  The failure of Colonel Moore to keep promptly his appointment with Mlle. d’EssoldÉ to meet her that morning in the japonica walk was due to a letter that had come to him in the early post, and which had sent him, without a moment’s delay, straight to Dornlitz and Headquarters; nor did he even stop to telephone the Archduke, but left it for one of the young officers in the outer office to do. The Military Governor received him at once, and with a look of questioning concern. “Anything wrong at the Palace?” he asked. “Nothing, Your Highness,” said Moore, with his graceful salute—so unlike Bernheim’s stiff motion—“nothing; I brought this letter; it is for you, though sent to me.” The Archduke took it, without comment—he knew it must be of peculiar importance to bring Moore in person at that hour. When he had read it, he looked carefully at the envelope, and turning on his desk lamp, he spread the letter under it and examined it very slowly and critically; finally he re-read it aloud:—
“Well,” said he, “the writer at least knows how to put up a very enticing bait—‘privileged to bring as large an escort as he desires—at four o’clock this afternoon—at the Inn of the Twisted Pines’—surely, there is nothing in them to suggest danger, daggers or death.... I think we shall accept, Colonel; what’s your notion about it?” “If it is a plant,” he said, “it’s a very clever one—and hence spells Lotzen; but, for my part, I’ll be charmed to go with you, whatever it is.” The Archduke smiled. “Of course you will, you peaceful citizen, and be sadly disappointed if there isn’t a head for you to hit. It’s just as well I gave you to the Regent, you would be leading me into all sorts of danger.” “And Your Highness has established such a splendid reputation for avoiding danger,” Moore laughed. “How so?” “Did it never occur to you, sir, that the man who would deliberately force a sword fight with the Duke of Lotzen, has won a name for reckless courage that he can never live down?” “But I disarmed him, thanks to your defense to his coup.” “Small good would my defense have been to one who hadn’t the nerve and skill to use it; to fail means death, as you, of course, appreciated.” The Archduke nodded. “But the public knew nothing of all that.” “Just so, sir—all they know is that you, in sheer deviltry, took your chances against one of the two best swordsmen in Valeria; that you won, demonstrated your skill, but it didn’t disprove the recklessness.” “I did not intend it that way, Moore; I assure you I had no idea of bringing on a fight that night at the Vierle Masque, when I went over to him and the Spencer woman.” A broad grin overspread the Irishman’s handsome face. “You couldn’t make a single officer believe it,” he said; “and seriously, sir. I wouldn’t try. It is just such a thing as your great ancestor would have done, and it has caught the youngsters as nothing else ever could; they swear by you—only last night, I heard a dozen of them toast you uproariously as the next king.” “Which brings us back to the Book and this letter,” Armand remarked; “shall we take an escort?” “I’m a rather incompetent adviser, you think; but the very provision that you need not go alone, may be a trap to lull suspicion and bring you there with only an Aide or an orderly. If the letter is honest, it will be no harm to go well attended; if it isn’t honest, you will lose nothing, and the escort may be very useful.” “You are becoming a very Fabius in discretion,” the Archduke smiled; “and we will take the escort.” He considered a moment. “Or, rather, we will have it on hand for need. I’ll see to it that a troop of Lancers shall be passing the Inn a little before four o’clock, and halt there, while their captain discusses the weather with the landlord. And we will ride up with a great show of confidence or contempt, whichever way the One Who Knows may view it.” “Shall I tell Her Highness of the letter, and your purpose?” Moore asked. “Not on your life, man! She would send a Brigade with us, even if she didn’t forbid our going. I’ll get you leave for the afternoon—and not a word to Bernheim, either; he would have nervous prostration, and load me down with a suit of plate-mail and a battle-axe. You and I will just have this little adventure on the side.” He got up. “I tell you what it is, Moore, the pair of us could make a brisk fight of it if we had to—hey, man?” The Irishman laughed joyously. “And may we have to, sir!” he cried; “may we have to!”