  And so Frederick the Fourth of Valeria slept with his fathers, and Dehra, his daughter, ruled, as Regent, in his stead. In the great crypt of the Cathedral, among the other Dalbergs, they had laid him away, with all the pomp and circumstance that befit a king—within, the gorgeous uniforms and vestments, the chanting priests, the floating incense; without, the boom of cannon, the toll of bells, the solemn music of the bands, the click of hoofs, the rumble of the caissons, the tramp of many feet. When it was all done, the visiting Princes hurried away, the governmental machinery sped on, the Capital took up its usual routine, and all that remained externally to remind the people of a ruler just and righteous, were the draped buildings and the crape upon the troops. And, at the dead’s own express behest, even these had vanished on the fifteenth day after his demise. “Let the period of mourning be limited strictly to a fortnight, both for the Nation and my House,” he had written, in his own hand, as a codicil to his Testament; and the Regent, with no shade of hesitation, had ordered it as he wished. She knew it was Frederick’s last kindness to his subjects. A Court in sackcloth buries the Capital in ashes, drives the tradesmen into insolvency, and bores the Nobility well nigh into insanity or revolt. And as she ordered, so she did—though sadly and regretfully—and, with a blessing upon her, the Court resumed its accustomed life and garb, and Dornlitz its gayety and pleasures. Yet Valeria was sorry enough at Frederick’s demise—sorrier far than he would have believed it could be. At the best, a King is of use, these days, only as a head for the Government—and when the new head is capable and popular, the old one is not missed for long. As it was, the people had scarcely realized that Frederick was dead when they were met with the amazing Proclamation of Dehra’s Regency; with the result that usually follows when sorrow and joy mingle, with joy mingling last. In the interval, there had been no developments as to the Book of Laws. The Duke of Lotzen had observed the very strictest of mourning; not transgressing, in the slightest particular, the most trivial canon of propriety. He had remained practically secluded in his big residence on the Alta Avenue, appearing in public only at intervals. He had paid his brief visit of condolence to the Princess and had been greeted by her with calm and formal dignity. He had made his call of ceremony upon the Governor of Dornlitz—the Archduke Armand—and had been received by him in the presence of half his Staff. Then, after the funeral of the dead King, he had But never a word did he speak to them of having seen the Book and what Frederick had written the night before he died. Sometime before midnight, of the day that Adolph, the valet, had been killed, the sergeant of the guard, in making his rounds, saw a man skulking in the private garden. At the order to stand, the fellow had dashed away, and, seemingly unharmed by the shot sent after him, he leaped the low wall into the park, where among the trees and bushes, he had little difficulty in escaping. The matter was duly reported to the officer of the day and an entry made of it, but as such occurrences were rather frequent in the park, due sometimes to petty pilferers from the town, and sometimes to soldiers out without pass, it received no special attention, beyond a cursory inspection of the locality the following morning. Two days later, Adolph’s body was discovered by a gardener who was clipping the hedge; and then it was remembered that the valet had not been seen since the morning after Frederick’s death. No one had given him a thought—in truth, no one cared anything about him. Like most of his class under such circumstances, he had won the cordial hatred of every one about the Court—a spoiled, impudent and lying knave. Busy with the royal funeral, and the great crowds it brought to the Capital, the police gave the matter scant regard—the fellow was known to them as a night prowler and a frequenter of questionable resorts, and to have had numerous escapades with married women; and the autopsy indicating he had been dead at least thirty-six hours, they had promptly ascribed the death to the skulker shot at by the sergeant. There was no other clue to work on, so, after a perfunctory search, they shrugged it over among the other unsolved. What was the use of bothering about a valet, any way! Besides, it was a case to let alone, unless special orders came from higher powers. So they saw to it that the affair was entirely suppressed—such happenings around royal palaces are not for the public—and the information