  Frederick of Valeria had died as every strong man wants to die: suddenly and in the midst of his affairs, with the full vigor of life still upon him and no premonition of the end. It had been a sharp straightening in saddle, a catch of breath, a lift of hand toward heart, and then, with the great band of the Foot Guards thundering before him, and the regiment swinging by in review, he had sunk slowly over and into the arms of the Archduke Armand. And as he held him, there was a quick touch of surgeon’s fingers to pulse and breast, a shake of head, a word; and then, sorrowfully and in silence, they bore him away; while the regiment, wheeling sharply into line, spread across the parade and held back the populace. And presently, as the people lingered, wondering and fearful, and the Guards stood stolid in their ranks, the royal standard on the great tower of the Castle dropped slowly to half staff, and the mellow bell of the Cathedral began to toll, to all Valeria, the mournful message that her King was dead. And far out in the country the Princess Dehra heard it, but faintly; and drawing rein, she listened in growing trepidation for a louder note. Was it And with blanched cheek and fluttering heart she was racing at top speed toward Dornlitz, staying neither for man nor beast, nor hill nor stream, the solemn clang smiting her ever harder and harder in the face. There were but two for whom it could be speaking, her father and her lover—for she gave no thought to Lotzen or his brother, Charles. And now, which?—which?—which? Mile after mile went behind her in dust and flying stones, until six were passed, and then the outer guard post rose in front. “The bell!” she cried, as the sentry sprang to attention, “the bell, man, the bell?” The soldier grounded arms. “For the King,” he said. But as the word was spoken she was gone—joy and sorrow now fighting strangely in her heart—and as she dashed up the wide Avenue, the men uncovered and the women breathed a prayer; but she, herself, saw only the big, gray building with the drooping flag, and toward it she sped, the echo of the now silent bell still ringing in her ears. The Castle gates were closed, and before them with drawn swords, stern and impassive, sat two huge Cuirassiers of the Guard; they heard the nearing hoof beats, and, over the heads of the crowd that hung about the entrance, they saw and understood. “Stand back!” they cried; “stand back—the Princess comes!” And the gates swung open, and the big sorrel horse, reeking with sweat and flecked with foam and dust, flashed by, and on across the courtyard. And Colonel Moore, who was about to ride away, sprang down and swung her out of saddle. “Take me to him,” she said quietly, as he stood aside to let her pass. She swayed slightly at the first step, and her legs seemed strangely stiff and heavy, but she slipped her hand through his arm and drove herself along. And so he led her, calm and dry-eyed, down the long corridor and through the ante-room to the King’s chamber, and all who met them bowed head and drew back. At the threshold she halted. “Do you please bid all retire,” she said. “I would see my father alone.” And when he had done her will, he came and held open the door for her a little way, then stood at attention and raised his hand in salute; and the Princess went in to her dead. Meanwhile, the Archduke Armand was searching for the Princess. The moment he had seen the King at rest in the Castle, declining all escort, he had galloped away for the Summer Palace, first ordering that no information should be conveyed there by telephone. It was a message for him to deliver in “Her Highness is not here,” he cried. “She rode away alone by the North Avenue a short while ago.” “Make report to the Castle the instant she returns,” Armand called, and was gone—to follow her, as he thought, on the old forge road. “Ye Gods!” the officer exclaimed, “that was the King—the new King!” and mechanically he clicked his heels together and saluted. Nor did he imagine that all unwittingly he had sent his master far astray; for the Princess had gone but a little way by the North Avenue, and then had circled over to the South gate. And so Armand searched vainly, until at last, bearing around toward Dornlitz, he struck the main highway and learned that she had passed long since, making for the Capital as fast as horse could run. And he knew that the Bell had been the messenger, and that there was now naught for him to do but to But if he looked for tears and trembling he was disappointed, for she met him as she had met those in the corridor and the ante-room, dry-eyed and calmly. And