The affair caused considerable stir. The wise men of diplomacy shook
their heads over it and predicted grave things in store for
Hohenphalia. Things were bad enough as they were, but to have a woman
with American ideas at the head--well, it was too dreadful to think of.
And the correspondents created a hubbub. The news was flashed to
Paris, to London, thence to New York, where the illustrated weeklies
printed full-page pictures of the new Princess who had but a few months
since been one of the society belles. And everybody was wondering who
the "journalist" in the case was. The Chancellor smiled and said
nothing. Mr. Wentworth said nothing and smiled. A cablegram from New
York alarmed me. It said: "Was it you?" I answered, "Await letter."
The letter contained my resignation, to take effect the moment my name
became connected with the finding of the Princess Elizabeth. A week or
so later I received another cablegram, "Accept resignation. Temptation
too great." In some manner they secured a photograph of mine, and I
became known as "The reporter who made a Princess;" and for many days
the raillery at the clubs was simply unbearable. But I am skipping the
intermediate events, those which followed the scene in the King's
palace.
I was very unhappy. Three days passed, and I saw neither Phyllis nor
Gretchen. The city was still talking about the dramatic ending of
Prince Ernst's engagement to the Princess Hildegarde, Twice I had
called at the Hohenphalian residence to pay my respects. Once I was
told that Their Highnesses were at the palace. The second time I was
informed that Their Highnesses were indisposed. I became gloomy and
disheartened. I could not understand. Gretchen had not even thanked
me for my efforts in saving her the unhappiness of marrying the Prince.
And Phyllis, she who had called me "Jack," she whom I had watched grow
from girlhood to womanhood, she, too, had forsaken me. I do not know
what would have become of me but for Pembroke's cheerfulness.
Monday night I was sitting before the grate, reading for the hundredth
time Gretchen's only letter. Pembroke was buried behind the covers of
a magazine. Suddenly a yellow flame leaped from a pine log, and in it
I seemed to read all. Gretchen was proud and jealous. She believed
that I loved Phyllis and had made her a Princess because I loved her.
It was the first time I had laughed in many an hour. Pembroke looked
over his magazine.
"That sounds good. What caused it?"
"A story," I answered. "Some day I shall tell you all about it. Have
you noticed how badly I have gone about lately?"
"Have I!" he echoed. "If I haven't had a time of it, I should like to
know!"
"Well, it is all over," said I, placing a hand on his shoulder and
smiling into his questioning eyes. "Now if you will excuse me, cousin
mine, I'll make a call on her Serene Highness the Princess Hildegarde."
Just then the door opened and Pembroke's valet came in. He handed a
card to me, and I read upon it, "Count von Walden." I cast it into
Pembroke's lap.
"That's the man. He is the inseparable of the Prince of Wortumborg."
Then to the valet, "Show him up."
"What's it all about?" asked Pembroke.
"Honestly, I should like to run away," I said musingly. The snow on
the housetops across the way sparkled in the early moonshine. "It's
about a woman. If I live--ah!" I went to the door and swung it open.
The Count gravely passed over the threshold.
"Good evening," he said, with a look of inquiry at Pembroke.
"This gentleman," said I, as I introduced him, "will second me in the
affair to-morrow morning. I suppose you have come to make the final
arrangements?"
"Pardon me," began Pembroke, "but I do not understand--"
"Oh, I forgot. You are," I responded, "to be my second in a duel
to-morrow morning. Should anything happen to me, it were well to have
a friend near by, better still a relative. Well, Count?"
"The Prince desires me to inform you that he has selected pistols at
your request, and despite the fact that he has only the use of his left
hand, he permits you to use either of yours. There will be one shot
each, the firing to be drawn for on the grounds. The time is six, the
place one mile out on the north road, in the rear of the Strasburg inn.
I trust this is entirely satisfactory to you?"
"It is," I answered.
"Then allow me to bid you good night." He bowed and backed toward the
door. He remained a moment with his hand on the knob, gazing into my
eyes. I read in his a mixture of amusement and curiosity. "Good
night," and he was gone.
Pembroke stared at me in bewilderment. "What the devil--"
"It is a matter of long standing," said I.
"But a duel!" he cried, impatiently. "Hang me if I'll be your second
or let you fight. These are not the days of Richelieu. It is pure
murder. It is against the law."
"But I cannot draw back honorably," I said. "I cannot."
"I'll notify the police and have them stop it," he said with
determination.
"And have us all arrested and laughed at from one end of the continent
to the other. My dear cousin, that man shot the dearest friend I had
in the world. I am going to try to kill him at the risk of getting
killed myself. He has also insulted the noblest woman that ever lived.
If I backed down, I should be called a coward; the people who respect
me now would close their doors in my face."
