Emperor of the Slavs, King of Rome, Avenging Angel of the Schism and its
Grand Lord Destroyer--Pope even--though he had misgivings as to the
propriety of the latter title--what prospects for the son of the
degenerate Karl Ludwig--and the War Lord footing the bill! A
Protestant, true enough, but his friends, the Jesuits, held that the
purpose sanctifies means, whatever their character.
How they would rejoice at the news!
But his word as an officer! Pshaw! The War Lord calling himself
"all-wise," "all-seeing," etc., had been fooled for once by the
simple-minded Bohemian, for Franz's left hand was on his back when
_parole d'honneur_ was demanded, and he lost no time gripping his thumb
with the other fingers and pressing it hard.
Mental reservation! That little matter was settled, and in most
approved style. _Honi soit qui mal y pense_.
A while later Franz asked to be confessed.
"Not while your soul is in the state of disgrace," pronounced Father
Bauer with impressive solemnity.
Franz's bold front melted away like butter before a blast furnace.
"Pray confess me, your reverence!" he cried, terror all over his face.
"After due reflection," was Bauer's niggardly consent. "Your Highness
will retire to the oratory now."
And like a schoolboy ordered to bare his skin for a birching, the
Emperor of the Slavs--so proud, so adamant, so haughty before the
War-Lord--went into his bedroom, where his _prie-Dieu_ stood in front of
the miniature travelling altar that accompanied His Highness wherever he
went.
In respect to absolute submission to the clergy, Franz rivalled Charles
and Ferdinand of Spain; he retained, too, the utmost respect for the
persons of the reverend gentlemen who dominated him by virtue of their
priestly office.
On his part, Franz came from the oratory a much chastened Prince. Bauer
was waiting to hear Franz's report of his interview with the War
Lord--or as much of it as the heir thought well to divulge at the time
being, for the breach of faith he had been absolved beforehand. After
all, while Bauer had full charge of Franz's personal conscience, so to
speak, the real powers behind the proposed Slav throne was the Cardinal
Archbishop of Vienna, the Papal Legate and the Czech black aristocracy.
The latter, indissolubly wedded to Franz's interest by his marriage with
the Chotek, was his chief support in the Dual Monarchy. Hungary had
labelled him Nero, the Germans regarded him as a renegade, while Trieste
and the Trentino suspected him of harbouring treachery against the
Motherland.
That he was wedded to the idea of the restoration of the States of the
Church was a foregone conclusion, and the re-establishment of the
Austrian Archdukes--who forfeited their Italian thronelets under Victor
Emmanuel II.--would be the logical sequence.
"Of course, there is the Triple Alliance," faltered Franz.
"Not at all binding," decided Bauer, "since one of the signatories is
under the ban of the Church, and the other" (with a mock bow before a
painting of the War Lord) "a heretic."
Franz reverently kissed the Jesuit's hand. "A relief, a priceless
relief of grave conscientious scruples," he said warmly. "Thank you,
Father Bauer." Then, giving his voice quite an Olympian intonation: "We
have no further commands for you to-night."
Franz Este swore lustily when he discovered a red silk nightgown under
his pillow. After a Vienna haberdasher had told him that Alexander of
Servia had worn a night garment of this colour, he had banished them
from his wardrobe, intending to use the supply on hand for presents.
Franz tugged viciously at the crystal knobs of the rococo chest of
drawers, pulling one to the ground and dislocating the handles of
others. "Confound it! All red, Alexander-red--red as blood!"
An ill omen? A thorough fanatic, Franz was the most superstitious of
men. However, as subsequent events showed, in this case superstition
was the mother of horrors unparalleled. Alexander's fate had been
sealed eight months before, when the red-nightgowned King and his Queen
were slaughtered in their bedchamber; but somewhere among the Balkan
principalities the plot that eventually did away with Franz and his
Duchess might have been hatching even then--who knows?
The taciturn, soured, cruel Franz forgot about the Alexander-hued
nightgown when he prepared to report the day's events to his wife, for
he loved Sophie. He used a small table at the foot of the big rococo
couch for a writing-desk, and as he sat there, facing the silvered
canopy with China silk curtains falling from a crown held aloft by
cupids, his face recalled the features of a French soldier who had been
condemned to death for a series of crimes, and who, to his judges and
fellow-men, had boasted of his utter lack of feelings.
The soldier had never loved anyone, neither parents nor friends, neither
woman nor man, neither animal, nor money, nor precious things. He hated
them all, and his only aim in life was destruction. But when he lay in
the sands, bleeding from a dozen wounds, as ordered by the court
martial, a little mouse was seen to emerge from the sleeve of his tunic,
went capering up the prostrate form, and glued his nozzle to the man's
mouth. And with his last breath the apostle of hate kissed the tiny
rodent.
Like the trooper, so Franz, the man who spurned a nation's love, was not
entirely barren of sentiment. He had a tender spot in his heart for
Sophie, even as Sophie, mouse-like, loved the man who made a point of
being hated. Human nature: even Nero loved Poppaea once.
*CHAPTER XV*
*"AUNTIE MAJESTY" AND BERTHA*