  The Princess’ suite was across the corridor from the King’s, and in a moment the Archduke was with her. “Your Majesty!” she cried, and curtsied. He raised her quickly. “Not yet, sweetheart,” he said, “not yet—and, may be, never.” She stepped back and regarded him in puzzled surprise. “You are jesting, dear,” she said; “surely, you are jesting!” He shook his head and went toward her. “But the decree—the decree!” she exclaimed, again stepping back. “The Laws have disappeared,” he said, “the box is empty and the Book cannot be found.” In bewildered amazement she let him lead her to a chair, and listened, frowning and impatient, to his story. Only once did she interrupt—when he mentioned the Duke’s unexpected entrance—then she struck her hand sharply on the table at her side. “Lotzen! Oh, Lotzen!” she cried, and with such threatening vehemence that Armand looked at her in sudden wonder. At the end, she sprang up. “Come!” she commanded. “Come; take me to the Council—I can at least assure they won’t make Lotzen king,” and seizing his hand she made for the door. He slipped his arm around her waist and detained her. “Are you sure, Dehra, you ought to mix in this unfortunate squabble?” he asked. “Is it——” She turned upon him sharply. “Squabble! Do you call a contest for Valeria’s Throne a squabble?”—then suddenly she smiled—that sweet, adorable smile she ever had for him. “Be very careful, sir, or I shall tumble both you and Lotzen aside, and take the Throne myself.... Now, will you escort me!” He looked at her thoughtfully, then smiled and patted her cheek. “Come, Your Majesty,” he said; “come, and claim your Crown; it’s yours by right, and I shall be the first to swear allegiance.” “And the first to rebel, dear,” she laughed. They entered the council chamber through the King’s cabinet, and as the Princess halted a moment in the doorway the Ministers sprang to their feet and stood waiting, while Ferdinand of Lotzen advanced and bowed low; not offering, however, to take her hand, fearing it would not be given, and having no notion to risk a snub in such company. To his astonishment, Dehra extended her hand and let him kiss it. “You come on a sad errand, cousin,” she said.... “I would you were still in Lotzenia.” The words were so innocently fitting, yet the double meaning was so deliberate. The Duke slowly straightened, discomfiture and amusement struggling for control, while Armand smiled openly and the Ministers looked away. Meanwhile, the Princess passed on serenely to the table and took the chair at its head. Then, led by Count Epping, the Council came forward and made obeisance. She received them with just that touch of dignified sadness which the circumstances demanded, and which, with men, a woman must measure with the exactness of fine gold. And with it there was the low, sweet voice, the winning graciousness, and the dazzling smile—now softened just a trifle—that never yet had failed to conquer, and that had made her the toast of the Army and the pride of the Nation. And Armand had watched her, with glistening eyes, as one after another she sent the Ministers back to their places, bound to her chariot wheels; captive and content. And Ferdinand of Lotzen, seeing, understood; and for the first time he realized fully what her aid meant to his rival, and how little chance he had to win, save with the Laws. And straightway the last faint scruple perished, and he set his cold heart against her, as well. Henceforth, for him, there was but one object in life—the Crown of his ancestors, and for all who interfered there would be neither consideration nor mercy. And the Princess’ eye, resting for an instant on his face, read something of his mind, and with a lift of the chin and a careless smile she turned to the Council. “My lords,” she said, “His Royal Highness has acquainted me with your desires, and I am glad indeed if I can serve you. His Majesty, the night before he died, executed the decree necessary to make the Archduke Armand his successor.” “You saw the decree?” Count Epping asked. “No, I did not, but what I know is this. Late that night I went into the King’s library; he was sitting at his desk, with the Book of Laws open before him and a pen in his hand. He was blotting a page as I entered. ‘You have made Armand’s decree?’ I cried, and went to his side to read it; but he laughed and closed the Book, saying: ‘You may see it to-morrow, child, after I have told Armand.’” “And he did not tell you the words of the decree,” the Count asked, after a pause, “neither then nor the following day?” The Princess closed her eyes and lowered her head. “No,” she said; “no—I never saw my father again—alive.” There was a distressing silence—then Armand spoke: “The Council will understand that His Majesty had no opportunity to tell me of the decree. I was with him yesterday only at the review; naturally he would not speak of it then.” “And that was, I suppose, the last time you saw the Book of Laws?” Epping asked, addressing the Princess, who had recovered her composure. “Yes—it was lying on the table when I left.” “May I ask Your Highness,” said Steuben, “why, when you saw that His Majesty had been writing in the Book of Laws, you assumed, instantly, that it was ‘Armand’s decree,’ as you put it?” “You must know, my lords,” she responded, “that it is rare, indeed, that a new law is made for the Dalbergs, there have been but five in the last hundred years, and the making is ever due to some extraordinary circumstance, which is known, of course, to all the family. We had been anticipating the decree, restoring Armand to his rightful place in the Line of Succession as Hugo’s heir, and hence it was very natural to assume it was that which His Majesty had written.” She paused, and, for an instant, her glance strayed to the Duke of Lotzen. “But it was particularly natural,” she went on, “inasmuch as the King had mentioned the matter to me twice within the week, the last time that very morning, and referring to it as ‘Armand’s decree.’” Steuben nodded. “I am satisfied,” he said—and Duval and Marquand nodded. The Prime Minister turned to Ferdinand. “We would be glad to hear Your Royal Highness,” he said. The Duke laughed softly in sneering amusement. He was still standing behind his chair, and now he tilted it forward and leaned across it, his arms folded on the rail. “Small chance have I against such a Portia,” he answered. “Yet I would remind the Council that, where kingdoms are concerned, a pretty woman is a dangerous advocate to follow—and thrice dangerous when against her is the written Law and with her only—conjecture.” “Our cousin of Lotzen does not mean to question my veracity?” the Princess asked quickly. “Your veracity?