“Thus,” said the concierge, frying onions over his stove; “thus have
they always done. But you have been blind. Rather, you would not see.”
Old Adelbert stirred uneasily. “So long as I accept my pension--”
“Why should you not accept your pension. A trifle in exchange for what
you gave. For them, who now ill-use you, you have gone through life but
half a man. Women smile behind their hands when you hobble by.”
“I do not hold with women,” said old Adelbert, flushing. “They take all
and give nothing.” The onions were done, and the concierge put them,
frying-pan and all, on the table. “Come, eat while the food is hot. And
give nothing,” he repeated, returning to the attack. “You and I ride
in no carriages with gilt wheels. We work, or, failing work, we starve.
Their feet are on our necks. But one use they have for us, you and me,
my friend--to tax us.”
“The taxes are not heavy,” quoth old Adelbert.
“There are some who find them so.” The concierge heaped his guest’s
plate with onions. And old Adelbert, who detested onions, and was
besides in no mood for food, must perforce sample them.
“I can cook,” boasted his host. “The daughter of my sister cannot cook.
She uses milk, always milk. Feeble dishes, I call them. Strong meat for
strong men, comrade.”
Old Adelbert played with his steel fork. “I was a good patriot,” he
observed nervously, “until they made me otherwise.”
“I will make you a better. A patriot is one who is zealous for his
country and its welfare. That means much. It means that when the
established order is bad for a country, it must be changed. Not that
you and I may benefit. God knows, we may not live to benefit. But that
Livonia may free her neck from the foot of the oppressor, and raise her
head among nations.”
From which it may be seen that old Adelbert had at last joined the
revolutionary party, an uneasy and unhappy recruit, it is true, but--a
recruit. “If only some half-measure would suffice,” he said, giving up
all pretense of eating. “This talk of rousing the mob, of rioting and
violence, I do not like them.”
“Then has age turned the blood in your veins to water!” said the
concierge contemptuously. “Half-measures! Since when has a half-measure
been useful? Did half-measures win in your boasted battles? And what
half-measures would you propose?”
Old Adelbert sat silent. Now and then, because his mouth was dry, he
took a sip of beer from his tankard. The concierge ate, taking huge
mouthfuls of onions and bread, and surveying his feeble-hearted recruit
with appraising eyes. To win him would mean honor, for old Adelbert,
decorated for many braveries, was a power among the veterans. Where he
led, others would follow.
“Make no mistake,” said Black Humbert cunningly. “We aim at no
bloodshed. A peaceful revolution, if possible. The King, being dead,
will suffer not even humiliation. Let the royal family scatter where it
will. We have no designs on women. The Chancellor, however, must die.”
“I make no plea for him,” said old Adelbert bitterly. “I wrote to him
also, when I lost my position, and received no reply. We passed through
the same campaigns, as I reminded him, but he did nothing.”
“As for the Crown Prince,” observed the concierge, eyeing the old man
over the edge of his tankard, “you know our plan for him. He will be
cared for as my own child, until we get him beyond the boundaries. Then
he will be safely delivered to those who know nothing of his birth. A
private fund of the Republic will support and educate him.”
Old Adelbert’s hands twitched. “He is but a child,” he said, “but
already he knows his rank.”
“It will be wise for him to forget it.” His tone was ominous. Adelbert
glanced up quickly, but the Terrorist had seen his error, and masked
it with a grin. “Children forget easily,” he said, “and by this secret
knowledge of yours, old comrade, all can be peacefully done. Until
you brought it to me, we were, I confess, fearful that force would be
necessary. To admit the rabble to the Palace would be dangerous. Mobs
go mad at such moments. But now it may be effected with all decency and
order.”
“And the plan?”
“I may tell you this.” The concierge shoved his plate away and bent over
the table. “We have set the day as that of the Carnival. On that day all
the people are on the streets. Processions are forbidden, but the usual
costuming with their corps colors as pompons is allowed. Here and
there will be one of us clad in red, a devil, wearing the colors of His
Satanic Majesty. Those will be of our forces, leaders and speech-makers.
