JOHANN’S MISSION
TREADING cautiously for fear of being overheard by any chance
passer-by, Karl led his master’s enemy down the corridor giving on to
the royal apartments, and out into a spacious gallery which ran across
the whole southern side of the Castle, and connected its two wings.
This gallery was almost turned into a conservatory, by the whole of
one side being given up to a row of windows so large and near together
as to make the wall appear one expanse of glass. Along the floor, in
front of these windows, ran a series of blossoming shrubs, bright-hued
azaleas, or sweetly scented lemon and myrtle, giving the whole place a
fresh and romantic air. As soon as they had reached this gallery Karl
turned to his companion:--
“This is where the King generally walks about this hour. He may be
alone, or he may be with his friend.”
Johann glanced round. The place seemed suited for his purpose. The
foliage of the plants would afford him a hiding-place, where he could
lurk until the opportunity came for him to carry out his purpose.
“That will do,” he said briefly.
Karl glanced at his face as if meditating another appeal for mercy, but
found no encouragement to speak. He turned and hurried away, sick at
heart, while Johann selected a nook in which to conceal himself.
It is hardly necessary to add much to the reasons given by Johann for
his presence in the Castle. He had come there as the emissary of the
society to which he referred in his conversation with Karl, a society
founded ten years before, in the reign of Leopold IX.
Originally the society had consisted of five persons. Of these one
was dead. Another had long since made a home in the United States of
America. The third was he who had taken advantage of the old King’s
death to abandon the paths of conspiracy, and who had become the
servant and confidant of Leopold’s successor. Two of the original
members still remained: one, a man remarkable for his size and for his
thick red beard, had succeeded to the post of president; the other was
Johann himself.
For some years after Maximilian’s accession the work of the society
had seemed at a standstill. But it is a truth often illustrated in
history that the spirit of revolt engendered by the oppressions
of a strong bad king breaks out under the rule of a mild but weak
successor. Maximilian’s offence towards his subjects had been simple
indifference. A dreamer and a poet, he had shown himself utterly averse
to the practical business of kingship, and, absorbed in his æsthetic
pursuits, he had left the cares of government to his Chancellor.
While the Minister was engaged in levying taxes, and keeping a tight
rein on public opinion, the young King was withdrawing himself from
the sight of his subjects, and spending his time in some distant
hunting-lodge with a few favourite companions, or perhaps assisting at
the production, on a lavish scale, of one of those operas which were
beginning to make his intimate friend Bernal celebrated throughout
Europe.
It was not long before these caprices began to take an extravagant
turn, which gave an opening for the public discontent. Once a fancy
seized Maximilian, he never stopped to count the cost, and his
Ministers found that the best way to preserve their power was to
furnish him ungrudgingly with the funds required to satisfy his whims.
It was natural that the revolutionary party should seize on this
ground of attack, and hold up the thoughtless young King as a vampire,
draining the life-blood of the people to supply his selfish luxuries.
Matters had just been brought to a head by Maximilian’s last crowning
extravagance, the celebrated palace of Seidlingen.
Seidlingen had been over three years in preparation. Riding one day
in the mountains which border the northwest of Franconia, the King
had come upon a beautiful little valley shut in on all sides by lofty
hills. In the middle of the valley lay a deep blue lake, several
miles in extent, overshadowed by the mountains, and bordered by dark
pine forests. Charmed with the romantic situation, Maximilian had
conceived the idea of erecting a palace on the very edge of the
lake, and transforming the valley into a veritable fairy kingdom, in
which he might roam undisturbed. How many millions had actually been
spent in realising this splendid dream were not accurately known. It
was supposed that the Ministers, afraid to disclose the truth, had
distributed a large part of the cost among various heads of civil and
military expenditure. All that public opinion could do was to take
note of the colossal works involved, and from them to arrive at some
estimate of the appalling cost.
It was known that thousands of men had been at work in the lovely
valley. Part of the mountain had been levelled to obtain a site for the
palace and the extensive gardens which spread away from the border of
the lake. Another part had been cut away to make room for a magnificent
road, broad and smooth as the boulevards of a capital, and bordered
with trees and waterfalls and vistas of artificially embellished
landscape. In one place an immense stretch of forest had to be cleared;
in another, huge trees, selected for their size and beauty, had to be
transplanted from distant regions. The whole of the lake, some ten or
twelve square miles of water, had first to be drained away that its bed
might be deepened and cleansed from weeds, and then to be refilled,
and kept at a constant high level by means of immense dams of masonry,
and by the construction of artificial water-courses, and the laying
of miles of underground pipes. Its waters had to be stocked with rare
fish from all the rivers of Europe and America, and its banks to be
lined here and there with costly marble quays, to facilitate landing
from the sumptuous pleasure craft, built of priceless woods, which
were transported thither across the mountains. A net-work of canals
lined with marble, ran through the gardens, and on their smooth waters
exquisite boats inlaid with ivory, and shaped like swans and dolphins,
glided past Chinese towers, and kiosks, and crystal caves from which
concealed musicians were to pour out melodies upon the voyager’s ear.
