THE LAST OF THE MAGIC CITRONS
BREAKFAST at Schloss Lynarberg was an informal meal. Those who were
sociably inclined at that hour appeared; those who loved not their
kind until later in the day, broke their fast in the safe seclusion of
their own apartments.
Maximilian had shown himself at the breakfast-table every morning
since the beginning of his visit, and it had been Sylvia's usual
custom also to be present. But Lady de Courcy invariably kept her room
till later, and on one occasion the daughter had borne her mother
company. On the morning after the misunderstanding in the garden,
therefore, the Emperor was only disappointed, not surprised, to find
that Sylvia did not come. He had spent another wakeful night, but he
could not bring himself to believe that Sylvia would never listen to
him, that she would not yet be brought to see the future through his
eyes.
It was his last whole day at Lynarberg, but, by his special request,
no regular programme of entertainment had been made. As breakfast
progressed, Maximilian turned over in his mind plan after plan for
another meeting with Sylvia, and hoped that, by this time, she would
be as ready to receive his overtures as he to make them. He longed to
write her a letter, imploring her to come to him; but feared, unless
he could make his first appeal in person, that he might defeat his own
object. It would be better, perhaps, to wait until she was actually in
his presence, then carry her away from the eyes of others by some bold
stroke.
But she did not come, even when for half an hour they had all been
strolling in the quaint pleasaunce, where the white peacocks spread
their jewelled tails and shrilly disputed for possession of the
sundial. The Baroness, who walked by the Emperor's side, and appeared
singularly _distraite_, despite her constant efforts at repartee, at
length proposed that they should row out again to Cupid's Isle. The
morning was so fine, and the red October lilies which had been in bud
there the other day ought to be open by now.
Maximilian approved the idea. "Shall you not send for Miss de Courcy?"
he inquired, with a simulated carelessness at which Malvine could have
laughed--had she not been more inclined to weep. "I think I remember
hearing her say that there are no such lilies in England, and that she
would like to see them in fuller bloom."
The Baroness glanced quickly behind her. None of the others were
within earshot, if she spoke in a low voice. "Oh, but you have
forgotten, have you not, Your Majesty? Miss de Courcy and her mother
have already gone."
He turned so white, under the coat of brown the mountains had given,
that Malvine was startled. She had believed Sylvia--more or less--
supposing until now that the Emperor had actually been made aware of
the intended flitting. There had been an affecting parting, perhaps,
she had told herself; and for his sake she had refrained from
mentioning the De Courcys at breakfast in the presence of other
guests. For the last few moments she had been impatiently waiting for
Maximilian to introduce the subject, hoping that he might be
confidentially inclined; but it was a genuine surprise to discover
that he had really been kept in ignorance. Malvine was very angry with
Sylvia's deception; for, had she dreamed, in time, that the Emperor
did not know the girl was going, she would slyly have given him a
chance to follow, if he chose. Now, it was in all probability already
too late for this.
"Where have they gone?" he asked the only sign of feeling in the
pallor of his face and the fire in his eyes.
"To Salzbrück, Your Majesty."
"Oh, is that all? Then they are coming back; or, at least, they are
not leaving Rhaetia?"
"I am afraid they are leaving."
"When?"
"To-day, by the Orient express. I did all I could to keep them. But
some bad news reached Lady de Courcy last night, in a telegram from
England. They both insisted that they must go home at once, begging as
a favour, since they felt unequal to farewells, that no one should
know until they were gone--except, of course, Your Majesty. Miss de
Courcy said that--you knew; that you would understand."
The Emperor was silent for a moment, and Malvine would have glanced up
at him from under her artificially darkened lashes, if she had dared.
But she did not dare. Still, she was beginning to hope that the
feeling she would fain have seen implanted in his heart had already
taken root so deeply that it would not soon perish. In that case,
after all, she would have thwarted the Chancellor--for a time at
least; since a man, even when he is an emperor, cannot readily be
persuaded to marry one woman when his heart is aching with love for
another.
When Maximilian did speak, his voice was very quiet--aggravatingly
quiet, thought Malvine--but his eyes were even brighter than before.