When we secure the Crown Prince, he will be put into costume until he
can be concealed. They will seek, if there be time, the Prince Ferdinand
William Otto. Who will suspect a child, wearing some fantastic garb of
the Carnival?”
“But the King?” inquired old Adelbert in a shaking voice. “How can you
set a day, when the King may rally? I thought all hung on the King’s
death.”
The concierge bent closer over the table. “Doctor Wiederman, the King’s
physician, is one of us,” he whispered. “The King lives now only
because of stimulants to the heart. His body is already dead. When the
stimulants cease, he will die.”
Old Adelbert covered his eyes. He had gone too far to retreat now.
Driven by brooding and trouble, he had allied himself with the powers of
darkness.
The stain, he felt, was already on his forehead. But before him, like
a picture on a screen, came the scene by which he had lived for so many
years, the war hospital, the King by his bed, young then and a very king
in looks, pinning on the breast of his muslin shirt the decoration for
bravery.
He sat silent while the concierge cleared the table, and put the dishes
in a pan for his niece to wash. And throughout the evening he said
little. At something before midnight he and his host were to set out
on a grave matter, nothing less than to visit the Committee of Ten, and
impart the old soldier’s discovery. In the interval he sat waiting, and
nursing his grievances to keep them warm.
Men came and went. From beneath the floor came, at intervals, a regular
thudding which he had never heard before, and which he now learned was a
press.
“These are days of publicity,” explained the concierge. “Men are
influenced much by the printed word. Already our bulletins flood the
country. On the day of the Carnival the city will flame with them,
printed in red. They will appear, as if by magic power, everywhere.”
“A call to arms?”
“A call to liberty,” evaded the concierge.
Not in months had he taken such pleasure in a recruit. He swaggered
about the room, recounting in boastful tones his influence with the
Committee of Ten.
“And with reason,” he boasted, pausing before the old soldier. “I have
served them well; here in this house is sufficient ammunition to fight a
great battle. You, now, you know something of ammunition. You have lived
here for a long time. Yet no portion of this house has been closed to
you. Where, at a guess, is it concealed?”
“It is in this house?”
“So I tell you. Now, where?”
“In the cellar, perhaps.”
“Come, I will show you.” He led old Adelbert by the elbow to a window
overlooking the yard. Just such an enclosure as each of the neighboring
houses possessed, and surrounded by a high fence. Here was a rabbit
hutch, built of old boards, and familiar enough to the veteran’s eyes;
and a dovecote, which loomed now but a deeper shadow among shadows.
“Carrier-pigeons,” explained the concierge. “You have seen them often,
but you suspected nothing, eh? They are my telegraph. Now, look again,
comrade. What else?”
“Barrels,” said old Adelbert, squinting. “The winter’s refuse from the
building. A--a most untidy spot.”
His soldierly soul had revolted for months at the litter under his
window. And somewhere, in the disorder, lay his broken sword. His sword
broken, and he-- “Truly untidy,” observed the concierge complacently. “A
studied untidiness, and even then better than a room I shall show you
in the cellar, filled to overflowing with boxes containing the winter’s
ashes. Know you,” he went on, dropping his voice, “that these barrels
and boxes are but--a third full of rubbish. Below that in cases is--what
we speak of.”
“But I thought--a peaceful revolution, a--”
“We prepare for contingencies. Peace if possible. If not, war. I am
telling you much because, by your oath, you are now one of us, and bound
to secrecy. But, beside that, I trust you. You are a man of your word.”
“Yes,” said old Adelbert, drawing himself up. “I am a man of my word.
But you cannot fight with cartridges alone.”
“We have rifles, also, in other places. Even I do not know where all of
them are concealed.” The concierge chuckled in his beard. “The Committee
knows men well. It trusts none too much. There are other depots
throughout the city, each containing supplies of one sort and another.
On the day of the uprising each patriot will be told where to go for
equipment. Not before.”
Old Adelbert was undoubtedly impressed. He regarded the concierge with
furtive eyes. He, Adelbert, had lived in the house with this man of
parts for years, and had regarded him as but one of many.
