CHAPTER IV. AN ADVENTURE WITH ROYALTY
Maurice Carewe, attached to the American legation in Vienna, leanedagainst the stone parapet which separated the terraced promenade of theContinental Hotel from the Werter See, and wondered what had induced himto come to Bleiberg.
He had left behind him the glory of September in Vienna, a city secondonly to Paris in fashion and gaiety; Vienna, with its inimitable bands,its incomparable gardens, its military maneuvers, its salons, itscharming women; and all for a fool's errand. His Excellency was toblame. He had casually dropped the remark that the duchy's minister,Baron von Rumpf, had been given his passports as a persona non grata bythe chancellor of the kingdom, and that a declaration of war was likelyto follow. Maurice's dormant love of journalistic inquiry had becomearoused, and he had asked permission to investigate the affair, a favorreadily granted to him.
But here he was, on the scene, and nobody knew anything, and nobodycould tell anything. The duchess had remained silent. Not unnaturally hewished himself back in Vienna. There were no court fetes in the cityof Bleiberg. The king's condition was too grave to permit them. And,besides, there had been no real court in Bleiberg for the space of tenyears, so he was told. Those solemn affairs of the archbishop's, givenonce the week for the benefit of the corps diplomatique, were dull andspiritless. Her Royal Highness was seldom seen, save when she drovethrough the streets. Persons who remembered the reign before told what amad, gay court it had been. Now it was funereal. The youth and beauty ofBleiberg held a court of its own. Royalty was not included, nor did itask to be.
A strange capital, indeed, Maurice reflected, as he gazed down into thecool, brown water. He regretted his caprice. There were pretty women inVienna. Some of them belonged to the American colony. They danced well,they sang and played and rode. He had taught some of them how to fence,and he could not remember the times he had been "buttoned" while payingtoo much attention to their lips and eyes. For Maurice loved a thingof beauty, were it a woman, a horse or a Mediterranean sunset. What adifference between these two years in Vienna and that year in Calcutta!He never would forget the dingy office, with its tarnished sign, "U. S.Consul," tacked insecurely on the door, and the utter loneliness.
He cast a pebble into the lake, and watched the ripples roll away anddisappear, and ruminated on a life full of color and vicissitude. Heremembered the Arizona days, the endless burning sand, the dull routineof a cavalry trooper, the lithe brown bodies of the Apaches, the firstskirmish and the last. From a soldier he had turned journalist, trampedthe streets of Washington in rain and shine, living as a man lived whomust.
One day his star had shot up from the nadir of obscurity, not very far,but enough to bring his versatility under the notice of the discerningSecretary of State, who, having been a friend of the father, offeredthe son a berth in the diplomatic corps. A consulate in a South Americanrepublic, during a revolutionary crisis, where he had shown consummateskill in avoiding political complications (and where, by a shrewdspeculation in gold, he had feathered his nest for his declining years),proved that the continual incertitude of a journalistic career is a finebasis for diplomatic work. From South America he had gone to Calcutta,thence to Austria.
He was only twenty-nine, which age in some is youth. He possessed an oldman's wisdom and a boy's exuberance of spirits. He laughed whenever hecould; to him life was a panorama of vivid pictures, the world avast theater to which somehow he had gained admission. His beardlesscountenance had deceived more than one finished diplomat, for it wasdifficult to believe that behind it lay an earnest purpose and a daringcourage. If he bragged a little, quizzed graybeards, sought strangeplaces, sported with convention, and eluded women, it was due to hisrestlessness. Yet, he had the secretiveness of sand; he absorbed, buthe revealed nothing. He knew his friends; they thought they knew him. Itwas his delight to have women think him a butterfly, men write him downa fool; it covered up his real desires and left him free.
What cynicism he had was mellowed by a fanciful humor. Whether withsteel or with words, he was a master of fence; and if at times some onegot under his guard, that some one knew it not. To let your enemy seethat he has hit you is to give him confidence. He saw humor where no oneelse saw it, and tragedy where it was not suspected. He was one of thoserare individuals who, when the opportunity of chance refuses to come,makes one.
