The Prisoner of Zenda (11 page)

She pushed me from her, crying suddenly:

“Ah! is it true? or is it only because you must?”

“It's true!” I said, in low smothered tones—“true that I love you more than life—or truth—or honour!”

She set no meaning to my words, treating them as one of love's sweet extravagances. She came close to me, and whispered:

“Oh, if you were not the King! Then I could show you how I love you! How is it that I love you now, Rudolf?”

“Now?”

“Yes—just lately. I—I never did before.”

Pure triumph filled me. It was I—Rudolf Rassendyll—who had won her! I caught her round the waist.

“You didn't love me before?” I asked.

She looked up into my face, smiling, as she whispered:

“It must have been your Crown. I felt it first on the Coronation Day.”

“Never before?” I asked eagerly.

She laughed low.

“You speak as if you would be pleased to hear me say ‘Yes' to that,” she said.

“Would ‘Yes' be true?”

“Yes,” I just heard her breathe, and she went on in an instant: “Be careful, Rudolf; be careful, dear. He will be mad now.”

“What, Michael? If Michael were the worst—”

“What worse is there?”

There was yet a chance for me. Controlling myself with a mighty effort, I took my hands off her and stood a yard or two away. I remember now the note of the wind in the elm trees outside.

“If I were not the King,” I began, “if I were only a private gentleman—”

Before I could finish, her hand was in mine.

“If you were a convict in the prison of Strelsau, you would be my King,” she said.

And under my breath I groaned, “God forgive me!” and, holding her hand in mine, I said again:

“If I were not the King—”

“Hush, hush!” she whispered. “I don't deserve it—I don't deserve to be doubted. Ah, Rudolf! does a woman who marries without love look on the man as I look on you?”

And she hid her face from me.

For more than a minute we stood there together; and I, even with my arm about her, summoned up what honour and conscience her beauty and the toils that I was in had left me.

“Flavia,” I said, in a strange dry voice that seemed not my own, “I am not—”

As I spoke—as she raised her eyes to me—there was a heavy step on the gravel outside, and a man appeared at the window. A little cry burst from Flavia, as she sprang back from me. My half-finished sentence died on my lips. Sapt stood there, bowing low, but with a stern frown on his face.

“A thousand pardons, sire,” said he, “but his Eminence the Cardinal has waited this quarter of an hour to offer his respectful adieu to your Majesty.”

I met his eye full and square; and I read in it an angry warning. How long he had been a listener I knew not, but he had come in upon us in the nick of time.

“We must not keep his Eminence waiting,” said I.

But Flavia, in whose love there lay no shame, with radiant eyes and blushing face, held out her hand to Sapt. She said nothing, but no man could have missed her meaning, who had ever seen a woman in the exultation of love. A sour, yet sad, smile passed over the old soldier's face, and there was tenderness in his voice, as bending to kiss her hand, he said:

“In joy and sorrow, in good times and bad, God save your Royal Highness!”

He paused and added, glancing at me and drawing himself up to military erectness:

“But, before all comes the King—God save the King!”

And Flavia caught at my hand and kissed it, murmuring:

“Amen! Good God, Amen!”

We went into the ballroom again. Forced to receive adieus, I was separated from Flavia: everyone, when they left me, went to her. Sapt was out and in of the throng, and where he had been, glances, smiles, and whispers were rife. I doubted not that, true to his relentless purpose, he was spreading the news that he had learnt. To uphold the Crown and beat Black Michael—that was his one resolve. Flavia, myself—ay, and the real King in Zenda, were pieces in his game; and pawns have no business with passions. Not even at the walls of the Palace did he stop; for when at last I handed Flavia down the broad marble steps and into her carriage, there was a great crowd awaiting us, and we were welcomed with deafening cheers. What could I do? Had I spoken then, they would have refused to believe that I was not the King; they might have believed that the King had run mad. By Sapt's devices and my own ungoverned passion I had been forced on, and the way back had closed behind me; and the passion still drove me in the same direction as the devices seduced me. I faced all Strelsau that night as the King and the accepted suitor of the Princess Flavia.

