PRINCE CONRAD MAKES MERRY
A table running parallel with the three windows of the room. An
incredible collection of bottles, decanters and glasses, hardly leaving
room for the dishes of cake and fruit. Ornamental side-dishes flanked by
bottles of champagne. A basket of flowers surrounded by liqueur-bottles.
Twenty persons were seated at table, including half-a-dozen women in
low-necked dresses. The others were officers, covered with gold lace and
orders.
In the middle, facing the window, sat Prince Conrad, presiding over the
banquet, with a lady on his right and another on his left. And it was
the sight of these three, brought together in the most improbable
defiance of the logic of things, that caused Paul to undergo a torture
which was renewed from moment to moment.
That one of the two women should be there, on the prince's right,
sitting stiff-backed in her plum-colored stuff gown, with a black-lace
scarf half-hiding her short hair, was easy to understand. But the other
woman, to whom Prince Conrad kept turning with a clumsy affectation of
gallantry, that woman whom Paul contemplated with horror-struck eyes and
whom he would have liked to strangle where she sat, what was she doing
there? What was Élisabeth doing in the midst of those tipsy officers and
dubious German women, beside Prince Conrad and beside the monstrous
creature who was pursuing her with her hatred?
The Comtesse Hermine d'Andeville! Élisabeth d'Andeville! The mother and
the daughter! There was no plausible argument that would allow Paul to
apply any other description to the prince's two companions. And
something happened to give this description its full value of hideous
reality when, a moment later, Prince Conrad rose to his feet, with a
glass of champagne in his hand, and shouted:
"_Hoch! Hoch! Hoch!_ Here's to the health of our very wideawake friend!"
"_Hoch! Hoch! Hoch!_" shouted the band of guests. "The Comtesse
Hermine!"
She took up a glass, emptied it at a draught and began to make a speech
which Paul could not hear, while the others did their best to listen
with a fervent attention which was all the more meritorious in view of
their copious libations.
And Élisabeth also sat and listened. She was wearing a gray gown which
Paul knew well, quite a simple frock, cut very high in the neck and with
sleeves that came down to her wrists. But from her throat a wonderful
necklace, consisting of four rows of large pearls, hung over her bodice;
and this necklace Paul did not know.
"The wretch! The wretch!" he spluttered.
She was smiling. Yes, he saw on the younger woman's lips a smile
provoked by something that Prince Conrad said as he bent over her. And
the prince gave such a boisterous laugh that the Comtesse Hermine, who
was still speaking, called him to order by tapping him on the hand with
her fan.
The whole scene was a horrible one for Paul; and he suffered such
scorching anguish that his one idea was to get away, to see no more, to
abandon the struggle and to drive this hateful wife of his out of his
life and out of his memory.
"She is a true daughter of the Comtesse Hermine," he thought, in
despair.
He was on the point of going, when a little incident held him back.
Élisabeth raised to her eyes a handkerchief which she held crumpled in
the hollow of her hand and furtively wiped away a tear that was ready to
flow. At the same time he perceived that she was terribly pale, not with
a factitious pallor, which until then he had attributed to the crudeness
of the light, but with a real and deathly pallor. It was as though all
the blood had fled from her poor face. And, after all, what a melancholy
smile was that which had twisted her lips in response to the prince's
jest!
"But then what is she doing here?" Paul asked himself. "Am I not
entitled to regard her as guilty and to suppose that her tears are due
to remorse? She has become cowardly through fear, threats and the wish
to live; and now she is crying."
He continued to insult her in his thoughts; but gradually he felt a
great pity steal over him for the woman who had not had the strength to
endure her intolerable trials.
Meanwhile, the Comtesse Hermine made an end of her speech. She drank
again, swallowing bumper after bumper and each time flinging her glass
behind her. The officers and their women followed her example.
Enthusiastic _Hochs_ were raised from every side; and, in a drunken fit
of patriotism, the prince got on his feet and struck up "_Deutschland
über Alles_," the others joining in the chorus with a sort of frenzy.
