"Keep your eyes open," grumbled the butler; "he'll be kissing you next."

"He might do worse," was the retort. Even maids have their mirrors, and hers told a pretty story. When she returned with the wine she asked: "And shall I pour it, Messieurs?"

"No one else shall," declared Maurice. "When is the duchess to arrive?"

"I do not know, Monsieur," stepping in between the chairs and filling the glasses with the ruby liquid.

"Who is Madame Sylvia Amerbach?"

"Madame Sylvia Amerbach," placing the bottle on the table and going to the sideboard. She returned with a box of "Khedives."

Fitzgerald laughed at Maurice's disconcertion.

"Where has Madame gone?"

"To the summer home of Countess Herzberg, who is to return with Madame."

"Oho!" cried Maurice, in English. "A countess! What do you say to that, my Englishman?"

"She is probably old and plain. Madame desires a chaperon."

"You forget that Madame desires nothing but those certificates. And the chaperon does not live who could keep an eye on Madame Sylvia Amerbach."

The mention of the certificates brought back all the Englishman's discomfort, and he emptied his glass of wine not as a lover of good wine should. Soon they rose from the table. The maid ran to the door and held it open. Fitzgerald hurried through, but Maurice lingered a moment. He put his hand under the porcelain chin and looked into the china-blue eyes. Fitzgerald turned.

"What was that noise?" he asked, as Maurice shouldered him along the hall.

"What noise?"

Madame came back to the chateau at five, and dinner was announced at eight. The Countess Herzberg was young and pretty, the possessor of a beautiful mouth and a charming smile. The Colonel did the honors at the table. Maurice almost fancied himself in Vienna, the setting of the dining room was so perfect. The entire room was paneled in walnut. On the mantel over the great fireplace stood silver candlesticks with wax tapers. The candlestick in the center of the table was composed of twelve branches. The cuisine was delectable, the wines delicious. Madame and the countess were in evening dress. The Colonel was brimming with anecdote, the countess was witty, Madame was a sister to Aspasia.

Maurice, while he enjoyed this strange feast, was puzzled. It was very irregular, and the Colonel's gray hairs did not serve to alter this fact. What was the meaning of it? What lay underneath?

Sometimes he caught Fitzgerald in the act of staring at Madame when her attention was otherwise engaged; at other times he saw that Madame was returning this cursory investigation. There was, however, altogether a different meaning in these surreptitious glances. In the one there were interest, doubt, admiration; in the other, cold calculation. At no time did the conversation touch politics, and the crown was a thousand miles away—if surface indications went for aught.

Finally the Colonel rose. "A toast—to Madame the duchess, since this is her very best wine!"

Maurice emptied his glass fast enough; but Fitzgerald lowered his eyes and made no movement to raise his glass. The pupils in Madame's eyes grew small.

"That is scarcely polite, Monsieur," she said.

"Madame," he replied gently, "my parole did not include toasts to her Highness. My friend loves wine for its own sake, and seldom bothers his head about the toast as long as the wine is good. Permit me to withdraw the duchess and substitute yourself."

"Do so, if it will please you. In truth, it was bad taste in you, count, to suggest it."

"It's all the same to me;" and the Colonel refilled his glass and nodded.

The countess smiled behind her fan, while Maurice felt the edge of the mild reproach which had been administered to him.

"I plead guilty to the impeachment. It was very wrong. Far from it that I should drink to the health of the Philistines. Madame the countess was beating me down with her eyes, and I did not think."

"I was not even looking at you!" declared the countess, blushing.

The incident was soon forgotten; and at length Madame and the countess rose.

Said the first: "We will leave you gentlemen to your cigars; and when they have ceased to interest you, you will find us in the music room."

"And you will sing?" said Maurice to the countess.

"If you wish." She was almost beautiful when she smiled, and she smiled on Maurice.

"I confess," said he, "that being a prisoner, under certain circumstances, is a fine life."

"What wicked eyes he has," said the countess, as she and Madame entered the music room.

"Do not look into them too often, my dear," was the rejoinder. "I have asked not other sacrifice than that you should occupy his attention and make him fall in love with you."

"Ah, Madame, that will be easy enough. But what is to prevent me from falling in love with him? He is very handsome."

