Chapter Chapter 6 · THE TASK OF THE QUEEN’S SERVANTS

. THE TASK OF THE QUEEN’S SERVANTS

THE doctor who attended me at Wintenberg was not only discreet, but also

indulgent; perhaps he had the sense to see that little benefit would

come to a sick man from fretting in helplessness on his back, when he

was on fire to be afoot. I fear he thought the baker’s rolling-pin was

in my mind, but at any rate I extorted a consent from him, and was on

my way home from Wintenberg not much more than twelve hours after Rudolf

Rassendyll left me. Thus I arrived at my own house in Strelsau on the

same Friday morning that witnessed the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim’s

two-fold interview with the king at the Castle of Zenda. The moment I

had arrived, I sent James, whose assistance had been, and continued

to be, in all respects most valuable, to despatch a message to the

constable, acquainting him with my whereabouts, and putting myself

entirely at his disposal. Sapt received this message while a council of

war was being held, and the information it gave aided not a little in

the arrangements that the constable and Rudolf Rassendyll made. What

these were I must now relate, although, I fear, at the risk of some

tediousness.

Yet that council of war in Zenda was held under no common circumstances.

Cowed as Rischenheim appeared, they dared not let him out of their

sight. Rudolf could not leave the room into which Sapt had locked him;

the king’s absence was to be short, and before he came again Rudolf must

be gone, Rischenheim safely disposed of, and measures taken against the

original letter reaching the hands for which the intercepted copy had

been destined. The room was a large one. In the corner farthest from

the door sat Rischenheim, disarmed, dispirited, to all seeming ready to

throw up his dangerous game and acquiesce in any terms presented to him.

Just inside the door, guarding it, if need should be, with their lives,

were the other three, Bernenstein merry and triumphant, Sapt blunt and

cool, Rudolf calm and clear-headed. The queen awaited the result of

their deliberations in her apartments, ready to act as they directed,

but determined to see Rudolf before he left the castle. They conversed

together in low tones. Presently Sapt took paper and wrote. This first

message was to me, and it bade me come to Zenda that afternoon; another

head and another pair of hands were sadly needed. Then followed more

deliberation; Rudolf took up the talking now, for his was the bold plan

on which they consulted. Sapt twirled his moustache, smiling doubtfully.

“Yes, yes,” murmured young Bernenstein, his eyes alight with excitement.

“It’s dangerous, but the best thing,” said Rudolf, carefully sinking

his voice yet lower, lest the prisoner should catch the lightest word

of what he said. “It involves my staying here till the evening. Is that

possible?”

“No; but you can leave here and hide in the forest till I join you,”

said Sapt.

“Till we join you,” corrected Bernenstein eagerly.

“No,” said the constable, “you must look after our friend here. Come,

Lieutenant, it’s all in the queen’s service.”

“Besides,” added Rudolf with a smile, “neither the colonel nor I would

let you have a chance at Rupert. He’s our game, isn’t he, Sapt?”

The colonel nodded. Rudolf in his turn took paper, and here is the

message that he wrote:

“Holf, 19, Konigstrasse, Strelsau.--All well. He has what I had, but

wishes to see what you have. He and I will be at the hunting-lodge

at ten this evening. Bring it and meet us. The business is

unsuspected.--R.”

Rudolf threw the paper across to Sapt; Bernenstein leant over the

constable’s shoulder and read it eagerly.

“I doubt if it would bring me,” grinned old Sapt, throwing the paper

down.

“It’ll bring Rupert to Hentzau. Why not? He’ll know that the king will

wish to meet him unknown to the queen, and also unknown to you, Sapt,

since you were my friend: what place more likely for the king to choose

than his hunting-lodge, where he is accustomed to go when he wishes to

be alone? The message will bring him, depend on it. Why, man, Rupert

would come even if he suspected; and why should he suspect?”

“They may have a cipher, he and Rischenheim,” objected Sapt.

“No, or Rupert would have sent the address in it,” retorted Rudolf

quickly.

“Then--when he comes?” asked Bernenstein.

“He finds such a king as Rischenheim found, and Sapt, here, at his

elbow.”

