Kitabı oku: «Sophy of Kravonia: A Novel», sayfa 11
He looked at her gravely for a few moments, making, perhaps, a last quick calculation – undergoing, perhaps, a last short struggle. But the Red Star glowed against the pallor of her face; her eyes were gleaming beacons.
"Neither the guns, nor the men, nor Slavna – no, nor the Crown, when that time comes – without you!" he said.
She rose slowly, tremblingly, from her chair, and stretched out her hands in an instinctive protest: "Monseigneur!" Then she clasped her hands, setting her eyes on his, and whispering again, yet lower: "Monseigneur!"
"Marie Zerkovitch says Fate sent you to Kravonia. I think she's right. Fate did – my fate. I think it's fated that we are to be together to the end, Sophy."
A step creaked on the old stairs. Marie Zerkovitch was coming down from her room on the floor above. The door of the dining-room stood open, but neither of them heard the step; they were engrossed, and the sound passed unheeded.
Standing there with hands still clasped, and eyes still bound to his, she spoke again – and Marie Zerkovitch stood by the door and heard the quick yet clear words, herself fascinated, unable to move or speak.
"I've meant nothing of it. I've thought nothing of it. I seem to have done nothing towards it. It has just come to me." Her tone took on a touch of entreaty, whether it were to him, or to some unseen power which ruled her life, and to which she might have to render an account.
"Yet it is welcome?" he asked quietly. She was long in answering; he waited without impatience, in a confidence devoid of doubt. She seemed to seek for the whole truth and to give it to him in gravest, fullest words.
"It is life, Monseigneur," she said. "I can't see life without it now."
He held out his hands, and very slowly she laid hers in them.
"It is enough – and nothing less could have been enough from you to me and from me to you," he said gently. "Unless we live it together, I think it can be no life for us now."
The chain which had held Marie Zerkovitch motionless suddenly snapped. She rushed into the room, and, forgetful of everything in her agitation, seized the Prince by the arm.
"What do you mean?" she cried. "What do you mean? Are you mad?"
He was very fond of little Marie. He looked down at her now with an affectionate, indulgent smile.
"Come, you've heard what I said, I suppose – though it wasn't meant for your ears, you know! Well, then, I mean just what I said, Marie."
"But what do you mean by it?" she persisted in a feverish, almost childish, excitement. She turned on Sophy, too. "And what do you mean by it, Sophy?" she cried.
Sophy passed a hand across her brow. A slow smile relieved the enchanted tension of her face; she seemed to smile in a whimsical surprise at herself. Her answer to Marie came vague and almost dreamy. "I – I thought of nothing, dear Marie," she said; then with a sudden low murmur of delighted laughter she laid her hands in the Prince's again. She had thought of nothing but of that life together and their love.
"She'll share my life, Marie, and, when the time comes, my throne," the Prince said softly: he tried to persuade and soothe her with his gentle tones.
Marie Zerkovitch would not have it. Possessed by her old fear, her old foreboding, she flung away the arm she held with an angry gesture. "It's ruin!" she cried. "Ruin, ruin!" Her voice rang out through the old room and seemed to fill all the Castle of Praslok with its dirgeful note.
"No," said he firmly. "Ruin will not come through me, nor through her. It may be that ruin – what you call ruin – will come. It may be that I shall lose my life or my throne." He smiled a little. "Such changes and chances come as nothing new to a Stefanovitch. I have clever and bold men against me. Let them try! We'll try, too. But ruin will not be by her fault, nor through this. And if it were, don't I owe her my life already? Should I refuse to risk for her the life she has given?" He dropped his voice to homelier, more familiar tones, and ended, with a half-laugh: "Come, little friend, you mustn't try to frighten Sergius Stefanovitch. It's better the House should end than live on in a coward, you know."
The plea was not perfect – there was wisdom as well as courage in question. Yet he would have maintained himself to be right in point of wisdom, too, had Marie pressed him on it. But her force was spent; her violence ended, and with it her expostulations. But not her terror and dismay. She threw herself into a chair and covered her face with her hands, sobbing bitterly.
The Prince gently caressed her shaking shoulder, but he raised his eyes to Sophy, who had stood quiet through the scene.
"Are you ready for what comes, Sophy?" he asked.
"Monseigneur, I am ready," she said, with head erect and her face set. But the next instant she broke into a low yet rich and ringing laugh; it mingled strangely with Marie's sobs, which were gradually dying away, yet sounded still, an undertone of discord with Sophy's mirth. She stretched out her hands towards him again, whispering in an amused pity: "Poor child – she thought that we should be afraid!"
