CHAPTER I

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THE WORKS OF

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

SWANSTON EDITION

VOLUME VII

_Of this SWANSTON EDITION in Twenty-five

Volumes of the Works of ROBERT LOUIS

STEVENSON Two Thousand and Sixty Copies

have been printed, of which only Two Thousand

Copies are for sale._

_This is No. ........._

[Illustration: 17 HERIOT ROW, EDINBURGH, THE RESIDENCE OF R. L. S. FROM

1863 TO 1879]

THE WORKS OF

ROBERT LOUIS

STEVENSON

VOLUME SEVEN

LONDON : PUBLISHED BY CHATTO AND

WINDUS : IN ASSOCIATION WITH CASSELL

AND COMPANY LIMITED : WILLIAM

HEINEMANN : AND LONGMANS GREEN

AND COMPANY MDCCCCXI

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

CONTENTS

PRINCE OTTO

BOOK I.--PRINCE ERRANT

CHAPTER PAGE

I. IN WHICH THE PRINCE DEPARTS ON AN ADVENTURE 7

II. IN WHICH THE PRINCE PLAYS HAROUN-AL-RASCHID 12

III. IN WHICH THE PRINCE COMFORTS AGE AND BEAUTY AND DELIVERS

A LECTURE ON DISCRETION IN LOVE 23

IV. IN WHICH THE PRINCE COLLECTS OPINIONS BY THE WAY 34

BOOK II.--OF LOVE AND POLITICS

I. WHAT HAPPENED IN THE LIBRARY 49

II. "ON THE COURT OF GRUeNEWALD," BEING A PORTION OF THE

TRAVELLER'SMANUSCRIPT 61

III. THE PRINCE AND THE ENGLISH TRAVELLER 68

IV. WHILE THE PRINCE IS IN THE ANTEROOM.... 75

V. ... GONDREMARK IS IN MY LADY'S CHAMBER 81

VI. THE PRINCE DELIVERS A LECTURE ON MARRIAGE, WITH PRACTICAL

ILLUSTRATIONS OF DIVORCE 88

VII. THE PRINCE DISSOLVES THE COUNCIL 97

VIII. THE PARTY OF WAR TAKES ACTION 107

IX. THE PRICE OF THE RIVER FARM: IN WHICH VAIN-GLORY GOES

BEFORE A FALL 114

X. GOTTHOLD'S REVISED OPINION; AND THE FALL COMPLETED 126

XI. PROVIDENCE VON ROSEN: ACT THE FIRST--SHE BEGUILES THE

BARON 135

XII. PROVIDENCE VON ROSEN: ACT THE SECOND--SHE INFORMS THE

PRINCE 142

XIII. PROVIDENCE VON ROSEN: ACT THE THIRD--SHE ENLIGHTENS

SERAPHINA 152

XIV. RELATES THE CAUSE AND OUTBREAK OF THE REVOLUTION 159

BOOK III.--FORTUNATE MISFORTUNE

I. PRINCESS CINDERELLA 171

II. TREATS OF A CHRISTIAN VIRTUE 188

III. PROVIDENCE VON ROSEN: ACT THE LAST--IN WHICH SHE GALLOPS

OFF 194

IV. BABES IN THE WOOD 203

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL POSTSCRIPT, TO COMPLETE THE STORY 211

THE WRONG BOX

I. IN WHICH MORRIS SUSPECTS 219

II. IN WHICH MORRIS TAKES ACTION 233

III. THE LECTURER AT LARGE 248

IV. THE MAGISTRATE IN THE LUGGAGE VAN 259

V. MR. GIDEON FORSYTH AND THE GIGANTIC BOX 264

VI. THE TRIBULATIONS OF MORRIS: PART THE FIRST 274

VII. IN WHICH WILLIAM DENT PITMAN TAKES LEGAL ADVICE 289

VIII. IN WHICH MICHAEL FINSBURY ENJOYS A HOLIDAY 301

IX. GLORIOUS CONCLUSION OF MICHAEL FINSBURY'S HOLIDAY 320

X. GIDEON FORSYTH AND THE BROADWOOD GRAND 335

XI. THE MAESTRO JIMSON 344

XII. POSITIVELY THE LAST APPEARANCE OF THE BROADWOOD GRAND 360

XIII. THE TRIBULATIONS OF MORRIS: PART THE SECOND 370

XIV. WILLIAM BENT PITMAN HEARS OF SOMETHING TO HIS ADVANTAGE 380

XV. THE RETURN OF THE GREAT VANCE 394

XVI. FINAL ADJUSTMENT OF THE LEATHER BUSINESS 401

PRINCE OTTO

TO

_NELLY VAN DE GRIFT_

(MRS. ADULFO SANCHEZ, OF MONTEREY)

_At last, after so many years, I have the pleasure of re-introducing you

to "Prince Otto," whom you will remember a very little fellow, no

bigger, in fact, than a few sheets of memoranda written for me by your

kind hand. The sight of his name will carry you back to an old wooden

house embowered in creepers; a house that was far gone in the

respectable stages of antiquity, and seemed indissoluble from the green

garden in which it stood, and that yet was a sea-traveller in its

younger days, and had come round the Horn piecemeal in the belly of a

ship, and might have heard the seamen stamping and shouting and the note

of the boatswain's whistle. It will recall to you the nondescript

inhabitants, now so widely scattered:--the two horses, the dog, and the

four cats, some of them still looking in your face as you read these

lines;--the poor lady, so unfortunately married to an author;--the China

boy, by this time, perhaps, baiting his line by the banks of a river in

the Flowery Land;--and in particular the Scot who was then sick

apparently unto death, and whom you did so much to cheer and keep in

good behaviour._

_You may remember that he was full of ambitions and designs: so soon as

he had his health again completely, you may remember the fortune he was

to earn, the journeys he was to go upon, the delights he was to enjoy

and confer, and (among other matters) the masterpiece he was to make of

"Prince Otto"!_

_Well, we will not give in that we are finally beaten. We_ _read

together in those days the story of Braddock, and how, as he was carried

dying from the scene of his defeat, he promised himself to do better

another time: a story that will always touch a brave heart, and a dying

speech worthy of a more fortunate commander. I try to be of Braddock's

mind. I still mean to get my health again; I still purpose, by hook or

crook, this book or the next, to launch a masterpiece; and I still

intend--somehow, some time or other--to see your face and to hold your

hand._

_Meanwhile, this little paper traveller goes forth instead, crosses the

great seas and the long plains and the dark mountains, and comes at last

to your door in Monterey, charged with tender greetings. Pray you, take

him in. He comes from a house where (even as in your own) there are

gathered together some of the waifs of our company at Oakland; a

house--for all its outlandish Gaelic name and distant station--where you

are well-beloved._

_R. L. S._

_Skerryvore, Bournemouth._

BOOK I

PRINCE ERRANT

PRINCE OTTO

CHAPTER I

IN WHICH THE PRINCE DEPARTS ON AN ADVENTURE

You shall seek in vain upon the map of Europe for the bygone state of

Gruenewald. An independent principality, an infinitesimal member of the

German Empire, she played, for several centuries, her part in the

discord of Europe; and, at last, in the ripeness of time and at the

spiriting of several bald diplomatists, vanished like a morning ghost.

Less fortunate than Poland, she left not a regret behind her; and the

very memory of her boundaries has faded.

It was a patch of hilly country covered with thick wood. Many streams

took their beginning in the glens of Gruenewald, turning mills for the

inhabitants. There was one town, Mittwalden, and many brown, wooden

hamlets, climbing roof above roof, along the steep bottom of dells, and

communicating by covered bridges over the larger of the torrents. The

hum of watermills, the splash of running water, the clean odour of pine

sawdust, the sound and smell of the pleasant wind among the innumerable

army of the mountain pines, the dropping fire of huntsmen, the dull

stroke of the wood-axe, intolerable roads, fresh trout for supper in the

clean bare chamber of an inn, and the song of birds and the music of the

village-bells--these were the recollections of the Gruenewald tourist.

North and east the foothills of Gruenewald sank with varying profile

into a vast plain. On these sides many small states bordered with the

principality, Gerolstein, an extinct grand duchy, among the number. On

the south it marched with the comparatively powerful kingdom of Seaboard

Bohemia, celebrated for its flowers and mountain bears, and inhabited by

a people of singular simplicity and tenderness of heart. Several

intermarriages had, in the course of centuries, united the crowned

families of Gruenewald and Maritime Bohemia; and the last Prince of

Gruenewald, whose history I purpose to relate, drew his descent through

Perdita, the only daughter of King Florizel the First of Bohemia. That

these intermarriages had in some degree mitigated the rough, manly stock

of the first Gruenewalds, was an opinion widely held within the borders

of the principality. The charcoal burner, the mountain sawyer, the

wielder of the broad axe among the congregated pines of Gruenewald, proud

of their hard hands, proud of their shrewd ignorance and almost savage

lore, looked with an unfeigned contempt on the soft character and

manners of the sovereign race.

The precise year of grace in which this tale begins shall be left to the

conjecture of the reader. But for the season of the year (which, in such

a story, is the more important of the two) it was already so far forward

in the spring, that when mountain people heard horns echoing all day

about the north-west corner of the principality, they told themselves

that Prince Otto and his hunt were up and out for the last time till the

return of autumn.

At this point the borders of Gruenewald descend somewhat steeply, here

and there breaking into crags; and this shaggy and trackless country

stands in a bold contrast to the cultivated plain below. It was

traversed at that period by two roads alone; one, the imperial highway,

bound to Brandenau in Gerolstein, descended the slope obliquely and by

the easiest gradients. The other ran like a fillet across the very

forehead of the hills, dipping into savage gorges, and wetted by the

spray of tiny waterfalls. Once it passed beside a certain tower or

castle, built sheer upon the margin of a formidable cliff, and

commanding a vast prospect of the skirts of Gruenewald and the busy

plains of Gerolstein. The Felsenburg (so this tower was called) served

now as a prison, now as a hunting-seat; and for all it stood so lonesome

to the naked eye, with the aid of a good glass the burghers of Brandenau

could count its windows from the lime-tree terrace where they walked at

night.

In the wedge of forest hillside enclosed between the roads, the horns

continued all day long to scatter tumult; and at length, as the sun

began to draw near to the horizon of the plain, a rousing triumph

announced the slaughter of the quarry. The first and second huntsman had

drawn somewhat aside, and from the summit of a knoll gazed down before

them on the drooping shoulders of the hill and across the expanse of

plain. They covered their eyes, for the sun was in their faces. The

glory of its going down was somewhat pale. Through the confused tracery

of many thousands of naked poplars, the smoke of so many houses, and the

evening steam ascending from the fields, the sails of a windmill on a

gentle eminence moved very conspicuously, like a donkey's ears. And hard

by, like an open gash, the imperial high-road ran straight sunward, an

artery of travel.

There is one of nature's spiritual ditties, that has not yet been set to

words or human music: "The Invitation to the Road"; an air continually

sounding in the ears of gipsies, and to whose inspiration our nomadic

fathers journeyed all their days. The hour, the season, and the scene,

all were in delicate accordance. The air was full of birds of passage,

steering westward and northward over Gruenewald, an army of specks to the

up-looking eye. And below, the great practicable road was bound for the

same quarter.

But to the two horsemen on the knoll this spiritual ditty was unheard.

They were, indeed, in some concern of mind, scanning every fold of the

subjacent forest, and betraying both anger and dismay in their impatient

gestures.

"I do not see him, Kuno," said the first huntsman, "nowhere--not a

trace, not a hair of the mare's tail! No, sir, he's off; broke cover and

got away. Why, for twopence I would hunt him with the dogs!"

"Mayhap, he's gone home," said Kuno, but without conviction.

"Home!" sneered the other. "I give him twelve days to get home. No, it's

begun again; it's as it was three years ago, before he married; a

disgrace! Hereditary prince, hereditary fool! There goes the government

over the borders on a grey mare. What's that? No, nothing--no, I tell

you, on my word, I set more store by a good gelding or an English dog.

That for your Otto!"

"He's not my Otto," growled Kuno.

"Then I don't know whose he is," was the retort.

"You would put your hand in the fire for him to-morrow," said Kuno,

facing round.

"Me!" cried the huntsman. "I would see him hanged! I'm a Gruenewald

patriot--enrolled, and have my medal, too; and I would help a prince!

I'm for liberty and Gondremark."

"Well, it's all one," said Kuno. "If anybody said what you said, you

would have his blood, and you know it."

"You have him on the brain," retorted his companion.--"There he goes!"

he cried, the next moment.

And sure enough, about a mile down the mountain, a rider on a white

horse was seen to flit rapidly across a heathy open and vanish among the

trees on the farther side.

"In ten minutes he'll be over the border into Gerolstein," said Kuno.

"It's past cure."

"Well, if he founders that mare, I'll never forgive him," added the

other, gathering his reins.

And as they turned down from the knoll to rejoin their comrades, the sun

dipped and disappeared, and the woods fell instantly into the gravity

and greyness of the early night.

CHAPTER II

IN WHICH THE PRINCE PLAYS HAROUN-AL-RASCHID

The night fell upon the Prince while he was threading green tracks in

the lower valleys of the wood; and though the stars came out overhead

and displayed the interminable order of the pine-tree pyramids, regular

and dark like cypresses, their light was of small service to a traveller

in such lonely paths, and from thenceforth he rode at random. The

austere face of nature, the uncertain issue of his course, the open sky

and the free air, delighted him like wine; and the hoarse chafing of a

river on his left sounded in his ears agreeably.

It was past eight at night before his toil was rewarded and he issued at

last out of the forest on the firm white high-road. It lay downhill

before him with a sweeping eastward trend, faintly bright between the

thickets; and Otto paused and gazed upon it. So it ran, league after

league, still joining others, to the farthest ends of Europe, there

skirting the sea-surge, here gleaming in the lights of cities; and the

innumerable army of tramps and travellers moved upon it in all lands as

by a common impulse, and were now in all places drawing near to the inn

door and the night's rest. The pictures swarmed and vanished in his

brain; a surge of temptation, a beat of all his blood, went over him, to

set spur to the mare and to go on into the unknown for ever. And then it

passed away; hunger and fatigue, and that habit of middling actions

which we call common sense, resumed their empire; and in that changed

mood his eye lighted upon two bright windows on his left hand, between

the road and river.

He turned off by a by-road, and in a few minutes he was knocking with

his whip on the door of a large farmhouse, and a chorus of dogs from the

farmyard were making angry answer. A very tall, old, white-headed man

came, shading a candle, at the summons. He had been of great strength in

his time, and of a handsome countenance; but now he was fallen away, his

teeth were quite gone, and his voice when he spoke was broken and

falsetto.

"You will pardon me," said Otto. "I am a traveller and have entirely

lost my way."

"Sir," said the old man, in a very stately, shaky manner, "you are at

the River Farm, and I am Killian Gottesheim, at your disposal. We are

here, sir, at about an equal distance from Mittwalden in Gruenewald and

Brandenau in Gerolstein: six leagues to either, and the road excellent;

but there is not a wine-bush, not a carter's alehouse, anywhere between.

You will have to accept my hospitality for the night; rough hospitality,

to which I make you freely welcome; for, sir," he added, with a bow, "it

is God who sends the guest."

"Amen. And I most heartily thank you," replied Otto, bowing in his turn.

"Fritz," said the old man, turning towards the interior, "lead round

this gentleman's horse; and you, sir, condescend to enter."

Otto entered a chamber occupying the greater part of the ground-floor of

the building. It had probably once been divided; for the farther end was

raised by a long step above the nearer, and the blazing fire and the

white supper-table seemed to stand upon a dais. All around were dark,

brass-mounted cabinets and cupboards; dark shelves carrying ancient

country crockery; guns and antlers and broadside ballads on the wall; a

tall old clock with roses on the dial; and down in one corner the

comfortable promise of a wine-barrel. It was homely, elegant, and

quaint.

A powerful youth hurried out to attend on the grey mare; and when Mr.

Killian Gottesheim had presented him to his daughter Ottilia, Otto

followed to the stable as became, not perhaps the Prince, but the good

horseman. When he returned, a smoking omelette and some slices of

home-cured ham were waiting him; these were followed by a ragout and a

cheese; and it was not until his guest had entirely satisfied his

hunger, and the whole party drew about the fire over the wine-jug, that

Killian Gottesheim's elaborate courtesy permitted him to address a

question to the Prince.

"You have perhaps ridden far, sir?" he inquired.

"I have, as you say, ridden far," replied Otto; "and, as you have seen,

I was prepared to do justice to your daughter's cookery."

"Possibly, sir, from the direction of Brandenau?" continued Killian.

"Precisely: and I should have slept to-night, had I not wandered, in

Mittwalden," answered the Prince, weaving in a patch of truth, according

to the habit of all liars.

"Business leads you to Mittwalden?" was the next question.

"Mere curiosity," said Otto. "I have never yet visited the principality

of Gruenewald."

"A pleasant state, sir," piped the old man, nodding, "a very pleasant

state, and a fine race, both pines and people. We reckon ourselves part

Gruenewalders here, lying so near the borders; and the river there is all

good Gruenewald water, every drop of it. Yes, sir, a fine state. A man of

Gruenewald now will swing me an axe over his head that many a man of

Gerolstein could hardly lift; and the pines, why, deary me, there must

be more pines in that little state, sir, than people in this whole big

world. 'Tis twenty years now since I crossed the marshes, for we grow

home-keepers in old age; but I mind it as if it was yesterday. Up and

down, the road keeps right on from here to Mittwalden; and nothing all

the way but the good green pine-trees, big and little, and water-power!

water-power at every step, sir. We once sold a bit of forest, up there

beside the high-road; and the sight of minted money that we got for it

has set me ciphering ever since what all the pines in Gruenewald would

amount to."

"I suppose you see nothing of the Prince?" inquired Otto.

"No," said the young man, speaking for the first time, "nor want to."

"Why so? is he so much disliked?" asked Otto.

"Not what you might call disliked," replied the old gentleman, "but

despised, sir."

"Indeed," said the Prince, somewhat faintly.

"Yes, sir, despised," nodded Killian, filling a long pipe, "and, to my

way of thinking, justly despised. Here is a man with great

opportunities, and what does he do with them? He hunts, and he dresses

very prettily--which is a thing to be ashamed of in a man--and he acts

plays; and if he does aught else, the news of it has not come here."

"Yet these are all innocent," said Otto. "What would you have him

do--make war?"

"No, sir," replied the old man. "But here it is: I have been fifty years

upon this River Farm, and wrought in it, day in, day out; I have

ploughed and sowed and reaped, and risen early, and waked late; and this

is the upshot: that all these years it has supported me and my family;

and been the best friend that ever I had, set aside my wife; and now,

when my time comes, I leave it a better farm than when I found it. So it

is, if a man works hearty in the order of nature, he gets bread and he

receives comfort, and whatever he touches breeds. And it humbly appears

to me, if that Prince was to labour on his throne, as I have laboured

and wrought in my farm, he would find both an increase and a blessing."

"I believe with you, sir," Otto said; "and yet the parallel is inexact.

For the farmer's life is natural and simple; but the prince's is both

artificial and complicated. It is easy to do right in the one, and

exceedingly difficult not to do wrong in the other. If your crop is

blighted, you can take off your bonnet and say, 'God's will be done';

but if the prince meets with a reverse, he may have to blame himself for

the attempt. And, perhaps, if all the kings in Europe were to confine

themselves to innocent amusement, the subjects would be the better off."

"Ay," said the young man Fritz, "you are in the right of it there. That

was a true word spoken. And I see you are like me, a good patriot and an

enemy to princes."

Otto was somewhat abashed at this deduction, and he made haste to change

his ground. "But," said he, "you surprise me by what you say of this

Prince Otto. I have heard him, I must own, more favourably painted. I

was told he was, in his heart, a good fellow, and the enemy of no one

but himself."

"And so he is, sir," said the girl, "a very handsome, pleasant prince;

and we know some who would shed their blood for him."

"O! Kuno!" said Fritz. "An ignoramus!"

"Ay, Kuno, to be sure," quavered the old farmer. "Well, since this

gentleman is a stranger to these parts, and curious about the Prince, I

do believe that story might divert him. This Kuno, you must know, sir,

is one of the hunt servants, and a most ignorant, intemperate man: a

right Gruenewalder, as we say in Gerolstein. We know him well, in this

house; for he has come as far as here after his stray dogs; and I make

all welcome, sir, without account of state or nation. And, indeed,

between Gerolstein and Gruenewald the peace has held so long that the

roads stand open like my door; and a man will make no more of the

frontier than the very birds themselves."

"Ay," said Otto, "it has been a long peace--a peace of centuries."

"Centuries, as you say," returned Killian: "the more the pity that it

should not be for ever. Well, sir, this Kuno was one day in fault, and

Otto, who has a quick temper, up with his whip and thrashed him, they do

say, soundly. Kuno took it as best he could, but at last he broke out,

and dared the Prince to throw his whip away and wrestle like a man; for

we are all great at wrestling in these parts, and it's so that we

generally settle our disputes. Well, sir, the Prince did so; and, being

a weakly creature, found the tables turned; for the man whom he had just

been thrashing like a negro slave, lifted him with a back grip and threw

him heels overhead."

"He broke his bridle-arm," cried Fritz--"and some say his nose. Serve

him right, say I! Man to man, which is the better at that?"

"And then?" asked Otto.

"O, then Kuno carried him home; and they were the best of friends from

that day forth. I don't say it's a discreditable story, you observe,"

continued Mr. Gottesheim; "but it's droll, and that's the fact. A man

should think before he strikes; for, as my nephew says, man to man was

the old valuation."

"Now, if you were to ask me," said Otto, "I should perhaps surprise you.

I think it was the Prince that conquered."

"And, sir, you would be right," replied Killian seriously. "In the eyes

of God, I do not question but you would be right; but men, sir, look at

these things differently, and they laugh."

"They made a song of it," observed Fritz. "How does it go?

Ta-tum-ta-ra...."

"Well," interrupted Otto, who had no great anxiety to hear the song,

"the Prince is young; he may yet mend."

"Not so young, by your leave," cried Fritz. "A man of forty."

"Thirty-six," corrected Mr. Gottesheim.

"O," cried Ottilia, in obvious disillusion, "a man of middle age! And

they said he was so handsome when he was young!"

"And bald, too," added Fritz.

Otto passed his hand among his locks. At that moment he was far from

happy, and even the tedious evenings at Mittwalden Palace began to smile

upon him by comparison.

"O, six-and-thirty!" he protested. "A man is not yet old at

six-and-thirty. I am that age myself."

"I should have taken you for more, sir," piped the old farmer. "But if

that be so, you are of an age with Master Ottekin, as people call him;

and, I would wager a crown, have done more service in your time. Though

it seems young by comparison with men of a great age like me, yet it's

some way through life for all that; and the mere fools and fiddlers are

beginning to grow weary and to look old. Yes, sir, by six-and-thirty, if

a man be a follower of God's laws, he should have made himself a home

and a good name to live by; he should have got a wife and a blessing on

his marriage; and his works, as the Word says, should begin to follow

him."

"Ah, well, the Prince is married," cried Fritz, with a coarse burst of

laughter.

"That seems to entertain you, sir," said Otto.

"Ay," said the young boor. "Did you not know that? I thought all Europe

knew it!" And he added a pantomime of a nature to explain his accusation

to the dullest.

"Ah sir," said Mr. Gottesheim, "it is very plain that you are not from

hereabouts! But the truth is, that the whole princely family and Court

are rips and rascals, not one to mend another. They live, sir, in

idleness and--what most commonly follows it--corruption. The Princess

has a lover; a Baron, as he calls himself, from East Prussia; and the

Prince is so little of a man, sir, that he holds the candle. Nor is that

the worst of it, for this foreigner and his paramour are suffered to

transact the state affairs, while the Prince takes the salary and leaves

all things to go to wrack. There will follow upon this some manifest

judgment which, though I am old, I may survive to see."

"Good man, you are in the wrong about Gondremark," said Fritz, showing a

greatly increased animation; "but for all the rest, you speak the God's

truth like a good patriot. As for the Prince, if he would take and

strangle his wife, I would forgive him yet."

"Nay, Fritz," said the old man, "that would be to add iniquity to evil.

For you perceive, sir," he continued, once more addressing himself to

the unfortunate Prince, "this Otto has himself to thank for these

disorders. He has his young wife, and his principality, and he has sworn

to cherish both."

"Sworn at the altar!" echoed Fritz. "But put your faith in princes!"

"Well, sir, he leaves them both to an adventurer from East Prussia,"

pursued the farmer: "leaves the girl to be seduced and to go on from bad

to worse, till her name's become a tap-room by-word, and she not yet

twenty; leaves the country to be overtaxed, and bullied with armaments,

and jockied into war----"

"War!" cried Otto.

"So they say, sir; those that watch their ongoings, say to war,"

asseverated Killian. "Well, sir, that is very sad; it is a sad thing for

this poor, wicked girl to go down to hell with people's curses; it's a

sad thing for a tight little happy country to be misconducted; but

whoever may complain, I humbly conceive, sir, that this Otto cannot.

What he has worked for, that he has got; and may God have pity on his

soul, for a great and a silly sinner's!"

"He has broke his oath; then he is a perjurer. He takes the money and

leaves the work; why, then plainly he's a thief. A cuckold he was

before, and a fool by birth. Better me that!" cried Fritz, and snapped

his fingers.

"And now, sir, you will see a little," continued the farmer, "why we

think so poorly of this Prince Otto. There's such a thing as a man being

pious and honest in the private way; and there is such a thing, sir, as

a public virtue; but when a man has neither, the Lord lighten him! Even

this Gondremark, that Fritz here thinks so much of----"

"Ay," interrupted Fritz, "Gondremark's the man for me. I would we had

his like in Gerolstein."

"He is a bad man," said the old farmer, shaking his head; "and there was

never good begun by the breach of God's commandments. But so far I will

go with you: he is a man that works for what he has."

"I tell you he's the hope of Gruenewald," cried Fritz. "He doesn't suit

some of your high-and-dry, old, ancient ideas; but he's a downright

modern man--a man of the new lights and the progress of the age. He does

some things wrong; so they all do; but he has the people's interests

next his heart; and you mark me--you, sir, who are a Liberal, and the

enemy of all their governments, you please to mark my words--the day

will come in Gruenewald, when they take out that yellow-headed skulk of a

Prince and that dough-faced Messalina of a Princess, march 'em back

foremost over the borders, and proclaim the Baron Gondremark first

President. I've heard them say it in a speech. I was at a meeting once

at Brandenau, and the Mittwalden delegates spoke up for fifteen

thousand. Fifteen thousand, all brigaded, and each man with a medal

round his neck to rally by. That's all Gondremark."

"Ay, sir, you see what it leads to: wild talk to-day, and wilder doings

to-morrow," said the old man. "For there is one thing certain: that

this Gondremark has one foot in the Court backstairs, and the other in

the Masons' lodges. He gives himself out, sir, for what nowadays they

call a patriot: a man from East Prussia!"

"Give himself out!" cried Fritz. "He is! He is to lay by his title as

soon as the Republic is declared; I heard it in a speech."

"Lay by Baron to take up President?" returned Killian. "King Log, King

Stork. But you'll live longer than I, and you will see the fruits of

it."

"Father," whispered Ottilia, pulling at the speaker's coat, "surely the

gentleman is ill."

"I beg your pardon," cried the farmer, re-waking to hospitable thoughts;

"can I offer you anything?"

"I thank you. I am very weary," answered Otto. "I have presumed upon my

strength. If you would show me to a bed, I should be grateful."

"Ottilia, a candle!" said the old man. "Indeed sir, you look paley. A

little cordial water? No? Then follow me, I beseech you, and I will

bring you to the stranger's bed. You are not the first by many who has

slept well below my roof," continued the old gentleman, mounting the

stairs before his guest; "for good food, honest wine, a grateful

conscience, and a little pleasant chat before a man retires, are worth

all the possets and apothecary's drugs. See, sir," and here he opened a

door and ushered Otto into a little whitewashed sleeping-room, "here you

are in port. It is small, but it is airy, and the sheets are clean and

kept in lavender. The window, too, looks out above the river, and

there's no music like a little river's. It plays the same tune (and

that's the favourite) over and over again, and yet does not weary of it

like men fiddlers. It takes the mind out of doors; and though we should

be grateful for good houses, there is, after all, no house like God's

out-of-doors. And lastly, sir, it quiets a man down like saying his

prayers. So here, sir, I take my kind leave of you until to-morrow; and

it is my prayerful wish that you may slumber like a prince."

And the old man, with the twentieth courteous inclination, left his

guest alone.

CHAPTER III

IN WHICH THE PRINCE COMFORTS AGE AND BEAUTY AND DELIVERS A LECTURE ON

DISCRETION IN LOVE

The Prince was early abroad: in the time of the first chorus of birds,

of the pure and quiet air, of the slanting sunlight and the mile-long

shadows. To one who had passed a miserable night, the freshness of that

hour was tonic and reviving; to steal a march upon his slumbering

fellows, to be the Adam of the coming day, composed and fortified his

spirits; and the Prince, breathing deep and pausing as he went, walked

in the wet fields beside his shadow, and was glad.

A trellised path led down into the valley of the brook, and he turned to

follow it. The stream was a break-neck, bolling highland river. Hard by

the farm, it leaped a little precipice in a thick grey-mare's tail of

twisted filaments, and then lay and worked and bubbled in a lynn. Into

the middle of this quaking pool a rock protruded, shelving to a cape;

and thither Otto scrambled and sat down to ponder.

Soon the sun struck through the screen of branches and thin early leaves

that made a hanging bower above the fall; and the golden lights and

flitting shadows fell upon and marbled the surface of that seething pot;

and rays plunged deep among the turning waters; and a spark, as bright

as a diamond, lit upon the swaying eddy. It began to grow warm where

Otto lingered, warm and heady; the lights swam, weaving their maze

across the shaken pool; on the impending rock, reflections danced like

butterflies; and the air was fanned by the waterfall as by a swinging

curtain.

Otto, who was weary with tossing and beset with horrid phantoms of

remorse and jealousy, instantly fell dead in love with that

sun-chequered, echoing corner. Holding his feet, he stared out of a

drowsy trance, wondering, admiring, musing, losing his way among

uncertain thoughts. There is nothing that so apes the external bearing

of free will as that unconscious bustle, obscurely following liquid

laws, with which a river contends among obstructions. It seems the very

play of man and destiny, and as Otto pored on these recurrent changes,

he grew, by equal steps, the sleepier and the more profound. Eddy and

Prince were alike jostled in their purpose, alike anchored by intangible

influences in one corner of the world. Eddy and Prince were alike

useless, starkly useless, in the cosmology of men. Eddy and

Prince--Prince and Eddy.

It is probable he had been some while asleep when a voice recalled him

from oblivion. "Sir," it was saying; and looking round, he saw Mr.

Killian's daughter, terrified by her boldness, and making bashful

signals from the shore. She was a plain, honest lass, healthy and happy

and good, and with that sort of beauty that comes of happiness and

health. But her confusion lent her for the moment an additional charm.

"Good-morning," said Otto, rising and moving towards her. "I arose early

and was in a dream."

"O, sir!" she cried, "I wish to beg of you to spare my father; for I

assure your Highness, if he had known who you was, he would have bitten

his tongue out sooner. And Fritz, too--how he went on! But I had a

notion; and this morning I went straight down into the stable, and there

was your Highness's crown upon the stirrup-irons! But, O, sir, I made

certain you would spare them; for they were as innocent as lambs."

"My dear," said Otto, both amused and gratified, "you do not understand.

It is I who am in the wrong; for I had no business to conceal my name

and lead on these gentlemen to speak of me. And it is I who have to beg

of you that you will keep my secret and not betray the discourtesy of

which I was guilty. As for any fear of me, your friends are safe in

Gerolstein; and even in my own territory, you must be well aware I have

no power."

"O, sir," she said, curtseying, "I would not say that: the huntsmen

would all die for you."

"Happy Prince!" said Otto. "But although you are too courteous to avow

the knowledge, you have had many opportunities of learning that I am a

vain show. Only last night we heard it very clearly stated. You see the

shadow flitting on this hard rock? Prince Otto, I am afraid, is but the

moving shadow, and the name of the rock is Gondremark. Ah! if your

friends had fallen foul of Gondremark! But happily the younger of the

two admires him. But as for the old gentleman your father, he is a wise

man and an excellent talker, and I would take a long wager he is

honest."

"O, for honest, your Highness, that he is!" exclaimed the girl. "And

Fritz is as honest as he. And as for all they said, it was just talk and

nonsense. When countryfolk get gossiping, they go on, I do assure you,

for the fun; they don't as much as think of what they say. If you went

to the next farm, it's my belief you would hear as much against my

father."

"Nay, nay," said Otto, "there you go too fast. For all that was said

against Prince Otto----"

"O, it was shameful!" cried the girl.

"Not shameful--true," returned Otto. "O, yes--true. I am all they said

of me--all that and worse."

"I never!" cried Ottilia. "Is that how you do? Well, you would never be

a soldier. Now, if anyone accuses me, I get up and give it them. O, I

defend myself. I wouldn't take a fault at another person's hands, no,

not if I had it on my forehead. And that's what you must do, if you

mean to live it out. But, indeed, I never heard such nonsense. I should

think you was ashamed of yourself! You're bald, then, I suppose?"

"O, no," said Otto, fairly laughing. "There I acquit myself: not bald!"

"Well, and good?" pursued the girl. "Come now, you know you are good,

and I'll make you say so.... Your Highness, I beg your humble pardon.

But there's no disrespect intended. And anyhow, you know you are."

"Why, now, what am I to say?" replied Otto. "You are a cook, and

excellently well you do it; I embrace the chance of thanking you for the

ragout. Well now, have you not seen good food so bedevilled by unskilful

cookery that no one could be brought to eat the pudding? That is me, my

dear. I am full of good ingredients, but the dish is worthless. I am--I

give it you in one word--sugar in the salad."

"Well, I don't care, you're good," reiterated Ottilia, a little flushed

by having failed to understand.

"I will tell you one thing," replied Otto: "You are!"

"Ah, well, that's what they all said of you," moralised the girl; "such

a tongue to come round--such a flattering tongue!"

"O, you forget, I am a man of middle age," the Prince chuckled.

"Well, to speak to you, I should think you was a boy; and Prince or no

Prince, if you came worrying where I was cooking, I would pin a napkin

to your tails.... And, O Lord, I declare I hope your Highness will

forgive me," the girl added. "I can't keep it in my mind."

"No more can I," cried Otto. "That is just what they complain of!"

They made a loverly-looking couple; only the heavy pouring of that

horse-tail of water made them raise their voices above lovers' pitch.

But to a jealous onlooker from above, their mirth and close proximity

might easily give umbrage; and a rough voice out of a tuft of brambles

began calling on Ottilia by name. She changed colour at that. "It is

Fritz," she said. "I must go."

"Go, my dear, and I need not bid you go in peace, for I think you have

discovered that I am not formidable at close quarters," said the Prince,

and made her a fine gesture of dismissal.

So Ottilia skipped up the bank, and disappeared into the thicket,

stopping once for a single blushing bob--blushing, because she had in

the interval once more forgotten and remembered the stranger's quality.

Otto returned to his rock promontory; but his humour had in the meantime

changed. The sun now shone more fairly on the pool; and over its brown,

welling surface, the blue of heaven and the golden green of the spring

foliage danced in fleeting arabesque. The eddies laughed and brightened

with essential colour. And the beauty of the dell began to rankle in the

Prince's mind; it was so near to his own borders, yet without. He had

never had much of the joy of possessorship in any of the thousand and

one beautiful and curious things that were his; and now he was conscious

of envy for what was another's. It was, indeed, a smiling, dilettante

sort of envy; but yet there it was: the passion of Ahab for the

vineyard, done in little; and he was relieved when Mr. Killian appeared

upon the scene.

"I hope, sir, that you have slept well under my plain roof," said the

old farmer.

"I am admiring this sweet spot that you are privileged to dwell in,"

replied Otto, evading the inquiry.

"It is rustic," returned Mr. Gottesheim, looking around him with

complacency, "a very rustic corner; and some of the land to the west is

most excellent fat land, excellent deep soil. You should see my wheat in

the ten-acre field. There is not a farm in Gruenewald, no, nor many in

Gerolstein, to match the River Farm. Some sixty--I keep thinking when I

sow--some sixty, and some seventy, and some an hundredfold; and my own

place, six score! But that, sir, is partly the farming."

"And the stream has fish?" asked Otto.

"A fish-pond," said the farmer. "Ay, it is a pleasant bit. It is

pleasant even here, if one had time, with the brook drumming in that

black pool, and the green things hanging all about the rocks, and, dear

heart, to see the very pebbles! all turned to gold and precious stones!

But you have come to that time of life, sir, when, if you will excuse

me, you must look to have the rheumatism set in. Thirty to forty is, as

one may say, their seed-time. And this is a damp, cold corner for the

early morning and an empty stomach. If I might humbly advise you, sir, I

would be moving."

"With all my heart," said Otto gravely. "And so you have lived your life

here?" he added, as they turned to go.

"Here I was born," replied the farmer, "and here I wish I could say I

was to die. But fortune, sir, fortune turns the wheel. They say she is

blind, but we will hope she only sees a little farther on. My

grandfather and my father and I, we have all tilled these acres, my

furrow following theirs. All the three names are on the garden bench,

two Killians and one Johann. Yes, sir, good men have prepared themselves

for the great change in my old garden. Well do I mind my father, in a

woollen night-cap, the good soul, going round and round to see the last

of it, 'Killian,' said he, 'do you see the smoke of my tobacco? Why,'

said he, 'that is man's life.' It was his last pipe, and I believe he

knew it; and it was a strange thing, without doubt, to leave the trees

that he had planted, and the son that he had begotten, ay, sir, and even

the old pipe with the Turk's head that he had smoked since he was a lad

and went a-courting. But here we have no continuing city; and as for the

eternal, it's a comfortable thought that we have other merits than our

own. And yet you would hardly think how sore it goes against the grain

with me, to die in a strange bed."

"And must you do so? For what reason?" Otto asked.

"The reason? The place is to be sold: three thousand crowns," replied

Mr. Gottesheim. "Had it been a third of that, I may say without boasting

that, what with my credit and my savings, I could have met the sum. But

at three thousand, unless I have singular good fortune and the new

proprietor continues me in office, there is nothing left me but to

budge."

Otto's fancy for the place redoubled at the news, and became joined with

other feelings. If all he heard were true, Gruenewald was growing very

hot for a sovereign Prince; it might be well to have a refuge; and if

so, what more delightful hermitage could man imagine? Mr. Gottesheim,

besides, had touched his sympathies. Every man loves in his soul to play

the part of the stage deity. And to step down to the aid of the old

farmer, who had so roughly handled him in talk, was the ideal of a Fair

Revenge. Otto's thoughts brightened at the prospect, and he began to

regard himself with a renewed respect.

"I can find you, I believe, a purchaser," he said, "and one who would

continue to avail himself of your skill."

"Can you, sir, indeed?" said the old man. "Well, I shall be heartily

obliged; for I begin to find a man may practise resignation all his

days, as he takes physic, and not come to like it in the end."

"If you will have the papers drawn, you may even burthen the purchase

with your interest," said Otto. "Let it be assured to you through life."

"Your friend, sir," insinuated Killian, "would not, perhaps, care to

make the interest reversible? Fritz is a good lad."

"Fritz is young," said the Prince drily; "he must earn consideration,

not inherit."

"He has long worked upon the place, sir," insisted Mr. Gottesheim; "and

at my great age, for I am seventy-eight come harvest, it would be a

troublesome thought to the proprietor how to fill my shoes. It would be

a care spared to assure yourself of Fritz. And I believe he might be

tempted by a permanency."

"The young man has unsettled views," returned Otto.

"Possibly the purchaser----" began Killian.

A little spot of anger burned in Otto's cheek. "I am the purchaser," he

said.

"It was what I might have guessed," replied the farmer, bowing with an

aged, obsequious dignity. "You have made an old man very happy; and I

may say, indeed, that I have entertained an angel unawares. Sir, the

great people of this world--and by that I mean those who are great in

station--if they had only hearts like yours, how they would make the

fires burn and the poor sing!"

