THE COUSINS MEET
His great object having been so luckily obtained, having found and
reassured Countess Minna, Ompertz judged it well to tell Rollmar the
truth about Princess Ruperta, although he did not venture to add that
he had known of her flight all along. The Chancellor fell into a fury
of annoyance at this new turn of events, which promised to render the
hushing-up of her escapade all the more difficult. Ludwig, whose first
enquiries had naturally been for Ruperta, was, while overwhelmed at the
thought of her devotion, rendered desperately anxious as to the result
of the step she had taken.
“It is my own fault,” he exclaimed, miserably, “in keeping my secret.
Ignorant as to who I am, how could she know the double danger she was
running in appealing to the last man she should have sought?”
“Neither does he know her lover’s identity,” Ompertz suggested,
hopefully.
“What does that matter?” Ludwig returned. “Ferdinand is evil-minded and
treacherous, and she is the most beautiful woman in the world. Thank
Heaven, at least, that I am free.”
So, burning with the desire to reach his kingdom, which every hour now
must render his the less, and to put his fortunes upon a desperate
cast, he addressed himself to the wrathful and discomfited Rollmar, in
whose plans he seemed no longer an appreciable factor.
“I am setting out for Beroldstein within the hour, Excellency.”
“For Beroldstein?” The words were snapped out impatiently,
indifferently, save for a sneer.
“To regain my kingdom.”
“Ah?” He shook his head. “It is too late.”
“That is my fault in some measure, fate’s in a greater.”
“It is a pity fate is against you,” Rollmar returned, curtly. “Luck
counts for much in politics, as in everything else. Well, I wish yours
may return, Prince.”
Clearly he did not think it would. He was turning away, busy with more
urgent speculations, when Ludwig’s next words recalled him.
“As the husband chosen by yourself for Princess Ruperta, I may look to
your Excellency for help in asserting my rights?”
Rollmar looked at him sharply. “Help? It is no business of mine or my
master’s to set you on the throne. And I have already told you that
the alliance we sought was with the undisputed heir to the throne of
Drax-Beroldstein.”
“An excellent reason,” Ludwig returned with a confident smile, “why you
should render me all the assistance in your power. I do not ask much.
Only the few troops you have here, ready to hand, in my very territory.
I am going straightway to claim my crown, you know I am neither a
coward nor a fool, and luck has of late not been altogether against me.
Will you, who profess such interest in me, grudge me the escort of this
handful of men with which to enter my kingdom?”
“A forlorn hope, Prince.”
“No,” he replied resolutely. “Let me put it to you as policy. These
men I seek to borrow may make all the difference between success and
failure, although, if I live, I do not mean to fail. Think what the
effect will be if I ride into Beroldstein at the head of a body of your
troops, the sign that I am backed by the power of Waldavia. And with
Princess Ruperta by this time in Ferdinand’s clutches you cannot do
otherwise than assert your interest in the situation. Do you think she
will ever marry Ferdinand? I tell you that, whatever may be my fate,
you may put that idea from your mind. Her courage and her constancy I
can answer for.”
Rollmar had his own views of the female mind, still he was forced to
confess to himself that Ludwig’s argument had a certain practical
point. He felt more than ever furious that he had again let the
Princess slip from his grasp to the thwarting of his plans, but, as
statesman and diplomatist, he knew he must set himself to make the best
of fate’s ill turn, and try by a stroke to win his game against it yet.
Ludwig’s proposal was daring to rashness; and the cunning statesman
hated and despised rashness, but it was just feasible and the situation
was becoming so desperate that an heroic measure seemed called for. His
sharp eyes read Ludwig, as he stood before him, confident and eager, as
though the brain behind them were forecasting the desperate venture to
its result by the token of its leader’s character.
“So!” he said, still dubious, “you think, Prince, that you have only to
appear, for the people and the troops to declare for you?”
“I am sure of it. Only let me show that I am recognized as King by you?”
“H’m! It is a desperate chance, touch and go. I would not wager a ducat
on it. Yet I like your spirit; I sympathize with your determination;
power is no light thing to let another snatch away. No; were I in your
place I would do as you are intending, though I would never have given
my enemies the chance of making it necessary for the sake of a romantic
whim. But then, if all men’s characters were alike where would be the
zest in state-craft?”
