expect the General to stand
by us. If he won't, we must act for ourselves--for there'll be no
bearing our dear Commandant if we sit down under the death of Mistitch.
In short, the men won't stand it." He tapped Markart's arm. "The General
must release unto us Barabbas!"
The man's easy self-confidence, his air of authority, surprised neither
of his companions. If there were a good soldier besides the Commandant
in Slavna, Stafnitz was the man; if there were a head in Kravonia cooler
than Stenovics's, it was on the shoulders of Stafnitz. He was the brain
to Mistitch's body--the mind behind Captain Hercules's loud voice and
brawny fist.
"Tell him not to play his big stake on a bad hand. Mind you tell him
that."
"His big stake, Colonel?" asked Markart. "What do I understand by that?"
"Nothing; and you weren't meant to. But tell Stenovics--he'll
understand."
Rastatz laughed his rickety giggle again.
"Rastatz does that to make you think he understands better than you do.
Be comforted--he doesn't." Rastatz's laugh broke out again, but now
forced and uneasy. "And the girl who knocked Sterkoff out of time--I
wish she'd killed the stupid brute--what about her, Markart?"
"She's--er--a very remarkable person, Colonel."
"Er--is she? I must make her acquaintance. Good-bye, Markart."
Markart had meant to stay for half an hour, but he went.
"Good-bye, Rastatz."
Rastatz had just ordered another _liqueur_; but, without waiting to
drink it, he too went. Stafnitz sat on alone, smoking his cigar. There
were no signs of care on his face. Though not gay, it was calm and
smooth; no wrinkles witnessed to worry, nor marred the comely remains
of youth which had survived his five and thirty years.
He finished his cigar, drank his coffee, and rose to go. Then he looked
carefully round the terrace, distinguished the prettiest woman with a
momentarily lingering look, made his salute to a brother officer, and
strolled away along the boulevard.
Before he reached the barracks in St. Michael's Square he met a woman
whose figure pleased him; she was tall and lithe, moving with a free
grace. But over her face she wore a thick veil. The veil no doubt
annoyed him; but he was to have other opportunities of seeing Sophy's
face.
VI
"IMPOSSIBLE" OR "IMMEDIATE"?
Stenovics was indeed in a quandary. Mistitch had precipitated an
unwelcome and premature crisis. The Minister's deliberate, slow-moving
game was brought to a sudden issue which he was not ready to face. It
had been an essential feature--a governing rule--of his campaign to
avoid any open conflict with the Prince of Slavna until an occasion
arose on which both the army and the King would be on his side. The King
was a power not merely by reason of his cheaply won popularity, but also
because he was, while he lived, the only man who could crown Stenovics's
operations with the consummation to which the Minister and his ally,
Countess Ellenburg, looked forward with distant yet sanguine hope. The
army was with him now, but the other factor was lacking. The King's
pride, as well as his affection, was enlisted in his son's interest.
Moreover, this occasion was very bad.
Mistitch was no better than an assassin; to take up arms on his behalf
was to fight in a cause plainly disgraceful--one which would make
success very difficult and smirch it forever and beyond remedy, even if
it came. It was no cause in which to fight both Prince and King. That
would be playing the big stake on a bad hand--as Stafnitz put it.
Yet the alternative? Stafnitz, again, had put that clearly. The army
would have no more to do with the man who could not help it at the
pinch, who could not save its favorite, who could not release Barabbas.
The Prince seemed to be in his most unyielding mood--the Bourbon in him
was peeping out. For the honor of the Royal House, and for the sake of
discipline, Mistitch must die. He had packed his court-martial with the
few trustworthy friends he had among the officers, using the
justification which jury-packers always use--and sometimes have. He had
no fear of the verdict--and no heed for its unpopularity. He knew the
danger--Stenovics made no secret about that--but said plainly that he
would sooner be beaten by a mutiny than yield to the threat of one. The
first meant for him defeat, perhaps death, but not dishonor, nor
ignominy. The more Stenovics prophesied--or threatened--a revolt of the
troops, the more the Commandant stiffened his neck.
Meanwhile, Slavna waited in ominous, sullen quiet, and the atmosphere
was so stormy that King Alexis had no heart for fishing.