"You are laughing!"

"Yes, I am laughing. It will be such an amusing adventure, a souvenir for my old age—and may my old age forget me."

The men lit their cigars and smoked in silence.

"Colonel," said Maurice at last, "will you kindly tell me what all this means?"

"Never ask your host how old his wine is. If he is proud of it, he will tell you." He blew the smoke under the candle shades and watched it as it darted upward. "Don't you find it comfortable? I should."

"Conscience will not lie down at one's bidding."

"I understood that you were a diplomat?" The Colonel turned to Fitzgerald. "I hope that, when you are liberated, you will forget the manner in which you were brought here."

"I shall forget nothing," curtly.

"The devil! I can not fight you; I am too old."

Fitzgerald said nothing, and continued to play with his emptied wine-glass.

"The Princess Alexia," went on the Colonel, "has a bulldog. I have always wondered till now what the nationality of the dog was. The bulldog neither forsakes nor forgives; he is an Englishman."

This declaration was succeeded by another interval of silence. The Englishman was thinking of his father; the thoughts of Maurice were anywhere but at the chateau; the Colonel was contemplating them both, shrewdly.

"Well, to the ladies, gentlemen; it is half after nine."

The countess was seated at the piano, improvising. Madame stood before the fireplace, arranging the pieces on a chess board. In the center of the room was a table littered with books, magazines and illustrated weeklies.

"Do you play chess, Monsieur?" said Madame to Fitzgerald.

"I do not."

"Well, Colonel, we will play a game and show him how it is done."

Fitzgerald drew up a chair and sat down at Madame's elbow. He followed every move she made because he had never seen till now so round and shapely an arm, hands so small and white, tipped with pink filbert nails. He did not learn the game so quickly as might be. He, like Maurice, was pondering over the unusual position in which he found himself; but analysis of any sort was not his forte; so he soon forgot all save the delicate curve of Madame's chin and throat, the soft ripple of her laughter, the abysmal gray of her eyes.

"Monsieur le Capitaine," said the countess, "what shall I sing to you?"

"To me?" said Maurice. "Something from Abt."

Her fingers ran lightly over the keys, and presently her voice rose in song, a song low, sweet, and sad. Maurice peered out of the window into the shades of night. Visions passed and repassed the curtain of darkness. Once or twice the countess turned her head and looked at him. It was not only a handsome face she saw, but one that carried the mark of refinement.... Maurice was thinking of the lonely princess and her grave dark eyes. He possessed none of that power from which princes derive benefits; what could he do? And why should he interest himself in a woman who, in any event, could never be anything to him, scarcely even a friend? He smiled.

If Fitzgerald was not adept at analysis, he was. Nothing ever entered his mind or heart that he could not separate and define. It was strange; it was almost laughable; to have fenced as long and adroitly as he had fenced, and then to be disarmed by one who did not even understand the foils! Surrender? Why not?... By and by his gaze traveled to the chess players. There was another game than chess being played there, though kings and queens and knights and bishops were still the sum of it.

"Are you so very far away, then?" The song had ceased; the countess was looking at him curiously.

"Thank you," he said; "indeed, you had taken me out of myself."

"Do you like chestnuts?" she asked suddenly.

"I am very fond of them."

"Then I shall fetch some." It occurred to her that the room was very warm; she wanted a breath of air—alone.

"Checkmate!" cried the Colonel, joyfully.

"Do you begin to understand?" asked Madame.

"A little," admitted Fitzgerald, who did not wish to learn too quickly. "I like to watch the game."

"So do I," said Maurice, who had approached the table. "I should like to know what the game is, too."

Both Madame and the Colonel appeared to accept the statement and not the innuendo. Madame placed the figures on the board.

Maurice strolled over to the table and aimlessly glanced through the Vienna illustrated weeklies. He saw Franz Josef in characteristic poses, full-page engravings of the military maneuvers and reproductions of the notable paintings. He picked up an issue dated June. A portrait of the new Austrian ambassador to France attracted his attention. He turned the leaf. What he saw on the following page caused him to widen his eyes and let slip an ejaculation loud enough to be heard by the chess players. Madame seemed on the point of rising. Maurice did not lower his eyes nor Madame hers.