"Germany and Austria are great countries," he mused, lighting a cigar."Every hundredth man is a king, one in fifty is a duke, every tenth manis a prince, and one can not take a corner without bumping into acount or a baron. Even the hotel waiters are disquieting; there is thatembarrassing atmosphere about them which suggests nobility in durancevile. As for me, I prefer Kentucky, where every man is a colonel, andyou never make a mistake. And these kingdoms!" He indulged in subduedlaughter. "They are always like comic operas. I find myself lookingaround every moment for the merry villagers so happy and so gay (atfifteen dollars the week), the eternal innkeeper and the perennialsoubrette his daughter, the low comedian and the self-conscious tenor.Heigho! and not a soul in Bleiberg knows me, nor cares.
"I'd rather talk five minutes to a pretty woman than eat stuffedpheasants the year around, and the stuffed pheasant is about allBleiberg can boast of. Well, here goes for a voyage of discovery;" andhe passed down the stone steps to the pier, quite unconscious of theadmiring glances of the women who fluttered back and forth on the widebalconies above.
It was four o'clock in the afternoon; a fresh wind redolent of pine andresin blew across the lake. Maurice climbed into a boat and pulled awaywith a strong, swift stroke, enjoying the liberation of his muscles. Aquarter of a mile out he let the oars drift and took his bearings. Hesaw the private gardens of the king and the archbishop, and, convincedthat a closer view would afford him entertainment, he caught up the oarsagain and moved inland.
The royal gardens ran directly into the water, while those of thearchbishop were protected by a wall of brick five or six feet in height,in the center of which was a gate opening on the water. Behind the gatewas a small boat dock. Maurice plied the oars vigorously. He skirted theroyal gardens, and the smell of newly mown lawns filled the air. Soon hewas gliding along the sides of the moss-grown walls. A bird chirped inthe overhanging boughs. He was about to cast loose the oars again, whenthe boat was brought to a violent stop. A few yards waterward from thegate there lay, hidden in the shadowed water, a sunken pier. On one ofthe iron piles the boat had become impaled.
Maurice was tumbled into the bow of the boat, which began rapidly tofill. First he swore, then he laughed, for he was possessed of infinitegood humor. The only thing left for him to do was to swim for the gate.With a rueful glance at his thin clothes, he dropped himself over theside of the wreck and struck out toward the gate. The water, having itssource from the snowclad mountains, was icy. He was glad enough to graspthe lower bars of the gate and draw himself up. He was on the point ofclimbing over, when a picture presented itself to his streaming eyes.
Seated on a bench made of twisted vine was a young girl. She held in herhand a book, but she was not reading it. She was scanning the unwrittenpages of some reverie; her eyes, dark, large and wistful, were holdingcommunion with the god of dreams. A wisp of hair, glossy as coal,trembled against a cheek white as the gown she wore.
At her side, blinking in the last rays of the warm sun, sat a bulldog,toothless and old. Now and then a sear leaf, falling in a zig-zagcourse, rustled past his ears, and he would shake his head as if he,too, were dreaming and the leaves disturbed him. All at once he sniffed,his ears stood forward, and a low growl broke the enchantment. Thegirl, on discovering Maurice, closed the book and rose. The dog, stillgrowling, jumped down and trotted to the gate. Maurice thought that itwas time to speak.
"Mademoiselle," he said, "pardon this intrusion, but my boat has metwith an accident."
The girl came to the gate. "Why, Monsieur," she exclaimed, "you arewet!"
"That is true," replied Maurice, his teeth beginning to knock together."I was forced
to swim. If you will kindly open the gate and guide me tothe street, I shall be much obliged to you."
The gate swung outward, and in a moment Maurice was on dry land, or thenext thing to it, which was the boat-dock.