“But he’ll know you,” objected Bernenstein.

“Ay, I think he’ll know me,” said Rudolf with a smile. “Meanwhile we

send for Fritz to come here and look after the king.”

“And Rischenheim?”

“That’s your share, Lieutenant. Sapt, is any one at Tarlenheim?”

“No. Count Stanislas has put it at Fritz’s disposal.”

“Good; then Fritz’s two friends, the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim and

Lieutenant von Bernenstein, will ride over there to-day. The constable

of Zenda will give the lieutenant twenty-four hours’ leave of absence,

and the two gentlemen will pass the day and sleep at the chateau. They

will pass the day side by side, Bernenstein, not losing sight of one

another for an instant, and they will pass the night in the same room.

And one of them will not close his eyes nor take his hand off the butt

of his revolver.”

“Very good, sir,” said young Bernenstein.

“If he tries to escape or give any alarm, shoot him through the head,

ride to the frontier, get to safe hiding, and, if you can, let us know.”

“Yes,” said Bernenstein simply. Sapt had chosen well, and the young

officer made nothing of the peril and ruin that her Majesty’s service

might ask of him.

A restless movement and a weary sigh from Rischenheim attracted their

attention. He had strained his ears to listen till his head ached, but

the talkers had been careful, and he had heard nothing that threw light

on their deliberations. He had now given up his vain attempt, and sat in

listless inattention, sunk in an apathy.

“I don’t think he’ll give you much trouble,” whispered Sapt to

Bernenstein, with a jerk of his thumb towards the captive.

“Act as if he were likely to give you much,” urged Rudolf, laying his

hand on the lieutenant’s arm.

“Yes, that’s a wise man’s advice,” nodded the constable approvingly. “We

were well governed, Lieutenant, when this Rudolf was king.”

“Wasn’t I also his loyal subject?” asked young Bernenstein.

“Yes, wounded in my service,” added Rudolf; for he remembered how

the boy--he was little more then--had been fired upon in the park of

Tarlenheim, being taken for Mr. Rassendyll himself.

Thus their plans were laid. If they could defeat Rupert, they would have

Rischenheim at their mercy. If they could keep Rischenheim out of the

way while they used his name in their trick, they had a strong chance of

deluding and killing Rupert. Yes, of killing him; for that and nothing

less was their purpose, as the constable of Zenda himself has told me.

“We would have stood on no ceremony,” he said. “The queen’s honor was at

stake, and the fellow himself an assassin.”

Bernenstein rose and went out. He was gone about half an hour, being

employed in despatching the telegrams to Strelsau. Rudolf and Sapt used

the interval to explain to Rischenheim what they proposed to do with

him. They asked no pledge, and he offered none. He heard what they

said with a dulled uninterested air. When asked if he would go without

resistance, he laughed a bitter laugh. “How can I resist?” he asked. “I

should have a bullet through my head.”

“Why, without doubt,” said Colonel Sapt. “My lord, you are very

sensible.”

“Let me advise you, my lord,” said Rudolf, looking down on him kindly

enough, “if you come safe through this affair, to add honor to your

prudence, and chivalry to your honor. There is still time for you to

become a gentleman.”

He turned away, followed by a glance of anger from the count and a

grating chuckle from old Sapt.

A few moments later Bernenstein returned. His errand was done, and

horses for himself and Rischenheim were at the gate of the castle. After

a few final words and clasp of the hand from Rudolf, the lieutenant

motioned to his prisoner to accompany him, and they two walked out

together, being to all appearance willing companions and in perfect

friendliness with one another. The queen herself watched them go from

the windows of her apartment, and noticed that Bernenstein rode half a

pace behind, and that his free hand rested on the revolver by his side.

It was now well on in the morning, and the risk of Rudolf’s sojourn in

the castle grew greater with every moment. Yet he was resolved to

see the queen before he went. This interview presented no great

difficulties, since her Majesty was in the habit of coming to the

constable’s room to take his advice or to consult with him. The hardest

task was to contrive afterwards a free and unnoticed escape for Mr.

