The prisoner of Zenda
Sapt did, for he was a lover, and his happiness hung in the scale. Yet
how I envied him! For the triumphant issue which would crown him with
happiness and unite him to his mistress, the success for which we were
bound to hope and strive and struggle, meant to me sorrow more certain
and greater than if I were doomed to fail. He understood something of
this, for when we were alone (save for old Sapt, who was smoking at the
other end of the room) he passed his arm through mine, saying:
“It’s hard for you. Don’t think I don’t trust you; I know you have
nothing but true thoughts in your heart.”
But I turned away from him, thankful that he could not see what my heart
held, but only be witness to the deeds that my hands were to do.
Yet even he did not understand, for he had not dared to lift his eyes to
the Princess Flavia, as I had lifted mine.
Our plans were now all made, even as we proceeded to carry them out, and
as they will hereafter appear. The next morning we were to start on the
hunting excursion. I had made all arrangements for being absent, and
now there was only one thing left to do--the hardest, the most
heart-breaking. As evening fell, I drove through the busy streets to
Flavia’s residence. I was recognized as I went and heartily cheered. I
played my part, and made shift to look the happy lover. In spite of my
depression, I was almost amused at the coolness and delicate hauteur
with which my sweet lover received me. She had heard that the King was
leaving Strelsau on a hunting expedition.
“I regret that we cannot amuse your Majesty here in Strelsau,” she said,
tapping her foot lightly on the floor. “I would have offered you more
entertainment, but I was foolish enough to think--”
“Well, what?” I asked, leaning over her.
“That just for a day or two after--after last night--you might be happy
without much gaiety;” and she turned pettishly from me, as she added, “I
hope the boars will be more engrossing.”
“I’m going after a very big boar,” said I; and, because I could not help
it, I began to play with her hair, but she moved her head away.
“Are you offended with me?” I asked, in feigned surprise, for I could
not resist tormenting her a little. I had never seen her angry, and
every fresh aspect of her was a delight to me.
“What right have I to be offended? True, you said last night that every
hour away from me was wasted. But a very big boar! that’s a different
thing.”
“Perhaps the boar will hunt me,” I suggested. “Perhaps, Flavia, he’ll
catch me.”
She made no answer.
“You are not touched even by that danger?”
Still she said nothing; and I, stealing round, found her eyes full of
tears.
“You weep for my danger?”
Then she spoke very low:
“This is like what you used to be; but not like the King--the King I--I
have come to love!”
With a sudden great groan, I caught her to my heart.
“My darling!” I cried, forgetting everything but her, “did you dream
that I left you to go hunting?”
“What then, Rudolf? Ah! you’re not going--?”
“Well, it is hunting. I go to seek Michael in his lair.”
She had turned very pale.
“So, you see, sweet, I was not so poor a lover as you thought me. I
shall not be long gone.”
“You will write to me, Rudolf?”
I was weak, but I could not say a word to stir suspicion in her.
“I’ll send you all my heart every day,” said I.
“And you’ll run no danger?”
“None that I need not.”
“And when will you be back? Ah, how long will it be!”
“When shall I be back?” I repeated.
“Yes, yes! Don’t be long, dear, don’t be long. I shan’t sleep while
you’re away.”
“I don’t know when I shall be back,” said I.
“Soon, Rudolf, soon?”
“God knows, my darling. But, if never--”
“Hush, hush!” and she pressed her lips to mine.
“If never,” I whispered, “you must take my place; you’ll be the only one
of the House then. You must reign, and not weep for me.”
For a moment she drew herself up like a very queen.
“Yes, I will!” she said. “I will reign. I will do my part though all my
life will be empty and my heart dead; yet I’ll do it!”
She paused, and sinking against me again, wailed softly.
“Come soon! come soon!”
Carried away, I cried loudly:
“As God lives, I--yes, I myself--will see you once more before I die!”
“What do you mean?” she exclaimed, with wondering eyes; but I had no
answer for her, and she gazed at me with her wondering eyes.
I dared not ask her to forget, she would have found it an insult. I
could not tell her then who and what I was. She was weeping, and I had
but to dry her tears.
“Shall a man not come back to the loveliest lady in all the wide world?”
said I. “A thousand Michaels should not keep me from you!”
She clung to me, a little comforted.
“You won’t let Michael hurt you?”
“No, sweetheart.”
“Or keep you from me?”
“No, sweetheart.”
“Nor anyone else?”
And again I answered:
“No, sweetheart.”
Yet there was one--not Michael--who, if he lived, must keep me from
her; and for whose life I was going forth to stake my own. And his
figure--the lithe, buoyant figure I had met in the woods of Zenda--the
dull, inert mass I had left in the cellar of the hunting-lodge--seemed
to rise, double-shaped, before me, and to come between us, thrusting
itself in even where she lay, pale, exhausted, fainting, in my arms, and
yet looking up at me with those eyes that bore such love as I have never
seen, and haunt me now, and will till the ground closes over me--and
(who knows?) perhaps beyond.
