Chương Chương 1 · THE QUEEN’S GOOD-BY

. THE QUEEN’S GOOD-BY

A man who has lived in the world, marking how every act, although

in itself perhaps light and insignificant, may become the source of

consequences that spread far and wide, and flow for years or centuries,

could scarcely feel secure in reckoning that with the death of the

Duke of Strelsau and the restoration of King Rudolf to liberty and his

throne, there would end, for good and all, the troubles born of Black

Michael’s daring conspiracy. The stakes had been high, the struggle

keen; the edge of passion had been sharpened, and the seeds of enmity

sown. Yet Michael, having struck for the crown, had paid for the blow

with his life: should there not then be an end? Michael was dead,

the Princess her cousin’s wife, the story in safe keeping, and Mr.

Rassendyll’s face seen no more in Ruritania. Should there not then be an

end? So said I to my friend the Constable of Zenda, as we talked by the

bedside of Marshal Strakencz. The old man, already nearing the death

that soon after robbed us of his aid and counsel, bowed his head in

assent: in the aged and ailing the love of peace breeds hope of it. But

Colonel Sapt tugged at his gray moustache, and twisted his black cigar

in his mouth, saying, “You’re very sanguine, friend Fritz. But is Rupert

of Hentzau dead? I had not heard it.”

Well said, and like old Sapt! Yet the man is little without the

opportunity, and Rupert by himself could hardly have troubled our

repose. Hampered by his own guilt, he dared not set his foot in the

kingdom from which by rare good luck he had escaped, but wandered to and

fro over Europe, making a living by his wits, and, as some said, adding

to his resources by gallantries for which he did not refuse substantial

recompense. But he kept himself constantly before our eyes, and never

ceased to contrive how he might gain permission to return and enjoy the

estates to which his uncle’s death had entitled him. The chief agent

through whom he had the effrontery to approach the king was his

relative, the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim, a young man of high rank and

great wealth who was devoted to Rupert. The count fulfilled his mission

well: acknowledging Rupert’s heavy offences, he put forward in his

behalf the pleas of youth and of the predominant influence which Duke

Michael had exercised over his adherent, and promised, in words so

significant as to betray Rupert’s own dictation, a future fidelity no

less discreet than hearty. “Give me my price and I’ll hold my tongue,”

seemed to come in Rupert’s off-hand accents through his cousin’s

deferential lips. As may be supposed, however, the king and those who

advised him in the matter, knowing too well the manner of man the

Count of Hentzau was, were not inclined to give ear to his ambassador’s

prayer. We kept firm hold on Master Rupert’s revenues, and as good watch

as we could on his movements; for we were most firmly determined that

he should never return to Ruritania. Perhaps we might have obtained his

extradition and hanged him on the score of his crimes; but in these days

every rogue who deserves no better than to be strung up to the nearest

tree must have what they call a fair trial; and we feared that, if

Rupert were handed over to our police and arraigned before the courts

at Strelsau, the secret which we guarded so sedulously would become the

gossip of all the city, ay, and of all Europe. So Rupert went unpunished

except by banishment and the impounding of his rents.

Yet Sapt was in the right about him. Helpless as he seemed, he did

not for an instant abandon the contest. He lived in the faith that his

chance would come, and from day to day was ready for its coming. He

schemed against us as we schemed to protect ourselves from him; if

we watched him, he kept his eye on us. His ascendency over

Luzau-Rischenheim grew markedly greater after a visit which his cousin

paid to him in Paris. From this time the young count began to supply

him with resources. Thus armed, he gathered instruments round him and

organized a system of espionage that carried to his ears all our actions

and the whole position of affairs at court. He knew, far more accurately

than anyone else outside the royal circle, the measures taken for the

government of the kingdom and the considerations that dictated the royal

policy. More than this, he possessed himself of every detail concerning

the king’s health, although the utmost reticence was observed on

this subject. Had his discoveries stopped there, they would have been

vexatious and disquieting, but perhaps of little serious harm. They

went further. Set on the track by his acquaintance with what had passed

during Mr. Rassendyll’s tenure of the throne, he penetrated the secret

which had been kept successfully from the king himself. In the knowledge

of it he found the opportunity for which he had waited; in its bold use

he discerned his chance. I cannot say whether he were influenced more

strongly by his desire to reestablish his position in the kingdom or

by the grudge he bore against Mr. Rassendyll. He loved power and money;

