Kabanata Kabanata 19 · FOR OUR LOVE AND HER HONOR

. FOR OUR LOVE AND HER HONOR

RUPERT of Hentzau was dead! That was the thought which, among all our

perplexities, came back to me, carrying with it a wonderful relief.

To those who have not learnt in fighting against him the height of his

audacity and the reach of his designs, it may well seem incredible that

his death should breed comfort at a moment when the future was still

so dark and uncertain. Yet to me it was so great a thing that I could

hardly bring myself to the conviction that we had done with him. True,

he was dead; but could he not strike a blow at us even from beyond the

gulf?

Such were the half-superstitious thoughts that forced their way into my

mind as I stood looking out on the crowd which obstinately encircled the

front of the palace. I was alone; Rudolf was with the queen, my wife was

resting, Bernenstein had sat down to a meal for which I could find

no appetite. By an effort I freed myself from my fancies and tried to

concentrate my brain on the facts of our position. We were ringed round

with difficulties. To solve them was beyond my power; but I knew where

my wish and longing lay. I had no desire to find means by which Rudolf

Rassendyll should escape unknown from Strelsau; the king, although

dead, be again in death the king, and the queen be left desolate on her

mournful and solitary throne. It might be that a brain more astute than

mine could bring all this to pass. My imagination would have none of

it, but dwelt lovingly on the reign of him who was now king in Strelsau,

declaring that to give the kingdom such a ruler would be a splendid

fraud, and prove a stroke so bold as to defy detection. Against it

stood only the suspicions of Mother Holf--fear or money would close her

lips--and the knowledge of Bauer; Bauer’s mouth also could be shut, ay,

and should be before we were many days older. My reverie led me far;

I saw the future years unroll before me in the fair record of a great

king’s sovereignty. It seemed to me that by the violence and bloodshed

we had passed through, fate, for once penitent, was but righting the

mistake made when Rudolf was not born a king.

For a long while I stood thus, musing and dreaming; I was roused by the

sound of the door opening and closing; turning, I saw the queen. She was

alone, and came towards me with timid steps. She looked out for a moment

on the square and the people, but drew back suddenly in apparent fear

lest they should see her. Then she sat down and turned her face towards

mine. I read in her eyes something of the conflict of emotions which

possessed her; she seemed at once to deprecate my disapproval and to

ask my sympathy; she prayed me to be gentle to her fault and kind to her

happiness; self-reproach shadowed her joy, but the golden gleam of it

strayed through. I looked eagerly at her; this would not have been her

bearing had she come from a last farewell; for the radiance was there,

however much dimmed by sorrow and by fearfulness.

“Fritz,” she began softly, “I am wicked--so wicked. Won’t God punish me

for my gladness?”

I fear I paid little heed to her trouble, though I can understand it

well enough now.

“Gladness?” I cried in a low voice. “Then you’ve persuaded him?”

She smiled at me for an instant.

“I mean, you’ve agreed?” I stammered.

Her eyes again sought mine, and she said in a whisper: “Some day, not

now. Oh, not now. Now would be too much. But some day, Fritz, if God

will not deal too hardly with me, I--I shall be his, Fritz.”

I was intent on my vision, not on hers. I wanted him king; she did not

care what he was, so that he was hers, so that he should not leave her.

“He’ll take the throne,” I cried triumphantly.

“No, no, no. Not the throne. He’s going away.”

“Going away!” I could not keep the dismay out of my voice.

“Yes, now. But not--not for ever. It will be long--oh, so long--but I

can bear it, if I know that at last!” She stopped, still looking up at

me with eyes that implored pardon and sympathy.

“I don’t understand,” said I, bluntly, and, I fear, gruffly, also.

“You were right,” she said: “I did persuade him. He wanted to go away

again as he went before. Ought I to have let him? Yes, yes! But I

couldn’t. Fritz, hadn’t I done enough? You don’t know what I’ve endured.

And I must endure more still. For he will go now, and the time will be

very long. But, at last, we shall be together. There is pity in God; we

shall be together at last.”

“If he goes now, how can he come back?”

“He will not come back; I shall go to him. I shall give up the throne

and go to him, some day, when I can be spared from here, when I’ve done

my--my work.”

I was aghast at this shattering of my vision, yet I could not be hard to

her. I said nothing, but took her hand and pressed it.

“You wanted him to be king?” she whispered.

“With all my heart, madam,” said I.

“He wouldn’t, Fritz. No, and I shouldn’t dare to do that, either.”

