STRANGE QUARTERS
The approach to the castle was by a series of terraces connected by a
narrow zig-zag road. It stood on a small plateau formed in the wooded
hill which rose with almost perpendicular abruptness behind it. Its
aspect was curious enough, but the most astounding thing about it
was its position, its unexpectedness, and the contrast with its wild
surroundings.
As Ludovic and his companions made their way up the winding road their
curiosity grew at every step. And the curiosity was not altogether
without apprehension.
“The last thing I looked to find in these wilds,” Ompertz observed with
a puzzled look at the grey silent building. “It is like a fairy tale.”
Ludovic was a little anxious, having his responsibility in mind, as to
the outcome of the adventure. But such ideas did not seem to trouble
Ompertz.
“Our greatest piece of luck,” he said, “is that the palace is
inhabited. There are plenty of old castles about in these parts, but
they have been handed over long ago to the bats and owls. Now, that
lighted window bodes a more comfortable reception than a screech and a
flutter.”
“No doubt it is a shooting-lodge,” Ludovic suggested.
“It can be nothing else,” Ompertz agreed. “We may look for a good
supper and a night’s rest, if not for a carriage.”
They had now reached the gateway which led to the entrance door. Here
the horses were made fast, and then Ompertz pulled the iron bell-handle
that hung in the porch. Scarcely had his hand left it, when the door
was thrown open, sending a blinding flood of brightness into the black
night, and disclosing a great square hall, hung with trophies and
implements of the chase. Two men in quaint liveries stood at the door.
As it opened they made way for a third with white hair and beard, who
came forward and, with a bow, motioned the travellers to enter. Ludovic
in a few words gave the reason of their seeking shelter. Taking it as a
matter of course, the old man listened gravely, and then ushering them
into a room off the hall, asked them to wait there.
“I will at once inform my master of your arrival,” he said
deferentially, and so left them.
The four looked at one another in astonishment.
“Well, if this is not an extraordinary place to light upon in the
mountains,” Ompertz exclaimed, accepting his good fortune with a laugh.
To Ruperta alone, since her experience was narrowed to one phase of
life, did their reception seem short of wonderful.
“Everything now,” said Ludovic, “depends upon our host; who he is, and
whether he is likely to recognize us. Supposing that he does not, you
and I, Princess, must pass as brother and sister; Countess Minna and
Captain von Ompertz are our friends and travelling companions. Let us
hope our incognito may not be suspected.”
As he spoke, the door was opened by the old steward, who, with a
bow--for those were days of ceremonial--ushered their host into
the room. A man as singular as was his dwelling. He seemed the
very incarnation of power, with his broad chest, massive throat
and strongly marked features. His hair and beard were black, his
complexion swarthy, but his eyes, curiously, were light blue. He was
plainly dressed, but a certain dignity of look and movement gave him an
air of distinction. He bowed, and greeted the travellers with almost an
excess of welcome.
“I should be very sorry to hear of your mishap,” he said, “were it not
for the pleasure it gives me to be your host to-night.”
His voice, Ludovic thought, was the deepest he had ever heard. There
was, too, a peculiar sustained vibration in it, like the deep pedal
notes of an organ.
“We must consider ourselves very fortunate,” Ludovic added, after a
word of thanks, “to have found a shelter so splendid and unexpected in
this place.”
Their host laughed, showing, in contrast to his black beard, a row of
dead white teeth. “I do not wonder at your surprise,” he said. “But I
love a mountain life, its wildness and its sport. At the same time,
sense of comfort and luxury in one’s home enhances by contrast one’s
enjoyment of these surroundings.”
“Naturally,” Ludovic agreed, his opinion of their singular host still
hanging in doubt.
“Many people pretend to love a mountain life,” the other continued,
“but they make themselves woefully uncomfortable, and soon fly back to
towns and civilization. I may, perhaps, claim to have the courage of my
fancy.”