Élisabeth had put her elbows on the table and her hands before her face,
as though trying to isolate herself from her surroundings. But the
prince, still standing and bawling, took her two arms and brutally
forced them apart:
"None of your monkey-tricks, pretty one!"
She gave a movement of repulsion which threw him beside himself.
"What's all this? Sulking? And blubbering? A nice thing! And, bless my
soul, what do I see? Madame's glass is full!"
He took the glass and, with a shaky hand, put it to Élisabeth's lips:
"Drink my health, child! The health of your lord and master! What's
this? You refuse? . . . Ah, I see, you don't like champagne! Quite
right! Down with champagne! What you want is hock, good Rhine wine, eh,
baby? You're thinking of one of your country's songs: 'We held it once,
your German Rhine! It babbled in our brimming glass!' Rhine wine,
there!"
With one movement, the officers rose and started shouting:
_Die Wacht am Rhein_
"They shall not have our German Rhine,
Tho' like a flock of hungry crows
They shriek their lust . . ."
"No, they shan't have it," rejoined the prince, angrily, "but you shall
drink it, little one!"
Another glass had been filled. Once more he tried to force Élisabeth to
lift it to her lips; and, when she pushed it away, he began to whisper
in her ear, while the wine dribbled over her dress.
Everybody was silent, waiting to see what would happen. Élisabeth turned
paler than ever, but did not move. The prince, leaning over her, showed
the face of a brute who alternately threatens, pleads, commands and
insults. It was a heart-rending sight. Paul would have given his life to
see Élisabeth yield to a fit of disgust and stab her insulter. Instead
of that, she threw back her head, closed her eyes and half-swooning,
accepted the chalice and swallowed a few mouthfuls.
The prince gave a shout of triumph as he waved the glass on high; then
he put his lips, avidly, to the place at which she had drunk and emptied
it at a draught.
"_Hoch! Hoch!_" he roared. "Up, comrades! Every one on his chair, with
one foot on the table! Up, conquerors of the world! Sing the strength of
Germany! Sing German gallantry!
"'The Rhine, the free, the German Rhine
They shall not have while gallant boys
Still tell of love to slender maids. . . .'
"Élisabeth, I have drunk Rhine wine from your glass. Élisabeth, I know
what you are thinking. Her thoughts are of love, my comrades! I am the
master! Oh, Parisienne! . . . You dear little Parisienne! . . . It's
Paris we want! . . . Oh, Paris, Paris! . . ."
His foot slipped. The glass fell from his hand and smashed against the
neck of a bottle. He dropped on his knees on the table, amid a crash of
broken plates and glasses, seized a flask of liqueur and rolled to the
floor, stammering:
"We want Paris. . . . Paris and Calais. . . . Papa said so. . . . The
Arc de Triomphe! . . . The Café Anglais! . . . A _cabinet particulier_
at the Café Anglais! . . ."
The uproar suddenly stopped. The Comtesse Hermine's imperious voice was
raised in command:
"Go away, all of you! Go home! And be quick about it, gentlemen, if you
please."
The officers and the ladies soon made themselves scarce. Outside, on the
other side of the house, there was a great deal of whistling. The cars
at once drove up from the garage. A general departure took place.
Meanwhile the Countess had beckoned to the servants and, pointing to
Prince Conrad, said:
"Carry him to his room."
The prince was removed at once. Then the Comtesse Hermine went up to
Élisabeth.
Not five minutes had elapsed since the prince rolled under the table;
and, after the din of the banquet, a great silence reigned in the
disorderly room where the two women were now by themselves. Élisabeth
had once more hidden her head in her hands and was weeping violently
with sobs that shook her shoulders. The Comtesse Hermine sat down beside
her and gently touched her on the arm.
The two women looked at each other without a word. It was a strange
glance that they exchanged, a glance laden with mutual hatred. Paul did
not take his eyes from them. As he watched the two of them, he could not
doubt that they had met before and that the words which they were about
to speak were but the sequel and conclusion of some earlier discussion.