It was a dangerous, rather than a pleasant brightness; and Malvine,
who had no cause to fear its menace for herself, wondered what the
light betokened.
"Miss de Courcy did speak of leaving earlier than she had expected,"
he said. "But if she gave me reason to suppose it would be so soon, I
certainly did not understand. I am sorry that there was bad news from
England."
So also was Malvine; but she began now to ask herself if the news
alone had sufficed to snatch her guests so suddenly away.
"Is it long since they left Lynarberg?" the Emperor added.
"They went at about half-past seven this morning, before any one was
up, except my husband and myself and the servants. By half-past eight
they would have joined their companion, who remained at the
Hohenburgerhof. Then there would have been a little packing to
oversee, perhaps, and the Orient express is due in Salzbrück, I think,
at precisely one o'clock. It is now"--she glanced half-apologetically
at the watch in her bracelet--"it is now five minutes past twelve, so
that in less than an hour the prettiest woman who ever came to
Salzbrück will have vanished again." And, as Malvine von Lynar spoke,
she sighed.
The blood rushed to Maximilian's face. He had a choice between two
evils. If he pursued and overtook the girl, he might persuade her to
hear reason; at least, she would see that he was no laggard in love.
But to follow, to cut short the visit at Lynarberg, which should not
have ended till next day, would be virtually to take the world into
his secret. The Baroness would know; others would suspect. A month ago
such a question (when yielding to inclination meant a humbling of his
pride as man and Emperor) would have decided itself. But within these
last days Maximilian had learned that his valued strength of will in
the past had been ruled, more or less, by the limitations of his
desire. Now, he wanted to do a certain thing more than he had ever
wanted anything in the whole course of his life, and the question was
mentally settled as quickly as it would have been a month ago; the
only difference being that it was settled in the opposite way.
"Baroness von Lynar, you and I are old friends," he said hastily.
"I value your friendship above all things, Your Majesty, and would
keep it at any cost."
"Then keep something else for me as well; a secret--though it may not
be a secret long. You have seen me with Miss de Courcy. And you have
guessed something, perhaps?"
"Women are ever quick to jump at romantic conclusions. But----"
"I am answered. A moment has come when I must choose between speaking
frankly with you or leaving you to suspect what you will. I choose
frankness. There's nearly an hour yet before the Orient express leaves
Salzbrück, and you say Miss de Courcy is going with it. I can't let
her go without seeing her again. I want--but you know what I want."
"You want your horse and your aide-de-camp's horse saddled; you want
to ride away now, at once, to catch the train before it leaves the
station; and you want me to give some plausible reason which will
account to every one for your sudden departure. Anything, so that it
is not connected with Miss de Courcy. Am I right?"
"Absolutely. If I get off in a quarter of an hour, I can just do it."
"I will slip into the house, Your Majesty, and send a servant at once
to the stables. Captain von Loewenstein shall be summoned, and you can
be on the road in ten minutes."
"I'll go with you to the house, my friend."
"Everybody shall be given to understand that you are called away from
Lynarberg on pressing business, but that you expect to return in the
afternoon. If you find it best _not_ to come, send a wire saying that
you are detained. All will be deeply disappointed; but no one will
guess the truth, and more than that, no one will talk."
By this time they were at the house steps. Malvine flew in to give
orders, while Maximilian waited, his eyes on his watch. Four minutes
later Captain von Loewenstein, the Emperor's aide-de-camp (who had
been in the act of proposing to pretty Baroness Marie Vedera), stood
ready to receive his master's orders. Ten minutes more, and the two
soldierly figures rode at a gallop out from the park gates at
Lynarberg.
"We're going to the station, to catch the Orient express, Von
Loewenstein," said Maximilian. "I have--promised myself to say
good-bye to some friends."
"Were you aware, Your Majesty," asked the aide-de-camp, "that the
time-table has just been changed for the autumn? The Orient express
leaves ten minutes earlier than it has during the summer."
The Emperor used a strong word. "Are you certain, Von Loewenstein?"