The Chancellor was becoming more human under the inspiration of
fighting for power than ever Ludwig had seen in him or thought possible.
So the upshot was that when the troops could be drawn from the sacking
of Irromar’s castle, Rollmar, having thrown down his stake, turned
homewards, and Ludwig rode off towards the capital of his kingdom
with Ompertz at his side, and at the head of some three-score men.
The delay in setting forth had been considerable, and the rough way
made the progress of so large a company comparatively slow, so that it
was night-fall when they arrived within a league of the city, having
just missed encountering on their way a horseman, spurring through the
forest, with evil in his face and murder in his heart--Karl Irromar.
Here a halt was made, while Ompertz was sent forward to give notice
of Ludwig’s approach to several trusted friends and adherents. This
was carried out quietly, and without arousing suspicion, even among
Ferdinand’s spies, whose vigilance was, perhaps, beginning to relax.
So successful was Ompertz’s errand, and so eagerly was the news of
Ludwig’s arrival received by his friends, who had begun to despair of
his coming, that in two hours’ time quite a considerable party had
ridden out to greet their lawful sovereign. A plan was hastily formed,
and it was resolved that the most likely way to gain their object was
by a surprise and sudden _coup de main_.
Accordingly, the order was given, and the party rode forward to the
city with all haste, lest the affair should get wind, and Ferdinand’s
party have time to be on their guard. The advance was accomplished so
successfully, that not until the gates were reached did the citizens
become aware of what was going forward. Then several of Ludwig’s
adherents dashed forward up the streets, crying, “Ludwig! Long live
King Ludwig, who has come to claim his own! Hurrah for Ludwig, our
rightful King! Out, men, and rally round your King, King Ludwig for
ever!”
In a very few minutes the almost deserted streets became thronged with
excited citizens, running hither and thither; and when Ludwig, at
the head of what seemed a formidable body of troops, came clattering
resolutely down the street, they recognized and began to shout for him,
as they followed with excited curiosity in his wake.
So far all was well, but the most difficult and critical part of the
business was yet to be faced. With all speed Ludwig and his followers
made straightway for the palace and the barracks, which stood near
together. By the time they arrived there it was evident that the
bad news had been received; the palace was astir, and men were seen
hurrying to and fro. Ludwig and his troops rode up to the main
entrance, while Ompertz and half a dozen influential men turned aside
to the barracks with a view of gaining over the soldiery by a sudden
appeal. The great alarm bell began its frightful clanging; and as the
soldiers sprang to arms, the party of Ludwig’s adherents presented
themselves.
“Soldiers, your King has returned: King Ludwig,” cried Anton de Gayl.
“He is even now at the palace doors, claiming his throne from the
usurper. You are his soldiers, not Ferdinand’s; he looks to you to
support him in right and truth and justice. Men, will you stand by him?
He has the army of the Duke of Waldavia at his back, but he wants you;
he relies on your loyalty and devotion. Say, are they his?”
From the windows could be seen the great square before the palace
filled with troops and with a surging, shouting crowd, and, in the
darkness, the real proportion of soldiers and citizens could not
be distinguished. The men were taken by surprise, and evidently
undecided. Suddenly a voice in the hall cried, “Long live King Ludwig!”
The effect was electrical, and, with a great cheer, the cry was echoed.
De Gayl drew his sword.
“He is there, your rightful King,” he shouted excitedly; “there, on the
threshold, claiming his throne. It is you, his own soldiers, his own
countrymen, to whom he will look to seat him on it and maintain him
there. Let Waldavians stand aside; this is the work and the privilege
of Beroldsteiners. Come!”
He rushed out, and the men, with a cheer, caught up their arms and
followed him.
In the meantime, Ludwig had advanced to the very door of the palace,
which was hastily closed and barred against him. Then, by his orders,
a blast was sounded, and a very stentor among his followers demanded
admittance for Ludwig, the lawful King. As no reply was forthcoming,
the order was given for the door to be forced. While this was in train,
it was evident that the inmates of the palace were in a state of panic.
And it was no wonder, with the whole square filled by what seemed a
threatening crowd, and a strong body of troops at the very doors.
