第 十四 章 · THE NEWS COMES TO STRELSAU

. THE NEWS COMES TO STRELSAU

ON leaving No. 19, Rischenheim walked swiftly some little way up the

Konigstrasse and then hailed a cab. He had hardly raised his hand when

he heard his name called, and, looking round, saw Anton von Strofzin’s

smart phaeton pulling up beside him. Anton was driving, and on the other

seat was a large nosegay of choice flowers.

“Where are you off to?” cried Anton, leaning forward with a gay smile.

“Well, where are you? To a lady’s, I presume, from your bouquet there,”

answered Rischenheim as lightly as he could.

“The little bunch of flowers,” simpered young Anton, “is a cousinly

offering to Helga von Tarlenheim, and I’m going to present it. Can I

give you a lift anywhere?”’

Although Rischenheim had intended to go first to the palace, Anton’s

offer seemed to give him a good excuse for drawing the more likely

covert first.

“I was going to the palace to find out where the king is. I want to see

him, if he’ll give me a minute or two,” he remarked.

“I’ll drive you there afterwards. Jump up. That your cab? Here you are,

cabman,” and flinging the cabman a crown, he displaced the bouquet and

made room for Rischenheim beside him.

Anton’s horses, of which he was not a little proud, made short work of

the distance to my home. The phaeton rattled up to the door and both

young men got out. The moment of their arrival found the chancellor just

leaving to return to his own home. Helsing knew them both, and stopped

to rally Anton on the matter of his bouquet. Anton was famous for his

bouquets, which he distributed widely among the ladies of Strelsau.

“I hoped it was for my daughter,” said the chancellor slyly. “For I love

flowers, and my wife has ceased to provide me with them; moreover, I’ve

ceased to provide her with them, so, but for my daughter, we should have

none.”

Anton answered his chaff, promising a bouquet for the young lady the

next day, but declaring that he could not disappoint his cousin. He

was interrupted by Rischenheim, who, looking round on the group of

bystanders, now grown numerous, exclaimed: “What’s going on here, my

dear chancellor? What are all these people hanging about here for? Ah,

that’s a royal carriage!”

“The queen’s with the countess,” answered Helsing. “The people are

waiting to see her come out.”

“She’s always worth seeing,” Anton pronounced, sticking his glass in his

eye.

“And you’ve been to visit her?” pursued Rischenheim.

“Why, yes. I--I went to pay my respects, my dear Rischenheim.”

“An early visit!”

“It was more or less on business.”

“Ah, I have business also, and very important business. But it’s with

the king.”

“I won’t keep you a moment, Rischenheim,” called Anton, as, bouquet in

hand, he knocked at the door.

“With the king?” said Helsing. “Ah, yes, but the king--”

“I’m on my way to the palace to find out where he is. If I can’t see

him, I must write at once. My business is very urgent.”

“Indeed, my dear count, indeed! Dear me! Urgent, you say?”

“But perhaps you can help me. Is he at Zenda?”

The chancellor was becoming very embarrassed; Anton had disappeared into

the house; Rischenheim buttonholed him resolutely.

“At Zenda? Well, now, I don’t--Excuse me, but what’s your business?”

“Excuse me, my dear chancellor; it’s a secret.”

“I have the king’s confidence.”

“Then you’ll be indifferent to not enjoying mine,” smiled Rischenheim.

“I perceive that your arm is hurt,” observed the chancellor, seeking a

diversion.

“Between ourselves, that has something to do with my business. Well, I

must go to the palace. Or--stay--would her Majesty condescend to help

me? I think I’ll risk a request. She can but refuse,” and so saying

Rischenheim approached the door.

“Oh, my friend, I wouldn’t do that,” cried Helsing, darting after him.

“The queen is--well, very much engaged. She won’t like to be troubled.”

Rischenheim took no notice of him, but knocked loudly. The door was

opened, and he told the butler to carry his name to the queen and beg a

moment’s speech with her. Helsing stood in perplexity on the step. The

crowd was delighted with the coming of these great folk and showed no

sign of dispersing. Anton von Strofzin did not reappear. Rischenheim

edged himself inside the doorway and stood on the threshold of the hall.

There he heard voices proceeding from the sitting-room on the left. He

recognized the queen’s, my wife’s, and Anton’s. Then came the butler’s,

saying, “I will inform the count of your Majesty’s wishes.”

