HERMENGARDE’S TRIUMPH
AS the door of the cabinet closed, leaving Maximilian by himself, with
the ensigns of his monarchy strewed upon the table and the floor, the
clock of the Castle began to strike ten.
Before the notes had finished, a solitary horseman came riding swiftly
down the road which formed the main approach to the Castle. He had come
through the guarded gateway on the crest of the hill without a check,
all the sentinels having presented arms as he went silently past them
at full speed. He pulled up his reeking horse at the steps leading up
into the Castle, and dismounted alone.
At this moment a loud splash was heard in the lake, followed by a
solitary cry.
Immediately the great doors were opened with a clang, and a crowd of
servants and guards came running out, with torches in their hands, and
shouting confused directions to each other. They streamed down to the
margin of the water, the lights tossing above their heads like banners
as they went. Here they scattered, some searching up and down the
edges of the lake, while others tumbled hastily into the boats which
lay moored along the marble quay, and pushed themselves off from the
shore. The torches gleamed fitfully, first in the air and then in the
dark mirror of the water, as the boats glided to and fro, with a noise
of oars, and every now and then a muttered direction from men standing
up in the bows. Over all towered the high wall of the Castle, its
lighted windows showing out brilliantly against the gloom of the night.
And the casement of one window was open, and flapped slowly overhead,
like the wing of some huge bird of prey, and moaned. Finally, there was
a subdued shout, the wandering lights on the water gathered together
in an awfully narrow ring about one point, and one of the boats tilted
slightly, as some weight was slowly dragged in over the side. Then the
boats came back, rowing heavily to the shore, and from the foremost
boat a burden was lifted, and laid with reverence upon the bank.
The stranger, who had stood watching all this time, uncovered his head,
and stepped forward to look at the dead body. Then he solemnly crossed
himself, and went on his way into the Castle.
By this time a new misfortune had befallen Johann.
Hardly had he left the precincts of the Castle, when he ran almost
into the arms of two soldiers who were aimlessly straying through the
gardens. He was quickly recognised, and the pair at once took him into
their custody, and carried him before the Chancellor, who ordered him
to be detained in strict confinement.
The news of his arrest quickly spread, and it was not long before it
reached the ears of Dorothea. She at once sought the presence of the
Princess Regent.
During these last few days a secret estrangement had sprung up between
Hermengarde and her favourite. Though without any true idea of the
Princess’s share in the fall of Maximilian, Dorothea could not help
perceiving that her patroness was to some extent hostile to the poor
King, and the confidence she had formerly felt in her friendship had
received a great shock. The absorption of the Princess in the cares
of her new situation had kept them apart a good deal, and when they
met, the girl could no longer greet Hermengarde with the same frank
affection as before, and Hermengarde, on her part, shrank more into
herself, and no longer indulged in the occasional touches of tenderness
by which she had won Dorothea’s heart.
But on the present occasion all these restraints were brushed aside.
Dorothea rushed in, and fell kneeling before her mistress, crying--
“Madam, Johann has come back, and they have made him a prisoner!”
The stern features of the Regent were irradiated by a smile of a
softness rarely seen there.
“Have no fear my child,” she said soothingly. “Did I not tell you that,
whatever happened, I was your friend.”
And lifting her up, she sounded a gong for the page, whom she
despatched with strict orders to have Johann brought before her at
once.
“And now,” she said, turning to Dorothea, “I have something to say to
your cousin which I do not wish you to hear. Go into my bedroom while I
receive him.”
Dorothea went through a door behind the Princess, still too much
moved to be able to express her gratitude in words. She had scarcely
disappeared when the outer door opened and admitted Karl.
His face told the Princess all.
“Maximilian is dead?” she said.
“Yes, Madam. He threw himself out of the window of his room into the
lake. His body is being dragged for by the soldiers.”
Hermengarde crossed herself.
“Go and tell the Chancellor that I desire his attendance immediately.”
The awe-struck wretch departed, and she sank down upon a seat, a prey
to the most conflicting emotions.
The arrival of Johann Mark disturbed her reflections. He was
accompanied by two guards, whom the Princess haughtily dismissed.
“Herr Mark,” she said, “we have never met before, but I have reason
to think you regard me as your enemy. Nevertheless I have sent for
you to tell you that you are a free man. The Chancellor will be here
immediately, and I shall direct him to make you out a free pardon for
everything which may have been laid to your charge.”
The prisoner gazed at her in bewilderment. Was this the woman whom
every one regarded as the embodiment of selfishness and unscrupulous
ambition?
“Madam, I must tell you,” he said at length, “that, if you release me,
I shall renew my efforts on behalf of the King.”
Hermengarde gravely shook her head.
“King Maximilian is no more. My son is now King of Franconia.”
Johann broke down, and the Princess allowed him time to recover
himself, watching him soberly the while.
“I do not wonder at your emotion,” she said. “I wish that my son might
have such friends.”