But what discussion? And what did Élisabeth know of the Comtesse
Hermine? Did she accept that woman, for whom she felt such loathing, as
her mother?
Never were two human beings distinguished by a greater difference in
physical appearance and above all by expressions of face denoting more
opposite natures. And yet how powerful was the series of proofs that
linked them together! These were no longer proofs, but rather the
factors of so actual a reality that Paul did not even dream of
discussing them. Besides, M. d'Andeville's confusion when confronted
with the countess' photograph, a photograph taken in Berlin some years
after her pretended death, showed that M. d'Andeville was an accessory
to that pretended death and perhaps an accessory to many other things.
And Paul came back to the question provoked by the agonizing encounter
between the mother and daughter: what did Élisabeth know of it all? What
insight had she been able to obtain into the whole monstrous
conglomeration of shame, infamy, treachery and crime? Was she accusing
her mother? And, feeling herself crushed under the weight of the crimes,
did she hold her responsible for her own lack of courage?
"Yes, of course she does," thought Paul. "But why so much hatred? There
is a hatred between them which only death can quench. And the longing to
kill is perhaps even more violent in the eyes of Élisabeth than in
those of the woman who has come to kill her."
Paul felt this impression so keenly that he really expected one or the
other to take some immediate action; and he began to cast about for a
means of saving Élisabeth. But an utterly unforeseen thing happened. The
Comtesse Hermine took from her pocket one of those large road-maps which
motorists use, placed her finger at one spot, followed the red line of a
road to another spot and, stopping, spoke a few words that seemed to
drive Élisabeth mad with delight.
She seized the countess by the arm and began to talk to her feverishly,
in words interrupted by alternate laughing and sobbing, while the
countess nodded her head and seemed to be saying:
"That's all right. . . . We are agreed. . . . Everything shall be as you
wish. . . ."
Paul thought that Élisabeth was actually going to kiss her enemy's hand,
for she seemed overcome with joy and gratitude; and he was anxiously
wondering into what new trap the poor thing had fallen, when the
countess rose, walked to a door and opened it.
She beckoned to some one outside and then came back again.
A man entered, dressed in uniform. And Paul now understood. The man whom
the Comtesse Hermine was admitting was Karl the spy, her confederate,
the agent of her designs, the man whom she was entrusting with the task
of killing Élisabeth, whose last hour had struck.
Karl bowed. The Comtesse Hermine introduced the man to Élisabeth and
then, pointing to the road and the two places on the map, explained what
was expected of him. He took out his watch and made a gesture as though
to say:
"It shall be done at such-and-such a time."
Thereupon, at the countess' suggestion, Élisabeth left the room.
Although Paul had not caught a single word of what was said, this brief
scene was, for him, pregnant with the plainest and most terrifying
significance. The countess, using her absolute power and taking
advantage of the fact that Prince Conrad was asleep, was proposing a
plan of escape to Élisabeth, doubtless a flight by motor-car, towards a
spot in the neighboring district thought out in advance. Élisabeth was
accepting this unhoped-for deliverance. And the flight would take place
under the management and protection of Karl!
The trap was so well-laid and Élisabeth, driven mad with suffering, was
rushing into it so confidently that the two accomplices, on being left
alone, looked at each other and laughed. The trick was really too easy;
and there was no merit in succeeding under such conditions.
There next took place between them, even before any explanation was
entered into, a short pantomime: two movements, no more; but they were
marked with diabolical cynicism. With his eyes fixed on the countess,
Karl the spy opened his jacket and drew a dagger half-way out of its
sheath. The countess made a sign of disapproval and handed the scoundrel
a little bottle which he took with a shrug of the shoulders, apparently
saying:
"As you please! It's all the same to me!"
Then, sitting side by side, they embarked on a lively conversation, the
countess giving her instructions, while Karl expressed his approval or
his dissent.
