During the first year of my residence in London there happened few
events worth chronicling. Shortly after my arrival Hillars
disappeared. His two months' vacation stretched into twelve, and I was
directed to remain in London. As I knew that Hillars did not wish to
be found I made no inquiries. He was somewhere on the Continent, but
where no one knew. At one time a letter dated at St. Petersburg
reached me, and at another time I was informed of his presence at Monte
Carlo. In neither letter was there any mention of her Serene Highness,
the Princess Hildegarde of Hohenphalia. Since the night he recounted
the adventure the wayward Princess had never become the topic of
conversation. I grew hopeful enough to believe that he had forgotten
her. Occasionally I received a long letter from Phyllis. I always
promptly answered it. To any one but me her letters would have proved
interesting reading. It was not for what she wrote that I cared, it
was the mere fact that she wrote. A man cannot find much pleasure in
letters which begin with "Dear friend," and end with "Yours sincerely,"
when they come from the woman he loves.
In the preceding autumn I completed my first novel. I carried it
around to publishers till I grew to hate it as one hates a Nemesis, and
when finally I did place it, it was with a publisher who had just
started in business and was necessarily obscure. I bowed politely to
my dreams of literary fame and became wholly absorbed in my
journalistic work. When the book came out I could not but admire the
excellence of the bookmaking, but as I looked through the reviews and
found no mention save in "books received," I threw the book aside and
vowed that it should be my last. The publisher wrote me that he was
surprised that the book had not caught on, as he considered the story
unusually clever. "Merit is one thing," he said, "but luck is
another." I have found this to be true, not only in literature, but in
all walks of life where fame and money are the goals. Phyllis wrote me
that she thought the book "just splendid"; but I took her praise with a
grain of salt, it being likely that she was partial to the author, and
that the real worth of the book was little in comparison with the fact
that it was I who wrote it.
One morning in early June I found three letters on my desk. The first
was from Hillars. He was in Vienna.
"MY DEAR SON," it ran, "there is another rumpus. The Princess
disappeared on the 20th of last month. They are hunting high and low
for her, and incidentally for me. Why me, is more than I can
understand. But I received a letter from Rockwell of the American
Legation warning me that if I remained in Austria I should be
apprehended, put in jail, hanged and quartered for no other reason on
earth than that they suspect me having something to do with her
disappearance. Due, I suppose, to that other miserable affair. Though
I have hunted all over the Continent, I have never seen the Princess
Hildegarde since that night at B----. Where shall I find her? I
haven't the least idea. But as a last throw, I am going to the
principality of Hohenphalia, where she was born and over which she
rules with infinite wisdom. The King is determined that she shall wed
Prince Ernst. He would take away her principality but for the fact
that there would be a wholesale disturbance to follow any such act. If
I ever meet that watch dog of hers, the Count von Walden, the duffer
who gave me my congé, there will be trouble. The world isn't large
enough for two such men as we are. By the way, I played roulette at
the Casino last night and won 3,000 francs. Well, au revoir or adieu
as the case may be. They sell the worst whiskey here you ever heard
of. It's terrible to have an educated palate.
"HILLARS."
So he was still desiring for something he could never have! I got out
of patience with the fellow. Even if she loved him, what chance had he
against the legions of the King? Hillars was a wild-headed fellow,
and, if at liberty, was not incapable of creating a disturbance. It
might land him in jail, or on the gallows. The phlegmatic German is
not particular whom he hangs. In that wide domain there is always some
petty revolution going on. In each of those petty kingdoms, or
principalities, or duchies, there are miniature Rousseaus and Voltaires
who shout liberty and equality in beer halls and rouse the otherwise
peaceful citizens to warfare; short, it is true, but none the less
warfare. Military despotism is the tocsin. When the King presses an
unwilling subject into the army, upon his discharge the unwilling
subject, usually a peasant, becomes a socialist. These Rousseaus and
Voltaires have a certain amount of education, but they lack daring. If
a man like Hillars, who had not only brains but daring, should get
mixed up in one of these embroglios, some blood would be spilled before
the trouble became adjusted. Still, Hillars, with all his love of
adventure, was not ordinarily reckless. Yet, if he met the Princess,
she would find a willing tool in him for her slightest caprice.
Whatever happened the brunt would fall upon him. My opinion, formed
from various stories I had heard of the Princess, was not very
flattering to her. The letter and its possibilities disturbed me.
The second letter was from headquarters in New York.