Frantic messages were sent to the barracks for military aid; but it was
too late, while only a handful of soldiers were within the palace and
available. The main body was already outside and shouting for Ludwig.
The door was burst in with a crash, disclosing the brilliantly lighted
vestibule filled with a desperate crowd of the usurper’s household.
They offered no resistance, since it was clearly futile, as Ludwig,
surrounded by a strong body-guard, entered, and passed triumphantly
through to the state salon which lay beyond.
Here, in the midst of a group composed of his council, and adherents,
whose drawn swords and militant attitudes contrasted oddly with their
anxious, apprehensive faces, stood Ferdinand, haggard and desperate,
yet with a look of defiant hatred in his eyes.
So the cousins met.
For a few moments there was a pause, as it were at the very crisis in
the game of life and death, when the winner’s stroke was made, and the
losing gambler saw his ruin in his adversary’s face. It was a terrible
silence, wherein men held their breath, and dared not anticipate the
breaking of the intolerable strain.
Ludwig spoke first, standing forward now, and confronting his cousin’s
lowering face.
“So you have taken care of my throne for me in my absence, Ferdinand,”
he said, with an almost sweet gravity. “I fear the relinquishing of it
will be distasteful to you, yet the moment has come when I must claim
my own.”
Ferdinand’s sharp eyes searched for a suspicion of irony, but the
sting, though sharp enough, was hidden. Ludwig’s tone and expression
were as gravely simple as his words. Even the acuter Morvan, who stood
by, biting his sensual lip in utter discomfiture, could detect no
sarcasm.
Ferdinand made a brave attempt at a smile, but the result was a grin of
hate and mortification. “So you are alive, after all, Cousin Ludwig,”
he said awkwardly, and with a dry tongue. “We heard, on good authority,
that you were dead.”
“I fear,” Ludwig returned, with stern calmness, “that my cousin was so
content with such acceptable news, that he troubled neither to verify
it, for fear it might prove false, nor to send me help in my danger.
I have, indeed, been near death more than once; but, under Heaven’s
mercy, have escaped. And I am here, as you see, to claim my throne.”
The last words, which were pronounced as a challenge, were received by
Ferdinand and his party with ominous silence. The usurper glanced at
Morvan, who went near and spoke to him in a low tone. Then, in the
midst of the dark mutterings, there was a movement beyond the doorway,
which was filled by Ludwig’s adherents, who there awaited the upshot.
They now drew aside to make a passage for Ompertz and de Gayl, who
entered at the head of a body of the domestic troops which they had led
from the barracks. Ferdinand, seeing the uniforms, and thinking they
had come to his assistance, raised his head in relief, and stood forth
defiantly. But Morvan had noticed the leaders, and shrank back, knowing
the game was lost.
“I say I am here to claim my kingdom and the throne you have usurped,”
Ludwig exclaimed, irritated and impatient at the other’s attitude.
There was a great shout of “Long live King Ludwig!” and Ferdinand drew
back like a beaten hound.
“Does my cousin Ferdinand acknowledge or dispute my claim?” The
question was spoken in a lower tone, but quite clearly.
For some moments no answer came from the baffled man, half crouching
like a wolf at bay. Ludwig went up to him. “You must decide on the
instant,” he said, sternly, “or take the consequences.”
Ferdinand ground his teeth together, as his vicious eyes sought counsel
from Morvan. But the evil counsellor had none ready to meet that
crisis, no time had been allowed to face the situation, he looked from
one cousin to the other, silently compared them, and saw his case was
hopeless; so the only reply he could give was a shrug. The bold game
had been played and lost, and that it was irretrievably lost no one
knew better than he whose brain had conceived it.
Ferdinand was fain to answer. “Have I ever pretended to dispute your
right, or asserted my own claim, save on your disappearance and
reported death? You have to thank me, cousin, for having kept the
throne safe for you; nor do I imagine that you in my place would have
acted otherwise.”
The speech was disingenuous enough, and Ludwig knew it; still he was
content to take no further exception to it beyond replying:
“I think I should have acted with less haste and more decency. But that
may pass. Then you, and the council, acknowledge my claim as rightful?”