The man’s manner was perfect, far more refined than his appearance
would have suggested, yet to Ludovic’s keen perception there was
something about him which made him doubt the depth, the reality of his
frankness.
“My servants have probably told you my name. No? It is Irromar, Count
Irromar, and this, my principal place of residence, is called the
Schloss Teufelswald.”
Ludovic accepted the information with a bow, and some inward
congratulation that their identity was not likely to be known to this
secluded nobleman. Irromar? The name, though, seemed not unfamiliar.
The Count’s deep voice interrupted his attempt to recall it.
“And now, may I know whom I have the honour of entertaining?”
Ludovic gave the name he had assumed during his incognito, presenting
Ruperta as his sister, changing Minna’s title to simple Fräulein, and
giving Ompertz alone his actual designation. During the introduction
the Count’s eyes rested rather longer on Ruperta’s face than Ludovic
liked, and their expression seemed to have something in it which
exceeded greeting; but then that was natural. She was a queen among
women, and might have come, no doubt, as a revelation to this
mountain-dweller.
“We are in haste to push on with our journey,” Ludovic said. “If we
might beg the loan of a carriage, our horses are still fresh, and----”
The Count made a quick gesture of protest. “It is not to be thought of,
my dear sir. As to the carriage, why, the whole of my stable would be
at your service, were I cruel enough to allow you to leave my roof this
wild night.”
“Nevertheless, I should be glad if you would permit us to continue on
our way,” Ludovic persisted. “We have lost too much time already.”
The Count smiled. “Which you will certainly not recover by starting
before morning. What, Lieutenant,” he added in an easy tone of
masterful remonstrance, “it would be nothing less than an outrage to
drag these ladies out again into the storm and darkness. They are
fatigued enough already, one can see.”
Ruperta spoke a word to second Ludovic’s urging; but their host would
not hear of their departure.
“I am an inexorable host,” he laughed. “If you come to my inn, the
reckoning I charge is that you make wise use of the hospitality it
affords. Now--ah, Gomer,” he said as the old steward entered, “you have
come to tell us that supper is ready. Come, my friends; I shall give
myself the pleasure of joining you. The wild weather has given me a
second appetite.”
With a deferential bow, he offered his arm to Ruperta. She hesitatingly
took it and he led her from the room. The masterful peremptoriness
of his insistence was so coated with the good humour of a frank
hospitality, that it could not without ungraciousness be withstood,
so Ludovic, comforting himself with the reflection that Ruperta and
Minna would have a much-needed rest, was forced to accept the delay and
submit to his host’s decree.
The Count led the way to a fine square dining hall, where a luxurious
supper table had been prepared. The room curiously reflected its owner.
In spite of its air of great refinement, there yet seemed flung over it
a subtle suggestion of brute strength, almost savagery. Upon the solid
oaken floor were strewn rugs made of the skins of bears and wolves. The
walls were hung with vivid tapestries on which were worked flamboyant
pictures of war and sport almost brutal in their realism. Antlers and
swords, armour and sporting weapons were the ornaments of the room; it
was essentially the dwelling-place of a strong adventurous personality.
But there was the touch of scarcely restrained savagery which seemed,
to delicate minds at least, to make the tone of the place repulsive.
And, over all, the note of strength; fierce, dominant strength.
The good fare and sparkling wine after the hardships of the long
journey soon made the travellers take a more cheerful view of the
situation, and put them in a frame of mind to accept with thankfulness
the shelter, and with resignation the delay, which this accident had
provided. Even Ruperta began to take a manifest interest in her unusual
surroundings and could join almost animatedly in conversation with her
host. With a tact, which had in it something of suspicion, the Count
forebore to question closely any of the party as to the purpose and
extent of their journey, accepting a nebulous explanation on Ompertz’s
part, who airily accounted for their presence in those mountain wilds
by their having missed the high road, with amused toleration of an
obvious fiction. Then he adroitly turned the conversation to general
topics, talking of war and campaigning to the captain, of sport to
Ludovic, of lighter social matters to the ladies. Although he was found
keeping his state in that wild spot, the Count soon proved that he was
far from being exclusively a dweller with nature. He was familiar with
many capitals and their society, and was by no means ignorant of what
was going on in the more civilised world beyond his mountain fastness.