"I would not judge them hardly, sir," said Otto. "We all have our

frailties."

"Truly, sir," said Mr. Gottesheim, with unction. "And by what name, sir,

am I to address my generous landlord?"

The double recollection of an English traveller, whom he had received

the week before at court, and of an old English rogue called Transome,

whom he had known in youth, came pertinently to the Prince's help.

"Transome," he answered, "is my name. I am an English traveller. It is,

to-day, Tuesday. On Thursday, before noon, the money shall be ready. Let

us meet, if you please, in Mittwalden, at the 'Morning Star.'"

"I am, in all things lawful, your servant to command," replied the

farmer. "An Englishman! You are a great race of travellers. And has your

lordship some experience of land?"

"I have had some interest of the kind before," returned the Prince; "not

in Gerolstein, indeed. But fortune, as you say, turns the wheel, and I

desire to be beforehand with her revolutions."

"Very right, sir, I am sure," said Mr. Killian.

They had been strolling with deliberation; but they were now drawing

near to the farmhouse, mounting by the trellised pathway to the level of

the meadow. A little before them the sound of voices had been some while

audible, and now grew louder and more distinct with every step of their

advance. Presently, when they emerged upon the top of the bank, they

beheld Fritz and Ottilia some way off; he, very black and bloodshot,

emphasising his hoarse speech with the smacking of his fist against his

palm; she, standing a little way off in blowsy, voluble distress.

"Dear me!" said Mr. Gottesheim, and made as if he would turn aside.

But Otto went straight towards the lovers, in whose dissension he

believed himself to have a share. And, indeed, as soon as he had seen

the Prince, Fritz had stood tragic, as if awaiting and defying his

approach.

"O, here you are!" he cried, as soon as they were near enough for easy

speech. "You are a man at least, and must reply. What were you after?

Why were you two skulking in the bush? God!" he broke out, turning again

upon Ottilia, "to think that I should waste my heart on you!"

"I beg your pardon," Otto cut in. "You were addressing me. In virtue of

what circumstance am I to render you an account of this young lady's

conduct? Are you her father? her brother? her husband?"

"O, sir, you know as well as I," returned the peasant. "We keep company,

she and I. I love her, and she is by way of loving me; but all shall be

above-board, I would have her to know. I have a good pride of my own."

"Why, I perceive I must explain to you what love is," said Otto. "Its

measure is kindness. It is very possible that you are proud; but she,

too, may have some self-esteem; I do not speak for myself. And perhaps,

if your own doings were so curiously examined, you might find it

inconvenient to reply."

"These are all set-offs," said the young man. "You know very well that a

man is a man, and a woman only a woman. That holds good all over, up and

down. I ask you a question, I ask it again, and here I stand." He drew a

mark and toed it.

"When you have studied liberal doctrines somewhat deeper," said the

Prince, "you will perhaps change your note. You are a man of false

weights and measures, my young friend. You have one scale for women,

another for men; one for princes, and one for farmer-folk. On the prince

who neglects his wife you can be most severe. But what of the lover who

insults his mistress? You use the name of love. I should think this lady

might very fairly ask to be delivered from love of such a nature. For if

I, a stranger, had been one-tenth part so gross and so discourteous, you

would most righteously have broke my head. It would have been in your

part, as lover, to protect her from such insolence. Protect her first,

then, from yourself."

"Ay," quoth Mr. Gottesheim, who had been looking on with his hands

behind his tall old back, "ay, that's Scripture truth."

Fritz was staggered, not only by the Prince's imperturbable superiority

of manner, but by a glimmering consciousness that he himself was in the

wrong. The appeal to liberal doctrines had, besides, unmanned him.

"Well," said he, "if I was rude, I'll own to it. I meant no ill, and did

nothing out of my just rights; but I am above all these old vulgar

notions too; and if I spoke sharp, I'll ask her pardon."

"Freely granted, Fritz," said Ottilia.

"But all this doesn't answer me," cried Fritz. "I ask what you two spoke

about. She says she promised not to tell; well, then, I mean to know.

Civility is civility; but I'll be no man's gull. I have a right to

common justice, if I _do_ keep company!"

"If you will ask Mr. Gottesheim," replied Otto, "you will find I have

not spent my hours in idleness. I have, since I arose this morning,

agreed to buy the farm. So far I will go to satisfy a curiosity which I

condemn."

"O, well, if there was business, that's another matter," returned Fritz.

"Though it beats me why you could not tell. But, of course, if the

gentleman is to buy the farm, I suppose there would naturally be an

end."

"To be sure," said Mr. Gottesheim, with a strong accent of conviction.

But Ottilia was much braver. "There now!" she cried in triumph. "What

did I tell you? I told you I was fighting your battles. Now you see!

Think shame of your suspicious temper! You should go down upon your

bended knees both to that gentleman and me."

CHAPTER IV

IN WHICH THE PRINCE COLLECTS OPINIONS BY THE WAY

A little before noon, Otto, by a triumph of manoeuvring, effected his

escape. He was quit in this way of the ponderous gratitude of Mr.

Killian, and of the confidential gratitude of poor Ottilia; but of Fritz

he was not quit so readily. That young politician, brimming with

mysterious glances, offered to lend his convoy as far as to the

high-road; and Otto, in fear of some residuary jealousy, and for the

girl's sake, had not the courage to gainsay him; but he regarded his

companion with uneasy glances, and devoutly wished the business at an

end. For some time Fritz walked by the mare in silence; and they had

already traversed more than half the proposed distance when, with

something of a blush, he looked up and opened fire.

"Are you not," he asked, "what they call a socialist?"

"Why, no," returned Otto, "not precisely what they call so. Why do you

ask?"

"I will tell you why," said the young man. "I saw from the first that

you were a red progressional, and nothing but the fear of old Killian

kept you back. And there, sir, you were right: old men are always

cowards. But nowadays, you see, there are so many groups: you can never

tell how far the likeliest kind of man may be prepared to go; and I was

never sure you were one of the strong thinkers, till you hinted about

women and free love."

"Indeed," cried Otto, "I never said a word of such a thing."

"Not you!" cried Fritz. "Never a word to compromise! You was sowing

seed: ground-bait, our president calls it. But it's hard to deceive me,

for I know all the agitators and their ways, and all the doctrines; and

between you and me," lowering his voice, "I am myself affiliated. O yes,

I am a secret society man, and here is my medal." And drawing out a

green ribbon that he wore about his neck, he held up, for Otto's

inspection, a pewter medal bearing the imprint of a Phoenix and the

legend _Libertas_. "And so now you see you may trust me," added Fritz.

"I am none of your alehouse talkers; I am a convinced revolutionary."

And he looked meltingly upon Otto.

"I see," replied the Prince; "that is very gratifying. Well, sir, the

great thing for the good of one's country is, first of all, to be a good

man. All springs from there. For my part, although you are right in

thinking that I have to do with politics, I am unfit by intellect and

temper for a leading role. I was intended, I fear, for a subaltern. Yet

we have all something to command, Mr. Fritz, if it be only our own

temper; and a man about to marry must look closely to himself. The

husband's, like the prince's, is a very artificial standing; and it is

hard to be kind in either. Do you follow that?"

"O yes, I follow that," replied the young man, sadly chop-fallen over

the nature of the information he had elicited; and then brightening up:

"Is it," he ventured, "is it for an arsenal that you have bought the

farm?"

"We'll see about that," the Prince answered, laughing. "You must not be

too zealous. And in the meantime, if I were you, I would say nothing on

the subject."

"O, trust me, sir, for that," cried Fritz, as he pocketed a crown. "And

you've let nothing out; for I suspected--I might say I knew it--from the

first. And mind you, when a guide is required," he added, "I know all

the forest paths."

Otto rode away, chuckling. This talk with Fritz had vastly entertained

him; nor was he altogether discontented with his bearing at the farm;

men, he was able to tell himself, had behaved worse under smaller

provocation. And, to harmonise all, the road and the April air were both

delightful to his soul.

Up and down, and to and fro, ever mounting through the wooded foothills,

the broad, white high-road wound onward into Gruenewald. On either hand

the pines stood coolly rooted--green moss prospering, springs welling

forth between their knuckled spurs; and though some were broad and

stalwart, and others spiry and slender, yet all stood firm in the same

attitude and with the same expression, like a silent army presenting

arms.

The road lay all the way apart from towns and villages, which it left on

either hand. Here and there, indeed, in the bottom of green glens, the

Prince could spy a few congregated roofs, or perhaps above him, on a

shoulder, the solitary cabin of a woodman. But the highway was an

international undertaking, and with its face set for distant cities,

scorned the little life of Gruenewald. Hence it was exceeding solitary.

Near the frontier Otto met a detachment of his own troops marching in

the hot dust; and he was recognised and somewhat feebly cheered as he

rode by. But from that time forth and for a long while he was alone with

the great woods.

Gradually the spell of pleasure relaxed; his own thoughts returned, like

stinging insects, in a cloud; and the talk of the night before, like a

shower of buffets, fell upon his memory. He looked east and west for any

comforter; and presently he was aware of a cross-road coming steeply

down hill, and a horseman cautiously descending. A human voice or

presence, like a spring in the desert, was now welcome in itself, and

Otto drew bridle to await the coming of this stranger. He proved to be a

very red-faced, thick-lipped countryman, with a pair of fat saddle-bags

and a stone bottle at his waist; who, as soon as the Prince hailed him,

jovially, if somewhat thickly, answered. At the same time he gave a

beery yaw in the saddle. It was clear his bottle was no longer full.

"Do you ride towards Mittwalden?" asked the Prince.

"As far as the cross-road to Tannenbrunn," the man replied. "Will you

bear company?"

"With pleasure. I have even waited for you on the chance," answered

Otto.

By this time they were close alongside; and the man, with the

country-folk instinct, turned his cloudy vision first of all on his

companion's mount. "The devil!" he cried. "You ride a bonny mare,

friend!" And then his curiosity being satisfied about the essential, he

turned his attention to that merely secondary matter, his companion's

face. He started. "The Prince!" he cried, saluting, with another yaw

that came near dismounting him. "I beg your pardon, your Highness, not

to have reco'nised you at once."

The Prince was vexed out of his self-possession. "Since you know me," he

said, "it is unnecessary we should ride together. I will precede you, if

you please." And he was about to set spur to the grey mare, when the

half-drunken fellow, reaching over, laid his hand upon the rein.

"Hark you," he said, "prince or no prince, that is not how one man

should conduct himself with another. What! You'll ride with me incog.

and set me talking! But if I know you, you'll preshede me, if you

please! Spy!" And the fellow, crimson with drink and injured vanity,

almost spat the word into the Prince's face.

A horrid confusion came over Otto. He perceived that he had acted

rudely, grossly presuming on his station. And perhaps a little shiver of

physical alarm mingled with his remorse, for the fellow was very

powerful, and not more than half in the possession of his senses. "Take

your hand from my rein," he said, with a sufficient assumption of

command; and when the man, rather to his wonder, had obeyed: "You should

understand, sir," he added, "that while I might be glad to ride with you

as one person of sagacity with another, and so receive your true

opinions, it would amuse me very little to hear the empty compliments

you would address to me as Prince."

"You think I would lie, do you?" cried the man with the bottle, purpling

deeper.

"I know you would," returned Otto, entering entirely into his

self-possession. "You would not even show me the medal you wear about

your neck." For he had caught a glimpse of a green ribbon at the

fellow's throat.

The change was instantaneous: the red face became mottled with yellow; a

thick-fingered, tottering hand made a clutch at the tell-tale ribbon.

"Medal!" the man cried, wonderfully sobered. "I have no medal."

"Pardon me," said the Prince. "I will even tell you what that medal

bears: a Phoenix burning, with the word _Libertas_." The medallist

remaining speechless, "You are a pretty fellow," continued Otto,

smiling, "to complain of incivility from the man whom you conspire to

murder."

"Murder!" protested the man. "Nay, never that; nothing criminal for me!"

"You are strangely misinformed," said Otto. "Conspiracy itself is

criminal, and ensures the pain of death. Nay, sir, death it is; I will

guarantee my accuracy. Not that you need be so deplorably affected, for

I am no officer. But those who mingle with politics should look at both

sides of the medal."

"Your Highness ..." began the knight of the bottle.

"Nonsense! you are a Republican," cried Otto; "what have you to do with

highnesses? But let us continue to ride forward. Since you so much

desire it, I cannot find it in my heart to deprive you of my company.

And for that matter, I have a question to address to you. Why, being so

great a body of men--for you are a great body--fifteen thousand, I have

heard, but that will be understated; am I right?"

The man gurgled in his throat.

"Why, then, being so considerable a party," resumed Otto, "do you not

come before me boldly with your wants?--what do I say? with your

commands? Have I the name of being passionately devoted to my throne? I

can scarce suppose it. Come, then; show me your majority, and I will

instantly resign. Tell this to your friends; assure them from me of my

docility; assure them that, however they conceive of my deficiencies,

they cannot suppose me more unfit to be a ruler than I do myself. I am

one of the worst princes in Europe; will they improve on that?"

"Far be it from me ..." the man began.

"See, now, if you will not defend my government!" cried Otto. "If I were

you, I would leave conspiracies. You are as little fit to be a

conspirator as I to be a king."

"One thing I will say out," said the man. "It is not so much you that we

complain of, it's your lady."

"Not a word, sir," said the Prince; and then after a moment's pause, and

in tones of some anger and contempt: "I once more advise you to have

done with politics," he added; "and when next I see you, let me see you

sober. A morning drunkard is the last man to sit in judgment even upon

the worst of princes."

"I have had a drop, but I had not been drinking," the man replied,

triumphing in a sound distinction. "And if I had, what then? Nobody

hangs by me. But my mill is standing idle, and I blame it on your wife.

Am I alone in that? Go round and ask. Where are the mills? Where are the

young men that should be working? Where is the currency? All paralysed.

No, sir, it is not equal; for I suffer for your faults--I pay for them,

by George, out of a poor man's pocket. And what have you to do with

mine? Drunk or sober, I can see my country going to hell, and I can see

whose fault it is. And so now, I've said my say, and you may drag me to

a stinking dungeon; what care I? I've spoke the truth, and so I'll hold

hard, and not intrude upon your Highness's society."

And the miller reined up and, clumsily enough, saluted.

"You will observe, I have not asked your name," said Otto. "I wish you a

good ride," and he rode on hard. But let him ride as he pleased, this

interview with the miller was a chokepear, which he could not swallow.

He had begun by receiving a reproof in manners, and ended by sustaining

a defeat in logic, both from a man whom he despised. All his old

thoughts returned with fresher venom. And by three in the afternoon,

coming to the cross-roads for Beckstein, Otto decided to turn aside and

dine there leisurely. Nothing at least could be worse than to go on as

he was going.

In the inn at Beckstein he remarked, immediately upon his entrance, an

intelligent young gentleman dining, with a book in front of him. He had

his own place laid close to the reader, and with a proper apology, broke

ground by asking what he read.

"I am perusing," answered the young gentleman, "the last work of the

Herr Doctor Hohenstockwitz, cousin and librarian of your Prince here in

Gruenewald--a man of great erudition and some lambencies of wit."

"I am acquainted," said Otto, "with the Herr Doctor, though not yet with

his work."

"Two privileges that I must envy you," replied the young man politely:

"an honour in hand, a pleasure in the bush."

"The Herr Doctor is a man much respected, I believe, for his

attainments?" asked the Prince.

"He is, sir, a remarkable instance of the force of intellect," replied

the reader. "Who of our young men know anything of his cousin,

all-reigning Prince although he be? Who but has heard of Dr. Gotthold?

But intellectual merit, alone of all distinctions, has its base in

nature."

"I have the gratification of addressing a student--perhaps an author?"

Otto suggested.

The young man somewhat flushed. "I have some claim to both distinctions,

sir, as you suppose," said he; "there is my card. I am the licentiate

Roederer, author of several works on the theory and practice of

politics."

"You immensely interest me," said the Prince; "the more so as I gather

that here in Gruenewald we are on the brink of revolution. Pray, since

these have been your special studies, would you augur hopefully of such

a movement?"

"I perceive," said the young author, with a certain vinegary twitch,

"that you are unacquainted with my opuscula. I am a convinced

authoritarian. I share none of those illusory, Utopian fancies with

which empirics blind themselves and exasperate the ignorant. The day of

these ideas is, believe me, past, or at least passing."

"When I look about me----" began Otto.

"When you look about you," interrupted the licentiate, "you behold the

ignorant. But in the laboratory of opinion, beside the studious lamp, we

begin already to discard these figments. We begin to return to nature's

order, to what I might call, if I were to borrow from the language of

therapeutics, the expectant treatment of abuses. You will not

misunderstand me," he continued: "a country in the condition in which we

find Gruenewald, a prince such as your Prince Otto, we must explicitly

condemn; they are behind the age. But I would look for a remedy not to

brute convulsions, but to the natural supervenience of a more able

sovereign. I should amuse you, perhaps," added the licentiate, with a

smile, "I think I should amuse you if I were to explain my notion of a

prince. We who have studied in the closet, no longer, in this age,

propose ourselves for active service. The paths, we have perceived, are

incompatible. I would not have a student on the throne, though I would

have one near by for an adviser. I would set forward as prince a man of

a good, medium understanding, lively rather than deep; a man of courtly

manner, possessed of the double art to ingratiate and to command;

receptive, accommodating, seductive. I have been observing you since

your first entrance. Well, sir, were I a subject of Gruenewald I should

pray Heaven to set upon the seat of government just such another as

yourself."

"The devil you would!" exclaimed the Prince.

The licentiate Roederer laughed most heartily. "I thought I should

astonish you," he said. "These are not the ideas of the masses."

"They are not, I can assure you," Otto said.

"Or rather," distinguished the licentiate, "not to-day. The time will

come, however, when these ideas shall prevail."

"You will permit me, sir, to doubt it," said Otto.

"Modesty is always admirable," chuckled the theorist. "But yet I assure

you, a man like you, with such a man as, say, Dr. Gotthold at your

elbow, would be, for all practical issues, my ideal ruler."

At this rate the hours sped pleasantly for Otto. But the licentiate

unfortunately slept that night at Beckstein, where he was, being dainty

in the saddle and given to half stages. And to find a convoy to

Mittwalden, and thus mitigate the company of his own thoughts, the

Prince had to make favour with a certain party of wood-merchants from

various states of the empire, who had been drinking together somewhat

noisily at the far end of the apartment.

The night had already fallen when they took the saddle. The merchants

were very loud and mirthful; each had a face like a nor'-west moon; and

they played pranks with each other's horses, and mingled songs and

choruses, and alternately remembered and forgot the companion of their

ride. Otto thus combined society and solitude, hearkening now to their

chattering and empty talk, now to the voices of the encircling forest.

The star-lit dark, the faint wood airs, the clank of the horse-shoes

making broken music, accorded together and attuned his mind, and he was

still in a most equal temper when the party reached the top of that long

hill that overlooks Mittwalden.

Down in the bottom of a bowl of forest, the lights of the little formal

town glittered in a pattern, street crossing street; away by itself on

the right, the palace was glowing like a factory.

Although he knew not Otto, one of the wood-merchants was a native of the

state. "There," said he, pointing to the palace with his whip, "there is

Jezebel's inn."

"What, do you call it that?" cried another, laughing.

"Ay that's what they call it," returned the Gruenewalder; and he broke

into a song, which the rest, as people well acquainted with the words

and air, instantly took up in chorus. Her Serene Highness Amalia

Seraphina, Princess of Gruenewald, was the heroine, Gondremark the hero

of this ballad. Shame hissed in Otto's ears. He reined up short and sat

stunned in the saddle; and the singers continued to descend the hill

without him.

The song went to a rough, swashing, popular air; and long after the

words became inaudible the swing of the music, rising and falling,

echoed insult in the Prince's brain. He fled the sounds. Hard by him on

his right a road struck towards the palace, and he followed it through

the thick shadows and branching alleys of the park. It was a busy place

on a fine summer's afternoon, when the court and burghers met and

saluted; but at that hour of the night in the early spring it was

deserted to the roosting birds. Hares rustled among the covert; here and

there a statue stood glimmering, with its eternal gesture; here and

there the echo of an imitation temple clattered ghostly to the trampling

of the mare. Ten minutes brought him to the upper end of his own home

garden, where the small stables opened, over a bridge, upon the park.

The yard clock was striking the hour of ten; so was the big bell in the

palace bell-tower; and, farther off, the belfries of the town. About the

stable all else was silent but the stamping of stalled horses and the

rattle of halters. Otto dismounted; and as he did so a memory came back

to him: a whisper of dishonest grooms and stolen corn, once heard, long

forgotten, and now recurring in the nick of opportunity. He crossed the

bridge, and, going up to a window, knocked six or seven heavy blows in a

particular cadence, and, as he did so, smiled. Presently a wicket was

opened in the gate, and a man's head appeared in the dim starlight.

"Nothing to-night," said a voice.

"Bring a lantern," said the Prince.

"Dear heart a' mercy!" cried the groom. "Who's that?"

"It is I, the Prince," replied Otto. "Bring a lantern, take in the mare,

and let me through into the garden."

The man remained silent for a while, his head still projecting through

the wicket.

"His Highness!" he said at last. "And why did your Highness knock so

strange?"

"It is a superstition in Mittwalden," answered Otto, "that it cheapens

corn."

With a sound like a sob the groom fled. He was very white when he

returned, even by the light of the lantern; and his hand trembled as he

undid the fastenings and took the mare.

"Your Highness," he began at last, "for God's sake...." And there he

paused, oppressed with guilt.

"For God's sake, what?" asked Otto cheerfully. "For God's sake let us

have cheaper corn, say I. Good-night!" And he strode off into the

garden, leaving the groom petrified once more.

The garden descended by a succession of stone terraces to the level of

the fish-pond. On the far side the ground rose again, and was crowned by

the confused roofs and gables of the palace. The modern pillared front,

the ball-room, the great library, the princely apartments, the busy and

illuminated quarters of that great house, all faced the town. The garden

side was much older; and here it was almost dark; only a few windows

quietly lighted at various elevations. The great square tower rose,

thinning by stages like a telescope; and on the top of all the flag hung

motionless.

The garden, as it now lay in the dusk and glimmer of the starshine,

breathed of April violets. Under night's cavern arch the shrubs

obscurely bustled. Through the plotted terraces and down the marble

stairs the Prince rapidly descended, fleeing before uncomfortable

thoughts. But, alas! from these there is no city of refuge. And now,

when he was about midway of the descent, distant strains of music began

to fall upon his ear from the ball-room, where the court was dancing.

They reached him faint and broken, but they touched the keys of memory;

and through and above them, Otto heard the ranting melody of the

wood-merchants' song. Mere blackness seized upon his mind. Here he was

coming home; the wife was dancing, the husband had been playing a trick

upon a lackey; and meanwhile, all about them, they were a by-word to

their subjects. Such a prince, such a husband, such a man, as this Otto

had become! And he sped the faster onward.

Some way below he came unexpectedly upon a sentry; yet a little farther,

and he was challenged by a second; and as he crossed the bridge over the

fish-pond, an officer making the rounds stopped him once more. The

parade of watch was more than usual; but curiosity was dead in Otto's

mind, and he only chafed at the interruption. The porter of the back

postern admitted him, and started to behold him so disordered. Thence,

hasting by private stairs and passages, he came at length unseen to his

own chamber, tore off his clothes, and threw himself upon his bed in the

dark. The music of the ball-room still continued to a very lively

measure; and still, behind that, he heard in spirit the chorus of the

merchants clanking down the hill.

BOOK II

OF LOVE AND POLITICS

CHAPTER I

WHAT HAPPENED IN THE LIBRARY

At a quarter before six on the following morning Dr. Gotthold was

already at his desk in the library; and with a small cup of black coffee

at his elbow, and an eye occasionally wandering to the busts and the

long array of many-coloured books, was quietly reviewing the labours of

the day before. He was a man of about forty, flaxen-haired, with refined

features a little worn, and bright eyes somewhat faded. Early to bed and

early to rise, his life was devoted to two things: erudition and Rhine

wine. An ancient friendship existed latent between him and Otto; they

rarely met, but when they did it was to take up at once the thread of

their suspended intimacy. Gotthold, the virgin priest of knowledge, had

envied his cousin, for half a day, when he was married; he had never

envied him his throne.

Reading was not a popular diversion at the court of Gruenewald; and that

great, pleasant, sunshiny gallery of books and statues was, in practice,

Gotthold's private cabinet. On this particular Wednesday morning,

however, he had not been long about his manuscript when a door opened

and the Prince stepped into the apartment. The Doctor watched him as he

drew near, receiving, from each of the embayed windows in succession, a

flush of morning sun; and Otto looked so gay, and walked so airily, he

was so well dressed and brushed and frizzled, so _point-device_, and of

such a sovereign elegance, that the heart of his cousin the recluse was

rather moved against him.

"Good-morning, Gotthold," said Otto, dropping in a chair.

"Good-morning, Otto," returned the librarian. "You are an early bird. Is

this an accident, or do you begin reforming?"

"It is about time, I fancy," answered the Prince.

"I cannot imagine," said the Doctor. "I am too sceptical to be an

ethical adviser; and as for good resolutions, I believed in them when I

was young. They are the colours of hope's rainbow."

"If you come to think of it," said Otto, "I am not a popular sovereign."

And with a look he changed his statement to a question.

"Popular? Well, there I would distinguish," answered Gotthold, leaning

back and joining the tips of his fingers. "There are various kinds of

popularity: the bookish, which is perfectly impersonal, as unreal as the

nightmare; the politician's, a mixed variety; and yours, which is the

most personal of all. Women take to you; footmen adore you; it is as

natural to like you as to pat a dog; and were you a saw-miller you would

be the most popular citizen in Gruenewald. As a prince--well, you are in

the wrong trade. It is perhaps philosophical to recognise it as you do."

"Perhaps philosophical?" repeated Otto.

"Yes, perhaps. I would not be dogmatic," answered Gotthold.

"Perhaps philosophical, and certainly not virtuous," Otto resumed.

"Not of a Roman virtue," chuckled the recluse.

Otto drew his chair nearer to the table, leaned upon it with his elbow,

and looked his cousin squarely in the face. "In short," he asked, "not

manly?"

"Well," Gotthold hesitated, "not manly, if you will." And then, with a

laugh, "I did not know that you gave yourself out to be manly," he

added. "It was one of the points that I inclined to like about you;

inclined, I believe, to admire. The names of virtues exercise a charm

on most of us; we must lay claim to all of them, however incompatible;

we must all be both daring and prudent; we must all vaunt our pride and

go to the stake for our humility. Not so you. Without compromise you

were yourself: a pretty sight. I have always said it: none so void of

all pretence as Otto."

"Pretence and effort both!" cried Otto. "A dead dog in a canal is more

alive. And the question, Gotthold, the question that I have to face is

this: Can I not, with effort and self-denial, can I not become a

tolerable sovereign?"

"Never," replied Gotthold. "Dismiss the notion. And besides, dear child,

you would not try."

"Nay, Gotthold, I am not to be put by," said Otto. "If I am

constitutionally unfit to be a sovereign, what am I doing with this

money, with this palace, with these guards? And I--a thief--am I to

execute the law on others?"

"I admit the difficulty," said Gotthold.

"Well, can I not try?" continued Otto. "Am I not bound to try? And with

the advice and help of such a man as you----"

"Me!" cried the librarian. "Now, God forbid!"

Otto, though he was in no very smiling humour, could not forbear to

smile. "Yet I was told last night," he laughed, "that with a man like me

to impersonate, and a man like you to touch the springs, a very possible

government could be composed."

"Now I wonder in what diseased imagination," Gotthold said, "that

preposterous monster saw the light of day?"

"It was one of your own trade--a writer: one Roederer," said Otto.

"Roederer! an ignorant puppy!" cried the librarian.

"You are ungrateful," said Otto. "He is one of your professed admirers."

"Is he?" cried Gotthold, obviously impressed. "Come, that is a good

account of the young man. I must read his stuff again. It is the rather

to his credit, as our views are opposite. The east and west are not more

opposite. Can I have converted him? But no; the incident belongs to

Fairyland."

"You are not then," asked the Prince, "an authoritarian?"

"I? God bless me, no!" said Gotthold. "I am a red, dear child."

"That brings me then to my next point, and by a natural transition. If I

am so clearly unfitted for my post," the Prince asked: "if my friends

admit it, if my subjects clamour for my downfall, if revolution is

preparing at this hour, must I not go forth to meet the inevitable?

should I not save these horrors and be done with these absurdities? in a

word, should I not abdicate? O, believe me, I feel the ridicule, the

vast abuse of language," he added, wincing, "but even a principulus like

me cannot resign; he must make a great gesture, and come buskined forth,

and abdicate."

"Ay," said Gotthold, "or else stay where he is. What gnat has bitten you

to-day? Do you not know that you are touching, with lay hands, the very

holiest inwards of philosophy, where madness dwells? Ay, Otto, madness;

for in the serene temples of the wise, the inmost shrine, which we

carefully keep locked, is full of spiders' webs. All men, all, are

fundamentally useless; nature tolerates, she does not need, she does not

use them: sterile flowers! All--down to the fellow swinking in a byre,

whom fools point out for the exception--all are useless; all weave ropes

of sand; or, like a child that has breathed on a window, write and

obliterate, write and obliterate, idle words! Talk of it no more. That

way, I tell you, madness lies." The speaker rose from his chair and then

sat down again. He laughed a little laugh, and then, changing his tone,

resumed: "Yes, dear child, we are not here to do battle with giants; we

are here to be happy like the flowers, if we can be. It is because you

could, that I have always secretly admired you. Cling to that trade;

believe me, it is the right one. Be happy, be idle, be airy. To the

devil with all casuistry! and leave the state to Gondremark, as

heretofore. He does it well enough, they say; and his vanity enjoys the

situation."

"Gotthold," cried Otto, "what is this to me? Useless is not the

question; I cannot rest at uselessness; I must be useful or I must be

noxious--one or other. I grant you the whole thing, prince and

principality alike, is pure absurdity, a stroke of satire; and that a

banker or the man who keeps an inn has graver duties. But now, when I

have washed my hands of it three years, and left all--labour,

responsibility, and honour and enjoyment too, if there be any--to

Gondremark and to--Seraphina----" He hesitated at the name, and Gotthold

glanced aside. "Well," the Prince continued, "what has come of it?

Taxes, army, cannon--why, it's like a box of lead soldiers! And the

people sick at the folly of it, and fired with the injustice! And war,

too--I hear of war--war in this teapot! What a complication of absurdity

and disgrace! And when the inevitable end arrives--the revolution--who

will be to blame in the sight of God, who will be gibbeted in public

opinion? I! Prince Puppet!"

"I thought you had despised public opinion," said Gotthold.

"I did," said Otto sombrely, "but now I do not. I am growing old. And

then, Gotthold, there is Seraphina. She is loathed in this country that

I brought her to and suffered her to spoil. Yes, I gave it her as a

plaything, and she has broken it: a fine Prince, an admirable Princess!

Even her life--I ask you, Gotthold, is her life safe?"

"It is safe enough to-day," replied the librarian: "but since you ask me

seriously, I would not answer for to-morrow. She is ill-advised."

"And by whom? By this Gondremark, to whom you counsel me to leave my

country," cried the Prince. "Rare advice! The course that I have been

following all these years, to come at last to this. O, ill-advised! if

that were all! See now, there is no sense in beating about the bush

between two men: you know what scandal says of her?"

Gotthold, with pursed lips, silently nodded.

"Well, come, you are not very cheering as to my conduct as the Prince;

have I even done my duty as a husband?" Otto asked.

"Nay, nay," said Gotthold, earnestly and eagerly, "this is another

chapter. I am an old celibate, an old monk. I cannot advise you in your

marriage."

"Nor do I require advice," said Otto, rising. "All of this must cease."

And he began to walk to and fro with his hands behind his back.

"Well, Otto, may God guide you!" said Gotthold, after a considerable

silence. "I cannot."

"From what does all this spring?" said the Prince, stopping in his walk.

"What am I to call it? Diffidence? The fear of ridicule? Inverted

vanity? What matter names, if it has brought me to this? I could never

bear to be bustling about nothing; I was ashamed of this toy kingdom

from the first; I could not tolerate that people should fancy I believed

in a thing so patently absurd! I would do nothing that cannot be done

smiling. I have a sense of humour, forsooth! I must know better than my

Maker. And it was the same thing in my marriage," he added more

hoarsely. "I did not believe this girl could care for me; I must not

intrude; I must preserve the foppery of my indifference. What an

impotent picture!"

"Ay, we have the same blood," moralised Gotthold. "You are drawing, with

fine strokes, the character of the born sceptic."

"Sceptic?--coward!" cried Otto. "Coward is the word. A springless,

putty-hearted, cowering coward!"

And as the Prince rapped out the words in tones of unusual vigour, a

little, stout old gentleman, opening a door behind Gotthold, received

them fairly in the face. With his parrot's beak for a nose, his pursed

mouth, his little goggling eyes, he was the picture of formality; and in

ordinary circumstances, strutting behind the drum of his corporation, he

impressed the beholder with a certain air of frozen dignity and wisdom.

But at the smallest contrariety, his trembling hands and disconnected

gestures betrayed the weakness at the root. And now, when he was thus

surprisingly received in that library of Mittwalden Palace, which was

the customary haunt of silence, his hands went up into the air as if he

had been shot, and he cried aloud with the scream of an old woman.

"O!" he gasped, recovering, "your Highness! I beg ten thousand pardons.

But your Highness at such an hour in the library!--a circumstance so

unusual as your Highness's presence was a thing I could not be expected

to foresee."

"There is no harm done, Herr Cancellarius," said Otto.

"I came upon the errand of a moment: some papers I left over-night with

the Herr Doctor," said the Chancellor of Gruenewald.--"Herr Doctor, if

you will kindly give me them, I will intrude no longer."

Gotthold unlocked a drawer and handed a bundle of manuscript to the old

gentleman, who prepared, with fitting salutations, to take his

departure.

"Herr Greisengesang, since we have met," said Otto, "let us talk."

"I am honoured by his Highness's commands," replied the Chancellor.

"All has been quiet since I left?" asked the Prince, resuming his seat.

"The usual business, your Highness," answered Greisengesang; "punctual

trifles: huge, indeed, if neglected, but trifles when discharged. Your

Highness is most zealously obeyed."

"Obeyed, Herr Cancellarius?" returned the Prince. "And when have I

obliged you with an order? Replaced, let us rather say. But to touch

upon these trifles; instance me a few."

"The routine of government, from which your Highness has so wisely

dissociated his leisure ..." began Greisengesang.

"We will leave my leisure, sir," said Otto. "Approach the facts."

"The routine of business was proceeded with," replied the official, now

visibly twittering.

"It is very strange, Herr Cancellarius, that you should so persistently

avoid my questions," said the Prince. "You tempt me to suppose a purpose

in your dulness. I have asked you whether all was quiet; do me the

pleasure to reply."

"Perfectly--O, perfectly quiet," jerked the ancient puppet, with every

signal of untruth.

"I make a note of these words," said the Prince gravely. "You assure me,

your sovereign, that since the date of my departure nothing has occurred

of which you owe me an account."

"I take your Highness, I take the Herr Doctor to witness," cried

Greisengesang, "that I have had no such expression."

"Halt!" said the Prince; and then, after a pause: "Herr Greisengesang,

you are an old man, and you served my father before you served me," he

added. "It consists neither with your dignity nor mine that you should

babble excuses and stumble possibly upon untruths. Collect your

thoughts; and then categorically inform me of all you have been charged

to hide."

Gotthold, stooping very low over his desk, appeared to have resumed his

labours; but his shoulders heaved with subterranean merriment. The

Prince waited, drawing his handkerchief quietly through his fingers.

"Your Highness, in this informal manner," said the old gentleman at

last, "and being unavoidably deprived of documents, it would be

difficult, it would be impossible, to do justice to the somewhat grave

occurrences which have transpired."

"I will not criticise your attitude," replied the Prince. "I desire

that, between you and me, all should be done gently; for I have not

forgotten, my old friend, that you were kind to me from the first, and

for a period of years a faithful servant. I will thus dismiss the

matters on which you waive immediate inquiry. But you have certain

papers actually in your hand. Come, Herr Greisengesang, there is at

least one point for which you have authority. Enlighten me on that."

"On that?" cried the old gentleman. "O, that is a trifle; a matter, your

Highness, of police; a detail of a purely administrative order. These

are simply a selection of the papers seized upon the English traveller."

"Seized?" echoed Otto. "In what sense? Explain yourself."

"Sir John Crabtree," interposed Gotthold, looking up, "was arrested

yesterday evening."

"Is this so, Herr Cancellarius?" demanded Otto sternly.

"It was judged right, your Highness," protested Greisengesang. "The

decree was in due form, invested with your Highness's authority by

procuration. I am but an agent; I had no status to prevent the measure."

"This man, my guest, has been arrested," said the Prince. "On what

grounds, sir? With what colour of pretence?"

The Chancellor stammered.

"Your Highness will perhaps find the reason in these documents," said

Gotthold, pointing with the tail of his pen.

Otto thanked his cousin with a look. "Give them to me," he said,

addressing the Chancellor.

But that gentleman visibly hesitated to obey. "Baron von Gondremark," he

said, "has made the affair his own. I am in this case a mere messenger;

and as such, I am not clothed with any capacity to communicate the

documents I carry. Herr Doctor, I am convinced you will not fail to bear

me out."

"I have heard a great deal of nonsense," said Gotthold, "and most of it

from you; but this beats all."

"Come, sir," said Otto, rising, "the papers. I command."

Herr Greisengesang instantly gave way.

"With your Highness's permission," he said, "and laying at his feet my

most submiss apologies, I will now hasten to attend his further orders

in the Chancery."

"Herr Cancellarius, do you see this chair?" said Otto. "There is where

you shall attend my further orders. Oh, now, no more!" he cried, with a

gesture, as the old man opened his lips. "You have sufficiently marked

your zeal to your employer; and I begin to weary of a moderation you

abuse."

The Chancellor moved to the appointed chair and took his seat in

silence.

"And now," said Otto, opening the roll, "what is all this? It looks like

the manuscript of a book."

"It is," said Gotthold, "the manuscript of a book of travels."

"You have read it, Dr. Hohenstockwitz?" asked the Prince.

"Nay, I but saw the title-page," replied Gotthold. "But the roll was

given to me open, and I heard no word of any secrecy."

Otto dealt the Chancellor an angry glance.

"I see," he went on. "The papers of an author seized at this date of the

world's history, in a state so petty and so ignorant as Gruenewald, here

is indeed an ignominious folly. Sir," to the Chancellor, "I marvel to

find you in so scurvy an employment. On your conduct to your Prince I

will not dwell; but to descend to be a spy! For what else can it be

called? To seize the papers of this gentleman, the private papers of a

stranger, the toil of a life, perhaps--to open, and to read them. And

what have we to do with books? The Herr Doctor might perhaps be asked

for his advice; but we have no _index expurgatorius_ in Gruenewald. Had

we but that, we should be the most absolute parody and farce upon this

tawdry earth."

Yet, even while Otto spoke, he had continued to unfold the roll; and

now, when it lay fully open, his eye rested on the title-page

elaborately written in red ink. It ran thus:

MEMOIRS

OF A VISIT TO THE VARIOUS

COURTS OF EUROPE

BY

SIR JOHN CRABTREE, BARONET

Below was a list of chapters, each bearing the name of one of the

European Courts; and among these the nineteenth and the last upon the

list was dedicated to Gruenewald.

"Ah! The Court of Gruenewald!" said Otto, "that should be droll reading."

And his curiosity itched for it.

"A methodical dog, this English Baronet," said Gotthold. "Each chapter

written and finished on the spot. I shall look for his work when it

appears."

"It would be odd, now, just to glance at it," said Otto, wavering.

Gotthold's brow darkened, and he looked out of window.