"Checkmate in three moves, Madame!" exclaimed the Colonel; "it is wonderful."

"What's the matter, Maurice?" asked Fitzgerald.

"Jack, I am a ruined man."

"How? What?" nearly upsetting the board.

"I just this moment remember that I left my gas burning at the hotel, and it is extra."

The Colonel and Fitzgerald lay back in their chairs and roared with laughter.

But Madame did not even smile.



CHAPTER X. BEING OF LONG RIDES, MAIDS, KISSES AND MESSAGES

Fitzgerald was first into bed that night.

"I want to finish this cigar, Jack," said Maurice, who wished to be alone with his thoughts. He sat in the chair by the window and lifted his feet to the sill. The night wind was warm and odorous. He had found a clue, but through what labyrinth would it lead him? A strange adventure, indeed; so strange that he was of half a mind that he dreamed. Prisoners.... Why? And these two women alone in this old chateau, a house party. There lay below all this some deep design.

Should he warn his friend? Indeed, as yet, of what had he to warn him? To discover Madame to Fitzgerald would be to close the entrance to this labyrinth which he desired to explore. How would Madame act, now that she knew he possessed her secret? Into many channels he passed, but all these were blind, and led him to no end. Madame had a purpose; to discover what this purpose was Fitzgerald must remain in ignorance. What a woman! She resembled one of those fabulous creatures of medieval days. And why was the countess on the scene, and what was her part in this invisible game?

He finished his cigar and lit another; but the second cigar solved no more than the first. Mademoiselle of the Veil! He knew now what she meant; having asked her to lift her veil, she had said, "Something terrible would happen." At last he, too, sought bed, but he did not sleep so soundly as did Fitzgerald.

Ten days of this charming captivity passed; there was a thicker carpet of leaves on the ground, and new distances began to show mistily through the dismantling forest. But there were no changes at the Red Chateau—no outward changes. It might, in truth, have been a house party but for the prowling troopers and the continual grumbling of the Englishman when alone with Maurice.

During the day they hunted or took long rides into the interior of the duchy. Both women possessed a fine skill in the saddle. In the evenings there were tourneys at chess, games and music.

Each night Fitzgerald learned a little more about chess and a little less about woman. The countess, airy and delicate as a verse of Voiture's, bent all her powers (and these were not inconsiderable) toward the subjugation of Maurice. She laughed, she sang, she fascinated. She had the ability to amuse hour after hour. She offered vague promises with her eyes, and refused them with her lips. Maurice, who was never impregnable under the fire of feminine artillery, was at times half in love with her; but his suspicions, always near the surface, saved him.

Sometimes he caught her hand and retained it over long; and once, when he kissed it, there was no rebuke. Again, when she sang, he would lean so close that she could feel his breath on her cheek, and her fingers would stumble into discords. Often she would suddenly rise from the piano and walk swiftly from the room, through the halls, into the park, where, though he followed, he never could find her. One day she and Madame returned from a walk in the forest, the one with high color and brilliant eyes, the other impassive as ice. Now, all these things did not escape Maurice, but he could not piece them together with any result.

On the morning of the tenth day the two prisoners came down to breakfast, wondering how much longer this house party was going to last.

"George! I wish I had a pipe," said Maurice.

"So do I," Fitzgerald echoed glumly. "I am tired of cigars and weary of those eternal cigarettes. How the deuce are we going to get out of this?"

"What's your hurry? We're having a good time."

"That's the trouble. Hang the duchess!"

"Hang her and welcome. But why do you complain to me and not to Madame? Are you afraid of her? Does she possess, then, what is called tamer's magnetism? O, my lion, if only you would roar a bit more at her and less at me!"

"I don't know what she possesses; but I do know that I'd give a deal to be out of this."

"Is the chambermaid idea bothering you?"

"No, Maurice, it is not the chambermaid. I feel oppressed by something which I can not define."

"Maybe you are not used to tokay forty years old?"

"Wine has nothing to do with it."

He was so serious that Maurice dropped his jesting tone. "By the way," he said, "do you sleep soundly?"

"No. Every night I am awakened by the noise of a horse entering the court-yard."