The door of the room opened; the butler appeared, and immediately behind

him Anton von Strofzin and Bernenstein. Bernenstein had the young fellow

by the arm, and hurried him through the hall. They passed the butler,

who made way for them, and came to where Rischenheim stood.

“We meet again,” said Rischenheim with a bow.

The chancellor rubbed his hands in nervous perturbation. The butler

stepped up and delivered his message: the queen regretted her inability

to receive the count. Rischenheim nodded, and, standing so that the door

could not be shut, asked Bernenstein whether he knew where the king was.

Now Bernenstein was most anxious to get the pair of them away and the

door shut, but he dared show no eagerness.

“Do you want another interview with the king already?” he asked with a

smile. “The last was so pleasant, then?”

Rischenheim took no notice of the taunt, but observed sarcastically:

“There’s a strange difficulty in finding our good king. The chancellor

here doesn’t know where he is, or at least he won’t answer my

questions.”

“Possibly the king has his reasons for not wishing to be disturbed,”

suggested Bernenstein.

“It’s very possible,” retorted Rischenheim significantly.

“Meanwhile, my dear count, I shall take it as a personal favor if you’ll

move out of the doorway.”

“Do I incommode you by standing here?” answered the count.

“Infinitely, my lord,” answered Bernenstein stiffly.

“Hallo, Bernenstein, what’s the matter?” cried Anton, seeing that their

tones and glances had grown angry. The crowd also had noticed the raised

voices and hostile manner of the disputants, and began to gather round

in a more compact group.

Suddenly a voice came from inside the hall: it was distinct and loud,

yet not without a touch of huskiness. The sound of it hushed the rising

quarrel and silenced the crowd into expectant stillness. Bernenstein

looked aghast, Rischenheim nervous yet triumphant, Anton amused and

gratified.

“The king!” he cried, and burst into a laugh. “You’ve drawn him,

Rischenheim!”

The crowd heard his boyish exclamation and raised a cheer. Helsing

turned, as though to rebuke them. Had not the king himself desired

secrecy? Yes, but he who spoke as the king chose any risk sooner than

let Rischenheim go back and warn Rupert of his presence.

“Is that the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim?” called Rudolf from within. “If

so, let him enter and then shut the door.”

There was something in his tone that alarmed Rischenheim. He started

back on the step. But Bernenstein caught him by the arm.

“Since you wish to come in, come in,” he said with a grim smile.

Rischenheim looked round, as though he meditated flight. The next

moment Bernenstein was thrust aside. For one short instant a tall figure

appeared in the doorway; the crowd had but a glimpse, yet they cheered

again. Rischenheim’s hand was clasped in a firm grip; he passed

unwillingly but helplessly through the door. Bernenstein followed; the

door was shut. Anton faced round on Helsing, a scornful twist on his

lips.

“There was a deuced lot of mystery about nothing,” said he. “Why

couldn’t you say he was there?” And without waiting for an answer from

the outraged and bewildered chancellor he swung down the steps and

climbed into his phaeton.

The people round were chatting noisily, delighted to have caught a

glimpse of the king, speculating what brought him and the queen to my

house, and hoping that they would soon come out and get into the royal

carriage that still stood waiting.

Had they been able to see inside the door, their emotion would have been

stirred to a keener pitch. Rudolf himself caught Rischenheim by the arm,

and without a moment’s delay led him towards the back of the house. They

went along a passage and reached a small room that looked out on the

garden. Rudolf had known my house in old days, and did not forget its

resources.

“Shut the door, Bernenstein,” said Rudolf. Then he turned to

Rischenheim. “My lord,” he said, “I suppose you came to find out

something. Do you know it now?”

Rischenheim plucked up courage to answer him.

“Yes, I know now that I have to deal with an impostor,” said he

defiantly.

“Precisely. And impostors can’t afford to be exposed.” Rischenheim’s

cheek turned rather pale. Rudolf faced him, and Bernenstein guarded the

door. He was absolutely at their mercy; and he knew their secret. Did

they know his--the news that Rupert of Hentzau had brought?

“Listen,” said Rudolf. “For a few hours to-day I am king in Strelsau. In

those few hours I have an account to settle with your cousin: something

that he has, I must have. I’m going now to seek him, and while I seek

him you will stay here with Bernenstein. Perhaps I shall fail, perhaps

I shall succeed. Whether I succeed or fail, by to-night I shall be far

from Strelsau, and the king’s place will be free for him again.”

