  The Archduke Armand tossed the end of his fourth cigar into the grate and looked at the big clock in the corner. It was only a bit after eleven, and that was, he knew by experience, the blush of the evening at the American Embassy, where there were no women-folk to repress the youngsters nor to necessitate the closing of the house at conventional hours. Courtney had only bachelors in his official family; and he housed them all with him in the big residence on Alta Avenue, and gave them free rein to a merry life, fully assured they would not abuse the liberty; he had known every one of them as boys, and their fathers before them. The Archduke reached over and pressed a button. “Bring me a cap and a light cape,” he said to the servant;—“and a stick.” The man went out, and Armand crossed to a window and drew aside the curtain. “Put them on a chair,” he said without looking around, as the door opened again. “You may go.” The door closed. For a little while he watched the gay street, stretching southward for half a mile to the center of the city, where the lights blazed variegatedly and brightest. The theatres “You little reptile,” the Archduke muttered aloud, “you ought to crawl, not ride.” He dropped the curtain and turned away—then stopped, and his lips softened; and presently he laughed. Just inside the door, and standing stiffly at attention, was Colonel Bernheim, holding the cape and cap and stick the servant had been sent for. “Now what’s the trouble?” Armand demanded. “Your Highness desired these?” said Bernheim. “Yes—but I didn’t send for you.” The tone was very kindly. “But you are going out, sir?” “Yes.” “And I’m on duty to-night.” “You’re excused—go to bed.” The old soldier shook his head. “I’m going with you.” “Nonsense,” said Armand, “nonsense! I’m for only a short walk up the Avenue.” “I must go with you, sir,” the Aide insisted. The Archduke looked at him in some surprise. “Positively, Bernheim,” he said, “if you keep this up you will have nervous prostration. Quit it, man, quit it.” He flung on the cape, and taking cap and cane went toward the door. “Good night.” The Colonel stood aside, hand at the salute. “Your pardon, sir—but I must go with you—it is the Regent’s personal order.” “What!” “She telephoned me this evening always to see that you had an escort, after dark.” The Archduke sat on the end of the writing-table and laughed until the tears came—and even old Bernheim condescended to emit, at intervals, a grim sort of chuckle. “What hour are you to put me to bed, nurse?” Armand asked. “The orders did not run to that point, sir,”—with a louder chuckle—“but I should say not later than midnight.” “Then I’ve a few minutes’ grace, and I’ll spend them playing on the sidewalk, while you warm the sheets and get the milk,” and with another laugh he went out. “Don’t forget the milk,” he added over his shoulder. Bernheim held open the door. “I’ll not, sir,” he said, and followed him. At the street, Armand stopped. “Where are you going, Colonel?” he asked. The heels clicked together and the hand went up. “For the milk, sir.” He recognized the futility of further opposition; with the Regent’s command to sustain him, Bernheim would not be denied. “Come, along, then,” he ordered—“and if they have a cow at the American Embassy I’ll set you to milking it, or I’m a sailor.” The old fellow answered with the faintest suggestion of a grin. All Dornlitz was familiar with the features of the Great Henry, and so it was quite impossible for the Archduke Armand to escape recognition—and to-night, as he and Bernheim went out the Avenue, the people made way for him with a respect and deference that even he could not but feel was honest and sincere, and of the quietly enthusiastic sort that is most dependable. “Does it look as though I had need for an escort?” he asked. “Not at this moment,” the Aide agreed. “Nor at any moment on Alta Avenue;” he put his hand on the other’s arm—“you know, Bernheim, it’s not you I object to, it’s the idea. I always like you with me.” The Colonel’s face flushed, and for an instant he did not reply; when he did, his voice was low and faintly husky. “Sire!” he said, “Sire!” The Archduke glanced at him in quick surprise, and understood; sometimes Bernheim’s intense devotion overflowed. “Brace up, Colonel,” he exclaimed, with sudden gayety, “brace up! you won’t have to milk that cow.” Then both men laughed, and the normal situation was resumed. The bells began to chime midnight, as they reached the Embassy. “Don’t