“What is this, Francois?” The royal voice was suddenly sharp.
The valet glided forward, whilst Armfelt rose from the divan and, like
Bjelke, attracted by the sudden change in the King's tone and manner,
drew near his master.
“How comes this letter here?”
The valet's face expressed complete amazement. It must have been placed
there in his absence an hour ago, after he had made all preparations for
the royal toilette. It was certainly not there at the time, or he must
have seen it.
With impatient fingers Gustavus snapped the seal and unfolded the
letter. Awhile he stood reading, very still, his brows knit.
Then, with a contemptuous “Poof!” he handed it to his secretary.
At a glance Bjelke recognized the hand for that of Colonel Lillehorn,
one of the conspirators, whose courage had evidently failed him in the
eleventh hour. He read:
SIRE,--Deign to heed the warning of one who, not being in your service,
nor solicitous of your favours, flatters not your crimes, and yet
desires to avert the danger threatening you. There is a plot to
assassinate you which would by now have been executed but for the
countermanding of the ball at the opera last week. What was not done
then will certainly be done to-night if you afford the opportunity.
Remain at home and avoid balls and public gatherings for the rest of the
year; thus the fanaticism which aims at your life will evaporate.
“Do you know the writing?” Gustavus asked.
Bjelke shrugged. “The hand will be disguised, no doubt,” he evaded.
“But you will heed the warning, Sire?” exclaimed, Armfelt, who had read
over the secretary's shoulder, and whose face had paled in reading.
Gustavus laughed contemptuously. “Faith, if I were to heed every
scaremonger, I should get but little amusement out of life.”
Yet he was angry, as his shifting colour showed. The disrespectful tone
of the anonymous communication moved him more deeply than its actual
message. He toyed a moment with a hair-ribbon, his nether lip thrust out
in thought. At last he rapped out an oath of vexation, and proffered the
ribbon to his valet.
“My hair, Francois,” said he, “and then we will be going.”
“Going!”
It was an ejaculation of horror from Armfelt, whose face was now as
white as the ivory-coloured suit he wore.
“What else? Am I to be intimidated out of my pleasures?” Yet that his
heart was less stout than his words his very next question showed.
“Apropos, Bjelke, what was the reason why you countermanded the ball
last week?”
“The councillors from Gefle claimed Your Majesty's immediate attention,”
Bjelke reminded him.
“So you said at the time. But the business seemed none so urgent when we
came to it. There was no other reason in your mind--no suspicion?”
His keen, dark blue eyes were fixed upon the pale masklike face of the
secretary.
That grave, almost stern countenance relaxed into a smile.
“I suspected no more than I suspect now,” was his easy equivocation.
“And all that I suspect now is that some petty enemy is attempting to
scare Your Majesty.”
“To scare me?” Gustavus flushed to the temples. “Am I a man to be
scared?”
“Ah, but consider, Sire, and you, Bjelke,” Armfelt was bleating. “This
may be a friendly warning. In all humility, Sire, let me suggest that
you incur no risk; that you countermand the masquerade.”
“And permit the insolent writer to boast that he frightened the King?”
sneered Bjelke.
“Faith, Baron, you are right. The thing is written with intent to make a
mock of me.”
“But if it were not so, Sire?” persisted the distressed Armfelt. And
volubly he argued now to impose caution, reminding the King of his
enemies, who might, indeed, be tempted to go the lengths of which the
anonymous writer spoke. Gustavus listened, and was impressed.
“If I took heed of every admonition,” he said, “I might as well become
a monk at once. And yet--” He took his chin in his hand, and stood
thoughtful, obviously hesitating, his head bowed, his straight, graceful
figure motionless.
Thus until Bjelke, who now desired above all else the very thing he had
come hot-foot to avert, broke the silence to undo what Armfelt had done.
“Sire,” he said, “you may avoid both mockery and danger, and yet attend
the masquerade. Be sure, if there is indeed a plot, the assassins will
be informed of the disguise you are to wear. Give me your flame-studded
domino, and take a plain black one for yourself.”
