UDO SEES
Within the hour Ompertz was standing before his employer.
“Well?” Rollmar demanded sharply, as he read the soldier’s face. “You
have failed?”
“I dare not say we have, Excellency,” he answered, determined to make
the best of the business. “I should not like to swear that our man is
not lying at the bottom of the lake with a bullet through him.”
In Rollmar’s searching eyes there was a gleam of savage satisfaction.
“So? But there is a doubt about it, eh?”
“We lost the fellow in the darkness,” Ompertz explained. “But that he
went into the lake is certain, and almost so that he never came out
again. The water of the Mirror Pool is deadly cold, Excellency: he
would need all his hot blood----”
The Chancellor stopped him by an impatient gesture. “I want facts, not
theories, from a soldier. And the fact is you have bungled.”
“More likely that we have saved your Excellency the trouble of a
private execution,” Ompertz rejoined sturdily. “Pesqui swears he hit
him.”
The Chancellor’s contemptuous exclamation showed that he did not accept
that worthy’s view of the matter. “What of the Princess?” he demanded.
“The Princess thought so too,” the soldier replied imperturbably, “for
she fell into a swoon. It was that which kept me from going to see
whether her lover had been accounted for.”
“And in the meantime he got clear away,” Rollmar said in a sharp tone
of annoyance. “What did the two fools that were with you?”
Ompertz gave a shrug. “They hurried round the bank, one on each side,
and searched thoroughly.”
“When it was too late.”
The Captain seemed, even in that presence, on the verge of losing
his temper. “What could they do, Excellency? They are Italian cats:
they cannot swim in icy water. The Princess’s condition demanded my
attention. I deny that we have failed, or, at least, that we have
bungled.”
“We shall see,” Rollmar said curtly, and dismissed him.
Very early next morning a boat floated out on the lake with two men
in it, the Chancellor and Captain von Ompertz. The glassy water gave
back the two faces which peered over the gunwale, as different as
two physiognomies could well be: one with sharp, cruel, saturnine
features, and a skin like creased parchment; the other full, ruddy,
weather-beaten, its pleasant jovial expression just held in check by
the grim business of the moment. The eyes of both men were keenly
scanning the bottom of the lake, clearly visible through several
fathoms of water; but the object they sought nowhere met their
scrutiny. Over every foot of water which could possibly have been the
theatre of the hoped-for tragedy the boat glided; to and fro, turning
and backing and zig-zagging, with the keen, ruthless face bent over the
bow like a devilish figurehead, its malignant eyes eager for the sight
of a grey face staring up from the white floor beneath them. Rollmar’s
anxiety was proved by the patient care with which every place, likely
and unlikely, was examined; but all without result. At length he broke
sharply what to his companion had been an uncomfortable silence.
“Row back to the boat-house. It is as I thought. You have bungled.”
The accusation could not, judged by the result, be very well denied,
but the free-lance was not the man to let judgment go by default.
“From no lack of zeal, Excellency,” he protested as he set himself to
the sculls.
“Zeal!” There was an infinity of contempt and annoyance in the word.
“Better lack zeal than sense.”
Captain von Ompertz looked redder than the exertion of rowing would
account for. “I do not see, Excellency,” he argued sturdily, “where we
failed in sense.”
He was failing therein now, for wisdom will not argue with a
disappointed, angry man.
“Then I will tell you,” Rollmar returned, as though not unwilling to
have vent for his spleen. “The man you sought was in that building;
there were three of you, and you let him escape. All the wit shown in
the business he may fairly claim. You should have sent one of your men
round and cut off his escape on this side.”
“That I did, Excellency. I sent Forli round,” Ompertz assured him
promptly. “It was hardly my fault that in creeping along the narrow
parapet he slipped and fell into the water, thereby losing time.”
The boat touched the landing-stage. Without troubling to continue the
discussion, Rollmar stepped ashore and walked off quickly, followed by
the discountenanced but still jaunty Captain.
On reaching home Rollmar sent for his son. “Udo,” he said, “you see
much of the Court doings. I must find out who the man is for whom the
Princess has taken this foolish fancy. Have you any idea?”