wait for me,” Armand said; “I may be late. Go back and send an orderly.” The other smiled. “I’ll wait, myself, sir, if you will permit; they have a game here I rather like.” “Take care, Colonel; those boys will skin you out of your very uniform—better look on.” “I do, sir, when I’ve a poor draw;” he answered seriously, and wondered at the Archduke’s chuckling laugh. Courtney greeted his friend with a nod and a wave of his hand. “I’m glad you came in,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about you—sit down.... Scotch?” “No, rye—and seltzer, please.” He took the chair across the desk from Courtney and waited until the man had placed the decanters and glasses and retired. “And I’ve been thinking about you, too,” he said. “You got me into this infernal mess, and now it’s up to you to help me out.” Courtney slowly lit a cigarette and scrutinized the coal, critically. “I see,” he remarked, “that you have already developed the ungratefulness of kings—I have high hopes for your reign ... if you live to reign.” The Archduke put down his glass and regarded him in exasperated surprise. “Damn it, man, you too?” he exclaimed. “If I were given to nerves I would be seeing daggers and bullets all around me—Bernheim croaks death; and so does Moore; and now you join the chorus—pretty soon the boys will be whistling it on the Avenue.” Courtney picked up an Embassy official envelope that lay before him, and tossed it across to the Archduke. “I’ve done a little work on my own account, lately,” he said, “and here is what I got this evening. I have always found this—agent, reliable.” It was only a few words, scratched hastily in pencil on a sheet torn from a small note-book:—
“Nice sort of country this, you brought me to,” said Armand. “It’s not the country, my dear boy,” Courtney observed; “it is beyond reproach. The trouble is that one of your own family still is a barbarian; and you insist upon treating him as though he were civilized. For my part, I have no patience with your altruism; you’ve had quite sufficient warning—he tried twice to kill you at the Vierle Masque; and he has told you to your face that you would never be king. Yet you persist in regarding him as fighting square and in the open. Bernheim and Moore are wise—they know your dear cousin—and you,—well, you’re a fool if you don’t know him, too.” It was a very long speech for Courtney, and Armand had listened in surprise—it was most unusual for his imperturbable friend to grow emphatic, either in voice or gesture, and it impressed him as Bernheim and Moore never had. In truth, he had no particular scruples against meeting Lotzen in the good, old-fashioned, cloak-and-dagger way; but what irked him was the necessity of being always on the qui vive to resist assault or to avoid a trap; and the seeming absurdity of it in Dornlitz of the twentieth century. It made him feel such a simpleton, to be looking for bravos in dark alleys, or to wear steel vests, or to be eternally watchful and suspicious of every one and everything. “What do you want me to do,” he asked; “go down to Lotzen’s palace and stick my sword through him?” “It’s a pity you may not—it’s what he would do to you, if he could—but that’s not our way; we’re civilized ... to a certain point. But what you may do is to take every precaution against him; and then, if you get the chance in fair justification, kill him as unconcernedly as he would kill you.” The Archduke sat silent, his cigar between his teeth, the smoke floating in a thin strand across his face, his eyes upon the desk before him. “Of course, my boy,” Courtney went on, after a pause, “I assume you are in the game to the end, and in to win. If you’re not, the whole matter is easy of adjustment—renounce the Crown and marry the Princess ... and live somewhere beyond the borders of Valeria—come back to America, indeed; I’ll see that you have again your commission in the Engineer’s——” Armand’s lips closed a bit tighter on his cigar, his fingers began to play upon the chair-arm, and his glance shifted for an instant to the other’s face, then back to the desk. And Courtney read his mind and pressed on to clinch the purpose. “But if you’re in to win—and it’s your duty to your friends to win; it’s your duty to your friends to win, I repeat—your first obligation is to keep alive; a dead archduke is of no earthly use in the king business we have in hand. You may go straight to Glory, but that won’t help out the poor devils you leave here in Lotzen’s