Out from the dusk of the quiet evening came suddenly the blare of a trumpet, blown from Volseni by a favoring breeze. It sounded every evening, at nightfall, to warn the herdsmen in the hills of the closing of the gates, and had so sounded from time beyond man's memory.
The Prince raised his hand to bid her listen.
"In good Volseni there is watch and ward for us!"
The echoes of the blast rang for an instant round the hills.
"And there is watch and ward, and the glad sound of a trumpet, in my heart, Monseigneur," she said.
The sobs were still, laughter was hushed, the echoes died away. In utter silence their hands and their eyes met. Only in their hearts love's clarion rang indomitable and marvellously glad.
XI
M. ZERKOVITCH'S BEDROOM FIRE
Often there are clever brains about us of whose workings we care nothing, save so far as they serve to the defter moving of our dishes or the more scientific brushing and folding of our clothes. Humorists and philosophers have described or conjectured or caricatured the world of those who wait on us, inviting us to consider how we may appear to the inward gaze of the eyes which are so obediently cast down before ours or so dutifully alert to anticipate our orders. As a rule, we decline the invitation; the task seems at once difficult and unnecessary. Enough to remember that the owners of the eyes have ears and mouths also! A small leak, left unstanched, will empty the largest cask at last; it is well to keep that in mind both in private concerns and in affairs of public magnitude.
The King's body-servant, Emile Lepage, had been set a-thinking. This was the result of the various and profuse scoldings which he had undergone for calling young Count Alexis "Prince." The King's brief, sharp words at the conference had been elaborated into a reproof both longer and sterner than his Majesty was wont to trouble himself to administer; he had been very strong on the utter folly of putting such ideas into the boy's head. Lepage was pretty clear that the idea had come from the boy's head into his, but he said nothing more of that. The boy himself scolded Lepage – first for having been overheard, secondly (and, as Lepage guessed, after being scolded himself very roundly) for using the offending title at all. Meekly Lepage bore this cross also – indeed, with some amusement, and a certain touch of pity for young Alexis, who was not a prince and obviously could not make out why: in the books a king's sons were always princes, even though there were (as in those glorious days there often were) fifty or threescore of them.
Then Countess Ellenburg scolded him: the King's "It's absurd!" was rankling sorely in her mind. Her scolding was in her heaviest manner – very religious: she called Heaven to witness that never, by word or deed, had she done anything to give her boy such a notion. The days are gone by when Heaven makes overt present answer; nothing happened! She roundly charged Lepage with fostering the idea for his own purposes; he wanted to set the Prince of Slavna against his little brother, she supposed, and to curry favor with the rising sun at the poor child's cost.
She was very effective, but she angered Lepage almost beyond endurance. By disposition he was thoroughly good-natured, if sardonic and impassive; he could not suffer the accusation of injuring the pretty boy for his own ends; it was both odious and absurd. He snapped back smartly at her: "I hope nobody will do more to put wrong ideas in his head than I have done, Madame la Comtesse." In a fury she drove him from the room. But she had started ever so slightly. Lepage's alert brain jumped at the signal.
Finally, Stenovics himself had a lecture for poor, much-lectured Lepage. It was one of the miscalculations to which an over-cautious cunning is prone. Stenovics was gentle and considerate, but he was very urgent – urgent, above all, that nothing should be said about the episode, neither about it, nor about the other reprimands. Silence, silence, silence was his burden. Lepage thought more and more. It is better to put up with gossip than to give the idea that the least gossip would be a serious offence. People gossip without thinking, it's easy come and gone, easy speaking and easy forgetting; but stringent injunctions not to talk are apt to make men think. References to the rising sun, also, may breed reflection in the satellites of a setting orb. Neither Countess Ellenburg nor General Stenovics had been as well advised as usual in this essentially trumpery matter.
In short, nervousness had been betrayed. Whence came it? What did it mean? If it meant anything, could Lepage turn that thing to account? The King's favorite attendant was no favorite with Countess Ellenburg. For Lepage, too, the time might be very short! He would not injure the boy, as the angry mother had believed, or at least suggested; but, without question of that, there was no harm in a man's looking out for himself; or if there were, Lepage was clear in thinking that the Countess and the General were not fit preachers of such a highly exacting gospel.
Lepage concluded that he had something to sell. His wares were a suspicion and a fact. Selling the suspicion wronged nobody – he would give no warranty with it —Caveat emptor. Selling the fact was disobedience to the King his master. "Disobedience, yes; injury, no," said Lepage with a bit of casuistry. Besides, the King, too, had scolded him.