Rassendyll. To meet this necessity, the constable issued orders that

the company of guards which garrisoned the castle should parade at

one o’clock in the park, and that the servants should all, after their

dinner, be granted permission to watch the manoeuvres. By this means he

counted on drawing off any curious eyes and allowing Rudolf to reach the

forest unobserved. They appointed a rendezvous in a handy and sheltered

spot; the one thing which they were compelled to trust to fortune was

Rudolf’s success in evading chance encounters while he waited. Mr.

Rassendyll himself was confident of his ability to conceal his presence,

or, if need were, so to hide his face that no strange tale of the king

being seen wandering, alone and beardless, should reach the ears of the

castle or the town.

While Sapt was making his arrangements, Queen Flavia came to the room

where Rudolf Rassendyll was. It was then nearing twelve, and young

Bernenstein had been gone half an hour. Sapt attended her to the door,

set a sentry at the end of the passage with orders that her Majesty

should on no pretence be disturbed, promised her very audibly to return

as soon as he possibly could, and respectfully closed the door after

she had entered. The constable was well aware of the value in a secret

business of doing openly all that can safely be done with openness.

All of what passed at that interview I do not know, but a part Queen

Flavia herself told to me, or rather to Helga, my wife; for although it

was meant to reach my ear, yet to me, a man, she would not disclose it

directly. First she learnt from Mr. Rassendyll the plans that had been

made, and, although she trembled at the danger that he must run in

meeting Rupert of Hentzau, she had such love of him and such a trust in

his powers that she seemed to doubt little of his success. But she began

to reproach herself for having brought him into this peril by writing

her letter. At this he took from his pocket the copy that Rischenheim

had carried. He had found time to read it, and now before her eyes he

kissed it.

“Had I as many lives as there are words, my queen,” he said softly, “for

each word I would gladly give a life.”

“Ah, Rudolf, but you’ve only one life, and that more mine than yours.

Did you think we should ever meet again?”

“I didn’t know,” said he; and now they were standing opposite one

another.

“But I knew,” she said, her eyes shining brightly; “I knew always that

we should meet once more. Not how, nor where, but just that we should.

So I lived, Rudolf.”

“God bless you!” he said.

“Yes, I lived through it all.”

He pressed her hand, knowing what that phrase meant and must mean for

her.

“Will it last forever?” she asked, suddenly gripping his hand tightly.

But a moment later she went on: “No, no, I mustn’t make you unhappy,

Rudolf. I’m half glad I wrote the letter, and half glad they stole

it. It’s so sweet to have you fighting for me, for me only this time,

Rudolf--not for the king, for me!”

“Sweet indeed, my dearest lady. Don’t be afraid: we shall win.”

“You will win, yes. And then you’ll go?” And, dropping his hand, she

covered her face with hers.

“I mustn’t kiss your face,” said he, “but your hands I may kiss,” and he

kissed her hands as they were pressed against her face.

“You wear my ring,” she murmured through her fingers, “always?”

“Why, yes,” he said, with a little laugh of wonder at her question.

“And there is--no one else?”

“My queen!” said he, laughing again.

“No, I knew really, Rudolf, I knew really,” and now her hands flew out

towards him, imploring his pardon. Then she began to speak quickly:

“Rudolf, last night I had a dream about you, a strange dream. I seemed

to be in Strelsau, and all the people were talking about the king. It

was you they meant; you were the king. At last you were the king, and I

was your queen. But I could see you only very dimly; you were somewhere,

but I could not make out where; just sometimes your face came. Then I

tried to tell you that you were king--yes, and Colonel Sapt and Fritz

tried to tell you; the people, too, called out that you were king. What

did it mean? But your face, when I saw it, was unmoved, and very pale,

and you seemed not to hear what we said, not even what I said. It almost

seemed as if you were dead, and yet king. Ah, you mustn’t die, even to

be king,” and she laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Sweetheart,” said he gently, “in dreams desires and fears blend in

strange visions, so I seemed to you to be both a king and a dead man;

but I’m not a king, and I am a very healthy fellow. Yet a thousand

thanks to my dearest queen for dreaming of me.”