"Thank you," he said.
"O! And you might have been drowned," compassion lighting her beautifuleyes. "Sit down on the bench, Monsieur, for you must be weak. And it wasthat sunken pier? I shall speak to Monseigneur; he must have itremoved. Bull, stop growling; you are very impolite; the gentleman is indistress."
Maurice sat down, not because he was weak, but because the desire togain the street had suddenly subsided. Who was this girl who could say"must" to the formidable prelate? His quick eye noticed that she showedno sign of embarrassment. Indeed, she impressed him as one who wassuperior to that petty disturbance of collected thought. Somehow itseemed to him, as she stood there looking down at him, that he, too,should be standing. But she put forth a hand with gentle insistence whenhe made as though to rise. What an exquisite face, he thought. Againstthe whiteness of her skin her lips burned like poppy petals. Innocent,inquisitive eyes smiled gently, eyes in whose tranquil depths lay theglory of the world, asleep. Presently a color, faint and fugitive,dimmed the whiteness of her cheeks. Maurice, conscious of his rudenessand of a warmth in his own cheeks, instinctively lowered his gaze.
"Pardon my rudeness," he said.
"What is your name, Monsieur," she asked calmly.
"It is Maurice Carewe. I am living in Vienna. I came to Bleiberg forpleasure, but the first day has not been propitious," with an apologeticglance at his dripping clothes.
"Maurice Carewe," slowly repeating the full name as if to imprint it onher memory. "You are English?"
He said: "No; I am one of those dreadful Yankees you have possibly readabout."
Her teeth gleamed. "Yes, I have heard of them. But you do not appear sovery dreadful; though at present you are truly not at your best. What isthis--this Yankeeland like?"
"It would take me ever so long to tell you about it, it is such a greatcountry."
"You are a patriot!" clapping her hands. "No other country is sofine and large and great as your own. But tell me, is it as large asAustria?"
"Austria? You will not be offended if I tell you?"
"No."
"Well," with fun in his eyes, "it is my opinion that I could hideAustria in my country so thoroughly that nobody would ever be able tofind it again." He wondered how she would accept this statement.
She lifted her chin and laughed, and the bulldog wagged his tail, ashe always did when mirth touched her. He jumped up beside Maurice andlooked into his face. Maurice patted his broad head, and he submitted.The girl looked rather surprised.
"Are you a magician?" she asked.
"Why?"
"Bull never makes friends."
"But I do," said Maurice; "perhaps he understands that, and comeshalf-way. But it is rather strange to see a bulldog in this part of thecountry."
"He was given to me, years ago, by an Englishman."
"That accounts for it." He was experiencing a deal of cold, but he darednot mention it. "And may I ask your name?"
"Ah, Monsieur," shyly, "to tell you my name would be to frighten youaway."
"I am sure nothing could do that," he declared earnestly. Had he beenthinking of aught but her eyes he might have caught the significance ofher words. But, then, the cold was numbing.
She surveyed him with critical eyes. She saw a clean-shaven face, brown,handsome and eager, merry blue eyes, a chin firm and aggressive, amischievous mouth, a forehead which showed the man of thought, a slimathletic form which showed the man of action--all of which combined toproduce that indescribable air which attaches itself to the gentleman.
"It is Alexia," she said, after some hesitation, watching him closely toobserve the effect.
But he was as far away as ever. "Alexia what?"
"Only Alexia," a faint coquetry stealing into her glance.
"O, then you are probably a maid?"
"Y--es. But you are disappointed?"
"No, indeed. You have put me more at ease. I suppose you serve theprincess?"
"Whenever I can," demurely.
He could not keep his eyes from hers. "They say that she is a verylonely princess."
"So lonely." And the coquetry faded from her eyes as her glance wanderedwaterward and became fixed on some object invisible and far away. "Poorlonely princess!"