There was a pause, as every man whom he addressed hesitated to declare
the defeat of his own ambition. Nevertheless, the reluctant assent
could not, in face of those odds, be withheld, and the word was
sullenly spoken.
Ludwig acknowledged it a little haughtily, as accepting a right rather
than a favour, and, at the word, de Gayl and Ompertz led the soldiers
in another cheer, which, caught up and echoed through the hall and out
into the palace square, sounded the knell of Ferdinand’s ambitious
hopes.
“You will not be surprised,” said Ludwig, addressing his cousin, “that,
until the public mind is clearer, I shall find it necessary to deprive
you and your friends of your liberty. You will merely be confined to
your own apartments, and I trust only a few days’ detention may be
necessary.”
With a bitter scowl, Ferdinand turned away, a prisoner where, an hour
before, he had played king. Thus, straightway, and without bloodshed,
did Ludwig gain his throne.
Ruperta, who was lodged in the precincts of the palace, heard the
tumult, which lasted almost through the night. Presently she was
told that Prince Ludwig had arrived to claim his throne, and that a
terrible struggle was anticipated. This news came as a stunning blow
in her distress, for she realized that while the King had to fight
for his throne he would have no mind or men for her service. Then, in
the morning, she heard that the affair was peaceably concluded, that
Ferdinand had abdicated, and that Ludwig was King. So she made haste to
renew her petition to the new ruler, and with revived hope, since she
had, on reflection, come to distrust Ferdinand, and to doubt any real
intention on his part of helping her.
In the miserable hours of waiting, she had divined that she had made
upon the King an impression which would fall like a bar between her
and her great desire; her instinct told her that he was self-indulgent
and treacherous, and that there was little honour in the eyes which
had looked on her so ardently. But what of this man, of the new King?
she asked herself in her perplexity. That was a speculation which beat
her. Politically, she might be considered his betrothed wife; yet he
had run away to avoid her, and so nearly lost his kingdom. And now she,
of all women, had come to him, of all men, to beg his interest and
help on behalf of a lover. The position was intolerably false, for all
it was honest and simple enough. She felt hot with shame that she had
to make this petition, yet she was desperate, and, even at the best,
the life of the man she so loved was hanging in the balance. Yes, she
would let no false shame deter her; she would meet King Ludwig boldly
and frankly; there was no love between them on either side, and--ah,
but there might be. They had never seen each other. What if, at first
sight, he should fall in love with her, as Ferdinand had done? Without
vanity--poor girl, that was far from her just then--she knew it was
more than possible. Her only hope was that King Ludwig might be, as
she had pictured him, cold, stern, prejudiced; above all, she prayed
that he was chivalrous, then the other qualities would matter little;
at least he could not be worse than Ferdinand. So, with anxiety and
impatience keeping back her repugnance and pride, she sent to the King,
whose first care had been to learn that she was safe, a humble petition
for an audience on a matter of life and death. It is certain that she
had not to wait long for its granting.
How describe the meeting? When Ruperta entered the presence-chamber
with fear of failure in her heart, and Ludwig rose to receive her, with
greater fear in his, his life, his very soul, seemed to hang on the
upshot of that moment of recognition, now so strangely come. At first,
as she advanced, she saw only the kingly figure standing to receive
her. Perhaps she dreaded to look into his face. But when, as she drew
nearer, she did raise her eyes, she could not believe what they told
her. She stopped dead, staring in fearful uncertainty at her lover;
then, in a flash, the whole thing became plain as though she had known
and forgotten and suddenly recollected it. Her pause was a terrible
suspense to Ludwig, and, when at last her lips moved, and she cried his
name, he ran forward with outstretched arms, and next moment she was
clasped to his heart.
“Thank God you are safe,” she murmured, and he knew that in her kiss
his trick was forgiven.
Then he led her, lover-like to the daïs, and with full hearts they
talked, not of the past, since they scarcely dared think of it, but
of the future, and the delight it surely held for them. And as they
talked, a rider, with fury and discomfiture in his face, was savagely
spurring a jaded horse over the cobbles of the street that led to the
palace, then across the great square, noticing nothing, inquiring
nothing, in his hot haste to bring news, bad enough, and the warning
which might save his undoing.