But though the Prince understood the reproof, his weakness prevailed. "I

will," he said, with an uneasy laugh, "I will, I think, just glance at

it."

So saying, he resumed his seat and spread the traveller's manuscript

upon the table.

CHAPTER II

"ON THE COURT OF GRUeNEWALD," BEING A PORTION OF THE TRAVELLER'S

MANUSCRIPT

It may well be asked (_it was thus the English traveller began his

nineteenth chapter_) why I should have chosen Gruenewald out of so many

other states equally petty, formal, dull, and corrupt. Accident, indeed,

decided, and not I; but I have seen no reason to regret my visit. The

spectacle of this small society macerating in its own abuses was not

perhaps instructive, but I have found it exceedingly diverting.

The reigning Prince, Otto Johann Friedrich, a young man of imperfect

education, questionable valour, and no scintilla of capacity, has fallen

into entire public contempt. It was with difficulty that I obtained an

interview, for he is frequently absent from a court where his presence

is unheeded, and where his only role is to be a cloak for the amours of

his wife. At last, however, on the third occasion when I visited the

palace, I found this sovereign in the exercise of his inglorious

function, with the wife on one hand and the lover on the other. He is

not ill-looking; he has hair of a ruddy gold, which naturally curls, and

his eyes are dark, a combination which I always regard as the mark of

some congenital deficiency, physical or moral; his features are

irregular but pleasing; the nose perhaps a little short, and the mouth a

little womanish; his address is excellent, and he can express himself

with point. But to pierce below these externals is to come on a vacuity

of any sterling quality, a deliquescence of the moral nature, a

frivolity and inconsequence of purpose that mark the nearly perfect

fruit of a decadent age. He has a worthless smattering of many subjects,

but a grasp of none. "I soon weary of a pursuit," he said to me,

laughing; it would almost appear as if he took a pride in his incapacity

and lack of moral courage. The results of his dilettanteism are to be

seen in every field; he is a bad fencer, a second-rate horseman, dancer,

shot; he sings--I have heard him--and he sings like a child; he writes

intolerable verses in more than doubtful French; he acts like the common

amateur; and in short there is no end to the number of things that he

does, and does badly. His one manly taste is for the chase. In sum, he

is but a plexus of weaknesses; the singing chambermaid of the stage,

tricked out in man's apparel, and mounted on a circus horse. I have seen

this poor phantom of a prince riding out alone or with a few huntsmen,

disregarded by all, and I have been even grieved for the bearer of so

futile and melancholy an existence. The last Merovingians may have

looked not otherwise.

The Princess Amalia Seraphina, a daughter of the Grand-Ducal house of

Toggenburg-Tannhaeuser, would be equally inconsiderable if she were not a

cutting instrument in the hands of an ambitious man. She is much younger

than the Prince, a girl of two-and-twenty, sick with vanity,

superficially clever, and fundamentally a fool. She has a red-brown

rolling eye, too large for her face, and with sparks of both levity and

ferocity; her forehead is high and narrow, her figure thin and a little

stooping. Her manners, her conversation, which she interlards with

French, her very tastes and ambitions, are alike assumed, and the

assumption is ungracefully apparent: Hoyden playing Cleopatra. I should

judge her to be incapable of truth. In private life a girl of this

description embroils the peace of families, walks attended by a troop of

scowling swains, and passes, once at least, through the divorce court;

it is a common and, except to the cynic, an uninteresting type. On the

throne, however, and in the hands of a man like Gondremark, she may

become the authoress of serious public evils.

Gondremark, the true ruler of this unfortunate country, is a more

complex study. His position in Gruenewald, to which he is a foreigner, is

eminently false; and that he should maintain it as he does, a very

miracle of impudence and dexterity. His speech, his face, his policy,

are all double: heads and tails. Which of the two extremes may be his

actual design he were a bold man who should offer to decide. Yet I will

hazard the guess that he follows both experimentally, and awaits, at the

hand of destiny, one of those directing hints of which she is so lavish

to the wise.

On the one hand, as _Maire du Palais_ to the incompetent Otto, and using

the love-sick Princess for a tool and mouthpiece, he pursues a policy of

arbitrary power and territorial aggrandisement. He has called out the

whole capable male population of the state to military service; he has

bought cannon; he has tempted away promising officers from foreign

armies; and he now begins, in his international relations, to assume the

swaggering port and the vague threatful language of a bully. The idea of

extending Gruenewald may appear absurd, but the little state is

advantageously placed, its neighbours are all defenceless; and if at any

moment the jealousies of the greater courts should neutralise each

other, an active policy might double the principality both in population

and extent. Certainly at least the scheme is entertained in the court of

Mittwalden; nor do I myself regard it as entirely desperate. The

margravate of Brandenburg has grown from as small beginnings to a

formidable power; and though it is late in the day to try adventurous

policies, and the age of war seems ended, Fortune, we must not forget,

still blindly turns her wheel for men and nations. Concurrently with,

and tributary to, these warlike preparations, crushing taxes have been

levied, journals have been suppressed, and the country, which three

years ago was prosperous and happy, now stagnates in a forced inaction,

gold has become a curiosity, and the mills stand idle on the mountain

streams.

On the other hand, in his second capacity of popular tribune, Gondremark

is the incarnation of the free lodges, and sits at the centre of an

organised conspiracy against the state. To any such movement my

sympathies were early acquired, and I would not willingly let fall a

word that might embarrass or retard the revolution. But to show that I

speak of knowledge, and not as the reporter of mere gossip, I may

mention that I have myself been present at a meeting where the details

of a republican Constitution were minutely debated and arranged; and I

may add that Gondremark was throughout referred to by the speakers as

their captain in action and the arbiter of their disputes. He has taught

his dupes (for so I must regard them) that his power of resistance to

the Princess is limited, and at each fresh stretch of authority

persuades them, with specious reasons, to postpone the hour of

insurrection. Thus (to give some instances of his astute diplomacy) he

salved over the decree enforcing military service, under the plea that

to be well drilled and exercised in arms was even a necessary

preparation for revolt. And the other day, when it began to be rumoured

abroad that a war was being forced on a reluctant neighbour, the Grand

Duke of Gerolstein, and I made sure it would be the signal for an

instant rising, I was struck dumb with wonder to find that even this had

been prepared and was to be accepted. I went from one to another in the

Liberal camp, and all were in the same story, all had been drilled and

schooled and fitted out with vacuous argument. "The lads had better see

some real fighting," they said; "and besides, it will be as well to

capture Gerolstein; we can then extend to our neighbours the blessing of

liberty on the same day that we snatch it for ourselves; and the

republic will be all the stronger to resist, if the kings of Europe

should band themselves together to reduce it." I know not which of the

two I should admire the more: the simplicity of the multitude or the

audacity of the adventurer. But such are the subtleties, such the

quibbling reasons, with which he blinds and leads this people. How long

a course so tortuous can be pursued with safety I am incapable of

guessing; not long, one would suppose; and yet this singular man has

been treading the mazes for five years, and his favour at court and his

popularity among the lodges still endure unbroken.

I have the privilege of slightly knowing him. Heavily and somewhat

clumsily built, of a vast, disjointed, rambling frame, he can still pull

himself together, and figure, not without admiration, in the saloon or

the ball-room. His hue and temperament are plentifully bilious; he has a

saturnine eye; his cheek is of a dark blue where he has been shaven.

Essentially he is to be numbered among the man-haters, a convinced

contemner of his fellows. Yet he is himself of a most commonplace

ambition and greedy of applause. In talk, he is remarkable for a thirst

of information, loving rather to hear than to communicate; for sound and

studious views; and, judging by the extreme short-sightedness of common

politicians, for a remarkable prevision of events. All this, however,

without grace, pleasantry, or charm, heavily set forth, with a dull

countenance. In our numerous conversations, although he has always heard

me with deference, I have been conscious throughout of a sort of

ponderous finessing hard to tolerate. He produces none of the effect of

a gentleman; devoid not merely of pleasantry, but of all attention or

communicative warmth of bearing. No gentleman, besides, would so parade

his amours with the Princess; still less repay the Prince for his

long-suffering with the studied insolence of demeanour and the

fabrication of insulting nicknames, such as Prince Featherhead, which

run from ear to ear and create a laugh throughout the country.

Gondremark has thus some of the clumsier characters of the self-made

man, combined with an inordinate, almost a besotted, pride of intellect

and birth. Heavy, bilious, selfish, inornate, he sits upon this court

and country like an incubus.

But it is probable that he preserves softer gifts for necessary

purposes. Indeed, it is certain, although he vouchsafed none of it to

me, that this cold and stolid politician possesses to a great degree the

art of ingratiation, and can be all things to all men. Hence there has

probably sprung up the idle legend that in private life he is a gross

romping voluptuary. Nothing, at least, can well be more surprising than

the terms of his connection with the Princess. Older than her husband,

certainly uglier, and, according to the feeble ideas common among women,

in every particular less pleasing, he has not only seized the complete

command of all her thought and action, but has imposed on her in public

a humiliating part. I do not here refer to the complete sacrifice of

every rag of her reputation; for to many women these extremities are in

themselves attractive. But there is about the court a certain lady of a

dishevelled reputation, a Countess von Rosen, wife or widow of a cloudy

count, no longer in her second youth, and already bereft of some of her

attractions, who unequivocally occupies the station of the Baron's

mistress. I had thought, at first, that she was but a hired accomplice,

a mere blind or buffer for the more important sinner. A few hours'

acquaintance with Madame von Rosen for ever dispelled the illusion. She

is one rather to make than to prevent a scandal, and she values none of

those bribes--money, honours, or employment--with which the situation

might be gilded. Indeed, as a person frankly bad, she pleased me, in the

court of Gruenewald, like a piece of nature.

The power of this man over the Princess is, therefore, without bounds.

She has sacrificed to the adoration with which he has inspired her not

only her marriage vow and every shred of public decency, but that vice

of jealousy which is so much dearer to the female sex than either

intrinsic honour or outward consideration. Nay, more: a young, although

not a very attractive woman, and a princess both by birth and fact, she

submits to the triumphant rivalry of one who might be her mother as to

years, and who is so manifestly her inferior in station. This is one of

the mysteries of the human heart. But the rage of illicit love, when it

is once indulged, appears to grow by feeding; and to a person of the

character and temperament of this unfortunate young lady, almost any

depth of degradation is within the reach of possibility.

CHAPTER III

THE PRINCE AND THE ENGLISH TRAVELLER

So far Otto read, with waxing indignation; and here his fury overflowed.

He tossed the roll upon the table and stood up. "This man," he said, "is

a devil. A filthy imagination, an ear greedy of evil, a ponderous

malignity of thought and language: I grow like him by the reading!

Chancellor, where is this fellow lodged?"

"He was committed to the Flag Tower," replied Greisengesang, "in the

Gamiani apartment."

"Lead me to him," said the Prince; and then, a thought striking him,

"Was it for that," he asked, "that I found so many sentries in the

garden?"

"Your Highness, I am unaware," answered Greisengesang, true to his

policy. "The disposition of the guards is a matter distinct from my

functions."

Otto turned upon the old man fiercely, but ere he had time to speak,

Gotthold touched him on the arm. He swallowed his wrath with a great

effort. "It is well," he said, taking the roll. "Follow me to the Flag

Tower."

The Chancellor gathered himself together, and the two set forward. It

was a long and complicated voyage; for the library was in the wing of

the new buildings, and the tower which carried the flag was in the old

schloss upon the garden. By a great variety of stairs and corridors,

they came out at last upon a patch of gravelled court; the garden peeped

through a high grating with a flash of green; tall, old, gabled

buildings mounted on every side; the Flag Tower climbed, stage after

stage, into the blue; and high over all, among the building daws, the

yellow flag wavered in the wind. A sentinel at the foot of the tower

stairs presented arms; another paced the first landing; and a third was

stationed before the door of the extemporised prison.

"We guard this mud-bag like a jewel," Otto sneered.

The Gamiani apartment was so called from an Italian doctor who had

imposed on the credulity of a former prince. The rooms were large, airy,

pleasant, and looked upon the garden; but the walls were of great

thickness (for the tower was old), and the windows were heavily barred.

The Prince, followed by the Chancellor, still trotting to keep up with

him, brushed swiftly through the little library and the long saloon, and

burst like a thunderbolt into the bedroom at the farther end. Sir John

was finishing his toilet; a man of fifty, hard, uncompromising, able,

with the eye and teeth of physical courage. He was unmoved by the

irruption, and bowed with a sort of sneering ease.

"To what am I to attribute the honour of this visit?" he asked.

"You have eaten my bread," replied Otto, "you have taken my hand, you

have been received under my roof. When did I fail you in courtesy? What

have you asked that was not granted as to an honoured guest? And here,

sir," tapping fiercely on the manuscript, "here is your return."

"Your Highness has read my papers?" said the Baronet. "I am honoured

indeed. But the sketch is most imperfect. I shall now have much to add.

I can say that the Prince, whom I had accused of idleness, is zealous in

the department of police, taking upon himself those duties that are most

distasteful. I shall be able to relate the burlesque incident of my

arrest, and the singular interview with which you honour me at present.

For the rest, I have already communicated with my Ambassador at Vienna;

and unless you propose to murder me, I shall be at liberty, whether you

please or not, within the week. For I hardly fancy the future empire of

Gruenewald is yet ripe to go to war with England. I conceive I am a

little more than quits. I owe you no explanation; yours has been the

wrong. You, if you have studied my writing with intelligence, owe me a

large debt of gratitude. And to conclude, as I have not yet finished my

toilet, I imagine the courtesy of a turnkey to a prisoner would induce

you to withdraw."

There was some paper on the table, and Otto, sitting down, wrote a

passport in the name of Sir John Crabtree.

"Affix the seal, Herr Cancellarius," he said, in his most princely

manner, as he rose.

Greisengesang produced a red portfolio, and affixed the seal in the

unpoetic guise of an adhesive stamp; nor did his perturbed and clumsy

movements at all lessen the comedy of the performance. Sir John looked

on with a malign enjoyment; and Otto chafed, regretting, when too late,

the unnecessary royalty of his command and gesture. But at length the

Chancellor had finished his piece of prestidigitation, and, without

waiting for an order, had countersigned the passport. Thus regularised,

he returned it to Otto with a bow.

"You will now," said the Prince, "order one of my own carriages to be

prepared; see it, with your own eyes, charged with Sir John's effects,

and have it waiting within the hour behind the Pheasant House. Sir John

departs this morning for Vienna."

The Chancellor took his elaborate departure.

"Here, sir, is your passport," said Otto, turning to the Baronet. "I

regret it from my heart that you have met inhospitable usage."

"Well, there will be no English war," returned Sir John.

"Nay, sir," said Otto; "you surely owe me your civility. Matters are now

changed, and we stand again upon the footing of two gentlemen. It was

not I who ordered your arrest; I returned late last night from hunting;

and as you cannot blame me for your imprisonment, you may even thank me

for your freedom."

"And yet you read my papers," said the traveller shrewdly.

"There, sir, I was wrong," returned Otto; "and for that I ask your

pardon. You can scarce refuse it, for your own dignity, to one who is a

plexus of weaknesses. Nor was the fault entirely mine. Had the papers

been innocent, it would have been at most an indiscretion. Your own

guilt is the sting of my offence."

Sir John regarded Otto with an approving twinkle; then he bowed, but

still in silence.

"Well, sir, as you are now at your entire disposal, I have a favour to

beg of your indulgence," continued the Prince. "I have to request that

you will walk with me alone into the garden so soon as your convenience

permits."

"From the moment that I am a free man," Sir John replied, this time with

perfect courtesy, "I am wholly at your Highness's command; and if you

will excuse a rather summary toilet, I will even follow you as I am."

"I thank you, sir," said Otto.

So without more delay, the Prince leading, the pair proceeded down

through the echoing stairway of the tower, and out through the grating,

into the ample air and sunshine of the morning, and among the terraces

and flower-beds of the garden. They crossed the fish-pond, where the

carp were leaping as thick as bees; they mounted, one after another, the

various flights of stairs, snowed upon, as they went, with April

blossoms, and marching in time to the great orchestra of birds. Nor did

Otto pause till they had reached the highest terrace of the garden. Here

was a gate into the park, and hard by, under a tuft of laurel, a marble

garden seat. Hence they looked down on the green tops of many elm-trees,

where the rooks were busy; and, beyond that, upon the palace roof, and

the yellow banner flying in the blue. "I pray you to be seated, sir,"

said Otto.

Sir John complied without a word; and for some seconds Otto walked to

and fro before him, plunged in angry thought. The birds were all singing

for a wager.

"Sir," said the Prince at length, turning towards the Englishman, "you

are to me, except by the conventions of society, a perfect stranger. Of

your character and wishes I am ignorant. I have never wittingly

disobliged you. There is a difference in station, which I desire to

waive. I would, if you still think me entitled to so much

consideration--I would be regarded simply as a gentleman. Now, sir, I

did wrong to glance at these papers, which I here return to you; but if

curiosity be undignified, as I am free to own, falsehood is both

cowardly and cruel. I opened your roll; and what did I find--what did I

find about my wife? Lies!" he broke out. "They are lies! There are not,

so help me God! four words of truth in your intolerable libel! You are a

man; you are old, and might be the girl's father; you are a gentleman;

you are a scholar, and have learned refinement; and you rake together

all this vulgar scandal, and propose to print it in a public book! Such

is your chivalry! But, thank God, sir, she has still a husband. You say,

sir, in that paper in your hand, that I am a bad fencer; I have to

request from you a lesson in the art. The park is close behind; yonder

is the Pheasant House, where you will find your carriage; should I fall,

you know, sir--you have written it in your paper--how little my

movements are regarded; I am in the custom of disappearing: it will be

one more disappearance; and long before it has awakened a remark, you

may be safe across the border."

"You will observe," said Sir John, "that what you ask is impossible."

"And if I struck you?" cried the Prince, with a sudden menacing flash.

"It would be a cowardly blow," returned the Baronet, unmoved, "for it

would make no change. I cannot draw upon a reigning sovereign."

"And it is this man, to whom you dare not offer satisfaction, that you

choose to insult!" cried Otto.

"Pardon me," said the traveller, "you are unjust. It is because you are

a reigning sovereign that I cannot fight with you; and it is for the

same reason that I have a right to criticise your action and your wife.

You are in everything a public creature; you belong to the public, body

and bone. You have with you the law, the muskets of the army, and the

eyes of spies. We, on our side, have but one weapon--truth."

"Truth!" echoed the Prince, with a gesture.

There was another silence.

"Your Highness," said Sir John at last, "you must not expect grapes from

a thistle. I am old and a cynic. Nobody cares a rush for me; and on the

whole, after the present interview, I scarce know anybody that I like

better than yourself. You see, I have changed my mind, and have the

uncommon virtue to avow the change. I tear up this stuff before you,

here in your own garden; I ask your pardon, I ask the pardon of the

Princess; and I give you my word of honour as a gentleman and an old

man, that when my book of travels shall appear it shall not contain so

much as the name of Gruenewald. And yet it was a racy chapter! But had

your Highness only read about the other courts! I am a carrion crow; but

it is not my fault, after all, that the world is such a nauseous

kennel."

"Sir," said Otto, "is the eye not jaundiced?"

"Nay," cried the traveller, "very likely. I am one who goes sniffing; I

am no poet. I believe in a better future for the world; or, at all

accounts, I do most potently disbelieve in the present. Rotten eggs is

the burthen of my song. But indeed, your Highness, when I meet with any

merit, I do not think that I am slow to recognise it. This is a day that

I shall still recall with gratitude, for I have found a sovereign with

some manly virtues; and for once--old courtier and old radical as I

am--it is from the heart and quite sincerely that I can request the

honour of kissing your Highness's hand?"

"Nay, sir," said Otto, "to my heart!"

And the Englishman, taken at unawares, was clasped for a moment in the

Prince's arms.

"And now, sir," added Otto, "there is the Pheasant House; close behind

it you will find my carriage, which I pray you to accept. God speed you

to Vienna!"

"In the impetuosity of youth," replied Sir John, "your Highness has

overlooked one circumstance: I am still fasting."

"Well, sir," said Otto, smiling, "you are your own master; you may go or

stay. But I warn you, your friend may prove less powerful than your

enemies. The Prince, indeed, is thoroughly on your side; he has all the

will to help; but to whom do I speak?--you know better than I do, he is

not alone in Gruenewald."

"There is a deal in position," returned the traveller, gravely nodding.

"Gondremark loves to temporise; his policy is below ground, and he fears

all open courses; and now that I have seen you act with so much spirit,

I will cheerfully risk myself on your protection. Who knows? You may be

yet the better man."

"Do you indeed believe so?" cried the Prince. "You put life into my

heart!"

"I will give up sketching portraits," said the Baronet. "I am a blind

owl; I had misread you strangely. And yet remember this: a sprint is one

thing, and to run all day another. For I still mistrust your

constitution; the short nose, the hair and eyes of several complexions;

no, they are diagnostic; and I must end, I see, as I began."

"I am still a singing chambermaid?" said Otto.

"Nay, your Highness, I pray you to forget what I had written," said Sir

John; "I am not like Pilate; and the chapter is no more. Bury it, if you

love me."

CHAPTER IV

WHILE THE PRINCE IS IN THE ANTE-ROOM....

Greatly comforted by the exploits of the morning, the Prince turned

towards the Princess's ante-room, bent on a more difficult enterprise.

The curtains rose before him, the usher called his name, and he entered

the room with an exaggeration of his usual mincing and airy dignity.

There were about a score of persons waiting, principally ladies; it was

one of the few societies in Gruenewald where Otto knew himself to be

popular; and while a maid of honour made her exit by a side door to

announce his arrival to the Princess, he moved round the apartment,

collecting homage and bestowing compliments with friendly grace. Had

this been the sum of his duties, he had been an admirable monarch. Lady

after lady was impartially honoured by his attention.

"Madam," he said to one, "how does this happen? I find you daily more

adorable."

"And your Highness daily browner," replied the lady. "We began equal;

oh, there I will be bold: we have both beautiful complexions. But while

I study mine, your Highness tans himself."

"A perfect negro, madam; and what so fitly--being beauty's slave?" said

Otto.--"Madame Grafinski, when is our next play? I have just heard that

I am a bad actor."

"_O ciel!_" cried Madame Grafinski. "Who could venture? What a bear!"

"An excellent man, I can assure you," returned Otto.

"O, never! O, is it possible!" fluted the lady. "Your Highness plays

like an angel."

"You must be right, madam; who could speak falsely and yet look so

charming?" said the Prince. "But this gentleman, it seems, would have

preferred me playing like an actor."

A sort of hum, a falsetto, feminine cooing, greeted the tiny sally; and

Otto expanded like a peacock. This warm atmosphere of women and flattery

and idle chatter pleased him to the marrow.

"Madame von Eisenthal, your coiffure is delicious," he remarked.

"Everyone was saying so," said one.

"If I have pleased Prince Charming?" And Madame von Eisenthal swept him

a deep curtsey with a killing glance of adoration.

"It is new?" he asked. "Vienna fashion."

"Mint new," replied the lady, "for your Highness's return. I felt young

this morning; it was a premonition. But why, Prince, do you ever leave

us?"

"For the pleasure of the return," said Otto. "I am like a dog; I must

bury my bone, and then come back to gloat upon it."

"O, a bone! Fie, what a comparison! You have brought back the manners of

the wood," returned the lady.

"Madam, it is what the dog has dearest," said the Prince. "But I observe

Madame von Rosen."

And Otto, leaving the group to which he had been piping, stepped towards

the embrasure of a window where a lady stood.

The Countess von Rosen had hitherto been silent, and a thought

depressed, but on the approach of Otto she began to brighten. She was

tall, slim as a nymph, and of a very airy carriage; and her face, which

was already beautiful in repose, lightened and changed, flashed into

smiles, and glowed with a lovely colour at the touch of animation. She

was a good vocalist; and, even in speech, her voice commanded a great

range of changes, the low notes rich with tenor quality, the upper

ringing, on the brink of laughter, into music. A gem of many facets, and

variable hues of fire; a woman who withheld the better portion of her

beauty, and then, in a caressing second, flashed it like a weapon full

on the beholder; now merely a tall figure and a sallow handsome face,

with the evidences of a reckless temper; anon opening like a flower to

life and colour, mirth and tenderness:--Madame von Rosen had always a

dagger in reserve for the despatch of ill-assured admirers. She met Otto

with the dart of tender gaiety.

"You have come to me at last, Prince Cruel," she said. "Butterfly! Well,

and am I not to kiss your hand?" she added.

"Madam, it is I who must kiss yours." And Otto bowed and kissed it.

"You deny me every indulgence," she said, smiling.

"And now what news in court?" inquired the Prince. "I come to you for my

gazette."

"Ditch-water!" she replied. "The world is all asleep, grown grey in

slumber; I do not remember any waking movement since quite an eternity;

and the last thing in the nature of a sensation was the last time my

governess was allowed to box my ears. But yet I do myself and your

unfortunate enchanted palace some injustice. Here is the last--O

positively!" And she told him the story from behind her fan, with many

glances, many cunning strokes of the narrator's art. The others had

drawn away, for it was understood that Madame von Rosen was in favour

with the Prince. None the less, however, did the Countess lower her

voice at times to within a semitone of whispering; and the pair leaned

together over the narrative.

"Do you know," said Otto, laughing, "you are the only entertaining woman

on this earth!"

"O, you have found out so much," she cried.

"Yes, madam, I grow wiser with advancing years," he returned.

"Years!" she repeated. "Do you name the traitors? I do not believe in

years; the calendar is a delusion."

"You must be right, madam," replied the Prince. "For six years that we

have been good friends, I have observed you to grow younger."

"Flatterer," cried she, and then, with a change, "But why should I say

so," she added, "when I protest I think the same? A week ago I had a

council with my father director, the glass; and the glass replied, 'Not

yet!' I confess my face in this way once a month. O! a very solemn

moment. Do you know what I shall do when the mirror answers, 'Now'?"

"I cannot guess," said he.

"No more can I," returned the Countess. "There is such a choice!

Suicide, gambling, a nunnery, a volume of memoirs, or politics--the

last, I am afraid."

"It is a dull trade," said Otto.

"Nay," she replied, "it is a trade I rather like. It is, after all,

first cousin to gossip, which no one can deny to be amusing. For

instance, if I were to tell you that the Princess and the Baron rode out

together daily to inspect the cannon, it is either a piece of politics

or scandal, as I turn my phrase. I am the alchemist that makes the

transmutation. They have been everywhere together since you left," she

continued, brightening as she saw Otto darken; "that is a poor snippet

of malicious gossip--and they were everywhere cheered--and with that

addition all becomes political intelligence."

"Let us change the subject," said Otto.

"I was about to propose it," she replied, "or rather to pursue the

politics. Do you know? this war is popular--popular to the length of

cheering Princess Seraphina."

"All things, madam, are possible," said the Prince; "and this among

others, that we may be going into war, but I give you my word of honour

I do not know with whom."

"And you put up with it?" she cried. "I have no pretensions to morality;

and I confess I have always abominated the lamb, and nourished a

romantic feeling for the wolf. O, be done with lambiness! Let us see

there is a prince, for I am weary of the distaff."

"Madam," said Otto, "I thought you were of that faction."

"I should be of yours, _mon Prince_, if you had one," she retorted. "Is

it true that you have no ambition? There was a man once in England whom

they call the kingmaker. Do you know," she added, "I fancy I could make

a prince?"

"Some day, madam," said Otto, "I may ask you to help make a farmer."

"Is that a riddle?" asked the Countess.

"It is," replied the Prince, "and a very good one too."

"Tit for tat. I will ask you another," she returned. "Where is

Gondremark?"

"The Prime Minister? In the prime-ministry, no doubt," said Otto.

"Precisely," said the Countess; and she pointed with her fan to the door

of the Princess's apartments. "You and I, _mon Prince_, are in the

ante-room. You think me unkind," she added. "Try me and you will see.

Set me a task, put me a question; there is no enormity I am not capable

of doing to oblige you, and no secret that I am not ready to betray."

"Nay, madam, but I respect my friend too much," he answered, kissing her

hand. "I would rather remain ignorant of all. We fraternise like foemen

soldiers at the outposts, but let each be true to his own army."

"Ah," she cried, "if all men were generous like you, it would be worth

while to be a woman!" Yet, judging by her looks, his generosity, if

anything, had disappointed her; she seemed to seek a remedy, and,

having found it, brightened once more. "And now," she said, "may I

dismiss my sovereign? This is rebellion and a _cas pendable_; but what

am I to do? My bear is jealous!"

"Madam, enough!" cried Otto. "Ahasuerus reaches you the sceptre; more,

he will obey you in all points. I should have been a dog to come to

whistling."

And so the Prince departed, and fluttered round Grafinski and von

Eisenthal. But the Countess knew the use of her offensive weapons, and

had left a pleasant arrow in the Prince's heart. That Gondremark was

jealous--here was an agreeable revenge! And Madame von Rosen, as the

occasion of the jealousy, appeared to him in a new light.

CHAPTER V

... GONDREMARK IS IN MY LADY'S CHAMBER

The Countess von Rosen spoke the truth. The great Prime Minister of

Gruenewald was already closeted with Seraphina. The toilet was over; and

the Princess, tastefully arrayed, sat face to face with a tall mirror.

Sir John's description was unkindly true, true in terms and yet a libel,

a misogynistic masterpiece. Her forehead was perhaps too high, but it

became her; her figure somewhat stooped, but every detail was formed and

finished like a gem; her hand, her foot, her ear, the set of her comely

head, were all dainty and accordant; if she was not beautiful, she was

vivid, changeful, coloured, and pretty with a thousand various

prettinesses; and her eyes, if they indeed rolled too consciously, yet

rolled to purpose. They were her most attractive feature, yet they

continually bore eloquent false witness to her thoughts; for while she

herself, in the depths of her immature, unsoftened heart, was given

altogether to man-like ambition and the desire of power, the eyes were

by turns bold, inviting, fiery, melting, and artful, like the eyes of a

rapacious siren. And artful, in a sense, she was. Chafing that she was

not a man, and could not shine by action, she had, conceived a woman's

part, of answerable domination; she sought to subjugate for by-ends, to

rain influence and be fancy free; and, while she loved not man, loved to

see man obey her. It is a common girl's ambition. Such was perhaps that

lady of the glove, who sent her lover to the lions. But the snare is

laid alike for male and female, and the world most artfully contrived.

Near her, in a low chair, Gondremark had arranged his limbs into a

cat-like attitude, high-shouldered, stooping, and submiss. The

formidable blue jowl of the man, and the dull bilious eye, set perhaps a

higher value on his evident desire to please. His face was marked by

capacity, temper, and a kind of bold, piratical dishonesty which it

would be calumnious to call deceit. His manners, as he smiled upon the

Princess, were over-fine, yet hardly elegant.

"Possibly," said the Baron, "I should now proceed to take my leave. I

must not keep my sovereign in the ante-room. Let us come at once to a

decision."

"It cannot, cannot be put off?" she asked.

"It is impossible," answered Gondremark. "Your Highness sees it for

herself. In the earlier stages we might imitate the serpent; but for the

ultimatum, there is no choice but to be bold like lions. Had the Prince

chosen to remain away, it had been better; but we have gone too far

forward to delay."

"What can have brought him?" she cried. "To-day of all days?"

"The marplot, madam, has the instinct of his nature," returned

Gondremark. "But you exaggerate the peril. Think, madam, how far we have

prospered, and against what odds! Shall a Featherhead?--but no!" And he

blew upon his fingers lightly with a laugh.

"Featherhead," she replied, "is still the Prince of Gruenewald."

"On your sufferance only, and so long as you shall please to be

indulgent," said the Baron. "There are rights of nature; power to the

powerful is the law. If he shall think to cross your destiny--well, you

have heard of the brazen and the earthen pot."

"Do you call me pot? You are ungallant, Baron," laughed the Princess.

"Before we are done with your glory, I shall have called you by many

different titles," he replied.

The girl flushed with pleasure. "But Frederic is still the Prince,

_monsieur le flatteur_," she said. "You do not propose a

revolution?--you of all men?"

"Dear madam, when it is already made!" he cried. "The Prince reigns

indeed in the almanac; but my Princess reigns and rules." And he looked

at her with a fond admiration that made the heart of Seraphina swell.

Looking on her huge slave, she drank the intoxicating joys of power.

Meanwhile he continued, with that sort of massive archness that so ill

became him, "She has but one fault; there is but one danger in the great

career that I foresee for her. May I name it? may I be so irreverent? It

is in herself--her heart is soft."

"Her courage is faint, Baron," said the Princess. "Suppose we have

judged ill, suppose we were defeated?"

"Defeated, madam?" returned the Baron, with a touch of ill-humour. "Is

the dog defeated by the hare? Our troops are all cantoned along the

frontier; in five hours the vanguard of five thousand bayonets shall be

hammering on the gates of Brandenau; and in all Gerolstein there are not

fifteen hundred men who can manoeuvre. It is as simple as a sum. There

can be no resistance."

"It is no great exploit," she said. "Is that what you call glory? It is

like beating a child."

"The courage, madam, is diplomatic," he replied. "We take a grave step;

we fix the eyes of Europe, for the first time, on Gruenewald; and in the

negotiations of the next three months, mark me, we stand or fall. It is

there, madam, that I shall have to depend upon your counsels," he added,

almost gloomily. "If I had not seen you at work, if I did not know the

fertility of your mind, I own I should tremble for the consequence. But

It is in this field that men must recognise their inability. All the

great negotiators, when they have not been women, have had women at

their elbows. Madame de Pompadour was ill served; she had not found her

Gondremark; but what a mighty politician! Catherine de' Medici, too,

what justice of sight, what readiness of means, what elasticity against

defeat! But alas! madam, her Featherheads were her own children; and she

had that one touch of vulgarity, that one trait of the good-wife, that

she suffered family ties and affections to confine her liberty."

These singular views of history, strictly _ad usum Seraphinae_, did not

weave their usual soothing spell over the Princess. It was plain that

she had taken a momentary distaste to her own resolutions; for she

continued to oppose her counsellor, looking upon him out of half-closed

eyes and with the shadow of a sneer upon her lips. "What boys men are!"

she said; "what lovers of big words! Courage, indeed! If you had to

scour pans, Herr von Gondremark, you would call it, I suppose, Domestic

Courage?"

"I would, madam," said the Baron stoutly, "if I scoured them well. I

would put a good name upon a virtue; you will not overdo it; they are

not so enchanting in themselves."

"Well, but let me see," she said. "I wish to understand your courage.

Why we asked leave, like children! Our grannie in Berlin, our uncle in

Vienna, the whole family, have patted us on the head and sent us

forward. Courage? I wonder when I hear you!"

"My Princess is unlike herself," returned the Baron. "She has forgotten

where the peril lies. True, we have received encouragement on every

hand; but my Princess knows too well on what untenable conditions; and

she knows besides how, in the publicity of the diet, these whispered

conferences are forgotten and disowned. The danger is very real"--he

raged inwardly at having to blow the very coal he had been

quenching--"none the less real in that it is not precisely military, but

for that reason the easier to be faced. Had we to count upon your

troops, although I share your Highness's expectations of the conduct of

Alvenau, we cannot forget that he has not been proved in chief command.

But where negotiation is concerned, the conduct lies with us; and with

your help, I laugh at danger."

"It may be so," said Seraphina, sighing. "It is elsewhere that I see

danger. The people, these abominable people--suppose they should

instantly rebel? What a figure we should make in the eyes of Europe to

have undertaken an invasion while my own throne was tottering to its

fall!"

"Nay, madam," said Gondremark, smiling, "here you are beneath yourself.

What is it that feeds their discontent? What but the taxes? Once we have

seized Gerolstein, the taxes are remitted, the sons return covered with

renown, the houses are adorned with pillage, each tastes his little

share of military glory, and behold us once again a happy family! 'Ay,'

they will say in each other's long ears, 'the Princess knew what she was

about; she was in the right of it; she has a head upon her shoulders;

and here we are, you see, better off than before.' But why should I say

all this? It is what my Princess pointed out to me herself; it was by

these reasons that she converted me to this adventure."

"I think, Herr von Gondremark," said Seraphina, somewhat tartly, "you

often attribute your own sagacity to your Princess."

For a second Gondremark staggered under the shrewdness of the attack;

the next, he had perfectly recovered. "Do I?" he said. "It is very

possible. I have observed a similar tendency in your Highness."

It was so openly spoken, and appeared so just, that Seraphina breathed

again. Her vanity had been alarmed, and the greatness of the relief

improved her spirits. "Well," she said, "all this is little to the

purpose. We are keeping Frederic without, and I am still ignorant of our

line of battle. Come, co-admiral, let us consult.... How am I to receive

him now? And what are we to do if he should appear at the council?"

"Now," he answered. "I shall leave him to my Princess for just now! I

have seen her at work. Send him off to his theatricals! But in all

gentleness," he added. "Would it, for instance, would it displease my

sovereign to affect a headache?"

"Never!" said she. "The woman who can manage, like the man who can

fight, must never shrink from an encounter. The knight must not disgrace

his weapons."

"Then let me pray my _belle dame sans merci_," he returned, "to affect

the only virtue that she lacks. Be pitiful to the poor young man; affect

an interest in his hunting; be weary of politics; find in his society,

as it were, a grateful repose from dry considerations. Does my Princess

authorise the line of battle?"

"Well, that is a trifle," answered Seraphina. "The council--there is the

point."

"The council?" cried Gondremark. "Permit me, madam." And he rose and

proceeded to flutter about the room, counterfeiting Otto both in voice

and gesture not unhappily. "What is there to-day, Herr von Gondremark?

Ah, Herr Cancellarius, a new wig! You cannot deceive me; I know every

wig in Gruenewald; I have the sovereign's eye. What are these papers

about? O, I see. O, certainly. Surely, surely. I wager none of you

remarked that wig. By all means. I know nothing about that. Dear me, are

there as many as all that? Well, you can sign them; you have the

procuration. You see, Herr Cancellarius, I knew your wig. And so,"

concluded Gondremark, resuming his own voice, "our sovereign, by the

particular grace of God, enlightens and supports his privy councillors."

But when the Baron turned to Seraphina for approval he found her frozen.

"You are pleased to be witty, Herr von Gondremark," she said, "and have

perhaps forgotten where you are. But these rehearsals are apt to be

misleading. Your master, the Prince of Gruenewald, is sometimes more

exacting."

Gondremark cursed her in his soul. Of all injured vanities, that of the

reproved buffoon is the most savage; and when grave issues are involved,

these petty stabs become unbearable. But Gondremark was a man of iron;

he showed nothing; he did not even, like the common trickster, retreat

because he had presumed, but held to his point bravely. "Madam," he

said, "if, as you say, he prove exacting, we must take the bull by the

horns."

"We shall see," she said, and she arranged her skirt like one about to

rise. Temper, scorn, disgust, all the more acrid feelings, became her

like jewels; and she now looked her best.

"Pray God they quarrel," thought Gondremark. "The damned minx may fail

me yet, unless they quarrel. It is time to let him in. Zz--fight, dogs!"

Consequent on these reflections, he bent a stiff knee, and chivalrously

kissed the Princess's hand. "My Princess," he said, "must now dismiss

her servant. I have much to arrange against the hour of council."

"Go," she said, and rose.

And as Gondremark tripped out of a private door, she touched a bell, and

gave the order to admit the Prince.

CHAPTER VI

THE PRINCE DELIVERS A LECTURE ON MARRIAGE, WITH PRACTICAL ILLUSTRATIONS

OF DIVORCE

With what a world of excellent intentions Otto entered his wife's

cabinet! how fatherly, how tender! how morally affecting were the words

he had prepared! Nor was Seraphina unamiably inclined. Her usual fear of

Otto as a marplot in her great designs was now swallowed up in a passing

distrust of the designs themselves. For Gondremark, besides, she had

conceived an angry horror. In her heart she did not like the Baron.

Behind his impudent servility, behind the devotion which, with

indelicate delicacy, he still forced on her attention, she divined the

grossness of his nature. So a man may be proud of having tamed a bear,

and yet sicken at his captive's odour. And above all, she had certain

jealous intimations that the man was false and the deception double.

