THE MAGIC CITRON
Breakfast at Schloss Lyndalberg was an informal meal, under the reign
of Mechtilde. Those who were sociably inclined, appeared. Those who
loved not their species until the day was older, ate in their rooms.
Leopold had shown himself at the table each morning, however, and set
the fashion. And the day after the parting in the garden, he was
earlier even than usual. It was easy to be early, as he had not been
to bed that night; but he had an extra incentive. He could scarcely
wait to see how Helen Mowbray would meet him; whether she would still
be cold, or whether sound advice from her mother would have made her
kind.
This was his last day at Lyndalberg. By his special request no program
of entertainment had been arranged; and before coming down to
breakfast Leopold had been turning over in his mind plan after plan
for another chance of meeting the girl alone. He had even written a
letter, but had torn it up, because he was unable to say on paper what
was really in his heart.
Breakfast passed, however, and when she did not appear, Leopold grew
restless. He did not ask for her before the others; but when he and
the Baroness had strolled out together on the terrace, where white
peacocks spread their jeweled tails, the Emperor sought some
opportunity of bringing in the name that filled his thoughts.
"I see the red October lilies are opening," he said. "Miss Mowbray
will be interested. She tells me there's nothing like them in
England."
"Ah, she has gone just too soon!" sighed the Baroness.
The Emperor glanced quickly from the mass of crimson flowers, to his
hostess's face. "Gone?" he repeated.
"Yes," the Baroness answered. "They must have reached Kronburg before
this. You know, they left their companion there. Perhaps your Majesty
did not realize that they were leaving here quite so early?"
He turned so white under the brown tan the mountains had given, that
the Baroness was alarmed. She had taken Virginia's words as Virginia
had meant her to take them, and therefore supposed that a formal
farewell of some sort had been spoken. This impression did not prevent
her from guessing that there must have been a misunderstanding, and
she was tingling with a lively curiosity which she was obliged
carefully to hide.
The romance which had been enacted under her eyes she believed to be
largely of her own making; and, not being a bad-hearted woman, she had
grown fond of Virginia. She had even had pangs of conscience; and
though she could not see the way for a happy ending to the pretty
drama, it distressed her that the curtain should go down on sadness.
"I did not know they were going at all," Leopold answered frankly,
willing to sacrifice his pride for the sake of coming quickly at the
truth.
"Oh!" exclaimed the Baroness. "I am distressed! Miss Mowbray
distinctly said, when I begged that they would wait, 'the Emperor will
understand.'"
"I do understand--now I know they have gone," he admitted. "But--Miss
Mowbray thinks she has some cause of complaint against me, and she's
mistaken. I can't let such a mistake go uncorrected. You say they must
be at Kronburg before this. Are they staying on there?"
"I'm afraid not, your Majesty. They leave Kronburg for England to-day
by the Orient Express."
"Do you happen to remember at what hour the train starts?"
"I believe at twelve."
Leopold pulled out his watch. It was twenty minutes past eleven. Forty
times sixty seconds, and the girl would be gone.
The blood rushed to his face. Barring accidents, he could catch her if
he ordered his motor-car, and left at once. But to cut short his visit
at Schloss Lyndalberg, would be virtually to take the world into his
secret. Let him allege important state business at the capital, if he
chose, gossip would still say that the girl had fled, that he had
pursued her. The Baroness knew already; others would chatter as if
they knew; that was inevitable--if he went.
A month ago (when yielding to inclination meant humbling his pride as
Emperor and man), such a question would have answered itself. Now, it
answered itself also, the only difference being that the answer was
exactly opposite to what it would have been a month earlier.
"Baroness, forgive me," he said quickly. "I must go. I can't explain."
"You need not try," she answered him, softly.
"Thank you, a hundred times. Make everything as straight for me as you
can. Say what you will. I give you _carte blanche_, for we're old
friends, and I trust you."
"It's for me to thank your Majesty. You want your motor-car?"
"Yes."
"I'll telephone. Your chauffeur will have it here in six minutes. And
your aide-de-camp. Will you--"
"I don't want him, thanks. I'd rather go alone."
Seven minutes later the big white motor-car was at the door which was
the private entrance to the Emperor's suite; and the Emperor was
waiting for it, having forgotten all about the sable-lined coat which
had been a present from the Czar. If it had been mid-winter, he would
have forgotten, just the same; nor would he have known that it was
cold.
There was plenty of time now to carry out his plan, which was to
catch the Orient Express at the Kronburg station, and present himself
to the Mowbrays in the train, later. As to what would happen
afterwards, it was beyond planning; but Leopold knew that the girl had
loved him; and he hoped that he would have Lady Mowbray on his side.
The only way of reaching Kronburg from Schloss Lyndalberg was by road;
there was no railway connection between the two places. But the town
and the castle were separated by a short eight miles, and until
checked by traffic in the suburbs, the sixty horse-power car could
cover a mile in less than two minutes.
Unfortunately, however, police regulations were strict, and of this
Leopold could not complain, as he had approved them himself. Once, he
was stopped, and would certainly not have been allowed to proceed, had
he not revealed himself as the Emperor, the owner of the one
unnumbered car in Rhaetia. As it was, he had suffered a delay of five
minutes; and just as he was congratulating himself on the goodness of
his tires, which had made him no trouble for many weeks, a loud report
as of a pistol shot gave warning of a puncture.
But there was not a moment to waste on repairs, Leopold drove on, on
the rims, only to acknowledge presently the truth of an old proverb,
"the more haste the less speed."
Delayed by a torn and flapping tire, the car arrived at the big
Central Station of Kronburg only five minutes before twelve. Leopold
dashed in, careless whether he were recognized or no, and was
surprised at the absence of the crowd which usually throngs the
platform before the departure of the most important train of the day.