Maurice was growing colder and colder, but he did not mind. He hadwished for some woman to talk to; his wish had been granted. "I feelsorry for her, if what they say is true," having no other words.
"And what do they say, Monsieur?"
"That she and her father have been socially ostracized. I should beproud to be her friend." Once the words were gone from him, he sawtheir silliness. "A presumptuous statement," he added; "I am an obscureforeigner."
"Friendship, Monsieur, is a thing we all should prize, all the more sowhen it is disinterested."
He said rapidly, for fear she might hear his teeth chatter: "They sayshe is very beautiful. Tell me what she is like."
"I am no judge of what men call beauty. As to her character, I believe Imay recommend that. She is good."
He was sure that merriment twitched the corners of her lips, and he grewthoughtful. "Alexia. Is that not her Highness's name also?"
"Yes, Monsieur; we have the same names." Her eyes fell, and she began tofinger the pages of the book.
"I am rested now," he said, with a sudden distrust. "I thank you."
"Come, then, and I will show you the way to the gate."
"I am sorry to have troubled you," he said.
She did not reply, and together they walked up the path. The plantswere dying, and the odor of decay hovered about them. Splashes of richvermilion crowned the treetops, leaves of gold, russet and faded greenrustled on the ground. The sun was gone behind the hills, the lake wastinted with salmon and dun, and Maurice (who honestly would have likedto run) was turning purple, not from atmospheric effect, but from thepartly congealed state of his blood. Already he was thinking that hisadventure had turned out rather well. It was but a simple task for a manof his imagination to construct a pretty romance, with a kingdom for abackground. A maid of honor, perhaps; no matter, he would find means forfuture communication. A glamour had fallen upon him.
As to the girl, who had scarce spoken to a dozen young men in her life,she was comparing four faces; one of a visionary character of which shehad dreamed for ten years, and three which had recently entered into thesmall circle of her affairs. It was little pleasure to her to talk tothose bald diplomats, who were always saying what they did not mean,and meaning what they did not say. And the young officers in the palacenever presumed to address her unless spoken to.
What a monotonous life it was! She was like a bird in a cage, everlonging for freedom, not of the air, but of impulse. To be permitted toyield to the impulses of the heart! What a delightful thought that was!But she, she seemed apart from all which was desirable to youth. Womencourtesied to her, men touched their hats; but homage was not what shewanted. To be free, that was all; to come and go at will; to laugh andto sing. But ever the specter of royal dignity walked beside her andheld her captive.
She was to wed a man on whom she looked with indifference, but wed himshe must; it was written. A toy of ambition, she was neither more norless. Ah, to be as her maids, not royal, but free. Of the three newfaces one belonged to the man whom she was to wed; another was a tall,light-haired man whom she had seen from her carriage; the last walked byher side. And somehow, the visionary face, the faces of the man whomshe was to wed and the light-haired man suddenly grew indistinct. Sheglanced from the corner of her eyes at Maurice, but meeting his glance,in which lay something that caused her uneasiness, her gaze dropped tothe path.
"I shall be pleased to tell her Highness that a stranger, who has notmet her, who does not even suspect her rebel spirit, desires to be herfriend."
"O, Mademoiselle," he cried in alarm, "that desire was expressed inconfidence."
"I know it. It is for that very reason I wish her to know. Have no fear,Monsieur;" and she laughed without mirth. "Her Highness will not sendyou to prison."
Close at hand Maurice discovered a cuirassier, who, on seeing them,saluted and stood attention. Maurice was puzzled.
"Lieutenant," said the girl, "Monsieur--Carewe?" turning to Maurice.
"Yes, that is the name."
"Well, then, Monsieur Carewe has met with an accident; please escorthim to the gate. I trust you will not suffer any inconvenience from thecold. Good evening, Monsieur Carewe."
She retraced her steps down the path. The bulldog followed. Once helooked back at Maurice, and stopped as if undecided, then went on.Maurice stared at the figure of the girl until it vanished behind aclump of rose bushes.