On Friday morning--the day before that appointed for Mistitch's
trial--the names of the members of the Court were published; the list
met with the reception which was, no doubt, anticipated even by the
Prince himself. The streets began to fill with loiterers, talkers, and
watchers; barrack-rooms were vociferous with grumbling and with
speculation. Stafnitz, with Rastatz always at his heels, was busy with
many interviews; Stenovics sat in his room, moodily staring before him,
seeking a road out of his blind alley; and a carriage drew up before the
sign of the Silver Cock as the Cathedral bells chimed noon. It was empty
inside, but by the driver sat Peter Vassip, the Prince's personal
attendant, wearing the sheepskin coat, leather breeches, and high boots
that the men of the hills wore. His business was to summon Sophy to
Suleiman's Tower.
The Square of St. Michael was full of life and bustle, the Golden Lion
did a fine trade. But the centre of interest was on the north wall and
the adjacent quays, under the shadow of Suleiman's Tower. Within those
walls were the two protagonists. Thence the Prince issued his orders;
thither Mistitch had been secretly conveyed the night before by a party
of the Prince's own guard, trustworthy Volsenians.
A crowd of citizens and soldiers was chattering and staring at the Tower
when Sophy's carriage drew up at the entrance of the bridge which,
crossing the North River, gave access to the fort. The mouth of the
bridge was guarded by fifty of those same Volsenians. They had but to
retreat and raise the bridge behind them, and Mistitch was safe in the
trap. Only--and the crowd was quick enough to understand the
situation--the prisoner's trap could be made a snare for his jailer,
too. Unless provisions could be obtained from the country round, it
would be impossible to hold the Tower for long against an enemy
controlling the butchers' and bakers' shops of Slavna. Yet it could be
held long enough to settle the business of Captain Hercules.
The shadow of the weeping woman had passed from Sophy's spirit; the sad
impression was never the lasting one with her. An hour of crisis always
found her gay. She entered the time-worn walls of Suleiman's Tower with
a thrill of pleasure, and followed Peter Vassip up the narrow stair with
a delighted curiosity. The Prince received her in the large round room,
which constituted the first floor of the central tower. Its furniture
was simple, almost rude, its massive walls quite bare save for some
pieces of ancient armor. Narrow slits, deep-set in the masonry, served
for windows and gave a view of the city and of the country round on
every side; they showed the seething throng on the north wall and on the
quays; the distant sound of a thousand voices struck the ear.
Zerkovitch and his wife were with the Prince, seated over a simple meal,
at which Sophy joined them. Marie had watched Sophy's entrance and the
Prince's greeting closely; she marked Sophy's excitement betrayed in the
familiar signal on her cheek. But the journalist was too excited on his
own account to notice other people. He was talking feverishly, throwing
his lean body about, and dashing his hands up and down; he hardly paused
to welcome the newcomer. He had a thousand plans by which the Prince was
to overcome and hold down Slavna. One and all, they had the same defect;
they supposed the absence of the danger which they were contrived to
meet. They assumed that the soldiers would obey the Commandant, even
with the sound of the rifles which had shot Mistitch fresh in their
ears.
The Prince listened good-humoredly to his enthusiastic but highly
unpractical adherent; but his mind did not follow the talk. Sophy
hearkened with the eagerness of a novice--and he watched her face. Marie
watched his, remembering how she had prayed Sophy not to come to Slavna.
Sophy was here--and Fate had thrown her across the Prince's path. With a
woman's preference for the personal, Marie was more occupied with this
situation than with the temper of the capital or the measures of the
Prince.
At last their host roused himself, and patted Zerkovitch's shoulder
indulgently.
"Well, it's good not to fear," he said. "We didn't fear the other night,
Mademoiselle de Gruche and I. And all ended well!"
"Ended?" Marie murmured, half under her breath.
The Prince laughed. "You sha'n't make me afraid," he told her, "any more
than Zerkovitch shall make me trust Colonel Stafnitz. I can't say more
than that." He turned to Sophy. "I think you'd better stay here till we
see what's going to happen to-night--and our friends here will do the
same. If all's quiet, you can go home to sleep. If not, we can give you
quarters--rough ones, I'm afraid." He rose from the table and went to a
window. "The crowd's thinner; they've gone off to eat and drink. We
shall have one quiet hour, at all events."