dearly he loved revenge also. No doubt both motives worked together, and

he was rejoiced to find that the weapon put into his hand had a double

edge; with one he hoped to cut his own path clear; with the other, to

wound the man he hated through the woman whom that man loved. In fine,

the Count of Hentzau, shrewdly discerning the feeling that existed

between the queen and Rudolf Rassendyll, set his spies to work, and

was rewarded by discovering the object of my yearly meetings with Mr.

Rassendyll. At least he conjectured the nature of my errand; this was

enough for him. Head and hand were soon busy in turning the knowledge to

account; scruples of the heart never stood in Rupert’s way.

The marriage which had set all Ruritania on fire with joy and formed

in the people’s eyes the visible triumph over Black Michael and his

fellow-conspirators was now three years old. For three years the

Princess Flavia had been queen. I am come by now to the age when a man

should look out on life with an eye undimmed by the mists of passion.

My love-making days are over; yet there is nothing for which I am more

thankful to Almighty God than the gift of my wife’s love. In storm it

has been my anchor, and in clear skies my star. But we common folk are

free to follow our hearts; am I an old fool for saying that he is a fool

who follows anything else? Our liberty is not for princes. We need wait

for no future world to balance the luck of men; even here there is an

equipoise. From the highly placed a price is exacted for their state,

their wealth, and their honors, as heavy as these are great; to the

poor, what is to us mean and of no sweetness may appear decked in the

robes of pleasure and delight. Well, if it were not so, who could sleep

at nights? The burden laid on Queen Flavia I knew, and know, so well as

a man can know it. I think it needs a woman to know it fully; for even

now my wife’s eyes fill with tears when we speak of it. Yet she bore it,

and if she failed in anything, I wonder that it was in so little. For

it was not only that she had never loved the king and had loved another

with all her heart. The king’s health, shattered by the horror and

rigors of his imprisonment in the castle of Zenda, soon broke utterly.

He lived, indeed; nay, he shot and hunted, and kept in his hand some

measure, at least, of government. But always from the day of his release

he was a fretful invalid, different utterly from the gay and jovial

prince whom Michael’s villains had caught in the shooting lodge. There

was worse than this. As time went on, the first impulse of gratitude and

admiration that he had felt towards Mr. Rassendyll died away. He came to

brood more and more on what had passed while he was a prisoner; he was

possessed not only by a haunting dread of Rupert of Hentzau, at whose

hands he had suffered so greatly, but also by a morbid, half mad

jealousy of Mr. Rassendyll. Rudolf had played the hero while he lay

helpless. Rudolf’s were the exploits for which his own people cheered

him in his own capital. Rudolf’s were the laurels that crowned his

impatient brow. He had enough nobility to resent his borrowed credit,

without the fortitude to endure it manfully. And the hateful comparison

struck him nearer home. Sapt would tell him bluntly that Rudolf did this

or that, set this precedent or that, laid down this or the other policy,

and that the king could do no better than follow in Rudolf’s steps. Mr.

Rassendyll’s name seldom passed his wife’s lips, but when she spoke of

him it was as one speaks of a great man who is dead, belittling all

the living by the shadow of his name. I do not believe that the king

discerned that truth which his wife spent her days in hiding from him;

yet he was uneasy if Rudolf’s name were mentioned by Sapt or myself, and

from the queen’s mouth he could not bear it. I have seen him fall into

fits of passion on the mere sound of it; for he lost control of himself

on what seemed slight provocation.