—never, I assure you—only your inferences.” “And yet, sir, what other inferences can be drawn?” He shrugged his shoulders and turned to the Prime Minister. “I reiterate my claim to the Crown,” he said; “and the only Law of the Dalbergs that is before you confirms it. I cannot conceive that the Royal Council of Valeria will arrogate to itself the right to annul a decree of Henry the Third.” “His Highness of Lotzen misses the point,” said Armand. “I do not ask the Council to annul that decree, but only to assume from Her Royal Highness’ story that it was duly and legally annulled by Frederick the Fourth.” “Exactly, my lords, exactly,” the Duke retorted; “inference against fact—guesses against an admitted Law.” Then Armand made the play he had had in mind since it was certain that the Book of Laws was lost. He was standing behind the Princess’ chair—now he stepped forward and addressed the Duke. “Cousin,” he said, “we are putting a grievous burden on the Ministers in obliging them to choose between us, with the proofs seemingly so strong on either side. It is not fair to them to drive them to the embarrassment nor to the misfortune that would attend a mistake. There ought to be no doubt in the mind of the Nation as to the title of the king; he who occupies the Throne should have his tenure unquestioned; and such cannot be if the one of us who is to-day made king is liable to be displaced to-morrow by the other. Besides, as I understand Henry the Third’s decree, the Council has no jurisdiction except by our agreement. You assert the decree of eligibility was not made by Frederick. If that be true, then, there being ‘a vacancy in the royal dignity without such decree being made,’ it is for the House of Nobles to enact my eligibility and so give me the Crown, or to refuse and so give it to you. Therefore, I propose that for the space of a year, or pending the recovery meanwhile of the Book of Laws, we let the question of succession remain in abeyance. If, at the end of the year, the Book has not been found, then the House of Nobles shall choose between us. And as in the interval there must be some one in supreme authority, let Her Royal Highness be proclaimed Regent of Valeria.” Never before had there been such instant, open and cordial unanimity among the Ministers of the Royal Council. Here was a complete solution of the vexing problem, and one, moreover, that would relieve them of a most undesirable duty. Baron Retz’s smile was positively gleeful, and the others nodded enthusiastically and turned to the Duke expectantly. And Lotzen saw that he was losing—and with rage and hatred in his heart, but with calm face and voice softer even than usual, he made his last play, knowing well that though it might not win, it would at least work a sweet revenge upon his rival. “An admirable compromise for you, cousin mine,” he laughed; “and clever, very clever—you and Dehra are to be married on the twenty-seventh. What difference, think you, will there be between you as King and you as Consort of the Princess Regent?” Then he faced the Council and flung his last card: “Otherwise, my lords,” he said with suave frankness, “I would willingly accept His Highness’ proposition—or I will accept it, if it is engaged that the wedding shall abide the termination of the Regency ... how say you, cousin?” Once again had the Duke turned the situation by his devilish cleverness, and Armand’s fingers itched to take him by the throat and choke the life out of him; and Lotzen, reading something of this in his eyes, grinned malevolently. “How say you, cousin?” he repeated, “how say you?” The Archduke deliberately gave him his back. “My lords,” he said, “it seems the Duke of Lotzen would force you to the choice.” But the old Count did not intend to forego the compromise. He wanted Armand for king because Armand was, de facto, the Head of the House, because he was convinced the decree had been executed, because it would make Dehra the Queen, and because he despised Lotzen. With the Princess as Regent, there would be ample means to swing the Nobles to the Archduke, and to prepare the public for his accession. Of course, it would also give Lotzen time to campaign, yet he who fights the government has a rough road to travel, and usually falls by the way. Leastwise, the Count was very ready to adventure it. But he needed aid now; and aid that could come from but one quarter and which he could seek only by indirection—Dehra alone controlled the situation. “The compromise suggested is admirable,” he said, “and though there is force in the objection made to it, yet, my lord,” (addressing Lotzen) “you cannot expect the Archduke to accept your amendment. It is not for the man to change the wedding day——” The Princess sat up sharply. When Armand had suggested her as Regent she had leaned forward to decline, but catching Epping’s eye she had read an almost imperious order to wait; and having full faith in him, she had obeyed. Now she saw what he wanted; and though it was against her heart’s desire and a cheerless business, yet her own judgment told her he was right. “It is not for the