An orderly entered and gave him a letter.
He read it, and said: "Tell General Stenovics I will receive him here at
two o'clock." When the messenger had gone, he turned round towards the
table. "A last appeal, I suppose! With all the old arguments! But the
General has nothing to give in exchange for Mistitch. My price would be
very high."
"No price! no price!" cried fiery Zerkovitch. "He raised his sword
against you! He must die!"
"Yes, he must die." He turned to the window again. Sophy rose from the
table and joined him there, looking over the city. Directly beneath was
the great gate, flanked on either side by broad, massive walls, which
seemed to grow out of the waters of the river. He was aware of her
movement, though he had not looked round at her. "I've brought you, too,
into this trouble--you, a stranger," he said.
"You don't think I'm sorry for that?"
"No. But it makes my impotence worse." He waved his arm towards the
city. "There it is--here am I! And yet--I'm powerless!"
Sophy followed his gesture, and understood what was passing in his
mind--the pang of the soldier without his armament, the workman without
his tools. Their midnight talk flashed back into recollection. She
remembered his bitter complaint. Under her breath, and with a sigh, she
whispered: "If you had the big guns now!"
Low as the whisper was, he heard it--and it seemed to shoot through his
brain. He turned sharply round on her and gazed full into her eyes. So
he stood a moment, then quickly returned to the table and sat down.
Sophy followed, her gaze fixed on his face. Zerkovitch ceased
writing--he had been drawing up another plan; both he and Marie now
watched the Prince. Moments went by in silence.
At last the Prince spoke--in a low voice, almost dreamy. "My guns for
Mistitch! Mistitch against my guns! That would be a price--a fair
price!"
The three sat silent. The Zerkovitches, too, had heard him talk of the
guns: how on them hung the tranquillity of the city, and how on them
might hang the country's honor and existence. Stenovics could give them,
if he would, in return for Mistitch. But to give up Mistitch was a great
surrender. Sophy's whisper, almost involuntary, the voicing of a regret,
hardly even of a distant aspiration, had raised a problem of conduct, a
question of high policy. The Prince's brain was busy with it, and his
mind perplexed. Sophy sat watching him, not thinking now, but waiting,
conscious only that by what seemed almost chance a new face had, through
her, been put on the situation.
Suddenly Zerkovitch brought his clinched fist down on the table. "No!"
he almost shouted. "They'll think you're afraid!"
"Yes, they'll think that--but not all of them. Stenovics will know
better--and Stafnitz, too. They'll know I do it, not because I'm afraid,
but in order that I never need be."
"Then Stenovics won't give them!" cried Marie.
"I think he must give anything or everything for Mistitch." He rose and
paced restlessly about the room. Sophy still followed him with her eyes,
but she alone of the three offered no argument and made no suggestion.
The Prince stood still for a moment in deep thought. Then his face
cleared. He came quickly up to Sophy, took her hand, and kissed it.
"Thank you," he said. "I don't know how it will turn out for me; the
case is too difficult for me to be able to foresee that. For me it may
be mastery--I always thought it would mean that. Or perhaps, somehow, it
may turn to ruin." He pressed Sophy's hand now and smiled at her. She
understood and returned his smile. "But the question isn't one of my
interest. My duty is plain."
He walked quickly to his writing-table and unlocked a drawer. He
returned to the table with an envelope in his hand, and sat down between
Marie and Zerkovitch.
The orderly entered again, announcing Stenovics. "Let him come in here,"
said the Prince. His manner grew lighter, and the smile which had
comforted Sophy remained on his face.
Stenovics came in; his air was nervous, and he looked at the Prince's
three companions with a visible access of embarrassment. At a nod from
the Prince, the orderly placed a chair for the General, and withdrew.
"The same matter we discussed last night, General?"
"There can be but one matter in the thoughts of all of us now, sir.
Pardon me--I understood your Royal Highness would receive me alone."
The Prince gave a low laugh. "When one bargains, shouldn't one have
witnesses?"