was casually given out that the King’s valet was so distressed, by his royal master’s death, he found it quite impossible to remain in Dornlitz, and had returned to France. Once again, had the fickle Goddess smiled upon the Duke of Lotzen, still captivated, doubtless, by the very debonairness of his villainy and his steady gambler’s nerve. And all unwittingly the Archduke Armand had played directly into Lotzen’s hands. Out of consideration for the Princess, he had insisted that they forget the Book of Laws until the period of mourning were passed, and Dehra, against her better judgment, had consented, though only upon condition that they two should first make a thorough search of her father’s apartments, which they did the following morning; she even climbing up and looking behind the large pictures—much to Armand’s amusement; he asking what would be the King’s object in concealing the Book in such a place; and she retorting that, as there was no reason at all for concealing it, the unreasonable place was the most likely. And in that she was very right; for the box itself was now the most unreasonable place, yet even her woman’s fancy stopped short of it. The period of official mourning expired on the twentieth, and on the twenty-first, the Princess telephoned to the Archduke to ride out to the Palace for luncheon that day, and to bring the American Ambassador with him—unless Mr. Courtney would object to being with Helen Radnor—and that the day being very warm they would be served under the trees near the sun dial, below the marble terrace—and that he and Courtney should join them there—and that Helen was with her now. And Armand had laughed and readily promised for them both. As he hung up the receiver, Colonel Bernheim stood in the doorway, and he nodded for him to come in. Bernheim saluted and crossing to the desk put down a small package, about as large as one’s fist. “My lord,” he said, “here is the steel vest.” The Archduke leaned back and laughed. “You say that as naturally as though it were my cap or gloves,” he commented. “And why not, sir—Ferdinand of Lotzen is in Dornlitz, and the truce is ended.” “The truce?” “The truce of mourning—you were quite safe so long as it lasted; Moore and I made sure of that.” “Really, Colonel, you surprise me,” said Armand. “How did you make sure?” “By having some one buy Bigler plenty of wine, at the Club—and then putting together stray words he let slip.” The Archduke shook his head in mock reproof. “You and Moore are a wonderful pair,” he said. “You think for me more than I think for myself.” A smile touched Bernheim’s stern mouth and impassive face. “We need to, Your Highness,” he answered. “You don’t think at all; you leave it to Lotzen.” He pushed the package a little nearer—“You will wear it, my lord?” Armand took it, and, cutting the wrapper, shook out the wonderful steel vest, that had saved his life at the Vierle Masque when, from across the hedge, the assassin’s dagger had sought his heart. It was, truly, a marvellous bit of craftsmanship; pliable as “It served you well that night,” said Bernheim. The Archduke smiled. “And as its owner always does;” he smiled—and the old Aide bowed—“but there is no Masque to-night.” “Every night, now, is a Masque for Lotzen—and every day, too.” “Heaven, man! you wouldn’t have me wear this constantly?” “No—not in bed;” then seriously—“but at all other times, sir.” Armand pushed the vest back on the desk and frowned. “Has it come to this, then—that my life isn’t safe here—nor in my house, nor on the street! Is this civilization or savagery?” Bernheim shrugged his shoulders. “Neither,” he said, “neither—it’s Hell. It’s always Hell where Lotzen plays. Surely, sir, you have not forgot the past.” “No—no—but that was a Masque, and assassination went with the costumes and the atmosphere; yet now, in Dornlitz of the twentieth century—I can’t bring myself to believe ... why don’t you threaten me with poison or a bomb?” “Poison is possible, but not a bomb—it is not neat enough for Lotzen.” Armand looked at him in puzzled amusement. “I see,” he said, “I see—he murders artistically—he doesn’t like a mess.” “Just so, sir; and the most artistic and least messy is a neat hole through the heart.... You will wear the vest, my lord?” The Archduke’s glance wandered to the window—electric cars were speeding down the avenue—an automobile whizzed by—and another—and another. “Look,” said he, “look! isn’t it absurd to talk of steel vests!” Bernheim shook his head. “Lotzen does not belong yonder—he is a remnant of the Middle Ages.” “Well, I’m not; so no armor for me, my dear Bernheim—I’ll keep my eyes open and take my chances. I