So she married the King, being taken to him of course in a special
train, and having to wear evening dress in it, although it was
mid-afternoon, and bowing from the window at the cheering crowds with a
forced little smile, and her swollen wrist covered with a band of tulle.
Her frock, Clotilde said, was of rose brocade shot with gold, but what
with the open window and the train dust it was quite ruined by the time
they arrived. The open window gave her a moment’s hope, at first. But
there never was a chance to leap through it and so bring everything to a
quick termination.
The Archduchess never took her eyes off her.
But even then, remember, she had no idea of the real extent of the
catastrophe.
She only knew that Rudi was gone and that the church did not recognise
that she had contracted any marriage with him.
“She had not even a photograph of him,” said Clotilde. “He had given her
that one”—she glanced at the one on the chest of drawers—“but they
took it from her. Later on I managed to get it, and I have had it ever
since.”
So she was married. She had, according to Clotilde, a marvellous
trousseau; a hundred fine chemises, for instance, made by hand by the
peasants, and all her dresses came from Worth. There was one of
rose-coloured velvet with trimmings of silver fringe that required two
maids to hold while she got into it.
But there was nobody to hold the burden she carried in her heart.
So she was married again. She dragged her heavy brocade of silver and
white up the aisle of the royal chapel amid that glittering crowd of
jewelled and stiffly rustling women and men, and swore to do her duty by
God and her King. She meant to do that. She could not love the King, but
she could be loyal and faithful. And, although it was rather like
murder, she could kill the thought of Rudi. Or she thought she could.
But she fainted after the ceremony.
“What about Rudi?” I asked. “Didn’t he know what was going on?”
“Not until it was too late.”
He got there the next day and tried to get an audience with the King.
But they kept him out, and it is doubtful if the King, from first to
last, ever identified Rudi at all.