"But you have everything to lose, and he has nothing to gain."
"It cannot be helped," said I. "The woman I love once fought a duel
for me; I cannot do less for her. You will be my second?"
"Yes. But if he wounds you, woe to him."
"Very well, I'll leave you," said I.
It was not far to the residence of Their Highnesses, so I walked. It
was a fine night, and the frost sang beneath my heels. I had never
fought a duel. This time no one would stand between. I was glad of
this. I wanted Gretchen to know that I, too, was brave, but hitherto
had lacked the opportunity to show it. It was really for her sake,
after all, even though it would be something to avenge poor Hillars.
And I wondered, as I walked along, would Gretchen and Phyllis love each
other? It was difficult to guess, since, though sisters, they were
utter strangers in lives and beliefs. Soon my journey came to an end,
and I found myself mounting the broad marble steps of the Hohenphalian
mansion. My heart beat swiftly and I had some difficulty in finding
the bell.
The liveried footman took my card.
"Present it to her Highness the Princess Hildegarde," I said, as I
passed into the hall.
"Her Serene Highness has left town, I believe, Your Excellency. Her
Serene Highness the Princess Elizabeth is dining at the palace."
"Gone?" said I.
"Yes, Your Excellency." He examined my card closely. "Ah, allow me to
deliver this note to you which Her Serene Highness directed me to do
should you call."
My hands shook as I accepted the missive, and the lights began to
waver. I passed out into the cold air. Gone? And why? I walked back
to the rooms in feverish haste. Pembroke was still at his reading.
"Hello! What brings you back so soon?"
"She was not at home," I answered. I threw my coat and hat on the
sofa. I balanced the envelope in my hand. For some moments I
hesitated to open it. Something was wrong; if all had been well
Gretchen would not have left the city. I glanced at Pembroke. He went
on with his reading, unconcerned. Well, the sooner it was over, the
better. I drew forth the contents and read it.
"Herr Winthrop--Forgive the indiscretion of a Princess. On my honor, I
am sorry for having made you believe that you inspired me with the
grand passion. Folly finds plenty to do with idle minds. It was a
caprice of mine which I heartily regret. There is nothing to forgive;
there is much to forget. However, I am under great obligations to you.
I am positive that I shall love my sister as I have never loved a human
being before. She is adorable, and I can well comprehend why you
should love her deeply. Forgive me for playing with what the French
call your summer affections. I am about to leave for Hohenphalia to
prepare the way for the new sovereign. Will you kindly destroy that
one indiscreet letter which I, in the spirit of mischief, wrote you
last autumn?
"The Princess Hildegarde."
The envelope reminded me of a rusty scabbard; there was a very keen
weapon within. I lit my pipe and puffed for a while.
"Cousin," said I, "I have a premonition that I shall not kill Prince
Ernst of Wortumborg at six o'clock to-morrow morning."
"What put that into your head? You are not going to back down, after
all, are you?"
"Decidedly not. Something strikes me that I shall miss fire."
"Pshaw!" exclaimed Pembroke. "I have been thinking it over, and I've
come to the conclusion that it would not be a bad plan to rid this
world of a man like your Prince. It'll all come out right in the end.
You will wed the Princess Hildegarde just as sure as--as I will not wed
her sister." He spoke the last words rapidly, as though afraid of them.
"I shall never marry the Princess Hildegarde," said I. "She has gone."
"Gone? Where?"
"It matters not where. Suffice it is that she has gone. Pembroke, you
and I were very unfortunate fellows. What earthly use have Princesses
for you and me? The little knowledge of court we have was gotten out
of cheap books and newspaper articles. To talk with Kings and
Princesses it requires an innate etiquette which commoners cannot
learn. We are not to the manner born. These Princesses are but
candles; and now that we have singed our mothy wings, and are crippled
so that we may not fly again, let us beware. This may or may not be my
last night on earth. . . . Let us go to the opera. Let us be original
in all things. I shall pay a prima donna to sing my requiem from the
footlights--before I am dead."
"Jack!" cried Pembroke, anxiously.
"Oh, do not worry," said I. "I am only trying to laugh--but I can't!"
"Are you truly serious about going to the opera?" he asked.
"Yes. Hurry and dress," said I.
I leaned against the mantel and stared into the flickering tongues of
flame. A caprice? I read the letter again, then threw it into the
grate and watched the little darts of light devour it. Now and then a
word stood out boldly. Finally the wind carried the brown ashes up the
chimney, I would keep the other letter--the one she had asked for--and
the withered rose till the earth passed over me. She was a Princess; I
was truly an adventurer, a feeble pawn on the chess-board. What had I
to do with Kings and bishops and knights? The comedy was about to
end--perhaps with a tragedy. I had spoken my few lines and was going
behind the scenes out of which I had come. As I waited for Pembroke
the past two years went by as in a panorama. I thought of the old
lawyer and the thousand-dollar check; the night at the opera with
Phyllis; the meeting of Hillars and his story. "When there is nothing
more to live for, it is time to die." If there was such a place as
Elysium in the nether world, Hillars and I should talk it all over
there. It is pleasant to contemplate the fact that when we are dead we
shall know "the reason why."