Armfelt gasped at the audacity of the proposal, but Gustavus gave no
sign that he had heard. He continued standing in that tense attitude,
his eyes vague and dreamy. And as if to show along what roads of
thought his mind was travelling, he uttered a single word a name--in a
questioning voice scarce louder than a whisper.
Ankarstrom?
Later again he was to think of Ankarstrom, to make inquiries concerning
him, which justifies us here in attempting to follow those thoughts of
his. They took the road down which his conscience pointed. Above all
Swedes he had cause to fear John Jacobi Ankarstrom, for, foully as he
had wronged many men in his time, he had wronged none more deeply than
that proud, high-minded nobleman. He hated Ankarstrom as we must always
hate those whom we have wronged, and he hated him the more because he
knew himself despised by Ankarstrom with a cold and deadly contempt that
at every turn proclaimed itself.
That hatred was more than twenty years old. It dated back to the time
when Gustavus had been a vicious youth, and Ankarstrom himself a boy.
They were much of an age. Gustavus had put upon his young companion an
infamous insult, which had been answered by a blow. His youth and
the admitted provocation alone had saved Ankarstrom from the dread
consequence of striking a Prince of the Royal Blood. But they had not
saved him from the vindictiveness of Gustavus. He had kept his lust of
vengeance warm, and very patiently had he watched and waited for his
opportunity to destroy the man, who had struck him.
That chance had come four years ago--in 1788--during the war with
Russia. Ankarstrom commanded the forces defending the island of
Gothland. These forces were inadequate for the task, nor was the
island in a proper state of defence, being destitute of forts. To have
persevered in resistance might have been heroic, but it would have been
worse than futile, for not only would it have entailed the massacre of
the garrison, but it must have further subjected the inhabitants to all
the horrors of sack and pillage.
In the circumstances, Ankarstrom had conceived it his duty to surrender
to the superior force of Russia, thereby securing immunity for the
persons and property of the inhabitants. In this the King perceived his
chance to indulge his hatred. He caused Ankarstrom to be arrested
and accused of high treason, it being alleged against him that he had
advised the people of Gothland not to take up arms against the Russians.
The royal agents found witnesses to bear false evidence against
Ankarstrom, with the result that he was sentenced to twenty years'
imprisonment in a fortress. But the sentence was never carried out.
Gustavus had gone too far, as he was soon made aware. The feelings
against him which hitherto had smouldered flamed out at this crowning
act of injustice, and to repair his error Gustavus made haste, not,
indeed, to exonerate Ankarstrom from the charges brought against him,
but to pardon him for his alleged offences.
When the Swedish nobleman was brought to Court to receive this pardon,
he used it as a weapon against the King whom he despised.
“My unjust judges,” he announced in a ringing voice, the echoes of which
were carried to the ends of Sweden, “have never doubted in their hearts
my innocence of the charges brought against me, and established by means
of false witnesses. The judgment pronounced against me was unrighteous.
This exemption from it is my proper due. Yet I would rather perish
through the enmity of the King than live dishonoured by his clemency.”
Gustavus had set his teeth in rage when those fierce words were reported
to him, and his rage had been increased when he was informed of the
cordial reception which everywhere awaited Ankarstrom on his release.
He perceived how far he had overshot his mark, and how, in seeking
treacherously to hurt Ankarstrom, he had succeeded only in hurting
himself. Nor had he appeased the general indignation by his pardon.
True, the flame of revolt had been quelled. But he had no lack of
evidence that the fire continued to burn steadily in secret, and to eat
its way further and further into the ranks of noble and simple alike.
It is little wonder, then, that in this moment, with that warning lying
there before him, the name of Ankarstrom should be on his lips, the
thought of Ankarstrom, the fear of Ankarstrom, looming big in his mind.
It was big enough to make him heed the warning. He dropped into a chair.
“I will not go,” he said, and Bjelke saw that his face was white, his
hands shaking.