in silence he took her in his arms, and held her close, and stroked her shining hair. And presently she put his arms aside, and stepping back, she curtsied low and very gravely. “Life to Your Majesty!” she said; “long live the King!” and kissed his hand. He raised her quickly. “Never bend knee to me, Dehra,” he said. “And believe me, I had quite forgot everything except that you had lost your father.” She went back to him. “And so had I, dear, until you came; but now, since he is gone, you are all I have—is it very selfish, then, for me to think of you so soon?” He drew her to a chair and stood looking down at her. “If it is,” he said, “I am surely not the one to judge you.” She shook her head sadly. “There is no one to judge but—him,” she answered; “and he, I know, would give me full approval.” She was silent for a while, her thoughts in the darkened room across the court, where the tapers burned dimly, and a Captain of the Guard kept watch. And her heart sobbed afresh, though her lips were mute and her eyes undimmed. At last she spoke. “Is the Book of Laws at the Summer Palace or here?” she asked. “I do not know,” said Armand, “I have never seen it except the day that the King read old Henry’s decree and offered me Hugo’s titles and estates.” “Well, at least, he spoke of it to you to-day.” Armand shook his head. “Never a word; neither to-day nor for many days.” A faint frown showed between her eyes. “Didn’t he mention to you, this afternoon, the matter of the Succession?” “No.” She sat up sharply. “It can’t be he didn’t——” The Archduke dropped on the floor at her feet and took her hand. “I assure you, Dehra, the King didn’t speak a single word to me on such a matter.” “THE KING DIDN’T SPEAK A SINGLE WORD TO ME ON SUCH A MATTER.” “THE KING DIDN’T SPEAK A SINGLE WORD TO ME ON SUCH A MATTER.” “No, no,” she said, “you don’t understand. I mean it can not be he didn’t make the decree.” “The decree!” Armand exclaimed, though he knew well there was but one she would refer to; and his pulse bounded fiercely and his face grew very hot. “Yes, dear—the decree—that would have made you Heir Presumptive—and now King.” “And you think it was drawn?” “I am sure of it.” “The King told you so?” “Not directly, but by inference. I came upon him late last night in his library, with the Laws open before him and a pen in his hand; and when I ventured to voice my curiosity, he smiled and closed the book, saying, ‘You may see it to-morrow, child; after I have told Armand.’” “Doubtless he intended to tell me after the review.” The Princess leaned over and put her arm around his neck. “And now you are the King, dear; as he had always intended you should be,” she whispered. “Thank God, the decree was made in time.” For a while Armand toyed with her slender fingers, and did not answer. Of course, she was right:—it was the decree they both had been hoping for so earnestly, but which neither had dared mention to the King. And now, when it had come, and in such fashion, was it really worth the while. Worth the turmoil and the trouble, and, may be, the fighting, that was sure to follow his assumption of the royal dignity. Had Frederick lived to proclaim the decree and to school the Nation into accepting him as his successor, the way would have been easy and well assured. But it was vastly different now—with And Dehra, bending down questioning his abstraction, read his face and understood his thoughts. “Come, dear,” she said, “the crisis is here, and we must face it. Dismiss the idea that you’re a foreigner. Only you and Lotzen and I are familiar with our Laws. You forget that the people do not know it required a special decree to make you eligible for the Crown; and to them you have been the next King ever since you were proclaimed as Hugo’s heir. And surely they have shown you a rare good will, and an amazing preference over the Duke. He has spent his whole life in cultivating their dislike; do you fancy it won’t bring its harvest now?” He had turned and was watching her with an indulgent smile. It was sweet to hear her argue so; to see her intense devotion to his cause; her passionate desire that he should sit in her father’s place and rule the ancient monarchy. And at her first words, and the sight of her loving eyes and flushed cheeks, his doubts had vanished, and his decision had been made. Yet, because he liked to see her so, he led her on. “But what of the Nobility,” he objected; “in Valeria they still lead the people.” “True,” she answered instantly, “true; but you forget again that the Nobles are sworn to maintain the Laws of the Dalbergs; and that for centuries none has ever broken