"Come along," said Pembroke, entering.
So we went to the opera. They are full of wonderful scenes, these
continental opera houses. Here and there one sees the brilliant
uniforms, blue and scarlet and brown, glittering with insignias and
softened by furs. Old men with sashes crossing the white bosoms of
their linen dominate the boxes, and the beauty of woman is often lost
in the sparkle of jewels. And hovering over all is an oppressive
fragrance. Pembroke's glasses were roving about. Presently he touched
my arm.
"In the upper proscenium," he said.
It was Phyllis. The Chancellor and the Grand Duke of S---- were with
her.
"We shall visit her during the first intermission," said I.
"You had better go alone," replied Pembroke. "I haven't the courage."
The moment the curtain dropped I left the stall. I passed along the
corridor and soon stood outside the box in which Phyllis sat. I
knocked gently.
"Enter!" said a soft voice.
"Ah," said the Chancellor, smiling as he saw me. "Duke, I believe
their Majesties are looking this way. Let us go to them. I am pleased
to see you, Herr Winthrop. Duke, this is the gentleman who has turned
us all upside down."
The Duke bowed, and the two left me alone with Phyllis.
There was an embarrassing silence, but she surmounted it.
"Why have you not been to see me?" she asked. "Are you done with me
now that you have made me a Princess?"
"I did call, but was told that you were indisposed," said I.
"It was because I did not see your card. I shall never be indisposed
to my friends--the old ones. However, they will be crowding in here
shortly. Will you come and see me at four to-morrow afternoon?"
"Is it important?" I was thinking of the duel when I said this.
"Very--to you. You have a strange funereal expression for a man who is
about to wed the woman he loves."
"Your sister has left town?" not knowing what else to say.
"Only for a few days; at least so she told me. Have you seen her?"
"No, I have not. A Princess!" dropping into a lighter tone. "You
carry your honors well. It was to be expected of you. I might have
made you a Queen, but that would not have changed you any."
"Thank you. Do you know, a title is a most wonderful drawing
apparatus? Since Thursday it has been a continued performance of
presentations. And I care absolutely nothing for it all. Indeed, it
rests heavily upon me. I am no longer free. Ah, Jack, and to think
that I must blame you! I have been longing all the evening for the
little garden at home. Yes, it will always be home to me. I am almost
an alien. I would rather sell lemonade to poor reporters who had only
twenty-five-cent pieces in their pockets than queen it over a people
that do not interest me and with whom I have nothing in common." She
smiled, rather sadly, I thought, at the remembrance of that garden
scene so long ago.
"Time has a cruel way of moving us around," said I, snapping the clasps
on my gloves, and pulling the fingers and looking everywhere but at
her. I was wondering if I should ever see her again. "When is the
coronation to take place?"
"In June. The King does not wish to hurry me. You see, I must learn
to be a Princess first. It was kind of him. And you will be at
Hohenphalia to witness the event?"
"If nothing happens. We live in a continual uncertainty."
She regarded me somewhat strangely.
"Is there a significance in that last sentence?"
"No," I answered. I felt compelled to add something. "But here come
some of your new admirers. Their glittering medals will make me feel
out of place if I remain. I shall do my best to accept your
invitation."
"Jack, you are hiding something from me. Are you going to leave the
city to search for her?"
"No," said I. "The truth is," with a miserable attempt to smile, "I
have an engagement to-morrow morning, and it is impossible to tell how
long it will last. Good night."
Fate played loose with me that night. As I was turning down the
corridor I ran into the Prince. He was accompanied by Von Walden and
an attaché whom I knew.
"Good evening," said the Prince. "Do you not prefer the French opera,
after all?"
"All good music is the same to me," I answered, calmly returning his
amused look with a contemptuous one. "Wagner, Verdi, Gounod, or Bizet,
it matters not."
The attaché passed some cigarettes. Only the Prince refused.
"No thanks. I am not that kind of a villain." He laughed as he
uttered these words, and looked at me.
I would have given much to possess that man's coolness.
"Till we meet again," he said, as I continued on. "Shall I add
pleasant dreams?"
"I am obliged to you," I answered over my shoulder, "but I never have
them. I sleep too soundly."
"Cousin," said I, later, "what was that opera?"
"I forgot to bring along a program," said Pembroke.