  Madeline Spencer, lying in a languorous coil among the cushions in the deep embrasure of an east window, was gazing in dreamy abstraction across the valley to the mountain spur, five miles away as the bird flies, ten as the road runs, where, silhouetted against the blue of the cloudless sky, rose the huge, gray Castle of Dalberg. For the last hour, she had been training a field glass on it at short intervals, and presently she levelled it again, and this time she saw what she was waiting for—from the highest tower of the keep the royal standard of Valeria was floating. For a little while she watched the Golden Lion couchant on its crimson field—lashing its tail in anger with every undulation of the fresh west wind, as though impatient to spring into the valley and ravage and harass it, much as the fierce first Dalberg himself had doubtless done—then she slowly uncoiled herself, and gliding from the ledge swished lightly across to the far door, that led into the Duke of Lotzen’s library. “Ferdinand,” she said, “they have——” he was not there, though she had heard him a moment ago singing softly, as was his wont when in particularly good spirits. She went to his desk and sat down to wait, her eyes straying indifferently over the familiar papers that covered it, until they chanced upon a slender portfolio, she had never before seen, and which, to her surprise, contained only a sheet of blotting paper, about a foot square, folded down the center. Curious, she opened it, to find, on the inside, the stamp of the royal arms, and the marks of a dozen lines of heavy writing, most of it clear and distinct, and made, seemingly, by two impressions, one at each end of the sheet. What was it doing here?—and why so carefully preserved?—She looked at the writing more attentively—and suddenly one word stood out plain, even if inverted, and under it a date. Instantly blotter and portfolio were replaced, and she hurried to her boudoir for a mirror. Laying it face upward on the desk, she held the writing over it. A single glance proved her surmise true. Here and there words and letters were missing or were very indistinct, but there could be no doubt that this was the blotter used by King Frederick when he wrote the decree the night before his death. Her hasty reading had found nothing to show the purport of the Law—indeed, it seemed to be only a few lines of the beginning and of the end, including the signature and date—but possibly a closer inspection would reveal more; and so she was about to copy it exactly, when she heard the Duke’s voice in the adjoining room and had time only to hide the mirror and to get the blotter to its place until he came in. His cold face warmed, as it always did for her, and as it never had done for another woman, and he bowed to her in pleasant mockery. “Good morning, Duchess,” he said; “what are your orders for the day?—you occupy the seat of authority.” She got up. “Having no right to the title,” she said, giving him her most winning smile, “I vacate the seat—do you think I look like a duchess?” “Like a duchess!” he exclaimed, handing her into the chair and leaning over the back, his head close to hers, “like a duchess! you are a duchess in everything but birth.” “And title,” she added, with a bit of a shrug. He stroked her soft black hair, with easy fingers. “The title will be yours when Ferdinand of Lotzen reigns in Dornlitz,” he said. She bent back her head and smiled into his eyes. It was the first time he had held out any promise as to her place in event of his becoming king, though she had tried repeatedly to draw him to it. “Would you do that, dear?” she asked, “do you really care enough for me to do that—to acknowledge me so before the world?” “Yes, Madeline, I think I do,” he said, after a pause, that seemed to her perilously long. “It appears rather retributive that you, who came here, at my instance, to play the wife for the American, should thus have been put, by my own act, into a position where our friendship must be maintained sub rosa. You are quite too clear headed not to appreciate that now, at least, I may not openly parade our relations; to do so would be to end whatever chance I have with the Nobles. But once on the Throne and the power firm in my hand, and they all may go to the devil, and a duchess shall you be—if,”—pinching her cheek—“you will promise to stay away from Paris and the Rue Royale, except when I am with you.” She wound her lithe arms around his neck, and drew his face close to hers. “I promise,” she said presently, “I promise.... But what if you should miss the Crown?