The prisoner of Zenda
and I and that brave table, rolled down the steps of the summerhouse to
the ground below. Antoinette de Mauban shrieked, but I rose to my feet,
laughing aloud.
De Gautet and Bersonin lay like men stunned. Detchard was under the
table, but, as I rose, he pushed it from him and fired again. I raised
my revolver and took a snap shot; I heard him curse, and then I ran like
a hare, laughing as I went, past the summer-house and along by the wall.
I heard steps behind me, and turning round I fired again for luck. The
steps ceased.
“Please God,” said I, “she told me the truth about the ladder!” for the
wall was high and topped with iron spikes.
Yes, there it was. I was up and over in a minute. Doubling back, I saw
the horses; then I heard a shot. It was Sapt. He had heard us, and was
battling and raging with the locked gate, hammering it and firing into
the keyhole like a man possessed. He had quite forgotten that he was
not to take part in the fight. Whereat I laughed again, and said, as I
clapped him on the shoulder:
“Come home to bed, old chap. I’ve got the finest tea-table story that
ever you heard!”
He started and cried: “You’re safe!” and wrung my hand. But a moment
later he added:
“And what the devil are you laughing at?”
“Four gentlemen round a tea-table,” said I, laughing still, for it had
been uncommonly ludicrous to see the formidable three altogether routed
and scattered with no more deadly weapon than an ordinary tea-table.
Moreover, you will observe that I had honourably kept my word, and not
fired till they did.
CHAPTER 10
A Great Chance for a Villain
It was the custom that the Prefect of Police should send every afternoon
a report to me on the condition of the capital and the feeling of the
people: the document included also an account of the movements of any
persons whom the police had received instructions to watch. Since I had
been in Strelsau, Sapt had been in the habit of reading the report and
telling me any items of interest which it might contain. On the day
after my adventure in the summer-house, he came in as I was playing a
hand of _écarté_ with Fritz von Tarlenheim.
“The report is rather full of interest this afternoon,” he observed,
sitting down.
“Do you find,” I asked, “any mention of a certain fracas?”
He shook his head with a smile.
“I find this first,” he said: “‘His Highness the Duke of Strelsau left
the city (so far as it appears, suddenly), accompanied by several of his
household. His destination is believed to be the Castle of Zenda, but
the party travelled by road and not by train. MM De Gautet, Bersonin,
and Detchard followed an hour later, the last-named carrying his arm in
a sling. The cause of his wound is not known, but it is suspected that
he has fought a duel, probably incidental to a love affair.’”
“That is remotely true,” I observed, very well pleased to find that I
had left my mark on the fellow.
“Then we come to this,” pursued Sapt: “‘Madame de Mauban, whose
movements have been watched according to instructions, left by train at
midday. She took a ticket for Dresden--’”
“It’s an old habit of hers,” said I.
“‘The Dresden train stops at Zenda.’ An acute fellow, this. And finally
listen to this: ‘The state of feeling in the city is not satisfactory.
The King is much criticized’ (you know, he’s told to be quite frank)
‘for taking no steps about his marriage. From enquiries among the
entourage of the Princess Flavia, her Royal Highness is believed to be
deeply offended by the remissness of his Majesty. The common people are
coupling her name with that of the Duke of Strelsau, and the duke gains
much popularity from the suggestion.’ I have caused the announcement that
the King gives a ball tonight in honour of the princess to be widely
diffused, and the effect is good.”
“That is news to me,” said I.
“Oh, the preparations are all made!” laughed Fritz. “I’ve seen to that.”
Sapt turned to me and said, in a sharp, decisive voice:
“You must make love to her tonight, you know.”
“I think it is very likely I shall, if I see her alone,” said I. “Hang
it, Sapt, you don’t suppose I find it difficult?”
Fritz whistled a bar or two; then he said: “You’ll find it only too
easy. Look here, I hate telling you this, but I must. The Countess Helga
told me that the princess had become most attached to the King. Since
the coronation, her feelings have undergone a marked development. It’s
quite true that she is deeply wounded by the King’s apparent neglect.”
“Here’s a kettle of fish!” I groaned.
“Tut, tut!” said Sapt. “I suppose you’ve made pretty speeches to a girl
before now? That’s all she wants.”
Fritz, himself a lover, understood better my distress. He laid his hand
on my shoulder, but said nothing.
“I think, though,” pursued that cold-blooded old Sapt, “that you’d
better make your offer tonight.”
“Good heavens!”
“Or, any rate, go near it: and I shall send a ‘semi-official’ to the
papers.”
“I’ll do nothing of the sort--no more will you!” said I. “I utterly
refuse to take part in making a fool of the princess.”
Sapt looked at me with his small keen eyes. A slow cunning smile passed
over his face.
“All right, lad, all right,” said he. “We mustn’t press you too hard.
Soothe her down a bit, if you can, you know. Now for Michael!”
“Oh, damn Michael!” said I. “He’ll do tomorrow. Here, Fritz, come for a
stroll in the garden.”
Sapt at once yielded. His rough manner covered a wonderful tact--and
as I came to recognize more and more, a remarkable knowledge of human
nature. Why did he urge me so little about the princess? Because he
knew that her beauty and my ardour would carry me further than all his
arguments--and that the less I thought about the thing, the more likely
was I to do it. He must have seen the unhappiness he might bring on the
princess; but that went for nothing with him. Can I say, confidently,
that he was wrong? If the King were restored, the princess must turn to
him, either knowing or not knowing the change. And if the King were not
restored to us? It was a subject that we had never yet spoken of. But I
had an idea that, in such a case, Sapt meant to seat me on the throne of
Ruritania for the term of my life. He would have set Satan himself there
sooner than that pupil of his, Black Michael.
The ball was a sumptuous affair. I opened it by dancing a quadrille
with Flavia: then I waltzed with her. Curious eyes and eager whispers
attended us. We went in to supper; and, half way through, I, half mad by
then, for her glance had answered mine, and her quick breathing met my
stammered sentences--I rose in my place before all the brilliant crowd,
and taking the Red Rose that I wore, flung the ribbon with its jewelled
badge round her neck. In a tumult of applause I sat down: I saw Sapt
smiling over his wine, and Fritz frowning. The rest of the meal passed
in silence; neither Flavia nor I could speak. Fritz touched me on the
shoulder, and I rose, gave her my arm, and walked down the hall into a
little room, where coffee was served to us. The gentlemen and ladies in
attendance withdrew, and we were alone.
The little room had French windows opening on the gardens. The night was
fine, cool, and fragrant. Flavia sat down, and I stood opposite her. I
was struggling with myself: if she had not looked at me, I believe that
even then I should have won my fight. But suddenly, involuntarily, she
gave me one brief glance--a glance of question, hurriedly turned aside;
a blush that the question had ever come spread over her cheek, and she
caught her breath. Ah, if you had seen her! I forgot the King in Zenda.
I forgot the King in Strelsau. She was a princess--and I an impostor.
Do you think I remembered that? I threw myself on my knee and seized
her hands in mine. I said nothing. Why should I? The soft sounds of the
night set my wooing to a wordless melody, as I pressed my kisses on her
lips.
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,