I fell back on the practical difficulties. “But how can he go?” I asked.

“I don’t know. But he knows; he has a plan.”

We fell again into silence; her eyes grew more calm, and seemed to look

forward in patient hope to the time when her happiness should come to

her. I felt like a man suddenly robbed of the exaltation of wine and

sunk to dull apathy. “I don’t see how he can go,” I said sullenly.

She did not answer me. A moment later the door again opened. Rudolf came

in, followed by Bernenstein. Both wore riding boots and cloaks. I saw on

Bernenstein’s face just such a look of disappointment as I knew must be

on mine. Rudolf seemed calm and even happy. He walked straight up to the

queen.

“The horses will be ready in a few minutes,” he said gently. Then,

turning to me, he asked, “You know what we’re going to do, Fritz?”

“Not I, sire,” I answered, sulkily.

“Not I, sire!” he repeated, in a half-merry, half-sad mockery. Then he

came between Bernenstein and me and passed his arms through ours. “You

two villains!” he said. “You two unscrupulous villains! Here you are,

as rough as bears, because I won’t be a thief! Why have I killed young

Rupert and left you rogues alive?”

I felt the friendly pressure of his hand on my arm. I could not answer

him. With every word from his lips and every moment of his presence my

sorrow grew keener that he would not stay. Bernenstein looked across at

me and shrugged his shoulders despairingly. Rudolf gave a little laugh.

“You won’t forgive me for not being as great a rogue, won’t you?” he

asked.

Well, I found nothing to say, but I took my arm out of his and clasped

his hand. He gripped mine hard.

“That’s old Fritz!” he said; and he caught hold of Bernenstein’s hand,

which the lieutenant yielded with some reluctance. “Now for the

plan,” said he. “Bernenstein and I set out at once for the lodge--yes,

publicly, as publicly as we can. I shall ride right through the people

there, showing myself to as many as will look at me, and letting it

be known to everybody where I’m going. We shall get there quite early

to-morrow, before it’s light. There we shall find what you know. We

shall find Sapt, too, and he’ll put the finishing touches to our plan

for us. Hullo, what’s that?”

There was a sudden fresh shouting from the large crowd that still

lingered outside the palace. I ran to the window, and saw a commotion in

the midst of them. I flung the sash up. Then I heard a well-known, loud,

strident voice: “Make way, you rascals, make way.”

I turned round again, full of excitement.

“It’s Sapt himself!” I said. “He’s riding like mad through the crowd,

and your servant’s just behind him.”

“My God, what’s happened? Why have they left the lodge?” cried

Bernenstein.

The queen looked up in startled alarm, and, rising to her feet, came

and passed her arm through Rudolf’s. Thus we all stood, listening to

the people good-naturedly cheering Sapt, whom they had recognized, and

bantering James, whom they took for a servant of the constable’s.

The minutes seemed very long as we waited in utter perplexity, almost in

consternation. The same thought was in the mind of all of us, silently

imparted by one to another in the glances we exchanged. What could have

brought them from their guard of the great secret, save its discovery?

They would never have left their post while the fulfilment of their

trust was possible. By some mishap, some unforeseen chance, the king’s

body must have been discovered. Then the king’s death was known, and the

news of it might any moment astonish and bewilder the city.

At last the door was flung open, and a servant announced the Constable

of Zenda. Sapt was covered with dust and mud, and James, who entered

close on his heels, was in no better plight. Evidently they had ridden

hard and furiously; indeed they were still panting. Sapt, with a most

perfunctory bow to the queen, came straight to where Rudolf stood.

“Is he dead?” he asked, without preface.

“Yes, Rupert is dead,” answered Mr. Rassendyll: “I killed him.”

“And the letter?”

“I burnt it.”

“And Rischenheim?”

The queen struck in.

“The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim will say and do nothing against me,” she

said.

Sapt lifted his brows a little. “Well, and Bauer?” he asked.

“Bauer’s at large,” I answered.

“Hum! Well, it’s only Bauer,” said the constable, seeming tolerably well

pleased. Then his eyes fell on Rudolf and Bernenstein. He stretched out

his hand and pointed to their riding-boots. “Whither away so late at

night?” he asked.

“First together to the lodge, to find you, then I alone to the

frontier,” said Mr. Rassendyll.

“One thing at a time. The frontier will wait. What does your Majesty

want with me at the lodge?”

“I want so to contrive that I shall be no longer your Majesty,” said

Rudolf.