—you could not make me duchess then.” “Why not, ma belle?” he asked, holding her arms close around his neck. “I shall still be a Duke, and you—la Duchesse de la main gauche.” She could not suppress the start—though she had played for just such an answer, yet never thinking it would come—and Lotzen felt it, and understood. “Did that surprise you, little one?” he laughed. “Well, don’t forget, if I miss the Throne, and live, I shan’t be urged to stay in Valeria—in fact, whatever urging there is, will likely be the other way.” “Banished?” she asked. He nodded. “Practically that.” “Paris?”—with a sly smile upward. He filched a kiss. “Anywhere you like, my dear; but no one place too long.” She was thinking rapidly—“duchess of the left hand”;—never his duchess in name—never anything but a morganatic wife to whom no title passed; but what mattered the title, if she got the settlements, and all the rest. And Ferdinand was easy enough to manage now, and would be, so long as the infatuation held him; afterward—at least the settlements and the jewels would remain. Truly she had won far more than she had sought or even dreamed of—and won it, whether Lotzen got the Crown or exile. The only risk she ran was his dying, and it must be for her to keep him out of danger—away from the Archduke and his friends, where, she knew, death was in leash, straining to be free and at him. Hitherto she had thought her only sure reward lay in Ferdinand as king; in his generosity for a little while; and so she had been very willing to stake him for success. Now she must reverse her method—no more spurring him to seek out the Archduke and dare all on a single fight; instead, prudence, discretion, let others do the open work and face the hazards. She gave a satisfied little sigh and drew him close. “May be you doubt it, dear,” she said, “but I can be very docile and contented—and I shall prove it, whether as duchess of the right hand or the left.” He laughed, and shook his head. “You, docile and contented! never in this world; nor do I want you so—I prefer you as you are; you may lose me, if you change.” “Then I’ll not change, dear,” she whispered, and kissed him lightly and arose. He reached out quickly to draw her back, but she eluded him. “Nay, nay, my lord,” she smiled; “I must not change, you said.” “Don’t go away,” he insisted; “stay with me a little longer.” She sat down across the desk from him. “I almost forgot what I came for,” she said. “Do you know they have come?—the flag went up a little while ago.” He nodded. “Yes, I know—a whole train load and half the Household:—the Regent, the American, Moore, Bernheim, De Coursey, Marsov, the scheming Courtney, damn him, and a lot of women, including, of course, the Radnor girl. For a pursuit with deadly intent, it’s the most amazing in the annals of war. Under all the rules, the American and a few tried swords should have stolen into Dalberg Castle, with every precaution against our knowing they had come; instead, they arrive with the ostentation of a royal progress, and fling out the Golden Lion from the highest tower.” “What are you going to do first?” she asked. “Nothing—it’s their move. They have come for the Book, and they must seek it here.” She was idly snapping the scissors through a sheet of paper and simply smiled her answer. “Give me a cigarette, dear,” she said, after a pause, “I’ve left mine in my room.” He searched his pockets for his case; then tumbled the papers on the desk, she aiding and very careful to leave exposed the portfolio that contained the blotter. “Oh, there it is,” she exclaimed, “on the table, yonder;” and when he went for it she drew out the blotter and feigned to be examining it. “Here, little one,” he said, tossing her the case—then he saw what she had, and for the shadow of an instant, which she detected, he hesitated—“fix one for me,” he ended, and sat down, seemingly in entire unconcern. “Bring me a match,” she ordered, eyes still on the blotter, as she opened the case and took out a cigarette.... “There, I spoil you.” She laid down the sheet and lit another Nestor for herself. “Ferdinand,” said she, turning half around in her chair and looking up at him, “just where is this wonderful Book of Laws?” “Here, in this drawer,” opening one beside her, showing the same package wrapped in black cloth that Armand and Dehra had seen in Ferida Palace. “I don’t mean that one,” said she. “I mean the real Book.” He sent a cloud of smoke between them. “I wish I knew,” he said; “but the American won’t tell me.” She scattered the smoke with a wave of her handkerchief. “Are you quite sure he could tell you?” she asked.