"So am I. Moreover, Madame seems to be troubled with the same sleeplessness.

"Madame?"

"Yes. She is so troubled with sleeplessness that nothing will quiet her but the sight of the man who rides the horse: all of which is to say that a courier arrives each night with dispatches from Bleiberg. Now, to tell the truth, the courier does not keep me awake half so much as the thought of who is eating three meals a day at the end of the east corridor on the third floor. But there are Madame and the countess; we have kept them waiting."

"Good morning," said Madame, smiling as they came up. "And how have you slept?"

"Nothing wakes me but the roll of the drum or thunder," answered Fitzgerald diffidently.

"I dream of horses," said Maurice carelessly.

"Bon jour, M. le Capitaine!" cried the countess. Then she added with a light laugh: "Come, let me try you. Portons armes! Presentons armes!—How beautifully you do it!—Par le flanc gauche! En avant—marche!"

Maurice swung, clicked his heels and, with a covert glance at Madame, led the way into the dining hall, whistling, "Behold the saber of my father!"

"Ah, I do not see the Colonel," said Maurice; for night and day the old soldier had been with them.

"He has gone to Brunnstadt," said Madame, "but will return this evening."

The breakfast was short and merry. Words passed across the table that were as crisp as the toast. Maurice remarked the advent of two liveried servants, stolid Germans by the way, who, as he afterward found, did not understand French.

"So the Colonel has gone to Brunnstadt?" said Maurice; which was a long way of asking why the Colonel had gone to Brunnstadt.

"Yes," said Madame; "he has gone to consult Madame the duchess to see what shall be done to you, Monsieur."

"To be done to me?" ignoring the challenge in her eyes.

"Yes. You must not forget that you promised me your sword, and I have taken the liberty of presenting it to her Highness."

"I remember nothing about promising my sword," said Maurice, gazing ceiling-ward.

"What! There was a mental reservation?"

"No, Madame. I remember my words only too well. I said that I loved adventure, thoughtless youth that I was, and that I was easy to be found. Which is all true, and part proved, since I am here."

"Still, the uniform fits you exceedingly well. The hussars hold a high place at court."

"Madame," replied he pleasantly, "I appreciate the honor, but at present my sword and fealty are sworn to my own country. And besides, I have no desire to take part in the petty squabble between this country and the kingdom."

The forecast of a storm lay in Madame's gray eyes.

"Eh? You wish to placate me, Madame?" thought Maurice.

"He is right, Madame," interposed the countess. "But away with politics! It spoils all it touches."

"And away with the duchess, too," put in Fitzgerald, reaching for a bunch of yellow grapes. "With all due respect to your cause and beliefs, Madame the duchess, your mistress, is a bugbear to me. The very sound of the title arouses in my heart all that is antagonistic."

"You have not seen her Highness, Monsieur," said Madame, quietly. "Perhaps she is all that is desirable. She is known to be rich, her will is paramount to all others. When she sets her heart on a thing she leaves no stone unturned until she procures it. And, countess, do they not say of her that she possesses something—an attribute—more dangerous than beauty—fascination?"

"Yes, Madame."

"Madame the duchess," said Maurice dryly, "has a stanch advocate in you, Madame."

"It is not unnatural."

"Be that as it may," said Fitzgerald, "she is mine enemy."

"Love your enemies, says the Book," was the interposition of the countess, who stole a sly glance at Maurice which he did not see.

"That would not be difficult—in some cases," replied the Englishman.

"Ah, come," thought Maurice, "my friend is beginning to pick up his lines." Aloud he said: "Madame, will you confer a favor on me by permitting me to inform my superior in Vienna of my whereabouts?"

"No, Monsieur; prisoners are not allowed to communicate with the outside world. Are you not enjoying yourself? Is not everything being done for your material comfort? What complaint have you to offer?"

"A gilded cage is no less a cage."

"It is but temporary. The duchess has commanded that you be held until it is her pleasure to come to the chateau. O, Monsieur, where is your gallantry? Here the countess and I have done so much to amuse you, and you speak of a gilded cage!"

"Pretty bird! pretty bird!" said Maurice, in a piping voice, "will it have some caraway?"