Black Humbert, waiting for the hour to start and filling his tankard
repeatedly, grew loquacious. He hinted of past matters in which he had
proved his value to the cause. Old Adelbert gathered that, if he had
not actually murdered the late Crown Prince and his wife, he had been
closely concerned in it. His thin, old flesh crept with anxiety. It was
a bad business, and he could not withdraw.
“We should have had the child, too,” boasted the concierge, “and saved
much bother. But he had been, unknown to us, sent to the country. A
matter of milk, I believe.”
“But you say you do not war on children!”
“Bah! A babe of a few months. Furthermore,” said the concierge, “I have
a nose for the police. I scent a spy, as a dog scents a bone. Who, think
you, discovered Haeckel?”
“Haeckel!” Old Adelbert sat upright in his chair.
“Aye, Haeckel, Haeckel the jovial, the archconspirator, who himself
assisted to erect the press you hear beneath your feet. Who but I?
I suspected him. He was too fierce. He had no caution. He was what a
peaceful citizen may fancy a revolutionist to be. I watched him. He was
not brave. He was reckless because he had nothing to fear. And at last I
caught him.”
Old Adelbert was sitting forward on the edge of his chair; his jaw
dropped. “And what then?” he gasped. “He was but a boy. Perhaps you
misjudged him. Boys are reckless.”
“I caught him,” said the concierge. “I have said it. He knew much. He
had names, places, even dates. For that matter; he confessed.”
“Then he is dead?” quavered old Adelbert.
The concierge shrugged his shoulders. “Of course,” he said briefly. “For
a time he was kept here, in an upper room. He could have saved himself,
if he would. We could have used him. But he turned sulky, refused
speech, did not eat. When he was taken away,” he added with unction,
“he was so weak that he could not walk.” He rose and consulted a
great silver watch. “We can go now,” he said. “The Committee likes
promptness.”
They left together, the one striding out with long steps that were
surprisingly light for his size, the other, hanging back a trifle, as
one who walks because he must. Old Adelbert, who had loved his King
better than his country, was a lagging “patriot” that night. His breath
came short and labored. His throat was dry. As they passed the Opera,
however, he threw his head up. The performance was over, but the great
house was still lighted, and in the foyer, strutting about, was his
successor. Old Adelbert quickened his steps.
At the edge of the Place, near the statue of the Queen, they took a car,
and so reached the borders of the city. After that they walked far. The
scent of the earth, fresh-turned by the plough, was in their nostrils.
Cattle, turned out after the long winter, grazed or lay in the fields.
Through the ooze of the road the two plodded; old Adelbert struggling
through with difficulty, the concierge exhorting him impatiently to
haste.
At last the leader paused, and surveyed his surroundings: “Here I must
cover your eyes, comrade,” he said. “It is a formality all must comply
with.”
Old Adelbert drew back. “I do not like your rule. I am not as other men.
I must see where I go.”
“I shall lead you carefully. And, if you fear, I can carry you.” He
chuckled at the thought. But old Adelbert knew well that he could do it,
knew that he was as a child to those mighty arms. He submitted to the
bandage, however, with an ill grace that caused the concierge to smile.
“It hurts your dignity, eh, old rooster!” he said jovially. “Others, of
greater dignity, have felt the same. But all submit in the end.”
He piloted the veteran among the graves with the ease of familiarity.
Only once he spoke. “Know you where you are?”
“In a field,” said Adelbert, “recently ploughed.”
“Aye, in a field, right enough. But one which sows corruption, and
raises nothing, until perhaps great St. Gabriel calls in his crop.”
Then, realizing the meaning of the mounds over which he trod, old
Adelbert crossed himself.
“Only a handful know of this meeting-place,” boasted the concierge. “I,
and a few others. Only we may meet with the Committee face to face.”
“You must have great influence,” observed old Adelbert timidly.
“I control the guilds. He who to-day can sway labor to his will is
powerful, very powerful comrade. Labor is the great beast which tires of
carrying burdens, and is but now learning its strength.”