"DEAR WINTHROP--We want a good Sunday special. Her Serene Highness the
Princess Hildegarde of Hohenphalia has taken it into her head to
disappear again. Go over and see Rockwell in B----; he will give you a
good yarn. It has never been in type yet, and I daresay that it will
make good reading. London seems particularly dull just now, and you
can easily turn over your affairs to the assistant. This woman's life
is more full of romance than that of any other woman of the courts of
Europe. The most interesting part of it is her reputation is said to
be like that of Caesar's wife--above reproach. Get a full history of
her life and of the Prince whom she is to marry. If you can get any
photographs do so. I know how you dislike this sort of work, prying
into private affairs, as you call it, but with all these sensational
sheets springing up around us, we must keep in line now and then. Do
you know anything about Hillars; is he dead or alive? Take all the
time you want for the story and send it by mail."
"The Princess Hildegarde!" I cried aloud. "The deuce take the woman!"
"What's that?" asked my assistant, who had overheard my outburst.
"Oh, I am to go across on a special story," I said with a snarl, "just
as I was fixing for a week's fishing. I've got to concern myself with
the Princess Hildegarde of Hohenphalia."
"Ah, the Princess Hildegarde?" said the young fellow, pushing back his
hat and elevating his feet, a trick he had acquired while being reared
in his native land, which was the State of Illinois, in America. "You
want to be careful. Every one burns his fingers or singes his wings
around that candle."
"What do you know about her?" I asked.
"A little. You see, about six months ago I discovered all regarding
Hillars and his fall from grace. It was through the Reuter agency.
Hillars got badly singed. An elopement of some sort between him and
the Princess was nipped in the bud. He was ordered to leave the
country and warned never to return, at the peril of his liberty. A
description of him is with every post on the frontier. As for the
Princess she is an interesting character. She was educated in this
country and France. She speaks several languages. She is headstrong
and wilful, and her royal guardian is only too anxious to see her
married and settled down. She masquerades in men's clothes when it
pleases her, she can ride a horse like a trooper, she fences and
shoots, she has fought two duels, and heaven alone knows what she has
not done to disturb the tranquility of the Court. For a man she loved
she would be a merry comrade. I saw her once in Paris. She is an
extraordinarily beautiful woman. A man takes no end of risk when he
concerns himself with her affairs, I can tell you. Hillars--Well, I
suppose it's none of my business. He must have had an exciting time of
it," concluded the young man.
"I'll leave you in charge for a week or so," said I. "What little news
there is at the Houses you can cover. I'll take care of anything of
importance that occurs abroad. I might as well pack up and get out
to-night. A boat leaves Dover early in the morning."
Then I picked up the third and last letter. It was from Phyllis. It
contained the enjoyable news that the Wentworths were coming abroad,
and that they would remain indefinitely at B----, where Mr. Wentworth
had been appointed chargé d'affaires under the American Minister. They
were to visit the Mediterranean before coming to London. They would be
in town in October. The mere thought of seeing Phyllis made my heart
throb.
The next morning I put out from Dover. It was a rough passage for that
time of the year, and I came near being sea-sick. A day or so in Paris
brought me around, and I proceeded. As I passed the frontier I noticed
that my passports were eagerly scanned, and that I was closely
scrutinized for some reason or other.
A smartly dressed officer occupied half of the carriage compartment
with me. I tried to draw him into conversation, but he proved to be
untalkative; so I busied myself with the latest issue of the Paris
_L'Illustration_. I never glanced in the direction of the officer but
what I found him staring intently at me. This irritated me. The
incident was repeated so many times that I said:
"I trust Herr will remember me in the days to come."
"Eh?" somewhat startled, I thought.
"I observed that you will possibly remember me in the days to come.
Or, perhaps I resemble some one you know."
"Not in the least," was the haughty retort.
I shrugged and relit my pipe. The tobacco I had purchased in Paris,
and it was of the customary vileness. Perhaps I could smoke out Mein
Herr. But the task resulted in a boomerang. He drew out a huge china
pipe and began smoking tobacco which was even viler than mine, if that
could be possible. Soon I let down the window.
"Does the smoke disturb Herr?" he asked, puffing forth great clouds of
smoke. There was a shade of raillery in his tones.
"It would not," I answered, "if it came from tobacco."
He subsided.
Whenever there was a stop of any length I stepped out and walked the
platform. The officer invariably followed my example. I pondered over
this each time I re-entered the carriage. At last my irritation turned
into wrath.
"Are you aware that your actions are very annoying?"
"How, sir?" proudly.
"You stare me out of countenance, you refrain from entering into
conversation, and by the way you follow me in and out of the carriage,
one would say that you were watching me. All this is not common
politeness."
