XI

Rudi, I have explained, was not subtle. He was a soldier, a lover and a

gentleman, but that was all. His plan was simplicity itself; with the

revolution under way, he and his group would abduct the Crown Prince

into Switzerland, hide him there, and later Rudi would take him to

America.

And the plan served its immediate purpose for under its stimulus the

Queen began to recover. That, and the full knowledge of Rudi’s love and

loyalty.

“He hardly ever left the nursing home,” Clotilde said. “And he brought

her the most amusing things he could find. One was a set of lead

soldiers. He fought all sorts of battles on the counterpane. He was

always such a boy.”

Ah, and such a soldier, too! One wonders a little about Rudi in those

years, when he had neither Clotilde’s refuge of tears nor the Queen’s of

flight. His profession gone and Rudi quietly accepting it, but keeping

his shoulders back and his mind untarnished nevertheless, and playing

lead soldiers to ease the double pain in his heart.

Things were a little easier after the Queen went back. Rudi had his

revolutionary plans at night after his day’s work was over, and the

Queen had her hope.

But when occasionally she forgot and put her hand on his arm over some

map or plan, he would make an excuse and move away. There was a wall

between them neither of them dared to break ever so little. It was like

a dam in which the smallest leak might precipitate a catastrophe.

Just what would have happened had the revolution not hung fire nobody

can say. But it was held off for one reason or another for a long time,

and when it finally came—

“It was too late,” Clotilde said.

“Toto was a man.”

“Partly that.” She had finished the stocking and she laid it on her knee

and smoothed it with her delicate hand. “It is like this: When a young

man, raised to a throne, is turned out into the world, he meets with

many temptations. Against them he has only one thing.”

“And that?”

“The pride of birth,” she said slowly. “The traditions that lie behind a

long line of kings. It is a sort of _noblesse oblige_.” She smiled

faintly. “When he came here, into exile, how could they tell him?”

They had never thought of that.

All those years of planning and waiting, with hope growing a little

fainter as time went on and the boy grew up. But still the thought that

some day he would come, and understand, and perhaps be eager for the

love they offered him, since he had had no love at all before. And now

this!

Ironical too that the thing which kept them from him was his only vital

heritage from the King!

He never knew of Rudi’s part in the revolution, but it is doubtful if he

would have held it against him. He had entered the university and he

seemed to have no regrets at all for his lost throne.

Clotilde mentioned the first time Rudi brought him to them.

The Queen had been very white, very composed, making her little bow to

him. And he had stood tall and straight and so like Rudi, filling the

room with his vital youth and smiling at these three people who had

sacrificed their lives to him.

“It is good of you to allow me to come, madame,” he said to the Queen.

“I have known little enough of homes, but this is surely one.”

He and Rudi were immensely chummy from the start. They took long walks

together, Rudi not a step behind for all his years. But there were times

when Rudi disappeared, and Clotilde, and left the Queen to have her boy

for an hour or so alone.

He began to bring her his little troubles, boy-fashion.

“My father was never fond of me,” he said to her once. “And I never knew

my mother. You don’t mind if I make one of you, do you?”

How young they all were together! For remember, she was still in her

thirties, and Rudi a scant forty. And how she bloomed under happiness,

discarded the white wool garments for the things of this world, indeed,

Toto declared could have passed as his sweetheart; _was_ his sweetheart;

and dared Rudi to contest his claim!

All this time the King was playing in Paris, driving in the Bois every

afternoon with a gardenia in his buttonhole and smirking at pretty

women. The Russian Olga had followed him there and was sharing such of

his leisure and the crown jewels as she could get hold of, neither of

which was a great deal.

And then suddenly came the blow to them of a movement to replace Toto on

the throne. Things were going badly with the new republic. That very

night while we talked the matter was in all their minds.

“What has he decided?” I asked Clotilde.

“Nothing yet. But I think he will go back.”

She sighed. The interlude would soon be over. Once again they would live

their drab lives; no Toto to come leaping up the stairs, to kiss the

Queen’s hand and impudently chaff Rudi; no loud laughter; no little

preparations for supper, being sure to have plenty for a hungry boy.

Clotilde’s mind must have followed mine, for she put down her knitting

and rose.

“It must be time to put on the kettle,” she said, and disappeared into

the shining little tiled kitchen beyond, where copper pans hung on the

wall and a platter of cold sliced meats stood ready.

* * * * *

An unfinished story, you see, up to that moment, with Clotilde bustling

in the kitchen and Rudi and Toto bent over the chess game. And with Rudi

saying:

“You perceive, sire, that your King is in danger.”

And Toto: “Danger! Egad, sir, he is lost.”

And even then the _portier_ downstairs, in his night-shirt and moustache

bandage, admitting the conclusion to it and calling Toto out into the

passage.