True, she falsely trifled with his love; but he, perhaps, was only

trifling with her vanity. The insolence of his late mimicry, and the

odium of her own position as she sat and watched it, lay besides like a

load upon her conscience. She met Otto almost with a sense of guilt, and

yet she welcomed him as a deliverer from ugly things.

But the wheels of an interview are at the mercy of a thousand ruts; and

even at Otto's entrance, the first jolt occurred. Gondremark, he saw,

was gone; but there was the chair drawn close for consultation; and it

pained him not only that this man had been received, but that he should

depart with such an air of secrecy. Struggling with this twinge, it was

somewhat sharply that he dismissed the attendant who had brought him

in.

"You make yourself at home, _chez moi_," she said, a little ruffled both

by his tone of command and by the glance he had thrown upon the chair.

"Madam," replied Otto, "I am here so seldom that I have almost the

rights of a stranger."

"You choose your own associates, Frederic," she said.

"I am here to speak of it," he returned. "It is now four years since we

were married; and these four years, Seraphina, have not perhaps been

happy either for you or for me. I am well aware I was unsuitable to be

your husband. I was not young, I had no ambition, I was a trifler; and

you despised me, I dare not say unjustly. But to do justice on both

sides, you must bear in mind how I have acted. When I found it amused

you to play the part of Princess on this little stage, did I not

immediately resign to you my box of toys, this Gruenewald? And when I

found I was distasteful as a husband, could any husband have been less

intrusive? You will tell me that I have no feelings, no preference, and

thus no credit; that I go before the wind; that all this was in my

character. And indeed, one thing is true,--that it is easy, too easy, to

leave things undone. But, Seraphina, I begin to learn it is not always

wise. If I were too old and too uncongenial for your husband, I should

still have remembered that I was the Prince of that country to which you

came, a visitor and a child. In that relation also there were duties,

and these duties I have not performed."

To claim the advantage of superior age is to give sure offence. "Duty!"

laughed Seraphina, "and on your lips, Frederic! You make me laugh. What

fancy is this? Go, flirt with the maids and be a prince in Dresden

china, as you look. Enjoy yourself, _mon enfant_, and leave duty and the

state to us."

The plural grated on the Prince. "I have enjoyed myself too much," he

said, "since enjoyment is the word. And yet there were much to say upon

the other side. You must suppose me desperately fond of hunting. But

indeed there were days when I found a great deal of interest in what it

was courtesy to call my government. And I have always had some claim to

taste; I could tell live happiness from dull routine; and between

hunting, and the throne of Austria, and your society, my choice had

never wavered, had the choice been mine. You were a girl, a bud, when

you were given me----"

"Heavens!" she cried, "is this to be a love-scene?"

"I am never ridiculous," he said; "it is my only merit; and you may be

certain this shall be a scene of marriage _a la mode_. But when I

remember the beginning, it is bare courtesy to speak in sorrow. Be just,

madam: you would think me strangely uncivil to recall these days without

the decency of a regret. Be yet a little juster, and own, if only in

complaisance, that you yourself regret that past."

"I have nothing to regret," said the Princess. "You surprise me. I

thought you were so happy."

"Happy and happy, there are so many hundred ways," said Otto. "A man may

be happy in revolt; he may be happy in sleep; wine, change, and travel

make him happy; virtue, they say, will do the like--I have not tried;

and they say also that in old, quiet, and habitual marriages there is

yet another happiness. Happy, yes; I am happy if you like; but I will

tell you frankly, I was happier when I brought you home."

"Well," said the Princess, not without constraint, "it seems you changed

your mind."

"Not I," returned Otto, "I never changed. Do you remember, Seraphina, on

our way home, when you saw the roses in the lane, and I got out and

plucked them? It was a narrow lane between great trees; the sunset at

the end was all gold, and the rooks were flying overhead. There were

nine, nine red roses; you gave me a kiss for each, and I told myself

that every rose and every kiss should stand for a year of love. Well,

in eighteen months there was an end. But do you fancy, Seraphina, that

my heart has altered?"

"I am sure I cannot tell," she said, like an automaton.

"It has not," the Prince continued. "There is nothing ridiculous, even

from a husband, in a love that owns itself unhappy and that asks no

more. I built on sand; pardon me, I do not breathe a reproach--I built,

I suppose, upon my own infirmities; but I put my heart in the building,

and it still lies among the ruins."

"How very poetical!" she said, with a little choking laugh, unknown

relentings, unfamiliar softnesses, moving within her. "What would you be

at?" she added, hardening her voice.

"I would be at this," he answered; "and hard it is to say. I would be at

this:--Seraphina, I am your husband, after all, and a poor fool that

loves you. Understand," he cried almost fiercely, "I am no suppliant

husband; what your love refuses I would scorn to receive from your pity.

I do not ask, I would not take it. And for jealousy, what ground have I?

A dog-in-the-manger jealousy is a thing the dogs may laugh at. But at

least, in the world's eye, I am still your husband; and I ask you if you

treat me fairly? I keep to myself, I leave you free, I have given you in

everything your will. What do you in return? I find, Seraphina, that you

have been too thoughtless. But between persons such as we are, in our

conspicuous station, particular care and a particular courtesy are

owing. Scandal is perhaps not easy to avoid; but it is hard to bear."

"Scandal!" she cried, with a deep breath. "Scandal! It is for this you

have been driving!"

"I have tried to tell you how I feel," he replied. "I have told you that

I love you--love you in vain--a bitter thing for a husband; I have laid

myself open that I might speak without offence. And now that I have

begun, I will go on and finish."

"I demand it," she said. "What is this about?"

Otto flushed crimson. "I have to say what I would fain not," he

answered. "I counsel you to see less of Gondremark."

"Of Gondremark? And why?" she asked.

"Your intimacy is the ground of scandal, madam," said Otto, firmly

enough--"of a scandal that is agony to me, and would be crushing to your

parents if they knew it."

"You are the first to bring me word of it," said she. "I thank you."

"You have perhaps cause," he replied. "Perhaps I am the only one among

your friends----"

"O, leave my friends alone," she interrupted. "My friends are of a

different stamp. You have come to me here and made a parade of

sentiment. When have I last seen you? I have governed your kingdom for

you in the meantime, and there I got no help. At last, when I am weary

with a man's work, and you are weary of your playthings, you return to

make me a scene of conjugal reproaches--the grocer and his wife! The

positions are too much reversed; and you should understand, at least,

that I cannot at the same time do your work of government and behave

myself like a little girl. Scandal is the atmosphere in which we live,

we princes; it is what a prince should know. You play an odious part. Do

you believe this rumour?"

"Madam, should I be here?" said Otto.

"It is what I want to know!" she cried, the tempest of her scorn

increasing. "Suppose you did--I say, suppose you did believe it?"

"I should make it my business to suppose the contrary," he answered.

"I thought so. O, you are made of baseness!" said she.

"Madam," he cried, roused at last, "enough of this. You wilfully

misunderstand my attitude; you outwear my patience. In the name of your

parents, in my own name, I summon you to be more circumspect."

"Is this a request, _monsieur mon mari_?" she demanded.

"Madam, if I chose, I might command," said Otto.

"You might, sir, as the law stands, make me prisoner," returned

Seraphina. "Short of that you will gain nothing."

"You will continue as before?" he asked.

"Precisely as before," said she. "As soon as this comedy is over, I

shall request the Freiherr von Gondremark to visit me. Do you

understand?" she added, rising. "For my part, I have done."

"I will then ask the favour of your hand, madam," said Otto, palpitating

in every pulse with anger. "I have to request that you will visit in my

society another part of my poor house. And reassure yourself--it will

not take long--and it is the last obligation that you shall have the

chance to lay me under."

"The last?" she cried. "Most joyfully!"

She offered her hand, and he took it; on each side with an elaborate

affectation, each inwardly incandescent. He led her out by the private

door, following where Gondremark had passed; they threaded a corridor or

two, little frequented, looking on a court, until they came at last into

the Prince's suite. The first room was an armoury, hung all about with

the weapons of various countries, and looking forth on the front

terrace.

"Have you brought me here to slay me?" she inquired.

"I have brought you, madam, only to pass on," replied Otto.

Next they came to a library, where an old chamberlain sat half asleep.

He rose and bowed before the princely couple, asking for orders.

"You will attend us here," said Otto.

The next stage was a gallery of pictures, where Seraphina's portrait

hung conspicuous, dressed for the chase, red roses in her hair, as Otto,

in the first months of marriage, had directed. He pointed to it without

a word; she raised her eyebrows in silence; and they passed still

forward into a matted corridor where four doors opened. One led to

Otto's bedroom; one was the private door to Seraphina's. And here, for

the first time, Otto left her hand, and, stepping forward, shot the

bolt.

"It is long, madam," said he, "since it was bolted on the other side."

"One was effectual," returned the Princess. "Is this all?"

"Shall I reconduct you?" he asked, bowing.

"I should prefer," she asked, in ringing tones, "the conduct of the

Freiherr von Gondremark."

Otto summoned the chamberlain. "If the Freiherr von Gondremark is in the

palace," he said, "bid him attend the Princess here." And when the

official had departed, "Can I do more to serve you, madam?" the Prince

asked.

"Thank you, no. I have been much amused," she answered.

"I have now," continued Otto, "given you your liberty complete. This has

been for you a miserable marriage."

"Miserable!" said she.

"It has been made light to you; it shall be lighter still," continued

the Prince. "But one thing, madam, you must still continue to bear--my

father's name, which is now yours. I leave it in your hands. Let me see

you, since you will have no advice of mine, apply the more attention of

your own to bear it worthily."

"Herr von Gondremark is long in coming," she remarked.

"O Seraphina, Seraphina!" he cried. And that was the end of their

interview.

She tripped to a window and looked out; and a little after, the

chamberlain announced the Freiherr von Gondremark, who entered with

something of a wild eye and changed complexion, confounded, as he was,

at this unusual summons. The Princess faced round from the window with a

pearly smile; nothing but her heightened colour spoke of discomposure.

Otto was pale, but he was otherwise master of himself.

"Herr von Gondremark," said he, "oblige me so far: reconduct the

Princess to her own apartment."

The Baron, still all at sea, offered his hand, which was smilingly

accepted, and the pair sailed forth through the picture-gallery.

As soon as they were gone, and Otto knew the length and breadth of his

miscarriage, and how he had done the contrary of all that he intended,

he stood stupefied. A fiasco so complete and sweeping was laughable,

even to himself; and he laughed aloud in his wrath. Upon this mood there

followed the sharpest violence of remorse; and to that again, as he

recalled his provocation, anger succeeded afresh. So he was tossed in

spirit; now bewailing his inconsequence and lack of temper, now flaming

up in white-hot indignation and a noble pity for himself.

He paced his apartment like a leopard. There was danger in Otto, for a

flash. Like a pistol, he could kill at one moment, and the next he might

be kicked aside. But just then, as he walked the long floors in his

alternate humours, tearing his handkerchief between his hands, he was

strung to his top note, every nerve attent. The pistol, you might say,

was charged. And when jealousy from time to time fetched him a lash

across the tenderest of his feeling, and sent a string of her

fire-pictures glancing before his mind's eye, the contraction of his

face was even dangerous. He disregarded jealousy's inventions, yet they

stung. In this height of anger, he still preserved his faith in

Seraphina's innocence; but the thought of her possible misconduct was

the bitterest ingredient in his pot of sorrow.

There came a knock at the door, and the chamberlain brought him a note.

He took it and ground it in his hand, continuing his march, continuing

his bewildered thoughts; and some minutes had gone by before the

circumstance came clearly to his mind. Then he paused and opened it. It

was a pencil scratch from Gotthold, thus conceived:

"The council is privately summoned at once.

"G. v. H."

If the council was thus called before the hour, and that privately, it

was plain they feared his interference. Feared: here was a sweet

thought. Gotthold, too--Gotthold, who had always used and regarded him

as a mere peasant lad, had now been at the pains to warn him; Gotthold

looked for something at his hands. Well, none should be disappointed;

the Prince, too long beshadowed by the uxorious lover, should now return

and shine. He summoned his valet, repaired the disorder of his

appearance with elaborate care; and then, curled and scented and

adorned, Prince Charming in every line, but with a twitching nostril, he

set forth unattended for the council.

CHAPTER VII

THE PRINCE DISSOLVES THE COUNCIL

It was as Gotthold wrote. The liberation of Sir John, Greisengesang's

uneasy narrative, last of all, the scene between Seraphina and the

Prince, had decided the conspirators to take a step of bold timidity.

There had been a period of bustle, liveried messengers speeding here and

there with notes; and at half-past ten in the morning, about an hour

before its usual hour, the council of Gruenewald sat around the board.

It was not a large body. At the instance of Gondremark, it had undergone

a strict purgation, and was now composed exclusively of tools. Three

secretaries sat at a side-table. Seraphina took the head; on her right

was the Baron, on her left Greisengesang; below these Grafinski the

treasurer, Count Eisenthal, a couple of non-combatants, and, to the

surprise of all, Gotthold. He had been named a privy councillor by Otto,

merely that he might profit by the salary; and as he was never known to

attend a meeting, it had occurred to nobody to cancel his appointment.

His present appearance was the more ominous, coming when it did.

Gondremark scowled upon him; and the non-combatant on his right,

intercepting this black look, edged away from one who was so clearly out

of favour.

"The hour presses, your Highness," said the Baron; "may we proceed to

business?"

"At once," replied Seraphina.

"Your Highness will pardon me," said Gotthold; "but you are still,

perhaps, unacquainted with the fact that Prince Otto has returned."

"The Prince will not attend the council," replied Seraphina, with a

momentary blush.--"The despatches, Herr Cancellarius? There is one for

Gerolstein?"

A secretary brought a paper.

"Here, madam," said Greisengesang. "Shall I read it?"

"We are all familiar with its terms," replied Gondremark. "Your Highness

approves?"

"Unhesitatingly," said Seraphina.

"It may then be held as read," concluded the Baron. "Will your Highness

sign?"

The Princess did so; Gondremark, Eisenthal, and one of the

non-combatants followed suit; and the paper was then passed across the

table to the librarian. He proceeded leisurely to read.

"We have no time to spare, Herr Doctor," cried the Baron brutally. "If

you do not choose to sign on the authority of your sovereign, pass it

on. Or you may leave the table," he added, his temper ripping out.

"I decline your invitation, Herr von Gondremark; and my sovereign, as I

continue to observe with regret, is still absent from the board,"

replied the Doctor calmly; and he resumed the perusal of the paper, the

rest chafing and exchanging glances. "Madam and gentlemen," he said at

last, "what I hold in my hand is simply a declaration of war."

"Simply," said Seraphina, flashing defiance.

"The sovereign of this country is under the same roof with us,"

continued Gotthold, "and I insist he shall be summoned. It is needless

to adduce my reasons; you are all ashamed at heart of this projected

treachery."

The council waved like a sea. There were various outcries.

"You insult the Princess," thundered Gondremark.

"I maintain my protest," replied Gotthold.

At the height of this confusion the door was thrown open; an usher

announced, "Gentlemen, the Prince!" and Otto, with his most excellent

bearing, entered the apartment. It was like oil upon the troubled

waters; every one settled instantly into his place, and Greisengesang,

to give himself a countenance, became absorbed in the arrangement of his

papers; but in their eagerness to dissemble one and all neglected to

rise.

"Gentlemen," said the Prince, pausing.

They all got to their feet in a moment; and this reproof still further

demoralised the weaker brethren.

The Prince moved slowly towards the lower end of the table; then he

paused again, and, fixing his eye on Greisengesang, "How comes it, Herr

Cancellarius," he said, "that I have received no notice of the change of

hour?"

"Your Highness," replied the Chancellor, "her Highness the Princess ..."

and there paused.

"I understood," said Seraphina, taking him up, "that you did not purpose

to be present."

Their eyes met for a second, and Seraphina's fell; but her anger only

burned the brighter for that private shame.

"And now, gentlemen," said Otto, taking his chair, "I pray you to be

seated. I have been absent; there are doubtless some arrears; but ere we

proceed to business, Herr Grafinski, you will direct four thousand

crowns to be sent to me at once. Make a note, if you please," he added,

as the treasurer still stared in wonder.

"Four thousand crowns?" asked Seraphina. "Pray for what?"

"Madam," returned Otto, smiling, "for my own purposes."

Gondremark spurred up Grafinski underneath the table.

"If your Highness will indicate the destination ..." began the puppet.

"You are not here, sir, to interrogate your Prince," said Otto.

Grafinski looked for help to his commander; and Gondrermark came to his

aid, in suave and measured tones.

"Your Highness may reasonably be surprised," he said; "and Herr

Grafinski, although I am convinced he is clear of the intention of

offending, would have perhaps done better to begin with an explanation.

The resources of the state are at the present moment entirely swallowed

up, or, as we hope to prove, wisely invested. In a month from now, I do

not question we shall be able to meet any command your Highness may lay

upon us; but at this hour I fear that, even in so small a matter, he

must prepare himself for disappointment. Our zeal is no less, although

our power may be inadequate."

"How much, Herr Grafinski, have we in the treasury?" asked Otto.

"Your Highness," protested the treasurer, "we have immediate need of

every crown."

"I think, sir, you evade me," flashed the Prince; and then, turning to

the side-table, "Mr. Secretary," he added, "bring me, if you please, the

treasury docket."

Herr Grafinski became deadly pale; the Chancellor, expecting his own

turn, was probably engaged in prayer; Gondremark was watching like a

ponderous cat. Gotthold, on his part, looked on with wonder at his

cousin; he was certainly showing spirit, but what, in such a time of

gravity, was all this talk of money? and why should he waste his

strength upon a personal issue?

"I find," said Otto, with his finger on the docket, "that we have 20,000

crowns in case."

"That is exact, your Highness," replied the Baron. "But our liabilities,

all of which are happily not liquid, amount to a far larger sum; and at

the present point of time it would be morally impossible to divert a

single florin. Essentially, the case is empty. We have, already

presented, a large note for material of war."

"Material of war?" exclaimed Otto, with an excellent assumption of

surprise. "But if my memory serves me right, we settled these accounts

in January."

"There have been further orders," the Baron explained. "A new park of

artillery has been completed; five hundred stand of arms, seven hundred

baggage mules--the details are in a special memorandum.--Mr. Secretary

Holtz, the memorandum, if you please."

"One would think, gentlemen, that we were going to war," said Otto.

"We are," said Seraphina.

"War!" cried the Prince. "And, gentlemen, with whom? The peace of

Gruenewald has endured for centuries. What aggression, what insult, have

we suffered?"

"Here, your Highness," said Gotthold, "is the ultimatum. It was in the

very article of signature, when your Highness so opportunely entered."

Otto laid the paper before him; as he read, his fingers played tattoo

upon the table. "Was it proposed," he inquired, "to send this paper

forth without a knowledge of my pleasure?"

One of the non-combatants, eager to trim, volunteered an answer. "The

Herr Doctor von Hohenstockwitz had just entered his dissent," he added.

"Give me the rest of this correspondence," said the Prince. It was

handed to him, and he read it patiently from end to end, while the

councillors sat foolishly enough looking before them on the table. The

secretaries, in the background, were exchanging glances of delight; a

row at the council was for them a rare and welcome feature.

"Gentlemen," said Otto, when he had finished, "I have read with pain.

This claim upon Obermuensterol is palpably unjust; it has not a tincture,

not a show, of justice. There is not in all this ground enough for

after-dinner talk, and you propose to force it as a _casus belli_."

"Certainly, your Highness," returned Gondremark, too wise to defend the

indefensible, "the claim on Obermuensterol is simply a pretext."

"It is well," said the Prince. "Herr Cancellarius, take your pen. 'The

council,'" he began to dictate--"I withhold all notice of my

intervention," he said, in parenthesis, and addressing himself more

directly to his wife; "and I say nothing of the strange suppression by

which this business has been smuggled past my knowledge. I am content to

be in time--'The council,'" he resumed, "'on a further examination of

the facts, and enlightened by the note in the last despatch from

Gerolstein, have the pleasure to announce that they are entirely at one,

both as to fact and sentiment, with the Grand-Ducal Court of

Gerolstein.' You have it? Upon these lines, sir, you will draw up the

despatch."

"If your Highness will allow me," said the Baron, "your Highness is so

imperfectly acquainted with the internal history of this correspondence,

that any interference will be merely hurtful. Such a paper as your

Highness proposes would be to stultify the whole previous policy of

Gruenewald."

"The policy of Gruenewald!" cried the Prince. "One would suppose you had

no sense of humour! Would you fish in a coffee cup?"

"With deference, your Highness," returned the Baron, "even in a coffee

cup there may be poison. The purpose of this war is not simply

territorial enlargement; still less is it a war of glory; for, as your

Highness indicates, the state of Gruenewald is too small to be ambitious.

But the body politic is seriously diseased; republicanism, socialism,

many disintegrating ideas are abroad; circle within circle, a really

formidable organisation has grown up about your Highness's throne."

"I have heard of it, Herr von Gondremark," put in the Prince; "but I

have reason to be aware that yours is the more authoritative

information."

"I am honoured by this expression of my Prince's confidence," returned

Gondremark, unabashed. "It is, therefore, with a single eye to these

disorders that our present external policy has been shaped. Something

was required to divert public attention, to employ the idle, to

popularise your Highness's rule, and, if it were possible, to enable him

to reduce the taxes at a blow, and to a notable amount. The proposed

expedition--for it cannot without hyperbole be called a war--seemed to

the council to combine the various characters required; a marked

improvement in the public sentiment has followed even upon our

preparations; and I cannot doubt that when success shall follow, the

effect will surpass even our boldest hopes."

"You are very adroit, Herr von Gondremark," said Otto. "You fill me with

admiration. I had not heretofore done justice to your qualities."

Seraphina looked up with joy, supposing Otto conquered; but Gondremark

still waited, armed at every point; he knew how very stubborn is the

revolt of a weak character.

"And the territorial army scheme, to which I was persuaded to

consent--was it secretly directed to the same end?" the Prince asked.

"I still believe the effect to have been good," replied the Baron;

"discipline and mounting guard are excellent sedatives. But I will avow

to your Highness, I was unaware, at the date of that decree, of the

magnitude of the revolutionary movement; nor did any of us, I think,

imagine that such a territorial army was a part of the republican

proposals."

"It was?" asked Otto. "Strange! Upon what fancied grounds?"

"The grounds were indeed fanciful," returned the Baron. "It was

conceived among the leaders that a territorial army, drawn from and

returning to the people, would, in the event of any popular uprising,

prove lukewarm or unfaithful to the throne."

"I see," said the Prince. "I begin to understand."

"His Highness begins to understand?" repeated Gondremark, with the

sweetest politeness. "May I beg of him to complete the phrase?"

"The history of the revolution," replied Otto drily. "And now," he

added, "what do you conclude?"

"I conclude, your Highness, with a simple reflection," said the Baron,

accepting the stab without a quiver, "the war is popular; were the

rumour contradicted to-morrow, a considerable disappointment would be

felt in many classes; and in the present tension of spirits, the most

lukewarm sentiment may be enough to precipitate events. There lies the

danger. The revolution hangs imminent; we sit, at this council board,

below the sword of Damocles."

"We must then lay our heads together," said the Prince, "and devise some

honourable means of safety."

Up to this moment, since the first note of opposition fell from the

librarian, Seraphina had uttered about twenty words. With a somewhat

heightened colour, her eyes generally lowered, her foot sometimes

nervously tapping on the floor, she had kept her own counsel and

commanded her anger like a hero. But at this stage of the engagement she

lost control of her impatience.

"Means!" she cried. "They have been found and prepared before you knew

the need for them. Sign the despatch, and let us be done with this

delay."

"Madam, I said 'honourable,'" returned Otto, bowing. "This war is, in my

eyes, and by Herr von Gondremark's account, an inadmissible expedient.

If we have misgoverned here in Gruenewald, are the people of Gerolstein

to bleed and pay for our misdoings? Never, madam; not while I live. But

I attach so much importance to all that I have heard to-day for the

first time--and why only to-day I do not even stop to ask--that I am

eager to find some plan that I can follow with credit to myself."

"And should you fail?" she asked.

"Should I fail, I will then meet the blow half-way," replied the Prince.

"On the first open discontent, I shall convoke the States, and, when it

pleases them to bid me, abdicate."

Seraphina laughed angrily. "This is the man for whom we have been

labouring!" she cried. "We tell him of change; he will devise the means,

he says; and his device is abdication? Sir, have you no shame to come

here at the eleventh hour among those who have borne the heat and

burthen of the day? Do you not wonder at yourself? I, sir, was here in

my place, striving to uphold your dignity alone. I took counsel with the

wisest I could find, while you were eating and hunting. I have laid my

plans with foresight; they were ripe for action; and then--" she

choked--"then you return--for a forenoon--to ruin all! To-morrow you

will be once more about your pleasures; you will give us leave once more

to think and work for you; and again you will come back, and again you

will thwart what you had not the industry or knowledge to conceive. O!

it is intolerable. Be modest, sir. Do not presume upon the rank you

cannot worthily uphold. I would not issue my commands with so much

gusto--it is from no merit in yourself they are obeyed. What are you?

What have you to do in this grave council? Go," she cried, "go among

your equals! The very people in the streets mock at you for a prince."

At this surprising outburst the whole council sat aghast.

"Madam," said the Baron, alarmed out of his caution, "command yourself."

"Address yourself to me, sir!" cried the Prince. "I will not bear these

whisperings!"

Seraphina burst into tears.

"Sir," cried the Baron, rising, "this lady----"

"Herr von Gondremark," said the Prince, "one more observation, and I

place you under arrest."

"Your Highness is the master," replied Gondremark, bowing.

"Bear it in mind more constantly," said Otto. "Herr Cancellarius, bring

all the papers to my cabinet. Gentlemen, the council is dissolved."

And he bowed and left the apartment, followed by Greisengesang and the

secretaries, just at the moment when the Princess's ladies, summoned in

all haste, entered by another door to help her forth.

CHAPTER VIII

THE PARTY OF WAR TAKES ACTION

Half an hour after, Gondremark was once more closeted with Seraphina.

"Where is he now?" she asked, on his arrival.

"Madam, he is with the Chancellor," replied the Baron. "Wonder of

wonders, he is at work!"

"Ah," she said, "he was born to torture me! O what a fall, what a

humiliation! Such a scheme to wreck upon so small a trifle! But now all

is lost."

"Madam," said Gondremark, "nothing is lost. Something, on the other

hand, is found. You have found your senses; you see him as he is--see

him as you see everything where your too-good heart is not in

question--with the judicial, with the statesman's eye. So long as he had

a right to interfere, the empire that may be was still distant. I have

not entered on this course without the plain foresight of its dangers;

and even for this I was prepared. But, madam, I knew two things; I knew

that you were born to command, that I was born to serve; I knew that by

a rare conjuncture the hand had found the tool; and from the first I was

confident, as I am confident to-day, that no hereditary trifler has the

power to shatter that alliance."

"I, born to command!" she said. "Do you forget my tears?"

"Madam, they were the tears of Alexander," cried the Baron. "They

touched, they thrilled me; I forgot myself a moment--even I! But do you

suppose that I had not remarked, that I had not admired, your previous

bearing? your great self-command? Ay, that was princely!" He paused.

"It was a thing to see. I drank confidence! I tried to imitate your

calm. And I was well inspired; in my heart, I think that I was well

inspired; that any man, within the reach of argument, had been

convinced! But it was not to be; nor, madam, do I regret the failure.

Let us be open; let me disclose my heart. I have loved two things, not

unworthily: Gruenewald and my sovereign!" Here he kissed her hand.

"Either I must resign my ministry, leave the land of my adoption and the

queen whom I had chosen to obey--or----" He paused again.

"Alas, Herr von Gondremark, there is no 'or,'" said Seraphina.

"Nay, madam, give me time," he replied. "When first I saw you, you were

still young; not every man would have remarked your powers; but I had

not been twice honoured by your conversation ere I had found my

mistress. I have, madam, I believe, some genius; and I have much

ambition. But the genius is of the serving kind; and to offer a career

to my ambition, I had to find one born to rule. This is the base and

essence of our union; each had need of the other; each recognised,

master and servant, lever and fulcrum, the complement of his endowment.

Marriages, they say, are made in heaven: how much more these pure,

laborious, intellectual fellowships, born to found empires! Nor is this

all. We found each other ripe, filled with great ideas that took shape

and clarified with every word. We grew together--ay, madam, in mind we

grew together like twin children. All of my life until we met was petty

and groping; was it not--I will flatter myself openly--it _was_ the same

with you! Not till then had you those eagle surveys, that wide and

hopeful sweep of intuition! Thus we had formed ourselves, and we were

ready."

"It is true," she cried. "I feel it. Yours is the genius; your

generosity confounds your insight; all I could offer you was the

position, was this throne, to be a fulcrum. But I offered it without

reserve; I entered at least warmly into all your thoughts; you were sure

of me--sure of my support--certain of justice. Tell me, tell me again,

that I have helped you."

"Nay, madam," he said, "you made me. In everything you were my

inspiration. And as we prepared our policy, weighing every step, how

often have I had to admire your perspicacity, your man-like diligence

and fortitude! You know that these are not the words of flattery; your

conscience echoes them; have you spared a day? have you indulged

yourself in any pleasure? Young and beautiful, you have lived a life of

high intellectual effort, of irksome intellectual patience with details.

Well, you have your reward: with the fall of Brandenau the throne of

your Empire is founded."

"What thought have you in your mind?" she asked. "Is not all ruined?"

"Nay, my Princess, the same thought is in both our minds," he said.

"Herr von Gondremark," she replied, "by all that I hold sacred, I have

none; I do not think at all; I am crushed."

"You are looking at the passionate side of a rich nature, misunderstood

and recently insulted," said the Baron. "Look into your intellect, and

tell me."

"I find nothing, nothing but tumult," she replied.

"You find one word branded, madam," returned the Baron: "'Abdication!'"

"O!" she cried. "The coward! He leaves me to bear all, and in the hour

of trial he stabs me from behind. There is nothing in him, not respect,

not love, not courage--his wife, his dignity, his throne, the honour of

his father, he forgets them all!"

"Yes," pursued the Baron, "the word Abdication. I perceive a glimmering

there."

"I read your fancy," she returned. "It is mere madness, midsummer

madness. Baron, I am more unpopular than he. You know it. They can

excuse, they can love, his weakness; but me, they hate."

"Such is the gratitude of peoples," said the Baron. "But we trifle.

Here, madam, are my plain thoughts. The man who in the hour of danger

speaks of abdication is, for me, a venomous animal. I speak with the

bluntness of gravity, madam; this is no hour for mincing. The coward, in

a station of authority, is more dangerous than fire. We dwell on a

volcano; if this man can have his way, Gruenewald before a week will have

been deluged with innocent blood. You know the truth of what I say; we

have looked unblenching into this ever-possible catastrophe. To him it

is nothing: he will abdicate! Abdicate, just God! and this unhappy

country committed to his charge, and the lives of men and the honour of

women...." His voice appeared to fail him; in an instant he had

conquered his emotion and resumed: "But you, madam, conceive more

worthily of your responsibilities. I am with you in the thought; and in

the face of the horrors that I see impending, I say, and your heart

repeats it--we have gone too far to pause. Honour, duty, ay, and the

care of our own lives, demand we should proceed."

She was looking at him, her brow thoughtfully knitted. "I feel it," she

said. "But how? He has the power."

"The power, madam? The power is in the army," he replied; and then

hastily, ere she could intevene, "we have to save ourselves," he went

on; "I have to save my Princess, she has to save her minister; we have

both of us to save this infatuated youth from his own madness. He in the

outbreak would be the earliest victim; I see him," he cried, "torn in

pieces; and Gruenewald, unhappy Gruenewald! Nay, madam, you who have the

power must use it; it lies hard upon your conscience."

"Show me how!" she cried. "Suppose I were to place him under some

constraint, the revolution would break upon us instantly."

The Baron feigned defeat. "It is true," he said. "You see more clearly

than I do. Yet there should, there must be, some way." And he waited for

his chance.

"No," she said; "I told you from the first there is no remedy. Our hopes

are lost: lost by one miserable trifler, ignorant, fretful, fitful--who

will have disappeared to-morrow, who knows? to his boorish pleasures!"

Any peg would do for Gondremark. "The thing!" he cried, striking his

brow. "Fool, not to have thought of it! Madam, without perhaps knowing

it, you have solved our problem."

"What do you mean? Speak!" she said.

He appeared to collect himself, and then, with a smile, "The Prince," he

said, "must go once more a-hunting."

"Ay, if he would!" cried she, "and stay there!"

"And stay there," echoed the Baron. It was so significantly said, that

her face changed; and the schemer, fearful of the sinister ambiguity of

his expressions, hastened to explain. "This time he shall go hunting in

a carriage, with a good escort of our foreign lancers. His destination

shall be the Felsenburg; it is healthy, the rock is high, the windows

are small and barred; it might have been built on purpose. We shall

entrust the captaincy to the Scotsman Gordon; he at least will have no

scruple. Who will miss the sovereign? He is gone hunting; he came home

on Tuesday, on Thursday he returned; all is usual in that. Meanwhile the

war proceeds; our Prince will soon weary of his solitude; and about the

time of our triumph, or, if he prove very obstinate, a little later, he

shall be released upon a proper understanding, and I see him once more

directing his theatricals."

Seraphina sat gloomy, plunged in thought. "Yes," she said suddenly, "and

the despatch? He is now writing it."

"It cannot pass the council before Friday," replied Gondremark; "and as

for any private note, the messengers are all at my disposal. They are

picked men, madam. I am a person of precaution."

"It would appear so," she said, with a flash of her occasional

repugnance to the man; and then after a pause, "Herr von Gondremark,"

she added, "I recoil from this extremity."

"I share your Highness's repugnance," answered he. "But what would you

have? We are defenceless else."

"I see it, but this is sudden. It is a public crime," she said, nodding

at him with a sort of horror.

"Look but a little deeper," he returned, "and whose is the crime?"

"His!" she cried. "His, before God! And I hold him liable. But

still----"

"It is not as if he would be harmed," submitted Gondremark.

"I know it," she replied, but it was still unheartily.

And then, as brave men are entitled, by prescriptive right as old as the

world's history, to the alliance and the active help of Fortune, the

punctual goddess stepped down from the machine. One of the Princess's

ladies begged to enter; a man, it appeared, had brought a line for the

Freiherr von Gondremark. It proved to be a pencil billet, which the

crafty Greisengesang had found the means to scribble and despatch under

the very guns of Otto; and the daring of the act bore testimony to the

terror of the actor. For Greisengesang had but one influential motive:

fear. The note ran thus: "At the first council, procuration to be

withdrawn.--CORN. GREIS."

So, after three years of exercise, the right of signature was to be

stript from Seraphina. It was more than an insult; it was a public

disgrace; and she did not pause to consider how she had earned it, but

morally bounded under the attack as bounds the wounded tiger.

"Enough," she said; "I will sign the order. When shall he leave?"

"It will take me twelve hours to collect my men, and it had best be done

at night. To-morrow midnight, if you please?" answered the Baron.

"Excellent," she said. "My door is always open to you, Baron. As soon as

the order is prepared, bring it me to sign."

"Madam," he said, "alone of all of us you do not risk your head in this

adventure. For that reason, and to prevent all hesitation, I venture to

propose the order should be in your hand throughout."

"You are right," she replied.

He laid a form before her, and she wrote the order in a clear hand, and

re-read it. Suddenly a cruel smile came on her face. "I had forgotten

his puppet," said she. "They will keep each other company." And she

interlined and initialled the condemnation of Dr. Gotthold.

"Your Highness has more memory than your servant," said the Baron; and

then he, in his turn, carefully perused the fateful paper. "Good!" said

he.

"You will appear in the drawing-room, Baron?" she asked.

"I thought it better," said he, "to avoid the possibility of a public

affront. Anything that shook my credit might hamper us in the immediate

future."

"You are right," she said; and she held out her hand as to an old friend

and equal.

CHAPTER IX

THE PRICE OF THE RIVER FARM; IN WHICH VAIN-GLORY GOES BEFORE A FALL

The pistol had been practically fired. Under ordinary circumstances the

scene at the council table would have entirely exhausted Otto's store

both of energy and anger; he would have begun to examine and condemn his

conduct, have remembered all that was true, forgotten all that was

unjust in Seraphina's onslaught; and by half an hour after would have

fallen into that state of mind in which a Catholic flees to the

confessional and a sot takes refuge with the bottle. Two matters of

detail preserved his spirits. For, first, he had still an infinity of

business to transact; and to transact business, for a man of Otto's

neglectful and procrastinating habits, is the best anodyne for

conscience. All afternoon he was hard at it with the Chancellor,

reading, dictating, signing, and despatching papers; and this kept him

in a glow of self-approval. But, secondly, his vanity was still alarmed;

he had failed to get the money; to-morrow before noon he would have to

disappoint old Killian; and in the eyes of that family which counted him

so little, and to which he had sought to play the part of the heroic

comforter, he must sink lower than at first. To a man of Otto's temper,

this was death. He could not accept the situation. And even as he

worked, and worked wisely and well, over the hated details of his

principality, he was secretly maturing a plan by which to turn the

situation. It was a scheme as pleasing to the man as it was

dishonourable in the prince; in which his frivolous nature found and

took vengeance for the gravity and burthen of the afternoon. He chuckled

as he thought of it: and Greisengesang heard him with wonder, and

attributed his lively spirits to the skirmish of the morning.

Led by this idea, the antique courtier ventured to compliment his

sovereign on his bearing. It reminded him, he said, of Otto's father.

"What?" asked the Prince, whose thoughts were miles away.

"Your Highness's authority at the board," explained the flatterer.

"O, that! O, yes," returned Otto; but for all his carelessness, his

vanity was delicately tickled, and his mind returned and dwelt

approvingly over the details of his victory. "I quelled them all," he

thought.

When the more pressing matters had been dismissed, it was already late,

and Otto kept the Chancellor to dinner, and was entertained with a leash

of ancient histories and modern compliments. The Chancellor's career had

been based, from the first off-put, on entire subserviency; he had

crawled into honours and employments; and his mind was prostitute. The

instinct of the creature served him well with Otto. First, he let fall a

sneering word or two upon the female intellect; thence he proceeded to a

closer engagement; and before the third course he was artfully

dissecting Seraphina's character to her approving husband. Of course no

names were used; and of course the identity of that abstract or ideal

man, with whom she was currently contrasted, remained an open secret.

But this stiff old gentleman had a wonderful instinct for evil, thus to

wind his way into man's citadel; thus to harp by the hour on the virtues

of his hearer and not once alarm his self-respect. Otto was all roseate,

in and out, with flattery and Tokay and an approving conscience. He saw

himself in the most attractive colours. If even Greisengesang, he

thought, could thus espy the loose stitches in Seraphina's character,

and thus disloyally impart them to the opposite camp, he, the discarded

husband--the dispossessed Prince--could scarce have erred on the side of

severity.

In this excellent frame he bade adieu to the old gentleman, whose voice

had proved so musical, and set forth for the drawing-room. Already on

the stair, he was seized with some compunction; but when he entered the

great gallery and beheld his wife, the Chancellor's abstract flatteries

fell from him like rain, and he reawoke to the poetic facts of life. She

stood a good way off below a shining lustre, her back turned. The bend

of her waist overcame him with physical weakness. This was the girl-wife

who had lain in his arms and whom he had sworn to cherish; there was

she, who was better than success.

It was Seraphina who restored him from the blow. She swam forward and

smiled upon her husband with a sweetness that was insultingly

artificial. "Frederic," she lisped, "you are late." It was a scene of

high comedy, such as is proper to unhappy marriages; and her _aplomb_

disgusted him.

There was no etiquette at these small drawing-rooms. People came and

went at pleasure. The window embrasures became the roost of happy

couples; at the great chimney the talkers mostly congregated, each

full-charged with scandal; and down at the farther end the gamblers

gambled. It was towards this point that Otto moved, not ostentatiously,

but with a gentle insistence, and scattering attentions as he went. Once

abreast of the card-table, he placed himself opposite to Madame von

Rosen, and, as soon as he had caught her eye, withdrew to the embrasure

of a window. There she had speedily joined him.

