While the woman whom he had helped to a throne was being secretly
married to George Trafford, Father Bernhardt was sitting alone in his
private apartments in the Neptunburg. The room he had chosen for his
use was a small chamber on the second floor, overlooking the
courtyard. The blinds were drawn, the electric light was burning,
and the ex-priest was seated in a comfortable arm-chair reading the
poems of Paul Verlaine. At his side were a wine-glass and a big
_carafe_ containing a pale green viscous fluid. He seemed to be
enjoying his relaxation, for a smile constantly flitted across his
face, and as some mordant line appealed more especially to his grim
humour he would repeat it several times out loud in manifest
appreciation. From time to time he sipped the fluid at his elbow,
and it was remarkable that each time he did so he cast a quick look
behind him as if fully expecting to see someone.
A rap at the door brought a slight frown to his brow, and the knock
had to be repeated before he gave the necessary permission to enter.
The intruder was Von Hügelweiler.
"Well, what is it, Captain?" asked Bernhardt impatiently.
Von Hügelweiler's glance took in the nature of the other man's
diversion, and a suspicion of contempt showed itself in his curling
lip.
"I have news, sir," he said.
"Out with it!"
"Karl is alive!"
"So Gottfried said. The Iron Maiden seems to have grown humane in
her old age."
Hügelweiler studied the man whose influence was then paramount in
Weidenbruck, and his contempt grew. In common with others, he had
been wont to fear Bernhardt. The burning eyes, the quick, imperious
brain, the general air of reckless strength were things that
impressed the well-born soldier, as they impressed the low-born mob.
But Bernhardt sipping absinthe was a different person from the
fire-brand of the revolution, and Hügelweiler realised that the
lethargic sensualist of the arm-chair needed strong words to rouse
him.
"The Iron Maiden has not grown humane," he said, "but there is a
traitor in our midst."
Bernhardt sipped pensively.
"How very interesting!" he said.
"Very!" echoed Hügelweiler scornfully. "Before Karl was put into the
_Eisenmädchen_ someone had removed the spikes. The pretended
execution was nothing more nor less than a scheme to save the King's
life."
"A most ingenious scheme."
Von Hügelweiler banged his fist on the table.
"That is one piece of news!" he cried irritably. "It does not seem
to move you very deeply; perhaps my second item will affect you more.
The Queen has just gone through the ceremony of marriage with
Trafford the American!"
Again Bernhardt raised his glass.
"I drink to the happy pair," he said blandly.
Hügelweiler almost screamed with vexation.
"It is scandalous!" he protested, almost with tears in his eyes.
"The thing must be annulled. The Queen of Grimland must not wed a
commoner, a foreign adventurer, a man who at a crisis turns traitor
and saves the dethroned King's life."
A spark of interest glinted into the ex-priest's eye.
"By the way," he asked, "how did you find all this out?"
The question let loose a fresh flood of indignation from the Captain.
In tones of choking wrath he told how he had been forbidden the royal
presence, and how Trafford had been accorded instant admission.
"That was too much for a man of my kidney," he went on. "I brushed
aside the young fool who was doing duty on guard, and I followed this
American pig down the corridor. I found myself in the chapel, and I
hid myself in the gloom behind a pew. Then I overheard
things--pretty things, pretty speeches, tales of the American's
mercy, how he had saved the King's life because he disliked killing a
brave man. Then these two,--the Queen of Grimland and the traitor
who should have been immured in the Strafeburg,--kissed each other
and were made man and wife by a damned old fool in a cassock."
"Always speak respectfully of the Church, my son," said Bernhardt
with exasperating mockery. "I was, myself, one of its most shining
ornaments."
"Can nothing rouse you to the seriousness of the situation?" demanded
the Captain in despair.
Again Bernhardt sipped. Then he leaned back, and a slow smile spread
over his face.
"You don't drink absinthe, do you, Captain?"
"No," replied the other with an expression of disgust.
"It is a strange fluid," went on Bernhardt thoughtfully. "Sometimes
it clears the brain, so that one sees with extraordinary
distinctness. But sometimes it obfuscates the reasoning powers, so
that one cannot distinguish right from wrong. For instance, at the
present moment, _Herr_ Trafford's action appears to me not a wicked,
but a positively virtuous one. He saved a man from a cruel death and
delivers him to freedom instead of torture."
"But the man was Karl!" expostulated Von Hügelweiler.
"I loved Karl," returned Bernhardt, unmoved, "I loved and hated him.
You,--not being an _absintheur_,--cannot understand the curious
mental pose that loves and hates the same being at the same time.
Also I love Herr Trafford. He got me out of the Strafeburg."
Von Hügelweiler made a gesture of despair. He felt he was talking to
a madman, one on whom sense and argument were useless and unavailing.
"But the marriage!" he said, raising his voice unconsciously to a
shout in the desperate effort to drive home his point. "The marriage
must be cancelled! When the truth is known that Trafford helped Karl
to escape he will become the most hated man in Weidenbruck. The
Queen must never unite her fortunes with such a creature."
Bernhardt gaped, as if the matter had begun to bore him.
"Then the truth must not be known," he said, between his yawns.
"But it shall be known!" cried the soldier angrily. "I shall
proclaim it myself from the housetops. The mad American must be
whipped out of the country."
"Captain von Hügelweiler," said the ex-priest solemnly, "just now I
was enjoying two things: some deliciously bitter poetry and some
deliciously bitter liquid. At the present moment I am incapacitated
by your disturbing presence from enjoying either. Do I make myself
plain?"
Von Hügelweiler turned to go with a stifled oath.
"A fine time for dissipation!" he said, as a parting shaft. "The
fortunes of the country are at stake, and Bernhardt, Father
Bernhardt, the people's leader, the man of the hour, swills absinthe
and absorbs the pernicious writings of a decadent poetaster."
In a flash the ex-priest was on his feet, with blazing eyes and an
air of almost terrible menace. Von Hügelweiler thought he had been
talking to a sodden drunkard. He found himself confronted by the
embodiment of masterful and savage energy.
"You fool!" cried Bernhardt in tones of withering contempt. "May not
a man rest? May not a strange man rest in a strange way? I do the
work of a hundred--must not the brain be fed and the nerves braced to
meet the strain?"
The Captain shrugged his shoulders weakly. Despite his own strong
feelings, the other's imperiousness cowed him.
"Go!" continued Bernhardt, pointing to the door. "Go, and hold your
peace! Tell nobody this tale of Karl's escape and who contrived it.
Tell no one this tale of the secret marriage in the Chapel Royal. I
forbid you to speak. The nation's destinies are in my keeping, not
yours."
Von Hügelweiler went to the door, smarting under the lash of the
tongue.
"Has the American bewitched you, as he has bewitched Gloria von
Schattenberg?" he asked, summoning up a spark of courage before
quitting the room.
"Aye," retorted Bernhardt, "he has certain very fascinating
qualities. He is a man, Von Hügelweiler. Pray to your God, if you
believe in Him, to make you one."
And with an oath on his lips, and wrath and rebellion in his heart,
Von Hügelweiler flung himself from the ex-priest's chamber.