Madame laughed. "Well, I hear the grooms leading the horses under the porte cochere. Go, then, for the morning ride. I am sorry that I can not accompany you. I have some letters to write."

Fitzgerald curled his mustache. "I'll forswear the ride myself. I was reading a good book last night; I'll finish it, and keep Madame company."

Madame trifled with the toast crumbs. Fitzgerald's profound dissimulation caused a smile to cross Maurice's lips.

"Come, countess," said Maurice, gaily; "we'll take the ride together, since Madame has to write and my lord to read."

"Five minutes until I dress," replied the countess, and she sped away.

"What a beautiful girl!" said Madame, fondly. "Poor dear! Her life has not been a bed of roses."

"No?" said Maurice, while Fitzgerald raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

"No. She was formerly a maid of honor to her Highness. She made an unhappy marriage."

"And where is the count?" asked Fitzgerald in surprise. He shot a glance of dismay at Maurice, who, translating it, smiled.

"He is dead."

Fitzgerald looked relieved.

"What a fine thing it is," said Maurice, rising, "to be a man and wed where and how you will!" He withdrew to the main hall to don his cap and spurs. As he stooped to strap the latter, he saw a sheet of paper, crinkled by recent dampness, lying on the floor. He picked it up—and read it.

"The plan you suggest is worthy of you, Madame. The Englishman is fair game, being a common enemy. Let us gain our ends through the heart, since his purse is impregnable to assaults. But the countess? Why not the pantry maid, since the other is an American? They lack discrimination. The king grows weaker every day. Nothing was found in the Englishman's rooms. I fear that the consols are in the safe at the British legation. As usual, a courier will arrive each night. B."



"Why—not—the—pantry maid?" Maurice drawled. "That is flippant." He read the message again. "What plan?" Suddenly he struck his thigh. "By George, so that is it, eh, Madame? So that is why we are so comfortably lodged here? I am in the way, and you bait the hook with a countess! Since the purse will not lead the way, the heart, eh? Certainly I shall tell my lord the Englishman all about his hostess when I return from the ride. Decidedly you are clever. O, how careless! Not even in cipher, so that he who reads may run. And who is B.?—Beauvais! Something told me that this man had a hand in the affair. I remember the look he gave me. A traitor, too.

"Hang my memory, which seems always to forget what I wish to remember and remember what I wish to forget! Where have I met this man Beauvais before? Ah, the countess!" He thrust the message into his breast. "Evidently Madame thinks I am worth consideration; uncommonly pretty bait. Shall I let the play run on, or shall I tell her? Ah! you have two minutes to spare," he said, as she approached. "But you do not need them," throwing a deal of admiration into his glance.

"It does not take me long to dress—on occasions."

"A compliment to me?" he said.

"If you will accept it."

It was an exhilarating morning, full of forest perfumes. Through the haze the mountains glittered like huge emeralds and amethysts.

"What a day!" said the countess, as they galloped away.

"Aye, for plots and war and love!"

"For plots and war?" demurely. Her cheeks were rosy and her hair as yellow as the silk of corn.

"Well, then, for love." He shortened his rein. "A propos, have you ever been in love, countess?"

"I? What a question!"

"Have you?"

"N—no! Let us talk of plots and war," gazing across the valley.

"No; let us talk of love. I am in love, and one afflicted that way wishes a confidant. I appoint you mine."

"Some rosy-cheeked peasant girl?" laughing.

"Perhaps. Perhaps it's only a—a pantry maid," with a sly look from the corner of his eyes. Evidently she had not heard. She was still laughing. "I have heard of hermits falling in love with stars, and have laughed. Now I am in the same predicament. I love a star—"

"Operatic? To be sure! Mademoiselle Lenormand of the Royal Vienna is in Bleiberg. How she keeps her age!"

It was Maurice's turn to laugh.

"And that is why you came to Bleiberg! Ah, these opera singers, had I my way, they should all be aged and homely."

"Countess, you are pulling the bit too hard," said he. "I noticed yesterday that your horse has a very tender mouth."

"Thank you." She slacked the rein. "He was going too close to the ditch. You were saying—"

"No, it was you who were saying that all actresses should be aged and homely. But it is not Mademoiselle Lenormand, it is not the peasant, nor the pantry maid."

