Chương Chương 13 · A KING UP HIS SLEEVE

. A KING UP HIS SLEEVE

The tall handsome girl was taking down the shutters from the shop front

at No. 19 in the Konigstrasse. She went about her work languidly enough,

but there was a tinge of dusky red on her cheeks and her eyes were

brightened by some suppressed excitement. Old Mother Holf, leaning

against the counter, was grumbling angrily because Bauer did not come.

Now it was not likely that Bauer would come just yet, for he was still

in the infirmary attached to the police-cells, where a couple of doctors

were very busy setting him on his legs again. The old woman knew nothing

of this, but only that he had gone the night before to reconnoitre;

where he was to play the spy she did not know, on whom perhaps she

guessed.

“You’re sure he never came back?” she asked her daughter.

“He never came back that I saw,” answered the girl. “And I was on the

watch with my lamp here in the shop till it grew light.”

“He’s twelve hours gone now, and never a message! Ay, and Count Rupert

should be here soon, and he’ll be in a fine taking if Bauer’s not back.”

The girl made no answer; she had finished her task and stood in the

doorway, looking out on the street. It was past eight, and many people

were about, still for the most part humble folk; the more comfortably

placed would not be moving for an hour or two yet. In the road the

traffic consisted chiefly of country carts and wagons, bringing in

produce for the day’s victualling of the great city. The girl watched

the stream, but her thoughts were occupied with the stately gentleman

who had come to her by night and asked a service of her. She had heard

the revolver shot outside; as it sounded she had blown out her lamp, and

there behind the door in the dark had heard the swiftly retreating feet

of the fugitives and, a little later, the arrival of the patrol. Well,

the patrol would not dare to touch the king; as for Bauer, let him be

alive or dead: what cared she, who was the king’s servant, able to help

the king against his enemies? If Bauer were the king’s enemy, right glad

would she be to hear that the rogue was dead. How finely the king had

caught him by the neck and thrown him out! She laughed to think how

little her mother knew the company she had kept that night.

The row of country carts moved slowly by. One or two stopped before the

shop, and the carters offered vegetables for sale. The old woman would

have nothing to say to them, but waved them on irritably. Three had thus

stopped and again proceeded, and an impatient grumble broke from the old

lady as a fourth, a covered wagon, drew up before the door.

“We don’t want anything: go on, go on with you!” she cried shrilly.

The carter got down from his seat without heeding her, and walked round

to the back.

“Here you are, sir,” he cried. “Nineteen, Konigstrasse.”

A yawn was heard, and the long sigh a man gives as he stretches himself

in the mingled luxury and pain of an awakening after sound refreshing

sleep.

“All right; I’ll get down,” came in answer from inside.

“Ah, it’s the count!” said the old lady to her daughter in satisfied

tones. “What will he say, though, about that rogue Bauer?”

Rupert of Hentzau put his head out from under the wagon-tilt, looked up

and down the street, gave the carter a couple of crowns, leapt down, and

ran lightly across the pavement into the little shop. The wagon moved

on.

“A lucky thing I met him,” said Rupert cheerily. “The wagon hid me very

well; and handsome as my face is, I can’t let Strelsau enjoy too much of

it just now. Well, mother, what cheer? And you, my pretty, how goes it

with you?” He carelessly brushed the girl’s cheek with the glove that

he had drawn off. “Faith, though, I beg your pardon.” he added a moment

later, “the glove’s not clean enough for that,” and he looked at his

buff glove, which was stained with patches of dull rusty brown.

“It’s all as when you left, Count Rupert,” said Mother Holf, “except

that that rascal Bauer went out last night--”

“That’s right enough. But hasn’t he returned?”

“No, not yet.”

“Hum. No signs of--anybody else?” His look defined the vague question.

The old woman shook her head. The girl turned away to hide a smile.

“Anybody else” meant the king, so she suspected. Well, they should hear

nothing from her. The king himself had charged her to be silent.

“But Rischenheim has come, I suppose?” pursued Rupert.

“Oh, yes; he came, my lord, soon after you went. He wears his arm in a

sling.”

“Ah!” cried Rupert in sudden excitement. “As I guessed! The devil! If

only I could do everything myself, and not have to trust to fools and

bunglers! Where’s the count?”

“Why, in the attic. You know the way.”

“True. But I want some breakfast, mother.”

“Rosa shall serve you at once, my lord.”