"Herr jests," he replied with a forced smile. "If I desire not to
converse, that is my business. As for getting in and out of the
carriage, have I no rights as a passenger?"
It was I who subsided. A minute passed.
"But why do you stare at me?" I asked.
"I do not stare at you, I have no paper and tried to read yours at a
distance. I am willing to apologize for that."
"Oh, that is different," I said. I tossed the paper to him. "You are
welcome to the paper."
I covertly watched him as he tried to read the French. By and by he
passed the paper back.
"I am not a very good French scholar, and the French are tiresome."
"They would not have been if they had had a General who thought more of
fighting than of wearing pretty clothes."
"Oh, it would not have mattered," confidently.
"Prussia was once humbled by a Frenchman." I was irritating him with a
purpose in view.
"Bah!"
"The only reason the French were beaten was because they did not think
the German race worth troubling about."
He laughed pleasantly. "You Americans have a strange idea of the
difference between the German and the Frenchman."
This was just what I wanted.
"And who informed you that I was an American?"
He was disconcerted.
"Why," he said, lamely, "it is easily apparent, the difference between
the American and the Englishman." Then, as though a bright idea had
come to him, "The English never engage in conversation with strangers
while traveling. Americans are more sociable."
"They are? Then I advise them to follow the example set by the
Englishman: Never try to get up a conversation while traveling with a
German. It is a disagreeable task;" and I settled back behind my paper.
How had he found out that I was an American? Was I known? And for
what reason was I known? To my knowledge I had never committed any
offence to the extent that I must be watched like a suspect. What his
object was and how he came to know that I was an American was a mystery
to me. I was glad that the journey would last but an hour or so
longer. The train arrived at the capital late at night. As I went to
inquire about my luggage I saw my late fellow passenger joined by
another officer. The two began talking earnestly, giving me occasional
side-long glances. The mystery was deepening. In passing them I
caught words which sounded like "under another name" and "positive it
is he." This was anything but reassuring to me. At length they
disappeared, only to meet me outside the station. It got into my head
that I was a marked man. A feeling of discomfort took possession of
me. Germans are troublesome when they get an idea. I was glad to get
into the carriage which was to take me to my hotel. The driver seemed
to have some difficulty in starting the horse, but I gave this no
attention. When the vehicle did start it was with a rapidity which
alarmed me. Corner after corner was turned, and the lights went by in
flashes. It was taking a long time to reach my hotel, I thought.
Suddenly it dawned upon me that the direction we were going was
contrary to my instructions. I tried to open the window, but it
refused to move. Then I hammered on the pane, but the driver was deaf,
or purposely so.
"Hi there!" I thoughtlessly yelled in English, "where the devil are you
going?"
No one paid any attention to my cries. It was becoming a serious
matter. The lights grew fewer and fewer, and presently there were no
lights at all. We were, I judged, somewhere in the suburbs. I became
desperate and smashed a window. The carriage stopped so abruptly that
I went sprawling to the bottom. I was in anything but a peaceful frame
of mind, as they say, when the door swung open and I beheld, standing
at the side of it, the officer who had accompanied me from the frontier.
"What tomfoolery is this?" I demanded. I was thoroughly incensed.
"It means that Herr will act peacefully or be in danger of a broken
head," was the mind-easing reply of my quondam fellow passenger. The
driver then came down from the box, and I saw that he was the officer
who had joined us at the station.
"If it is a frolic," I said, "one of your beer hall frolics, the sooner
it is ended the better for you."
The two laughed as if what I had said was one of the funniest things
imaginable.
"Get out!"
"With pleasure!" said I.
Directly one of them lay with his back to the ground and the other was
locked in my embrace. I had not spent four years on the college campus
for intellectual benefits only. And indignation lent me additional
strength. My opponent was a powerful man, but I held him in a grip of
rage. Truthfully, I began to enjoy the situation. There is something
exhilarating in the fighting blood which rises in us now and then.
This exhilaration, however, brought about my fall. In the struggle I
forgot the other, who meantime had recovered his star-gemmed senses. A
crack from the butt of his pistol rendered me remarkably quiet and
docile. In fact, all became a vacancy till the next morning, and then
I was conscious of a terrible headache, and of a room with a window
through which a cat might have climbed without endangering its spine--a
very dexterous cat.
"Well," I mused, softly nursing the lump on my head, "here's the devil
to pay, and not a cent to pay him with."
It was evident that, without knowing it, I had become a very important
personage.