The Queen’s eyes followed him to the door and remained there; Rudi’s

eyes were on her.

When Toto came back there was an odd change in his face. He closed the

door and stood inside, holding to the knob.

“My father,” he said in a low voice. “He is—” He straightened himself.

“The King is dead.”

No one spoke, and again the Queen watched Toto and Rudi watched the

Queen. She rose slowly.

“You are going back?”

“Yes.”

He picked up his cap and turned toward the door. Then, remembering their

kindness to him, he turned again.

“You have been very good to me,” he said, stumblingly. “I shall never

forget it . . . I—I love you both.”

She knew it was the end, but her voice was quite steady.

“May God be with you, Majesty, now and forever,” she said.

Rudi and he went out together, and as I closed the door I saw that the

young King had his arm around Rudi’s shoulders.

She went into her bedroom and after a time Clotilde called me in.

“I am frightened,” she whispered. “She has not spoken. She does not even

seem to know I am in the room.”

The Queen lay on her high narrow bed, well raised with pillows. She had

undressed, and the little distortion where the Archduke had twisted her

wrist showed very plainly. She had her eyes closed and held the amethyst

cross in her fingers.

Clotilde bent over her.

“Are you asleep?” she asked.

“I am praying,” said the Queen.

It was late when Rudi came back, and she had not moved or opened her

eyes. She heard his step, however, and called to him.

“Rudi!”

“I am here,” he said, from the corridor.

“Will you come in?” And when he had done so, awkwardly self-conscious

inside that forbidden threshold: “Has he gone?”

“Yes.”

She closed her eyes and was silent. When she looked up at him again it

was to say pitifully:

“All I had! And he is gone.”

“You have me,” said Rudi sturdily. And without more ado he took her

quite simply into his arms and held her there.

We left them alone together, Clotilde and I, and it was I who made

Clotilde the tea that night and took it to her as she sat collapsed in

the front room. Neither Rudi nor the Queen had thought of her at all.

She said very little.

“I loved him so very much,” she said once, and it was a moment before I

knew she was referring to Toto. And again: “I shall go away now. They

will be happier alone. Together,” she corrected herself, and her face

seemed somehow older.

But it was characteristic of her that before I left she was planning

what the Queen should wear for her marriage. Her mind had gone back to

the old Worth days.

“But Worth is not so popular now, I fancy,” she said. And sighed. “And

dresses are so simple. There are no _important_ gowns any more.”

There was the sound of low talking from the Queen’s bedroom when I left

that night, and Clotilde was deep in old boxes. The velvets and brocades

of yesterday.

They were together, but she was alone.

* * * * *

I have never seen Rudi and the Queen since that night, but only last

year I was in the Musée of Saint Lô, looking for the Gombaut and Macée

tapestries, which had been sold on the old Archduke’s death. After I had

found them I noticed a little elderly gentlewoman standing near and I

spoke to her.

“They are quaint, are they not?”

Then I recognised her. It was Clotilde, but aged beyond belief, a dried

up little spinster now. She put out a trembling hand.

“Ah, my dear!” she said, and glanced from me to the tapestries. “I see

you remember.”

“How are they?”

“Very well, and very happy, I think. I seldom see them now.”

“And Toto?”

“But that you know. He has made a good King. He has lived up to the

traditions of—his line.” And she smiled ever so faintly.

We went back to the _pension_ where she was living and she gave me a cup

of tea. There was the same picture of Rudi on her table, and one of the

Queen, but—perhaps it was by accident—the little dish of pansies was

in front of Rudi.

She never opened up to me as completely as she had before. She had

developed little reserves and small silences, when she sat with her

hands folded in her lap. You see, she had no stockings to knit for Rudi

any more. But she told me about the wedding, which had been very simple.

“She would only wear a travelling suit,” she said. And sighed. “But

perhaps that was better. You see, they were going directly to Toto’s

coronation.”

“They went to that?” I asked, astounded.

“Not precisely _to_ it,” she corrected herself. “But they were in the

square when he came out onto the balcony later. The same balcony—” she

checked herself.

“You did not go?”

“No,” she said. And then drawing herself more erect, with two spots of

colour in her cheeks: “Ah, my dear, why should I lie to you? I did go,

but they never knew it.”

And a moment later:

“He looked very wonderful, and very happy. What is, is best.”

II

THE ALTAR ON THE HILL: The Secretary

I

Thomas Patrick Finnerty entered his house and closed the door behind

him. He liked this closing of the house door every evening, the shutting

out of the world from Mary and himself. He had, too, a sense of

increased importance. On the street he was only one of a mass of similar

men, perhaps a trifle more humble, even a size or so smaller than most

of them. But once inside his house he was by way of being a god.