Sapt flung himself into a chair and took off his gloves.

“Come, tell me what has happened to-day in Strelsau,” he said.

We gave a short and hurried account. He listened with few signs of

approval or disapproval, but I thought I saw a gleam in his eyes when I

described how all the city had hailed Rudolf as its king and the queen

received him as her husband before the eyes of all. Again the hope and

vision, shattered by Rudolf’s calm resolution, inspired me. Sapt said

little, but he had the air of a man with some news in reserve. He seemed

to be comparing what we told him with something already known to him

but unknown to us. The little servant stood all the while in respectful

stillness by the door; but I could see by a glance at his alert face

that he followed the whole scene with keen attention.

At the end of the story, Rudolf turned to Sapt. “And your secret--is it

safe?” he asked.

“Ay, it’s safe enough!”

“Nobody has seen what you had to hide?”

“No; and nobody knows that the king is dead,” answered Sapt.

“Then what brings you here?”

“Why, the same thing that was about to bring you to the lodge: the need

of a meeting between yourself and me, sire.”

“But the lodge--is it left unguarded?”

“The lodge is safe enough,” said Colonel Sapt.

Unquestionably there was a secret, a new secret, hidden behind the curt

words and brusque manner. I could restrain myself no longer, and sprang

forward, saying: “What is it? Tell us, Constable!”

He looked at me, then glanced at Mr. Rassendyll.

“I should like to hear your plan first,” he said to Rudolf. “How do you

mean to account for your presence alive in the city to-day, when the

king has lain dead in the shooting-box since last night?”

We drew close together as Rudolf began his answer. Sapt alone lay back

in his chair. The queen also had resumed her seat; she seemed to pay

little heed to what we said. I think that she was still engrossed with

the struggle and tumult in her own soul. The sin of which she accused

herself, and the joy to which her whole being sprang in a greeting which

would not be abashed, were at strife between themselves, but joined

hands to exclude from her mind any other thought.

“In an hour I must be gone from here,” began Rudolf.

“If you wish that, it’s easy,” observed Colonel Sapt.

“Come, Sapt, be reasonable,” smiled Mr. Rassendyll. “Early to-morrow,

we--you and I--”

“Oh, I also?” asked the colonel.

“Yes; you, Bernenstein, and I will be at the lodge.”

“That’s not impossible, though I have had nearly enough riding.”

Rudolf fixed his eyes firmly on Sapt’s.

“You see,” he said, “the king reaches his hunting-lodge early in the

morning.”

“I follow you, sire.”

“And what happens there, Sapt? Does he shoot himself accidentally?”

“Well, that happens sometimes.”

“Or does an assassin kill him?”

“Eh, but you’ve made the best assassin unavailable.”

Even at this moment I could not help smiling at the old fellow’s surly

wit and Rudolf’s amused tolerance of it.

“Or does his faithful attendant, Herbert, shoot him?”

“What, make poor Herbert a murderer!”

“Oh, no! By accident--and then, in remorse, kill himself.”

“That’s very pretty. But doctors have awkward views as to when a man can

have shot himself.”

“My good Constable, doctors have palms as well as ideas. If you fill the

one you supply the other.”

“I think,” said Sapt, “that both the plans are good. Suppose we choose

the latter, what then?”

“Why, then, by to-morrow at midday the news flashes through

Ruritania--yes, and through Europe--that the king, miraculously

preserved to-day--”

“Praise be to God!” interjected Colonel Sapt; and young Bernenstein

laughed.

“Has met a tragic end.”

“It will occasion great grief,” said Sapt.

“Meanwhile, I am safe over the frontier.”

“Oh, you are quite safe?”

“Absolutely. And in the afternoon of to-morrow, you and Bernenstein

will set out for Strelsau, bringing with you the body of the king.” And

Rudolf, after a pause, whispered, “You must shave his face. And if the

doctors want to talk about how long he’s been dead, why, they have, as I

say, palms.”

Sapt sat silent for a while, apparently considering the scheme. It was

risky enough in all conscience, but success had made Rudolf bold, and

he had learnt how slow suspicion is if a deception be bold enough. It is

only likely frauds that are detected.

“Well, what do you say?” asked Mr. Rassendyll. I observed that he

said nothing to Sapt of what the queen and he had determined to do

afterwards.

Sapt wrinkled his forehead. I saw him glance at James, and the

slightest, briefest smile showed on James’s face.