The young man threw himself on a couch with a moody head-shake.
“I have seen nothing of it, father. She always seems cold and distant
to every one alike.”
“And yet there is a--lover.”
Udo winced. The idea stung him as with the flick of a whip.
“You are sure of that?” he asked, hoping for a doubt.
“Quite. I nearly had the fellow caught last night.”
“And you have no idea who he is?” Udo asked incredulously.
The Baron shook his head. “None. The fact is not flattering to our
system, but this, you see, is an affair which must be handled with
the greatest delicacy and secrecy. Should a breath of scandal reach
Beroldstein, our hopes in that quarter would be annihilated. Now, keep
your eyes open, my dear boy; I must find out who the man is. The affair
must be stopped at once. He shall not escape me again.”
Udo nodded and rose. His foxy eyes and sharp features did not look
as though they needed any especial incentive to watchfulness beyond
nature’s prompting. At the door he turned and asked, with a certain
jealous curiosity, “When you catch the fellow, what are you going to do
with him?”
As the eyes of father and son met significantly, it would have been
difficult to say which shot forth the greater malignity; the only
difference was that in Udo’s it was natural, in the Baron’s it seemed
rather acquired by the practice of a relentless state-craft. “He must
pay the usual penalty of high treason,” he answered.
Udo’s sharp look broadened into a meaning smile. “In such a manner that
neither the offence nor the punishment is likely to reach interested
ears.”
“Assuredly,” said the Chancellor.
* * * * *
Not a word had come to Princess Ruperta as a consequence of the night’s
adventure. No word to tell her whether her lover was dead or alive, no
sign of punishment for her escapade, no hint even that it was known.
Her father was pompously kind as usual, proud of her imperious beauty,
for which he took the credit. So the Chancellor, who, of course, knew,
had not thought it proper to tell his royal master; for whatever the
Duke’s faults were, he was no dissembler. But this, the consequence to
herself, scarcely troubled the Princess in the terrible suspense she
endured through the uncertainty of her lover’s fate. When the first
paroxysm of despair was over and she had recovered from her swoon,
her habitual self-command reasserted itself, and she gave way no more
to her feelings. Only Minna, who knew her so well, could guess from a
mere shade’s difference in her manner how deep and bitter they were. On
one point only was she unrestrained, that was in blaming herself and
Minna for inviting Ludovic to what they had had every reason to know
might prove a death-trap. For that he had met his death the Princess
was sure, although every beat of her heart incited her to doubt it.
She read in the silence which was kept towards her that all was over;
the merciless hand had shut and clasped for ever the book wherein
those sweet words were written. Ah, she could not endure the thought
that the voice whose whispered tones had vibrated every chord within
her was silent, that the arm that had protected her and clasped her in
that dear embrace was cold for evermore. Hers had been a starved life,
and now when the wave of love for which she was athirst rippled to her
parched lips, it was driven back by this storm of tragedy. Her whole
nature now turned in fierce rebellion against the annihilator of her
happiness. As the hours went by the torture of an unavailing despair
became intolerable. The passion within her was none the less intense
that it was voiceless; her rage against Rollmar seemed to have spread
itself into every fibre of her body. That she had been rash in leading
her lover into a trap in no wise altered the vileness of the fact
that the trap was set. Had Ludovic really been taken in it? Minna was
persistent and never wavered, at least ostensibly, in her belief that
he had escaped. But her mistress brushed aside every theory that argued
for his safety.
“You might know the Baron by this,” she said, resenting the flattering
insistence of false hopes. “He does not make a mistake ever. His
methods are as sure as they are remorseless. I caught a glimpse of him
from the window just now. It was not the face of a man who had failed.”
“I might retort, dear Highness,” maintained Minna, “that you might know
him well enough to put no trust in that ugly, wrinkled mask. You will
learn nothing from our amiable Baron.”
“But I will,” Ruperta exclaimed impetuously. “I will. He shall tell me
what he has done. I will challenge him this very night. There is no
secret now between us; and if there were, the time for fearing him is
past. Happily, this abominable scheme has given me a hold over him, and
he shall see that he has not a baby to deal with.”