"Well, Monsieur Carewe!" said the Lieutenant, a broad smile under hismustache.
"I beg your pardon, Lieutenant. May I ask you who she is?"
"What! You do not know?"
Maurice suddenly saw light. "Her Royal Highness?" blankly.
"Her Royal Highness, God bless her!" cried the Lieutenant heartily.
"Amen to that," replied Maurice, his agitation visible even to theofficer.
They arrived at the gate in silence. The cuirassier raised the bar,touched his helmet, and said, with something like an amused twinkle inhis eyes: "Would Monsieur like to borrow my helmet for a space?"
Maurice put up a hand to his water-soaked hair, and gave an ejaculationof dismay. He had forgotten all about his hat, which was by now, in-allprobabilities, at the bottom of the lake.
"Curse the luck!" he said, in English.
"Curse the want of it, I should say!" was the merry rejoinder, also inEnglish.
Maurice threw back his head and laughed, and the cuirassier caught theinfection.
"However, there is some compensation for the hat," said the cuirassier,straightening his helmet. "You are the first stranger who has spokento her Highness this many a day. Did the dog take to your calves? Well,never mind; he has no teeth. It was only day before yesterday that theMarshal swore he'd have the dog shot. Poor dog! He is growing blind,too, or he'd never have risked his gums on the Marshal, who is allshins. If you will wait I will fetch you one of the archbishop's skullcaps."
"Don't trouble yourself," laughed Maurice. "What I need is not a hat,but a towel, and I'll get that at the hotel. George! I feel so like anass. What is your name, Lieutenant?"
"Von Mitter, Carl von Mitter, at your service. And you are MonsieurCarewe."
"Of the American legation in Vienna. Thanks for your trouble."
"None at all. You had better hurry along; your nails are growing black."
Maurice passed into the street. "Her Royal Highness!" he muttered."The crown princess, and I never suspected. Her name is Alexia, and sheserves the princess whenever she can! Maurice, you are an ass!"
Having arrived at this conclusion, and brushing the dank hair from hiseyes, he thrust his hands into his oozing pockets, and proceededacross the square toward the Continental, wondering if there was a rearentrance. Happily the adventure absorbed all his thoughts. He was quiteunobservant of the marked attention bestowed on him. Carriages filledthe Strasse, and many persons moved along the walks. It was thepromenade hour. The water, which still dripped from his clothes andtrickled from his shoes, left a conspicuous trail behind; and thisalone, without the absence of a hat, would have made him the object ofamused and wondering smiles.
A gendarme stared at him, but seeing that he walked straight, saidnothing. Maurice, however, was serenely unaware of what was passingaround him. He did not notice even the tall, broad-shouldered man who,with a gun under his arm, brushed past him, followed by a round-facedGerman over whose back was slung a game-bag. The man with the gun wasalso oblivious of his surroundings. He bumped into several persons,who scowled at him, but offered no remonstrance after having taken hismeasure. The German put his pipe into his pocket and advanced a step.
"The other gun, Herr," he said, "would have meant the boar."
"So it would, perhaps," was the reply.
"We've done pretty good work these two days," went on the German; butas the other appeared not to have heard he fell to the rear again, asardonic smile flitting over his oily face.
When Maurice reached the hotel cafe he left an order for a cognac tobe sent to his room, whither he repaired at once. As he got into dryclothes he mused.
"I wonder what sort of a man that crown prince is? Now, if I were he,an army could not keep me away from Bleiberg. Either he is no judgeof beauty, or the peasant girls hereabout are something extraordinary.Pshaw! a man always makes an ass of himself on his wedding eve; thecrown prince is simply starting in early. I believe I'll hang on heretill the wedding day; a royal marriage is one of those things which Ihave yet to see. I have a fortnight or more to knock around in. I shouldlike to know what the duchess will eventually do."
He sipped the last drop of the cognac and went down the stairs.