He happened to mention Rollmar.
“You know the Chancellor?” Ludovic asked.
“Not personally; well enough by reputation, though, and we have
corresponded, not too amicably, more than once. Yes, we are well known
to one another,” the Count laughed grimly. “It is well for one of us,
perhaps, that I stand some leagues outside his jurisdiction.”
“You would try a fall with him?” Ompertz suggested.
“We should hardly be likely to leave one another in peace. Chancellor
Rollmar loves coercion, not to say tyranny, and I--well, I brook no
interference with my liberty of will.”
There was scarcely need for the statement; the man’s determined nature
was obvious.
“I am just now amused,” he continued, “in watching a little scheme
of the old fox’s where chance is trying a fall with him. I allude
to a matter which must be, at least partially, known to you; the
projected marriage between Princess Ruperta and Prince Ludwig of
Drax-Beroldstein.”
“Ah!” Ludovic bent forward with assumed interest in order to direct
the Count’s notice from Ruperta. “I suppose not even a possible mutual
dislike between the parties will avail against Rollmar’s intention
there.”
The Count laughed. “No. I must give our friend the Chancellor credit
for strength of purpose to brush aside such a harmless fly as that.
But now he is faced by something more like a difficulty. You have not
heard the latest news? No? It is scarcely likely; but I make a point of
being well posted. Yes; within the last few days a change has come over
the situation which may prove an awkward blow to the old schemer. King
Josef has died suddenly from an accident.”
“So Prince Ludwig is King?” Ompertz observed.
With a knowing shake of the head the Count drew back his black fringed
lips in a smile. “Prince Ludwig, as most of the world knows to its
great amusement, has run away and hidden himself to escape the bride
Rollmar has ready for him. Why, is his affair; for report speaks of her
as a beauty. However, perhaps he did not consider the sugar sufficient
to disguise the medicine. Well, the extraordinary part of the affair is
this. Uncle Josef dies. Nephew Ludwig, the Unready, is not to be found,
consequently Nephew Ferdinand, the Alert, springs up, and, seizing the
opportunity, coolly seats himself upon the vacant throne.”
A long, low whistle sounded through the room. Ompertz’s lips were
pursed; he was staring at Ludovic in bewildered suspicion.
Ludovic understood the whistle and the look, but he felt the soldier’s
circumspection was, after the first shock, to be trusted.
“This must rather complicate the Chancellor’s matrimonial plan,” he
remarked coolly to his host.
“Yes, indeed,” the Count laughed. “And I am curious to see how long it
will be before we hear of a transference, by proxy, of the Princess’s
affections.”
“To the reigning cousin?”
“Exactly.”
“What would the world say of the Princess who allows her hand to be
transferred so casually?” It was Ruperta who put the question.
The Count turned to her with a cynical smile.
“Chancellor Rollmar would probably say, Fräulein, that a Princess had
no right to her hand or her heart. They are the property of the State,
to be disposed of to its best advantage. And this State is represented
by Chancellor Rollmar.”
“I was not asking for the Chancellor’s opinion, but the world’s,”
Ruperta said coldly.
“The world, dear lady, is too selfish to trouble itself about such
matters. The world considers that persons in high places have their
duties--sometimes very disagreeable ones--to perform. It is, after all,
some compensation for other advantages. Moral, do not be a Princess,
the world would say with a shrug. No; the only person who is likely to
find serious fault with the business is the Princess herself. Always
supposing that she has inherited sufficient character and preserved
sufficient humanity to feel her position and resent it.”
“You mean if she is a woman and not a doll?”
“Exactly. In this particular complication, the Princess may regard the
change from the rightful heir to the usurper with the indifference
which she doubtless feels for both.”