There was a reception that night at the Palace, and Princess Ruperta
kept her word. No one who saw her as she entered the Hall of Audience
could have guessed her sufferings. Except that she was slightly
flushed, she seemed cold and proud and as magnificently beautiful as
ever. When the formal reception was over, the Duke descended from the
daïs and stood chatting with the members of his immediate circle. The
general company began to circulate in the hall and the suite of state
apartments which led from it, and the hum of a subdued conversation
rose.
Princess Ruperta, watching her opportunity, met Rollmar as, putting an
end to what seemed the somewhat inconvenient questioning of one of the
foreign representatives, he turned away in his abrupt manner and left
the royal circle.
A less acute man would have recognized that she had planted herself
in his way with an object, but he gave no sign that he so understood
it, his face showing nothing but a courtier’s smile as he bowed before
her. The Court etiquette kept clear a space round them, so that the
low tones of their talk could not well be overheard, although curious
glances might note the remarkable contrast between the withered old man
and the radiant beauty.
Ruperta came to the point at once, since it was doubtful how long
opportunity might serve her.
“You, or rather your hirelings, took a strange liberty last night,
Baron.”
Her voice was just steady, but he knew the effort it cost her. An old
diplomatist and word-fencer, he never hesitated to cut short his party
when he saw an opening for a _riposte_. He looked up from his bow into
the proud, indignant face.
“One which was forced upon me by the liberty which your Highness has
been so unwise as to permit yourself.”
He spoke with the firmness and confidence of a strong will and the
prestige of successful statesmanship. But she met unflinchingly even
the electric touch of his dominant personality.
“It is abominable,” she said. “I will not submit to your interference.”
Glancing at her sharply with those unfathomable eyes, he just gave a
slight deprecating drop of the head as he replied firmly--
“Not mine, Princess, but the State’s.”
“The State’s!” she echoed hotly. “You take too much upon yourself.
I will not submit to it. You may rule my father, but you shall not
control my actions.”
He was looking at her fixedly now. There was little of the courtier
about the old minister as he retorted pointedly, “It is a pity your
Highness should render control from outside a necessity.”
Her teeth were set in her lip till it was as white as her complexion.
Only the heaving of her bosom betrayed the force of her excitement.
“It is neither necessary nor acceptable,” she returned imperiously.
All this time the question she longed, yet dreaded to ask, was at her
lips, yet unspoken, as though she were fearful to invoke the spectre
of the truth. Yet she felt that to be thus at issue with Rollmar
was purposeless and undignified; it was certainly not for that she
had accosted him. Now she felt she must put the question, let the
consequences be what they might. She took a steadying breath, but there
was just a little flinching drop of the eyes, and then, in a voice
which would have struck a passing observer as quietly cold, almost
indifferent, she said--
“As you have gone to last night’s unwarrantable lengths, may I ask,
Baron, the result of your creatures’ attack?”
“Ah!” The suspicion of a smile softened for an instant the hard, dry
mask that confronted her. Had he suspected her reason for alluding to
a subject she would naturally have avoided? Anyhow, it was patent now.
“The result,” he answered slowly, “I cannot tell you.”
She gave a look of something like disgust at his almost brutal want of
consideration. Did he mean to force her to question him further, and so
incidentally acknowledge the facts of her part in the affair? It was
hateful, yet, she told herself, quite like him. She wished she could
strike him dead as he stood there before her mocking her almost frantic
anxiety with a smile of infinite evasion. Was the man a fiend that
he would not speak more fully? The answer he had given her was truly
Delphic. It might mean nothing, and, what was more probable, it might
mean the worst. Still, as she had stooped to ask, she would press her
question now till she got a tangible answer.
“I wish to know,” she said insistently, “what happened to the person
whom you set your men to attack?”
But for a trace of temper she was quite calm now. The chill of despair
was creeping over her, and the racking suspense gave way before it.
Rollmar looked at her curiously, almost as though wondering whether he
might attribute her calm to a callousness akin to his own.
“Your question, Princess,” he replied with the same Sphinx-like
closeness, “is perhaps one which is better left unanswered.”