“Aye,” said old Adelbert. “Had I been wise, I would have joined a guild.
Then I might have kept my place at the Opera. As it is, I stood alone,
and they put me out.”
“You do not stand alone now. Stand by us, and we will support you. The
Republic will not forget its friends.”
Thus heartened, old Adelbert brightened up somewhat. Why should he,
an old soldier, sweat at the thought of blood? Great changes required
heroic measures. It was because he was old that he feared change. He
stumped through the passageway without urging, and stood erect and with
shoulders squared while the bandage was removed.
He was rather longer than Olga Loschek had been in comprehending his
surroundings. His old eyes at first saw little but the table and its
candles in their gruesome holders. But when he saw the Committee his
heart failed. Here, embodied before him, was everything he had loathed
during all his upright and loyal years anarchy, murder, treason. His
face worked. The cords in his neck stood out like strings drawn to the
breaking-point.
The concierge was speaking. For all his boasting, he was ill at ease.
His voice had lost its bravado, and had taken on a fawning note.
“This is the man of whom word was sent to the Committee,” he said.
“I ventured to ask that he be allowed to come here, because he brings
information of value.”
“Step forward, comrade,” said the leader. “What is your name and
occupation?”
“Adelbert, Excellency. As to occupation, for years I was connected with
the Opera. Twenty years, Excellency. Then I grew old, and another--”
His voice broke. What with excitement and terror, he was close to tears.
“Now I am reduced to selling tickets for an American contrivance, a
foolish thing, but I earn my bread by it.”
He paused, but the silence continued unbroken. The battery of eyes
behind the masks was turned squarely on him.
Old Adelbert fidgeted. “Before that, in years gone by, I was in the
army,” he said, feeling that more was expected of him, and being at a
loss. “I fought hard, and once, when I suffered the loss you perceive,
the King himself came to my bed, and decorated me. Until lately, I have
been loyal. Now, I am--here.” His face worked.
“What is the information that brings you here?”
Suddenly old Adelbert wept, terrible tears that forced their way from
his faded eyes, and ran down his cheeks. “I cannot, Excellencies!” he
cried. “I find I cannot.”
He collapsed into the chair, and throwing his arms across the table
bowed his head on them. His shoulders heaved under his old uniform. The
Committee stirred, and the concierge caught him brutally by the wrist.
“Up with you!” he said, from clenched teeth. “What stupidity is this?
Would you play with death?”
But old Adelbert was beyond fear. He shook his head. “I cannot,” he
muttered, his face hidden.
Then the concierge stood erect and folded his arms across his chest.
“He is terrified, that is all,” he said. “If the Committee wishes, I can
tell them of this matter. Later, he can be interrogated.”
The leader nodded.
“By chance,” said the concierge, “this--this brave veteran”--he glanced
contemptuously at the huddled figure in the chair, “has come across an old
passage, the one which rumor has said lay under the city wall, and for
which we have at different times instituted search.”
He paused, to give his words weight. That they were of supreme interest
could be told by the craning forward of the Committee.
“The entrance is concealed at the base of the old Gate of the Moon. Our
friend here followed it, and reports it in good condition. For a mile or
thereabouts it follows the line of the destroyed wall. Then it turns and
goes to the Palace itself.”
“Into the Palace?”
“By a flight of stairs, inside the wall, to a door in the roof. This
door, which was locked, he opened, having carried keys with him. The
door he describes as in the tower. As it was night, he could not see
clearly, but the roof at that point is flat.”
“Stand up, Adelbert,” said the leader sharply. “This that our comrade
tells is true?”
“It is true, Excellency.”
“Shown a diagram of the Palace, could you locate this door?”
Old Adelbert stared around him hopelessly. It was done now. Nothing that
he could say or refuse to say would change that. He nodded.
When, soon after, a chart of the Palace was placed on a table, he
indicated the location of the door with a trembling forefinger. “It is
there,” he said thickly. “And may God forgive me for the thing I have
done!”