Moreover, the Prince of Slavna had always treated Monsieur Emile Lepage with distinguished consideration. The Bourbon blood, no doubt, stretched out hands to la belle France in Monsieur Lepage's person.
Something to sell! Who was his buyer? Whose interest could be won by his suspicion, whose friendship bought with his fact? The ultimate buyer was plain enough. But Lepage could not go to Praslok, and he did not approve of correspondence, especially with Colonel Stafnitz in practical control of the Household. He sought a go-between – and a personal interview. At least he could take a walk; the servants were not prisoners. Even conspirators must stop somewhere – on pain of doing their own cooking and the rest! At a quarter past eight in the evening, having given the King his dinner and made him comfortable for the next two hours, Lepage sallied forth and took the road to Slavna. He was very carefully dressed, wore a flower in his buttonhole, and had dropped a discreet hint about a lady, in conversation with his peers. If ladies often demand excuses, they may furnish them too; present seriousness invoked aid from bygone frivolity.
At ten o'clock he returned, still most spruce and orderly, and with a well satisfied air about him. He had found a purchaser for his suspicion and his fact. His pocket was the better lined, and he had received flattering expressions of gratitude and assurances of favor. He felt that he had raised a buttress against future assaults of Fortune. He entered the King's dressing-room in his usual noiseless and unobtrusive manner. He was not aware that General Stenovics had quitted it just a quarter of an hour before, bearing in his hand a document which he had submitted for his Majesty's signature. The King had signed it and endorsed the cover "Urgent."
"Ah, Lepage, where have you been?" asked the King.
"Just to get a little air and drink a glass at the Golden Lion."
"You look gayer than that!" smiled the King. Evidently his anger had passed; perhaps he wished to show as much to an old servant whom he liked and valued.
Conscience-stricken – or so appearing – Lepage tore the flower from his coat. "I beg Your Majesty's pardon. I ought to have removed it before entering your Majesty's presence. But I was told you wished to retire at once, sir, so I hurried here immediately."
The King gave a weary yawn. "Yes, I'll go to bed at once, Lepage; and let me sleep as long as I can. This fag-end of life isn't very amusing." He passed his hand wearily across his brow. "My head aches. Isn't the room very close, Lepage? Open the window."
"It has begun to rain, sir."
"Never mind, let's have the rain, too. At least, it's fresh."
Lepage opened a window which looked over the Krath. The King rose: Lepage hastened to offer his arm, which his Majesty accepted. They went together to the window. A sudden storm had gathered; rain was pelting down in big drops.
"It looks like being a rough night," remarked the King.
"I'm afraid it does, sir," Lepage agreed.
"We're lucky to be going to our beds."
"Very, sir," answered Lepage, wondering whose opposite fate his Majesty was pitying.
"I shouldn't care, even if I were a young man and a sound one, to ride to Praslok to-night."
"To Praslok, sir?" There was surprise in Lepage's voice. He could not help it. Luckily it sounded quite natural to the King. It was certainly not a night to ride five and twenty miles, and into the hills, unless your business was very urgent.
"Yes, to Praslok. I've had my breath of air – you can shut the window, Lepage."
The King returned to the fireplace and stood warming himself. Lepage closed the window, drew the curtains, and came to the middle of the room, where he stood in respectful readiness – and, underneath that, a very lively curiosity.
"Yes," said the King slowly, "Captain Markart goes to Praslok to-night – with a despatch for his Royal Highness, you know. Business, Lepage, urgent business! Everything must yield to that." The King enunciated this virtuous maxim as though it had been the rule of his life. "No time to lose, Lepage, so the Captain goes to-night. But I'm afraid he'll have a rough ride – very rough."
"I'm afraid so, sir," said Lepage, and added, strictly in his thoughts: "And so will Monsieur Zerkovitch!"
Captain Markart was entirely of his Majesty's opinion as he set out on his journey to Praslok. His ride would be rough, dark, and solitary – the last by Stenovics's order. Markart was not afraid, he was well armed; but he expected to be very bored, and knew that he would be very wet, by the time he reached the Castle. He breathed a fervent curse on the necessities of State, of which the Minister had informed him, as he buttoned up his heavy cavalry overcoat, and rode across the bridge on to the main road on the right bank, an hour before midnight.
Going was very heavy, so was the rain, so was the darkness; he and his horse made a blurred, laboring shape on the murky face of night. But his orders were to hasten, and he pushed on at a sharp trot and soon covered his first stage, the five miles to the old wooden bridge, where the road leaves the course of the Krath, is carried over the river, and strikes northeast, towards the hills.