“All the same, I must have an answer,” she persisted.
“Then,” he said, with uncompromising decision, “I have to tell your
Highness that you will not be troubled any more by the person to whom I
presume you refer.”
Into his eyes, which were fixed with calm severity on her face,
there flashed a look of surprise. A rapid and unaccountable change
had come over her expression. Was she actress enough to receive a
stab in the heart with an air of joy? For the sudden light in her
eyes was surely nothing else. But for an instant was he at a loss;
then he turned quickly and looked behind him. The crowd was moving
to and fro, talking, laughing, all decorously as under the royal
eye; the Chancellor’s sharp and significant scrutiny caused many a
furtive glance at the pair, and perhaps cried halt to more than one
unguarded remark. His quick, rapacious eyes took in every detail of
the human medley, then suddenly glanced back, keen as a hawk’s, to his
companion’s face. But the look which had startled him had gone. He saw
nothing but a cold self-possession with just a suspicion of triumph in
the half-contemptuous eyes.
“You have answered my question, Baron,” she said simply, and without
the mocking lip he looked for; “and I thank you. It is well to know our
friends--and our enemies.”
“Your Highness,” he returned, “will never have anything but a true
friend in Adrian Rollmar.”
“Whose deeds to secure her happiness will speak for themselves.” The
mockery was there now, as, with a slight bow, she turned and left him.
Your man of action is never left standing at a loss by discomfiture.
With purposeful alacrity, Rollmar turned away on his side and looked
for his son.
“Udo,” he said, when, as in response to a sign, the young man joined
him, “the man is here. The man we seek: Princess Ruperta’s lover.”
“Ah, where is he? Let us----”
The Baron made a restraining gesture. “I do not know him even by sight;
have no idea who he is; but that he is here I am certain. Watch the
Princess. I will have my men ready. To-night must see the end of this
folly.”
It was not long before the Princess, her every sense of observation
quickened by excitement, became aware that the sharp eyes of Udo
Rollmar were following her every movement. The same whisper that told
Minna of Ludovic’s safety warned her of the spy.
“You must contrive to put him on his guard,” she said, “while I draw
Captain Udo away. But, above all, beware of the Baron. I cannot see
him, but feel sure he is watching from his spider’s corner.”
When they had separated, and Minna, on the arm of the vainest and,
consequently, the most stupid Court popinjay she could find, had
strolled off in search of Ludovic, the Princess signed graciously to
Udo and brought that fierce little fox to her side.
“You are quite determined to avoid us to-night, Captain von Rollmar,”
she said, forcing a spirit of banter with the man she now loathed.
Udo’s glance, as it met hers, changed from one of artful resentment to
a certain fiery admiration. With the object he had in view, it was,
he felt, waste of time to talk to her; he would have preferred to
watch and mark down her lover, thereby at one stroke appeasing his own
jealousy and paying her for the trick she had played him. But in the
veins of the fox-like little Captain, while he had much of his father’s
malicious keenness, ran warmer blood, and he was thus liable to a
weakness against which assuredly the Chancellor was proof. The flush
of excitement, of joy at the sight of her lover, had given a radiance
to Princess Ruperta’s beauty and an animation, an exaltation which it
usually lacked. To-night it was perfect, striking, irresistible. It
flashed down upon the cunning little face before her, the sharp, crafty
eyes with their red lashes, the carefully turned-up moustache, and
general dandified treatment of a natural repulsiveness; and in that
flash it took and held captive the treacherous mind opposed to her. For
that mind told him he had never seen such radiant, imperious beauty.
To turn his back upon it when there was an opportunity of luxuriating
in it would be the act of a Stoic or a madman, and he was neither. He
was quite shrewd enough to know there was but a poor chance for him in
the long run, that even now he was but favoured for a purpose; but then
he was vain, and the future flattered him with possibilities, vague,
desperate, yet not unachievable. At least, his father’s schemes and his
own vindictiveness could wait for half an hour.
“If that was your idea, Highness,” he replied, “you might have
attributed my seeming avoidance to the consciousness that my society
might not be welcome.”