clutches, and who have been true to you, never doubting that you would be true to them. Your life belongs to them, now; and you have no right to fritter it away in silly, stubborn recklessness.... There, I’ve spoken my mind, and quite too frankly, may be; but I’ll promise never to bother you again. After all, it’s for you to decide—not for a meddling friend.” The Archduke smiled. “And just to prove that the friend isn’t meddling, I shall accept his advice—bearing in mind, however, that this is particularly an exigency where prudence must be subordinate to daring. Prudence is all very well in the abstract, but it is more dangerous to our success than recklessness. I’m playing for a Crown and a Nation’s favor—let my personal courage be questioned for an instant, and the game is lost as surely as though I were dead. As for my dear cousin of Lotzen, I assure you I’ve not the least scruple about killing him, under proper opportunity. In fact, I’m inclined to think I should rather enjoy it. I admit now that there have been times when I regret I didn’t run him through at the Vierle Masque.” Courtney nodded. “It would have saved you all this trouble—I wanted to call to you to make an end of him.” “I can’t do murder; I had disarmed him. Next time, I’ll make a different play.” “There won’t be a next time, if the Duke has the choosing. He isn’t the sort to seek death, and he knows you are his master. You’ll have to kill him in a melÉe, or manoeuvre him into a position where he has no option but to fight.” “He is manoeuvring himself into a position where he will have to contend with a far more formidable blade than mine.” Courtney’s eye-brows lifted expressively. Than the Archduke himself there was but one better swordsman in the kingdom. “What has Lotzen been doing to Moore?” he asked. “Insulting Elise d’EssoldÉ.” “By making advances?” Armand nodded. “And in a particularly nasty way.” “He isn’t bothered about Moore,” said Courtney. “He thinks he is safe from any one that isn’t of his station.” “He doesn’t know the Irishman—Moore would kill him without a thought.” “I’m not so sure,” said Courtney. “Moore is bred to respect for royalty; he would hesitate to use sword against one of the Blood except in defense.” “Lotzen would best not bank much on that for immunity if he pursue d’EssoldÉ.” “Well, so much the better; between you, the trick should be turned; though, as a matter of abstract justice, it’s your particular work.” “And I shan’t shirk it,” said Armand—then he laughed—“on the whole, I’m something of a savage myself; Lotzen hasn’t got all of it for the family, it would seem.” Courtney shrugged his shoulders. “We all are savages at the core—it’s only a question of the veneer’s thickness.” “Of its thinness, I should say. However, now that you have saved my precious life, and dedicated me to care and prudence and to killing my enemies, we can get down to business. You had something to tell me.” “I have told you,” said Courtney. “I wanted to show you that note and save your precious life.” The Archduke picked up the paper, and read it again. “May be the party who wrote this,” he said, “can help you answer the question I came to ask: what brought Lotzen to the Summer Palace, this afternoon; and, in particular, why did he go into the King’s library?” Courtney lit a fresh cigarette and watched the match burn to a cinder. “Isn’t your second question the answer to the first?” he asked. “Doubtless; but what’s the answer to the second?” Courtney shook his head. “I pass—unless you can give me some details.” “Here’s everything I know,” said Armand. “Moore, as Adjutant to the Regent, occupies part of the King’s suite as his quarters. This afternoon, he went out, leaving open the corridor door of the library. A little later Mademoiselle d’EssoldÉ saw Lotzen come from the library—subsequently he met Moore and casually remarked to him that, as he passed his quarters, the door being open, he had taken the liberty of looking at His late Majesty’s portrait, which he wished to have copied.” Courtney considered a bit. “It’s really most interesting to study your cousin’s methods,” he said presently. “He seems to take particular pleasure in telling one what he knows will not be believed. It was quite absurd to offer such a fool explanation, if he really wished to explain—and none knows it better than Lotzen. It was just as though he had said to Moore: ‘Tell the Archduke Armand, I’ve been in the library, I’ve accomplished what I went for, and he may go to the