“The King!” he cried, as he pulled up his poor reeking horse at the
palace steps, flung himself out of the saddle, and rushed up to the
door. “I must see the King instantly. I bring news that touches his
Majesty’s safety.”
Those of the attendants who did not guess the truth thought his errand
might well be what he proclaimed it, while any who may have realized
his mistake kept their own counsel to see what might befall. Roughly,
and waving aside any attempt to stay him, the man pressed forward to
the presence-chamber, as the curious groups he passed closed in and
followed him.
“The King! I must have instant word with the King.”
The door was opened at his approach, and he passed through, while
some hurried forward to announce him to the King, who had that moment
retired with Ruperta by an opposite door. On receiving the intimation
Ludwig spoke a word to his betrothed, and turned back alone. Then, in
that hour’s second surprise, the two men met again. Count Irromar’s
hot, flushed face turned pale when he saw who the King was, and
realized he had come too late. But his iron nerve did not desert him.
“Already Ludwig?” he exclaimed, with the insolent desperation of
a ruined gambler. “I congratulate your Majesty, as much on your
promptness as your good luck.”
Then he folded his arms, and stood defiantly silent, waiting for his
own fate to be pronounced. He had lost all, yet did not for an instant
regret his bold game. And, as for escape, a half-glance round had shown
him Ompertz armed and expectant, and a file of soldiers at his elbow.
Ludwig hated his task, and, coming, as it did, so abruptly in the midst
of his happiness, it was trebly repugnant. But the remembrance of that
fiendishly murdered woman steeled him, more than would ever his own
treatment, against an unwise mercy. It would be monstrous, he knew, and
a gross abuse of his prerogative to let this ravening human wolf live
to devour his subjects.
“You know the penalty of your crimes,” he said, with stern dignity,
“and can hope for nothing less. It is death.”
Irromar bowed his head. “I do not complain. Fate has served you well,
Ludwig. I accept the penalty which would have been yours but for the
mischance of an hour. As I have lived my life, so will I die my death.”
Thus he went out to his prison and the scaffold.
“I shall never forgive you for running all those unnecessary risks for
me,” Ruperta said to Ludwig. “I am sure if your subjects had known
all your fool-hardiness, sir, they would have pronounced you unfit
to govern them soberly, and would never have allowed you to depose
Ferdinand.”
“You would not have cared for me, my glorious love,” he replied fondly,
“if I had come in sober, formal state to take possession of you, to
have the bargain paid over on the counter of the banker, Rollmar.”
“Tell me the truth, sir,” she insisted, her love hardly kept out of
sight by her show of peremptoriness, “you came secretly like that to
see whether you approved of the bargain. Had I not pleased you, it
would have been so easy for Lieutenant von Bertheim to have slipped
away again and left no one the wiser.”
“You are wrong, sweetheart. I knew there was no chance of that. For I
had been given a description of you, as good a portrait as words could
ever hope to paint of one that beggars description----”
“Ludovic!”
“And also a hint that you might rebel against being made a pawn in
Rollmar’s political game.”
“That judgment was not far wrong.”
“I heard, too,” he continued, “that you were cold and proud; I could
easily account for that, and I told myself that, as snow can keep warm
a living body hidden beneath it, it did not follow that you had not a
warm woman’s heart, and that if it were there I might find it.”
“You had no little confidence in yourself,” she protested, with a
little pouting smile.
“You see,” he explained, “I expected help in my siege from a traitor in
the garrison.”
“A traitor?”
“A rebel, who would rather fall into Lieutenant von Bertheim’s hands
than into Prince Ludwig’s.”
“Ah! yes.”
“And then chance, the most valuable of allies, came to my help.”
“Luckily. Chance has played us some fine tricks.”
“The best is the last, which has given you to me. Ah, how I dreaded the
moment when you would find me out. It might have turned your love to
hate.”
“A trick that does not offend against love and honour will never make a
woman hate a man she really loves. But I ought to bear you a grudge for
your easy victory, and to punish you for stripping my heart so bare.”
“And for playing into your enemy Rollmar’s hands. Punish me; I will
submit and kiss the rod.”
And with that penance the offence was blotted out.
[Illustration]
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.