She laughed. Reading in his eyes the effect she was working, she took
care to keep him well under the spell. “Since when has Captain Udo von
Rollmar grown diffident?”
“Since his Princess showed him clearly, if unintentionally, that his
company was only welcome as a means to an end.”
Still smarting under the trick, he could not resist the taunt. But she
lightly ignored it.
“A means to an end? Is not that the reason of all good companionship?
What better end than pleasure?”
Though the voice and half confidential manner thrilled him almost to
intoxication, he knew that the words were quibbling and insincere, that
the woman was fighting for her lover with every wit sharpened by the
exigency of the situation. But that merely spurred his determination
to pursue this forlorn hope. At least, sincere or insincere, she was
giving him a lead; who could blame him if he followed it? And, after
all, if nothing better came of it, retaliation lay that way. Even an
august princess should not make him foot this fool’s dance without
paying the piper.
“The pleasure, my Princess,” he replied craftily, “may be one-sided.”
She gave him a quick, offended glance. “How do you mean? One-sided?”
“Do not misunderstand me,” he pursued. “I should have said
disproportionate. The slight pleasure which you are gracious enough to
acknowledge, my Princess, may be a dear joy, a terrible pleasure to me.”
If its origin was in craft, he felt as he looked at her that the
sentiment was true enough. It was, indeed, a dangerous beauty; one
to hurry a man to the pit of despair; and as he drank it in he found
himself vowing it should not be so with him.
They had left the great Hall of Audience and were in one of the smaller
of the state reception rooms. So far her purpose was accomplished, and
one of the spies held safe where he could work no harm.
“You take,” she said, “the matter too seriously.”
“Can any one blame me for that, gracious Princess?” he returned,
feeling his way cautiously since he knew well her power of setting
presumption down.
“Of course I am to blame,” she suggested, hiding with a smile her
distaste for the business she was about.
“Are you not?” he rejoined, growing bolder as his determination to
profit by her complaisance increased. “If I dared to ask you to put
yourself for one moment in my place. To get a smile from the loveliest
woman in Europe, to be permitted to walk by her side, to talk to her
without restraint, in short, to be lifted from this common world into
another and a glorious sphere; then to know that he must fall back to
the cold earth again after those moments of Heaven; Princess, imagine
this and say whether the author of this desolation would deserve blame
or pity.”
He spoke with a feeling and impetuousness which were foreign to him,
and, as she listened in little more than curiosity, she wondered
whether it was feigned or true. If genuine, she could have little pity
for the man, and if false, none. But she realized as the speech grew
warmer that the situation was becoming unpleasant.
“You are determined to make friendship a terribly serious business,”
she said with gentle irresponsiveness. “Now, will you in turn try to
put yourself in my place? Then you will see how barren and lonely a
life must be which is denied pleasant intercourse with its fellows.”
“The fire must burn alone,” he replied. “The more glowing it is the
farther we must keep from it unless we would be consumed.”
She laughed. “Poor fellow! And you are scorched?”
Perhaps her laugh stung him, for, as they sat together, he turned to
her fiercely.
“I am scorched,” he answered with intensity. “It is for you to say
whether it shall be to the death.”
Something in his manner made her check the part she was playing.
“I do not understand you, Captain von Rollmar,” she said, as she rose
with a touch of proud dignity.
He sprang up and stood before her. “I hope that each of us
misunderstands the other,” he said meaningly.
“How?” she demanded, with the imperious light in her eyes.
He had got past restraint now, and was aggressively insistent. “I
mean,” he went on, “that I have suspected you of playing a trick upon
me, of showing me unlooked-for, unhoped-for favour to further a certain
purpose. How else could I account for your gracious condescension?”
There was a touch of mockery in his speech. She welcomed it, at least
it was better than tenderness. But it was, considering their positions,
rude and she resented it.
“You are using a freedom which is the best reproof to my mistake,” she
said coldly. “It is scarcely gallant or respectful to suggest that I
have played a trick upon you.”
“You compel me, Princess, to speak plainly,” he retorted. “If your high
station does not prevent your using your powers to amuse yourself with
me it is hardly fair to screen yourself behind it. I am not the fool
you have sought to make me. I know you have a lover.”