CHAPTER 12
I Receive a Visitor and Bait a Hook
About five miles from Zenda--on the opposite side from that on which
the Castle is situated, there lies a large tract of wood. It is rising
ground, and in the centre of the demesne, on the top of the hill, stands
a fine modern chateau, the property of a distant kinsman of Fritz’s, the
Count Stanislas von Tarlenheim. Count Stanislas himself was a student
and a recluse. He seldom visited the house, and had, on Fritz’s request,
very readily and courteously offered me its hospitality for myself and
my party. This, then, was our destination; chosen ostensibly for the
sake of the boar-hunting (for the wood was carefully preserved, and
boars, once common all over Ruritania, were still to be found there
in considerable numbers), really because it brought us within striking
distance of the Duke of Strelsau’s more magnificent dwelling on the
other side of the town. A large party of servants, with horses and
luggage, started early in the morning; we followed at midday, travelling
by train for thirty miles, and then mounting our horses to ride the
remaining distance to the chateau.
We were a gallant party. Besides Sapt and Fritz, I was accompanied by
ten gentlemen: every one of them had been carefully chosen, and no less
carefully sounded, by my two friends, and all were devotedly attached to
the person of the King. They were told a part of the truth; the attempt
on my life in the summer-house was revealed to them, as a spur to their
loyalty and an incitement against Michael. They were also informed that
a friend of the King’s was suspected to be forcibly confined within the
Castle of Zenda. His rescue was one of the objects of the expedition;
but, it was added, the King’s main desire was to carry into effect
certain steps against his treacherous brother, as to the precise nature
of which they could not at present be further enlightened. Enough that
the King commanded their services, and would rely on their devotion when
occasion arose to call for it. Young, well-bred, brave, and loyal, they
asked no more: they were ready to prove their dutiful obedience, and
prayed for a fight as the best and most exhilarating mode of showing it.
Thus the scene was shifted from Strelsau to the chateau of Tarlenheim
and Castle of Zenda, which frowned at us across the valley. I tried to
shift my thoughts also, to forget my love, and to bend all my energies
to the task before me. It was to get the King out of the Castle alive.
Force was useless: in some trick lay the chance; and I had already an
inkling of what we must do. But I was terribly hampered by the publicity
which attended my movements. Michael must know by now of my expedition;
and I knew Michael too well to suppose that his eyes would be blinded by
the feint of the boar-hunt. He would understand very well what the real
quarry was. That, however, must be risked--that and all it might mean;
for Sapt, no less than myself, recognized that the present state of
things had become unendurable. And there was one thing that I dared to
calculate on--not, as I now know, without warrant. It was this--that
Black Michael would not believe that I meant well by the King. He could
not appreciate--I will not say an honest man, for the thoughts of my
own heart have been revealed--but a man acting honestly. He saw
my opportunity as I had seen it, as Sapt had seen it; he knew the
princess--nay (and I declare that a sneaking sort of pity for him
invaded me), in his way he loved her; he would think that Sapt and Fritz
could be bribed, so the bribe was large enough. Thinking thus, would he
kill the King, my rival and my danger? Ay, verily, that he would, with
as little compunction as he would kill a rat. But he would kill Rudolf
Rassendyll first, if he could; and nothing but the certainty of being
utterly damned by the release of the King alive and his restoration to
the throne would drive him to throw away the trump card which he held in
reserve to baulk the supposed game of the impudent impostor Rassendyll.
Musing on all this as I rode along, I took courage.
Michael knew of my coming, sure enough. I had not been in the house an
hour, when an imposing Embassy arrived from him. He did not quite reach
the impudence of sending my would-be assassins, but he sent the other
three of his famous Six--the three Ruritanian gentlemen--Lauengram,
Krafstein, and Rupert Hentzau. A fine, strapping trio they were,
splendidly horsed and admirably equipped. Young Rupert, who looked
a dare-devil, and could not have been more than twenty-two or
twenty-three, took the lead, and made us the neatest speech, wherein
my devoted subject and loving brother Michael of Strelsau, prayed me to
pardon him for not paying his addresses in person, and, further, for not
putting his Castle at my disposal; the reason for both of these apparent
derelictions being that he and several of his servants lay sick of
scarlet fever, and were in a very sad, and also a very infectious state.
So declared young Rupert with an insolent smile on his curling upper lip
and a toss of his thick hair--he was a handsome villain, and the gossip
ran that many a lady had troubled her heart for him already.
“If my brother has scarlet fever,” said I, “he is nearer my complexion
than he is wont to be, my lord. I trust he does not suffer?”
“He is able to attend to his affairs, sire.”
“I hope all beneath your roof are not sick. What of my good friends, De
Gautet, Bersonin, and Detchard? I heard the last had suffered a hurt.”
Lauengram and Krafstein looked glum and uneasy, but young Rupert’s smile
grew broader.
“He hopes soon to find a medicine for it, sire,” he answered.
And I burst out laughing, for I knew what medicine Detchard longed
for--it is called Revenge.
“You will dine with us, gentlemen?” I asked.
Young Rupert was profuse in apologies. They had urgent duties at the
Castle.
“Then,” said I, with a wave of my hand, “to our next meeting, gentlemen.
May it make us better acquainted.”
“We will pray your Majesty for an early opportunity,” quoth Rupert
airily; and he strode past Sapt with such jeering scorn on his face that
I saw the old fellow clench his fist and scowl black as night.
For my part, if a man must needs be a knave, I would have him a debonair