At last, at three in the morning, when the cold light of dawning day began to steal in, I was in my dressing-room, and Sapt alone was with me. I sat like a man dazed, staring into the fire; he puffed at his pipe; Fritz was gone to bed, having almost refused to speak to me. On the table by me lay a rose; it had been in Flavia's dress, and, as we parted, she had kissed it and given it to me.

Sapt advanced his hand towards the rose, but, with a quick movement, I shut mine down upon it.

“That's mine,” I said, “not yours—nor the King's either.”

“We struck a good blow for the King tonight,” said he.

I turned on him fiercely.

“What's to prevent me striking a blow for myself?” I said.

He nodded his head.

“I know what's in your mind,” he said. “Yes, lad; but you're bound in honour.”

“Have you left me any honour?”

“Oh, come, to play a little trick on a girl—”

“You can spare me that. Colonel Sapt, if you would not have me utterly a villain—if you would not have your King rot in Zenda, while Michael and I play for the great stake outside—you follow me?”

“Ay, I follow you.”

“We must act, and quickly! You saw tonight—you heard—tonight—”

“I did,” said he.

“Your cursed acuteness told you what I should do. Well, leave me here a week—and there's another problem for you. Do you find the answer?”

“Yes, I find it,” he answered, frowning heavily. “But if you did that, you'd have to fight me first—and kill me.”

“Well, and if I had—or a score of men? I tell you, I could raise all Strelsau on you in an hour, and choke you with your lies—yes, your mad lies—in your mouth.”

“It's gospel truth,” he said—”thanks to my advice you could.”

“I could marry the princess, and send Michael and his brother together to—”

“I'm not denying it, lad,” said he.

“Then, in God's name,” I cried, stretching out my hands to him, “let us go to Zenda and crush this Michael and bring the King back to his own again.” The old fellow stood and looked at me for full a minute.

“And the princess?” he said.

I bowed my head to meet my hands, and crushed the rose between my fingers and my lips.

I felt his hand on my shoulder, and his voice sounded husky as he whispered low in my ear:

“Before God, you're the finest Elphberg of them all. But I have eaten of the King's bread, and I am the King's servant. Come, we will go to Zenda!”

And I looked up and caught him by the hand. And the eyes of both of us were wet.

The terrible temptation which was assailing me will now be understood. I could so force Michael's hand that he must kill the King. I was in a position to bid him defiance and tighten my grasp on the crown—not for its own sake, but because the King of Ruritania was to wed the Princess Flavia. What of Sapt and Fritz? Ah! but a man cannot be held to write down in cold blood the wild and black thoughts that storm his brain when an uncontrolled passion has battered a breach for them. Yet, unless he sets up as a saint, he need not hate himself for them. He is better employed, as it humbly seems to me, in giving thanks that power to resist was vouchsafed to him, than in fretting over wicked impulses which come unsought and extort an unwilling hospitality from the weakness of our nature.

It was a fine bright morning when I walked, unattended, to the princess's house, carrying a nosegay in my hand. Policy made excuses for love, and every attention that I paid her, while it riveted my own chains, bound closer to me the people of the great city, who worshipped her. I found Fritz's inamorata, the Countess Helga, gathering blooms in the garden for her mistress's wear, and prevailed on her to take mine in their place. The girl was rosy with happiness, for Fritz, in his turn, had not wasted his evening, and no dark shadow hung over his wooing, save the hatred which the Duke of Strelsau was known to bear him.

“And that,” she said, with a mischievous smile, “your Majesty has made of no moment. Yes, I will take the flowers; shall I tell you, sire, what is the first thing the princess does with them?”

We were talking on a broad terrace that ran along the back of the house, and a window above our heads stood open.

“Madame!” cried the countess merrily, and Flavia herself looked out. I bared my head and bowed. She wore a white gown, and her hair was loosely gathered in a knot. She kissed her hand to me, crying:

“Bring the King up, Helga; I'll give him some coffee.”