—and made as though he were sending home a finishing thrust. The Archduke shook his head. “There can’t be any doubt of it; you would have a most dangerous influence over me; it is well you’re with the Regent. But for this afternoon, I suggest that you select your favorite sword, and see that it doesn’t drag in the scabbard—and half-after-two at the Titian gate.” Moore paused at the door. “Of course,” said he, “Your Highness will wear the steel vest.” “I’ll wear it,” was the answer; and the Colonel went out, wondering at the ready acquiescence, where he had anticipated a curt refusal. Before he had crossed the ante-room, the Archduke called him. “I saw you were surprised,” said he. “I had a little adventure the other night that you don’t know about. Sit down a minute, and I’ll tell you of Bernheim’s and my visit to the De Saure house at two in the morning.”... “I always said Bernheim was the man for a close pinch,” Moore remarked, at the end, “but he is even better than I imagined. The chest is simply delicious.” He paused, in sudden thought. “And, now, I reckon I understand why Count Bigler has his ear done up in surgeon’s plaster. I noticed “And don’t tell Bernheim,” said Armand; “if he knows he had such a good chance at Bigler, and then missed him, it will make him miserable for days.” “Days! It will sour him for life. Next to the Duke of Lotzen, the Colonel hates Bigler most.” When Moore had gone, the Archduke took up the letter and envelope and again examined them; looked for a water mark—there was none; went over the writing—man’s or woman’s he could not decide; postmarked at the main office in Dornlitz at ten P.M. of yesterday; not a scintilla any place to indicate the origin. Well, it did not matter; he would accept the offer; and there was an end of it, now—the solution could come this afternoon at four. So he put up the letter, and pushed the button for his secretary, quite forgetting to telephone the Princess as to borrowing her Adjutant. Then, after a while, she, herself, called him; and as they finished their talk, the bell sounded the first stroke of noon. He arose, and hooking the frogs of his dark green jacket, the gold braid of his marshal’s insignia heavy on the sleeve, he went over to the large window, and raising the sash stood in full view of the avenue. It was the hour when it was busiest; on the sidewalks a pushing, hurrying, good-natured crowd, at their mid-day recreation; in the road-way, a tangled mass of vehicles—not of the society folk, they came three hours later, but the wagons, and drays and vans of trade and traffic. He recognized an occasional face in the throng, usually some officer hurrying to Headquarters for the reception he always held for half an hour at noon. To-day it would have to start five minutes late. Presently some one caught sight of him, and saluted with raised hat; others looked up, and did the same; and in a moment the crowd was passing in review, the men uncovering, the women greeting him with smiles. He answered with bows and hand-waves; and if a bit of satisfied pride stirred his heart and warmed his face, small wonder. He was still new in his royalty; and even if he were not, at this critical period, such demonstration of esteem by the general populace would have been very gratifying and particularly welcome. And he stayed a trifle longer than the required time; then, with a last bow and a wave of especial graciousness, he turned away, and rang for the doors to be opened. It was the Archduke’s rule that entire informality should be observed at these affairs, and he emphasized it by sauntering around, speaking to everyone, and not obliging them to go up to him, for a stiff bow and a word. He laughed with this group, joked with another, argued with a third, So, to-day, the room was crowded, and the welcome the Archduke received was such as might have made even Lotzen pause and think, had he seen it. And this thought occurred to Armand; and he ran his eyes over the many faces, wondering which of them belonged, to-day, to the Duke’s spy; for that there usually was one present he had no doubt. And presently he found him; and, catching his eye, motioned for him to approach. “I am glad to see you, Monsieur le Comte,” he said, relieving himself from offering his hand by readjusting his sword. “When was it I saw you last?” Count Bigler’s lips twitched with suppressed amusement. “Here, Your Highness?” he answered, “I am ashamed to confess I haven’t been here for many weeks.” “Yet, surely, Count, I’ve seen you somewhere since then, and very recently, too—where was it?” Bigler feigned to think.