man,” the Count repeated, looking at her hard, “to change the wedding day, and least of all——” “Wait, monsieur,” she broke in. “It seems that unwittingly I have been drawn into the situation, and put in a position where I am obliged to speak. Does the Royal Council approve this compromise, and desire me to become Regent of Valeria?” The Count smiled in supreme satisfaction. “I can assure Your Highness we are of one mind that, in this exigency, it is your duty to assume the office.” The Princess arose. “Then, my lords,” she said gravely, “I accept, hereby engaging that my wedding shall abide the termination of the Regency.” The Archduke made a gesture of protest, but Dehra flashed him her subduing smile and shook her head, and there was naught for him to do but to smile back—and add one more to the score that, some day, Ferdinand of Lotzen would have to settle. The Prime Minister looked at the Duke with a bland smile of triumph, and then at Armand. “Is it your joint wish,” he asked, “that we ratify the stipulation and proclaim the Regency?” “It is,” said the Archduke; but Lotzen only bowed. Count Epping drew his sword. “Valeria hails the Princess Dehra as Regent,” he cried. It was the ancient formula changed to fit the occasion. And this time Armand’s blade rang with the others across the table, and his voice joined exultantly in the answer that echoed through the room. “We hail the Princess Regent!” As the sound died Ferdinand of Lotzen stepped forward and bent knee. “God save Your Royal Highness!” he said, and again Dehra gave him her hand. “And grant me strength,” she answered. “Amen,” said the Count gravely. “Amen.” It was Lotzen who broke the stillness. “With Your Highness’ permission I will withdraw,” he said; “there are pressing personal affairs which demand my presence elsewhere.” He turned to go. “One moment, cousin,” said she—then to the Prime Minister: “Will the Council need His Highness?” There was the same gracious manner, the same soft voice, and yet, in those few words, she warned them all that there was now a Regent in Valeria—and a Dalberg regent, too. “There is nothing now but to draw the Proclamation for your signature,” said the Count—“the other matters can abide for the time.” And Lotzen, at the Princess’ nod of permission, went slowly from the room, his surprise still stronger than his anger; though, in the end, it was the latter that lingered and left its mark in his unforgiving soul. While the Count was drafting the Proclamation made necessary by the changed conditions, the Princess sat in silence, gazing in abstracted contemplation through the window. Regent of Valeria! the second the kingdom had known; the first had been a woman, too—Eleanor, mother of the infant, Henry the Third of glorious memory—yet, was it wise—was it in fact her duty—her duty to her House; to her beloved? Surely it was not to her pleasure—she who had been happy in her nearing wedding day—her lover placed next the Throne—his bright future and her joy for it. And now—the wait—the struggle—the obligation of right, of justice; the putting off the woman, the putting on the ruler where the woman interfered. Her father! she turned that thought aside sharply—she had turned it aside many times since yesterday, as he had bade her to do:—“When I go, child, do not grieve.” Yet, when two have been comrades for years it is not easy. The Count ceased his writing and, laying aside the pen, looked up. “Will it please Your Highness to sign?” he said quickly—he had little liking at any time for a woman’s reverie, and none at all when it was of the sort he knew this reverie to be—and the woman had work to do. And Dehra, preoccupied though she was, had missed nothing that was doing at the table, and she let him know she understood him, by a smile and a shake of her handsome head. It was not exactly a reproof, and yet neither was it an encouragement to do the like again. “Please read it,” she said. It was very brief—reciting the death of Frederick the Fourth, the disappearance of the Book of Laws, the stipulation of the Archduke and the Duke relative to the Succession remaining in abeyance, the creation of a Regency during the inter-regnum and the Princess’ acceptance of the office. When he had done, she asked if there were any suggestions, and none being offered, she signed it and returned it to the Count. Immediately the Council arose and she and Armand retired, by the same way they had entered. As they passed through the library, Dehra went over to the desk. “Here is where the King sat that last night,” she said, “and here the Book of Laws lay, and here was the box. I can’t imagine what he did with the Book—nor why he removed it from the box—and the box was in its usual place in the vault when I gave it to you to take to the Council——” A door latch clicked, and Adolph, the valet, came in hurriedly. “Well?” said the Archduke, seeing he wished to speak. “The box, my lord,” he answered; “you left it in the council-chamber—is it to remain there?” “No,” said the Princess—“bring it here at once.” She went to the vault and opened it.... “Put it on the shelf in the rear,” she ordered, when Adolph returned. He obeyed and gave her the key. “There was no need to lock it,” she remarked. “It has a spring lock, mademoiselle,” said the man. “It snapped when I closed the lid.” Dehra nodded indifferently. “So it has.... Shut the vault door.” Then motioned to him in dismissal. “It’s of small consequence,” she remarked to Armand, as she gave the combination a twirl, “the box is of little use without the Book.” As she turned away, her glance fell on the big portrait of her father that hung high on the opposite wall—and of a sudden the reaction came, and the tears started, and her lips twitched. She reached out her hand appealingly to Armand. In silence, he put his arm around her and led her quickly from the room. |
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