faith. No, no, Armand, they will be true to their oaths; they will uphold the decree.” “Don’t you think, dear,” he smiled, “you are making it rather too assured? If the people are for me (or at least are not for Lotzen) and the Nobles will abide by the Laws, nothing remains but to mount the Throne and seize the sceptre.” “Just about that, I fancy,” she replied. “And, meanwhile, what will Lotzen be doing?” She frowned. “Whatever the Head of his House orders him to do. As a Dalberg he is bound to obey.” “And you think he will obey?” “I surely do. I cannot imagine a Dalberg dishonoring the Book of Laws.” “I fear you do not know Ferdinand of Lotzen,” said Armand seriously. “He intends to dispute the Succession. I have never told you how, long ago, he warned me what to expect if I undertook to ‘filch the Crown,’ as he put it. It was the afternoon he insulted me at headquarters—the Vierle Masque was in the evening.” The Princess nodded eagerly. “Yes,” said she, “yes—I know—the time he wanted you to toss up a coin for me. What did he say?” The Archduke reflected a moment. “I can give you his exact words: ‘Do you think,’ he said, ‘that I, who have been the Heir Presumptive since the instant of my birth, almost, will calmly step aside and permit you to take my place? Do you fancy for an instant that the people of Valeria would have a foreigner for King? And even if old Frederick were to become so infatuated with you that he would restore you to Hugo’s place in the line of Succession, do you imagine that the House of Nobles would hesitate to annul it the instant he died?’” When he had finished, Dehra’s fingers were beating a tattoo on the chair’s arm, and her eyes were snapping—as once or twice he had seen Frederick’s snap. “And I suppose you never told the King?” she exclaimed. “Naturally not.” “Of course, of course,” with a toss of the handsome head. “That’s a man’s way—his silly, senseless way—never tell tales about a rival. And as a result, see what a mess you have made. Had you informed the King, he instantly would have proclaimed you as his heir, and then disgraced Lotzen publicly and sent him into exile. And you would now be his successor, without a shadow of opposition.” Armand subdued a smile. “You don’t understand, Dehra——” he began. “Quite right,” she cut in; “quite right; I don’t. Why didn’t you tell me? I would have told the King, you may be sure.” “Of course you would, little woman; that’s just the reason I didn’t tell you.” She shrugged her shoulders, and the tattoo began afresh. “I’ve no patience with such nonsense,” she declared; “Lotzen deserved no gentlemanly consideration; he would have shown none to you; and besides, it was your duty to your King and your House to uphold the Laws of the Dalbergs and to prevent any attempt to violate them.” “I am very much afraid that lately, between Lotzen and myself, the Laws of the Dalbergs have been sadly slighted.” His bantering jarred upon her. “To me, Armand,” she answered gravely, “our Laws are holy. For almost a thousand years they have been our unchallenged rule of governance. I can understand why, to you, they have no sacredness and no sentiment; but Lotzen has been born and bred under them, and should honor them with his life—and more especially as they alone made him the Heir Presumptive. But for the decree of the first Dalberg King, four hundred years ago, I would be the Queen-Regent of Valeria.” “It’s a pity, a crying pity!” he exclaimed. She looked down at him with shining eyes. “No, dear, it isn’t; once I thought it was; but now I’m quite content to be Queen-consort.” He took both her hands and held them between his own. “That, dear, is what makes it possible, and worth the struggle; and if Valeria does accept me as its King, it will be solely for love of you, and to get you for its Queen.” A smile of satisfaction crossed her face. “I hope the people do love me,” she said. “I would like to feel I may have helped you, even a little.” “A little! but for you, my princess, I’d go back to America and leave the way clear for Lotzen.” She laughed softly. “No, no, Armand, you would do nothing of the sort. A Dalberg never ran from duty—and least of all the Dalberg whom God has made in the image of the greatest of them all.” He glanced in the tall mirror across the room. He was wearing the dress uniform of the Red Huzzars (who had been inspected immediately before the Foot Guards; and he, as titular Colonel, had led them in the march by), and there was no denying he made a handsome figure, in the brilliant tunic and black, fur-bound dohlman, his Orders sparkling, his sword across his knees. She put her head close beside