At one time it had actually been in contemplation to connect these
canals with a larger one extending the whole way to the river Rhine,
but another kingdom had to be crossed, and the compensation demanded by
its government was so enormous that even Maximilian stopped short, and
the dream of making a seaport in the heart of the German highlands was
abandoned.
All that art could desire or science execute had been done to render
the palace itself one of the wonders of the world. In mere size it
was inferior to the state palace in Mannhausen, far inferior to such
huge piles as Versailles and the Roman Vatican. A poet does not build
like a conqueror. Maximilian’s object had not been to stupefy mankind,
but to delight himself. Almost more wealth had been lavished on the
wonderful accessories than on the main edifice--that is to say, on
the aviaries, the hothouses, and above all on the unique and gorgeous
theatre destined for the production of the grandest works of Mozart
and Beethoven and Bernal. But it was in the beauty of its design, and
the perfection of its finish, that Seidlingen rose superior to every
other palace on the globe. The barrack-like stateliness of Potsdam, the
homely majesty of Windsor, were alike put out of the comparison. It was
the complete and final fusion of the mediæval and the classic, a Gothic
castle breathed upon by the spirit of the Renaissance, and transformed
into a dazzling temple of art. Beneath stretched broad terraces and
solemn colonnades, above soared fairy-like turrets and thin spires of
delicate tracery. It was the beauty and glory of the South, brooded
over by the deep immortal spirit of the North.
And now the rumour ran that Seidlingen was finished, and that the
King was about to go and take possession. This was the signal for
the discontent, which had long been gathering head, to break into a
ferment. The revolutionary societies redoubled their activity, recruits
came flocking to them in shoals, and already the more daring minds
spoke of open insurrection against the royal Government. It only
remained for some one man, more daring than the rest, to give the
signal of revolt.
This was the crisis for which Johann had long been waiting. He called
together the members of his own brotherhood, which had renewed its
numbers, and producing the very weapon which had been provided ten
years before for the assassination of Leopold, boldly demanded that
it should be loaded once more. His comrades consented, and by his
own desire he was entrusted with the carrying out of the society’s
sentence. The dawn of the following day saw him set forth from
Mannhausen, carrying in his breast the sealed pistol, and bound for the
place where the Court was then in residence.
Stopping on his way at Franz Gitten’s cottage, what he had learned
there confirmed his resolution, and he had come away armed, as he
believed, with a fresh justification for the deed he was going to
commit.
He had hardly settled himself in what seemed to be a secure
hiding-place, when a door opened at the far end of the gallery, and
Maximilian and Bernal entered arm-in-arm.
The King had discarded the dress he had worn for his walk through the
forest, and was now clad in a plain suit of black velvet, trimmed with
deep lace ruffles at the throat and wrists. The only mark of his rank
was a small cap of the same stuff which he wore, while his companion
was bare-headed.
As if he had changed his mood with his clothes, the young man came in
laughing and rallying his friend.
“Why, Auguste, what nonsense you talk! Did you hear Von Stahlen’s
latest? He declares that the Steinketel has jilted me! He thinks I have
been cut out by Von Hardenburg. It is lucky that Seidlingen will be
ready for me to retire to, to hide my despair.”
Auguste did not seem quite to share his friend’s cheerfulness. His face
wore a troubled expression.
“I suppose you have no idea what your fairyland has actually cost,” he
observed. “I cannot help fearing it will make you unpopular with the
nation.”
Maximilian laughed.
“I see what it is,” he retorted lightly; “you have been reading the
newspapers. I never do, not even the _Cologne Gazette_. My dear
Auguste, if you are going to take life seriously, all confidence
between us must be at an end. Remember that I am the King of the
Fairies, and my politics are those of _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_!”
Auguste smiled rather half-heartedly.
“That is all very well, Max, but you know the inhabitants of Franconia
are not fairies, and the taxes they have to pay are not fairy gold.”
“My dear friend, I really believe that you have turned Republican.
I shall hear next that you are a candidate for the Chamber on the
Opposition side. What are the Franconians to you, or to me either?
Philistines all, my friend, Philistines all. I look upon myself as a
divinely appointed instrument of retribution. I am the avenger of the
poets they have imprisoned, and the musicians they have insulted, and
the painters they have starved. Let them pay their taxes. It is the
only homage to genius they have ever rendered. I am the only prophet
who has ever been honoured in his own country, and they honour me
because they have to. Make your mind easy; and when we get to the Happy
Valley we will lock the gates and give orders that no newspapers are to
be admitted except that one at Athens which is published in verse!”
Auguste shook his head.
“It is lucky for you that the Chancellor takes the business
of government a little more seriously. What would you do if a
revolutionary mob invaded your Happy Valley?”
“Offer them refreshments, of course, and then make them listen to
one of your operas. If that did not subdue their fierceness, nothing
would,” added Maximilian, unable to resist the temptation to banter his
friend. “But tell me, Auguste, do you seriously suppose that any one
wants to deprive me of the throne in favour of poor Ernest?”