“No, but what could it mean?” she asked again.

“What does it mean when I dream always of you, except that I always love

you?”

“Was it only that?” she said, still unconvinced.

What more passed between them I do not know. I think that the queen told

my wife more, but women will sometimes keep women’s secrets even from

their husbands; though they love us, yet we are always in some sort the

common enemy, against whom they join hands. Well, I would not look too

far into such secrets, for to know must be, I suppose, to blame, and who

is himself so blameless that in such a case he would be free with his

censures?

Yet much cannot have passed, for almost close on their talk about the

dream came Colonel Sapt, saying that the guards were in line, and all

the women streamed out to watch them, while the men followed, lest the

gay uniforms should make them forgotten. Certainly a quiet fell over

the old castle, that only the constable’s curt tones broke, as he bade

Rudolf come by the back way to the stables and mount his horse.

“There’s no time to lose,” said Sapt, and his eye seemed to grudge the

queen even one more word with the man she loved.

But Rudolf was not to be hurried into leaving her in such a fashion. He

clapped the constable on the shoulder, laughing, and bidding him think

of what he would for a moment; then he went again to the queen and would

have knelt before her, but that she would not suffer, and they stood

with hands locked. Then suddenly she drew him to her and kissed his

forehead, saying: “God go with you, Rudolf my knight.”

Thus she turned away, letting him go. He walked towards the door; but a

sound arrested his steps, and he waited in the middle of the room, his

eyes on the door. Old Sapt flew to the threshold, his sword half-way out

of its sheath. There was a step coming down the passage, and the feet

stopped outside the door.

“Is it the king?” whispered Rudolf.

“I don’t know,” said Sapt.

“No, it’s not the king,” came in unhesitating certainty from Queen

Flavia.

They waited: a low knock sounded on the door. Still for a moment they

waited. The knock was repeated urgently.

“We must open,” said Sapt. “Behind the curtain with you, Rudolf.”

The queen sat down, and Sapt piled a heap of papers before her, that it

might seem as though he and she transacted business. But his precautions

were interrupted by a hoarse, eager, low cry from outside, “Quick! in

God’s name, quick!”

They knew the voice for Bernenstein’s. The queen sprang up, Rudolf came

out, Sapt turned the key. The lieutenant entered, hurried, breathless,

pale.

“Well?” asked Sapt.

“He has got away?” cried Rudolf, guessing in a moment the misfortune

that had brought Bernenstein back.

“Yes, he’s got away. Just as we left the town and reached the open road

towards Tarlenheim, he said, ‘Are we going to walk all the way? I was

not loath to go quicker, and we broke into a trot. But I--ah, what a

pestilent fool I am!”

“Never mind that--go on.”

“Why, I was thinking of him and my task, and having a bullet ready for

him, and--”

“Of everything except your horse?” guessed Sapt, with a grim smile.

“Yes; and the horse pecked and stumbled, and I fell forward on his neck.

I put out my arm to recover myself, and--I jerked my revolver on to the

ground.”

“And he saw?”

“He saw, curse him. For a second he waited; then he smiled, and turned,

and dug his spurs in and was off, straight across country towards

Strelsau. Well, I was off my horse in a moment, and I fired three times

after him.”

“You hit?” asked Rudolf.

“I think so. He shifted the reins from one hand to the other and wrung

his arm. I mounted and made after him, but his horse was better than

mine and he gained ground. We began to meet people, too, and I didn’t

dare to fire again. So I left him and rode here to tell you. Never

employ me again, Constable, so long as you live,” and the young man’s

face was twisted with misery and shame, as, forgetting the queen’s

presence, he sank despondently into a chair.

Sapt took no notice of his self-reproaches. But Rudolf went and laid a

hand on his shoulder.

“It was an accident,” he said. “No blame to you.”

The queen rose and walked towards him; Bernenstein sprang to his feet.

“Sir,” said she, “it is not success but effort that should gain thanks,”

and she held out her hand.

Well, he was young; I do not laugh at the sob that escaped his lips as

he turned his head.

“Let me try something else!” he implored.