his and smiled at him in the mirror. “Henry the Great was not at all bad looking,” she said. He smiled back at her. “But with a beastly bad temper, at times, I’m told.” “I’m not afraid—I mean his wife wasn’t afraid; tradition is, she managed him very skilfully.” “Doubtless,” he agreed; “any clever woman can manage a man if she take the trouble to try.” “And shall I try, Armand?” “Try!” he chuckled; “you couldn’t help trying; man taming is your natural avocation. By all means, manage me—only, don’t let me know it.” “I’ll not,” she laughed—“the King never——” and she straightened sharply. “I forgot, dear, I forgot!” And she got up suddenly, and went over to the window. Nor did he follow her; but waited silently, knowing well it was no time for him even to intrude. After a while she came slowly back to him, a wistfully sad look in her eyes. And as he met her she gave him both her hands. “I shall never be anything but a thoughtless child, Armand,” she said, with a wan, little smile. “So be kind to me, dear—and don’t forget.” He drew her arms about his neck. “Let us always be children to each other,” he answered, “forgetting, when together, everything but the joy of living, the pleasures of to-day, the anticipations of to-morrow.” She shook her head. “A woman is always a child in love,” she said; “it’s the man who grows into maturity, and sobers with age.” He knew quite well she was right, and for the moment he had no words to answer; and she understood and helped him. “But this is no time for either of us to be children,” she went on; “there is work to do and plans to be arranged.” She drew a chair close to the table and, resting both arms upon it, looked up at the Archduke expectantly. “What is first?” He hesitated. “Come, dear,” she said; “Frederick was my father and my dearest friend, but there remains for him now only the last sad offices the living do the dead; we will do them; but we will also do what he has decreed. We will seat you in his place, and confound Lotzen and his satellites.” He took her hand and gravely raised it to his lips. “You are a rare woman, Dehra,” he said, “a rare woman. No man can reach your level, nor understand the beauty of your faith, the meaning of your love. Yet, at least, will I try to do you honor and to give you truth.” She drew him down and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “You do not know the Dalberg women, dear,” she said—“to them the King is next to God—and the line that separates is very narrow.” “But I’m not yet the King,” he protested. “You’ve been king, in fact, since the moment—Frederick died. With us, the tenet still obtains in all its ancient strength; the throne is never vacant.” “So it’s Lotzen or I, and to-morrow the Book will decide.” “Yes,” she agreed; “to-morrow the Book will decide for the Nation; but we know it will be you.” “Not exactly,” he smiled; “we think we know; we can’t be sure until we see the decree.” “I have no doubt,” she averred, “my father’s words can bear but one construction.” “It would seem so—yet I’ve long learned that, in this life, it’s the certain things that usually are lost.” She sprang up. “Why not settle it at once—let us send for the Book; of course it is at the Palace—it was there last night.” He shook his head decisively. “No, dear, no; believe me it is not wise now for either of us to touch the Book. It were best that it be opened only by the Prime Minister in presence of the Royal Council. We must give Lotzen no reason to cry forgery.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Small good would it do him, as against Frederick’s writing and my testimony. However, we can wait—the Council meets in the morning, I assume?” “Yes; at ten o’clock, at the Palace.” She looked up quickly. “The key?” she asked; “it was always on his watch chain—have you got it?” “No,” said he; “I never thought of it.” She rang the bell and sent for the Chamberlain. “Bring me King Frederick’s watch, and the Orders he was wearing,” she said. When they came she handed the Orders to Armand. “They are yours now, dear,” she said. She took the watch and held up the chain, from the end of which hung the small, antique key of the brass bound box, in which the Book of Laws had been kept for centuries that now reached back to tradition. She contemplated, for a moment, the swaying bit of gold and bronze, then loosed it from the ring. “This also is yours, Sire,” she said, and proffered it to him. But he declined. “To-morrow,” he said. “And in the meantime?” “If Count Epping is still in the Castle, we will let him hold it.” The Princess nodded in approval. “Doubtless that is wiser,” she said, “though