“But why, Madam,” asked Johann, as soon as he could speak--“why do you
show me this unexpected kindness?”
“I do it at the request of your cousin Dorothea,” was the answer. “She
has a deep affection for you. I do not know whether it is returned.”
“It is indeed,” was the warm response. “Ah, Madam, since you are so
good as to interest yourself in Dorothea, may I entreat you to watch
over her here? Her father is not fit to have charge of her.”
“I know that. But you, have you never thought of taking his place by a
dearer right?”
“Madam, I will confess the truth to you. Such an idea never came into
my mind till the other day. I was even guilty of urging her to accept
the offers of the King. When she refused finally, she admitted to me
that it was because she loved another. And then, for the first time,
a light seemed to strike into my own heart, and I found out, too late,
that I loved her myself.”
Hermengarde’s sombre face relaxed once more.
“Foolish young man,” she said softly, “did you never think who it was
that had won your little playmate’s heart?”
The young man started, a joyful glow broke out over his features. The
Princess went quickly to the bedroom door, opened it, and brought forth
the blushing Dorothea.
“Here is your cousin, child. He has not yet found out whom it is you
are in love with.”
One look between the two was enough. They were folded in each other’s
arms.
The Princess detached a string of magnificent diamonds from her neck.
“Here is my wedding present,” she said, casting it round the young
girl. “Now go, and if you sometimes hear evil things said of
Hermengarde of Schwerin-Strelitz, remember that she was your friend.”
And bestowing a last kiss upon Dorothea’s cheek, she pushed them out of
the room.
The Chancellor came in directly afterwards. He found the Princess in
her most haughty mood.
“You have heard of my nephew’s sad fate,” she said briefly, “and you
are no doubt making all the necessary arrangements for the proclamation
of my son.”
“I am, Madam.”
“While I remember it, I desire you will at once make out a full and
complete pardon for Johann Mark. I have ordered him to be set at
liberty.”
The Chancellor ventured to remonstrate.
“Are you aware, Madam, of the serious character of this man?”
“Yes, sir, I am. But I have found a remedy for all that. He is now my
very good friend.”
Still the Chancellor faintly objected. He could not so soon forego his
vengeance on the man who had done so much to thwart him.
“Your Royal Highness bears in mind the consequences of the unhappy
event which has just taken place. There will have to be--of course as a
matter of form--a fresh appointment in regard to the Regency.”
“Of course, and in regard to the Chancellorship too, I presume,”
retorted Hermengarde, sharply. “In the mean time, we both hold our
offices, and if it is my last act as Regent and your last act as
Chancellor, I order you to make out this pardon.”
“You shall be obeyed, Madam,” replied the Count. And he kept his word.
Secure in her son’s accession, Hermengarde now thought the time was
come to throw off the mask she had worn so long.
“There is another consequence of this event which your loyalty will no
doubt be quick to recognise,” she said.
The Chancellor bowed, as one who knew what was coming.
“I refer of course to my son’s marriage. As King of Franconia, this is
now a matter which has passed out of our hands, and we must be prepared
to sacrifice our private wishes to the interests of the State.”
“Quite so, Madam. I anticipated that you would be compelled to take
this view, and it does not find me unprepared. I may before long have
the honour of soliciting your Royal Highness’s favour for a marriage
between my daughter and Herr Moritz.”
“I shall be much gratified to be present at it,” replied Hermengarde.
“I have some reason to hope, I may tell you privately, that the Kaiser
may be induced to bestow one of his sisters on the King.”
Used as he was to Court duplicity, the Count could not repress a slight
grimace at this cool intimation.
“An admirable arrangement,” he said, preparing to withdraw; “but, as
you have said, Madam, this matter has now passed out of our hands.”
As soon as he was gone Hermengarde rose, and proceeded to seek out her
son in his own rooms. At the door of the sleeping-room she was stopped
by an attendant, who said--
“His Majesty is asleep. He has been unwell, and the doctor has given
the strictest orders that he is not to be disturbed.”
Hermengarde showed some slight alarm.
“I hope it is nothing serious?” she said.
“I believe not, Madam.”
“Well, I will not disturb him. Send the doctor to me.”
She returned thoughtfully towards her own room. On the threshold she
encountered Karl.
“Well, has the body been found?”
“Oh, yes, Madam. But, pardon my asking, does your Royal Highness know
that the Privy Council is in session?”
“The Privy Council! Without my authority! Take me there at once!”
Karl led the way, heartily cursing himself for having played so blindly
into the hands of the Princess.
At the door of the Council-room, the guards would have stopped her, but
the imperious woman literally thrust them aside, and forced her way
into the room.
The whole of the Councillors staying in the Castle were present. But
there was one addition to the number assembled on the last occasion, a
man whom Hermengarde had never seen before, tall, dark, with iron-grey
hair, and an expression of the most profound melancholy on his
countenance. He sat in a chair at the head of the Council table, with
the old Chancellor on his right hand, and had just finished affixing
his signature to a parchment when the Princess burst in upon them.