Moved by this disquieting jealousy, he sought continually to exact from

the queen proofs of love and care beyond what most husbands can boast

of, or, in my humble judgment, make good their right to, always asking

of her what in his heart he feared was not hers to give. Much she did

in pity and in duty; but in some moments, being but human and herself a

woman of high temper, she failed; then the slight rebuff or involuntary

coldness was magnified by a sick man’s fancy into great offence or

studied insult, and nothing that she could do would atone for it. Thus

they, who had never in truth come together, drifted yet further apart;

he was alone in his sickness and suspicion, she in her sorrows and

her memories. There was no child to bridge the gulf between them, and

although she was his queen and his wife, she grew almost a stranger to

him. So he seemed to will that it should be.

Thus, worse than widowed, she lived for three years; and once only in

each year she sent three words to the man she loved, and received from

him three words in answer. Then her strength failed her. A pitiful scene

had occurred in which the king peevishly upbraided her in regard to some

trivial matter--the occasion escapes my memory--speaking to her before

others words that even alone she could not have listened to with

dignity. I was there, and Sapt; the colonel’s small eyes had gleamed in

anger. “I should like to shut his mouth for him,” I heard him mutter,

for the king’s waywardness had well-nigh worn out even his devotion. The

thing, of which I will say no more, happened a day or two before I

was to set out to meet Mr. Rassendyll. I was to seek him this time at

Wintenberg, for I had been recognized the year before at Dresden;

and Wintenberg, being a smaller place and less in the way of chance

visitors, was deemed safer. I remember well how she was when she called

me into her own room, a few hours after she had left the king. She stood

by the table; the box was on it, and I knew well that the red rose and

the message were within. But there was more to-day. Without preface she

broke into the subject of my errand.

“I must write to him,” she said. “I can’t bear it, I must write. My dear

friend Fritz, you will carry it safely for me, won’t you? And he must

write to me. And you’ll bring that safely, won’t you? Ah, Fritz, I know

I’m wrong, but I’m starved, starved, starved! And it’s for the last

time. For I know now that if I send anything, I must send more. So after

this time I won’t send at all. But I must say good-by to him; I must

have his good-by to carry me through my life. This once, then, Fritz, do

it for me.”

The tears rolled down her cheeks, which to-day were flushed out of their

paleness to a stormy red; her eyes defied me even while they pleaded. I

bent my head and kissed her hand.

“With God’s help I’ll carry it safely and bring his safely, my queen,”

said I.

“And tell me how he looks. Look at him closely, Fritz. See if he is well

and seems strong. Oh, and make him merry and happy! Bring that smile to

his lips, Fritz, and the merry twinkle to his eyes. When you speak of

me, see if he--if he looks as if he still loved me.” But then she broke

off, crying, “But don’t tell him I said that. He’d be grieved if I

doubted his love. I don’t doubt it; I don’t, indeed; but still tell me

how he looks when you speak of me, won’t you, Fritz? See, here’s the

letter.”

Taking it from her bosom, she kissed it before she gave it to me. Then

she added a thousand cautions, how I was to carry her letter, how I was

to go and how return, and how I was to run no danger, because my wife

Helga loved me as well as she would have loved her husband had Heaven

been kinder. “At least, almost as I should, Fritz,” she said, now

between smiles and tears. She would not believe that any woman could

love as she loved.

I left the queen and went to prepare for my journey. I used to take only

one servant with me, and I had chosen a different man each year. None

of them had known that I met Mr. Rassendyll, but supposed that I was

engaged on the private business which I made my pretext for obtaining

leave of absence from the king. This time I had determined to take with

me a Swiss youth who had entered my service only a few weeks before.

His name was Bauer; he seemed a stolid, somewhat stupid fellow, but as

honest as the day and very obliging.