Paul had a feeling that, if he did not master his dismay, if he did not
stop the disordered beating of his heart, Élisabeth was lost. To save
her, he must keep his brain absolutely clear and take immediate
resolutions, as circumstances demanded, without giving himself time to
reflect or hesitate. And these resolutions he could only take at a
venture and perhaps erroneously, because he did not really know the
enemy's plans. Nevertheless he cocked his revolver.
He was at that moment presuming that, when Élisabeth was ready to start,
she would return to the room and go away with the spy; but presently the
countess struck a bell on the table and spoke a few words to the servant
who appeared. The man went out. Paul heard two whistles, followed by the
hum of an approaching motor.
Karl looked through the open door and down the passage. Then he turned
to the countess, as though to say:
"Here she is. . . . She's coming down the stairs. . . ."
Paul now understood that Élisabeth would go straight to the car and that
Karl would join her there. If so, it was a case for immediate action.
For a second he remained undecided. Should he take advantage of the fact
that Karl was still there, burst into the room and shoot both him and
the countess dead? It would mean saving Élisabeth, because it was only
those two miscreants who had designs upon her life. But he dreaded the
failure of so daring an attempt and, jumping from the balcony, he called
Bernard.
"Élisabeth is going off in a motor-car. Karl is with her and has been
told to poison her. Get out your revolver and come with me."
"What do you intend to do?"
"We shall see."
They went round the villa, slipping through the bushes that bordered the
drive. The whole place, moreover, was deserted.
"Listen," said Bernard, "there's a car going off."
Paul, at first greatly alarmed, protested:
"No, no, it's only the noise of the engine."
In fact, when they came within sight of the front of the house, they saw
at the foot of the steps a closed car surrounded by a group of some
dozen soldiers. Its head-lamps, while lighting up one part of the
garden, left the spot where Paul and Bernard stood in darkness.
A woman came down the steps and disappeared inside the car.
"Élisabeth," said Paul. "And here comes Karl. . . ."
The spy stopped on the bottom step and gave his orders to the soldier
who acted as chauffeur. Paul caught a syllable here and there.
Their departure was imminent. Another moment and, if Paul raised no
obstacle, the car would carry off the assassin and his victim. It was a
horrible minute, for Paul Delroze felt all the danger attending an
interference which would not even possess the merit of being effective,
since Karl's death would not prevent the Comtesse Hermine from pursuing
her ends.
Bernard whispered:
"Surely you don't mean to carry away Élisabeth? There's a whole picket
of sentries there."
"I mean to do only one thing, to do for Karl."
"And then?"
"Then they'll take us prisoners. We shall be questioned, cross-examined;
there will be a scandal. Prince Conrad will take the matter up."
"And we shall be shot. I confess that your plan . . ."
"Can you propose a better one?"
He broke off. Karl the spy had flown into a rage and was storming at
his chauffeur; and Paul heard him shout:
"You damned ass! You're always doing it! No petrol. . . . Where do you
think we shall find petrol in the middle of the night? There's some in
the garage, is there? Then run and fetch it, you fat-head! . . . And
where's my fur-coat? You've forgotten it? Go and get it at once. I shall
drive the car myself. I've no use for fools like you! . . ."
The soldier started running. And Paul at once observed that he himself
would be able to reach the garage, of which he saw the lights, without
having to leave the protecting darkness.
"Come," he said to Bernard. "I have an idea: you'll see what it is."
With the sound of their footsteps deadened by a grassy lawn, they made
for that part of the out-houses containing the stables and motor-sheds,
which they were able to enter unseen by those without. The soldier was
in a back-room, the door of which was open. From their hiding-place they
saw him take from a peg a great goat-skin coat, which he threw over his
shoulder, and lay hold of four tins of petrol. Thus laden, he left the
back-room and passed in front of Paul and Bernard.
The trick was soon done. Before he had time to cry out, he was knocked
down, rendered motionless and gagged.
"That's that," said Paul. "Now give me his great-coat and his cap. I
would rather have avoided this disguise; but, if you want to be sure of
a thing, you mustn't stick at the means."
"Then you're going to risk it?" asked Bernard. "Suppose Karl doesn't
recognize his chauffeur?"