“Mr. Rassendyll,” said the queen, “you’ll do my pleasure by employing

this gentleman in my further service. I am already deep in his debt, and

would be deeper.” There was a moment’s silence.

“Well, but what’s to be done?” asked Colonel Sapt. “He’s gone to

Strelsau.”

“He’ll stop Rupert,” mused Mr. Rassendyll. “He may or he mayn’t.”

“It’s odds that he will.”

“We must provide for both.”

Sapt and Rudolf looked at one another.

“You must be here!” asked Rudolf of the constable. “Well, I’ll go to

Strelsau.” His smile broke out. “That is, if Bernenstein’ll lend me a

hat.”

The queen made no sound; but she came and laid her hand on his arm. He

looked at her, smiling still.

“Yes, I’ll go to Strelsau,” said he, “and I’ll find Rupert, ay, and

Rischenheim too, if they’re in the city.”

“Take me with you,” cried Bernenstein eagerly.

Rudolf glanced at Sapt. The constable shook his head. Bernenstein’s face

fell.

“It’s not that, boy,” said old Sapt, half in kindness, half in

impatience. “We want you here. Suppose Rupert comes here with

Rischenheim!”

The idea was new, but the event was by no means unlikely.

“But you’ll be here, Constable,” urged Bernenstein, “and Fritz von

Tarlenheim will arrive in an hour.”

“Ay, young man,” said Sapt, nodding his head; “but when I fight Rupert

of Hentzau, I like to have a man to spare,” and he grinned broadly, being

no whit afraid of what Bernenstein might think of his courage. “Now go

and get him a hat,” he added, and the lieutenant ran off on the errand.

But the queen cried:

“Are you sending Rudolf alone, then--alone against two?”

“Yes, madam, if I may command the campaign,” said Sapt. “I take it he

should be equal to the task.”

He could not know the feelings of the queen’s heart. She dashed her hand

across her eyes, and turned in mute entreaty to Rudolf Rassendyll.

“I must go,” he said softly. “We can’t spare Bernenstein, and I mustn’t

stay here.”

She said no more. Rudolf walked across to Sapt.

“Take me to the stables. Is the horse good? I daren’t take the train.

Ah, here’s the lieutenant and the hat.”

“The horse’ll get you there to-night,” said Sapt. “Come along.

Bernenstein, stay with the queen.”

At the threshold Rudolf paused, and, turning his head, glanced once

at Queen Flavia, who stood still as a statue, watching him go. Then

he followed the constable, who brought him where the horse was. Sapt’s

devices for securing freedom from observation had served well, and

Rudolf mounted unmolested.

“The hat doesn’t fit very well,” said Rudolf.

“Like a crown better, eh?” suggested the colonel.

Rudolf laughed as he asked, “Well, what are my orders?”

“Ride round by the moat to the road at the back; then through the forest

to Hofbau; you know your way after that. You mustn’t reach Strelsau till

it’s dark. Then, if you want a shelter--”

“To Fritz von Tarlenheim’s, yes! From there I shall go straight to the

address.”

“Ay. And--Rudolf!”

“Yes?”

“Make an end of him this time.”

“Please God. But if he goes to the lodge? He will, unless Rischenheim

stops him.”

“I’ll be there in case--but I think Rischenheim will stop him.”

“If he comes here?”

“Young Bernenstein will die before he suffers him to reach the king.”

“Sapt!”

“Ay?”

“Be kind to her.”

“Bless the man, yes!”

“Good-by.”

“And good luck.”

At a swift canter Rudolf darted round the drive that led from the

stables, by the moat, to the old forest road behind; five minutes

brought him within the shelter of the trees, and he rode on confidently,

meeting nobody, save here and there a yokel, who, seeing a man ride hard

with his head averted, took no more notice of him than to wish that he

himself could ride abroad instead of being bound to work. Thus Rudolf

Rassendyll set out again for the walls of Strelsau, through the forest

of Zenda. And ahead of him, with an hour’s start, galloped the Count of

Luzau-Rischenheim, again a man, and a man with resolution, resentment,

and revenge in his heart.

The game was afoot now; who could tell the issue of it?