“It’s dangerous, of course,” pursued Rudolf. “But I believe that when

they see the king’s body--”

“That’s the point,” interrupted Sapt. “They can’t see the king’s body.”

Rudolf looked at him with some surprise. Then speaking in a low voice,

lest the queen should hear and be distressed, he went on: “You must

prepare it, you know. Bring it here in a shell; only a few officials

need see the face.”

Sapt rose to his feet and stood facing Mr. Rassendyll.

“The plan’s a pretty one, but it breaks down at one point,” said he in a

strange voice, even harsher than his was wont to be. I was on fire with

excitement, for I would have staked my life now that he had some strange

tidings for us. “There is no body,” said he.

Even Mr. Rassendyll’s composure gave way. He sprang forward, catching

Sapt by the arm.

“No body? What do you mean?” he exclaimed.

Sapt cast another glance at James, and then began in an even, mechanical

voice, as though he were reading a lesson he had learnt, or playing a

part that habit made familiar:

“That poor fellow Herbert carelessly left a candle burning where the oil

and the wood were kept,” he said. “This afternoon, about six, James and

I lay down for a nap after our meal. At about seven James came to my

side and roused me. My room was full of smoke. The lodge was ablaze. I

darted out of bed: the fire had made too much headway; we could not hope

to quench it; we had but one thought!” He suddenly paused, and looked at

James.

“But one thought, to save our companion,” said James gravely.

“But one thought, to save our companion. We rushed to the door of the

room where he was. I opened the door and tried to enter. It was certain

death. James tried, but fell back. Again I rushed in. James pulled me

back: it was but another death. We had to save ourselves. We gained the

open air. The lodge was a sheet of flame. We could do nothing but stand

watching, till the swiftly burning wood blackened to ashes and the

flames died down. As we watched we knew that all in the cottage must be

dead. What could we do? At last James started off in the hope of getting

help. He found a party of charcoal-burners, and they came with him.

The flames were burnt down now; and we and they approached the charred

ruins. Everything was in ashes. But”--he lowered his voice--“we found

what seemed to be the body of Boris the hound; in another room was a

charred corpse, whose hunting-horn, melted to a molten mass, told us

that it had been Herbert the forester. And there was another

corpse, almost shapeless, utterly unrecognizable. We saw it; the

charcoal-burners saw it. Then more peasants came round, drawn by the

sight of the flames. None could tell who it was; only I and James knew.

And we mounted our horses and have ridden here to tell the king.”

Sapt finished his lesson or his story. A sob burst from the queen, and

she hid her face in her hands. Bernenstein and I, amazed at this strange

tale, scarcely understanding whether it were jest or earnest, stood

staring stupidly at Sapt. Then I, overcome by the strange thing, turned

half-foolish by the bizarre mingling of comedy and impressiveness in

Sapt’s rendering of it, plucked him by the sleeve, and asked, with

something between a laugh and a gasp:

“Who had that other corpse been, Constable?”

He turned his small, keen eyes on me in persistent gravity and

unflinching effrontery.

“A Mr. Rassendyll, a friend of the king’s, who with his servant James

was awaiting his Majesty’s return from Strelsau. His servant here is

ready to start for England, to tell Mr. Rassendyll’s relatives the

news.”

The queen had begun to listen before now; her eyes were fixed on Sapt,

and she had stretched out one arm to him, as if imploring him to read

her his riddle. But a few words had in truth declared his device plainly

enough in all its simplicity. Rudolf Rassendyll was dead, his body

burnt to a cinder, and the king was alive, whole, and on his throne in

Strelsau. Thus had Sapt caught from James, the servant, the infection of

his madness, and had fulfilled in action the strange imagination which

the little man had unfolded to him in order to pass their idle hours at

the lodge.

Suddenly Mr. Rassendyll spoke in clear, short tones.

“This is all a lie, Sapt,” said he, and his lips curled in contemptuous

amusement.

“It’s no lie that the lodge is burnt, and the bodies in it, and that

half a hundred of the peasants know it, and that no man could tell the

body for the king’s. As for the rest, it is a lie. But I think the truth

in it is enough to serve.”

The two men stood facing one another with defiant eyes. Rudolf had

caught the meaning of the great and audacious trick which Sapt and his

companion had played. It was impossible now to bring the king’s body to

Strelsau; it seemed no less impossible to declare that the man burnt in

the lodge was the king. Thus Sapt had forced Rudolf’s hand; he had been

inspired by the same vision as we, and endowed with more unshrinking

boldness. But when I saw how Rudolf looked at him, I did not know but

that they would go from the queen’s presence set on a deadly quarrel.