"Is the Orient Express late?" he asked of an inspector to whom he was
but a man among other men.
"No, sir. Just on time. Went out five minutes ago."
"But it isn't due to start till twelve."
"Summer time-table, sir. Autumn time-table takes effect to-day, the
first of October. Orient Express departure changed to eleven-fifty."
An unreasoning rage against fate boiled in the Emperor's breast. He
ruled this country, yet everything in it seemed to conspire in a plot
to wreck his dearest desires.
For a few seconds he stood speechless, feeling as if he had been
dashed against a blank wall, and there were no way of getting round
it. Yet the seconds were but few, for Leopold was not a man of slow
decisions.
His first step was to inquire the name of the town at which the Orient
Express stopped soonest. In three hours, he learnt, it would reach
Felgarde, the last station on the Rhaetian side of the frontier.
His first thought on hearing this was to engage a special, and follow;
but even in these days there is much red tape entangled with railway
regulations in Rhaetia. It soon appeared that it would be quicker to
take the next train to Felgarde, which was due to leave in half an
hour, and would arrive only an hour later than the Orient Express.
Leopold's heart was chilled, but he shook off despondency and would
not be discouraged. Telephoning to the hotel where the Mowbrays had
been stopping, he learned that they had gone. Then he wrote out a
telegram: "Miss Helen Mowbray, Traveling from Kronburg to Paris by
Orient Express, Care of Station-master at Felgarde. I implore you
leave the train at Felgarde and wait for me. Am following in all
haste. Will arrive Felgarde one hour after you, and hope to find you
at Leopoldhof." So far the wording was simple. He had signified his
intention and expressed his wish, which would have been more than
enough to assure the accomplishment of his purpose, had he been
dealing with a subject. Unfortunately, however, Helen Mowbray was not
a subject, and had exhibited no sign of subjection. It was therefore
futile to prophesy whether or no she would choose to grant his
request.
Revolving the pros and cons he was forced to conclude that she
probably would not grant it--unless he had some new argument to bring
forward. Yet what had he to urge that he had not already urged twice
over? What could he say at this eleventh hour which would not only
induce her to await his coming at Felgarde, but justify him in making
a last appeal when he came to explain it in person?
As he stood pen in hand, suddenly he found himself recalling a fairy
story which he had never tired of reading in his childhood. Under the
disguise of fancy, it was a lesson against vacillation, and he had
often said to himself as a boy, that when he grew up, he would not,
like the Prince of the story, miss a gift of the gods through weak
hesitation.
The pretty legend in his mind had for a hero a young prince who went
abroad to seek his fortune, and received from one of the Fates to
whom he paid a visit, three magic citrons which he must cut open by
the side of a certain fountain. He obeyed his instructions; but when
from the first citron sprang an exquisite fairy maiden, demanding a
drink of water, the young man lost his presence of mind. While he sat
staring, the lovely lady vanished; and with a second experiment it was
the same. Only the third citron remained of the Fates' squandered
gifts, and when the Prince cut it in half, the maiden who appeared was
so much more beautiful than her sisters, that in adoring wonder he
almost lost her as he had lost the others.
"My knife is on the rind of the last citron now," Leopold said to
himself. "Let me not lose the one chance I have left."
Last night he had believed that there would not be room in a man's
heart for more love than his held for Helen Mowbray; but realizing to
the full how great was the danger of losing her, he found that his
love had grown beyond reckoning.
He had thought it a sacrifice to suggest a morganatic marriage. Now, a
voice seemed to say in his ear, "The price you offered was not enough.
Is love worth all to you or not?" And he answered, "It is worth all.
I will offer all, yet not count it a sacrifice. That is love, and
nothing less is love."
A white light broke before his eyes, like a meteor bursting, and the
voice in his ear spoke words that sent a flame through his veins.
"I will do it," he said. "Who is there among my people who will dare
say 'no' to their Emperor's 'yes'? I will make a new law. I will be a
law unto myself."
His face, that had been pale, was flushed. He tore up the unfinished
telegram, and wrote another, which he signed "Leo, the Chamois
Hunter." Then, when he had handed in the message, and paid, there was
but just time to buy his ticket, engage a whole first-class
compartment, for himself, and dash into it, before his train was due
to start.
As it moved slowly out of the big station, Leopold's brain rang with
the noble music of his great resolve. He could see nothing, think of
nothing but that. His arms ached to clasp his love; his lips, cheated
last night, already felt her kisses; for she would give them now, and
she would give herself. He was treading the past of an Empire under
foot, in the hope of a future with her; and every throb of the engine
was taking him nearer to the threshold of that future.
But such moments of supreme exaltation come rarely in a lifetime. The
heart of man or woman could not beat on for long with such wild music
for accompaniment; and so it was that, as the moments passed, the song
of the Emperor's blood fell to a minor key. He thought passionately of
Virginia, but he thought of his country as well, and tried to weigh
the effect upon others of the thing that he was prepared to do. There
was no one on earth whom Leopold of Rhaetia need fear, but there was
one to whom he owed much, one whom it would be grievious to offend.
In his father's day, one man--old even then--had built upon the
foundations of a tragic past, a great and prosperous nation. This man
had been to Leopold what his father had never been; and without the
magic power of inspiring warm affection, had instilled respect and
gratitude in the breast of an enthusiastic boy.
"Poor old von Breitstein!" the Emperor sighed; "The country is his
idol--the country with all the old traditions. He'll feel this break
sorely. I'd spare him if I could; but I can't live my life for him--"
He sighed again, and looked up frowning at a sudden sound which meant
intrusion.
Like a spirit called from the deep, there stood the Chancellor at the
door between Leopold's compartment and the one adjoining.