At this point he received the first intimation that his journey was not to be so solitary as he had supposed. When he was half-way across the bridge, he heard what sounded like an echo of the beat of his horse's hoofs on the timbers behind him. The thing seemed odd. He halted a moment to listen. The sound of his horse's hoofs stopped – but the echo went on. It was no echo, then; he was not the only traveller that way! He pricked his horse with the spur; regaining the road, he heard the timbers of the bridge still sounding. He touched his horse again and went forward briskly. He had no reason to associate his fellow-traveller's errand with his own, but he was sure that when General Stenovics ordered despatch, he would not be pleased to learn that his messenger had been passed by another wayfarer on the road.
But the stranger, too, was in a hurry, it seemed; Markart could not shake him off. On the contrary, he drew nearer. The road was still broad and good. Markart tried a canter. The stranger broke into a canter. "At any rate, it makes for good time," thought Markart, smiling uneasily. In fact, the two found themselves drawn into a sort of race. On they went, covering the miles at a quick, sustained trot, exhilarating to the men, but rather a strain on their horses. Both were well mounted. Markart wondered who the stranger with such a good horse was. He turned his head, but could see only the same sort of blur as he himself made; part of the blur, however, seemed of a lighter color than his dark overcoat and bay horse produced.
Markart's horse pecked; his rider awoke to the fact that he was pounding his mount without doing much good to himself. He would see whether the unknown meant to pass him or was content to keep on equal terms. His pace fell to a gentle trot – so did the stranger's. Markart walked his horse for half a mile – so did the stranger. Thenceforward they went easily, each keeping his position, till Markart came to where the road forked – on the right to Dobrava, on the left to Praslok and Volseni. Markart drew rein and waited; he might just as well see where the stranger was going.
The stranger came up – and Markart started violently. The lighter tinge of the blur was explained. The stranger rode a white horse. It flashed on Markart that the Prince rode a white charger, and that the animal had been in Slavna the day before – he had seen it being exercised. He peered into the darkness, trying to see the man's face; the effort was of no avail. The stranger came to a stand beside him, and for a few moments neither moved. Then the stranger turned his horse's head to the left: he was for Praslok or Volseni, then! Markart followed his example. He knew why he did not speak to the stranger, but he was wondering why on earth the stranger did not speak to him. He went on wondering till it occurred to him that, perhaps, the stranger was in exactly the same state of mind.
There was no question of cantering, or even of trotting, now. The road rose steeply; it was loose and founderous from heavy rain; great stones lay about, dangerous traps for a careless rider. The horses labored. At the same moment, with the same instinct, Markart and the stranger dismounted. The next three miles were done on foot, and there before them, in deeper black, rose the gate-tower of the Castle of Praslok. The stranger had fallen a little behind again; now he drew level. They were almost opposite the Castle.
A dog barked from the stables. Another answered from the Castle. Two more took up the tune from the stables; the Castle guardian redoubled his responsive efforts. A man came running out from the stables with a lantern; a light flashed in the doorway of the Castle. Both Markart and the stranger came to a stand-still. The man with the lantern raised it high in the air, to see the faces of the travellers.
They saw each other's faces, too. The first result was to send them into a fit of laughter – a relief from tension, a recognition of the absurdity into which their diplomatic caution had led them.
"By the powers, Captain Markart!"
"Monsieur Zerkovitch, by Heaven!"
They laughed again.
"Ah, and we might have had a pleasant ride together!"
"I should have rejoiced in the solace of your conversation!"
But neither asked the other why he had behaved in such a ridiculous manner.
"And our destination is the same?" asked Zerkovitch. "You stop here at the Castle?"
"Yes, yes, Monsieur Zerkovitch. And you?"
"Yes, Captain, yes; my journey ends at the Castle."
The men led away their horses, which sorely needed tending, and they mounted the wooden causeway side by side, both feeling foolish, yet sure they had done right. In the doorway stood Peter Vassip with his lantern.
"Your business, gentlemen?" he said. It was between two and three in the morning.
They looked at each other; Zerkovitch was quicker, and with a courteous gesture invited his companion to take precedence.
"Private and urgent – with his Royal Highness."
"So is mine, Peter," said Zerkovitch.
Markart's humor was touched again; he began to laugh. Zerkovitch laughed, too, but there was a touch of excitement and nervousness in his mirth.
"His Royal Highness went to bed an hour ago," said Peter Vassip.
"I'm afraid you must rouse him. My business is immediate," said Markart. "And I suppose yours is too, Monsieur Zerkovitch?" he added jokingly.