Mr. Rassendyll, however, mastered his temper.

“You’re all bent on having me a rascal,” he said coldly. “Fritz and

Bernenstein here urge me; you, Sapt, try to force me. James, there, is

in the plot, for all I know.”

“I suggested it, sir,” said James, not defiantly or with disrespect, but

as if in simple dutiful obedience to his master’s implied question.

“As I thought--all of you! Well, I won’t be forced. I see now that

there’s no way out of this affair, save one. That one I’ll follow.”

We none of us spoke, but waited till he should be pleased to continue.

“Of the queen’s letter I need say nothing and will say nothing,”

he pursued. “But I will tell them that I’m not the king, but Rudolf

Rassendyll, and that I played the king only in order to serve the queen

and punish Rupert of Hentzau. That will serve, and it will cut this net

of Sapt’s from about my limbs.”

He spoke firmly and coldly; so that when I looked at him I was amazed

to see how his lips twitched and that his forehead was moist with sweat.

Then I understood what a sudden, swift, and fearful struggle he had

suffered, and how the great temptation had wrung and tortured him before

he, victorious, had set the thing behind him. I went to him and clasped

his hand: this action of mine seemed to soften him.

“Sapt, Sapt,” he said, “you almost made a rogue of me.”

Sapt did not respond to his gentler mood. He had been pacing angrily up

and down the room. Now he stopped abruptly before Rudolf, and pointed

with his finger at the queen.

“I make a rogue of you?” he exclaimed. “And what do you make of our

queen, whom we all serve? What does this truth that you’ll tell make

of her? Haven’t I heard how she greeted you before all Strelsau as

her husband and her love? Will they believe that she didn’t know her

husband? Ay, you may show yourself, you may say they didn’t know you.

Will they believe she didn’t? Was the king’s ring on your finger? Where

is it? And how comes Mr. Rassendyll to be at Fritz von Tarlenheim’s for

hours with the queen, when the king is at his hunting lodge? A king

has died already, and two men besides, to save a word against her. And

you--you’ll be the man to set every tongue in Strelsau talking, and

every finger pointing in suspicion at her?”

Rudolf made no answer. When Sapt had first uttered the queen’s name, he

had drawn near and let his hand fall over the back of her chair. She put

hers up to meet it, and so they remained. But I saw that Rudolf’s face

had gone very pale.

“And we, your friends?” pursued Sapt. “For we’ve stood by you as we’ve

stood by the queen, by God we have--Fritz, and young Bernenstein here,

and I. If this truth’s told, who’ll believe that we were loyal to the

king, that we didn’t know, that we weren’t accomplices in the tricking

of the king--maybe, in his murder? Ah, Rudolf Rassendyll, God preserve

me from a conscience that won’t let me be true to the woman I love, or

to the friends who love me!”

I had never seen the old fellow so moved; he carried me with him, as he

carried Bernenstein. I know now that we were too ready to be convinced;

rather that, borne along by our passionate desire, we needed no

convincing at all. His excited appeal seemed to us an argument. At least

the danger to the queen, on which he dwelt, was real and true and great.

Then a sudden change came over him. He caught Rudolf’s hand and spoke to

him again in a low, broken voice, an unwonted softness transforming his

harsh tones.

“Lad,” he said, “don’t say no. Here’s the finest lady alive sick for her

lover, and the finest country in the world sick for its true king, and

the best friends--ay, by Heaven, the best friends--man ever had, sick to

call you master. I know nothing about your conscience; but this I know:

the king’s dead, and the place is empty; and I don’t see what Almighty

God sent you here for unless it was to fill it. Come, lad--for our love

and her honor! While he was alive I’d have killed you sooner than let

you take it. He’s dead. Now--for our love and her honor, lad!”

I do not know what thoughts passed in Mr. Rassendyll’s mind. His face

was set and rigid. He made no sign when Sapt finished, but stood as

he was, motionless, for a long while. Then he slowly bent his head and

looked down into the queen’s eyes. For a while she sat looking back into

his. Then, carried away by the wild hope of immediate joy, and by her

love for him and her pride in the place he was offered, she sprang up

and threw herself at his feet, crying:

“Yes, yes! For my sake, Rudolf--for my sake!”

“Are you, too, against me, my queen?” he murmured caressing her ruddy

hair.