He had come to me well recommended, and I had not hesitated to engage

him. I chose him for my companion now, chiefly because he was a

foreigner and therefore less likely to gossip with the other servants

when we returned. I do not pretend to much cleverness, but I confess

that it vexes me to remember how that stout, guileless-looking youth

made a fool of me. For Rupert knew that I had met Mr. Rassendyll the

year before at Dresden; Rupert was keeping a watchful eye on all that

passed in Strelsau; Rupert had procured the fellow his fine testimonials

and sent him to me, in the hope that he would chance on something of

advantage to his employer. My resolve to take him to Wintenberg may

have been hoped for, but could scarcely have been counted on; it was the

added luck that waits so often on the plans of a clever schemer.

Going to take leave of the king, I found him huddled over the fire.

The day was not cold, but the damp chill of his dungeon seemed to have

penetrated to the very core of his bones. He was annoyed at my going,

and questioned me peevishly about the business that occasioned my

journey. I parried his curiosity as I best could, but did not succeed

in appeasing his ill-humor. Half ashamed of his recent outburst,

half-anxious to justify it to himself, he cried fretfully:

“Business! Yes, any business is a good enough excuse for leaving me! By

Heaven, I wonder if a king was ever served so badly as I am! Why did you

trouble to get me out of Zenda? Nobody wants me, nobody cares whether I

live or die.”

To reason with such a mood was impossible. I could only assure him that

I would hasten my return by all possible means.

“Yes, pray do,” said he. “I want somebody to look after me. Who knows

what that villain Rupert may attempt against me? And I can’t defend

myself can I? I’m not Rudolf Rassendyll, am I?”

Thus, with a mixture of plaintiveness and malice, he scolded me. At last

I stood silent, waiting till he should be pleased to dismiss me. At any

rate I was thankful that he entertained no suspicion as to my errand.

Had I spoken a word of Mr. Rassendyll he would not have let me go. He

had fallen foul of me before on learning that I was in communication

with Rudolf; so completely had jealousy destroyed gratitude in his

breast. If he had known what I carried, I do not think that he could

have hated his preserver more. Very likely some such feeling was natural

enough; it was none the less painful to perceive.

On leaving the king’s presence, I sought out the Constable of Zenda. He

knew my errand; and, sitting down beside him, I told him of the letter

I carried, and arranged how to apprise him of my fortune surely and

quickly. He was not in a good humor that day: the king had ruffled him

also, and Colonel Sapt had no great reserve of patience.

“If we haven’t cut one another’s throats before then, we shall all be at

Zenda by the time you arrive at Wintenberg,” he said. “The court moves

there to-morrow, and I shall be there as long as the king is.”

He paused, and then added: “Destroy the letter if there’s any danger.”

I nodded my head.

“And destroy yourself with it, if there’s the only way,” he went on with

a surly smile. “Heaven knows why she must send such a silly message at

all; but since she must, she’d better have sent me with it.”

I knew that Sapt was in the way of jeering at all sentiment, and I

took no notice of the terms that he applied to the queen’s farewell. I

contented myself with answering the last part of what he said.

“No, it’s better you should be here,” I urged. “For if I should lose the

letter--though there’s little chance of it--you could prevent it from

coming to the king.”

“I could try,” he grinned. “But on my life, to run the chance for a

letter’s sake! A letter’s a poor thing to risk the peace of a kingdom

for.”

“Unhappily,” said I, “it’s the only thing that a messenger can well

carry.”

“Off with you, then,” grumbled the colonel. “Tell Rassendyll from me

that he did well. But tell him to do something more. Let ‘em say good-by

and have done with it. Good God, is he going to waste all his life

thinking of a woman he never sees?” Sapt’s air was full of indignation.

“What more is he to do?” I asked. “Isn’t his work here done?”

“Ay, it’s done. Perhaps it’s done,” he answered. “At least he has given

us back our good king.”

To lay on the king the full blame for what he was would have been rank

injustice. Sapt was not guilty of it, but his disappointment was bitter

that all our efforts had secured no better ruler for Ruritania. Sapt

could serve, but he liked his master to be a man.

“Ay, I’m afraid the lad’s work here is done,” he said, as I shook him

by the hand. Then a sudden light came in his eyes. “Perhaps not,” he

muttered. “Who knows?”