"That it is," said Zerkovitch.
"I'll rouse the Prince. Will you follow me, gentlemen?"
Peter closed and barred the gate, and they followed him through the court-yard. A couple of sentries were pacing it; for the rest, all was still. Peter led them into a small room, where a fire was burning, and left them together. Side by side they stood close to the fire; each flung away his coat and tried to dry his boots and breeches at the comforting blaze.
"We must keep this story a secret, or we shall be laughed at by all Slavna, Monsieur Zerkovitch."
Zerkovitch gave him a sharp glance. "I should think you would report your discreet conduct to your superiors, Captain. Orders are orders, secrecy is secrecy, even though it turns out that there was no need for it."
Markart was about to reply with a joke when the Prince entered. He greeted both cordially, showing, of course, in Markart's presence, no surprise at Zerkovitch's arrival.
"There will be rooms and food and wine ready for you, gentlemen, in a few minutes. Captain Markart, you must rest here for to-night, for your horse's sake as well as your own. I suppose your business will wait till the morning?"
"My orders were to lose not a moment in communicating it to you, sir."
"Very well. You're from his Majesty?"
"Yes, sir."
"The King comes first – and I dare say your affair will wait, Zerkovitch?"
Zerkovitch protested with an eagerness by no means discreet in the presence of a third party – an aide-de-camp to Stenovics! – "No, sir, no – it can't wait an – "
The Prince interrupted. "Nonsense, man, nonsense! Now go to your room. I'll come in and bid you 'Good-night.'" He pushed his over-zealous friend from the room, calling to Peter Vassip to guide him to the apartment he was to occupy. Then he came back to Markart. "Now, Captain!"
Markart took out his letter and presented it with a salute. "Sit down while I read it," said the Prince, seating himself at the table.
The Prince read his letter, and sat playing with it in his fingers for half a minute or so. Then a thought seemed to strike him. "Heavens, I never told Peter to light fires! I hope he has. You're wet – and Zerkovitch is terribly liable to take cold." He jumped up. "Excuse me; we have no bells in this old place, you know." He ran out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Markart sprang to the door. He did not dare to open it, but he listened to the Prince's footsteps. They sounded to the left – one, two, three, four, five, six paces. They stopped – a door opened and shut. Markart made a mental note and went back to the fire, smiling. He thought that idea of his really would please General Stenovics.
In three minutes the Prince returned. "I did Peter injustice – Zerkovitch's fire is all right," he said. "And there's a good one in your room, too, he tells me. And now, Captain Markart, to our business. You know the contents of the letter you carried?"
"Yes, sir. They were communicated to me, in view of their urgency, and in case of accident to the letter."
"As a matter of form, repeat the gist to me."
"General Stenovics has to inform your Royal Highness on the King's behalf that his Majesty sees no need of a personal interview, as his mind is irrevocably fixed, and he orders your Royal Highness to set out for Germany within three days from the receipt of this letter. No pretext is to delay your Royal Highness's departure."
"Perfectly correct, Captain. To-morrow I shall give you an answer addressed directly to the King. But I wish now to give you a message to General Stenovics. I shall ask the King for an audience. Unless he appoints a time within two days, I shall conclude that he has not had the letter, or – pray mark this – has not enjoyed an opportunity of considering it independently. General Stenovics must consider what a responsibility he undertakes if he advises the King to refuse to see his son. I shall await his Majesty's answer here. That is the message. You understand?"
"Perfectly, sir."
"Just repeat it. The terms are important."
Markart obeyed. The Prince nodded his head. "You shall have the letter for the King early in the morning. Now for bed! I'll show you to your room."
They went out and turned to the left. Markart counted their paces. At six paces they came to a door – and passed it. Four farther on, the Prince ushered him into the room where he was to sleep. It was evident that the Prince had made personal inspection of the state of Monsieur Zerkovitch's fire!
"Good-night, Captain. By-the-way, the King continues well?"
"Dr. Natcheff says, sir, that he doesn't think his Majesty was ever better in his life."
The Prince looked at him for just a moment with a reflective smile. "Ah, and a trustworthy man, Natcheff! Good-night!"
Markart did not see much reason to think that the question, the look, the smile, and the comment had any significance. But there would be no harm in submitting the point to General Stenovics. Pondering over this, he forgot to count the Prince's paces this time. If he had counted, the sum would have been just four. Monsieur Zerkovitch's fire needed another royal inspection – it needed it almost till the break of day.
"The King's life hangs by a hair, and your Crown by a thread." That was the warning which Lepage had given and Zerkovitch had carried through the night.