But a very young and gentle god. Even an apologetic god.

“I’m afraid I’m late, honey,” he said, at the kitchen door.

“I only hope the chops aren’t spoiled.”

“I’m not very hungry, anyhow.” He drew himself up a little. “The Chief

took me to lunch to-day.”

It had been a great event, this going out with the Chief to luncheon. He

could still see the eyes of the office on them, could almost hear the

buzz that followed their departure. But Mary was unimpressed.

“I should think he might!” she said. “The way you slave for him.”

“Well, he’s a great man. Any way you look at it, he’s a great man,” said

Pat, loyally. He looked at her. She was not beautiful; her chin receded,

and her throat was long and full, a nervous, sensitive throat. But her

eyes were soft and limpid, and whenever she looked at Thomas Patrick

they were full of pride and love. However, she was not looking at him

now, and he caught a quiver of that tell-tale throat.

“What have you got against him anyhow?” he inquired. It was the only

subject on which they differed, and to-night with the memory of that

luncheon and its conversation in his mind it troubled him. He hated

differing with anybody.

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“He paid my doctor bill last summer.”

“I know it. You’ve told me often enough.”

“Then what is it? You don’t deny he’s a big man?”

“Not with _you_ around, I don’t!”

She dished up the supper, and he trotted after her into the little

dining room. His faithful eyes were anxious. If he could only make Mary

see the Chief as he saw him, all would be well; a big man, doing big

things. Not that he didn’t—well, a man who worked like that had to play

sometimes. The bigger the man sometimes, the more violent the reactions.

He didn’t quite understand the Chief, that way, but then he wasn’t there

to understand. He was only his secretary.

He studied Mary as she ate.

“There’s _something_ in your mind about him,” he persisted.

“Well, look at his wife.”

“What about her?”

“She doesn’t look happy, does she?”

“She’s sick,” said Thomas Patrick. “She’s been on the edge of nervous

prostration for years.”

“And what gives her that?” Mary demanded.

Thomas Patrick put down his napkin.

“If you’re blaming _him_ for that,” he said earnestly, “let me tell you

something. If ever a man was good to his wife, he is. Only the other day

she wanted some silver fox, and she had it in twenty-four hours. And

he’s got a standing order at the florists’ for her. I’ve got her

birthday and their wedding anniversary on the calendar, and all I’ve got

to do—”

“_You_ do it, don’t you?”

“He’s always sending her presents. _I_ don’t do that, do I? He selects

them and he pays for them. And what’s more, she hasn’t the sense to

stick by him. She’s away half the time. If a woman wants to keep her

husband she’s got to stick around.”

“Oh, really!” said Mary.

But it was impossible that he and Mary should quarrel. They loved each

other too much. He had no more doubt of Mary’s love for him than of his

for her. They were different sorts of love, of course. For instance, he

was never jealous of Mary, but she was frequently jealous of him.

“What about that new stenographer you’ve got down there? Is she pretty?”

she would say.

“Why, I don’t know,” he would answer, and deliberate as though the

matter had not occurred to him before. “No, hardly; not my sort,

anyhow.”

“What _is_ your sort?”

“You,” he would say, and smile his boyish smile.

Or:

“Don’t you have a lot of women coming and going there?”

“Some. Not so many.”

“What sort?”

“Old ladies about estates, middle-aged ones fighting the income tax.

Why?”

“I just wondered.”

He was not fooled at all. Oh, he was very shrewd, this little Thomas

Patrick Finnerty, with his loyal Irish eyes and his warm Irish heart.

“Look here, honey,” he would say sometimes, “don’t you get any

foolishness into your head. I never look at any woman but you. I never

have and I never will.”

But it pleased him, rather. It invented for him the pleasant little

fiction that there was a devil in every man, including himself, and that

_he_, Thomas Patrick Finnerty, had successfully subdued that devil.

On those evenings when, on his return, he found Mary unusually “dolled

up,” as he called it, and knew that again some hidden fear in her was

making her reach out to hold him, he almost filled the little house with

sheer pride of sex.

Even her dislike of the Chief was the purest jealousy. She wanted no

mixed devotion. She could not see, somehow, that the one could never

detract from the other; added to it, rather.

He dried the dishes for her that night, rather humbly coaxing her into

good humour again. And he had finally succeeded when Mrs. Tufts, whose

husband was doorkeeper at the Lyric Theatre, came from next door to

borrow some eggs. She opened the door on them in each other’s arms, and

Thomas Patrick, of all things, was kissing that sensitive, tremulous

throat.

“Well now, I never saw the like of you two!” she said. “I’d like to

bring Jim Tufts right here and show him something.”

She got the eggs and went away, not knowing how many times in the months

to come she was to remember that little scene, and try to reconcile it

with what had followed.