A man need not, I hope, be deemed uxorious for liking a quiet dinner

alone with his wife before he starts on a long journey. Such, at least,

was my fancy; and I was annoyed to find that Helga’s cousin, Anton von

Strofzin, had invited himself to share our meal and our farewell. He

conversed with his usual airy emptiness on all the topics that were

supplying Strelsau with gossip. There were rumors that the king was

ill; that the queen was angry at being carried off to Zenda; that the

archbishop meant to preach against low dresses; that the chancellor was

to be dismissed; that his daughter was to be married; and so forth.

I heard without listening. But the last bit of his budget caught my

wandering attention.

“They were betting at the club,” said Anton, “that Rupert of Hentzau

would be recalled. Have you heard anything about it, Fritz?”

If I had known anything, it is needless to say that I should not have

confided it to Anton. But the suggested step was so utterly at variance

with the king’s intentions that I made no difficulty about contradicting

the report with an authoritative air. Anton heard me with a judicial

wrinkle on his smooth brow.

“That’s all very well,” said he, “and I dare say you’re bound to say so.

All I know is that Rischenheim dropped a hint to Colonel Markel a day or

two ago.”

“Rischenheim believes what he hopes,” said I.

“And where’s he gone?” cried Anton, exultantly. “Why has he suddenly

left Strelsau? I tell you he’s gone to meet Rupert, and I’ll bet you

what you like he carries some proposal. Ah, you don’t know everything,

Fritz, my boy?”

It was indeed true that I did not know everything. I made haste to admit

as much. “I didn’t even know that the count was gone, much less why he’s

gone,” said I.

“You see?” exclaimed Anton. And he added, patronizingly, “You should

keep your ears open, my boy; then you might be worth what the king pays

you.”

“No less, I trust,” said I, “for he pays me nothing.” Indeed, at this

time I held no office save the honorary position of chamberlain to

Her Majesty. Any advice the king needed from me was asked and given

unofficially.

Anton went off, persuaded that he had scored a point against me. I could

not see where. It was possible that the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim had

gone to meet his cousin, equally possible that no such business claimed

his care. At any rate, the matter was not for me. I had a more pressing

affair in hand. Dismissing the whole thing from my mind, I bade the

butler tell Bauer to go forward with my luggage and to let my carriage

be at the door in good time. Helga had busied herself, since our guest’s

departure, in preparing small comforts for my journey; now she came

to me to say good-by. Although she tried to hide all signs of it, I

detected an uneasiness in her manner. She did not like these errands of

mine, imagining dangers and risks of which I saw no likelihood. I would

not give in to her mood, and, as I kissed her, I bade her expect me back

in a few days’ time. Not even to her did I speak of the new and more

dangerous burden that I carried, although I was aware that she enjoyed a

full measure of the queen’s confidence.

“My love to King Rudolf, the real King Rudolf,” said she. “Though you

carry what will make him think little of my love.”

“I have no desire he should think too much of it, sweet,” said I. She

caught me by the hands, and looked up in my face.

“What a friend you are, aren’t you, Fritz?” said she. “You worship Mr.

Rassendyll. I know you think I should worship him too, if he asked me.

Well, I shouldn’t. I am foolish enough to have my own idol.” All my

modesty did not let me doubt who her idol might be. Suddenly she drew

near to me and whispered in my ear. I think that our own happiness

brought to her a sudden keen sympathy with her mistress.

“Make him send her a loving message, Fritz,” she whispered. “Something

that will comfort her. Her idol can’t be with her as mine is with me.”

“Yes, he’ll send something to comfort her,” I answered. “And God keep

you, my dear.”

For he would surely send an answer to the letter that I carried, and

that answer I was sworn to bring safely to her. So I set out in good

heart, bearing in the pocket of my coat the little box and the queen’s

good-by. And, as Colonel Sapt said to me, both I would destroy, if need

were--ay, and myself with them. A man did not serve Queen Flavia with

divided mind.