"Certain, Your Majesty. I looked out the time for my sister, who goes
to Paris next week. The new table only came into use yesterday."
"I'll kill my horse under me rather than lose the train," said the
Emperor. And he loved Arabian Selim well, as Von Loewenstein knew.
"We've just a chance of doing it without that, Your Majesty. It's
scarcely five miles now."
They rode as if their lives were at stake. And they rode without a
word. At last they came to the suburbs, then into the outskirts of the
town. In the distance, a church clock chimed the quarter before one.
The two looked at each other. Five minutes, and the station was but a
mile away. They would do the trick yet!
The upright line between Maximilian's black brows relaxed. He threw up
his head and smiled like a boy, looking--Loewenstein thought--as he
looked when they camped in the Weisshorn and shot chamois.
"You shall have something to make you remember to-day, if all goes
well," he said to the aide-de-camp; then drew in his breath sharply,
for Selim had stumbled. A dozen yards away, on the dusty white of the
road, lay a black crescent--Selim's shoe.
Quick as light, Maximilian sprang off. "Give me your mare, von
Loewenstein," he said. "I must go on alone."
So they made the change, and the younger man watched his master
disappear in a cloud of dust, as he, on Selim's back, followed slowly
after. And he wished that he knew whether the little Baroness Marie
would have said yes or no, and whether the Emperor's business with the
Orient express were business of state or love.
Kohinoor had not the staying power of Selim; she was good for a spurt
of speed; but she knew when she had had enough, and no mortal power
could persuade her otherwise, when she thought that such a time had
arrived. People stared to see a man urging a smoking thoroughbred
through the broad Bahnhofstrasse in Salzbrück, at a speed forbidden
within the town limits, and stared still more at beholding a gendarme
leap forward with a warning shout, then blunder back again speechless,
with a crimson face under his shining helmet. Horse and man dashed by
so madly that few could tell whether the rider were a person of
importance at the Court, or a stranger. But a soldier of cavalry
swaggering away from barracks with a friend, said, "Do you know who
that is?"
"By the way he rides I should say it was his Satanic Majesty,"
declared the other, a country recruit.
"You're not far wrong, maybe; but, all the same, it is His Majesty our
Emperor," replied the first.
The hands on the big, white clock-face looking down from the Bahnhof
tower pointed at five minutes to one, when Maximilian reined up the
mare before the main entrance, and bade a _dienstmann_ hold his horse,
as if he had been a common townsman. Something the fellow shouted
about being there to carry luggage, not to hold horses (for he did not
know the Emperor by sight), but Maximilian waited neither to hear nor
argue. He sprang up the broad stone stairway, three steps at a time.
"Has the Orient express gone yet?" he demanded of the man at the door
of the departure platform.
"Five minutes ago," returned the official, not troubling to look up.
An unreasoning fury against fate raged in Maximilian's breast. He
ruled this country, yet everything in it seemed to combine in a plot
to thwart his dearest desire. For a moment he felt as if he had come
up against a blank wall and saw no present way of getting round it;
but that was only for an instant, since the Emperor was not a man of
slow decisions. His first step was to inquire what was the earliest
stop made by the Orient express. In three hours, he learned, it would
reach Wandeck, the last station on the Rhaetian side of the frontier.
What was the next train, then, leaving Salzbrück for Wandeck? In
twenty minutes, a _personenzug_ would go out. After that, there would
be no other train for two hours. The _personenzug_ would arrive at
Wandeck only fifty minutes earlier than the _schnellzug_ following so
much later, therefore most people preferred to wait. But Maximilian,
having gathered this intelligence, was not of the majority; he chose
the fifty minutes in Wandeck, for even if he courted publicity by
engaging a special, so long a time must pass before it could be ready
that he would gain no advantage.
Before taking his ticket, however, he telephoned the Hohenburgerhof,
to satisfy himself beyond doubt that the De Courcys had actually gone.
There was a delay of a few minutes before the answer came; but
presently he was informed that the ladies had left the hotel. This
decided his plan of action once for all, and the short remaining
interval before the departure of the slow train he snatched for
writing out two telegrams, one to Baroness von Lynar, the other to a
person more important.