But when the secretary had repeated the proposal which had earlier gone
unheard, Gustavus caught at it with sudden avidity, and with but little
concern for the danger that Bjelke might be running. He sprang up,
applauding it. If a conspiracy there was, the conspirators would thus be
trapped; if there were no conspiracy, then this attempt to frighten him
should come to nothing; thus he would be as safe from the mockery of his
enemies as from their knives. Nor did Armfelt protest or make further
attempts to dissuade him from going. In the circumstances proposed by
Bjelke, the risk would be Bjelke's, a matter which troubled Armfelt
not at all; indeed, he had no cause to love Bjelke, in whom he beheld a
formidable rival, and it would be to him no cause for tears if the knife
intended for the royal vitals should find its way into Bjelke's instead.
So Baron Bjelke, arrayed in the domino copied from the penitential sack,
departed for the Opera House, leaving Gustavus to follow. Yet, despite
the measure of precaution, no sooner had the masked King himself entered
the crowded theatre, leaning upon the arm of the Count of Essen, than he
conceived that he beheld confirmation of the warning, and regretted that
he had not heeded it to the extent of remaining absent. For one of the
first faces he beheld, one of the few unmasked faces in that brilliantly
lit salon, was the face of Ankarstrom, and Ankarstrom appeared to be
watching the entrance.
Gustavus checked in his stride, a tremor ran through him, and he
stiffened in his sudden apprehension, for the sight of the tall figure
and haughty, resolute face of the nobleman he had wronged was of more
significance than at first might seem. Ever since his infamous trial
Ankarstrom had been at pains to seize every occasion of marking his
contempt for his Prince. Never did he fail upon the King's appearance
in any gathering of which he was a member to withdraw immediately; and
never once had he been known deliberately to attend any function which
was to be graced by the presence of Gustavus. How, then, came he here
to this ball given by the King's own command unless he came for the fell
purpose of which the letter had given warning?
The King's impulse was to withdraw immediately. He was taken by a
curious, an almost unreasoning, fear that was quite foreign to him,
who, for all his faults, had never yet lacked courage. But, even as
he hesitated, a figure swept past him in a domino flecked with flames,
surrounded by revellers of both sexes, and he remembered that if
Ankarstrom were bent on evil his attention would be held by that figure
before which the crowd fell back, and opened out respectfully, believing
it to be the King's. Yet none the less it was Gustavus himself that
Ankarstrom continued to regard in such a way that the King had a feeling
that his mask was made of glass.
And then quite suddenly, even as he was on the point of turning, another
wave of revellers swept frantically up, and in a moment Gustavus and the
Count of Essen were surrounded. Another moment and the buffeting crowd
had separated him from his grand equerry. He found himself alone in the
centre of this knot of wild fellows who, seeming to mistake him for one
of themselves, forced him onward with them in their career. For a moment
he attempted to resist. But as well might he have resisted a torrent.
Their rush was not to be stemmed. It almost swept him from his feet, and
to save himself he must perforce abandon himself to the impetus. Thus
he was swirled away across the floor of the amphitheatre, helpless as
a swimmer in strong waters, and with the fear of the drowning clutching
now at his heart.
He had an impulse to unmask, proclaim himself, and compel the respect
that was his due. But to do so might be to expose himself to the very
danger of whose presence he was now convinced. His only hope must lie
in allowing himself to be borne passively along until a chance opening
allowed him to escape from these madmen.
The stage had been connected with the floor of the theatre by a broad
flight of wooden steps. Up this flight he was carried by that human
wave. But on the stage itself he found an anchorage at last against one
of the wings. Breathing hard, he set his back to it, waiting for the
wave to sweep on and leave him. Instead, it paused and came to rest with
him, and in that moment some one touched him on the shoulder. He turned
his head, and looked into the set face of Ankarstrom, who was close
behind him. Then a burning, rending pain took him in his side, and he
grew sick and dizzy. The uproar of voices became muffled; the lights
were merged into a luminous billow that swelled and shrank and then went
out altogether.
The report of the pistol had been lost in the general din to all but
those who stood near the spot where it had been fired. And these found
themselves suddenly borne backwards by the little crowd of maskers that
fell away from the figure lying prone and bleeding on the stage.
Voices were raised, shouting “Fire! Fire!” Thus the conspirators sought
to create confusion, that they might disperse and lose themselves in the
general crowd. That confusion, however, was very brief. It was stemmed
almost immediately by the Count of Essen, who leapt up the steps to the
stage with a premonition of what had happened. He stooped to rip away
the mask from the face of the victim, and, beholding, as he had feared,
the livid countenance of his King, he stood up, himself almost as pale.