“She may feel none for a third man,” Ludovic put in.
The Count gave a shrug. “So much the worse for her and the third man,
if Rollmar gets wind of it.”
“Poor Princess!” Ruperta commented bitterly.
“You speak,” said Ludovic to the Count, “as though the transference
of the Princess’s hand was inevitable. Putting aside the question of
submission to Rollmar’s orders, is it certain that Ferdinand will
succeed in keeping the position he has assumed?”
“Possibly not,” Irromar answered carelessly. “Although it is always
easier to hold than to oust. Ferdinand seems to have the favour of the
people, and the mob counts; even Rollmar acknowledges that. Anyhow, I
should advise Ludwig to show himself without delay, if, indeed, he is
not already a corpse or a hermit.”
When supper was over, the Princess and Minna were conducted to their
sleeping apartments. About these the keynote of barbaric luxury, which
characterised the rest of the house, was entirely absent; the furniture
and arrangement of these rooms suggested a woman’s supervision, and
yet save a maidservant, they had seen none in the house. However, the
travellers were too tired to speculate much on the matter, and were
soon asleep.
The two men sat with their host for an hour or more, for his talk
was so surprisingly full of information and a certain charm of
vigorous expression, that Ludovic, in spite of his anxiety, was held
half-fascinated by the man, and time went by unheeded.
“If the curiosity of a stranger may be pardoned,” Ludovic said, as the
Count’s contradictory nature increasingly piqued him, “I should tell
you that mine is still unsatisfied as to the reason a man like yourself
has for living in this strange, wild place. A love of liberty I can
understand, but I should have thought this a freedom more suited to an
animal than to a man of keen intellect.”
A curious look passed over the Count’s face, a kind of grim
justification of himself, it seemed, against Ludovic’s criticism. For,
during that instant, the brute, rather than the man, looked out of the
untrustworthy eyes.
“You are criticising,” he replied, with something of a feline suavity,
“a life, a state of existence which you have presumably never tried.
Because most men who dwell far from cities and civilization are clods
and almost animals, is that any reason why a thinking, intelligent
human being need succumb to such surroundings as these, and become
a brainless, mechanical dullard, an observer of nothing higher than
vegetation and the weather? I flatter myself I give the lie to that
suggestion. I love contrast, and the life I have chosen gives it to me
in all its strength, all its stimulating charm. And for the rest, we
have all, deny it as we may, something of the animal life in us, the
lion, let us say to be complimentary to ourselves, or the eagle. To
that side of our nature the rocks, the woods and the wild solitude of
the mountains are bound to appeal.”
“And the stronger the man,” Ompertz observed, “the stronger the animal
passion for a wild life.”
It was impossible to tell from the Count’s face whether he resented the
pushing of his argument to the personal limit, but Ludovic, watching
him curiously, had an idea that the black beard hid an ugly expression
just then.
Irromar laughed. “I am content, at any rate, to be judged as I am,”
he returned with a sort of careless defiance. “I can keep my wits
sharpened here in the mountains, as well as my claws and teeth.”
“You can, indeed,” Ludovic assented laughingly, careful to smooth over
any irritation his companion’s tactless observation might have caused.
“It is that which, if I may say so, has set me to wondering.”
The Count was quite blandly good-humoured now. “Most of us are agreed,”
he said, “that life is to be enjoyed while we have the power. The great
mistake lies in our trying to enjoy it in the same way, as though
the _summa voluptas_ had been arrived at. The wise man is he who
refuses to follow the palling pleasure which satisfies, and in the end
dissatisfies, the mob, but maps out a course of pleasure for himself.
And, to do that, he must not be afraid of singularity. His method
will excite the wonder, more or less respectful, of all but a few
who will recognize that his folly is founded on wisdom. The pleasures
of life are limited; they may be counted on the fingers; the ways of
pursuing them are practically unlimited. Each generation discovers and
adopts new ones; here and there a man anticipates the wisdom of his
successors, that is all.”