"You did well to call me," she said, a little wildly. "These cards will

be my ruin."

"Leave them," said Otto.

"I!" she cried, and laughed; "they are my destiny. My only chance was

to die of consumption; now I must die in a garret."

"You are bitter to-night," said Otto.

"I have been losing," she replied. "You do not know what greed is."

"I have come, then, in an evil hour," said he.

"Ah, you wish a favour!" she cried, brightening beautifully.

"Madam," said he, "I am about to found my party, and I come to you for a

recruit."

"Done," said the Countess. "I am a man again."

"I may be wrong," continued Otto, "but I believe upon my heart you wish

me no ill."

"I wish you so well," she said, "that I dare not tell it you."

"Then if I ask my favour?" quoth the Prince.

"Ask it, _mon Prince_," she answered. "Whatever it is, it is granted."

"I wish you," he returned, "this very night to make the farmer of our

talk."

"Heaven knows your meaning!" she exclaimed. "I know not, neither care;

there are no bounds to my desire to please you. Call him made."

"I will put it in another way," returned Otto. "Did you ever steal?"

"Often!" cried the Countess. "I have broken all the ten commandments;

and if there were more to-morrow, I should not sleep till I had broken

these."

"This is a case of burglary: to say the truth, I thought it would amuse

you," said the Prince.

"I have no practical experience," she replied, "but O! the good-will! I

have broken a work-box in my time, and several hearts, my own included.

Never a house! But it cannot be difficult; sins are so unromantically

easy! What are we to break?"

"Madam, we are to break the treasury," said Otto; and he sketched to her

briefly, wittily, with here and there a touch of pathos, the story of

his visit to the farm, of his promise to buy it, and of the refusal with

which his demand for money had been met that morning at the council;

concluding with a few practical words as to the treasury windows, and

the helps and hindrances of the proposed exploit.

"They refused you the money," she said when he had done. "And you

accepted the refusal? Well!"

"They gave their reasons," replied Otto, colouring. "They were not such

as I could combat; and I am driven to dilapidate the funds of my own

country by a theft. It is not dignified; but it is fun."

"Fun," she said; "yes." And then she remained silently plunged in

thought for an appreciable time. "How much do you require?" she asked at

length.

"Three thousand crowns will do," he answered, "for I have still some

money of my own."

"Excellent," she said, regaining her levity. "I am your true accomplice.

And where are we to meet?"

"You know the Flying Mercury," he answered, "in the Park? Three pathways

intersect; there they have made a seat and raised the statue. The spot

is handy and the deity congenial."

"Child," she said, and tapped him with her fan. "But do you know, my

Prince, you are an egoist--your handy trysting-place is miles from me.

You must give me ample time; I cannot, I think, possibly be there before

two. But as the bell beats two, your helper shall arrive: welcome, I

trust. Stay--do you bring anyone?" she added. "O, it is not for a

chaperon--I am not a prude!"

"I shall bring a groom of mine," said Otto. "I caught him stealing

corn."

"His name?" she asked.

"I profess I know not. I am not yet intimate with my corn-stealer,"

returned the Prince. "It was in a professional capacity----"

"Like me! Flatterer!" she cried. "But oblige me in one thing. Let me

find you waiting at the seat--yes, you shall await me; for on this

expedition it shall be no longer Prince and Countess, it shall be the

lady and the squire--and your friend the thief shall be no nearer than

the fountain. Do you promise?"

"Madam, in everything you are to command; you shall be captain, I am but

supercargo," answered Otto.

"Well, Heaven bring all safe to port!" she said. "It is not Friday!"

Something in her manner had puzzled Otto, had possibly touched him with

suspicion.

"Is it not strange," he remarked, "that I should choose my accomplice

from the other camp?"

"Fool!" she said. "But it is your only wisdom that you know your

friends." And suddenly, in the vantage of the deep window, she caught up

his hand and kissed it with a sort of passion. "Now go," she added, "go

at once."

He went, somewhat staggered, doubting in his heart that he was

over-bold. For in that moment she had flashed upon him like a jewel; and

even through the strong panoply of a previous love he had been conscious

of a shock. Next moment he had dismissed the fear.

Both Otto and the Countess retired early from the drawing-room, and the

Prince, after an elaborate feint, dismissed his valet, and went forth by

the private passage and the back postern in quest of the groom.

Once more the stable was in darkness, once more Otto employed the

talismanic knock, and once more the groom appeared and sickened with

terror.

"Good-evening, friend," said Otto pleasantly. "I want you to bring a

corn sack--empty this time--and to accompany me. We shall be gone all

night."

"Your Highness," groaned the man, "I have the charge of the small

stables. I am here alone."

"Come," said the Prince, "you are no such martinet in duty." And then

seeing that the man was shaking from head to foot, Otto laid a hand

upon his shoulder. "If I meant you harm," he said, "should I be here?"

The fellow became instantly reassured. He got the sack; and Otto led him

round by several paths and avenues, conversing pleasantly by the way,

and left him at last planted by a certain fountain where a goggle-eyed

Triton spouted intermittently into a rippling laver. Thence he proceeded

alone to where, in a round clearing, a copy of Gian Bologna's Mercury

stood tiptoe in the twilight of the stars. The night was warm and

windless. A shaving of new moon had lately arisen; but it was still too

small and too low down in heaven to contend with the immense host of

lesser luminaries; and the rough face of the earth was drenched with

starlight. Down one of the alleys, which widened as it receded, he could

see a part of the lamplit terrace where a sentry silently paced, and

beyond that a corner of the town with interlacing street-lights. But all

around him the young trees stood mystically blurred in the dim shine;

and in the stock-still quietness the upleaping god appeared alive.

In this dimness and silence of the night, Otto's conscience became

suddenly and staringly luminous, like the dial of a city clock. He

averted the eyes of his mind, but the finger, rapidly travelling,

pointed to a series of misdeeds that took his breath away. What was he

doing in that place? The money had been wrongly squandered, but that was

largely by his own neglect. And he now proposed to embarrass the

finances of this country which he had been too idle to govern. And he

now proposed to squander the money once again, and this time for a

private, if a generous end. And the man whom he had reproved for

stealing corn he was now to set stealing treasure. And then there was

Madame von Rosen, upon whom he looked down with some of that

ill-favoured contempt of the chaste male for the imperfect woman.

Because he thought of her as one degraded below scruples, he had picked

her out to be still more degraded, and to risk her whole irregular

establishment in life by complicity in this dishonourable act. It was

uglier than a seduction.

Otto had to walk very briskly and whistle very busily; and when at last

he heard steps in the narrowest and darkest of the alleys, it was with a

gush of relief that he sprang to meet the Countess. To wrestle alone

with one's good angel is so hard! and so precious, at the proper time,

is a companion certain to be less virtuous than oneself!

It was a young man who came towards him--a young man of small stature

and a peculiar gait, wearing a wide flapping hat, and carrying, with

great weariness, a heavy bag. Otto recoiled; but the young man held up

his hand by way of signal, and coming up with a panting run, as if with

the last of his endurance, laid the bag upon the ground, threw himself

upon the bench, and disclosed the features of Madame von Rosen.

"You, Countess!" cried the Prince.

"No, no," she panted, "the Count von Rosen--my young brother. A capital

fellow. Let him get his breath."

"Ah, madam ..." said he.

"Call me Count," she returned, "respect my _incognito_."

"Count be it, then," he replied. "And let me implore that gallant

gentleman to set forth at once on our enterprise."

"Sit down beside me here," she returned, patting the farther corner of

the bench. "I will follow you in a moment. O, I am so tired--feel how my

heart leaps! Where is your thief?"

"At his post," replied Otto. "Shall I introduce him? He seems an

excellent companion."

"No," she said, "do not hurry me yet. I must speak to you. Not but I

adore your thief; I adore anyone who has the spirit to do wrong. I never

cared for virtue till I fell in love with my Prince." She laughed

musically. "And even so, it is not for your virtues," she added.

Otto was embarrassed. "And now," he asked, "if you are anyway rested?"

"Presently, presently. Let me breathe," she said, panting a little

harder than before.

"And what has so wearied you?" he asked. "This bag? And why, in the name

of eccentricity, a bag? For an empty one, you might have relied on my

own foresight; and this one is very far from being empty. My dear Count,

with what trash have you come laden? But the shortest method is to see

for myself." And he put down his hand.

She stopped him at once. "Otto," she said, "no--not that way. I will

tell, I will make a clean breast. It is done already. I have robbed the

treasury single-handed. There are three thousand two hundred crowns. O,

I trust it is enough!"

Her embarrassment was so obvious that the Prince was struck into a muse,

gazing in her face, with his hand still outstretched and she still

holding him by the wrist. "You!" he said at last. "How?" And then

drawing himself up, "O, madam," he cried, "I understand. You must indeed

think meanly of the Prince."

"Well then, it was a lie!" she cried. "The money is mine, honestly my

own--now yours. This was an unworthy act that you proposed. But I love

your honour, and I swore to myself that I should save it in your teeth.

I beg of you to let me save it"--with a sudden lovely change of tone.

"Otto, I beseech you let me save it. Take this dross from your poor

friend who loves you!"

"Madam, madam," babbled Otto, in the extreme of misery, "I cannot--I

must go."

And he half rose; but she was on the ground before him in an instant,

clasping his knees. "No," she gasped, "you shall not go. Do you despise

me so entirely? It is dross; I hate it; I should squander it at play and

be no richer; it is an investment; it is to save me from ruin. Otto,"

she cried, as he again feebly tried to put her from him, "if you leave

me alone in this disgrace I will die here!" He groaned aloud. "O," she

said, "think what I suffer! If you suffer from a piece of delicacy,

think what I suffer in my shame! To have my trash refused! You would

rather steal, you think of me so basely! You would rather tread my heart

in pieces! O unkind! O my Prince! O Otto! O pity me!" She was still

clasping him; then she found his hand and covered it with kisses, and at

this his head began to turn. "O," she cried again, "I see it! O what a

horror! It is because I am old, because I am no longer beautiful." And

she burst into a storm of sobs.

This was the _coup de grace_. Otto had now to comfort and compose her as

he could, and before many words, the money was accepted. Between the

woman and the weak man such was the inevitable end. Madame von Rosen

instantly composed her sobs. She thanked him with a fluttering voice,

and resumed her place upon the bench at the far end from Otto. "Now you

see," she said, "why I bade you keep the thief at distance, and why I

came alone. How I trembled for my treasure!"

"Madam," said Otto, with a tearful whimper in his voice, "spare me! You

are too good, too noble!"

"I wonder to hear you," she returned. "You have avoided a great folly.

You will be able to meet your good old peasant. You have found an

excellent investment for a friend's money. You have preferred essential

kindness to an empty scruple; and now you are ashamed of it! You have

made your friend happy; and now you mourn as the dove! Come, cheer up. I

know it is depressing to have done exactly right; but you need not make

a practice of it. Forgive yourself this virtue; come now, look me in the

face and smile!"

He did look at her. When a man has been embraced by a woman, he sees her

in a glamour; and at such a time, in the baffling glimmer of the stars,

she will look wildly well. The hair is touched with light; the eyes are

constellations; the face sketched in shadows--a sketch, you might say,

by passion. Otto became consoled for his defeat; he began to take an

interest. "No," he said, "I am no ingrate."

"You promised me fun," she returned, with a laugh. "I have given you as

good. We have had a stormy _scena_."

He laughed in his turn, and the sound of the laughter, in either case,

was hardly reassuring.

"Come, what are you going to give me in exchange," she continued, "for

my excellent declamation?"

"What you will," he said.

"Whatever I will? Upon your honour? Suppose I ask the crown?" She was

flashing upon him, beautiful in triumph.

"Upon my honour," he replied.

"Shall I ask the crown?" she continued. "Nay; what should I do with it?

Gruenewald is but a petty state; my ambition swells above it. I shall

ask--I find I want nothing," she concluded. "I will give you something

instead. I will give you leave to kiss me--once."

Otto drew near, and she put up her face; they were both smiling, both on

the brink of laughter, all was so innocent and playful; and the Prince,

when their lips encountered, was dumfoundered by the sudden convulsion

of his being. Both drew instantly apart, and for an appreciable time sat

tongue-tied. Otto was indistinctly conscious of a peril in the silence,

but could find no words to utter. Suddenly the Countess seemed to awake.

"As for your wife----" she began in a clear and steady voice.

The word recalled Otto, with a shudder, from his trance. "I will hear

nothing against my wife," he cried wildly; and then, recovering himself

and in a kindlier tone, "I will tell you my one secret," he added. "I

love my wife."

"You should have let me finish," she returned, smiling. "Do you suppose

I did not mention her on purpose? You know you had lost your head. Well,

so had I. Come now, do not be abashed by words," she added somewhat

sharply. "It is the one thing I despise. If you are not a fool, you will

see that I am building fortresses about your virtue. And at any rate, I

choose that you shall understand that I am not dying of love for you. It

is a very smiling business; no tragedy for me! And now here is what I

have to say about your wife: she is not and she never has been

Gondremark's mistress. Be sure he would have boasted if she had.

Good-night!"

And in a moment she was gone down the alley, and Otto was alone with the

bag of money and the flying god.

CHAPTER X

GOTTHOLD'S REVISED OPINION; AND THE FALL COMPLETED

The Countess left poor Otto with a caress and buffet simultaneously

administered. The welcome word about his wife and the virtuous ending of

his interview should doubtless have delighted him. But for all that, as

he shouldered the bag of money and set forward to rejoin his groom, he

was conscious of many aching sensibilities. To have gone wrong and to

have been set right makes but a double trial for man's vanity. The

discovery of his own weakness and possible unfaith had staggered him to

the heart; and to hear, in the same hour, of his wife's fidelity from

one who loved her not, increased the bitterness of the surprise.

He was about halfway between the fountain and the Flying Mercury before

his thoughts began to be clear; and he was surprised to find them

resentful. He paused in a kind of temper, and struck with his hand a

little shrub. Thence there arose instantly a cloud of awakened sparrows,

which as instantly dispersed and disappeared into the thicket. He looked

at them stupidly, and when they were gone continued staring at the

stars. "I am angry. By what right? By none!" he thought; but he was

still angry. He cursed Madame von Rosen and instantly repented. Heavy

was the money on his shoulders.

When he reached the fountain, he did, out of ill-humour and parade, an

unpardonable act. He gave the money bodily to the dishonest groom. "Keep

this for me," he said, "until I call for it to-morrow. It is a great

sum, and by that you will judge that I have not condemned you." And he

strode away ruffling, as if he had done something generous. It was a

desperate stroke to re-enter at the point of the bayonet into his

self-esteem; and, like all such, it was fruitless in the end. He got to

bed with the devil, it appeared: kicked and tumbled till the grey of the

morning; and then fell inopportunely into a leaden slumber, and awoke to

find it ten. To miss the appointment with old Killian after all had been

too tragic a miscarriage: and he hurried with all his might, found the

groom (for a wonder) faithful to his trust, and arrived only a few

minutes before noon in the guest-chamber of the "Morning Star." Killian

was there in his Sunday's best and looking very gaunt and rigid; a

lawyer from Brandenau stood sentinel over his outspread papers; and the

groom and the landlord of the inn were called to serve as witnesses. The

obvious deference of that great man, the innkeeper, plainly affected the

old farmer with surprise; but it was not until Otto had taken the pen

and signed that the truth flashed upon him fully. Then, indeed, he was

beside himself.

"His Highness!" he cried, "His Highness!" and repeated the exclamation

till his mind had grappled fairly with the facts. Then he turned to the

witnesses. "Gentlemen," he said, "you dwell in a country highly favoured

by God; for of all generous gentlemen, I will say it on my conscience,

this one is the king. I am an old man, and I have seen good and bad, and

the year of the great famine; but a more excellent gentleman, no,

never."

"We know that," cried the landlord, "we know that well in Gruenewald. If

we saw more of his Highness we should be the better pleased."

"It is the kindest Prince," began the groom, and suddenly closed his

mouth upon a sob, so that every one turned to gaze upon his

emotion--Otto not last; Otto struck with remorse, to see the man so

grateful.

Then it was the lawyer's turn to pay a compliment. "I do not know what

Providence may hold in store," he said, "but this day should be a bright

one in the annals of your reign. The shouts of armies could not be more

eloquent than the emotion on these honest faces." And the Brandenau

lawyer bowed, skipped, stepped back and took snuff, with the air of a

man who has found and seized an opportunity.

"Well, young gentleman," said Killian, "if you will pardon me the

plainness of calling you a gentleman, many a good day's work you have

done, I doubt not, but never a better, or one that will be better

blessed; and whatever, sir, may be your happiness and triumph in that

high sphere to which you have been called, it will be none the worse,

sir, for an old man's blessing!"

The scene had almost assumed the proportions of an ovation; and when the

Prince escaped he had but one thought: to go wherever he was most sure

of praise. His conduct at the board of council occurred to him as a fair

chapter; and this evoked the memory of Gotthold. To Gotthold he would

go.

Gotthold was in the library as usual, and laid down his pen, a little

angrily, on Otto's entrance. "Well," he said, "here you are."

"Well," returned Otto, "we made a revolution, I believe."

"It is what I fear," returned the Doctor.

"How?" said Otto. "Fear? Fear is the burnt child. I have learned my

strength and the weakness of the others; and I now mean to govern."

Gotthold said nothing, but he looked down and smoothed his chin.

"You disapprove?" cried Otto. "You are a weather-cock."

"On the contrary," replied the Doctor. "My observation has confirmed my

fears. It will not do, Otto, not do."

"What will not do?" demanded the Prince, with a sickening stab of pain.

"None of it," answered Gotthold. "You are unfitted for a life of action;

you lack the stamina, the habit, the restraint, the patience. Your wife

is greatly better, vastly better; and though she is in bad hands,

displays a very different aptitude. She is a woman of affairs; you

are--dear boy, you are yourself. I bid you back to your amusements; like

a smiling dominie, I give you holidays for life. Yes," he continued,

"there is a day appointed for all when they shall turn again upon their

own philosophy. I had grown to disbelieve impartially in all; and if in

the atlas of the sciences there were two charts I disbelieved in more

than all the rest, they were politics and morals. I had a sneaking

kindness for your vices; as they were negative, they flattered my

philosophy; and I called them almost virtues. Well, Otto, I was wrong; I

have forsworn my sceptical philosophy; and I perceive your faults to be

unpardonable. You are unfit to be a Prince, unfit to be a husband. And I

give you my word, I would rather see a man capably doing evil than

blundering about good."

Otto was still silent, in extreme dudgeon.

Presently the Doctor resumed: "I will take the smaller matter first:

your conduct to your wife. You went, I hear, and had an explanation.

That may have been right or wrong; I know not; at least, you had stirred

her temper. At the council she insults you; well, you insult her back--a

man to a woman, a husband to his wife, in public! Next, upon the back of

this, you propose--the story runs like wildfire--to recall the power of

signature. Can she ever forgive that? a woman--a young woman--ambitious,

conscious of talents beyond yours? Never, Otto. And to sum all, at such

a crisis in your married life, you get into a window corner with that

ogling dame von Rosen. I do not dream that there was any harm; but I do

say it was an idle disrespect to your wife. Why, man, the woman is not

decent."

"Gotthold," said Otto, "I will hear no evil of the Countess."

"You will certainly hear no good of her," returned Gotthold; "and if you

wish your wife to be the pink of nicety, you should clear your court of

demi-reputations."

"The commonplace injustice of a by-word," Otto cried. "The partiality of

sex. She is a demirep; what then is Gondremark? Were she a man----"

"It would be all one," retorted Gotthold roughly. "When I see a man,

come to years of wisdom, who speaks in double-meanings and is the

braggart of his vices, I spit on the other side. 'You, my friend,' say

I, 'are not even a gentleman.' Well, she's not even a lady."

"She is the best friend I have, and I choose that she shall be

respected," Otto said.

"If she is your friend, so much the worse," replied the Doctor. "It will

not stop there."

"Ah!" cried Otto, "there is the charity of virtue! All evil in the

spotted fruit. But I can tell you, sir, that you do Madame von Rosen

prodigal injustice."

"You can tell me!" said the Doctor shrewdly. "Have you tried? have you

been riding the marches?"

The blood came into Otto's face.

"Ah!" cried Gotthold, "look at your wife and blush! There's a wife for a

man to marry and then lose! She's a carnation, Otto. The soul is in her

eyes."

"You have changed your note for Seraphina, I perceive," said Otto.

"Changed it!" cried the Doctor, with a flush. "Why, when was it

different? But I own I admired her at the council. When she sat there

silent, tapping with her foot, I admired her as I might a hurricane.

Were I one of those who venture upon matrimony, there had been the prize

to tempt me! She invites, as Mexico invited Cortez; the enterprise is

hard, the natives are unfriendly--I believe them cruel too--but the

metropolis is paved with gold and the breeze blows out of paradise. Yes,

I could desire to be that conqueror. But to philander with von Rosen!

never! Senses? I discard them; what are they?--pruritus! Curiosity?

Reach me my Anatomy!"

"To whom do you address yourself?" cried Otto. "Surely you, of all men,

know that I love my wife!"

"O, love!" cried Gotthold; "love is a great word; it is in all the

dictionaries. If you had loved, she would have paid you back. What does

she ask? A little ardour!"

"It is hard to love for two," replied the Prince.

"Hard? Why, there's the touchstone! O, I know my poets!" cried the

Doctor. "We are but dust and fire, too arid to endure life's scorching;

and love, like the shadow of a great rock, should lend shelter and

refreshment, not to the lover only, but to his mistress and to the

children that reward them; and their very friends should seek repose in

the fringes of that peace. Love is not love that cannot build a home.

And you call it love to grudge and quarrel and pick faults? You call it

love to thwart her to her face, and bandy insults? Love!"

"Gotthold, you are unjust. I was then fighting for my country," said the

Prince.

"Ay, and there's the worst of all," returned the Doctor. "You could not

even see that you were wrong; that, being where they were, retreat was

ruin."

"Why, you supported me!" cried Otto.

"I did. I was a fool like you," replied Gotthold. "But now my eyes are

open. If you go on as you have started, disgrace this fellow Gondremark,

and publish the scandal of your divided house, there will befall a most

abominable thing in Gruenewald. A revolution, friend--a revolution."

"You speak strangely for a red," said Otto.

"A red republican, but not a revolutionary," returned the Doctor. "An

ugly thing is a Gruenewalder drunk! One man alone can save the country

from this pass, and that is the double-dealer Gondremark, with whom I

conjure you to make peace. It will not be you; it never can be

you:--you, who can do nothing, as your wife said, but trade upon your

station--you, who spent the hours in begging money! And in God's name,

what for? Why money? What mystery of idiocy was this?"

"It was to no ill end. It was to buy a farm," quoth Otto sulkily.

"To buy a farm!" cried Gotthold. "Buy a farm!"

"Well, what then?" returned Otto. "I have bought it, if you come to

that."

Gotthold fairly bounded on his seat. "And how that?" he cried.

"How?" repeated Otto, startled.

"Ay, verily, how!" returned the Doctor. "How came you by the money?"

The Prince's countenance darkened. "That is my affair," said he.

"You see you are ashamed," retorted Gotthold. "And so you bought a farm

in the hour of your country's need--doubtless to be ready for the

abdication; and I put it that you stole the funds. There are not three

ways of getting money: there are but two: to earn and steal. And now,

when you have combined Charles the Fifth and Long-fingered Tom, you come

to me to fortify your vanity! But I will clear my mind upon this matter:

until I know the right and wrong of the transaction, I put my hand

behind my back. A man may be the pitifullest prince; he must be a

spotless gentleman."

The Prince had gotten to his feet, as pale as paper. "Gotthold," he

said, "you drive me beyond bounds. Beware, sir, beware!"

"Do you threaten me, friend Otto?" asked the Doctor grimly. "That would

be a strange conclusion."

"When have you ever known me use my power in any private animosity?"

cried Otto. "To any private man your words were an unpardonable insult,

but at me you shoot in full security, and I must turn aside to

compliment you on your plainness. I must do more than pardon, I must

admire, because you have faced this--this formidable monarch, like a

Nathan before David. You have uprooted an old kindness, sir, with an

unsparing hand. You leave me very bare. My last bond is broken; and

though I take Heaven to witness that I sought to do the right, I have

this reward: to find myself alone. You say I am no gentleman; yet the

sneers have been upon your side; and though I can very well perceive

where you have lodged your sympathies, I will forbear the taunt."

"Otto, are you insane?" cried Gotthold, leaping up. "Because I ask you

how you came by certain moneys, and because you refuse----"

"Herr von Hohenstockwitz, I have ceased to invite your aid in my

affairs," said Otto. "I have heard all that I desire, and you have

sufficiently trampled on my vanity. It may be that I cannot govern, it

may be that I cannot love--you tell me so with every mark of honesty;

but God has granted me one virtue, and I can still forgive. I forgive

you; even in this hour of passion I can perceive my faults and your

excuses; and if I desire that in future I may be spared your

conversation, it is not, sir, from resentment--not resentment--but, by

Heaven, because no man on earth could endure to be so rated. You have

the satisfaction to see your sovereign weep; and that person whom you

have so often taunted with his happiness reduced to the last pitch of

solitude and misery. No,--I will hear nothing; I claim the last word,

sir, as your Prince; and that last word shall be--forgiveness."

And with that Otto was gone from the apartment, and Dr. Gotthold was

left alone with the most conflicting sentiments of sorrow, remorse, and

merriment; walking to and fro before his table, and asking himself, with

hands uplifted, which of the pair of them was most to blame for this

unhappy rupture. Presently, he took from a cupboard a bottle of Rhine

wine and a goblet of the deep Bohemian ruby. The first glass a little

warmed and comforted his bosom; with the second he began to look down

upon these troubles from a sunny mountain; yet a while, and filled with

this false comfort and contemplating life through a golden medium, he

owned to himself, with a flush, a smile, and a half-pleasurable sigh,

that he had been somewhat over plain in dealing with his cousin. "He

said the truth, too," added the penitent librarian, "for in my monkish

fashion I adore the Princess." And then, with a still deepening flush

and a certain stealth, although he sat all alone in that great gallery,

he toasted Seraphina to the dregs.

CHAPTER XI

PROVIDENCE VON ROSEN: ACT THE FIRST SHE BEGUILES THE BARON

At a sufficiently late hour, or, to be more exact, at three in the

afternoon, Madame von Rosen issued on the world. She swept downstairs

and out across the garden, a black mantilla thrown over her head, and

the long train of her black velvet dress ruthlessly sweeping in the

dirt.

At the other end of that long garden, and back to back with the villa of

the Countess, stood the large mansion where the Prime Minister

transacted his affairs and pleasures. This distance, which was enough

for decency by the easy canons of Mittwalden, the Countess swiftly

traversed, opened a little door with a key, mounted a flight of stairs,

and entered unceremoniously into Gondremark's study. It was a large and

very high apartment; books all about the walls, papers on the table,

papers on the floor; here and there a picture, somewhat scant of

drapery; a great fire glowing and flaming in the blue-tiled hearth; and

the daylight streaming through a cupola above. In the midst of this sat

the great Baron Gondremark in his shirt-sleeves, his business for that

day fairly at an end, and the hour arrived for relaxation. His

expression, his very nature, seemed to have undergone a fundamental

change. Gondremark at home appeared the very antipode of Gondremark on

duty. He had an air of massive jollity that well became him; grossness

and geniality sat upon his features; and along with his manners, he had

laid aside his sly and sinister expression. He lolled there, sunning his

bulk before the fire, a noble animal.

"Hey!" he cried. "At last!"

The Countess stepped into the room in silence, threw herself on a chair,

and crossed her legs. In her lace and velvet, with a good display of

smooth black stocking and of snowy petticoat, and with the refined

profile of her face and slender plumpness of her body, she showed in

singular contrast to the big, black, intellectual satyr by the fire.

"How often do you send for me?" she cried. "It is compromising."

Gondremark laughed. "Speaking of that," said he, "what in the devil's

name were you about? You were not home till morning."

"I was giving alms," she said.

The Baron again laughed loud and long, for in his shirt-sleeves he was a

very mirthful creature. "It is fortunate I am not jealous," he remarked.

"But you know my way: pleasure and liberty go hand in hand. I believe

what I believe; it is not much, but I believe it.--But now to business.

Have you not read my letter?"

"No," she said; "my head ached."

"Ah, well! then I have news indeed!" cried Gondremark. "I was mad to see

you all last night and all this morning: for yesterday afternoon I

brought my long business to a head; the ship has come home; one more

dead lift, and I shall cease to fetch and carry for the Princess

Ratafia. Yes, 'tis done. I have the order all in Ratafia's hand; I carry

it on my heart. At the hour of twelve to-night, Prince Featherhead is to

be taken in his bed, and, like the bambino, whipped into a chariot; and

by next morning he will command a most romantic prospect from the donjon

of the Felsenburg. Farewell, Featherhead! The war goes on, the girl is

in my hand; I have long been indispensable, but now I shall be sole. I

have long," he added exultingly, "long carried this intrigue upon my

shoulders, like Samson with the gates of Gaza; now I discharge that

burthen."

She had sprung to her feet a little paler. "Is this true?" she cried.

"I tell you a fact," he asseverated. "The trick is played."

"I will never believe it," she said. "An order? In her own hand? I will

never believe it, Heinrich."

"I swear to you," said he.

"O, what do you care for oaths--or I either? What would you swear by?

Wine, women, and song? It is not binding," she said. She had come quite

close up to him and laid her hand upon his arm. "As for the order--no,

Heinrich, never! I will never believe it. I will die ere I believe it.

You have some secret purpose--what, I cannot guess--but not one word of

it is true."

"Shall I show it you?" he asked.

"You cannot," she answered. "There is no such thing."

"Incorrigible Sadducee!" he cried. "Well, I will convert you; you shall

see the order." He moved to a chair where he had thrown his coat, and

then drawing forth and holding out a paper, "Read," said he.

She took it greedily, and her eye flashed as she perused it.

"Hey!" cried the Baron, "there falls a dynasty, and it was I that felled

it; and I and you inherit!" He seemed to swell in stature; and next

moment, with a laugh, he put his hand forward. "Give me the dagger,"

said he.

But she whisked the paper suddenly behind her back and faced him,

lowering. "No, no," she said. "You and I have first a point to settle.

Do you suppose me blind? She could never have given that paper but to

one man, and that man her lover. Here you stand--her lover, her

accomplice, her master--O, I well believe it, for I know your power. But

what am I?" she cried; "I, whom you deceive?"

"Jealousy!" cried Gondremark. "Anna, I would never have believed it!

But I declare to you by all that's credible that I am not her lover. I

might be, I suppose; but I never yet durst risk the declaration. The

chit is so unreal; a mincing doll; she will and she will not; there is

no counting on her, by God! And hitherto I have had my own way without,

and keep the lover in reserve. And I say, Anna," he added with severity,

"you must break yourself of this new fit, my girl; there must be no

combustion. I keep the creature under the belief that I adore her; and

if she caught a breath of you and me, she is such a fool, prude, and dog

in the manger, that she is capable of spoiling all."

"All very fine," returned the lady. "With whom do you pass your days?

and which am I to believe, your words or your actions?"

"Anna, the devil take you, are you blind?" cried Gondremark. "You know

me. Am I likely to care for such a preciosa? 'Tis hard that we should

have been together for so long, and you should still take me for a

troubadour. But if there is one thing that I despise and deprecate, it

is all such figures in Berlin wool. Give me a human woman--like

yourself. You are my mate; you were made for me; you amuse me like the

play. And what have I to gain that I should pretend to you? If I do not

love you, what use are you to me? Why, none. It is as clear as noonday."

"Do you love me, Heinrich?" she asked, languishing. "Do you truly?"

"I tell you," he cried, "I love you next after myself. I should be all

abroad if I had lost you."

"Well, then," said she, folding up the paper and putting it calmly in

her pocket, "I will believe you, and I join the plot. Count upon me. At

midnight, did you say? It is Gordon, I see, that you have charged with

it. Excellent; he will stick at nothing."

Gondremark watched her suspiciously. "Why do you take the paper?" he

demanded. "Give it here."

"No," she returned; "I mean to keep it. It is I who must prepare the

stroke; you cannot manage it without me; and to do my best I must

possess the paper. Where shall I find Gordon? In his rooms?" She spoke

with a rather feverish self-possession.

"Anna," he said sternly, the black, bilious countenance of his palace

_role_ taking the place of the more open favour of his hours at home, "I

ask you for that paper. Once, twice, and thrice."

"Heinrich," she returned, looking him in the face, "take care. I will

put up with no dictation."

Both looked dangerous; and the silence lasted for a measurable interval

of time. Then she made haste to have the first word; and with a laugh

that rang clear and honest, "Do not be a child," she said. "I wonder at

you. If your assurances are true, you can have no reason to mistrust me,

nor I to play you false. The difficulty is to get the Prince out of the

palace without scandal. His valets are devoted; his chamberlain a slave;

and yet one cry might ruin all."

"They must be overpowered," he said, following her to the new ground,

"and disappear along with him."

"And your whole scheme along with them!" she cried. "He does not take

his servants when he goes a-hunting: a child could read the truth. No,

no; the plan is idiotic; it must be Ratafia's. But hear me. You know the

Prince worships me?"

"I know," he said. "Poor Featherhead, I cross his destiny!"

"Well now," she continued, "what if I bring him alone out of the palace,

to some quiet corner of the Park--the Flying Mercury, for instance?

Gordon can be posted in the thicket; the carriage wait behind the

temple; not a cry, not a scuffle, not a footfall; simply, the Prince

vanishes!--What do you say? Am I an able ally? Are my _beaux yeux_ of

service? Ah, Heinrich, do not lose your Anna!--she has power!"

He struck with his open hand upon the chimney. "Witch!" he said, "there

is not your match for devilry in Europe. Service! the thing runs on

wheels."

"Kiss me, then, and let me go. I must not miss my Featherhead," she

said.

"Stay, stay," said the Baron; "not so fast. I wish, upon my soul, that I

could trust you; but you are, out and in, so whimsical a devil that I

dare not. Hang it, Anna, no; it's not possible!"

"You doubt me, Heinrich?" she cried.

"Doubt is not the word," said he. "I know you. Once you were clear of me

with that paper in your pocket, who knows what you would do with

it?--not you, at least--nor I. You see," he added, shaking his head

paternally upon the Countess, "you are as vicious as a monkey."

"I swear to you," she cried, "by my salvation...."

"I have no curiosity to hear you swearing," said the Baron.

"You think that I have no religion? You suppose me destitute of honour.

Well," she said, "see here: I will not argue, but I tell you once for

all: leave me this order, and the Prince shall be arrested--take it from

me, and, as certain as I speak, I will upset the coach. Trust me, or

fear me; take your choice." And she offered him the paper.

The Baron, in a great contention of mind, stood irresolute, weighing the

two dangers. Once his hand advanced, then dropped. "Well," he said,

"since trust is what you call it...."

"No more," she interrupted. "Do not spoil your attitude. And now since

you have behaved like a good sort of fellow in the dark, I will

condescend to tell you why. I go to the palace to arrange with Gordon;

but how is Gordon to obey me? And how can I foresee the hours? It may be

midnight; ay, and it may be nightfall; all's a chance; and to act, I

must be free and hold the strings of the adventure. And now," she

cried, "your Vivien goes. Dub me your knight!" And she held out her arms

and smiled upon him radiant.

"Well," he said, when he had kissed her, "every man must have his folly;

I thank God mine is no worse. Off with you! I have given a child a

squib."

CHAPTER XII

PROVIDENCE VON ROSEN: ACT THE SECOND SHE INFORMS THE PRINCE

It was the first impulse of Madame von Rosen to return to her own villa

and revise her toilette. Whatever else should come of this adventure it

was her firm design to pay a visit to the Princess. And before that

woman, so little beloved, the Countess would appear at no disadvantage.

It was the work of minutes. Von Rosen had the captain's eye in matters

of the toilette; she was none of those who hang in Fabian helplessness

among their finery, and, after hours, come forth upon the world as

dowdies. A glance, a loosened curl, a studied and admired disorder in

the hair, a bit of lace, a touch of colour, a yellow rose in the bosom;

and the instant picture was complete.

"That will do," she said. "Bid my carriage follow me to the palace. In

half an hour it should be there in waiting."

The night was beginning to fall and the shops to shine with lamps along

the tree-beshadowed thoroughfares of Otto's capital, when the Countess

started on her high emprise. She was jocund at heart; pleasure and

interest had winged her beauty, and she knew it. She paused before the

glowing jeweller's; she remarked and praised a costume in the milliner's

window; and when she reached the lime-tree walk, with its high,

umbrageous arches and stir of passers-by in the dim alleys, she took her

place upon a bench and began to dally with the pleasures of the hour. It

was cold, but she did not feel it, being warm within; her thoughts, in

that dark corner, shone like the gold and rubies at the jeweller's; her

ears, which heard the brushing of so many footfalls, transposed it into

music.

What was she to do? She held the paper by which all depended. Otto and

Gondremark and Ratafia, and the state itself, hung light in her

balances, as light as dust; her little finger laid in either scale would

set all flying: and she hugged herself upon her huge preponderance, and

then laughed aloud to think how giddily it might be used. The vertigo of

omnipotence, the disease of Caesars, shook her reason. "O, the mad

world!" she thought, and laughed aloud in exultation.

A child, finger in mouth, had paused a little way from where she sat,

and stared with cloudy interest upon this laughing lady. She called it

nearer; but the child hung back. Instantly, with that curious passion

which you may see any woman in the world display, on the most odd

occasions, for a similar end, the Countess bent herself with singleness

of mind to overcome this diffidence; and presently, sure enough, the

child was seated on her knee, thumbing and glowering at her watch.

"If you had a clay bear and a china monkey," asked von Rosen, "which

would you prefer to break?"

"But I have neither," said the child.

"Well," she said, "here is a bright florin, with which you may purchase

both the one and the other; and I shall give it you at once, if you will

answer my question. The clay bear or the china monkey--come?"

But the unbreeched soothsayer only stared upon the florin with big eyes;

the oracle could not be persuaded to reply; and the Countess kissed him

lightly, gave him the florin, set him down upon the path, and resumed

her way with swinging and elastic gait.

"Which shall I break?" she wondered; and she passed her hand with

delight among the careful disarrangement of her locks. "Which?" and she

consulted heaven with her bright eyes. "Do I love both or neither? A

little--passionately--not at all? Both or neither--both, I believe; but

at least I will make hay of Ratafia."

By the time she had passed the iron gates, mounted the drive, and set

her foot upon the broad-flagged terrace, the night had come completely;

the palace front was thick with lighted windows; and along the

balustrade, the lamp on every twentieth baluster shone clear. A few

withered tracks of sunset, amber and glow-worm green, still lingered in

the western sky; and she paused once again to watch them fading.

"And to think," she said, "that here am I--destiny embodied, a norn, a

fate, a providence--and have no guess upon which side I shall declare

myself! What other woman in my place would not be prejudiced, and think

herself committed? But, thank Heaven! I was born just!" Otto's windows

were bright among the rest, and she looked on them with rising

tenderness. "How does it feel to be deserted?" she thought. "Poor dear

fool! The girl deserves that he should see this order."

Without more delay, she passed into the palace and asked for an audience

of Prince Otto. The Prince, she was told, was in his own apartment, and

desired to be private. She sent her name. A man presently returned with

word that the Prince tendered his apologies, but could see no one. "Then

I will write," she said, and scribbled a few lines alleging urgency of

life and death. "Help me, my Prince," she added; "none but you can help

me." This time the messenger returned more speedily, and begged the

Countess to follow him: the Prince was graciously pleased to receive the

Frau Graefin von Rosen.

Otto sat by the fire in his large armoury, weapons faintly glittering

all about him in the changeful light. His face was disfigured by the

marks of weeping; he looked sour and sad; nor did he rise to greet his

visitor, but bowed, and bade the man begone. That kind of general

tenderness which served the Countess for both heart and conscience,

sharply smote her at this spectacle of grief and weakness; she began

immediately to enter into the spirit of her part; and as soon as they

were alone, taking one step forward and with a magnificent

gesture--"Up!" she cried.