don’t believe the crown of Valeria will be the reward of an assassin.” Disappointment shone in the Aide’s eyes. “I’m something of a Fatalist, myself, sir,” he said, “but I wouldn’t play with a tiger after I had goaded him to fury.” Armand smiled. “The case isn’t exactly parallel.” “No—not exactly:—the tiger might not kill me.” The Archduke picked up the letter knife and slowly cut lines on the blotter. “You need not go into the tiger’s cage,” he remarked. “There isn’t any cage—the beast is at large.” “Nonsense, Colonel; this fellow Lotzen has got on your nerves. I thought you hadn’t any.” “The pity of it is, sir, that he hasn’t got on yours.” “And when he does,” said Armand kindly, “will be time enough for the chain-mail.” Bernheim took the vest and deliberately laid it on the blotter. “For the sake of those who love you, my lord,” he said—“and”—turning to a picture of the Princess, which hung on the opposite wall, and saluting—“for her whom we all serve.” The Archduke looked at the picture in silence for a moment. “Send the vest to the Epsau,” he said; “I will wear it—sometimes.” And Bernheim knew he had to be satisfied with the sometimes—though as even that was more than he had dared to hope for, he was well content. The Archduke and the American Ambassador met by appointment at the outer gate of the City, and as the former had been delayed, they rode at speed to the Summer Palace. It was the first time they had been together, informally, since the King’s death, but beyond the usual friendly greeting and “I want a word with you, Dick, before you go back to town,” he remarked, as they dismounted. And Courtney nodded comprehendingly. “As many as you wish, my boy,” he said. But the Princess also wanted a word with Courtney; she knew his keen insight into motives and men; his calm judicialness of judgment; his critical analysis of facts, and, most important of all, his influence with Armand, and she desired his counsel and his aid. She had not forgot the part he had played in the recent past; that but for him there would be no Archduke Armand; that, indeed, it was this quiet diplomat whom she had to thank for the happiest days of her life, and the happy prospect for the days to come; and, but for whom, there would be to her only the memory of that ride in the forest with the American Captain Smith; and Ferdinand of Lotzen would be King; and she—she might even be his Queen—and have yet to learn his vileness and his villainy. All this she knew, and her heart warmed to Courtney as now it warmed to none other save Armand himself. And that very morning, as the two men crossed the terrace and came toward them, she had told Lady Helen Radnor, with the smiling frankness Now, when the luncheon was ended, she dismissed the servants and turned to Courtney. “Will you do something for Armand?” she asked. “Don’t you think I have already done him service enough?” he said, looking at her with a significant smile—“more than he deserves or can ever appreciate.” “Well, may be you have,” she smiled, catching his humor, “so do this for me—help me to make him King.” “What can I do?” he asked. She leaned a bit nearer. “Keep him firm for his birthright; don’t let him fling it aside in disgust, if the struggle drags out, for long.” Courtney nodded. “I understand,” he said; “but you need have no concern; you yourself will keep him firm—it’s the only way he can make you Queen.” He paused and tapped his cigarette meditatively against his glass. “You think there isn’t any doubt as to the decree in his favor?” he asked. “None—absolutely none.” “Then all you have to do is to find the Book—that shouldn’t be so very difficult.” “True enough; it shouldn’t—but it will be.” “You seem very positive,” he said. “A woman’s intuition.” Courtney smiled. “Which isn’t infallible.” “Will you try to prove that?” she asked. “Will you help us find the Book?” And without waiting for his answer she turned to the Archduke. “Armand,” she said, “tell Mr. Courtney what we know as to the Laws; I want his advice.” Armand laughed. “I fancy he already knows it, my dear—it’s his business to know things.” “And it’s also particularly his business,” she retorted, “never to betray that he knows—therefore, we must tell him.” “Bear with him, Your Highness,” said Courtney—“I assure you he will learn in time.... Meanwhile, Monsieur le Prince, I’m all attention.” Armand leaned over to Lady Helen. “His manners are rather crass,” he remarked, in a confidential whisper, “but he really means well.” Then he pushed the cigarettes across to Courtney. “Take a fresh one, old chap; the story may be a bit long.” |
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