“You seem,” Ludovic observed, veiling with a smile a slight feeling
of contempt at his host’s tone, “you seem to suggest that the most
successful pursuit of pleasure is proof of the highest wisdom.”
“Is it not?” There was an arrogant confidence in the rejoinder.
“I should be sorry to think so.”
The Count’s smile was irritatingly pleasant. “And yet I wager that in
your heart you think so.”
“Indeed?”
“I could give my reasons, but forbear to do so. At least I give you
credit for self-deception. And, if I might offer a piece of advice, as
an older man who has seen much of the world, I would suggest that the
sooner you recognize the wisdom of setting the world’s enjoyment before
you in the best light the less regret will you have to look forward to.
The maze of pleasure has so many paths and windings, each delightful
enough when you turn into it, but getting more and more dreary as you
go on, till it ends in blankness and disgust. A few paths there are
which take some trouble to find and are less inviting than the others,
but their interest, on the contrary, increases as we follow them.”
“I quite agree with you,” Ludovic returned dryly. “It was of such I was
thinking. The paths of real pleasure, to which I hardly supposed you
meant to allude.”
The two men were antagonistic in their natures, and both realized it.
But each kept outwardly unruffled.
“I intended to be quite comprehensive,” Irromar laughed, “and to
include all pleasures, of every kind. The proportionate values vary
with our dispositions. My highest enjoyment may not be, presumably is
not, the same as yours. Captain Ompertz again will possibly differ from
us both.”
“Mine,” responded the soldier with bluff humour, “is a good fair fight,
either single-handed or in company.”
A smile, significant in its suggestion of a readiness to gratify the
other’s desire, crossed the Count’s face. “You have seen much fighting,
Captain?” he inquired casually.
Ompertz had begun a comprehensive answer, when a singular interruption
caught Ludovic’s attention. The room where they sat was hexagon-shaped,
its six walls being hung with tapestry of even more racy design than
that of the dining hall. Suddenly a portion of the hangings was
silently pushed aside; evidently a door had been opened behind it; and
in the dark recess thus formed a woman stood. A woman young, beautiful,
magnificently dressed, her breast and hair sparkling with diamonds,
as was her white hand that held back the portière. Ludovic, sitting
opposite, with his look startled into attention at the unexpected
movement, saw all this in the instant that the apparition remained. He
saw something more than this. A fearful expression on the woman’s face.
Beautiful as in repose it could only be, it appeared at that moment
distorted into what seemed a blending of all the darker passions.
Fear and hate, jealousy, rage, all were there in the parted lips, the
glaring eyes, the heaving bosom, the hand trembling on the curtain,
and then, over and above all, a look of terrified despair. It was as
a glimpse of hell, beauty marred in the sight by utter hatefulness.
Then, scarcely realized, it was gone. The sharp turn of the Count’s
head to see what his guest was looking at was only in time to catch the
movement of the tapestry as it dropped into its place. But, whether he
guessed or not, his air of easy entertainment was gone, or, at least,
continued only by an effort. Ludovic soon rose and bade him good-night,
finding it in his heart to wish that they were still sheltering in the
broken carriage among the rocks, and had never stumbled upon a place
of refuge which, with all its peculiar luxury, was somehow utterly
distasteful to him.
“You will like, perhaps, to make an early start,” his host said in
parting; “and my men shall be ready to go with you to the place where
you left your carriage, although I shall be sorry indeed to part with
guests as welcome as unexpected.”
He said this in a manner quite charming in its graceful cordiality. In
spite of an instinctive dislike, Ludovic could not but be interested in
the man whose character gave evidence of being so strangely positive in
its many sides.
As Ludovic bade Ompertz good-night, the soldier, unseen by their host,
bent on his knee and raised the other’s hand to his lips.
“Shall I ever hope for pardon, majesty?” he murmured.
Ludovic laid his hand kindly on his shoulder. “It is yours in full, my
friend.”