In an instant Stenovics laid hold of the significant word; it made him
forget his request for privacy. An eager light came into his eyes.
"Bargains? You're ready now to--?"
"_La nuit porte conseil._" He drew a paper from the envelope, unfolded
it, and handed it across the table. "You remember that--a memorandum I
sent to you three months ago--in my capacity as Commandant?"
Stenovics looked at the paper. "I remember, sir."
"It's indorsed in your hand?"
"Yes."
"The indorsement runs: 'Impossible.' Rather curt, General!"
"The note was for my private use, but your Royal Highness particularly
pressed for the return of the document."
"I did. And, after all, why use more words than necessary? One will
still be enough--but not that one."
"I'm not following you, sir," said Stenovics.
The Prince leaned across the table to him. "In our conversation, last
night, you asked me to do a very remarkable thing, and to get this lady
here" (he indicated Sophy) "to do it, too. You remember? We were to
think that, at night, in the Street of the Fountain, in the light of the
illuminations, Sergius Stefanovitch and Nikolas Stafnitz looked--and
sounded--just the same. I didn't see my way to that, and I didn't think
this lady would see hers. It seemed so difficult."
Stenovics was in a strain of close attention. The paper from the
envelope crackled under the trembling of his hand.
"Now, if we had such a memory as Lieutenant Rastatz is happy enough to
possess!" the Prince pursued. "Or if Colonel Stafnitz had taken us into
his confidence about his quarrel with Captain Mistitch! All that was not
so last night. Consequently, Captain Mistitch must be tried and shot,
instead of suffering some not very severe disciplinary punishment, for
brawling in the street and having a quarrel with his superior officer."
Stenovics marked every word, and understood the implied offer. The offer
was good enough; Stafnitz himself would not and could not ask that no
notice whatever should be taken. The trifling nature of the punishment
would in itself be a great victory. But the price? He was to hear that
in a moment.
"Sergius Stefanovitch--Nikolas Stafnitz! Which was it, General? It's
only changing two words, yet what a difference it makes!"
"The difference of peace to-night or--" Stenovics waved his hand towards
the city. But the Prince interrupted him.
"Never mind that," he said, rather sharply. "That's not first in my
mind, or I should have left the matter where it rested last night. I was
thinking of the difference to Captain Mistitch--and perhaps to you,
General."
He looked full at Stenovics, and the General's eyes fell. The Prince
pointed his finger across the table at the paper under Stenovics's
hand.
"I'm a liberal bargainer," he said, "and I offer you a good margin of
profit. I'll change two words if you'll change one--two for you against
one for me! 'Sergius Stefanovitch' becomes 'Nikolas Stafnitz' if
'Impossible' becomes 'Immediate.'"
Stenovics gave one slight start, then leaned back in his chair and
looked past the Prince out of the window opposite to him.
"Make that change, and we'll settle details afterwards. I must have full
guarantees. I must see the order sent, and the money deposited in my
name and at my disposal."
"This afternoon, sir?"
"Wouldn't it be well to release Captain Mistitch from Suleiman's Tower
before to-night?"
"The money is difficult to-day."
"The release will be impossible to-morrow."
Again Stenovics's eyes wandered to the window, and a silence followed.
Perhaps he saw the big guns already in position, dominating the city;
perhaps he listened to the hum of voices which again began to swell in
volume from the wall and from the quays. There are times when a man must
buy the present with a mortgage on the future, however onerous the terms
may be. It was danger against destruction. He put out his hand and took
from Zerkovitch a quill which the journalist was twiddling in his
fingers. He made a scratch and a scribble on the paper which the Prince
had taken from the envelope.
"'Impossible' has become 'Immediate,' sir."
"And 'Sergius Stefanovitch' 'Nikolas Stafnitz,'" said the Prince. He
looked at Sophy for confirmation, and she softly clapped her hands.