The girl followed Rupert up the narrow crazy staircase of the tall old

house. They passed three floors, all uninhabited; a last steep flight

that brought them right under the deep arched roof. Rupert opened a door

that stood at the top of the stairs, and, followed still by Rosa with

her mysterious happy smile, entered a long narrow room. The ceiling,

high in the centre, sloped rapidly down on either side, so that at door

and window it was little more than six feet above the floor. There was

an oak table and a few chairs; a couple of iron bedsteads stood by the

wall near the window. One was empty; the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim lay

on the other, fully dressed, his right arm supported in a sling of black

silk. Rupert paused on the threshold, smiling at his cousin; the girl

passed on to a high press or cupboard, and, opening it, took out plates,

glasses, and the other furniture of the table. Rischenheim sprang up and

ran across the room.

“What news?” he cried eagerly. “You escaped them, Rupert?”

“It appears so,” said Rupert airily; and, advancing into the room, he

threw himself into a chair, tossing his hat on to the table.

“It appears that I escaped, although some fool’s stupidity nearly made

an end of me.” Rischenheim flushed.

“I’ll tell you about that directly,” he said, glancing at the girl who

had put some cold meat and a bottle of wine on the table, and was

now completing the preparations for Rupert’s meal in a very leisurely

fashion.

“Had I nothing to do but to look at pretty faces--which, by Heaven,

I wish heartily were the case--I would beg you to stay,” said Rupert,

rising and making her a profound bow.

“I’ve no wish to hear what doesn’t concern me,” she retorted scornfully.

“What a rare and blessed disposition!” said he, holding the door for her

and bowing again.

“I know what I know,” she cried to him triumphantly from the landing.

“Maybe you’d give something to know it too, Count Rupert!”

“It’s very likely, for, by Heaven, girls know wonderful things!” smiled

Rupert; but he shut the door and came quickly back to the table, now

frowning again. “Come, tell me, how did they make a fool of you, or why

did you make a fool of me, cousin?”

While Rischenheim related how he had been trapped and tricked at the

Castle of Zenda, Rupert of Hentzau made a very good breakfast. He

offered no interruption and no comments, but when Rudolf Rassendyll came

into the story he looked up for an instant with a quick jerk of his head

and a sudden light in his eyes. The end of Rischenheim’s narrative found

him tolerant and smiling again.

“Ah, well, the snare was cleverly set,” he said. “I don’t wonder you

fell into it.”

“And now you? What happened to you?” asked Rischenheim eagerly.

“I? Why, having your message which was not your message, I obeyed your

directions which were not your directions.”

“You went to the lodge?”

“Certainly.”

“And you found Sapt there?--Anybody else?”

“Why, not Sapt at all.”

“Not Sapt? But surely they laid a trap for you?”

“Very possibly, but the jaws didn’t bite.” Rupert crossed his legs and

lit a cigarette.

“But what did you find?”

“I? I found the king’s forester, and the king’s boar-hound, and--well, I

found the king himself, too.”

“The king at the lodge?”

“You weren’t so wrong as you thought, were you?”

“But surely Sapt, or Bernenstein, or some one was with him?”

“As I tell you, his forester and his boar-hound. No other man or beast,

on my honor.”

“Then you gave him the letter?” cried Rischenheim, trembling with

excitement.

“Alas, no, my dear cousin. I threw the box at him, but I don’t think he

had time to open it. We didn’t get to that stage of the conversation at

which I had intended to produce the letter.”

“But why not--why not?”

Rupert rose to his feet, and, coming just opposite to where Rischenheim

sat, balanced himself on his heels, and looked down at his cousin,

blowing the ash from his cigarette and smiling pleasantly.

“Have you noticed,” he asked, “that my coat’s torn?”

“I see it is.”

“Yes. The boar-hound tried to bite me, cousin. And the forester would

have stabbed me. And--well, the king wanted to shoot me.”

“Yes, yes! For God’s sake, what happened?”

“Well, they none of them did what they wanted. That’s what happened,

dear cousin.”

Rischenheim was staring at him now with wide-opened eyes. Rupert smiled

down on him composedly.

“Because, you see,” he added, “Heaven helped me. So that, my dear

cousin, the dog will bite no more, and the forester will stab no more.

Surely the country is well rid of them?”

A silence followed. Then Rischenheim, leaning forward, said in a low

whisper, as though afraid to hear his own question:

“And the king?”

“The king? Well, the king will shoot no more.”

For a moment Rischenheim, still leaning forward, gazed at his cousin.

Then he sank slowly back into his chair.

“My God!” he murmured: “my God!”

“The king was a fool,” said Rupert. “Come, I’ll tell you a little more

about it.” He drew a chair up and seated himself in it.

While he talked Rischenheim seemed hardly to listen. The story gained in

effect from the contrast of Rupert’s airy telling; his companion’s pale

face and twitching hands tickled his fancy to more shameless jesting.