—“One sees Your Highness so many times, it is difficult to remember the last ... on the Field of Mars, last Monday, wasn’t it?” The Archduke shook his head. “No,” he said, “no; it was in the evening—I recall that very distinctly.” Then he looked with deliberate inference at the bandaged ear—“oh, I have it: it was at the De Saure’s; you were there when I came, and you left first and—rather hurriedly. It all comes back to me now. Surely, Count, you can’t have forgot such a pleasant evening!” Bigler assumed a look of guileless innocence. “It is not permitted to contradict Your Highness,” he answered, “but I may, I think, at least venture the truism:—what one has not remembered, one cannot forget.” “Or restated, my dear Count, to be quite in point:—what is inconvenient to remember, is best denied.” “Just as Your Highness will have it,” Bigler grinned, and impudently fingered his ear. “And confidentially, Count,” said Armand smilingly, “while we are dealing in truisms, I give you these two:—‘every man’s patience has its limit,’ and, ‘who plays with fire gets burnt’—fatally.” Bigler’s grin broadened. “Is Your Highness the man with the patience or the man with the fire?” he asked. “Study it out, sir,” said the Archduke, as he passed on; “and let your master help you; the answer may concern you both.” The last thing before leaving his office, that afternoon, he wrote a note to the American Ambassador, enclosing the anonymous letter, and telling him his intention in reference to it; and adding that if Courtney had not heard from him by morning he should do whatever he thought best. This he dispatched by an orderly; and then, choosing a long, light sword, he rang for his horse. Just outside his door, he met General Durand and stopped for a word with him; as they separated he saw Ferdinand of Lotzen coming down the corridor. Between them it had long been a salute given and acknowledged, but now the Duke halted, fingers at visor. “May I have a word with Your Highness?” he said. Armand’s hand dropped slowly, and he only half paused in his walk. “I’m in a particular hurry, cousin,” he replied, “won’t to-morrow do as well?” Lotzen’s eye-brows went up. “Isn’t to-morrow rather uncertain for—both of us?” he asked. “Yes,” said the Archduke instantly, “yes, it is; and hence what need of talk between us, at least so late in the day. Wait until we have a to-morrow.” “What I wish to say has nothing to do with futures, cousin, only with the past, with the De Saure house—oh! that surprises you, does it?” “Not half as much as the amazing mess you made of it,” said Armand. “That, my dear cousin, is just what I came to explain,” said Lotzen quickly. “I had nothing whatever to do with the silly affair; it was a clever idea, but sadly bungled; I heard of it only the next day, and I want to assure you it was not my work—though, as I say, it was a clever idea—too clever, indeed, to be wasted so fruitlessly.” The Archduke regarded him in speculative silence;—just what manner of man was this; and what could be his ulterior purpose in such an astonishing avowal! “Will you tell me, cousin,” he asked, “why you should trouble to disclaim participation in an outrage, whose only offense, in your eyes, was its failure?” Again Lotzen’s eye-brows went up. “I thought you would understand that it is in justice to myself; I would not have you think me guilty of so stupid a piece of work.” “Doubtless, then, it will gratify you, monsieur, that I never doubted your complicity, however much I may have marvelled at the unskilled execution—you would have arranged it rather differently. Indeed, I was sorry that you, yourself, were not in command. I left a message, both upstairs and down, that I thought you might understand.” Lotzen smiled, rather warmly for him. “I understood,” he said; “your writing was exceedingly legible.” “And I sent you another message, a little while ago, by the man with the wounded ear,” said the Archduke, his eyes upon the other’s bandaged hand. “I suppose you got it?” The Duke laughed and held up his hand, the back and palm covered with plaster. “This wasn’t made by a bullet, cousin;” he replied; “I got it this morning from a new pet I was trying to train.—No, I didn’t get your last message.” “Better get it to-day, cousin,” said the Archduke, as he turned away; “to-morrow is rather uncertain.” |
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