"Madame von Rosen," replied Otto dully, "you have used strong words. You

speak of life and death. Pray, madam, who is threatened? Who is there,"

he added bitterly, "so destitute that even Otto of Gruenewald can assist

him?"

"First learn," said she, "the names of the conspirators: the Princess

and the Baron Gondremark. Can you not guess the rest?" And then, as he

maintained his silence--"You!" she cried, pointing at him with her

finger. "'Tis you they threaten! Your rascal and mine have laid their

heads together and condemned you. But they reckoned without you and me.

We make a _partie carree_, Prince, in love and politics. They lead an

ace, but we shall trump it. Come, partner, shall I draw my card?"

"Madam," he said, "explain yourself. Indeed I fail to comprehend."

"See, then," said she: and handed him the order.

He took it, looked upon it with a start; and then, still without speech,

he put his hand before his face. She waited for a word in vain.

"What!" she cried, "do you take the thing down-heartedly? As well seek

wine in a milk-pail as love in that girl's heart! Be done with this, and

be a man. After the league of the lions, let us have a conspiracy of

mice, and pull this piece of machinery to ground. You were brisk enough

last night when nothing was at stake and all was frolic. Well, here is

better sport; here is life indeed."

He got to his feet with some alacrity, and his face, which was a little

flushed, bore the marks of resolution.

"Madame von Rosen," said he, "I am neither unconscious nor ungrateful;

this is the true continuation of your friendship; but I see that I must

disappoint your expectations. You seem to expect from me some effort of

resistance; but why should I resist? I have not much to gain; and now

that I have read this paper, and the last of a fool's paradise is

shattered, it would be hyperbolical to speak of loss in the same breath

with Otto of Gruenewald. I have no party, no policy; no pride, nor

anything to be proud of. For what benefit or principle under Heaven do

you expect me to contend? Or would you have me bite and scratch like a

trapped weasel? No, madam; signify to those who sent you my readiness to

go. I would at least avoid a scandal."

"You go?--of your own will, you go?" she cried.

"I cannot say so much, perhaps," he answered; "but I go with good

alacrity. I have desired a change some time; behold one offered me!

Shall I refuse? Thank God, I am not so destitute of humour as to make a

tragedy of such a farce." He flicked the order on the table. "You may

signify my readiness," he added grandly.

"Ah," she said, "you are more angry than you own."

"I, madam? angry?" he cried. "You rave! I have no cause for anger. In

every way I have been taught my weakness, my instability, and my

unfitness for the world. I am a plexus of weaknesses, an impotent

Prince, a doubtful gentleman; and you yourself, indulgent as you are,

have twice reproved my levity. And shall I be angry? I may feel the

unkindness, but I have sufficient honesty of mind to see the reasons of

this _coup d'etat_."

"From whom have you got this?" she cried in wonder. "You think you have

not behaved well? My Prince, were you not young and handsome, I should

detest you for your virtues. You push them to the verge of commonplace.

And this ingratitude----"

"Understand me, Madame von Rosen," returned the Prince, flushing a

little darker, "there can be here no talk of gratitude, none of pride.

You are here, by what circumstance I know not, but doubtless led by your

kindness, mixed up in what regards my family alone. You have no

knowledge what my wife, your sovereign, may have suffered; it is not

for you--no, nor for me--to judge. I own myself in fault; and were it

otherwise, a man were a very empty boaster who should talk of love and

start before a small humiliation. It is in all the copybooks that one

should die to please his ladylove; and shall a man not go to prison?"

"Love? And what has love to do with being sent to gaol?" exclaimed the

Countess, appealing to the walls and roof. "Heaven knows I think as much

of love as any one; my life would prove it; but I admit no love, at

least for a man, that is not equally returned. The rest is moonshine."

"I think of love more absolutely, madam, though I am certain no more

tenderly, than a lady to whom I am indebted for such kindnesses,"

returned the Prince. "But this is unavailing. We are not here to hold a

court of troubadours."

"Still," she replied, "there is one thing you forget. If she conspires

with Gondremark against your liberty, she may conspire with him against

your honour also."

"My honour?" he repeated. "For a woman, you surprise me. If I have

failed to gain her love or play my part of husband, what right is left

me? or what honour can remain in such a scene of defeat? No honour that

I recognise. I am become a stranger. If my wife no longer loves me, I

will go to prison, since she wills it; if she love another, where should

I be more in place? or whose fault is it but mine? You speak, Madame von

Rosen, like too many women, with a man's tongue. Had I myself fallen

into temptation (as, Heaven knows, I might) I should have trembled, but

still hoped and asked for her forgiveness; and yet mine had been a

treason in the teeth of love. But let me tell you, madam," he pursued,

with rising irritation, "where a husband by futility, facility, and

ill-timed humours has outwearied his wife's patience, I will suffer

neither man nor woman to misjudge her. She is free; the man has been

found wanting."

"Because she loves you not?" the Countess cried. "You know she is

incapable of such a feeling."

"Rather, it was I who was born incapable of inspiring it," said Otto.

Madame von Rosen broke into sudden laughter. "Fool," she cried, "I am in

love with you myself!"

"Ah, madam, you are most compassionate," the Prince retorted, smiling.

"But this is waste debate. I know my purpose. Perhaps, to equal you in

frankness, I know and embrace my advantage. I am not without the spirit

of adventure. I am in a false position--so recognised by public

acclamation: do you grudge me, then, my issue?"

"If your mind is made up, why should I dissuade you?" said the Countess.

"I own, with a bare face, I am the gainer. Go, you take my heart with

you, or more of it than I desire; I shall not sleep at night for

thinking of your misery. But do not be afraid; I would not spoil you,

you are such a fool and hero."

"Alas! madam," cried the Prince, "and your unlucky money! I did amiss to

take it, but you are a wonderful persuader. And I thank God, I can still

offer you the fair equivalent." He took some papers from the chimney.

"Here, madam, are the title-deeds," he said; "where I am going, they can

certainly be of no use to me, and I have now no other hope of making up

to you your kindness. You made the loan without formality, obeying your

kind heart. The parts are somewhat changed; the sun of this Prince of

Gruenewald is upon the point of setting; and I know you better than to

doubt you will once more waive ceremony, and accept the best that he can

give you. If I may look for any pleasure in the coming time, it will be

to remember that the peasant is secure, and my most generous friend no

loser."

"Do you not understand my odious position?" cried the Countess. "Dear

Prince, it is upon your fall that I begin my fortune."

"It was the more like you to tempt me to resistance," returned Otto.

"But this cannot alter our relations; and I must, for the last time, lay

my commands upon you in the character of Prince." And with his loftiest

dignity, he forced the deeds on her acceptance.

"I hate the very touch of them," she cried.

There followed upon this a little silence. "At what time," resumed Otto,

"(if indeed you know) am I to be arrested?"

"Your Highness, when you please!" exclaimed the Countess. "Or, if you

choose to tear that paper, never!"

"I would rather it were done quickly," said the Prince. "I shall take

but time to leave a letter for the Princess."

"Well," said the Countess, "I have advised you to resist; at the same

time, if you intend to be dumb before your shearers, I must say that I

ought to set about arranging your arrest. I offered"--she hesitated--"I

offered to manage it, intending, my dear friend--intending, upon my

soul, to be of use to you. Well, if you will not profit by my goodwill,

then be of use to me; and as soon as ever you feel ready, go to the

Flying Mercury where we met last night. It will be none the worse for

you; and to make it quite plain, it will be better for the rest of us."

"Dear madam, certainly," said Otto. "If I am prepared for the chief

evil, I shall not quarrel with details. Go, then, with my best

gratitude; and when I have written a few lines of leave-taking, I shall

immediately hasten to keep tryst. To-night I shall not meet so dangerous

a cavalier," he added, with a smiling gallantry.

As soon as Madame von Rosen was gone he made a great call upon his

self-command. He was face to face with a miserable passage where, if it

were possible, he desired to carry himself with dignity. As to the main

fact, he never swerved or faltered; he had come so heart-sick and so

cruelly humiliated from his talk with Gotthold, that he embraced the

notion of imprisonment with something bordering on relief. Here was, at

least, a step which he thought blameless; here was a way out of his

troubles. He sat down to write to Seraphina; and his anger blazed. The

tale of his forbearances mounted, in his eyes, to something monstrous;

still more monstrous, the coldness, egoism, and cruelty that had

required and thus requited them. The pen which he had taken shook in his

hand. He was amazed to find his resignation fled, but it was gone beyond

his recall. In a few white-hot words, he bade adieu, dubbing desperation

by the name of love, and calling his wrath forgiveness; then he cast but

one look of leave-taking on the place that had been his for so long and

was now to be his no longer; and hurried forth--love's prisoner--or

pride's.

He took that private passage which he had trodden so often in less

momentous hours. The porter let him out: and the bountiful, cold air of

the night and the pure glory of the stars received him on the threshold.

He looked round him, breathing deep of earth's plain fragrance; he

looked up into the great array of heaven, and was quieted. His little

turgid life dwindled to its true proportions; and he saw himself (that

great flame-hearted martyr!) stand like a speck under the cool cupola of

the night. Thus he felt his careless injuries already soothed; the live

air of out-of-doors, the quiet of the world, as if by their silent

music, sobering and dwarfing his emotions.

"Well, I forgive her," he said. "If it be of any use to her, I forgive."

And with brisk steps he crossed the garden, issued upon the park, and

came to the Flying Mercury. A dark figure moved forward from the shadow

of the pedestal.

"I have to ask your pardon, sir," a voice observed, "but if I am right

in taking you for the Prince, I was given to understand that you would

be prepared to meet me."

"Herr Gordon, I believe?" said Otto.

"Herr Oberst Gordon," replied that officer. "This is rather a ticklish

business for a man to be embarked in; and to find that all is to go

pleasantly is a great relief to me. The carriage is at hand; shall I

have the honour of following your Highness?"

"Colonel," said the Prince, "I have now come to that happy moment of my

life when I have orders to receive but none to give."

"A most philosophical remark," returned the Colonel. "Begad, a very

pertinent remark! it might be Plutarch. I am not a drop's blood to your

Highness, or indeed to anyone in this principality; or else I should

dislike my orders. But as it is, and since there is nothing unnatural or

unbecoming on my side, and your Highness takes it in good part, I begin

to believe we may have a capital time together, sir--a capital time. For

a gaoler is only a fellow-captive."

"May I inquire, Herr Gordon," asked Otto, "what led you to accept this

dangerous and I would fain hope thankless office?"

"Very natural, I am sure," replied the officer of fortune. "My pay is,

in the meanwhile, doubled."

"Well, sir, I will not presume to criticise," returned the Prince. "And

I perceive the carriage."

Sure enough, at the intersection of two alleys of the park, a coach and

four, conspicuous by its lanterns, stood in waiting. And a little way

off about a score of lancers were drawn up under the shadow of the

trees.

CHAPTER XIII

PROVIDENCE VON ROSEN: ACT THE THIRD SHE ENLIGHTENS SERAPHINA

When Madame von Rosen left the Prince, she hurried straight to Colonel

Gordon; and not content with directing the arrangements, she had herself

accompanied the soldier of fortune to the Flying Mercury. The Colonel

gave her his arm, and the talk between this pair of conspirators ran

high and lively. The Countess, indeed, was in a whirl of pleasure and

excitement; her tongue stumbled upon laughter, her eyes shone, the

colour that was usually wanting now perfected her face. It would have

taken little more to bring Gordon to her feet--or so, at least, she

believed, disdaining the idea.

Hidden among some lilac bushes, she enjoyed the great decorum of the

arrest, and heard the dialogue of the two men die away along the path.

Soon after, the rolling of a carriage and the beat of hoofs arose in the

still air of the night, and passed speedily farther and fainter into

silence. The Prince was gone.

Madame von Rosen consulted her watch. She had still, she thought, time

enough for the tit-bit of her evening; and hurrying to the palace,

winged by the fear of Gondremark's arrival, she sent her name and a

pressing request for a reception to the Princess Seraphina. As the

Countess von Rosen unqualified, she was sure to be refused; but as an

emissary of the Baron's, for so she chose to style herself, she gained

immediate entry.

The Princess sat alone at table, making a feint of dining. Her cheeks

were mottled, her eyes heavy; she had neither slept nor eaten; even her

dress had been neglected. In short, she was out of health, out of looks,

out of heart, and hag-ridden by her conscience. The Countess drew a

swift comparison, and shone brighter in beauty.

"You come, madam, _de la part de Monsieur le Baron_," drawled the

Princess. "Be seated! What have you to say?"

"To say?" repeated Madame von Rosen. "O, much to say! Much to say that I

would rather not, and much to leave unsaid that I would rather say. For

I am like St. Paul, your Highness, and always wish to do the things I

should not. Well! to be categorical--that is the word?--I took the

Prince your order. He could not credit his senses. 'Ah,' he cried, 'dear

Madame von Rosen, it is not possible--it cannot be--I must hear it from

your lips. My wife is a poor girl misled, she is only silly, she is not

cruel.' '_Mon Prince_,' said I, 'a girl--and therefore cruel; youth

kills flies.'--He had such pain to understand it!"

"Madame von Rosen," said the Princess, in most steadfast tones, but with

a rose of anger in her face, "who sent you here, and for what purpose?

Tell your errand."

"O, madam, I believe you understand me very well," returned von Rosen.

"I have not your philosophy. I wear my heart upon my sleeve, excuse the

indecency! It is a very little one," she laughed, "and I so often change

the sleeve!"

"Am I to understand the Prince has been arrested?" asked the Princess,

rising.

"While you sat there dining!" cried the Countess, still nonchalantly

seated.

"You have discharged your errand," was the reply; "I will not detain

you."

"O no, madam," said the Countess, "with your permission, I have not yet

done. I have borne much this evening in your service. I have suffered. I

was made to suffer in your service." She unfolded her fan as she spoke.

Quick as her pulses beat, the fan waved languidly. She betrayed her

emotion only by the brightness of her eyes and face, and by the almost

insolent triumph with which she looked down upon the Princess. There

were old scores of rivalry between them in more than one field; so at

least von Rosen felt; and now she was to have her hour of victory in

them all.

"You are no servant, Madame von Rosen, of mine," said Seraphina.

"No, madam, indeed," returned the Countess; "but we both serve the same

person, as you know--or if you do not, then I have the pleasure of

informing you. Your conduct is so light--so light," she repeated, the

fan wavering higher like a butterfly, "that perhaps you do not truly

understand." The Countess rolled her fan together, laid it in her lap,

and rose to a less languorous position. "Indeed," she continued, "I

should be sorry to see any young woman in your situation. You began with

every advantage--birth, a suitable marriage--quite pretty too--and see

what you have come to! My poor girl! to think of it! But there is

nothing that does so much harm," observed the Countess finely, "as

giddiness of mind." And she once more unfurled the fan, and approvingly

fanned herself.

"I will no longer permit you to forget yourself," cried Seraphina. "I

think you are mad."

"Not mad," returned von Rosen. "Sane enough to know you dare not break

with me to-night, and to profit by the knowledge. I left my poor, pretty

Prince Charming crying his eyes out for a wooden doll. My heart is soft;

I love my pretty Prince; you will never understand it, but I long to

give my Prince his doll, dry his poor eyes, and send him off happy. O,

you immature fool!" the Countess cried, rising to her feet, and pointing

at the Princess the closed fan that now began to tremble in her hand. "O

wooden doll!" she cried, "have you a heart, or blood, or any nature?

This is a man, child--a man who loves you. O, it will not happen twice!

it is not common; beautiful and clever women look in vain for it. And

you, you pitiful school-girl, tread this jewel under foot! you, stupid

with your vanity! Before you try to govern kingdoms you should first be

able to behave yourself at home; home is the woman's kingdom." She

paused and laughed a little, strangely to hear and look upon. "I will

tell you one of the things," she said, "that were to stay unspoken. Von

Rosen is a better woman than you, my Princess, though you will never

have the pain of understanding it; and when I took the Prince your

order, and looked upon his face, my soul was melted--O, I am

frank--here, within my arms, I offered him repose!" She advanced a step

superbly as she spoke, with outstretched arms; and Seraphina shrank. "Do

not be alarmed!" the Countess cried; "I am not offering that hermitage

to you; in all the world there is but one who wants to, and him you have

dismissed! 'If it will give her pleasure I should wear the martyr's

crown,' he cried, 'I will embrace the thorns.' I tell you--I am quite

frank--I put the order in his power and begged him to resist. You, who

have betrayed your husband, may betray me to Gondremark; my Prince would

betray no one. Understand it plainly," she cried, "'tis of his pure

forbearance you sit there; he had the power--I gave it him--to change

the parts; and he refused, and went to prison in your place."

The Princess spoke with some distress. "Your violence shocks me and

pains me," she began, "but I cannot be angry with what at least does

honour to the mistaken kindness of your heart: it was right for me to

know this. I will condescend to tell you. It was with deep regret that I

was driven to this step. I admire in many ways the Prince--I admit his

amiability. It was our great misfortune, it was perhaps somewhat of my

fault, that we were so unsuited to each other; but I have a regard, a

sincere regard, for all his qualities. As a private person I should

think as you do. It is difficult, I know, to make allowances for state

considerations. I have only with deep reluctance obeyed the call of a

superior duty; and so soon as I dare do it for the safety of the state,

I promise you the Prince shall be released. Many in my situation would

have resented your freedoms. I am not"--and she looked for a moment

rather piteously upon the Countess--"I am not altogether so inhuman as

you think."

"And you can put these troubles of the state," the Countess cried, "to

weigh with a man's love?"

"Madame von Rosen, these troubles are affairs of life and death to many;

to the Prince, and perhaps even to yourself, among the number," replied

the Princess, with dignity. "I have learned, madam, although still so

young, in a hard school, that my own feelings must everywhere come

last."

"O callow innocence!" exclaimed the other. "Is it possible you do not

know, or do not suspect, the intrigue in which you move? I find it in my

heart to pity you! We are both women after all--poor girl, poor

girl!--and who is born a woman is born a fool. And though I hate all

women--come, for the common folly, I forgive you. Your Highness"--she

dropped a deep stage curtsey and resumed her fan--"I am going to insult

you, to betray one who is called my lover, and, if it pleases you to use

the power I now put unreservedly into your hands, to ruin my dear self.

O what a French comedy! You betray, I betray, they betray. It is now my

cue. The letter, yes. Behold the letter, madam, its seal unbroken as I

found it by my bed this morning; for I was out of humour, and I get

many, too many, of these favours. For your own sake, for the sake of my

Prince Charming, for the sake of this great principality that sits so

heavy on your conscience, open it and read!"

"Am I to understand," inquired the Princess, "that this letter in any

way regards me?"

"You see I have not opened it," replied von Rosen; "but 'tis mine, and I

beg you to experiment."

"I cannot look at it till you have," returned Seraphina, very

seriously. "There may be matter there not meant for me to see; it is a

private letter."

The Countess tore it open, glanced it through, and tossed it back; and

the Princess, taking up the sheet, recognised the hand of Gondremark,

and read with a sickening shock the following lines:--

"Dearest Anna, come at once. Ratafia has done the deed, her husband

is to be packed to prison. This puts the minx entirely in my power;

_le tour est joue_; she will now go steady in harness, or I will know

the reason why. Come.

"HEINRICH."

"Command yourself, madam," said the Countess, watching with some alarm

the white face of Seraphina. "It is in vain for you to fight with

Gondremark; he has more strings than mere court favour, and could bring

you down to-morrow with a word. I would not have betrayed him otherwise;

but Heinrich is a man, and plays with all of you like marionettes. And

now at least you see for what you sacrificed my Prince. Madam, will you

take some wine? I have been cruel."

"Not cruel, madam--salutary," said Seraphina, with a phantom smile. "No,

I thank you, I require no attentions. The first surprise affected me:

will you give me time a little? I must think."

She took her head between her hands and contemplated for a while the

hurricane confusion of her thoughts.

"This information reaches me," she said, "when I have need of it. I

would not do as you have done, but yet I thank you. I have been much

deceived in Baron Gondremark."

"O, madam, leave Gondremark, and think upon the Prince!" cried von

Rosen.

"You speak once more as a private person," said the Princess; "nor do I

blame you. But my own thoughts are more distracted. However, as I

believe you are truly a friend to my--to the----as I believe," she said,

"you are a friend to Otto, I shall put the order for his release into

your hands this moment. Give me the ink-dish. There!" And she wrote

hastily, steadying her arm upon the table, for she trembled like a reed.

"Remember, madam," she resumed, handing her the order, "this must not be

used nor spoken of at present; till I have seen the Baron, any hurried

step--I lose myself in thinking. The suddenness has shaken me."

"I promise you I will not use it," said the Countess, "till you give me

leave, although I wish the Prince could be informed of it, to comfort

his poor heart. And O, I had forgotten, he has left a letter. Suffer me,

madam; I will bring it you. This is the door, I think?" And she sought

to open it.

"The bolt is pushed," said Seraphina, flushing.

"O! O!" cried the Countess.

A silence fell between them.

"I will get it for myself," said Seraphina; "and in the meanwhile I beg

you to leave me. I thank you, I am sure, but I shall be obliged if you

will leave me."

The Countess deeply curtseyed, and withdrew.

CHAPTER XIV

RELATES THE CAUSE AND OUTBREAK OF THE REVOLUTION

Brave as she was, and brave by intellect, the Princess, when first she

was alone, clung to the table for support. The four corners of her

universe had fallen. She had never liked nor trusted Gondremark

completely; she had still held it possible to find him false to

friendship; but from that to finding him devoid of all those public

virtues for which she had honoured him, a mere commonplace intriguer,

using her for his own ends, the step was wide and the descent giddy.

Light and darkness succeeded each other in her brain; now she believed,

and now she could not. She turned, blindly groping for the note. But von

Rosen, who had not forgotten to take the warrant from the Prince, had

remembered to recover her note from the Princess: von Rosen was an old

campaigner, whose most violent emotion aroused rather than clouded the

vigour of her reason.

The thought recalled to Seraphina the remembrance of the other

letter--Otto's. She rose and went speedily, her brain still wheeling,

and burst into the Prince's armoury. The old chamberlain was there in

waiting; and the sight of another face, prying (or so she felt) on her

distress, struck Seraphina into childish anger.

"Go!" she cried; and then, when the old man was already half-way to the

door, "Stay!" she added. "As soon as Baron Gondremark arrives, let him

attend me here."

"It shall be so directed," said the chamberlain.

"There was a letter ..." she began, and paused.

"Her Highness," said the chamberlain, "will find a letter on the table.

I had received no orders, or her Highness had been spared this trouble."

"No, no, no," she cried. "I thank you. I desire to be alone."

And then, when he was gone, she leaped upon the letter. Her mind was

still obscured; like the moon upon a night of clouds and wind, her

reason shone and was darkened, and she read the words by flashes.

"Seraphina," the Prince wrote, "I will write no syllable of reproach.

I have seen your order, and I go. What else is left me? I have wasted

my love, and have no more. To say that I forgive you is not needful:

at least, we are now separate for ever; by your own act, you free me

from my willing bondage: I go free to prison. This is the last that

you will hear of me in love or anger. I have gone out of your life;

you may breathe easy; you have now rid yourself of the husband who

allowed you to desert him, of the Prince who gave you his rights, and

of the married lover who made it his pride to defend you in your

absence. How you have requited him, your own heart more loudly tells

you than my words. There is a day coming when your vain dreams will

roll away like clouds, and you will find yourself alone. Then you

will remember

"OTTO."

She read with a great horror on her mind; that day, of which he wrote,

was come. She was alone; she had been false, she had been cruel; remorse

rolled in upon her; and then with a more piercing note, vanity bounded

on the stage of consciousness. She a dupe! she helpless! she to have

betrayed herself in seeking to betray her husband! she to have lived

these years upon flattery, grossly swallowing the bolus, like a clown

with sharpers! she--Seraphina! Her swift mind drank the consequences;

she foresaw the coming fall, her public shame; she saw the odium,

disgrace, and folly of her story flaunt through Europe. She recalled the

scandal she had so royally braved; and, alas! she had now no courage to

confront it with. To be thought the mistress of that man: perhaps for

that.... She closed her eyes on agonising vistas. Swift as thought she

had snatched a bright dagger from the weapons that shone along the wall.

Ay, she would escape. From that world-wide theatre of nodding heads and

buzzing whisperers, in which she now beheld herself unpitiably martyred,

one door stood open. At any cost, through any stress of suffering, that

greasy laughter should be stifled. She closed her eyes, breathed a

wordless prayer, and pressed the weapon to her bosom.

At the astonishing sharpness of the prick, she gave a cry and awoke to a

sense of undeserved escape. A little ruby spot of blood was the reward

of that great act of desperation; but the pain had braced her like a

tonic, and her whole design of suicide had passed away.

At the same instant regular feet drew near along the gallery, and she

knew the tread of the big Baron, so often gladly welcome, and even now

rallying her spirits like a call to battle. She concealed the dagger in

the folds of her skirt; and drawing her stature up, she stood

firm-footed, radiant with anger, waiting for the foe.

The Baron was announced, and entered. To him, Seraphina was a hated

task: like the schoolboy with his Virgil, he had neither will nor

leisure to remark her beauties; but when he now beheld her standing

illuminated by her passion, new feelings flashed upon him, a frank

admiration, a brief sparkle of desire. He noted both with joy; they were

means. "If I have to play the lover," thought he, for that was his

constant preoccupation, "I believe I can put soul into it." Meanwhile,

with his usual ponderous grace, he bent before the lady.

"I propose," she said in a strange voice, not known to her till then,

"that we release the Prince and do not prosecute the war."

"Ah, madam," he replied, "'tis as I knew it would be! Your heart, I

knew, would wound you when we came to this distasteful but most

necessary step. Ah, madam, believe me, I am not unworthy to be your

ally; I know you have qualities to which I am a stranger, and count

them the best weapons in the armoury of our alliance:--the girl in the

queen--pity, love, tenderness, laughter; the smile that can reward. I

can only command; I am the frowner. But you! And you have the fortitude

to command these comely weaknesses, to tread them down at the call of

reason. How often have I not admired it even to yourself! Ay, even to

yourself," he added tenderly, dwelling, it seemed, in memory on hours of

more private admiration. "But now, madam----"

"But now, Herr von Gondremark, the time for these declarations has gone

by," she cried. "Are you true to me? are you false? Look in your heart

and answer: it is your heart I want to know."

"It has come," thought Gondremark. "You, madam!" he cried, starting

back--with fear, you would have said, and yet a timid joy. "You!

yourself, you bid me look into my heart?"

"Do you suppose I fear?" she cried, and looked at him with such a

heightened colour, such bright eyes, and a smile of so abstruse a

meaning that the Baron discarded his last doubt.

"Ah, madam!" he cried, plumping on his knees. "Seraphina! Do you permit

me? have you divined my secret? It is true--I put my life with joy into

your power--I love you, love with ardour, as an equal, as a mistress, as

a brother-in-arms, as an adored, desired, sweet-hearted woman. O Bride!"

he cried, waxing dithyrambic, "bride of my reason and my senses, have

pity, have pity on my love!"

She heard him with wonder, rage, and then contempt. His words offended

her to sickness; his appearance, as he grovelled bulkily upon the floor,

moved her to such laughter as we laugh in nightmares.

"O shame!" she cried. "Absurd and odious! What would the Countess say?"

That great Baron Gondremark, the excellent politician, remained for

some little time upon his knees in a frame of mind which perhaps we are

allowed to pity. His vanity, within his iron bosom, bled and raved. If

he could have blotted all, if he could have withdrawn part, if he had

not called her bride--with a roaring in his ears, he thus regretfully

reviewed his declaration. He got to his feet tottering; and then, in

that first moment when a dumb agony finds a vent in words, and the

tongue betrays the inmost and worst of a man, he permitted himself a

retort which, for six weeks to follow, he was to repent at leisure.

"Ah," said he, "the Countess? Now I perceive the reason of your

Highness's disorder."

The lackey-like insolence of the words was driven home by a more

insolent manner. There fell upon Seraphina one of those storm-clouds

which had already blackened upon her reason; she heard herself cry out;

and when the cloud dispersed, flung the blood-stained dagger on the

floor, and saw Gondremark reeling back with open mouth and clapping his

hand upon the wound. The next moment, with oaths that she had never

heard, he leaped at her in savage passion; clutched her as she recoiled;

and in the very act, stumbled and drooped. She had scarce time to fear

his murderous onslaught ere he fell before her feet.

He rose upon one elbow; she still staring upon him, white with horror.

"Anna!" he cried, "Anna! Help!"

And then his utterance failed him, and he fell back, to all appearance

dead.

Seraphina ran to and fro in the room; she wrung her hands and cried

aloud; within she was all one uproar of terror, and conscious of no

articulate wish but to awake.

There came a knocking at the door; and she sprang to it and held it,

panting like a beast, and with the strength of madness in her arms, till

she had pushed the bolt. At this success a certain calm fell upon her

reason. She went back and looked upon her victim, the knocking growing

louder. O yes, he was dead. She had killed him. He had called upon von

Rosen with his latest breath; ah! who would call on Seraphina? She had

killed him. She, whose irresolute hand could scarce prick blood from her

own bosom, had found strength to cast down that great colossus at a

blow.

All this while the knocking was growing more uproarious and more unlike

the staid career of life in such a palace. Scandal was at the door, with

what a fatal following she dreaded to conceive; and at the same time

among the voices that now began to summon her by name, she recognised

the Chancellor's. He or another, somebody must be the first.

"Is Herr von Greisengesang without?" she called.

"Your Highness--yes!" the old gentleman answered. "We have heard cries,

a fall. Is anything amiss?"

"Nothing," replied Seraphina. "I desire to speak with you. Send off the

rest." She panted between each phrase; but her mind was clear. She let

the looped curtain down upon both sides before she drew the bolt; and,

thus secure from any sudden eyeshot from without, admitted the

obsequious Chancellor, and again made fast the door.

Greisengesang clumsily revolved among the wings of the curtain; so that

she was clear of it as soon as he.

"My God!" he cried. "The Baron!"

"I have killed him," she said. "O, killed him!"

"Dear me," said the old gentleman, "this is most unprecedented. Lovers'

quarrels," he added ruefully, "redintegratio----" and then paused. "But,

my dear madam," he broke out again, "in the name of all that is

practical, what are we to do? This is exceedingly grave; morally, madam,

it is appalling. I take the liberty, your Highness, for one moment, of

addressing you as a daughter, a loved although respected daughter; and I

must say that I cannot conceal from you that this is morally most

questionable. And, O dear me, we have a dead body."

She had watched him closely; hope fell to contempt; she drew away her

skirts from his weakness, and, in the act, her own strength returned to

her.

"See if he be dead," she said; not one word of explanation or defence;

she had scorned to justify herself before so poor a creature: "See if he

be dead" was all.

With the greatest compunction, the Chancellor drew near; and as he did

so the wounded Baron rolled his eyes.

"He lives," cried the old courtier, turning effusively to Seraphina.

"Madam, he still lives."

"Help him, then," returned the Princess, standing fixed. "Bind up his

wound."

"Madam, I have no means," protested the Chancellor.

"Can you not take your handkerchief, your neckcloth, anything?" she

cried; and at the same moment, from her light muslin gown she rent off a

flounce and tossed it on the floor. "Take that," she said, and for the

first time directly faced Greisengesang.

But the Chancellor held up his hands and turned away his head in agony.

The grasp of the falling Baron had torn down the dainty fabric of the

bodice; and--"O Highness!" cried Greisengesang, appalled, "the terrible

disorder of your toilette!"

"Take up that flounce," she said; "the man may die."

Greisengesang turned in a flutter to the Baron, and attempted some

innocent and bungling measures. "He still breathes," he kept saying.

"All is not yet over; he is not yet gone."

"And now," said she, "if that is all you can do, begone and get some

porters; he must instantly go home."

"Madam," cried the Chancellor, "if this most melancholy sight was seen

in town--O dear, the state would fall!" he piped.

"There is a litter in the palace," she replied. "It is your part to see

him safe. I lay commands upon you. On your life it stands."

"I see it, dear Highness," he jerked. "Clearly I see it. But how? what

men? The Prince's servants--yes. They had a personal affection. They

will be true, if any."

"O, not them!" she cried. "Take Sabra, my own man."

"Sabra! The grand-mason?" returned the Chancellor, aghast. "If he but

saw this, he would sound the tocsin--we should all be butchered."

She measured the depth of her abasement steadily. "Take whom you must,"

she said, "and bring the litter here."

Once she was alone she ran to the Baron, and with a sickening heart

sought to allay the flux of blood. The touch of the skin of that great

charlatan revolted her to the toes; the wound, in her ignorant eyes,

looked deathly; yet she contended with her shuddering, and, with more

skill at least than the Chancellor's, staunched the welling injury. An

eye unprejudiced with hate would have admired the Baron in his swoon; he

looked so great and shapely; it was so powerful a machine that lay

arrested; and his features, cleared for the moment both of temper and

dissimulation, were seen to be so purely modelled. But it was not thus

with Seraphina. Her victim, as he lay outspread, twitching a little, his

big chest unbared, fixed her with his ugliness; and her mind flitted for

a glimpse to Otto.

Rumours began to sound about the palace of feet running and of voices

raised; the echoes of the great arched staircase were voluble of some

confusion; and then the gallery jarred with a quick and heavy tramp. It

was the Chancellor, followed by four of Otto's valets and a litter. The

servants, when they were admitted, stared at the dishevelled Princess

and the wounded man; speech was denied them, but their thoughts were

riddled with profanity. Gondremark was bundled in; the curtains of the

litter were lowered; the bearers carried it forth, and the Chancellor

followed behind with a white face.

Seraphina ran to the window. Pressing her face upon the pane, she could

see the terrace, where the lights contended; thence, the avenue of lamps

that joined the palace and town; and overhead the hollow night and the

larger stars. Presently the small procession issued from the palace,

crossed the parade, and began to thread the glittering alley: the

swinging couch with its four porters, the much-pondering Chancellor

behind. She watched them dwindle with strange thoughts: her eyes fixed

upon the scene, her mind still glancing right and left on the overthrow

of her life and hopes. There was no one left in whom she might confide;

none whose hand was friendly, or on whom she dared to reckon for the

barest loyalty. With the fall of Gondremark, her party, her brief

popularity, had fallen. So she sat crouched upon the window-seat, her

brow to the cool pane; her dress in tatters, barely shielding her; her

mind revolving bitter thoughts.

Meanwhile, consequences were fast mounting; and in the deceptive quiet

of the night, downfall and red revolt were brewing. The litter had

passed forth between the iron gates and entered on the streets of the

town. By what flying panic, by what thrill of air communicated, who

shall say? but the passing bustle in the palace had already reached and

re-echoed in the region of the burghers. Rumour, with her loud whisper,

hissed about the town; men left their homes without knowing why; knots

formed along the boulevard; under the rare lamps and the great limes the

crowd grew blacker.

And now through the midst of that expectant company, the unusual sight

of a closed litter was observed approaching, and trotting hard behind it

that great dignitary Cancellarius Greisengesang. Silence looked on as it

went by; and as soon as it was passed, the whispering seethed over like

a boiling pot. The knots were sundered; and gradually, one following

another, the whole mob began to form into a procession and escort the

curtained litter. Soon spokesmen, a little bolder than their mates,

began to ply the Chancellor with questions. Never had he more need of

that great art of falsehood, by whose exercise he had so richly lived.

And yet now he stumbled, the master passion, fear, betraying him. He was

pressed; he became incoherent; and then from the jolting litter came a

groan. In the instant hubbub and the gathering of the crowd as to a

natural signal, the clear-eyed, quavering Chancellor heard the catch of

the clock before it strikes the hour of doom; and for ten seconds he

forgot himself. This shall atone for many sins. He plucked a bearer by

the sleeve. "Bid the Princess flee. All is lost," he whispered. And the

next moment he was babbling for his life among the multitude.

Five minutes later the wild-eyed servant burst into the armoury. "All is

lost!" he cried. "The Chancellor bids you flee." And at the same time,

looking through the window, Seraphina saw the black rush of the populace

begin to invade the lamplit avenue.

"Thank you, Georg," she said. "I thank you. Go." And as the man still

lingered, "I bid you go," she added. "Save yourself."

Down by the private passage, and just some two hours later, Amalia

Seraphina, the last Princess, followed Otto Johann Friedrich, the last

Prince of Gruenewald.

BOOK III

FORTUNATE MISFORTUNE

CHAPTER I

PRINCESS CINDERELLA

The porter, drawn by the growing turmoil, had vanished from the postern,

and the door stood open on the darkness of the night. As Seraphina fled

up the terraces, the cries and loud footing of the mob drew nearer the

doomed palace; the rush was like the rush of cavalry; the sound of

shattering lamps tingled above the rest; and, over-towering all, she

heard her own name bandied among the shouters. A bugle sounded at the

door of the guard-room; one gun was fired; and then, with the yell of

hundreds, Mittwalden Palace was carried at a rush.

Sped by these dire sounds and voices, the Princess scaled the long

garden, skimming like a bird the star-lit stairways; crossed the park,

which was in that place narrow; and plunged upon the farther side into

the rude shelter of the forest. So, at a bound, she left the discretion

and the cheerful lamps of palace evenings; ceased utterly to be a

sovereign lady; and, falling from the whole height of civilisation, ran

forth into the woods, a ragged Cinderella.

She went direct before her through an open tract of the forest, full of

brush and birches, and where the starlight guided her; and, beyond that

again, must thread the columned blackness of a pine grove joining

overhead the thatch of its long branches. At that hour the place was

breathless; a horror of night like a presence occupied that dungeon of

the wood; and she went groping, knocking against the boles--her ear,

betweenwhiles, strained to aching and yet unrewarded.

But the slope of the ground was upward, and encouraged her; and

presently she issued on a rocky hill that stood forth above the sea of

forest. All around were other hill-tops, big and little; sable vales of

forest between; overhead the open heaven and the brilliancy of countless

stars; and along the western sky the dim forms of mountains. The glory

of the great night laid hold upon her; her eyes shone with stars; she

dipped her sight into the coolness and brightness of the sky, as she

might have dipped her wrist into a spring; and her heart, at that

ethereal shock, began to move more soberly. The sun that sails overhead,

ploughing into gold the fields of daylight azure and uttering the signal

to man's myriads, has no word apart for man the individual; and the

moon, like a violin, only praises and laments our private destiny. The

stars alone, cheerful whisperers, confer quietly with each of us like

friends; they give ear to our sorrows smilingly, like wise old men, rich

in tolerance; and by their double scale, so small to the eye, so vast to

the imagination, they keep before the mind the double character of man's

nature and fate.

There sat the Princess, beautifully looking upon beauty, in council with

these glad advisers. Bright like pictures, clear like a voice in the

porches of her ear, memory re-enacted the tumult of the evening: the

Countess and the dancing fan, the big Baron on his knees, the blood on

the polished floor, the knocking, the swing of the litter down the

avenue of lamps, the messenger, the cries of the charging mob; and yet

all were far away and phantasmal, and she was still healingly conscious

of the peace and glory of the night. She looked towards Mittwalden; and

above the hill-top, which already hid it from her view, a throbbing

redness hinted of fire. Better so: better so, that she should fall with

tragic greatness, lit by a blazing palace! She felt not a trace of pity

for Gondremark or of concern for Gruenewald: that period of her life was

closed for ever, a wrench of wounded vanity alone surviving. She had but

one clear idea: to flee;--and another, obscure and half-rejected,

although still obeyed: to flee in the direction of the Felsenburg. She

had a duty to perform, she must free Otto--so her mind said, very

coldly; but her heart embraced the notion of that duty even with ardour,

and her hands began to yearn for the grasp of kindness.