But when he had finished, he gave a pull to his small smartly-curled

moustache and said with a sudden gravity:

“After all, though, it’s a serious matter.”

Rischenheim was appalled at the issue. His cousin’s influence had been

strong enough to lead him into the affair of the letter; he was aghast

to think how Rupert’s reckless dare-deviltry had led on from stage to

stage till the death of a king seemed but an incident in his schemes. He

sprang suddenly to his feet, crying:

“But we must fly--we must fly!”

“No, we needn’t fly. Perhaps we’d better go, but we needn’t fly.”

“But when it becomes known?” He broke off and then cried:

“Why did you tell me? Why did you come back here?”

“Well, I told you because it was interesting, and I came back here

because I had no money to go elsewhere.”

“I would have sent money.”

“I find that I get more when I ask in person. Besides, is everything

finished?”

“I’ll have no more to do with it.”

“Ah, my dear cousin, you despond too soon. The good king has unhappily

gone from us, but we still have our dear queen. We have also, by the

kindness of Heaven, our dear queen’s letter.”

“I’ll have no more to do with it.”

“Your neck feeling--?” Rupert delicately imitated the putting of a noose

about a man’s throat.

Rischenheim rose suddenly and flung the window open wide.

“I’m suffocated,” he muttered with a sullen frown, avoiding Rupert’s

eyes.

“Where’s Rudolf Rassendyll?” asked Rupert. “Have you heard of him?”

“No, I don’t know where he is.”

“We must find that out, I think.”

Rischenheim turned abruptly on him.

“I had no hand in this thing,” he said, “and I’ll have no more to do

with it. I was not there. What did I know of the king being there? I’m

not guilty of it: on my soul, I know nothing of it.”

“That’s all very true,” nodded Rupert.

“Rupert,” cried he, “let me go, let me alone. If you want money, I’ll

give it to you. For God’s sake take it, and get out of Strelsau!”

“I’m ashamed to beg, my dear cousin, but in fact I want a little money

until I can contrive to realize my valuable property. Is it safe, I

wonder? Ah, yes, here it is.”

He drew from his inner pocket the queen’s letter. “Now if the king

hadn’t been a fool!” he murmured regretfully, as he regarded it.

Then he walked across to the window and looked out; he could not himself

be seen from the street, and nobody was visible at the windows opposite.

Men and women passed to and fro on their daily labors or pleasures;

there was no unusual stir in the city. Looking over the roofs, Rupert

could see the royal standard floating in the wind over the palace and

the barracks. He took out his watch; Rischenheim imitated his action; it

was ten minutes to ten.

“Rischenheim,” he called, “come here a moment. Here--look out.”

Rischenheim obeyed, and Rupert let him look for a minute or two before

speaking again.

“Do you see anything remarkable?” he asked then.

“No, nothing,” answered Rischenheim, still curt and sullen in his

fright.

“Well, no more do I. And that’s very odd. For don’t you think that Sapt

or some other of her Majesty’s friends must have gone to the lodge last

night?”

“They meant to, I swear,” said Rischenheim with sudden attention.

“Then they would have found the king. There’s a telegraph wire at

Hofbau, only a few miles away. And it’s ten o’clock. My cousin, why

isn’t Strelsau mourning for our lamented king? Why aren’t the flags at

half-mast? I don’t understand it.”

“No,” murmured Rischenheim, his eyes now fixed on his cousin’s face.

Rupert broke into a smile and tapped his teeth with his fingers.

“I wonder,” said he meditatively, “if that old player Sapt has got a

king up his sleeve again! If that were so--” He stopped and seemed to

fall into deep thought. Rischenheim did not interrupt him, but stood

looking now at him, now out of the window. Still there was no stir in

the streets, and still the standards floated at the summit of the flag

staffs. The king’s death was not yet known in Strelsau.

“Where’s Bauer?” asked Rupert suddenly. “Where the plague can Bauer be?

He was my eyes. Here we are, cooped up, and I don’t know what’s going

on.”

“I don’t know where he is. Something must have happened to him.”

“Of course, my wise cousin. But what?”

Rupert began to pace up and down the room, smoking another cigarette at

a great pace. Rischenheim sat down by the table, resting his head on

his hand. He was wearied out by strain and excitement, his wounded arm

pained him greatly, and he was full of horror and remorse at the event

which happened unknown to him the night before.

“I wish I was quit of it,” he moaned at last. Rupert stopped before him.

“You repent of your misdeeds?” he asked. “Well, then, you shall be

allowed to repent. Nay, you shall go and tell the king that you repent.

Rischenheim, I must know what they are doing. You must go and ask an

audience of the king.”