At first this personage clearly failed to recognise the Princess. But
the Chancellor leant over and whispered in his ear. He at once rose,
the other Councillors following his example.
“Come in, Madam,” he said gravely. “We were about to send to desire
your presence. Will you take that seat.” And he pointed to one near
himself.
“What does all this mean?” demanded Hermengarde, disdaining the
proffered seat. “I do not know who you are, sir.”
“My name is Frederick von Astolf. You have perhaps heard of me as the
Count von Eisenheim.”
Hermengarde turned pale, and gazed blankly around her. Still she
preserved her wrathful tone.
“I presume you have a right to be here, as a Privy Councillor, my lord.
But why has the Council met without my authority?”
The Count von Eisenheim turned to the Chancellor, with a glance
signifying a desire that he should answer the question. Von Sigismark
eagerly complied, and his voice had in it a ring of a long-suppressed
resentment.
“It is my duty, Madam, as Chancellor, to call the Council together on
a demise of the crown, in order to proclaim the new sovereign. In this
case, moreover, we had also to appoint a Regent.”
“Well?” It seemed to Hermengarde that she could scarcely breathe.
“The Council has proclaimed your son King, by the style of Ernest V.
And it has declared his Royal Highness Frederick Leopold von Astolf,
Regent.”
Hermengarde’s eyes flashed with fury.
“Be careful, sir. Be careful, gentlemen. By what right have you passed
me over?”
The Chancellor again gave the answer.
“By the family statutes of the House of Astolf, and by the Franconian
Constitution, the Regency goes of right to the next heir to the crown.
It would have been illegal to appoint you, Madam.”
The Princess began to realise the bitter truth. She had been completely
outwitted by the servile courtier. He had been preparing this blow from
the very first.
“Enough,” she said, with some dignity. “I will not say more to you,
now. In two years my son will take the government into his own hands,
and then your authority will be over.”
“I fear not, Madam.” It was the Regent who spoke, and Hermengarde,
looking at him, saw the deep mournfulness on his face assume a new and
dreadful significance. And then, before anything could happen, she was
aware of the presence of the tall, spare figure, clad in its long black
coat, the sight of which, walking across the gardens of Neustadt on a
memorable morning, had fallen like a blight upon Maximilian’s heart.
And she reeled back, and sank bereft of spirit upon the ground with the
slow deliberate words beating like hammers upon her brain: “Madam, the
King, your son, is mad!”
EPILOGUE
WHEN the curtain falls on a tragedy in real life, the actors do not
take off their dresses and depart to other scenes. They linger upon the
stage, and those who care to do so, may watch the slow settling-down of
the passions that once led on to the catastrophe.
Most of the characters in this story are still alive.
Johann and Dorothea are married, and dwell together peacefully in an
ancient German city. The ardent reformer keeps to his old ideal, but
his methods of working for it have greatly changed. He now believes
that till his fellow-countrymen are of one mind as to the value of
freedom, it is idle to try and thrust a republic upon them by force;
and that when they are of one mind the republic will come of its own
accord. He has founded a newspaper, in which he preaches his social
gospel, in language sobered by the experiences he has gone through.
The Count von Eisenheim still holds the Regency. But old Von Sigismark
is no longer Chancellor. His daughter’s persistence has caused him, not
very willingly, to resign in favour of her husband, who is now the
Baron von Moritz.
The musician Bernal has recently produced his great opera, _The
Jomsburg Saga_, into which he has introduced a touching allusion to
Maximilian’s fate. It has been received with applause throughout
Germany.
In the same room in the Castle of Seidlingen, from which its builder
took his fatal plunge, Ernest V. of Franconia drags out his existence.
Over him the Court physician and a number of attendants, chief of whom
is Karl Fink, maintain a surveillance which is never broken. Twice in
every year, he is visited by a grey-haired woman, who passes through
the ranks of the servants closely veiled, but with a step which still
retains some of the stateliness that once distinguished the Princess
Hermengarde.
When the visit is over, the stricken mother returns to her lonely home,
in a distant corner of the kingdom, where she lives under the name of
the Countess Walstadt, and bestows the larger part of her revenues
upon the poor. The only pleasure she permits herself is the occasional
society of Dorothea, who generally brings with her a little girl named
Hermengarde, with flaxen hair and big blue eyes, who sits on the elder
woman’s knee, and shyly accepts her caresses.
Only one name is never mentioned between the two friends, and Dorothea
will never know the entire truth concerning the fate of Maximilian:
whether he was in reality mad; or whether he was only deemed so by the
brief-lived swarm that infests God’s glorious creation, and re-makes
God in its own image, and sets up the standards of its own blind
limitations, and proclaims them to be the laws of life.
“He has outsoared the shadow of their night--
Envy and calumny and hate and pain.”
THE END.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.