She flushed. “You are insolent, Captain von Rollmar. It is you who
avail yourself of your father’s position to take strange liberties.
Please do not say any more. I am sorry that I took any notice of you.”
She moved sideways to get past him, but he still barred her way. “Do
not add to your discourtesy,” she said with chilling contempt.
He showed no heed of her command, standing before her with lowering
face and ablaze with passion. “You must hear me, Princess,” he insisted
hoarsely. “There are spirits easier to call up than to lay. You spoke
just now of my father, of his position,” he continued rapidly, as
though determined to get out the speech which was at his lips. “That
position is one of the most powerful in Europe; and, incidentally, it
places me, his son, almost on a level with you. No, hear me out,” for
with an exclamation of impatient scorn, she had moved away. “So there
is nothing so very ridiculous and unheard-of in my pretensions.”
“Your pretensions?” she repeated, disdainfully smiling.
“My pretensions,” he maintained doggedly, “to love you, to seek your
hand.”
“Captain von Rollmar, are you mad?” she cried.
“Not at all,” he returned resolutely.
“Putting aside the absurdity of these pretensions of yours,” she said,
content to argue and so gain time, while expecting every moment would
bring Minna to her rescue, “you forget that, by your father’s policy,
my hand is already bestowed.”
“I think, Princess,” he retorted, “that since you forget it, I may be
pardoned for ignoring it.”
The reply was natural and obvious enough, but from the speaker it was
more, it was intolerable.
“At least,” she rejoined haughtily, “if I turn aside from the way Baron
von Rollmar has marked out for me I may at least be permitted to take
which path I choose.”
“You have scarcely chosen wisely,” he said with a curious softening
of his aggressive manner. “The path you are treading leads to danger.
Let me conduct you to a safe one leading to happiness, Princess,” he
continued earnestly, and his face lighted by the glow of his ardour
came as near to beauty as such a face could, “there is only one man on
earth in whose favour my father would renounce his cherished scheme.
Any other who aspires to you simply courts his own destruction. You
have to choose between Prince Ludwig, who treats you as I know you of
all women hate to be treated, with neglect and worse, you must choose
between him and me, who love you to adoration.”
“Must I?”
He searched her eyes for the effect of his pleading, since her tone
gave no clue, but these were equally cold.
“There is no other alternative,” he protested, taking her exclamation
as a simple question and ignoring its possible note of defiance.
“Then,” she retorted, “it is open to me to make one.”
“No, no. It is madness,” he protested. “Is there need, my sweetest
Princess? Why will you misjudge me? Were we married we could defy----”
“I have listened to your absurdities too long,” she exclaimed with a
flash of scorn. “Enough! Never!”
But as she moved away, this time with determination, he seized her
hand. “Princess,” he urged resolutely, “you shall hear me. You shall
return the love you have called forth. You make me desperate, and----”
She, looking past him, gave a little cry. Instantly he dropped the
hand he was by force keeping and turned. A man was in the doorway, a
man with set face and eyes as those of one who stares at the wavering
balance of his fate. There was for the moment a pause of speechless
embarrassment, then Ludovic, with a bow and muttered apology, passed
out of sight.
But as Udo turned back to his companion she saw with fear that his look
had changed from annoyance to triumph.
“Your lover?” he asked in a tone that needed no answer. “At last he is
found. You had better grant my prayer, Princess.”
Fate, he realized, had in that moment put a weapon into his hands. How
well it would serve he had yet to determine, but at least he would use
it. And Ruperta on her part, in that unlooked-for crisis, debated in
desperation what line she would take.
“Your prayer?” she repeated to gain time for her feverish thoughts to
take shape.
“Accept my love,” he insisted.
“And why, pray?” she asked, coldly indifferent once more, “because that
man was a witness to your unmannerly behaviour?”
His face darkened. “That man was your lover.”
“Indeed? Then I must have two,” she said ambiguously.
He was baffled but would not show it “You may only have one by
sunrise,” he rejoined viciously, significantly.
Minna came in.
“Is it love or hate?” he demanded quickly.
“Neither, I hope,” Ruperta returned, with a laugh.