VII
THE BARONESS GOES TO COURT
The troops of the garrison and their allies, the scum of the streets,
thought that they had scored a great victory and inflicted deep
humiliation on the unpopular martinet who ruled and harried them. They
celebrated the event with noisy but harmless revels, and when Captain
Hercules was seen about again (he submitted to a fortnight's confinement
to barracks with feelings in which thankfulness, though not gratitude,
predominated), he found his popularity with them greater than ever. But
in the higher circles--the inner ring--of the party he served, his
reception was not so cordial. Stenovics would not see him; Stafnitz saw
him only to express a most uncompromising judgment on his conduct.
Yielding in appearance, in point of substance the Prince of Slavna had
scored heavily. The big guns were ordered from Germany. The Prince had
the money to pay for them, and they were to be consigned to him; these
were the guarantees which he had asked from Stenovics. When the guns
came--and he had agreed to make an extra payment for early delivery--his
situation would be very different. With trusty men behind them, it would
go hard with him if he were not master of Slavna, and he had already
obtained the King's sanction to raise and train a force of artillery
from among his own men in Volseni and its neighborhood. The men of
Volseni were proof against Mistitch's bragging and the subtle indulgence
by which Stafnitz held his power over the rank and file of the army.
They were true to the Prince.
The idle King's family pride was touched; it was the one thing which
could rouse him. At his son's express request--and at that only--he
acquiesced in the release of Mistitch and his satellite Sterkoff; but he
was determined to make his own attitude clear and to do what he could to
restore the prestige of his family. The Prince said dryly that the
prestige would profit best of all by the big guns; the King was minded
to supplement their effect by something more ornate. He created a new
Order, and made his son Grand Master of it. There was no harm in that,
and Stenovics readily consented. He declared that something more must be
done for the lady to whom his son owed his life; to be made Keeper of
the Tapestries might be a convenient recompense, but was not honor
enough. Stenovics declared that any mark of favor which His Majesty
designed for Mademoiselle de Gruche might most properly be hers.
Finally, the King instructed Stenovics to concentrate all his energies
on the matrimonial negotiations. A splendid marriage would enhance and
strengthen the prestige more than anything else. Stenovics promised
zealous obedience, and withdrew full of thought. The Order was an easy
matter, and honors for Sophy did no harm. The marriage was ground much
more delicate. It touched the "big stake" which Colonel Stafnitz had so
emphatically warned the General not to play on the bad hand dealt to him
by Mistitch's blundering. But with the big guns in position, and the
sturdy men of Volseni behind them--would a good hand ever come?
There were but three in the inner secret of the scheme, but they were
three of the longest heads in Kravonia. Countess Ellenburg was a pious
woman and of exemplary demeanor; but (as Markart told Sophy) women are
ambitious, and she had borne the King a son. Stenovics saw himself cast
aside like an old glove if Prince Sergius came to the throne. Stafnitz
was a born fisher in troubled waters, and threw a skilful net. Twice
before in the country's history, intrigue had made revolution, and
changed the order of succession in the House of Stefanovitch. The three
waited on chance, but the chance was not yet. If the King were at enmity
with his son, or if there were a demise of the Crown while the Prince
was not on the spot to look after his interests, there might lie the
opportunity. But now the King was all cordiality for his Heir Apparent,
the Prince was on the spot; the guns and their Volsenian gunners
threatened to be on the spot, too, ere long. It was not now the moment
for the big stake.
King Alexis was delighted with his new Order, and the Grand Master's
insignia were very handsome. In the centre of a five-pointed star St.
Michael slew the Dragon--a symbol, perhaps, of Captain Mistitch! The
broad ribbon was of virgin white; it would show up well against either
the black sheepskin of the Volsenian tunic or the bright blue of the
Prince's hussar uniform. There were, some day, to be five other Knights;
with the Grand Master and the Sovereign himself the mystic number Seven
would be reached--but it would never be exceeded; the Order would be
most select. All this the King explained in a florid speech, gleeful
with his new toy, while the serious folks listened with a respectful
deference and a secret smile. "If he would make order, instead of
Orders!" thought the Prince; and probably Colonel Stafnitz, in
attendance as his Majesty's aide-de-camp, had thoughts not very
different. Yet, even toys take on a significance when grown-up people
play with them. Countess Ellenburg was not pleased that only one
appointment should be made to the Order of St. Michael. Was it not time
that the pretty boy Alexis wore a Star?