The countess, with a gay glance, led the way, and took me into Flavia's morning-room. And, left alone, we greeted one another as lovers are wont. Then the princess laid two letters before me. One was from Black Michael—a most courteous request that she would honour him by spending a day at his Castle of Zenda, as had been her custom once a year in the summer, when the place and its gardens were in the height of their great beauty. I threw the letter down in disgust, and Flavia laughed at me. Then, growing grave again, she pointed to the other sheet.

“I don't know who that comes from,” she said. “Read it.”

I knew in a moment. There was no signature at all this time, but the handwriting was the same as that which had told me of the snare in the summer-house: it was Antoinette de Mauban's.

“I have no cause to love you,” it ran, “but God forbid that you should fall into the power of the duke. Accept no invitations of his. Go nowhere without a large guard—a regiment is not too much to make you safe. Show this, if you can, to him who reigns in Strelsau.”

“Why doesn't it say ‘the King'?” asked Flavia, leaning over my shoulder, so that the ripple of her hair played on my cheek. “Is it a hoax?”

“As you value life, and more than life, my queen,” I said, “obey it to the very letter. A regiment shall camp round your house today. See that you do not go out unless well guarded.”

“An order, sire?” she asked, a little rebellious.

“Yes, an order, madame—if you love me.”

“Ah!” she cried; and I could not but kiss her.

“You know who sent it?” she asked.

“I guess,” said I. “It is from a good friend—and I fear, an unhappy woman. You must be ill, Flavia, and unable to go to Zenda. Make your excuses as cold and formal as you like.”

“So you feel strong enough to anger Michael?” she said, with a proud smile.

“I'm strong enough for anything, while you are safe,” said I.

Soon I tore myself away from her, and then, without consulting Sapt, I took my way to the house of Marshal Strakencz. I had seen something of the old general, and I liked and trusted him. Sapt was less enthusiastic, but I had learnt by now that Sapt was best pleased when he could do everything, and jealousy played some part in his views. As things were now, I had more work than Sapt and Fritz could manage, for they must come with me to Zenda, and I wanted a man to guard what I loved most in all the world, and suffer me to set about my task of releasing the King with a quiet mind.

The Marshal received me with most loyal kindness. To some extent, I took him into my confidence. I charged him with the care of the princess, looking him full and significantly in the face as I bade him let no one from her cousin the duke approach her, unless he himself were there and a dozen of his men with him.

“You may be right, sire,” said he, shaking his grey head sadly. “I have known better men than the duke do worse things than that for love.”

I could quite appreciate the remark, but I said:

“There's something beside love, Marshal. Love's for the heart; is there nothing my brother might like for his head?”

“I pray that you wrong him, sire.”

“Marshal, I'm leaving Strelsau for a few days. Every evening I will send a courier to you. If for three days none comes, you will publish an order which I will give you, depriving Duke Michael of the governorship of Strelsau and appointing you in his place. You will declare a state of siege. Then you will send word to Michael that you demand an audience of the King—You follow me?”

“Ay, sire.”

“—In twenty-four hours. If he does not produce the King” (I laid my hand on his knee), “then the King is dead, and you will proclaim the next heir. You know who that is?”

“The Princess Flavia.”

“And swear to me, on your faith and honour and by the fear of the living God, that you will stand by her to the death, and kill that reptile, and seat her where I sit now.”

“On my faith and honour, and by the fear of God, I swear it! And may Almighty God preserve your Majesty, for I think that you go on an errand of danger.”

“I hope that no life more precious than mine may be demanded,” said I, rising. Then I held out my hand to him.

“Marshal,” I said, “in days to come, it may be—I know not—that you will hear strange things of the man who speaks to you now. Let him be what he may, and who he may, what say you of the manner in which he has borne himself as King in Strelsau?”

The old man, holding my hand, spoke to me, man to man.