Bernal did not at once reply to this question. While the two had been
talking they had continued to stroll up and down the gallery, and in
letting his eyes wander from side to side, the musician had caught
sight through the gathering dusk of something which he fancied to be
unusual in the appearance of one of the shrubs before the windows.
Restraining his curiosity for the moment, he walked on, and as
Maximilian was waiting, he forced himself to return some answer.
“I am afraid that is not the question. You may have enemies whose
designs go farther than a mere change of masters. Be serious for one
moment, Max. Other kings have to take precautions to guard themselves,
and why should not you do the same?”
“Oh, that will be all right You will find that Seidlingen is well
guarded, though it has been more with the idea of keeping out
impertinent admirers than the mysterious enemies you talk about. I
have had a palisade put up all round the mountains, and at every mile
or so I shall have small pickets of troops, whose duty it will be to
patrol the boundary, and see that no one attempts to cross. There is
only one road leading into the valley, the one I have had made, and
that will be guarded at the entrance by a small fort pierced by an iron
gate, which will be kept locked, and only opened by a written order
from me or the Chancellor. So you see the Anarchists won’t have much
chance to disturb us.”
While he was speaking, they had strolled back till they again came
opposite the spot which had attracted the musician’s attention. He
contrived to gradually bring himself to a halt, Maximilian following
his example without perceiving that his companion’s movements were
governed by any special purpose. Bernal fixed his gaze upon a dark
shadow under the foliage, while Maximilian continued to speak.
“The real difficulty I shall have,” he said, “is to avoid the visits of
persons who cannot very well be turned back by a sentry. I am afraid
from what I hear that my preparations have roused the curiosity of
the Kaiser, and that his Imperial Majesty is likely to inflict his
formidable presence on me, unless I can think of some pretext for
keeping him away.”
Bernal still listened, but the King’s words fell dully on his ear.
His whole attention was absorbed by a frightful discovery. Gazing
steadfastly into the shadow, he had all at once become aware that his
look was returned. There, at a distance of a few feet from him, was
a pair of dark eyes fixed deliberately upon his own. By a tremendous
effort of will he suppressed all outward signs of agitation, lest he
should alarm the man before him, and continued to gaze calmly back, as
if unconscious of what he saw. His thoughts, travelling with terrific
rapidity, went over the dangers of the situation. The King and himself
were totally unarmed, they were alone in the gallery, and, thanks to
Maximilian’s morbid love of privacy, there were no attendants likely to
be within hail. Who could the concealed watcher be? Only a desperate
man would have dared to risk the danger of thus invading the royal
apartments in a way which sufficiently proclaimed the threatening
character of his errand. If this man were armed, the King’s life, both
their lives, were at his mercy.
The only chance of escape that presented itself to Bernal’s mind, was
to feign unconsciousness, and draw the King gradually away to the end
of the gallery. Then, by a sudden movement, he could urge him through
the doorway, and fasten it against the enemy. With a strange feeling of
dizziness creeping over him, he contrived to say a few words in answer
to his companion.
“That is what I was afraid you would say. If the Kaiser is really
anxious to come, in your own interest you ought to make him welcome,
and show him every attention. He may be a useful friend or a dangerous
foe.”
He was quite unconscious whether he was talking sense or nonsense; as
long as he could maintain the appearance of composure it was all he
cared for. Maximilian, wholly unsuspicious, launched out into a reply.
“My dear Auguste, you are talking like old Von Sigismark. Of course,
all that is very true; but it is no reason why I should submit to the
penalty of that barbarian’s presence, if there is any reasonable way of
avoiding it. I come to you for sympathy, not for good advice.”
As the King finished speaking, Bernal felt a sudden shock. Still gazing
into the depths of those flaming eyes, he had become aware by some
subtle instinct that the man lurking in the shadow knew that he was
detected. There was only one moment’s more breathing-time, till the
assassin should learn that this knowledge in turn had been discovered
by his observer.
Trembling under the imminence of the peril, Bernal felt irritated at
having to reply to the King, as a man racked by some torturing pain
resents having to respond to the commonplace observations of those
around him.
“I never talk like Von Sigismark. I simply meant that if there were no
way of avoiding it, you should submit with as much grace as possible.”
Maximilian smiled at the peevishness of his friend’s tone.
“You are a Job’s comforter, Auguste. If you say much more I shall make
you my Chancellor; so be careful.”
“Ah!”
The crisis had come. A flash of the eyes which he had been watching
with such feverish anxiety, convinced Bernal that the last stage had
been arrived at. The enemy had already learned that Bernal had detected
him. He now knew that Bernal was aware of this.
The fence of eyes was over. The two were as much face to face as if
both were out in the middle of the apartment. Bernal set his teeth
together and drew back a step, while Johann sprang to his feet,
throwing down the shrub which had protected him, and levelled his
pistol, at the distance of four paces, at the King’s breast.
“If either of you moves or makes the least cry, I fire.”