She rose, with a start of recollection, and plunged down the slope into

the covert. The woods received and closed upon her. Once more, she

wandered and hasted in a blot, uncheered, unpiloted. Here and there,

indeed, through rents in the wood-roof, a glimmer attracted her; here

and there a tree stood out among its neighbours by some force of

outline; here and there a brushing among the leaves, a notable

blackness, a dim shine, relieved, only to exaggerate, the solid

oppression of the night and silence. And betweenwhiles, the unfeatured

darkness would redouble and the whole ear of night appear to be gloating

on her steps. Now she would stand still, and the silence would grow and

grow, till it weighed upon her breathing; and then she would address

herself again to run, stumbling, falling, and still hurrying the more.

And presently the whole wood rocked and began to run along with her. The

noise of her own mad passage through the silence spread and echoed, and

filled the night with terror. Panic hunted her: Panic from the trees

reached forth with clutching branches; the darkness was lit up and

peopled with strange forms and faces. She strangled and fled before her

fears. And yet in the last fortress, reason, blown upon by these gusts

of terror, still shone with a troubled light. She knew, yet could not

act upon her knowledge; she knew that she must stop, and yet she still

ran.

She was already near madness, when she broke suddenly into a narrow

clearing. At the same time the din grew louder, and she became conscious

of vague forms and fields of whiteness. And with that the earth gave

way; she fell and found her feet again with an incredible shock to her

senses, and her mind was swallowed up.

When she came again to herself she was standing to the mid-leg in an icy

eddy of a brook, and leaning with one hand on the rock from which it

poured. The spray had wet her hair. She saw the white cascade, the stars

wavering in the shaken pool, foam flitting, and high overhead the tall

pines on either hand serenely drinking star-shine; and in the sudden

quiet of her spirit she heard with joy the firm plunge of the cataract

in the pool. She scrambled forth dripping. In the face of her proved

weakness, to adventure again upon the horror of blackness in the groves

were a suicide of life or reason. But here, in the alley of the brook,

with the kind stars above her, and the moon presently swimming into

sight, she could await the coming of day without alarm.

This lane of pine-trees ran very rapidly down hill and wound among the

woods; but it was a wider thoroughfare than the brook needed, and here

and there were little dimpling lawns and coves of the forest, where the

starshine slumbered. Such a lawn she paced, taking patience bravely; and

now she looked up the hill and saw the brook coming down to her in a

series of cascades; and now approached the margin, where it welled among

the rushes silently; and now gazed at the great company of heaven with

an enduring wonder. The early evening had fallen chill, but the night

was now temperate; out of the recesses of the wood there came mild airs

as from a deep and peaceful breathing; and the dew was heavy on the

grass and the tight-shut daisies. This was the girl's first night under

the naked heaven; and now that her fears were overpast, she was touched

to the soul by its serene amenity and peace. Kindly the host of heaven

blinked down upon that wandering Princess; and the honest brook had no

words but to encourage her.

At last she began to be aware of a wonderful revolution, compared to

which the fire of Mittwalden Palace was but the crack and flash of a

percussion-cap. The countenance with which the pines regarded her began

insensibly to change; the grass too, short as it was, and the whole

winding staircase of the brook's course, began to wear a solemn

freshness of appearance. And this slow transfiguration reached her

heart, and played upon it, and transpierced it with a serious thrill.

She looked all about; the whole face of nature looked back, brimful of

meaning, finger on lip, leaking its glad secret. She looked up. Heaven

was almost emptied of stars. Such as still lingered shone with a changed

and waning brightness, and began to faint in their stations. And the

colour of the sky itself was the most wonderful; for the rich blue of

the night had now melted and softened and brightened; and there had

succeeded in its place a hue that has no name, and that is never seen

but as the herald of morning. "O!" she cried, joy catching at her voice,

"O! it is the dawn!"

In a breath she passed over the brook, and looped up her skirts and

fairly ran in the dim alleys. As she ran, her ears were aware of many

pipings, more beautiful than music; in the small dish-shaped houses in

the fork of giant arms, where they had lain all night, lover by lover,

warmly pressed, the bright-eyed, big-hearted singers began to awaken for

the day. Her heart melted and flowed forth to them in kindness. And

they, from their small and high perches in the clerestories of the wood

cathedral, peered down sidelong at the ragged Princess as she flitted

below them on the carpet of the moss and tassel.

Soon she had struggled to a certain hill-top, and saw far before her the

silent inflooding of the day. Out of the East it welled and whitened;

the darkness trembled into light; and the stars were extinguished like

the street-lamps of a human city. The whiteness brightened into silver,

the silver warmed into gold, the gold kindled into pure and living fire;

and the face of the East was barred with elemental scarlet. The day drew

its first long breath, steady and chill; and for leagues around the

woods sighed and shivered. And then, at one bound, the sun had floated

up; and her startled eyes received day's first arrow, and quailed under

the buffet. On every side, the shadows leaped from their ambush and fell

prone. The day was come, plain and garish; and up the steep and solitary

eastern heaven, the sun, victorious over his competitors, continued

slowly and royally to mount.

Seraphina drooped for a little, leaning on a pine, the shrill joy of the

woodlands mocking her. The shelter of the night, the thrilling and

joyous changes of the dawn, were over; and now, in the hot eye of the

day, she turned uneasily and looked sighingly about her. Some way off

among the lower woods a pillar of smoke was mounting and melting in the

gold and blue. There, surely enough, were human folk, the

hearth-surrounders. Man's fingers had laid the twigs; it was man's

breath that had quickened and encouraged the baby flames; and now, as

the fire caught, it would be playing ruddily on the face of its creator.

At the thought, she felt a-cold and little and lost in that great

out-of-doors. The electric shock of the young sunbeams and the unhuman

beauty of the woods began to irk and daunt her. The covert of the house,

the decent privacy of rooms, the swept and regulated fire, all that

denotes or beautifies the home life of man, began to draw her as with

cords. The pillar of smoke was now risen into some stream of moving air;

it began to lean out sideways in a pennon; and thereupon, as though the

change had been a summons, Seraphina plunged once more into the

labyrinth of the wood.

She left day upon the high ground. In the lower groves there still

lingered the blue early twilight and the seizing freshness of the dew.

But here and there, above this field of shadow, the head of a great

outspread pine was already glorious with day; and here and there,

through the breaches of the hills, the sunbeams made a great and

luminous entry. Here Seraphina hastened along forest paths. She had lost

sight of the pilot smoke, which blew another way, and conducted herself

in that great wilderness by the direction of the sun. But presently

fresh signs bespoke the neighbourhood of man; felled trunks, white

slivers from the axe, bundles of green boughs, and stacks of firewood.

These guided her forward; until she came forth at last upon the clearing

whence the smoke arose. A hut stood in the clear shadow, hard by a brook

which made a series of inconsiderable falls; and on the threshold the

Princess saw a sun-burnt and hard-featured woodman, standing with his

hands behind his back and gazing sky-ward.

She went to him directly; a beautiful, bright-eyed, and haggard vision;

splendidly arrayed and pitifully tattered; the diamond ear-drops still

glittering in her ears; and with the movement of her coming, one small

breast showing and hiding among the ragged covert of the laces. At that

ambiguous hour, and coming as she did from the great silence of the

forest, the man drew back from the Princess as from something elfin.

"I am cold," she said, "and weary. Let me rest beside your fire."

The woodman was visibly commoved, but answered nothing.

"I will pay," she said, and then repented of the words, catching perhaps

a spark of terror from his frightened eyes. But, as usual, her courage

rekindled brighter for the check. She put him from the door and entered;

and he followed her in superstitious wonder.

Within, the hut was rough and dark; but on the stone that served as

hearth, twigs and a few dry branches burned with the brisk sounds and

all the variable beauty of fire. The very sight of it composed her; she

crouched hard by on the earth floor and shivered in the glow, and looked

upon the eating blaze with admiration. The woodman was still staring at

his guest; at the wreck of the rich dress, the bare arms, the bedraggled

laces and the gems. He found no word to utter.

"Give me food," said she,--"here, by the fire."

He set down a pitcher of coarse wine, bread, a piece of cheese, and a

handful of raw onions. The bread was hard and sour, the cheese like

leather; even the onion, which ranks with the truffle and the nectarine

in the chief place of honour of earth's fruits, is not perhaps a dish

for princesses when raw. But she ate, if not with appetite, with

courage; and when she had eaten, did not disdain the pitcher. In all her

life before, she had not tasted of gross food nor drunk after another;

but a brave woman far more readily accepts a change of circumstances

than the bravest man. All that while, the woodman continued to observe

her furtively, many low thoughts of fear and greed contending in his

eyes. She read them clearly, and she knew she must be gone.

Presently she arose and offered him a florin.

"Will that repay you?" she asked.

But here the man found his tongue. "I must have more than that," said

he.

"It is all I have to give you," she returned, and passed him by

serenely.

Yet her heart trembled, for she saw his hand stretched forth as if to

arrest her, and his unsteady eyes wandering to his axe. A beaten path

led westward from the clearing, and she swiftly followed it. She did not

glance behind her. But as soon as the least turning of the path had

concealed her from the woodman's eyes, she slipped among the trees and

ran till she deemed herself in safety.

By this time the strong sunshine pierced in a thousand places the

pine-thatch of the forest, fired the red boles, irradiated the cool

aisles of shadow, and burned in jewels on the grass. The gum of these

trees was dearer to the senses than the gums of Araby; each pine, in the

lusty morning sunlight, burned its own wood-incense; and now and then a

breeze would rise and toss these rooted censers, and send shade and

sun-gem flitting, swift as swallows, thick as bees; and wake a brushing

bustle of sounds that murmured and went by.

On she passed, and up and down, in sun and shadow; now aloft on the

bare ridge among the rocks and birches, with the lizards and the snakes;

and anon in the deep grove among sunless pillars. Now she followed

wandering wood-paths, in the maze of valleys; and again, from a

hill-top, beheld the distant mountains and the great birds circling

under the sky. She would see afar off a nestling hamlet, and go round to

avoid it. Below, she traced the course of the foam of mountain torrents.

Nearer hand, she saw where the tender springs welled up in silence, or

oozed in green moss; or in the more favoured hollows a whole family of

infant rivers would combine, and tinkle in the stones, and lie in pools

to be a bathing-place for sparrows, or fall from the sheer rock in rods

of crystal. Upon all these things, as she still sped along in the bright

air, she looked with a rapture of surprise and a joyful fainting of the

heart; they seemed so novel, they touched so strangely home, they were

so hued and scented, they were so beset and canopied by the dome of the

blue air of heaven.

At length, when she was well weary, she came upon a wide and shallow

pool. Stones stood in it, like islands; bulrushes fringed the coast; the

floor was paved with the pine needles; and the pines themselves, whose

roots made promontories, looked down silently on their green images. She

crept to the margin and beheld herself with wonder, a hollow-and

bright-eyed phantom, in the ruins of her palace robe. The breeze now

shook her image; now it would be marred with flies; and at that she

smiled; and from the fading circles, her counterpart smiled back to her

and looked kind. She sat long in the warm sun, and pitied her bare arms

that were all bruised and marred with falling, and marvelled to see that

she was dirty, and could not grow to believe that she had gone so long

in such a strange disorder.

Then, with a sigh, she addressed herself to make a toilet by that forest

mirror, washed herself pure from all the stains of her adventure, took

off her jewels and wrapped them in her handkerchief, re-arranged the

tatters of her dress, and took down the folds of her hair. She shook it

round her face, and the pool repeated her thus veiled. Her hair had

smelt like violets, she remembered Otto saying; and so now she tried to

smell it, and then shook her head, and laughed a little, sadly, to

herself.

The laugh was returned upon her in a childish echo. She looked up; and

lo! two children looking on,--a small girl and a yet smaller boy,

standing, like playthings, by the pool, below a spreading pine.

Seraphina was not fond of children, and now she was startled to the

heart.

"Who are you?" she cried hoarsely.

The mites huddled together and drew back; and Seraphina's heart

reproached her that she should have frightened things so quaint and

little, and yet alive with senses. She thought upon the birds and looked

again at her two visitors; so little larger and so far more innocent. On

their clear faces, as in a pool, she saw the reflection of their fears.

With gracious purpose she arose.

"Come," she said, "do not be afraid of me," and took a step towards

them.

But alas! at the first moment the two poor babes in the wood turned and

ran helter-skelter from the Princess.

The most desolate pang was struck into the girl's heart. Here she was,

twenty-two--soon twenty-three--and not a creature loved her; none but

Otto; and would even he forgive? If she began weeping in these woods

alone, it would mean death or madness. Hastily she trod the thoughts out

like a burning paper; hastily rolled up her locks, and with terror

dogging her, and her whole bosom sick with grief, resumed her journey.

Past ten in the forenoon, she struck a high-road, marching in that place

uphill between two stately groves, a river of sunlight; and here, dead

weary, careless of consequences, and taking some courage from the human

and civilised neighbourhood of the road, she stretched herself on the

green margin in the shadow of a tree. Sleep closed on her, at first

with a horror of fainting, but when she ceased to struggle, kindly

embracing her. So she was taken home for a little, from all her toils

and sorrows, to her Father's arms. And there in the meanwhile her body

lay exposed by the highwayside, in tattered finery; and on either hand

from the woods the birds came flying by and calling upon others, and

debated in their own tongue this strange appearance.

The sun pursued his journey; the shadow flitted from her feet, shrank

higher and higher, and was upon the point of leaving her altogether,

when the rumble of a coach was signalled to and fro by the birds. The

road in that part was very steep; the rumble drew near with great

deliberation; and ten minutes passed before a gentleman appeared,

walking with a sober elderly gait upon the grassy margin of the highway,

and looking pleasantly around him as he walked. From time to time he

paused, took out his note-book and made an entry with a pencil; and any

spy who had been near enough would have heard him mumbling words as

though he were a poet testing verses. The voice of the wheels was still

faint, and it was plain the traveller had far outstripped his carriage.

He had drawn very near to where the Princess lay asleep, before his eye

alighted on her; but when it did he started, pocketed his note-book, and

approached. There was a milestone close to where she lay; and he sat

down on that and coolly studied her. She lay upon one side, all curled

and sunken, her brow on one bare arm, the other stretched out, limp and

dimpled. Her young body, like a thing thrown down, had scarce a mark of

life. Her breathing stirred her not. The deadliest fatigue was thus

confessed in every language of the sleeping flesh. The traveller smiled

grimly. As though he had looked upon a statue, he made a grudging

inventory of her charms: the figure in that touching freedom of

forgetfulness surprised him; the flush of slumber became her like a

flower.

"Upon my word," he thought, "I did not think the girl could be so

pretty. And to think," he added, "that I am under obligation not to use

one word of this!"

He put forth his stick and touched her; and at that she awoke, sat up

with a cry, and looked upon him wildly.

"I trust your Highness has slept well," he said, nodding.

But she only uttered sounds.

"Compose yourself," said he, giving her certainly a brave example in his

own demeanour. "My chaise is close at hand; and I shall have, I trust,

the singular entertainment of abducting a sovereign Princess."

"Sir John!" she said at last.

"At your Highness's disposal," he replied.

She sprang to her feet. "O!" she cried, "have you come from Mittwalden?"

"This morning," he returned, "I left it; and if there is anyone less

likely to return to it than yourself, behold him!"

"The Baron----" she began, and paused.

"Madam," he answered, "it was well meant, and you are quite a Judith;

but after the hours that have elapsed you will probably be relieved to

hear that he is fairly well. I took his news this morning ere I left.

Doing fairly well, they said, but suffering acutely. Hey?--acutely. They

could hear his groans in the next room."

"And the Prince," she asked, "is anything known of him?"

"It is reported," replied Sir John, with the same pleasurable

deliberation, "that upon that point your Highness is the best

authority."

"Sir John," she said eagerly, "you were generous enough to speak about

your carriage. Will you, I beseech you, will you take me to the

Felsenburg? I have business there of an extreme importance."

"I can refuse you nothing," replied the old gentleman, gravely and

seriously enough. "Whatever, madam, it is in my power to do for you,

that shall be done with pleasure. As soon as my chaise shall overtake

us, it is yours to carry you where you will. But," added he, reverting

to his former manner, "I observe you ask me nothing of the Palace."

"I do not care," she said. "I thought I saw it burning."

"Prodigious!" said the Baronet. "You thought? And can the loss of forty

toilettes leave you cold? Well, madam, I admire your fortitude. And the

state, too? As I left, the government was sitting,--the new government,

of which at least two members must be known to you by name: Sabra, who

had, I believe, the benefit of being formed in your employment--a

footman,--am I right?--and our old friend the Chancellor, in something

of a subaltern position. But in these convulsions the last shall be

first, and the first last."

"Sir John," she said, with an air of perfect honesty, "I am sure you

mean most kindly, but these matters have no interest for me."

The Baronet was so utterly discountenanced that he hailed the appearance

of his chaise with welcome, and, by way of saying something, proposed

that they should walk back to meet it. So it was done; and he helped her

in with courtesy, mounted to her side, and from various receptacles (for

the chaise was most completely fitted out) produced fruits and truffled

liver, beautiful white bread, and a bottle of delicate wine. With these

he served her like a father, coaxing and praising her to fresh

exertions; and during all that time, as though silenced by the laws of

hospitality, he was not guilty of the shadow of a sneer. Indeed, his

kindness seemed so genuine that Seraphina was moved to gratitude.

"Sir John," she said, "you hate me in your heart; why are you so kind to

me?"

"Ah, my good lady," said he with no disclaimer of the accusation, "I

have the honour to be much your husband's friend, and somewhat his

admirer."

"You!" she cried. "They told me you wrote cruelly of both of us."

"Such was the strange path by which we grew acquainted," said Sir John.

"I had written, madam, with particular cruelty (since that shall be the

phrase) of your fair self. Your husband set me at liberty, gave me a

passport, ordered a carriage, and then, with the most boyish spirit,

challenged me to fight. Knowing the nature of his married life, I

thought the dash and loyalty he showed delightful. 'Do not be afraid,'

says he: 'if I am killed there is nobody to miss me.' It appears you

subsequently thought of that yourself. But I digress. I explained to him

it was impossible that I could fight! 'Not if I strike you?' says he.

Very droll; I wish I could have put it in my book. However, I was

conquered, took the young gentleman to my high favour, and tore up my

bits of scandal on the spot. That is one of the little favours, madam,

that you owe your husband."

Seraphina sat for some while in silence. She could bear to be misjudged

without a pang by those whom she contemned; she had none of Otto's

eagerness to be approved, but went her own way straight and head in air.

To Sir John, however, after what he had said, and as her husband's

friend, she was prepared to stoop.

"What do you think of me?" she asked abruptly.

"I have told you already," said Sir John: "I think you want another

glass of my good wine."

"Come," she said, "this is unlike you. You are not wont to be afraid.

You say that you admire my husband: in his name, be honest."

"I admire your courage," said the Baronet. "Beyond that, as you have

guessed, and indeed said, our natures are not sympathetic."

"You spoke of scandal," pursued Seraphina. "Was the scandal great?"

"It was considerable," said Sir John.

"And you believed it?" she demanded.

"O, madam," said Sir John, "the question!"

"Thank you for that answer!" cried Seraphina. "And now here, I will tell

you, upon my honour, upon my soul, in spite of all the scandal in this

world, I am as true a wife as ever stood."

"We should probably not agree upon a definition," observed Sir John.

"O!" she cried, "I have abominably used him--I know that; it is not that

I mean. But if you admire my husband, I insist that you shall understand

me: I can look him in the face without a blush."

"It may be, madam," said Sir John; "or have I presumed to think the

contrary."

"You will not believe me?" she cried. "You think I am a guilty wife? You

think he was my lover?"

"Madam," returned the Baronet, "when I tore up my papers I promised your

good husband to concern myself no more with your affairs; and I assure

you for the last time that I have no desire to judge you."

"But you will not acquit me! Ah!" she cried, "_he_ will--he knows me

better!"

Sir John smiled.

"You smile at my distress?" asked Seraphina.

"At your woman's coolness," said Sir John. "A man would scarce have had

the courage of that cry, which was, for all that, very natural, and I

make no doubt quite true. But remark, madam--since you do me the honour

to consult me gravely--I have no pity for what you call your distresses.

You have been completely selfish, and now reap the consequence. Had you

once thought of your husband, instead of singly thinking of yourself,

you would not now have been alone, a fugitive, with blood upon your

hands, and hearing from a morose old Englishman truth more bitter than

scandal."

"I thank you," she said, quivering. "This is very true. Will you stop

the carriage?"

"No, child," said Sir John, "not until I see you mistress of yourself."

There was a long pause, during which the carriage rolled by rock and

woodland.

"And now," she resumed, with perfect steadiness, "will you consider me

composed? I request you, as a gentleman, to let me out."

"I think you do unwisely," he replied. "Continue, if you please, to use

my carriage."

"Sir John," she said, "if death were sitting on that pile of stones, I

would alight! I do not blame, I thank you; I now know how I appear to

others; but sooner than draw breath beside a man who can so think of me,

I would---- O!" she cried, and was silent.

Sir John pulled the string, alighted, and offered her his hand, but she

refused the help.

The road had now issued from the valleys in which it had been winding,

and come to that part of its course where it runs, like a cornice, along

the brow of the steep northward face of Gruenewald. The place where they

had alighted was at a salient angle; a bold rock and some wind-tortured

pine-trees overhung it from above; far below the blue plains lay forth

and melted into heaven; and before them the road, by a succession of

bold zigzags, was seen mounting to where a tower upon a tall cliff

closed the view.

"There," said the Baronet, pointing to the tower, "you see the

Felsenburg, your goal. I wish you a good journey, and regret I cannot be

of more assistance."

He mounted to his place and gave a signal, and the carriage rolled away.

Seraphina stood by the wayside, gazing before her with blind eyes. Sir

John she had dismissed already from her mind; she hated him, that was

enough; for whatever Seraphina hated or contemned fell instantly to

Lilliputian smallness, and was thenceforward steadily ignored in

thought. And now she had matter for concern indeed. Her interview with

Otto, which she had never yet forgiven him, began to appear before her

in a very different light. He had come to her, still thrilling under

recent insult, and not yet breathed from fighting her own cause; and how

that knowledge changed the value of his words! Yes, he must have loved

her; this was a brave feeling--it was no mere weakness of the will. And

she, was she incapable of love? It would appear so; and she swallowed

her tears, and yearned to see Otto, to explain all, to ask pity upon her

knees for her transgressions, and, if all else were now beyond the reach

of reparation, to restore at least the liberty of which she had deprived

him.

Swiftly she sped along the highway, and, as the road wound out and in

about the bluffs and gullies of the mountain, saw and lost by glimpses

the tall tower that stood before and above her, purpled by the mountain

air.

CHAPTER II

TREATS OF A CHRISTIAN VIRTUE

When Otto mounted to his rolling prison he found another occupant in a

corner of the front seat; but as this person hung his head and the

brightness of the carriage-lamps shone outward, the Prince could only

see it was a man. The Colonel followed his prisoner and clapped-to the

door; and at that the four horses broke immediately into a swinging

trot.

"Gentlemen," said the Colonel, after some little while had passed, "if

we are to travel in silence, we might as well be at home. I appear, of

course, in an invidious character; but I am a man of taste, fond of

books and solidly informing talk, and unfortunately condemned for life

to the guard-room. Gentlemen, this is my chance: don't spoil it for me.

I have here the pick of the whole court, barring lovely woman; I have a

great author in the person of the Doctor----"

"Gotthold!" cried Otto.

"It appears," said the Doctor bitterly, "that we must go together. Your

Highness had not calculated upon that."

"What do you infer?" cried Otto; "that I had you arrested?"

"The inference is simple," said the Doctor.

"Colonel Gordon," said the Prince, "oblige me so far, and set me right

with Herr von Hohenstockwitz."

"Gentlemen," said the Colonel, "you are both arrested on the same

warrant in the name of the Princess Seraphina, acting regent,

countersigned by Prime Minister Freiherr von Gondremark, and dated the

day before yesterday, the twelfth. I reveal to you the secrets of the

prison-house," he added.

"Otto," said Gotthold, "I ask you to pardon my suspicions."

"Gotthold," said the Prince, "I am not certain I can grant you that."

"Your Highness is, I am sure, far too magnanimous to hesitate," said the

Colonel. "But allow me: we speak at home in my religion of the means of

grace: and I now propose to offer them." So saying, the Colonel lighted

a bright lamp which he attached to one side of the carriage, and from

below the front seat produced a goodly basket adorned with the long

necks of bottles. "_Tu spem reducis_--how does it go, Doctor?" he asked

gaily. "I am, in a sense, your host; and I am sure you are both far too

considerate of my embarrassing position to refuse to do me honour.

Gentlemen, I drink to the Prince!"

"Colonel," said Otto, "we have a jovial entertainer. I drink to Colonel

Gordon."

Thereupon all three took their wine very pleasantly; and even as they

did so, the carriage with a lurch turned into the high-road and began to

make better speed.

All was bright within; the wine had coloured Gotthold's cheek; dim forms

of forest trees, dwindling and spiring, scarves of the starry sky, now

wide and now narrow, raced past the windows; through one that was left

open the air of the woods came in with a nocturnal raciness; and the

roll of wheels and the tune of the trotting horses sounded merrily on

the ear. Toast followed toast; glass after glass was bowed across and

emptied by the trio; and presently there began to fall upon them a

luxurious spell, under the influence of which little but the sound of

quiet and confidential laughter interrupted the long intervals of

meditative silence.

"Otto," said Gotthold, after one of these seasons of quiet, "I do not

ask you to forgive me. Were the parts reversed, I could not forgive

you."

"Well," said Otto, "it is a phrase we use. I do forgive you, but your

words and your suspicions rankle; and not yours alone. It is idle,

Colonel Gordon, in view of the order you are carrying out, to conceal

from you the dissensions of my family; they have gone so far that they

are now public property. Well, gentlemen, can I forgive my wife? I can,

of course, and do; but in what sense? I would certainly not stoop to any

revenge; as certainly I could not think of her but as one changed beyond

my recognition."

"Allow me," returned the Colonel. "You will permit me to hope that I am

addressing Christians? We are all conscious, I trust, that we are

miserable sinners."

"I disown the consciousness," said Gotthold. "Warmed with this good

fluid, I deny your thesis."

"How, sir? You never did anything wrong? and I heard you asking pardon

but this moment, not of your God, sir, but of a common fellow-worm!" the

Colonel cried.

"I own you have me; you are expert in argument, Herr Oberst," said the

Doctor.

"Begad, sir, I am proud to hear you say so," said the Colonel. "I was

well grounded indeed at Aberdeen. And as for this matter of forgiveness,

it comes, sir, of loose views and (what is if anything more dangerous) a

regular life. A sound creed and a bad morality, that's the root of

wisdom. You two gentlemen are too good to be forgiving."

"The paradox is somewhat forced," said Gotthold.

"Pardon me, Colonel," said the Prince; "I readily acquit you of any

design of offence, but your words bite like satire. Is this a time, do

you think, when I can wish to hear myself called good, now that I am

paying the penalty (and am willing like yourself to think it just) of my

prolonged misconduct?"

"O, pardon me!" cried the Colonel. "You have never been expelled from

the divinity hall; you have never been broke. I was: broke for a neglect

of military duty. To tell you the open truth, your Highness, I was the

worse of drink; it's a thing I never do now," he added, taking out his

glass. "But a man, you see, who has really tasted the defects of his own

character, as I have, and has come to regard himself as a kind of blind

teetotum knocking about life, begins to learn a very different view

about forgiveness. I will talk of not forgiving others, sir, when I have

made out to forgive myself, and not before; and the date is like to be a

long one. My father, the Reverend Alexander Gordon, was a good man, and

damned hard upon others. I am what they call a bad one, and that is just

the difference. The man who cannot forgive any mortal thing is a green

hand in life."

"And yet I have heard of you, Colonel, as a duellist," said Gotthold.

"A different thing, sir," replied the soldier. "Professional etiquette.

And I trust without unchristian feeling."

Presently after the Colonel fell into a deep sleep; and his companions

looked upon each other, smiling.

"An odd fish," said Gotthold.

"And a strange guardian," said the Prince. "Yet what he said was true."

"Rightly looked upon," mused Gotthold, "it is ourselves that we cannot

forgive, when we refuse forgiveness to our friend. Some strand of our

own misdoing is involved in every quarrel."

"Are there not offences that disgrace the pardoner?" asked Otto. "Are

there not bounds of self-respect?"

"Otto," said Gotthold, "does any man respect himself? To this poor waif

of a soldier of fortune we may seem respectable gentlemen; but to

ourselves, what are we unless a pasteboard portico and a deliquium of

deadly weaknesses within?"

"I? yes," said Otto; "but you, Gotthold--you, with your interminable

industry, your keen mind, your books--serving mankind, scorning

pleasures and temptations! You do not know how I envy you."

"Otto," said the Doctor, "in one word, and a bitter one to say: I am a

secret tippler. Yes, I drink too much. The habit has robbed these very

books, to which you praise my devotion, of the merits that they should

have had. It has spoiled my temper. When I spoke to you the other day,

how much of my warmth was in the cause of virtue? how much was the fever

of last night's wine? Ay, as my poor fellow-sot there said, and as I

vaingloriously denied, we are all miserable sinners, put here for a

moment, knowing the good, choosing the evil, standing naked and ashamed

in the eye of God."

"Is it so?" said Otto. "Why, then, what are we? Are the very best----"

"There is no best in man," said Gotthold. "I am not better, it is likely

I am not worse, than you or that poor sleeper. I was a sham, and now you

know me: that is all."

"And yet it has not changed my love," returned Otto softly. "Our

misdeeds do not change us. Gotthold, fill your glass. Let us drink to

what is good in this bad business; let us drink to our old affection;

and, when we have done so, forgive your too just grounds of offence, and

drink with me to my wife, whom I have so misused, who has so misused me,

and whom I have left, I fear, I greatly fear, in danger. What matters it

how bad we are, if others can still love us, and we can still love

others?"

"Ay!" replied the Doctor. "It is very well said. It is the true answer

to the pessimist, and the standing miracle of mankind. So you still love

me? and so you can forgive your wife? Why, then, we may bid conscience

'Down, dog,' like an ill-trained puppy yapping at shadows."

The pair fell into silence, the Doctor tapping on his empty glass.

The carriage swung forth out of the valleys on that open balcony of

high-road that runs along the front of Gruenewald, looking down on

Gerolstein. Far below, a white waterfall was shining to the stars from

the falling skirts of forest, and beyond that, the night stood naked

above the plain. On the other hand, the lamplight skimmed the face of

the precipices, and the dwarf pine-trees twinkled with all their

needles, and were gone again into the wake. The granite roadway

thundered under wheels and hoofs; and at times, by reason of its

continual winding, Otto could see the escort on the other side of a

ravine, riding well together in the night. Presently the Felsenburg came

plainly in view, some way above them, on a bold projection of the

mountain, and planting its bulk against the starry sky.

"See, Gotthold," said the Prince, "our destination."

Gotthold awoke as from a trance.

"I was thinking," said he, "if there is any danger, why did you not

resist? I was told you came of your free will; but should you not be

there to help her?"

The colour faded from the Prince's cheeks.

CHAPTER III

PROVIDENCE VON ROSEN: ACT THE LAST IN WHICH SHE GALLOPS OFF

When the busy Countess came forth from her interview with Seraphina, it

is not too much to say that she was beginning to be terribly afraid. She

paused in the corridor and reckoned up her doings with an eye to

Gondremark. The fan was in requisition in an instant; but her disquiet

was beyond the reach of fanning. "The girl has lost her head," she

thought; and then dismally, "I have gone too far." She instantly decided

on secession. Now the _Mons Sacer_ of the Frau von Rosen was a certain

rustic villa in the forest, called by herself, in a smart attack of

poesy, Tannen Zauber, and by everybody else plain Kleinbrunn.

Thither, upon the thought, she furiously drove, passing Gondremark at

the entrance to the palace avenue, but feigning not to observe him; and

as Kleinbrunn was seven good miles away, and in the bottom of a narrow

dell, she passed the night without any rumour of the outbreak reaching

her; and the glow of the conflagration was concealed by intervening

hills. Frau von Rosen did not sleep well; she was seriously uneasy as to

the results of her delightful evening, and saw herself condemned to

quite a lengthy sojourn in her deserts and a long defensive

correspondence, ere she could venture to return to Gondremark. On the

other hand, she examined, by way of pastime, the deeds she had received

from Otto; and even here saw cause for disappointment. In these

troublous days she had no taste for landed property, and she was

convinced, besides, that Otto had paid dearer than the farm was worth.

Lastly, the order for the Prince's release fairly burned her meddling

fingers.

All things considered, the next day beheld an elegant and beautiful

lady, in a riding-habit and a flapping hat, draw bridle at the gate of

the Felsenburg, not perhaps with any clear idea of her purpose, but with

her usual experimental views on life. Governor Gordon, summoned to the

gate, welcomed the omnipotent Countess with his most gallant bearing,

though it was wonderful how old he looked in the morning.

"Ah, Governor," she said, "we have surprises for you, sir," and nodded

at him meaningly.

"Eh, madam, leave me my prisoners," he said; "and if you will but join

the band, begad, I'll be happy for life."

"You would spoil me, would you not?" she asked.

"I would try, I would try," returned the Governor, and he offered her

his arm.

She took it, picked up her skirt, and drew him close to her. "I have

come to see the Prince," she said. "Now, infidel! on business. A message

from that stupid Gondremark, who keeps me running like a courier. Do I

look like one, Herr Gordon?" And she planted her eyes in him.

"You look like an angel, ma'am," returned the Governor, with a great air

of finished gallantry.

The Countess laughed. "An angel on horseback!" she said. "Quick work."

"You came, you saw, you conquered," flourished Gordon, in high good

humour with his own wit and grace. "We toasted you, madam, in the

carriage, in an excellent good glass of wine; toasted you fathom deep;

the finest woman, with, begad, the finest eyes in Gruenewald. I never saw

the like of them but once, in my own country, when I was a young fool at

College: Thomasina Haig her name was. I give you my word of honour, she

was as like you as two peas."

"And so you were merry in the carriage?" asked the Countess, gracefully

dissembling a yawn.

"We were; we had a very pleasant conversation; but we took perhaps a

glass more than that fine fellow of a Prince has been accustomed to,"

said the Governor; "and I observe this morning that he seems a little

off his mettle. We'll get him mellow again ere bedtime. This is his

door."

"Well," she whispered, "let me get my breath. No, no; wait. Have the

door ready to open." And the Countess, standing like one inspired, shook

out her fine voice in "Lascia ch'io pianga"; and when she had reached

the proper point, and lyrically uttered forth her sighings after

liberty, the door, at a sign, was flung wide open, and she swam into the

Prince's sight, bright-eyed, and with her colour somewhat freshened by

the exercise of singing. It was a great dramatic entrance, and to the

somewhat doleful prisoner within the sight was sunshine.

"Ah, madam," he cried, running to her--"you here!"

She looked meaningly at Gordon; and as soon as the door was closed she

fell on Otto's neck. "To see you here!" she moaned and clung to him.

But the Prince stood somewhat stiffly in that enviable situation, and

the Countess instantly recovered from her outburst.

"Poor child," she said, "poor child! Sit down beside me here, and tell

me all about it. My heart really bleeds to see you. How does time go?"

"Madam," replied the Prince, sitting down beside her, his gallantry

recovered, "the time will now go all too quickly till you leave. But I

must ask you for the news. I have most bitterly condemned myself for my

inertia of last night. You wisely counselled me: it was my duty to

resist. You wisely and nobly counselled me; I have since thought of it

with wonder. You have a noble heart."

"Otto," she said, "spare me. Was it even right, I wonder? I have duties,

too, you poor child; and when I see you they all melt--all my good

resolutions fly away."

"And mine still come too late," he replied, sighing. "O, what would I

not give to have resisted? What would I not give for freedom?"

"Well, what would you give?" she asked; and the red fan was spread; only

her eyes, as if from over battlements, brightly surveyed him.

"I? What do you mean? Madam, you have some news for me," he cried.

"O, O!" said madam dubiously.

He was at her feet. "Do not trifle with my hopes," he pleaded. "Tell me,

dearest Madame von Rosen, tell me! You cannot be cruel: it is not in

your nature. Give? I can give nothing; I have nothing; I can only plead

in mercy."

"Do not," she said; "it is not fair. Otto, you know my weakness. Spare

me. Be generous."

"O, madam," he said, "it is for you to be generous, to have pity." He

took her hand and pressed it; he plied her with caresses and appeals.

The Countess had a most enjoyable sham siege, and then relented. She

sprang to her feet, she tore her dress open, and, all warm from her

bosom, threw the order on the floor.

"There!" she cried. "I forced it from her. Use it, and I am ruined!" And

she turned away as if to veil the force of her emotions.

Otto sprang upon the paper, read it, and cried out aloud. "O, God bless

her!" he said, "God bless her." And he kissed the writing.

Von Rosen was a singularly good-natured woman, but her part was now

beyond her. "Ingrate!" she cried; "I wrung it from her, I betrayed my

trust to get it, and 'tis she you thank!"

"Can you blame me?" said the Prince. "I love her."

"I see that," she said. "And I?"

"You, Madame von Rosen? You are my dearest, my kindest, and most

generous of friends," he said, approaching her. "You would be a perfect

friend, if you were not so lovely. You have a great sense of humour,

you cannot be unconscious of your charm, and you amuse yourself at times

by playing on my weakness; and at times I can take pleasure in the

comedy. But not to-day: to-day you will be the true, the serious, the

manly friend, and you will suffer me to forget that you are lovely and

that I am weak. Come, dear Countess, let me to-day repose in you

entirely."

He held out his hand, smiling, and she took it frankly. "I vow you have

bewitched me," she said; and then with a laugh, "I break my staff"! she

added; "and I must pay you my best compliment. You made a difficult

speech. You are as adroit, dear Prince, as I am--charming." And as she

said the word with a great curtsey, she justified it.

"You hardly keep the bargain, madam, when you make yourself so

beautiful," said the Prince, bowing.

"It was my last arrow," she returned. "I am disarmed. Blank cartridge,

_O mon Prince!_ And now I tell you, if you choose to leave this prison,

you can, and I am ruined. Choose!"

"Madame von Rosen," replied Otto, "I choose, and I will go. My duty

points me, duty still neglected by this Featherhead. But do not fear to

be a loser. I propose instead that you should take me with you, a bear

in chains, to Baron Gondremark. I am become perfectly unscrupulous: to

save my wife I will do all, all he can ask or fancy. He shall be filled;

were he huge as leviathan and greedy as the grave, I will content him.

And you, the fairy of our pantomime, shall have the credit."

"Done!" she cried. "Admirable! Prince Charming no longer--Prince

Sorcerer, Prince Solon! Let us go this moment. Stay," she cried,

pausing. "I beg, dear Prince, to give you back these deeds. 'Twas you

who liked the farm--I have not seen it; and it was you who wished to

benefit the peasants. And, besides," she added, with a comical change of

tone, "I should prefer the ready money."

Both laughed. "Here I am, once more a farmer," said Otto, accepting the

papers, "but overwhelmed in debt."

The Countess touched a bell, and the Governor appeared.

"Governor," she said, "I am going to elope with his Highness. The result

of our talk has been a thorough understanding, and the _coup d'etat_ is

over. Here is the order."

Colonel Gordon adjusted silver spectacles upon his nose. "Yes," he said,

"the Princess: very right. But the warrant, madam, was countersigned."

"By Heinrich!" said von Rosen. "Well, and here am I to represent him."

"Well, your Highness," resumed the soldier of fortune, "I must

congratulate you upon my loss. You have been cut out by beauty, and I am

left lamenting. The Doctor still remains to me: _probus_, _doctus_,

_lepidus_, _jucundus_: a man of books."

"Ay, there is nothing about poor Gotthold," said the Prince.

"The Governor's consolation? Would you leave him bare?" asked von Rosen.

"And, your Highness," resumed Gordon, "may I trust that in the course of

this temporary obscuration, you have found me discharge my part with

suitable respect and, I may add, tact? I adopted purposely a

cheerfulness of manner; mirth, it appeared to me, and a good glass of

wine, were the fit alleviations."

