THE HONOURS OF THE DAY
IT IS those in the thick of battle who can afterward tell least about
it, and to the Princess those five potent moments--the most
tremendous, the most vital of her life--were in memory like a dream.
She had felt a tigerish quiver run through the body of a man when the
crowd pressed close against her; instinct was responsible for the
rest. Vaguely she recalled later that she had run forward and thrown
up the arm that meant to strike; an impression of the knife, as the
light struck it, alone remained vividly in her mind. She had thought
of the thud it would make in falling, of the life-blood that would
spout from the rent in the white coat, among the jewels and
decorations. She had thought of the blankness of existence for her in
a world empty of Maximilian, and she had known that, unless she could
save him, it would be far better to die--then, in that moment.
More than this she had not thought or known. What she did was done
well-nigh unconsciously, and she seemed to wake with a start at last,
to hear herself sobbing, and to feel a sharp pain in her arm.
A hundred hands--not quick enough to save, yet quick enough to follow
the lead she had given--had fought to seize the assassin, and prevent
a second blow; while as for Sylvia, her work done, she forgot
everything and every one but Maximilian.
It was he who kept her from falling, as the knife aimed at his heart
struck her arm; he who held her, as she mechanically clung to him,
half fainting--brave no longer, but only a frightened, weeping girl.
Sylvia heard him speak to the crowd--a few words that rang out through
the furious babel like a cathedral bell. Still he held her; and she
went with him up the steps of the red platform, because his arm
compelled her, not by her own volition.
She hardly understood that the cheers of the multitude were for her as
well as for him; and words separated themselves with comprehensive
distinctness for the first time, when, the necessity for public action
over, the Emperor turned to whisper in her ear. "Thank you--thank
you," he said. "You are the bravest woman in the world. I had to keep
them from killing that coward, but now I can say to you what is in my
heart. I pray heaven you are not much hurt?"
"Oh, no, not hurt, but very happy," breathed Sylvia, hardly knowing
what she said. She felt like a soul without a body; what could it
matter if her arm ached or bled? The Emperor was safe, and she had
saved him--she!
He pointed to her sleeve. "The knife struck you. I would that I could
go with you myself, when you have done so much for me. Yet duty keeps
me here; you understand that. Baron von Lynar and the Baroness will
take you home at once. They----"
"But I would rather stay and see the rest," said Sylvia. "I am quite
well now, so that I can go down to my friend----"
"If you stay, you must stay here," said Maximilian. "After what you
have done; it is your place."
The ladies of the Court, who had with their husbands been waiting to
receive the Emperor, crowded round her, as he turned to them with an
expressive look and gesture. A seat was given her; she was a heroine,
sharing the honours of the day with its hero.
There was scarcely a _grande dame_ among the distinguished company on
the Emperor's platform to whom "Lady de Courcy" and her daughter had
not a letter of introduction, from their friend. But no one knew at
this moment of any other title to their acquaintance which the girl
possessed, except the right conferred by her deed. All smiled on her
with tearful eyes, though there were some who would have given their
ten fingers to have had her praise and credit for their own.
Sylvia sat through the ceremonies, unconscious that thousands of eyes
were on her face, aware of little that went on; scarcely seeing the
statue of Rhaetia, whose glorious marble womanhood awakened the
enthusiasm of the throng, hearing only the short, stirring speech
delivered by Maximilian.
When it was all over the people merely waiting to see the Emperor ride
away and the great personages disperse, while the music played
Maximilian turned once more to Sylvia. Every one was listening; every
one was looking on, and, no matter what his inclination, his words
could be but few. He thanked her again for her courage, and for
remaining, as if that had been a favour to him; asked where she was
staying in town, and promised himself the pleasure of sending to
inquire for her health during the evening. His desire would be to call
at once in person, but, owing to the programme of the day and those
immediately following, not only each hour, but each moment, would be
officially occupied. These birthday rejoicings were troublesome, but
duty must be done. And then Maximilian finished by saying that the
Court physician would be commanded to attend upon her at the hotel.
With this and a chivalrous courtesy of parting, he was gone from the
platform, Baron von Lynar, the Grand Master of Ceremonies, and his
Baroness, having been told off as the fair heroine's escort home.
At another time, it might have amused the mischief-loving Sylvia to
see Baroness von Lynar's surprise at learning her identity with the
Miss de Courcy, of whom she had heard from Lady West. All the letters
of introduction had reached their destination, it only remaining
(according to Rhaetian etiquette in such matters) for Lady de Courcy
to announce her arrival in Salzbrück by sending cards. But Sylvia had
no thought for mischief now. She had been on the point of forgetting,
until reminded by necessity, that she was only a masquerader, acting
her borrowed part in a pageant. For the first time since she had
voluntarily taken it up, that part became distasteful. She would have
given much to throw it off, like a discarded garment, and be herself
again. Nothing less than absolute sincerity seemed worthy of this day
and its event.
But in the vulgar language of proverb, which no well-brought-up
Princess should ever use, she had made her bed, and she must lie in
it. It would never do for her to suddenly announce that she was not
Miss de Courcy, but Princess Sylvia of Eltzburg-Neuwald. That would
not now be fair to her mother nor to herself; above all, it would not
be fair to the Emperor, handicapped by his debt of gratitude. Miss de
Courcy she was, and Miss de Courcy she must for the present remain.
Naturally, the Grand Duchess fainted when her daughter was brought
back to her, bleeding. But the wound in the round white arm was not
deep. The Court physician was both consoling and complimentary, and by
the time that messengers from the palace had arrived with inquiries
from the Emperor and invitations to the Emperor's ball, the heroine's
mother could dispense with her sal volatile.
She had fortunately much to think of. There was the important question
of dress (since the ball was for the following night); there was the
still more pressing question of the newspapers, which must not be
allowed to learn or publish the borrowed name of de Courcy, lest
complications should arise; and there were the questions which had to
be asked of Sylvia. How _had_ she felt? How had she _dared_? How had
the Emperor _looked_, and what had the Emperor _said_? If it had been
natural for the Grand Duchess to faint, it was equally natural that
she should not faint twice. She began to see, after all, the hand of
Providence in her daughter's prank. And she wondered whether Sylvia's
white satin with seed pearls or the gold-spangled blue tulle would be
more becoming for the ball.
Next day the papers were full of the dastardly attack upon the Emperor
by a French anarchist, who had disguised himself as an employee in the
official household of the Burgomaster, trusting to the abstraction of
the crowd at the last moment before the ceremonies, for passing
undiscovered and accomplishing his murderous design. There were
columns devoted to praise of the extraordinary courage and beauty of
the young English lady, who, with marvellous presence of mind, had
sprung between the Emperor and his would-be assassin, receiving on her
own arm the blow intended for the Imperial breast. But, thanks to a
few earnestly imploring words spoken in Baron von Lynar's ear,
commands given to the "Besitzer" of the hotel, and the fact that
Rhaetian editors are not yet permitted a wholly free hand, the young
English lady was not named. She was a stranger; she was, according to
the papers, "as yet unknown."