The first words of the latter ran fluently. "Miss Mary de Courcy,
Orient express, care of the stationmaster, Wandeck," he wrote. "I beg
that you will leave the train here and wait for me. I am following,
and will arrive in Wandeek three hours after you. I will look for you
and hope to find you at the Maximilianhof."
So far it was very simple. He had expressed his wish and signified his
intention, which would have been enough if Miss de Courcy were a loyal
subject of his own. But unfortunately she had exhibited no signs of
subjection; and the question arose, would she grant the most ardently
expressed request, unless he could offer some new inducement? On
reflection, he was ruefully compelled to admit that she probably would
not. Yet what had he to urge that he had not urged last night? What
could he say, at this eleventh hour, which would keep her from passing
forever beyond his dominions and beyond hope of recall?
As he stood, pen in hand (each moment of hesitation at the risk of
missing his chosen train), a curious memory came to him. He recalled a
fairy tale which had been a favourite of his childhood, and had helped
to form his resolve that, when _he_ grew to manhood, he would never miss
an opportunity through vacillation. The story had for its hero a
prince who went abroad so seek his fortune, and received from one of
the Fates three magic citrons which he was told to cut by the side of
a fountain. Obeying, from the first citron sprang a beautiful maiden,
who demanded a drink of water; and while the prince gazed in
amazement, vanished. With the second citron, it was the same; and the
third maiden would have been irrevocably lost also, had not the youth
recovered his presence of mind at the last moment.
Now, Maximilian said to himself, his knife was on the rind of the last
citron. Let him think well before he cut, that his one remaining
chance of happiness might not vanish like the two fairy maidens.
He had believed it impossible for a man to love a woman more than he
loved Mary de Courcy; but, knowing that he was on the point of losing
her, he found his love a thousand-fold greater than he had known. The
sacrifice he had been ready to make had loomed large in his eyes; now,
it was nothing, since it had not sufficed to win or keep her. What,
then, could he do? What other resource had he left?
Suddenly it seemed that a great light shone before his eyes, like a
meteor bursting, and a voice whispered in his ear a thought that ran
like fire through his veins.
_Why not?_ he asked of his heart. Who was bold enough to say "no" to
the Emperor's "yes"? Had he not proved more than once that his
strength, his will, made him a law unto himself?
A dark flush stained his face, and he wrote quickly on and on. When he
had finished, and signed his telegram "The Chamois Hunter," he hurried
away to buy a ticket, and was only just in time. He sprang into an
empty first-class carriage, and threw himself into a seat as the train
began to move slowly out of the station.
In his brain rang the intoxicating music of his great resolve. He
could see nothing, think of nothing but that. His arms ached to clasp
the girl he loved; his lips, cheated last night, already felt her
kisses. For she would give them now, and she would give herself. He
was treading the past of an Empire under foot to win her, and every
throb of the engine brought them nearer together.
But such moments of exaltation come seldom in a lifetime. The heart of
man or woman could not go on forever playing the wild refrain of their
accompaniment; and so it was that, as the minutes passed, the song of
the blood in Maximilian's veins fell to a minor key. He thought still
of Sylvia, and thought of her with passion which would be satisfied at
any cost; but he thought of lesser things as well. He viewed the
course which his meditated action laid out before him, like a man who
rides a race for life or death across strange country, where none have
passed before.
There was no one on earth whom Maximilian of Rhaetia feared, but there
was one to whom he owed much, and whom it would be grievous to offend.
In his father's day, one man, old even then, had built upon the
foundations of a disastrous past a great and prosperous nation. This
man had been to Maximilian what his father could never have been; and,
without the magnetic gift of inspiring affection, had instilled
respect and gratitude in the breast of an enthusiastic boy.
"Poor old Von Markstein!" the Emperor said to himself. "He will feel
this sorely. I would spare him if I could; yet I cannot live my life
for him----"
He sighed, and looked up frowning at some sudden sound. Like a spirit
called from the vasty deep, there stood the Chancellor at the door
between Maximilian's compartment and the next.