"He won't even think of looking at him."
"But if he speaks to you?"
"I shan't answer. Besides, once we are outside the grounds, I shall have
nothing to fear from him."
"And what am I to do?"
"You? Bind your prisoner carefully and lock him up in some safe place.
Then go back to the shrubbery beyond the window with the balcony. I hope
to join you there with Élisabeth some time during the middle of the
night; and we shall simply have to go back by the tunnel. If by accident
you don't see me return . . ."
"Well?"
"Well, then go back alone before it gets light."
"But . . ."
Paul was already moving away. He was in the mood in which a man refuses
to consider the actions which he has decided to perform. Moreover, the
event seemed to prove that he was right. Karl received him with abusive
language, but without paying the least attention to this supernumerary
for whom he could not show enough contempt. The spy put on his fur-coat,
sat down at the wheel and began to handle the levers while Paul took
his seat beside him.
The car was starting, when a voice from the doorstep called, in a tone
of command:
"Karl! Stop!"
Paul felt a moment's anxiety. It was the Comtesse Hermine. She went up
to the spy and, lowering her voice, said, in French:
"I want you, Karl, to be sure . . . But your driver doesn't know French,
does he?"
"He hardly knows German, _Excellenz_. He's an idiot. You can speak
freely."
"What I was going to say is, don't use more than ten drops out of the
bottle, else. . . ."
"Very well, _Excellenz_. Anything more?"
"Write to me in a week's time if everything has gone off well. Write to
our Paris address and not before: it would be useless."
"Then you're going back to France, _Excellenz_?"
"Yes, my plan is ripe."
"The same plan?"
"Yes. The weather is in our favor. It has been raining for days and the
staff have told me that they mean to act on their side. So I shall be
there to-morrow evening; and it will only need a touch of the thumb
. . ."
"That's it, a touch of the thumb, no more. I've worked at it myself and
everything's ready. But you spoke to me of another plan, to complete the
first; and I confess that that one . . ."
"It's got to be done. Luck is turning against us. If I succeed, it will
be the end of the run on the black."
"And have you the Kaiser's consent?"
"I didn't ask for it. It's one of those undertakings one doesn't talk
about."
"But this one is terribly dangerous, _Excellenz_."
"Can't be helped."
"Sha'n't you want me over there, _Excellenz_?"
"No. Get rid of the chit for us. That will be enough for the present.
Good-bye."
"Good-bye, _Excellenz_."
The spy released the brakes. The car started.
The drive which ran round the central lawn led to a lodge which stood
beside the garden-gate and which served as a guard-room. The high walls
surrounding the grounds rose on either side of it.
An officer came out of the lodge. Karl gave the pass-word,
"Hohenstaufen." The gate was opened and the motor dashed down a
high-road which first passed through the little town of Èbrecourt and
next wound among low hills.
So Paul Delroze, at an hour before midnight, was alone in the open
country, with Élisabeth and Karl the spy. If he succeeded in mastering
the spy, as he did not doubt that he could, Élisabeth would be free.
There would then remain nothing to do but to return to Prince Conrad's
villa, with the aid of the pass-word, and pick up Bernard there. Once
the adventure was completed in accordance with Paul's designs, the
tunnel would bring back all the three of them to the Château d'Ornequin.
Paul therefore gave way to the delight that was stealing over him.
Élisabeth was with him, under his protection: Élisabeth, whose courage,
no doubt, had yielded under the weight of her trials, but who had a
claim upon his indulgence because her misfortunes were due to his fault.
He forgot, he wished to forget all the ugly phases in the tragedy, in
order to think only of the end that was near at hand, his wife's triumph
and deliverance.
He watched the road attentively, so as not to miss his way when
returning, and planned out his attack, fixing it at the first stop which
they would have to make. He resolved that he would not kill the spy, but
that he would stun him with a blow of his fist and, after knocking him
down and binding him, throw him into some wood by the road-side.
They came to a fair-sized market-town, then two villages and then a town
where they had to stop and show the car's papers. It was past eleven.