quite unprecedented; none but the King ever holds that key, save when he rides to war.” “We are dealing with a situation that has no precedents,” he smiled; “we must make some.” As he went toward the bell, a servant entered with a card. “Admit him,” he said.... “It is Epping,” he explained. The Prime Minister of Valeria was one of those extraordinary exceptions that occasionally occur in public officials; he had no purpose in life but to serve his King. Without regard to his own private ends or personal ambition, he had administered his He saluted Armand with formal dignity; then bent over Dehra’s hand, silently and long—and when he rose a tear was trembling on his lashes. He dashed it away impatiently and turned to the Archduke. “Sire,” he said—and Armand, in sheer surprise, made no objection—“I have brought the proclamation announcing His late Majesty’s death and your accession. It should be published in the morning. Will it please you to sign it now?” There are moments in life so sharp with emotion that they cut into one’s memory like a sculptor’s tool, and, ever after, stand clear-lined and cameoed against the blurred background of commonplace existence. Such was the moment at the Palace when Frederick had handed him the patents of an Archduke, and such now was this. “Sire!” the word was pounding in his brain. “Sire!” he, who, Then, through the mirage, he saw Dehra’s smiling face, and he awoke suddenly to consciousness and the need for speech, and for immediate decision. Should he sign the proclamation on the chance that the decree was in his favor, and that he was, in truth, the King? He hesitated just an instant—tempted by his own desires and by the eager eyes of the fair woman before him; then he straightened his shoulders and chose the way of prudence. He waved the Prime Minister to a chair. “Your pardon, my lord,” he said; “your form of address was so new and unexpected, it for the moment bound my tongue.” The old man bowed. “I think I understand, Sire,” he said, with a smile that, for an instant, softened amazingly his stern face. “Yet, believe me, one says it to you very naturally”—and his glance strayed deliberately to the wall opposite, where hung a small copy of the Great Henry’s portrait in the uniform of the Red Huzzars. “It is very wonderful,” he commented;—“and I fancy it won you instant favor and, even now, may be, makes us willing to accept you as our King. Sometimes, Your Majesty, sentiment dominates even a nation.” “Then I trust sentiment will be content with the physical resemblance and not examine the idol too closely.” The Count smiled again; this time rather coldly. “The first duty of a king is to look like one,” he said; “and sentiment demands nothing else;” and, with placid insistence, he laid the proclamation on the table beside Armand. The latter picked it up and read it—and put it down. “My lord,” he said, “I prefer not to exercise any prerogative of kingship until the Royal Council has examined the Book of Laws and confirmed my title under the decrees.” The faded blue eyes looked at him contemplatively. “I assumed there was no question as to the Succession,” he remarked. “Nor did I mean to intimate there was,” Armand answered. “Then, with all respect, Sire, I see no reason why you should not sign the proclamation.” Armand shook his head. “May be I am foolish,” he said; “but I will not assume the government until after the Council to-morrow—it will do no harm to delay the proclamation for a few hours. And, in the interim, you will oblige Her Royal Highness and me by keeping this key, which she removed from King Frederick’s watch chain, but a moment before you came.” The Count nodded and took the key. “I recognize it,” he replied. “I know the lock it opens.” “Good,” said Armand; “the box is at the Palace, and doubtless you also know what it contains. For reasons you may easily appreciate, I desire to avoid any imputation that the Book has been touched since His Majesty’s demise. You will produce this key at the meeting to-morrow, explaining how and where you got it; and then, in the presence of the Council, I shall open the box and if, by the Laws of the Dalbergs, I am Head of the House, I will enter into my heritage and try to keep it.” The Prime Minister got up; gladness in his heart, though his face was quite impassive. He had come in doubt and misgiving; he was easy now—here was a man who led, a man to be served; he asked no more—he was content. “I understand,” he said; “the proclamation can wait;” then he drew himself to his full height. “God save Your Majesty!” he ended. |
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