“Murder has been done!” he roared. “Let the doors be closed and guarded,
and let no one leave the theatre.” Instantly was his bidding done by the
officers of the guard.
Those of the King's household who were in attendance came forward now
to raise Gustavus, and help to bear him to a couch. There presently he
recovered consciousness, whilst a physician was seeing to his hurt, and
as soon as he realized his condition his manner became so calm that,
himself, he took command of the situation. He issued orders that the
gates of the city should be closed against everybody, whilst himself
apologizing to the Prussian minister who was near him for issuing that
inconvenient but necessary order.
“The gates shall remain closed for three days, sir,” he announced.
“During that time you will not be able to correspond with your Court;
but your intelligence, when it goes, will be more certain, since by that
time it should be known whether I can survive or not.”
His next order, delivered in a voice that was broken by his intense
suffering, was to the chamberlain Benzelstjerna, commanding that all
present should unmask and sign their names in a book before being
suffered to depart. That done, he bade them bear him home on the couch
on which he had been placed that he might be spared the agony of more
movement than was necessary.
Thus his grenadiers bore him on their shoulders, lighted by torches,
through the streets that were now thronged, for the rumour had now gone
forth that the King was dead, and troops had been called out to keep
order. Beside him walked Armfelt in his suit of shimmering white satin,
weeping at once for his King and for himself, for he knew that he was of
those who must fall with Gustavus. And, knowing this, there was bitter
rage in his heart against the men who had wrought this havoc, a rage
that sharpened his wits to an unusual acuteness.
At last the King was once more in his apartments awaiting the physicians
who were to pronounce his fate, and Armfelt kept him company among
others, revolving in his mind the terrible suspicion he had formed.
Presently came Duke Charles, the King's brother, and Benzelstjerna with
the list of those who had been present at the ball.
“Tell me,” he asked, before the list was read to him, “is the name of
Ankarstrom included in it?”
“He was the last to sign, Sire,” replied the chamberlain.
The King smiled grimly. “Tell Lillesparre to have him arrested and
questioned.”
Armfelt flung forward. “There is another who should be arrested, too!”
he cried fiercely. And added, “Bjelke!”
“Bjelke?”
The King echoed the name almost in anger at the imputation. Armfelt
spoke torrentially. “It was he persuaded you to go against your own
judgment when you had the warning, and at last induced you to it by
offering to assume your own domino. If the assassins sought the King,
how came they to pass over one who wore the King's domino, and to
penetrate your own disguise that was like a dozen others? Because they
were informed of the change. But by whom--by whom? Who was it knew?”
“My God!” groaned the unfortunate King, who had in his time broken faith
with so many, and was now to suffer the knowledge of this broken faith
in one whom he had trusted above all others.
Baron Bjelke was arrested an hour later, arrested in the very act of
entering his own home. The men of Lillesparre's police had preceded him
thither to await his return. He was quite calm when they surged suddenly
about him, laid hands upon him, and formally pronounced him their
prisoner.
“I suppose,” he said, “it was to have been inferred. Allow me to take my
leave of the Baroness, and I shall be at your disposal.”
“My orders, Baron, are explicit,” he was answered by the officer in
charge. “I am not to suffer you out of my sight.”
“How? Am I to be denied so ordinary a boon?” His voice quivered with
sudden anger and something else.
“Such are my orders, Baron.”
Bjelke pleaded for five minutes' grace for that leavetaking. But the
officer had his orders. He was no more than a machine. The Baron raised
his clenched hands in mute protest to the heavens, then let them fall
heavily.
“Very well,” he said, and suffered them to thrust him back into his
carriage and carry him away to the waiting Lillesparre.
He found Armfelt in the office of the chief of the police, haranguing
Ankarstrom, who was already there under arrest. The favourite broke off
as Bjelke was brought in.
“You were privy to this infamy, Bjelke,” he cried. “If the King does not
recover--”
“He will not recover.” It was the cold, passionless voice of Ankarstrom
that spoke. “My pistol was loaded with rusty nails. I intended to make
quite sure of ridding my country of that perjured tyrant.”
