However, I did not need to wait so long for my answer. I knew it quite
as well as Courtney--maybe a trifle better. Nevertheless, it is a bit
jolting to realize, suddenly, that some one has been prying into your
family history.
On the west wall of the Corridor of Kings, in the Palace of Dornlitz,
hung the full-length portrait of Henry, third of the name and tenth of
the Line. A hundred and more years had passed since he went to his
uncertain reward; and now, in me, his great-great-grandson, were his
face and figure come back to earth.
I had said, truly enough, that I had never been in the Gallery of
Kings. But it was not necessary for me to go there to learn of this
resemblance to my famous ancestor. For, handed down from eldest son to
eldest son, since the first Dalberg came to American shores, and, so,
in my possession now, was an ivory miniature of the very portrait which
Courtney had in mind.
And the way of it, and how I chanced to be of the blood royal of
Valeria, was thus:
Henry the Third--he of the portrait--had two sons, Frederick and Hugo,
and one daughter, Adela. Frederick, the elder son, in due time came to
the throne and, dying, passed the title to his only child, Henry; who,
in turn, was succeeded by his only child, Frederick, the present
monarch.
Adela, the daughter, married Casimir, King of Titia,--and of her
descendants more anon.
Hugo, the younger son, was born some ten years after his brother,--to
be accurate, in 1756,--and after the old King had laid aside his sword
and retired into the quiet of his later years. With an honestly
inherited love of fighting, and the inborn hostility to England that,
even then, had existed in the Valerians for a hundred years, Hugo
watched with quickening interest the struggle between the North
American Colonies and Great Britain which began in 1775. When the
Marquis de Lafayette threw in his fortunes with the Americans, Hugo had
begged permission to follow the same course. This the old King had
sternly refused; pointing out its impropriety from both a political and
a family aspect.
But Hugo was far from satisfied, and his desire to have a chance at
England waxing in proportion as the Colonies' fortunes waned, he at
last determined to brave his fierce old father and join the struggling
American army whether his sire willed it or no. His mind once formed,
he would have been no true son of Henry had he hesitated.
The King heard him quietly to the end,--too quietly, indeed, to presage
well for Hugo. Then he answered:
"I take it sir, your decision is made beyond words of mine to change.
Of course, I could clap you into prison and cool your hot blood with
scant diet and chill stones, but, such would be scarce fitting for a
Dalberg. Neither is it fitting that a Prince of Valeria should fight
against a country with which I am at peace. Therefore, the day you
leave for America will see your name stricken from the rolls of our
House, your title revoked, and your return here prohibited by royal
decree. Do I make myself understood?"
So far as I have been able to learn, no one ever accused my
great-grandfather of an inability to understand plain speech, and old
Henry's was not obscure. Indeed, Hugo remembered it so well that he
made it a sort of preface in the Journal which he began some months
thereafter, and kept most carefully to the very last day of his life.
The Journal says he made no answer to his father save a low bow.
Two days later, as plain Hugo Dalberg, he departed for America. For
some time he was a volunteer Aide to General Washington. Later,
Congress commissioned him colonel of a regiment of horse; and, as such,
he served to the close of the war. When the Continental Army was
disbanded, he purchased a place upon the eastern shore of Maryland;
and, marrying into one of the aristocratic families of the
neighborhood, settled down to the life of a simple country gentleman.
He never went back to the land of his birth, nor, indeed, even to
Europe. And this, though, one day, there came to his mansion on the
Chesapeake the Valerian Minister to America and, with many bows and
genuflections, presented a letter from his brother Frederick,
announcing the death of their royal father and his own accession, and
offering to restore to Hugo his rank and estates if he would return to
court.
And this letter, like his sword, his Order of the Cincinnati, his
commissions and the miniature, has been the heritage of the eldest son.
In his soldier days his nearest comrade had been Armand, Marquis de la
Rouerie, and for him his first-born was christened; and hence my own
queer name--for an American: Armand Dalberg.
There was one of the traditions of our House that had been scrupulously
honored: there was always a Dalberg on the rolls of the Army; though
not always was it the head of the family, as in my case. For the rest,
we buried our royal descent. And though it was, naturally, well known
to my great-grandsire's friends and neighbors, yet, in the succeeding
generations, it has been forgotten and never had I heard it referred to
by a stranger.
Therefore, I was surprised and a trifle annoyed at Courtney's
discovery. Of course, it was possible that he had been attracted only
by my physical resemblance to the Third Henry and was not aware of the
relationship; but this was absurdly unlikely, Courtney was not one to
stop at half a truth and Dalberg was no common name. Doubtless the
picture had first put him on the track and after that the rest was
easy. What he did not know, however, but had been manoeuvring to
discover, was how far I was known at the Court of Valeria. Well, he
was welcome to what he had got.
Now, as a matter of fact, it was quite likely that the Dalbergs of
Dornlitz had totally forgotten the Dalbergs of America. Since
Frederick's minister had rumbled away from that mansion on the
Chesapeake, a century and more ago, there had been no word passed
between us. Why should there be? We had been disinherited and
banished. They had had their offer of reinstatement courteously
refused. We were quits.
I think I was the first of the family to set foot within Valeria since
Hugo left it. Ten years ago, during a summer's idling in Europe, I had
been seized with the desire to see the land of my people. It was a
breaking of our most solemn canon, yet I broke it none the less. Nor
was that the only time. However, I had the grace,--and, possibly, the
precaution,--to change my name on such occasions. In the Kingdom of
Valeria I was that well-known American, Mr. John Smith.
I did the ordinary tourist; visited the places of interest, and put up
at the regular hotels. Occasionally, I was stared at rather
impertinently by some officer of the Guards and I knew he had noted my
resemblance to the national hero. I never made any effort to be
presented to His Majesty nor to establish my relationship. I should
have been much annoyed had anything led to it being discovered.
Once, in the park of the palace, I had passed the King walking with a
single aide-de-camp, and his surprise was such he clean forgot to
return my salute; and a glance back showed him at a stand and gazing
after me. I knew he was thinking of the portrait in the Corridor of
Kings. That was the last time I had seen my royal cousin.
The next day, while riding along a secluded bridle path some miles from
Dornlitz, I came upon a woman leading a badly-limping horse. She was
alone,--no groom in sight,--and drawing rein I dismounted and asked if
I could be of service. Then I saw her face, and stepped back in
surprise. Her pictures were too plentiful in the capital for me to
make mistake. It was the Princess Dehra.
I bowed low. "Your Royal Highness's pardon," I said. "I did not mean
to presume."
She measured me in a glance. "Indeed, you are most opportune," she
said, with a frank smile. "I have lost the groom,--his horse was too
slow,--and I've been punished by Lotta picking a stone I cannot remove."