—“In fact, my dear boy, do you need to be told?” He looked at her with a puzzled frown; and for answer she tapped the open blotter, and smiled. “Even though inverted, a few words are very plain:—a King’s name and a date.... And the King died the next day.” “And what is your inference?” he asked. “It’s rather more than an inference, isn’t it?” she laughed; “I should call it a sequitur:—that he who has the Book’s blotter, has the Book.” She had expected either cool ridicule or angry denial; instead, he laughed, too, and coming around to her, gave her an admiring little caress. “You’re quite too clever, Madeline,” he said; “it is a sequitur, but unfortunately it’s not the fact—now. I haven’t the Book; I did have it, and I know where it is, but I can’t get it.” “You had it—and let it get away?” she marveled. “Yes.” “And know where it is, and yet can’t get it?” “Yes, again.” “Surely! surely! it can’t be that I am listening to the Duke of Lotzen!... But, of course, you know what the decree is.” And now he lied, and so easily and promptly that even she did not suspect. “No,” said he, “I don’t; I lost the Book before I had a chance to open it. All I know is what that blotter tells. Damn it, why couldn’t it have had the middle of the decree instead of both ends!” and in marvellously assumed indignation he seized the soft sheet, and tore it into tiny bits. He had no mind that even she should have the chance to copy it, and delve into all that the words and blurred lines might imply. “May I know where the Book is, dear?” she said, after a pause; “may be I could help you.” An hour ago he would have balked at this question; but now her interests had become so bound up with his that he could trust her. “Know, little one? of course you may know,” he said instantly; “I shall be glad for a confidant. The Book is exactly where it belongs:—in the box, and it is in the vault of the King’s library at the Summer Palace.” She laughed merrily. “Ferdinand, dear Ferdinand!” she cried, “I’m ashamed of you—to tell me such a clumsy lie.” “It isn’t a lie—that’s the pity.” “Then why all this bother as to the Succession, and search for the Book?” she asked incredulously. “Because, my dear, I’m the only one who knows it’s there—listen, and I’ll tell you how it happened.” At last! at last! she was to know—and she nestled close to him and waited. Truly, this was her day. And he told all, not even omitting the killing of the valet. Her first question was typical of her mind, it went straight to the crux of the whole matter. “But why can’t you get the Book?” she asked. “Because I can’t get at it. The infernal American has put a cordon of troops around the Palace, so that it’s impossible to pass at night without declaring myself; Moore occupies the library; and finally the combination on the vault has been changed.” “Isn’t it absurd?” said she; “the Book actually in its place and yet lost.”—She sat up sharply. “Do you really want it, Ferdinand?—because, if you do, may be I can help you.” “Assuredly I want it. If the decree is against me, we will destroy the Book and go on with our game.” “Then, dear, let us go after it—and now, now! The Regent is absent, hence less vigilance in the Palace; Moore is with her, hence the library is deserted; it should be easy for you to get us in it by day and unsuspected.” “And having blown open the vault, be caught in the act,” he smiled. “That is where I come in, dear; I will engage to open it, noiselessly, and in less than fifteen minutes, too.” “Is it possible that you are one of those wonder workers who can feel a combination?” “Yes,” said she, “though I’ve not tried it for years.” “Come, come, try it now!” indicating a small iron safe in the far corner. She went to it, and sinking to the floor with sinuous grace, she put her ear close to the dial plate and fell to manipulating the knob with light fingers; turning it back and forth very slowly and with extreme care. And the Duke, leaning against the safe, watched her with eager eyes—could she do it?—if she could—— SHE FELL TO MANIPULATING THE KNOB WITH LIGHT FINGERS. SHE FELL TO MANIPULATING THE KNOB WITH LIGHT FINGERS. Mrs. Spencer sprang up. “That was easy,” she said. Lotzen reached over and seized the handle; the bolts snapped back and the door swung open. With the first burst of impulse she had ever seen him display, he whirled and caught her in his arms. “We will win now, my duchess!” he exclaimed, “we will win sure. No burglarious entry—no explosion—no flight; instead, the Duke of Lotzen and his Aide will go openly to the library, and then in a trice will we have the Book and be gone.... And I shall owe it all to you, dear—ma chÉrie duchesse.” She closed her eyes; truly, this was her day! “Let us go to Dornlitz this very night,” she said. He shook his head. “We must wait a day, little one; until our friends across the valley have assured themselves that I am here. But to-morrow night we will steal away to the Capital, and get the Book; and then, if necessary, we will come back, and send our dear cousin to the devil where he belongs.” |
|