devil, with my compliments.’” “That’s very well, as an exposition of Lotzen’s methods,” said Armand; “but what concerns me is his motive; what was it he went for?” “The Book of Laws, possibly,” Courtney replied. “Nonsense—he knows it’s not in the library—if it were, I would have had it days ago.” “And how does he know you haven’t got it?” “How! Because I’d have produced it to prove my title.” Courtney smiled. “Certainly you would—if it proved your title; but if it didn’t?” “You overlook Frederick’s decree.” “No, I don’t—you overlook the fact that no one has ever seen that decree, and that Lotzen is entitled to assume it was not executed—that the whole story is fabricated, and that you have made away with the Book in order to throw the election into the House of Nobles; and so to have a chance for the Crown, when, in reality, you are entitled to none.” “Lotzen understands perfectly that Dehra told the truth,” said Armand; “and that I’ve not got the Book—for my part, I’m almost ready to accept her notion that he has it.” Courtney leaned back in his chair, and studied the smoke rings he sent whirling upwards. “I can’t agree with you,” he said; “indeed, since his visit to the library, I’m more convinced than ever that he hasn’t the Book. He pretends to have it, so as to mislead you in your search.” “More likely, in your view of him,” said Armand, “it is to decoy me into a trap where he can make an end of me.” “I believe you’ve guessed it,” said Courtney, after a moment’s thought; “and what is more, it’s the key to Lotzen’s plan of campaign, and it proves conclusively his murderous purpose. I’d be very shy of information that points Book-ward, unless you know the informant; above everything, don’t be fooled by the device of a rendezvous, or a tattling servant.” “True enough; and yet I must not let slip any chance that might lead to the recovery of the Book; my equivocal position demands that it be found, both to vindicate Dehra’s story and to justify my own claim to the Succession. Indeed, to my mind, I have no chance whatever unless Frederick’s decree is produced. However, Lotzen won’t use such hoary artifices; he will have some simple little plot that will enmesh me by its very innocence. As a schemer against him I’m not even an ‘also ran.’” “And, therefore, my dear Armand,” said Courtney quickly, “you must be prepared to cut the meshes when they close; an escort—a sword—a pistol—a steel vest—there’s where you get your chance at him. Between the schemer and the ready fighter, I’ll gamble on the fighter every time.... It’s a pity you’ve lost Moore—you and he would make a famous pair. Bernheim is a good sort, but Moore is worth twenty of him in this business.” The Archduke’s eyes brightened—the Irishman and he together could make a merry fight—an altogether worth-while sort of fight—a fight that the Great Henry himself, in his younger days, would have sought with eager blade and joyful heart—a quick, sharp fight that gave the enemy no rest nor quarter—a thrust—a fall—a careless laugh—a dripping point wiped on a handkerchief. He saw it all, and his fingers tingled and his eyes went brighter still. And across the table Courtney blew ring upon ring of smoke, and watched him curiously, until the intent look waned and passed. “Well,” he said, “did you kill him?” “Yes, I killed him ... and even wiped my sword—much ground have I to cast reproach at Lotzen.” He got up. “I’m going; if I sit under your tutelage any longer, I’ll be jabbling holes in the good citizens I meet on the Avenue.” “With that stick?” Courtney asked. “I forgot—the good citizen is safe to-night.” “But you’re not. Let me give you a sword or a revolver.” And when both were declined, he held up the paper: “Danger imminent,” he warned. “Bernheim will take care of me,” said Armand; “and a light stick isn’t a bad sort of rapier, if it is handled properly. I’m glad for this talk, and to have learned how very thin my veneer is.—I’m going back to the Epsau now, and teach Bernheim the scalp dance. Good night.” “And trade him to the Regent for Moore, the first thing in the morning,” Courtney urged. The Archduke paused at the threshold: “Well, may be I shall,” he said; “I believe he is a bit more the savage.” He faced about. “As for you, my dear Dick, you’re cut out for a typical missionary—you would have the natives killing one another within an hour after you landed.” “Danger imminent!” called Courtney, and the door swung shut. |
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