"Colonel," said Otto, holding out his hand, "your society was of itself

enough. I do not merely thank you for your pleasant spirits; I have to

thank you, besides, for some philosophy, of which I stood in need. I

trust I do not see you for the last time; and in the meanwhile, as a

memento of our strange acquaintance, let me offer you these verses on

which I was but now engaged. I am so little of a poet, and was so ill

inspired by prison bars, that they have some claim to be at least a

curiosity."

The Colonel's countenance lighted as he took the paper; the silver

spectacles were hurriedly replaced. "Ha!" he said, "Alexandrines, the

tragic metre. I shall cherish this, your Highness, like a relic; no more

suitable offering, although I say it, could be made. '_Dieux de

l'immense plaine et des vastes forets._' Very good," he said, "very good

indeed! '_Et du geolier lui-meme apprendre des lecons._' Most handsome,

begad!"

"Come, Governor," cried the Countess, "you can read his poetry when we

are gone. Open your grudging portals."

"I ask your pardon," said the Colonel. "To a man of my character and

tastes, these verses, this handsome reference--most moving, I assure

you. Can I offer you an escort?"

"No, no," replied the Countess. "We go incogniti, as we arrived. We ride

together; the Prince will take my servant's horse. Hurry and privacy,

Herr Oberst, that is all we seek." And she began impatiently to lead the

way.

But Otto had still to bid farewell to Dr. Gotthold; and, the Governor

following, with his spectacles in one hand and the paper in the other,

had still to communicate his treasured verses, piece by piece, as he

succeeded in deciphering the manuscript, to all he came across; and

still his enthusiasm mounted. "I declare," he cried at last, with the

air of one who has at length divined a mystery, "they remind me of

Robbie Burns!"

But there is an end to all things; and at length Otto was walking by the

side of Madame von Rosen, along that mountain wall, her servant

following with both the horses, and all about them sunlight, and breeze,

and flying bird, and the vast regions of the air, and the capacious

prospect: wildwood and climbing pinnacle, and the sound and voice of

mountain torrents, at their hand; and far below them, green melting into

sapphire on the plains.

They walked at first in silence; for Otto's mind was full of the delight

of liberty and nature, and still, betweenwhiles, he was preparing his

interview with Gondremark. But when the first rough promontory of the

rock was turned, and the Felsenburg concealed behind its bulk, the lady

paused.

"Here," she said, "I will dismount poor Karl, and you and I must ply our

spurs. I love a wild ride with a good companion."

As she spoke, a carriage came into sight round the corner next below

them in the order of the road. It came heavily creaking, and a little

ahead of it a traveller was soberly walking, note-book in hand.

"It is Sir John," cried Otto, and he hailed him.

The Baronet pocketed his note-book, stared through an eye-glass, and

then waved his stick; and he on his side, and the Countess and the

Prince on theirs, advanced with somewhat quicker steps. They met at the

re-entrant angle, where a thin stream sprayed across a boulder and was

scattered in rain among the brush; and the Baronet saluted the Prince

with much punctilio. To the Countess, on the other hand, he bowed with a

kind of sneering wonder.

"Is it possible, madam, that you have not heard the news?" he asked.

"What news?" she cried.

"News of the first order," returned Sir John: "a revolution in the

state, a Republic declared, the palace burned to the ground, the

Princess in flight, Gondremark wounded----"

"Heinrich wounded?" she screamed.

"Wounded and suffering acutely," said Sir John. "His groans----"

There fell from the lady's lips an oath so potent that, in smoother

hours, it would have made her hearers jump. She ran to her horse,

scrambled to the saddle, and, yet half-seated, dashed down the road at

full gallop. The groom, after a pause of wonder, followed her. The rush

of her impetuous passage almost scared the carriage-horses over the

verge of the steep hill; and still she clattered further and the crags

echoed to her flight, and still the groom flogged vainly in pursuit of

her. At the fourth corner, a woman trailing slowly up leaped back with a

cry and escaped death by a hand's-breadth. But the Countess wasted

neither glance nor thought upon the incident. Out and in, about the

bluffs of the mountain wall, she fled, loose-reined, and still the groom

toiled in her pursuit.

"A most impulsive lady!" said Sir John. "Who would have thought she

cared for him?" And before the words were uttered, he was struggling in

the Prince's grasp.

"My wife! the Princess? What of her?"

"She is down the road," he gasped. "I left her twenty minutes back."

And next moment the choked author stood alone, and the Prince on foot

was racing down the hill behind the Countess.

CHAPTER IV

BABES IN THE WOOD

While the feet of the Prince continued to run swiftly, his heart, which

had at first by far outstripped his running, soon began to linger and

hang back. Not that he ceased to pity the misfortune or to yearn for the

sight of Seraphina; but the memory of her obdurate coldness awoke within

him, and woke in turn his own habitual diffidence of self. Had Sir John

been given time to tell him all, had he even known that she was speeding

to the Felsenburg, he would have gone to her with ardour. As it was, he

began to see himself once more intruding, profiting, perhaps, by her

misfortune, and now that she was fallen, proffering unloved caresses to

the wife who had spurned him in prosperity. The sore spots upon his

vanity began to burn; once more, his anger assumed the carriage of a

hostile generosity; he would utterly forgive indeed; he would help,

save, and comfort his unloving wife; but all with distant self-denial,

imposing silence on his heart, respecting Seraphina's disaffection as he

would the innocence of a child. So, when at length he turned a corner

and beheld the Princess, it was his first thought to reassure her of the

purity of his respect, and he at once ceased running and stood still.

She, upon her part, began to run to him with a little cry; then, seeing

him pause, she paused also, smitten with remorse, and at length, with

the most guilty timidity, walked nearly up to where he stood.

"Otto," she said, "I have ruined all!"

"Seraphina!" he cried with a sob, but did not move, partly withheld by

his resolutions, partly struck stupid at the sight of her weariness and

disorder. Had she stood silent, they had soon been locked in an embrace.

But she too had prepared herself against the interview, and must spoil

the golden hour with protestations.

"All!" she went on, "I have ruined all! But, Otto, in kindness you must

hear me--not justify, but own, my faults. I have been taught so cruelly;

I have had such time for thought, and see the world so changed. I have

been blind, stone-blind; I have let all true good go by me, and lived on

shadows. But when this dream fell, and I had betrayed you, and thought I

had killed----" She paused. "I thought I had killed Gondremark," she

said with a deep flush, "and I found myself alone, as you said."

The mention of the name of Gondremark pricked the Prince's generosity

like a spur. "Well," he cried, "and whose fault was it but mine? It was

my duty to be beside you, loved or not. But I was a skulker in the

grain, and found it easier to desert than to oppose you. I could never

learn that better part of love, to fight love's battles. But yet the

love was there. And now when this toy kingdom of ours has fallen, first

of all by my demerits, and next by your inexperience, and we are here

alone together, as poor as Job and merely a man and a woman--let me

conjure you to forgive the weakness and to repose in the love. Do not

mistake me!" he cried, seeing her about to speak, and imposing silence

with uplifted hand. "My love is changed; it is purged of any conjugal

pretension; it does not ask, does not hope, does not wish for a return

in kind. You may forget for ever that part in which you found me so

distasteful, and accept without embarrassment the affection of a

brother."

"You are too generous, Otto," she said. "I know that I have forfeited

your love. I cannot take this sacrifice. You had far better leave me. O

go away, and leave me to my fate!"

"O no!" said Otto; "we must first of all escape out of this hornets'

nest, to which I led you. My honour is engaged. I said but now we were

as poor as Job; and behold! not many miles from here I have a house of

my own to which I will conduct you. Otto the Prince being down, we must

try what luck remains to Otto the Hunter. Come, Seraphina; show that you

forgive me, and let us set about this business of escape in the best

spirits possible. You used to say, my dear, that, except as a husband

and a prince, I was a pleasant fellow. I am neither now, and you may

like my company without remorse. Come, then; it were idle to be

captured. Can you still walk? Forth, then," said he, and he began to

lead the way.

A little below where they stood, a good-sized brook passed below the

road, which overleapt it in a single arch. On one bank of that

loquacious water a footpath descended a green dell. Here it was rocky

and stony, and lay on the steep scarps of the ravine; here it was choked

with brambles; and there, in fairy haughs, it lay for a few paces evenly

on the green turf. Like a sponge, the hillside oozed with well-water.

The burn kept growing both in force and volume; at every leap it fell

with heavier plunges and span more widely in the pool. Great had been

the labours of that stream, and great and agreeable the changes it had

wrought. It had cut through dykes of stubborn rock, and now, like a

blowing dolphin, spouted through the orifice; along all its humble

coasts, it had undermined and rafted-down the goodlier timber of the

forest; and on these rough clearings it now set and tended primrose

gardens, and planted woods of willow, and made a favourite of the silver

birch. Through all these friendly features the path, its human acolyte,

conducted our two wanderers downward--Otto before, still pausing at the

more difficult passages to lend assistance; the Princess following. From

time to time, when he turned to help her, her face would lighten upon

his--her eyes, half desperately, woo him. He saw, but dare not

understand. "She does not love me," he told himself, with magnanimity.

"This is remorse or gratitude; I were no gentleman, no, nor yet a man,

if I presumed upon these pitiful concessions."

Some way down the glen, the stream, already grown to a good bulk of

water, was rudely dammed across, and about a third of it abducted in a

wooden trough. Gaily the pure water, air's first cousin, fleeted along

the rude aqueduct, whose sides and floor it had made green with grasses.

The path, bearing it close company, threaded a wilderness of briar and

wild-rose. And presently, a little in front, the brown top of a mill and

the tall mill-wheel, spraying diamonds, arose in the narrows of the

glen; at the same time the snoring music of the saws broke the silence.

The miller, hearing steps, came forth to his door, and both he and Otto

started.

"Good morning, miller," said the Prince. "You were right, it seems, and

I was wrong. I give you the news, and bid you to Mittwalden. My throne

has fallen--great was the fall of it!--and your good friends of the

Phoenix bear the rule."

The red-faced miller looked supreme astonishment. "And your Highness?"

he gasped.

"My Highness is running away," replied Otto, "straight for the

frontier."

"Leaving Gruenewald?" cried the man. "Your father's son? It's not to be

permitted!"

"Do you arrest us, friend?" asked Otto, smiling.

"Arrest you? I?" exclaimed the man. "For what does your Highness take

me? Why, sir, I make sure there is not a man in Gruenewald would lay

hands upon you."

"O, many, many," said the Prince; "but from you, who were bold with me

in my greatness, I should even look for aid in my distress."

The miller became the colour of beetroot. "You may say so indeed," said

he. "And meanwhile, will you and your lady step into my house?"

"We have not time for that," replied the Prince; "but if you would

oblige us with a cup of wine without here, you will give a pleasure and

a service, both in one."

The miller once more coloured to the nape. He hastened to bring forth

wine in a pitcher and three bright crystal tumblers. "Your Highness must

not suppose," he said, as he filled them, "that I am an habitual

drinker. The time when I had the misfortune to encounter you, I was a

trifle overtaken, I allow; but a more sober man than I am in my

ordinary, I do not know where you are to look for; and even this glass

that I drink to you (and to the lady) is quite an unusual recreation."

The wine was drunk with due rustic courtesies; and then, refusing

further hospitality, Otto and Seraphina once more proceeded to descend

the glen, which now began to open and to be invaded by the taller trees.

"I owed that man a reparation," said the Prince; "for when we met I was

in the wrong and put a sore affront upon him. I judge by myself,

perhaps; but I begin to think that no one is the better for a

humiliation."

"But some have to be taught so," she replied.

"Well, well," he said, with a painful embarrassment. "Well, well. But

let us think of safety. My miller is all very good, but I do not pin my

faith to him. To follow down this stream will bring us, but after

innumerable windings, to my house. Here, up this glade, there lies a

cross-cut--the world's end for solitude--the very deer scarce visit it.

Are you too tired, or could you pass that way?"

"Choose the path, Otto. I will follow you," she said.

"No," he replied, with a singular imbecility of manner and appearance,

"but I meant the path was rough. It lies, all the way, by glade and

dingle, and the dingles are both deep and thorny."

"Lead on," she said. "Are you not Otto the Hunter?"

They had now burst across a veil of underwood, and were come into a lawn

among the forest, very green and innocent, and solemnly surrounded by

trees. Otto paused on the margin, looking about him with delight; then

his glance returned to Seraphina, as she stood framed in that silvan

pleasantness and looking at her husband with undecipherable eyes. A

weakness both of the body and mind fell on him like beginnings of sleep;

the cords of his activity were relaxed, his eyes clung to her. "Let us

rest," he said; and he made her sit down, and himself sat down beside

her on the slope of an inconsiderable mound.

She sat with her eyes downcast, her slim hand dabbling in grass, like a

maid waiting for love's summons. The sound of the wind in the forest

swelled and sank, and drew near them with a running rush, and died away

and away in the distance into fainting whispers. Nearer hand, a bird out

of the deep covert uttered broken and anxious notes. All this seemed but

a halting prelude to speech. To Otto it seemed as if the whole frame of

nature were waiting for his words; and yet his pride kept him silent.

The longer he watched that slender and pale hand plucking at the

grasses, the harder and rougher grew the fight between pride and its

kindly adversary.

"Seraphina," he said at last, "it is right you should know one thing: I

never...." He was about to say "doubted you," but was that true? And, if

true, was it generous to speak of it? Silence succeeded.

"I pray you, tell it me," she said; "tell it me, in pity."

"I mean only this," he resumed, "that I understand all, and do not blame

you. I understand how the brave woman must look down on the weak man. I

think you were wrong in some things; but I have tried to understand it,

and I do. I do not need to forget or to forgive, Seraphina, for I have

understood."

"I know what I have done," she said. "I am not so weak that I can be

deceived with kind speeches. I know what I have been--I see myself. I am

not worth your anger, how much less to be forgiven! In all this downfall

and misery, I see only me and you: you, as you have been always; me, as

I was--me, above all! O yes, I see myself; and what can I think?"

"Ah, then, let us reverse the parts!" said Otto. "It is ourselves we

cannot forgive, when we deny forgiveness to another--so a friend told me

last night. On these terms, Seraphina, you see how generously I have

forgiven myself. But am not _I_ to be forgiven? Come, then, forgive

yourself--and me."

She did not answer in words, but reached out her hand to him quickly. He

took it; and as the smooth fingers settled and nestled in his, love ran

to and fro between them in tender and transforming currents.

"Seraphina," he cried, "O forget the past! Let me serve and help you;

let me be your servant; it is enough for me to serve you and to be near

you; let me be near you, dear--do not send me away." He hurried his

pleading like the speech of a frightened child. "It is not love," he

went on; "I do not ask for love; my love is enough...."

"Otto!" she said, as if in pain.

He looked up into her face. It was wrung with the very ecstasy of

tenderness and anguish; on her features, and most of all in her changed

eyes, there shone the very light of love.

"Seraphina?" he cried aloud, and with a sudden, tuneless voice,

"Seraphina?"

"Look round you at this glade," she cried, "and where the leaves are

coming on young trees, and the flowers begin to blossom. This is where

we meet, meet for the first time; it is so much better to forget and to

be born again. O what a pit there is for sins--God's mercy, man's

oblivion!"

"Seraphina," he said, "let it be so, indeed; let all that was be merely

the abuse of dreaming; let me begin again, a stranger. I have dreamed in

a long dream, that I adored a girl unkind and beautiful; in all things

my superior, but still cold, like ice. And again I dreamed, and thought

she changed and melted, glowed and turned to me. And I--who had no merit

but a love, slavish and unerect--lay close, and durst not move for fear

of waking."

"Lie close," she said, with a deep thrill of speech.

So they spake in the spring woods; and meanwhile, in Mittwalden

Rath-haus, the Republic was declared.

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL POSTSCRIPT TO COMPLETE THE STORY

The reader well informed in modern history will not require details as

to the fate of the Republic. The best account is to be found in the

memoirs of Herr Greisengesang (7 Baende: Leipzig), by our passing

acquaintance the licentiate Roederer. Herr Roederer, with too much of an

author's licence, makes a great figure of his hero--poses him, indeed,

to be the centrepiece and cloud-compeller of the whole. But, with due

allowance for this bias, the book is able and complete.

The reader is of course acquainted with the vigorous and bracing pages

of Sir John (2 vols.: London: Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme and Brown). Sir

John, who plays but a tooth-comb in the orchestra of this historical

romance, blows in his own book the big bassoon. His character is there

drawn at large; and the sympathy of Landor has countersigned the

admiration of the public. One point, however, calls for explanation; the

chapter on Gruenewald was torn by the hand of the author in the palace

gardens; how comes it, then, to figure at full length among my more

modest pages, the Lion of the caravan? That eminent literatus was a man

of method; "Juvenal by double entry," he was once profanely called; and

when he tore the sheets in question, it was rather, as he has since

explained, in the search for some dramatic evidence of his sincerity,

than with the thought of practical deletion. At that time, indeed, he

was possessed of two blotted scrolls and a fair copy in double. But the

chapter, as the reader knows, was honestly omitted from the famous

"Memoirs on the various Courts of Europe." It has been mine to give it

to the public.

Bibliography still helps us with a further glimpse of our characters. I

have here before me a small volume (printed for private circulation: no

printer's name; n.d.), "Poesies par Frederic et Amelie." Mine is a

presentation copy, obtained for me by Mr. Bain in the Haymarket; and the

name of the first owner is written on the fly-leaf in the hand of Prince

Otto himself. The modest epigraph--"Le rime n'est pas riche"--may be

attributed, with a good show of likelihood, to the same collaborator. It

is strikingly appropriate, and I have found the volume very dreary.

Those pieces in which I seem to trace the hand of the Princess are

particularly dull and conscientious. But the booklet had a fair success

with that public for which it was designed; and I have come across some

evidences of a second venture of the same sort, now unprocurable. Here,

at least, we may take leave of Otto and Seraphina--what do I say? of

Frederic and Amelie--ageing together peaceably at the court of the

wife's father, jingling French rhymes and correcting joint proofs.

Still following the book-lists, I perceive that Mr. Swinburne has

dedicated a rousing lyric and some vigorous sonnets to the memory of

Gondremark; that name appears twice at least in Victor Hugo's

trumpet-blasts of patriot enumeration; and I came latterly, when I

supposed my task already ended, on a trace of the fallen politician and

his Countess. It is in the "Diary of J. Hogg Cotterill, Esq." (that very

interesting work). Mr. Cotterill, being at Naples, is introduced (May

27th) to "a Baron and Baroness Gondremark--he a man who once made a

noise--she still beautiful--both witty. She complimented me much upon my

French--should never have known me to be English--had known my uncle,

Sir John, in Germany--recognised in me, as a family trait, some of his

_grand air_ and studious courtesy--asked me to call." And again (May

30th), "visited the Baronne de Gondremark--much gratified--a most

_refined_, _intelligent_ woman, quite of the old school, now, _helas!_

extinct--had read my 'Remarks on Sicily'--it reminds her of my uncle,

but with more of grace--I feared she thought there was less

energy--assured no--a softer style of presentation, more of the

_literary grace_, but the same first grasp of circumstance and force of

thought--in short, just Buttonhole's opinion. Much encouraged. I have a

real esteem for this patrician lady." The acquaintance lasted some time;

and when Mr. Cotterill left in the suite of Lord Protocol, and, as he is

careful to inform us, in Admiral Yardarm's flagship, one of his chief

causes of regret is to leave "that most _spirituelle_ and sympathetic

lady, who already regards me as a younger brother."

THE WRONG BOX

WRITTEN IN COLLABORATION WITH LLOYD OSBOURNE

PREFACE

_"Nothing like a little judicious levity," says Michael Finsbury in the

text: nor can any better excuse be found for the volume in the reader's

hand. The authors can but add that one of them is old enough to be

ashamed of himself, and the other young enough to learn better._

_R. L. S._

_L. O._

THE WRONG BOX

CHAPTER I

IN WHICH MORRIS SUSPECTS

How very little does the amateur, dwelling at home at ease, comprehend

the labours and perils of the author, and, when he smilingly skims the

surface of a work of fiction, how little does he consider the hours of

toil, consultation of authorities, researches in the Bodleian,

correspondence with learned and illegible Germans--in one word, the vast

scaffolding that was first built up and then knocked down, to while away

an hour for him in a railway train! Thus I might begin this tale with a

biography of Tonti--birthplace, parentage, genius probably inherited

from his mother, remarkable instance of precocity, etc.--and a complete

treatise on the system to which he bequeathed his name. The material is

all beside me in a pigeon-hole, but I scorn to appear vainglorious.

Tonti is dead, and I never saw anyone who even pretended to regret him;

and, as for the tontine system, a word will suffice for all the purposes

of this unvarnished narrative.

A number of sprightly youths (the more the merrier) put up a certain sum

of money, which is then funded in a pool under trustees; coming on for a

century later, the proceeds are fluttered for a moment in the face of

the last survivor, who is probably deaf, so that he cannot even hear of

his success--and who is certainly dying, so that he might just as well

have lost. The peculiar poetry and even humour of the scheme is now

apparent, since it is one by which nobody concerned can possibly profit;

but its fine, sportsmanlike character endeared it to our grand-parents.

When Joseph Finsbury and his brother Masterman were little lads in

white-frilled trousers, their father--a well-to-do merchant in

Cheapside--caused them to join a small but rich tontine of

seven-and-thirty lives. A thousand pounds was the entrance fee; and

Joseph Finsbury can remember to this day the visit to the lawyer's,

where the members of the tontine--all children like himself--were

assembled together, and sat in turn in the big office chair, and signed

their names with the assistance of a kind old gentleman in spectacles

and Wellington boots. He remembers playing with the children afterwards

on the lawn at the back of the lawyer's house, and a battle-royal that

he had with a brother tontiner who had kicked his shins. The sound of

war called forth the lawyer from where he was dispensing cake and wine

to the assembled parents in the office, and the combatants were

separated, and Joseph's spirit (for he was the smaller of the two)

commended by the gentleman in the Wellington boots, who vowed he had

been just such another at the same age. Joseph wondered to himself if he

had worn at that time little Wellingtons and a little bald head, and

when, in bed at night, he grew tired of telling himself stories of

sea-fights, he used to dress himself up as the old gentleman, and

entertain other little boys and girls with cake and wine.

In the year 1840 the thirty-seven were all alive; in 1850 their number

had decreased by six; in 1856 and 1857 business was more lively, for the

Crimea and the Mutiny carried off no less than nine. There remained in

1870 but five of the original members, and at the date of my story,

including the two Finsburys, but three.

By this time Masterman was in his seventy-third year; he had long

complained of the effects of age, had long since retired from business,

and now lived in absolute seclusion under the roof of his son Michael,

the well-known solicitor. Joseph, on the other hand, was still up and

about, and still presented but a semi-venerable figure on the streets

in which he loved to wander. This was the more to be deplored because

Masterman had led (even to the least particular) a model British life.

Industry, regularity, respectability, and a preference for the four per

cents. are understood to be the very foundations of a green old age. All

these Masterman had eminently displayed, and here he was, _ab agendo_,

at seventy-three; while Joseph, barely two years younger, and in the

most excellent preservation, had disgraced himself through life by

idleness and eccentricity. Embarked in the leather trade, he had early

wearied of business, for which he was supposed to have small parts. A

taste for general information, not promptly checked, had soon begun to

sap his manhood. There is no passion more debilitating to the mind,

unless, perhaps, it be that itch of public speaking which it not

infrequently accompanies or begets. The two were conjoined in the case

of Joseph; the acute stage of this double malady, that in which the

patient delivers gratuitous lectures, soon declared itself with

severity, and not many years had passed over his head before he would

have travelled thirty miles to address an infant school. He was no

student; his reading was confined to elementary text-books and the daily

papers; he did not even fly as high as cyclopaedias; life, he would say,

was his volume. His lectures were not meant, he would declare, for

college professors; they were addressed direct to "the great heart of

the people," and the heart of the people must certainly be sounder than

its head, for his lucubrations were received with favour. That entitled,

"How to Live Cheerfully on Forty Pounds a Year," created a sensation

among the unemployed. "Education: Its Aims, Objects, Purposes, and

Desirability," gained him the respect of the shallow-minded. As for his

celebrated essay on "Life Insurance Regarded in its Relation to the

Masses," read before the Working Men's Mutual Improvement Society, Isle

of Dogs, it was received with a "literal ovation" by an unintelligent

audience of both sexes, and so marked was the effect that he was next

year elected honorary president of the institution, an office of less

than no emolument--since the holder was expected to come down with a

donation--but one which highly satisfied his self-esteem.

While Joseph was thus building himself up a reputation among the more

cultivated portion of the ignorant, his domestic life was suddenly

overwhelmed by orphans. The death of his younger brother Jacob saddled

him with the charge of two boys, Morris and John; and in the course of

the same year his family was still further swelled by the addition of a

little girl, the daughter of John Henry Hazeltine, Esq., a gentleman of

small property and fewer friends. He had met Joseph only once, at a

lecture-hall in Holloway; but from that formative experience he returned

home to make a new will, and consign his daughter and her fortune to the

lecturer. Joseph had a kindly disposition; and yet it was not without

reluctance that he accepted this new responsibility, advertised for a

nurse, and purchased a second-hand perambulator. Morris and John he made

more readily welcome; not so much because of the tie of consanguinity as

because the leather business (in which he hastened to invest their

fortune of thirty thousand pounds) had recently exhibited inexplicable

symptoms of decline. A young but capable Scot was chosen as manager to

the enterprise, and the cares of business never again afflicted Joseph

Finsbury. Leaving his charges in the hands of the capable Scot (who was

married), he began his extensive travels on the Continent and in Asia

Minor.

With a polyglot Testament in one hand and a phrase-book in the other, he

groped his way among the speakers of eleven European languages. The

first of these guides is hardly applicable to the purposes of the

philosophic traveller, and even the second is designed more expressly

for the tourist than for the expert in life. But he pressed

interpreters into his service--whenever he could get their services for

nothing--and by one means and another filled many note-books with the

results of his researches.

In these wanderings he spent several years, and only returned to England

when the increasing age of his charges needed his attention. The two

lads had been placed in a good but economical school, where they had

received a sound commercial education; which was somewhat awkward, as

the leather business was by no means in a state to court inquiry. In

fact, when Joseph went over his accounts preparatory to surrendering his

trust, he was dismayed to discover that his brother's fortune had not

increased by his stewardship; even by making over to his two wards every

penny he had in the world, there would still be a deficit of seven

thousand eight hundred pounds. When these facts were communicated to the

two brothers in the presence of a lawyer, Morris Finsbury threatened his

uncle with all the terrors of the law, and was only prevented from

taking extreme steps by the advice of the professional man.

"You cannot get blood from a stone," observed the lawyer.

And Morris saw the point and came to terms with his uncle. On the one

side, Joseph gave up all that he possessed, and assigned to his nephew

his contingent interest in the tontine, already quite a hopeful

speculation. On the other, Morris agreed to harbour his uncle and Miss

Hazeltine (who had come to grief with the rest), and to pay to each of

them one pound a month as pocket-money. The allowance was amply

sufficient for the old man; it scarce appears how Miss Hazeltine

contrived to dress upon it; but she did, and, what is more, she never

complained. She was, indeed, sincerely attached to her incompetent

guardian. He had never been unkind; his age spoke for him loudly; there

was something appealing in his whole-souled quest of knowledge and

innocent delight in the smallest mark of admiration; and, though the

lawyer had warned her she was being sacrificed, Julia had refused to add

to the perplexities of Uncle Joseph.

In a large, dreary house in John Street, Bloomsbury, these four dwelt

together; a family in appearance, in reality a financial association.

Julia and Uncle Joseph were, of course, slaves; John, a gentleman with a

taste for the banjo, the music-hall, the Gaiety bar, and the sporting

papers, must have been anywhere a secondary figure; and the cares and

delights of empire devolved entirely upon Morris. That these are

inextricably intermixed is one of the commonplaces with which the bland

essayist consoles the incompetent and the obscure, but in the case of

Morris the bitter must have largely outweighed the sweet. He grudged no

trouble to himself, he spared none to others; he called the servants in

the morning, he served out the stores with his own hand, he took

soundings of the sherry, he numbered the remainder biscuits; painful

scenes took place over the weekly bills, and the cook was frequently

impeached, and the tradespeople came and hectored with him in the back

parlour upon a question of three farthings. The superficial might have

deemed him a miser; in his own eyes he was simply a man who had been

defrauded; the world owed him seven thousand eight hundred pounds, and

he intended that the world should pay.

But it was in his dealings with Joseph that Morris's character

particularly shone. His uncle was a rather gambling stock in which he

had invested heavily; and he spared no pains in nursing the security.

The old man was seen monthly by a physician, whether he was well or ill.

His diet, his raiment, his occasional outings, now to Brighton, now to

Bournemouth, were doled out to him like pap to infants. In bad weather

he must keep the house. In good weather, by half-past nine, he must be

ready in the hall; Morris would see that he had gloves and that his

shoes were sound; and the pair would start for the leather business arm

in arm. The way there was probably dreary enough, for there was no

pretence of friendly feeling; Morris had never ceased to upbraid his

guardian with his defalcation and to lament the burthen of Miss

Hazeltine; and Joseph, though he was a mild enough soul, regarded his

nephew with something very near akin to hatred. But the way there was

nothing to the journey back; for the mere sight of the place of

business, as well as every detail of its transactions, was enough to

poison life for any Finsbury.

Joseph's name was still over the door; it was he who still signed the

cheques; but this was only policy on the part of Morris, and designed to

discourage other members of the tontine. In reality the business was

entirely his; and he found it an inheritance of sorrows. He tried to

sell it, and the offers he received were quite derisory. He tried to

extend it, and it was only the liabilities he succeeded in extending; to

restrict it, and it was only the profits he managed to restrict. Nobody

had ever made money out of that concern except the capable Scot, who

retired (after his discharge) to the neighbourhood of Banff and built a

castle with his profits. The memory of this fallacious Caledonian Morris

would revile daily, as he sat in the private office opening his mail,

with old Joseph at another table, sullenly awaiting orders, or savagely

affixing signatures to he knew not what. And when the man of the heather

pushed cynicism so far as to send him the announcement of his second

marriage (to Davida, eldest daughter of the Rev. Alexander McCraw), it

was really supposed that Morris would have had a fit.

Business hours, in the Finsbury leather trade, had been cut to the

quick; even Morris's strong sense of duty to himself was not strong

enough to dally within those walls and under the shadow of that

bankruptcy; and presently the manager and the clerks would draw a long

breath, and compose themselves for another day of procrastination. Raw

Haste, on the authority of my Lord Tennyson, is half-sister to Delay;

but the Business Habits are certainly her uncles. Meanwhile, the

leather merchant would lead his living investment back to John Street

like a puppy dog; and, having there immured him in the hall, would

depart for the day on the quest of seal rings, the only passion of his

life. Joseph had more than the vanity of man, he had that of lecturers.

He owned he was in fault, although more sinned against (by the capable

Scot) than sinning; but had he steeped his hands in gore, he would still

not deserve to be thus dragged at the chariot-wheels of a young man, to

sit a captive in the halls of his own leather business, to be

entertained with mortifying comments on his whole career--to have his

costume examined, his collar pulled up, the presence of his mittens

verified, and to be taken out and brought home in custody, like an

infant with a nurse. At the thought of it his soul would swell with

venom, and he would make haste to hang up his hat and coat and the

detested mittens, and slink upstairs to Julia and his note-books. The

drawing-room at least was sacred from Morris; it belonged to the old man

and the young girl; it was there that she made her dresses; it was there

that he inked his spectacles over the registration of disconnected facts

and the calculation of insignificant statistics.

Here he would sometimes lament his connection with the tontine. "If it

were not for that," he cried one afternoon, "he would not care to keep

me. I might be a free man, Julia. And I could so easily support myself

by giving lectures."

"To be sure you could," said she; "and I think it one of the meanest

things he ever did to deprive you of that amusement. There were those

nice people at the Isle of Cats (wasn't it?) who wrote and asked you so

very kindly to give them an address. I did think he might have let you

go to the Isle of Cats."

"He is a man of no intelligence," cried Joseph. "He lives here literally

surrounded by the absorbing spectacle of life, and for all the good it

does him, he might just as well be in his coffin. Think of his

opportunities! The heart of any other young man would burn within him at

the chance. The amount of information that I have it in my power to

convey, if he would only listen, is a thing that beggars language,

Julia."

"Whatever you do, my dear, you mustn't excite yourself," said Julia;

"for you know, if you look at all ill, the doctor will be sent for."

"That is very true," returned the old man humbly, "I will compose myself

with a little study." He thumbed his gallery of note-books. "I wonder,"

he said, "I wonder (since I see your hands are occupied) whether it

might not interest you----"

"Why, of course it would," cried Julia. "Read me one of your nice

stories, there's a dear!"

He had the volume down and his spectacles upon his nose instanter, as

though to forestall some possible retractation. "What I propose to read

to you," said he, skimming through the pages, "is the notes of a highly

important conversation with a Dutch courier of the name of David Abbas,

which is the Latin for abbot. Its results are well worth the money it

cost me, for, as Abbas at first appeared somewhat impatient, I was

induced to (what is, I believe, singularly called) stand him drink. It

runs only to about five-and-twenty pages. Yes, here it is." He cleared

his throat, and began to read.

Mr. Finsbury (according to his own report) contributed about four

hundred and ninety-nine five-hundredths of the interview, and elicited

from Abbas literally nothing. It was dull for Julia, who did not require

to listen; for the Dutch courier, who had to answer, it must have been a

perfect nightmare. It would seem as if he had consoled himself by

frequent appliances to the bottle; it would even seem that (toward the

end) he had ceased to depend on Joseph's frugal generosity and called

for the flagon on his own account. The effect, at least, of some

mellowing influence was visible in the record: Abbas became suddenly a

willing witness; he began to volunteer disclosures; and Julia had just

looked up from her seam with something like a smile, when Morris burst

into the house, eagerly calling for his uncle, and the next instant

plunged into the room, waving in the air the evening paper.

It was indeed with great news that he came charged. The demise was

announced of Lieutenant-General Sir Glasgow Biggar, K.C.S.I., K.C.M.G.,

etc., and the prize of the tontine now lay between the Finsbury

brothers. Here was Morris's opportunity at last. The brothers had never,

it is true, been cordial. When word came that Joseph was in Asia Minor,

Masterman had expressed himself with irritation. "I call it simply

indecent," he had said. "Mark my words--we shall hear of him next at the

North Pole." And these bitter expressions had been reported to the

traveller on his return. What was worse, Masterman had refused to attend

the lecture on "Education: Its Aims, Objects, Purposes, and

Desirability," although invited to the platform. Since then the brothers

had not met. On the other hand, they never had openly quarrelled; Joseph

(by Morris's orders) was prepared to waive the advantage of his

juniority; Masterman had enjoyed all through life the reputation of a

man neither greedy nor unfair. Here, then, were all the elements of

compromise assembled; and Morris, suddenly beholding his seven thousand

eight hundred pounds restored to him, and himself dismissed from the

vicissitudes of the leather trade, hastened the next morning to the

office of his cousin Michael.

Michael was something of a public character. Launched upon the law at a

very early age, and quite without protectors, he had become a trafficker

in shady affairs. He was known to be the man for a lost cause; it was

known he could extract testimony from a stone, and interest from a gold

mine; and his office was besieged in consequence by all that numerous

class of persons who have still some reputation to lose, and find

themselves upon the point of losing it; by those who have made

undesirable acquaintances, who have mislaid a compromising

correspondence, or who are blackmailed by their own butlers. In private

life Michael was a man of pleasure; but it was thought his dire

experience at the office had gone far to sober him, and it was known

that (in the matter of investments) he preferred the solid to the

brilliant. What was yet more to the purpose, he had been all his life a

consistent scoffer at the Finsbury tontine.

It was therefore with little fear for the result that Morris presented

himself before his cousin, and proceeded feverishly to set forth his

scheme. For near upon a quarter of an hour the lawyer suffered him to

dwell upon its manifest advantages uninterrupted. Then Michael rose from

his seat, and, ringing for his clerk, uttered a single clause:

"It won't do, Morris."

It was in vain that the leather merchant pleaded and reasoned, and

returned day after day to plead and reason. It was in vain that he

offered a bonus of one thousand, of two thousand, of three thousand

pounds; in vain that he offered, in Joseph's name, to be content with

only one-third of the pool. Still there came the same answer: "It won't

do."

"I can't see the bottom of this," he said at last. "You answer none of

my arguments; you haven't a word to say. For my part, I believe it's

malice."

The lawyer smiled at him benignly. "You may believe one thing," said he.

"Whatever else I do, I am not going to gratify any of your curiosity.

You see I am a trifle more communicative to-day, because this is our

last interview upon the subject."

"Our last interview!" cried Morris.

"The stirrup-cup, dear boy," returned Michael. "I can't have my business

hours encroached upon. And, by the by, have you no business of your own?

Are there no convulsions in the leather trade?"

"I believe it to be malice," repeated Morris doggedly. "You always hated

and despised me from a boy."

"No, no--not hated," returned Michael soothingly. "I rather like you

than otherwise; there's such a permanent surprise about you, you look so

dark and attractive from a distance. Do you know that to the naked eye

you look romantic?--like what they call a man with a history? And

indeed, from all that I can hear, the history of the leather trade is

full of incident."

"Yes," said Morris, disregarding these remarks, "it's no use coming

here. I shall see your father."

"O no, you won't," said Michael. "Nobody shall see my father."

"I should like to know why," cried his cousin.

"I never make any secret of that," replied the lawyer. "He is too ill."

"If he is as ill as you say," cried the other, "the more reason for

accepting my proposal. I _will_ see him."

"Will you?" said Michael, and he rose and rang for his clerk.

It was now time, according to Sir Faraday Bond, the medical baronet

whose name is so familiar at the foot of bulletins, that Joseph (the

poor Golden Goose) should be removed into the purer air of Bournemouth;

and for that uncharted wilderness of villas the family now shook off the

dust of Bloomsbury; Julia delighted, because at Bournemouth she

sometimes made acquaintances; John in despair, for he was a man of city

tastes; Joseph indifferent where he was, so long as there was pen and

ink and daily papers, and he could avoid martyrdom at the office; Morris

himself, perhaps, not displeased to pretermit these visits to the city,

and have a quiet time for thought. He was prepared for any sacrifice;

all he desired was to get his money again and clear his feet of leather;

and it would be strange, since he was so modest in his desires, and the

pool amounted to upward of a hundred and sixteen thousand pounds--it

would be strange indeed if he could find no way of influencing Michael.

"If I could only guess his reason," he repeated to himself; and by day,

as he walked in Branksome Woods, and by night, as he turned upon his

bed, and at meal-times, when he forgot to eat, and in the bathing

machine, when he forgot to dress himself, that problem was constantly

before him: Why had Michael refused?

At last, one night, he burst into his brother's room and woke him.

"What's all this?" asked John.

"Julia leaves this place to-morrow," replied Morris. "She must go up to

town and get the house ready, and find servants. We shall all follow in

three days."

"Oh, brayvo!" cried John. "But why?"

"I've found it out, John," returned his brother gently.

"It? What?" inquired John.

"Why Michael won't compromise," said Morris. "It's because he can't.

It's because Masterman's dead, and he's keeping it dark."

"Golly!" cried the impressionable John. "But what's the use? Why does he

do it, anyway?"

"To defraud us of the tontine," said his brother.

"He couldn't; you have to have a doctor's certificate," objected John.

"Did you never hear of venal doctors?" inquired Morris. "They're as

common as blackberries: you can pick 'em up for three-pound-ten a head."

"I wouldn't do it under fifty if I were a sawbones," ejaculated John.

"And then Michael," continued Morris, "is in the very thick of it. All

his clients have come to grief; his whole business is rotten eggs. If

any man could arrange it, he could; and depend upon it, he has his plan

all straight; and depend upon it, it's a good one, for he's clever, and

be damned to him! But I'm clever too; and I'm desperate. I lost seven

thousand eight hundred pounds when I was an orphan at school."

"O, don't be tedious," interrupted John. "You've lost far more already

trying to get it back."