Armfelt stared at the prisoner a moment with furious, bloodshot eyes.
Then he broke into imprecations, stemmed only when Lillesparre ordered
Ankarstrom to be removed. When he was gone, the chief of police turned
to Bjelke.
“It grieves me, Baron, that we should meet thus, and it is with
difficulty that I can believe what is alleged against you. Baron Armfelt
is perhaps rendered hasty by his grief and righteous anger. But I hope
that you will be able to explain--at least to deny your concern in this
horrible deed.”
Very tense and white stood Bjelke.
“I have an explanation that should satisfy you as a man of honour,” he
said quietly, “but not as chief of the police. I joined this conspiracy
that I might master its scope and learn the intentions of the plotters.
It was a desperate thing I did out of love and loyalty to the King, and
I succeeded. I came to-night to the palace with information which should
not only have saved the King's life, but would have enabled him to
smother the conspiracy for all time. On the threshold of his room this
letter for the King was delivered into my hands. Read it, Lillesparre,
that you may know precisely what manner of master you serve, that you
may understand how Gustavus of Sweden recompenses love and loyalty. Read
it, and tell me how you would have acted in my place!”
And he flung the letter on to the writing-table at which sat
Lillesparre.
The chief of police took it up, began to read, turned back to the
superscription, then resumed his reading, a dull flush overspreading his
face. Over his shoulder Armfelt, too, was reading. But Bjelke cared
not. Let all the world behold that advertisement of royal infamy,
that incriminating love-letter from Bjelke's wife to the King who had
dishonoured him.
Lillesparre was stricken dumb. He dared not raise his eyes to meet the
glance of the prisoner. But the shameless Armfelt sucked in a breath of
understanding.
“You admit your guilt, then?” he snarled.
“That I sent the monster to the masquerade, knowing that there the
blessed hand of Ankarstrom would give him his passport out of a world he
had befouled--yes.”
“The rack shall make you yield the name of every one of the
conspirators.”
“The rack!” Bjelke smiled disdainfully, and shrugged. “Your men,
Lillesparre, were very prompt and very obdurate. They would not allow me
to take leave of the Baroness, so that she has escaped me. But I am not
sure that it is not a fitter vengeance to let her live and remember.
That letter may now be delivered to the King, for whom it is intended.
Its fond messages may lighten the misery of his remaining hours.”
His face was contorted, with rage, thought Armfelt, who watched him, but
in reality with pain caused by the poison that was corroding his vitals.
He had drained a little phial just before stepping into the presence
of Lillesparre, as they discovered upon inquiries made after he had
collapsed dead at their feet.
This caused them to bring back Ankarstrom, that he might be searched,
lest he, too, should take some similar way of escaping them. When he
search was done, having discovered nothing, Lillesparre commanded that
he should not have knife or fork or metal comb, or anything with which
he might take his life.
“You need not fear that I shall seek to evade the sacrifice,” he assured
them, his demeanour haughty, his eyes aglow with fanatic zeal. “It is
the price I pay for having rid Nature of a monster and my country of a
false, perjured tyrant, and I pay it gladly.” As he ceased he smiled,
and drew from the gold lace of his sleeve a surgeon's lancet. “This was
supplied me against my need to open a vein. But the laws of God and man
may require my death upon the scaffold.”
And, smiling, he placed the lancet on Lillesparre's table.
Upon his conviction execution followed, and it lasted three days--from
April 19th to 21 st--being attended by all the horrible and gradual
torturings reserved for regicides. Yet possibly he did not suffer more
than his victim, whose agony had lasted for thirteen days, and who
perished miserably in the consciousness that he deserved his fate,
whilst Ankarstrom was uplifted and fortified by his fanaticism.
The scaffold was erected on the Stora Torget, facing the Opera House
of Stockholm, where the assassination had taken place. Thence the
dismembered remains of Ankarstrom were conveyed to the ordinary gallows
in the suburb of Sodermalm to be exhibited, the right hand being nailed
below the head. Under this hand on the morrow was found a tablet bearing
the legend:
Blessed the hand That saved the Fatherland.