Rischenheim gave a slight start, and a look of triumph spread over his

face. They did not know that the king was dead.

Rudolf came nearer to him, fixing his eyes steadily on his prisoner’s

face.

“I don’t know,” he continued, “why you are in this business, my lord.

Your cousin’s motives I know well. But I wonder that they seemed to you

great enough to justify the ruin of an unhappy lady who is your queen.

Be assured that I will die sooner than let that letter reach the king’s

hand.”

Rischenheim made him no answer.

“Are you armed?” asked Rudolf.

Rischenheim sullenly flung his revolver on the table. Bernenstein came

forward and took it.

“Keep him here, Bernenstein. When I return I’ll tell you what more to

do. If I don’t return, Fritz will be here soon, and you and he must make

your own plans.”

“He sha’n’t give me the slip a second time,” said Bernenstein.

“We hold ourselves free,” said Rudolf to Rischenheim, “to do what we

please with you, my lord. But I have no wish to cause your death, unless

it be necessary. You will be wise to wait till your cousin’s fate is

decided before you attempt any further steps against us.” And with a

slight bow he left the prisoner in Bernenstein’s charge, and went back

to the room where the queen awaited him. Helga was with her. The queen

sprang up to meet him.

“I mustn’t lose a moment,” he said. “All that crowd of people know now

that the king is here. The news will filter through the town in no time.

We must send word to Sapt to keep it from the king’s ears at all costs:

I must go and do my work, and then disappear.”

The queen stood facing him. Her eyes seemed to devour his face; but she

said only: “Yes, it must be so.”

“You must return to the palace as soon as I am gone. I shall send out

and ask the people to disperse, and then I must be off.”

“To seek Rupert of Hentzau?”

“Yes.”

She struggled for a moment with the contending feelings that filled her

heart. Then she came to him and seized hold of his hand.

“Don’t go,” she said in low trembling tones. “Don’t go, Rudolf. He’ll

kill you. Never mind the letter. Don’t go: I had rather a thousand times

that the king had it than that you should.... Oh, my dear, don’t go!”

“I must go,” he said softly.

Again she began to implore him, but he would not yield. Helga moved

towards the door, but Rudolf stopped her.

“No,” he said; “you must stay with her; you must go to the palace with

her.”

Even as he spoke they heard the wheels of a carriage driven quickly to

the door. By now I had met Anton von Strofzin and heard from him that

the king was at my house. As I dashed up the news was confirmed by the

comments and jokes of the crowd.

“Ah, he’s in a hurry,” they said. “He’s kept the king waiting. He’ll get

a wigging.”

As may be supposed, I paid little heed to them. I sprang out and ran up

the steps to the door. I saw my wife’s face at the window: she herself

ran to the door and opened it for me.

“Good God,” I whispered, “do all these people know he’s here, and take

him for the king?”

“Yes,” she said. “We couldn’t help it. He showed himself at the door.”

It was worse than I dreamt: not two or three people, but all that crowd

were victims of the mistake; all of them had heard that the king was in

Strelsau--ay, and had seen him.

“Where is he? Where is he?” I asked, and followed her hastily to the

room.

The queen and Rudolf were standing side by side. What I have told from

Helga’s description had just passed between them. Rudolf ran to meet me.

“Is all well?” he asked eagerly.

I forgot the queen’s presence and paid no sign of respect to her. I

caught Rudolf by the arm and cried to him: “Do they take you for the

king?”

“Yes,” he said. “Heavens, man, don’t look so white! We shall manage it.

I can be gone by to-night.”

“Gone? How will that help, since they believe you to be the king?”

“You can keep it from the king,” he urged. “I couldn’t help it. I can

settle with Rupert and disappear.”

The three were standing round me, surprised at my great and terrible

agitation. Looking back now, I wonder that I could speak to them at all.

Rudolf tried again to reassure me. He little knew the cause of what he

saw.

“It won’t take long to settle affairs with Rupert,” said he. “And we

must have the letter, or it will get to the king after all.”

“The king will never see the letter,” I blurted out, as I sank back in a

chair.

They said nothing. I looked round on their faces. I had a strange

feeling of helplessness, and seemed to be able to do nothing but throw

the truth at them in blunt plainness. Let them make what they could of

it, I could make nothing.

“The king will never see the letter,” I repeated. “Rupert himself has

insured that.”