“But the king is--”

“We shall know that better when you’ve asked for your audience. See

here.”

Rupert sat down by his cousin and instructed him in his task. This was

no other than to discover whether there were a king in Strelsau, or

whether the only king lay dead in the hunting lodge. If there were no

attempt being made to conceal the king’s death, Rupert’s plan was to

seek safety in flight. He did not abandon his designs: from the secure

vantage of foreign soil he would hold the queen’s letter over her head,

and by the threat of publishing it insure at once immunity for himself

and almost any further terms which he chose to exact from her. If, on

the other hand, the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim found a king in Strelsau,

if the royal standards continued to wave at the summit of their flag

staffs, and Strelsau knew nothing of the dead man in the lodge, then

Rupert had laid his hand on another secret; for he knew who the king in

Strelsau must be. Starting from this point, his audacious mind darted

forward to new and bolder schemes. He could offer again to Rudolf

Rassendyll what he had offered once before, three years ago--a

partnership in crime and the profits of crime--or if this advance were

refused, then he declared that he would himself descend openly into the

streets of Strelsau and proclaim the death of the king from the steps of

the cathedral.

“Who can tell,” he cried, springing up, enraptured and merry with the

inspiration of his plan, “who can tell whether Sapt or I came first to

the lodge? Who found the king alive, Sapt or I? Who left him dead, Sapt

or I? Who had most interest in killing him--I, who only sought to make

him aware of what touched his honor, or Sapt, who was and is hand and

glove with the man that now robs him of his name and usurps his place

while his body is still warm? Ah, they haven’t done with Rupert of

Hentzau yet!”

He stopped, looking down on his companion. Rischenheim’s fingers still

twitched nervously and his cheeks were pale. But now his face was alight

with interest and eagerness. Again the fascination of Rupert’s audacity

and the infection of his courage caught on his kinsman’s weaker nature,

and inspired him to a temporary emulation of the will that dominated

him.

“You see,” pursued Rupert, “it’s not likely that they’ll do you any

harm.”

“I’ll risk anything.”

“Most gallant gentleman! At the worst they’ll only keep you a prisoner.

Well, if you’re not back in a couple of hours, I shall draw my

conclusions. I shall know that there’s a king in Strelsau.”

“But where shall I look for the king?”

“Why, first in the palace, and secondly at Fritz von Tarlenheim’s. I

expect you’ll find him at Fritz’s, though.”

“Shall I go there first, then?”

“No. That would be seeming to know too much.”

“You’ll wait here?”

“Certainly, cousin--unless I see cause to move, you know.”

“And I shall find you on my return?”

“Me, or directions from me. By the way, bring money too. There’s never

any harm in having a full pocket. I wonder what the devil does without a

breeches-pocket?”

Rischenheim let that curious speculation alone, although he remembered

the whimsical air with which Rupert delivered it. He was now on fire to

be gone, his ill-balanced brain leaping from the depths of despondency

to the certainty of brilliant success, and not heeding the gulf of

danger that it surpassed in buoyant fancy.

“We shall have them in a corner, Rupert,” he cried.

“Ay, perhaps. But wild beasts in a corner bite hard.”

“I wish my arm were well!”

“You’ll be safer with it wounded,” said Rupert with a smile.

“By God, Rupert, I can defend myself.”

“True, true; but it’s your brain I want now, cousin.”

“You shall see that I have something in me.”

“If it please God, dear cousin.”

With every mocking encouragement and every careless taunt Rischenheim’s

resolve to prove himself a man grew stronger. He snatched up a revolver

that lay on the mantelpiece and put it in his pocket.

“Don’t fire, if you can help it,” advised Rupert. Rischenheim’s answer

was to make for the door at a great speed. Rupert watched him go, and

then returned to the window. The last his cousin saw was his figure

standing straight and lithe against the light, while he looked out

on the city. Still there was no stir in the streets, still the royal

standard floated at the top of the flag staffs.

Rischenheim plunged down the stairs: his feet were too slow for his

eagerness. At the bottom he found the girl Rosa sweeping the passage

with great apparent diligence.

“You’re going out, my lord?” she asked.

“Why, yes; I have business. Pray stand on one side, this passage is so

cursedly narrow.”

Rosa showed no haste in moving.

“And the Count Rupert, is he going out also?” she asked.

“You see he’s not with me. He’ll wait.” Rischenheim broke off and asked

angrily: “What business is it of yours, girl? Get out of the way!”

She moved aside now, making him no answer. He rushed past; she looked

after him with a smile of triumph. Then she fell again to her sweeping.

The king had bidden her be ready at eleven. It was half-past ten. Soon

the king would have need of her.