Then once more they were driving along country lanes which ran through a
series of little woods whose trees lit up as they passed.
At that moment, the light of the lamps began to fail. Karl slackened
speed. He growled:
"You dolt, can't you even keep your lamps alight? Have you got any
carbide?"
Paul did not reply. Karl went on cursing his luck. Suddenly, he put on
the brakes, with an oath:
"You blasted idiot! One can't go on like this. . . . Here, stir your
stumps and light up."
Paul sprang from his seat, while the car drew up by the road-side. The
time had come to act.
He first attended to the lamps, keeping an eye upon the spy's movements
and taking care to stand outside the rays. Karl got down, opened the
door of the car, and started a conversation which Paul could not hear.
Then he came back to where Paul was:
"Well, pudding-head, haven't you done yet?"
Paul had his back turned to him, attending to his work and waiting for
the propitious moment when the spy, coming two steps nearer, would be
within his reach.
A minute elapsed. He clenched his fists. He foresaw the exact movement
which he would have to make and was on the point of making it, when
suddenly he felt himself seized round the body from behind and brought
to the ground without being able to offer the least resistance.
"Thunder and lightning!" cried the spy, holding him down with his knee.
"So that's why you wouldn't answer? . . . It struck me somehow that you
were behaving queerly. . . . And then I never gave it another thought.
. . . It was the lamp, just now, that threw a light on your side-face.
. . . But who is the fellow I've got hold of? Some dog of a Frenchman,
may be?"
Paul had stiffened his muscles and believed for a moment that he would
succeed in escaping from the other's grip. The enemy's strength was
yielding; Paul gradually seemed to master him; and he exclaimed:
"Yes, a Frenchman, Paul Delroze, the one you used to try and kill, the
husband of Élisabeth, your victim. . . . Yes, it's I; and I know who you
are: you're Laschen, the sham Belgian; you're Karl the spy."
He stopped. The spy, who had only weakened his effort to draw a dagger
from his belt, was now raising it against him:
"Ah, Paul Delroze! . . . God's truth, this'll be a lucky trip! . . .
First the husband and then the wife. . . . Ah, so you came running into
my clutches! . . . Here, take this, my lad! . . ."
Paul saw the gleam of a blade flashing above his face. He closed his
eyes, uttering Élisabeth's name.
Another second; and three shots rang out in rapid succession. Some one
was firing from behind the group formed by the two adversaries.
The spy swore a hideous oath. His grip became relaxed. The weapon in the
hand trembled and he fell flat on the ground, moaning:
"Oh, the cursed woman! . . . That cursed woman! . . . I ought to have
strangled her in the car. . . . I knew this would happen. . . ."
His voice failed him. He stammered:
"I've got it this time. . . . Oh, that cursed woman! . . . And the pain
. . . !"
Then he was silent. A few convulsions, a dying gasp and that was all.
Paul had leapt to his feet. He ran to the woman who had saved his life
and who was still holding her revolver in her hand:
"Élisabeth!" he cried, wild with delight.
But he stopped, with his arms outstretched. In the dark, the woman's
figure did not seem to him to be Élisabeth's, but a taller and broader
figure. He blurted out, in a tone of infinite anguish:
"Élisabeth . . . is it you? . . . Is it really you? . . ."
And at the same time he intuitively knew the answer which he was about
to hear:
"No," said the woman, "Mme. Delroze started a little before us, in
another motor. Karl and I were to join her."
Paul remembered that car, of which he and Bernard had thought that he
heard the sound when going round the villa. As the two starts had taken
place with an interval of a few minutes at most between them, he cried:
"Let us be quick then and lose no time. . . . By putting on speed, we
shall be sure to catch them. . . ."
But the woman at once objected:
"It's impossible, because the two cars have taken different roads."
"What does that matter, if they lead to the same point. Where are they
taking Mme. Delroze?"
"To a castle belonging to the Comtesse Hermine."
"And where is that castle?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know? But this is terrible! At least, you know its name.
"No, I don't. Karl never told me."