“What do you mean? You’ve not met Rupert? You’ve not got the letter?”

“No, no; but the king can never read it.”

Then Rudolf seized me by the shoulder and fairly shook me; indeed I must

have seemed like a man in a dream or a torpor.

“Why not, man; why not?” he asked in urgent low tones. Again I looked

at them, but somehow this time my eyes were attracted and held by the

queen’s face. I believe that she was the first to catch a hint of the

tidings I brought. Her lips were parted, and her gaze eagerly strained

upon me. I rubbed my hand across my forehead, and, looking up stupidly

at her, I said:

“He never can see the letter. He’s dead.”

There was a little scream from Helga; Rudolf neither spoke nor moved;

the queen continued to gaze at me in motionless wonder and horror.

“Rupert killed him,” said I. “The boar-hound attacked Rupert; then

Herbert and the king attacked him; and he killed them all. Yes, the king

is dead. He’s dead.”

Now none spoke. The queen’s eyes never left my face. “Yes, he’s dead.”

said I; and I watched her eyes still. For a long while (or long

it seemed) they were on my face; at last, as though drawn by some

irresistible force, they turned away. I followed the new line they took.

She looked at Rudolf Rassendyll, and he at her. Helga had taken out her

handkerchief, and, utterly upset by the horror and shock, was lying back

in a low chair, sobbing half-hysterically; I saw the swift look that

passed from the queen to her lover, carrying in it grief, remorse, and

most unwilling joy. He did not speak to her, but put out his hand and

took hers. She drew it away almost sharply, and covered her face with

both hands.

Rudolf turned to me. “When was it?”

“Last night.”

“And the.... He’s at the lodge?”

“Yes, with Sapt and James.”

I was recovering my senses and my coolness.

“Nobody knows yet,” I said. “We were afraid you might be taken for him

by somebody. But, my God, Rudolf, what’s to be done now?”

Mr. Rassendyll’s lips were set firm and tight. He frowned slightly, and

his blue eyes wore a curious entranced expression. He seemed to me to be

forgetful of everything, even of us who were with him, in some one idea

that possessed him. The queen herself came nearer to him and lightly

touched his arm with her hand. He started as though surprised, then fell

again into his reverie.

“What’s to be done, Rudolf?” I asked again.

“I’m going to kill Rupert of Hentzau,” he said. “The rest we’ll talk of

afterwards.”

He walked rapidly across the room and rang the bell. “Clear those people

away,” he ordered. “Tell them that I want to be quiet. Then send a

closed carriage round for me. Don’t be more than ten minutes.”

The servant received his peremptory orders with a low bow, and left us.

The queen, who had been all this time outwardly calm and composed,

now fell into a great agitation, which even the consciousness of our

presence could not enable her to hide.

“Rudolf, must you go? Since--since this has happened--”

“Hush, my dearest lady,” he whispered. Then he went on more loudly,

“I won’t quit Ruritania a second time leaving Rupert of Hentzau

alive. Fritz, send word to Sapt that the king is in Strelsau--he will

understand--and that instructions from the king will follow by midday.

When I have killed Rupert, I shall visit the lodge on my way to the

frontier.”

He turned to go, but the queen, following, detained him for a minute.

“You’ll come and see me before you go?” she pleaded.

“But I ought not,” said he, his resolute eyes suddenly softening in a

marvelous fashion.

“You will?”

“Yes, my queen.”

Then I sprang up, for a sudden dread laid hold on me.

“Heavens, man,” I cried, “what if he kills you--there in the

Konigstrasse?”

Rudolf turned to me; there was a look of surprise on his face. “He won’t

kill me,” he answered.

The queen, looking still in Rudolf’s face, and forgetful now, as it

seemed, of the dream that had so terrified her, took no notice of what I

said, but urged again: “You’ll come, Rudolf?”

“Yes, once, my queen,” and with a last kiss of her hand he was gone.

The queen stood for yet another moment where she was, still and almost

rigid. Then suddenly she walked or stumbled to where my wife sat, and,

flinging herself on her knees, hid her face in Helga’s lap; I heard her

sobs break out fast and tumultuously. Helga looked up at me, the tears

streaming down her cheeks. I turned and went out. Perhaps Helga could

comfort her; I prayed that God in His pity might send her comfort,

although she for her sin’s sake dared not ask it of Him. Poor soul! I

hope there may be nothing worse scored to my account.