This time she looked up quickly.

"The woman I love is too far away, so I am going to give up thinking of her. Countess, I made a peculiar discovery this morning."

"A discovery, Monsieur? What is it?"

"Do you see that fork in the road, a mile away? When we reach it and turn I'll tell you what it is. If I told you now it might spoil the ride. What a day, truly! How clear everything is! And the air is like wine." He drew in deep breaths.

"Let us hurry and reach the fork in the road; my curiosity is stifling me."

Maurice did not laugh as she expected he would. As she observed the thoughtful frown between his brows, a shiver of dread ran through her. It did not take long to cover the intervening mile. They turned, and the horses fell into a quick step.

"Now, Monsieur; please!"

After all... But he quelled the gentle tremor in his heart. A month ago, had he known her, he might now have told her altogether a different story. He could see that she had not an inkling of what was to come (for he had determined to tell her); and he vaguely wondered if he should bring humiliation to the dainty creature. It would be like nicking a porcelain cup. Her brows were arched inquisitively and her lips puckered....He had had a narrow escape.

He drew the message from his breast, leaned across and handed it to her.

"Why, what is this, Monsieur?"

"Read it and see." And he busied himself with the tangled mane of his horse. When they had ridden several yards, he heard her voice.

"Here, Monsieur." The hand was extended, but the face was averted.

"Countess, you are too charming a woman to lend yourself to such schemes."

There was no reply.

"Did you not volunteer to make me fall in love with you to keep me from interfering with Madame's plans?" It was brutal, but he was compelled to say it.

Silence.

"Did you not?" he persisted. "When one writes such messages as these, one should use an intricate cipher. Had I been other than a prisoner, what I have done would not be the act of a gentleman. But I am a prisoner; I must defend myself. To rob a man through his love! And such a man! He is a very infant in the hands of a woman. He has been a soldier all his life. All women to him are little less than angels; he knows nothing of their treachery, their deceit, their false smiles. It will be an easy victory, or rather it would have been, for I shall do my best to prevent it. Madame is not unknown to me; I have been waiting to see what meant this peculiar house party.

"Perhaps I am now too late. Madame distrusts me. I dare say she has her reasons. She went to you. You were to occupy me. I was young, I liked the society of women, I was gay and careless. She has decked me out as one would deck a monkey (and doubtless she calls me one behind my back), and has offered me a sword to play with.

"In America, when a man puts a sword in his hand, it is to kill somebody. Here—aye, all over the continent, for that matter—swords are baubles for young nobles, used to slash each other in love affairs. I respect and admire you; had I not done so, I should not have spoken. Countess, be frank with me, as frank as I have been with you; have I not guessed rightly?"

"Yes, Monsieur," her head bowed and her cheeks white. "Yes, yes! it was a miserable game. But I love Madame; I would sacrifice my pride and my heart for her, if need be."

"I can believe that."

"And believe me when I say that the moment I saw you, I knew that my conduct was going to be detestable. But I had given my promise. A woman has but little to offer to her country; I have offered my pride, and I am a proud woman, Monsieur. I am ashamed. I am glad that you spoke, for it was becoming unbearable to throw myself at a man whose heart I knew intuitively to be elsewhere." She raised her eyes, which were filled with a strange luster. "Will you forgive me, Monsieur?"

"With all my heart. For now I know that we shall be friends. You will be relieved of an odious part; for you are too handsome not to have in keeping some other heart besides your own."

He then began gaily to describe some of his humorous adventures, and continued in this vein till they arrived once more at the chateau. Sometimes the countess laughed, but he could see that her sprightliness was gone. When they came under the porte cochere he sprang from his horse and assisted her to dismount; and he did not relinquish her hand till he had given it a friendly pressure. She stood motionless on the steps, centered a look on him which he failed to interpret, then ran swiftly into the hall, thence to her room, the door of which she bolted.

"It would not be difficult," he mused, communing with the thought which had come to him. "It would be something real, and not a chimera."

He turned over the horses to the grooms, and went in search of Fitzgerald to inform him of his discovery; but the Englishman was nowhere to be found. Neither was Madame. Being thirsty, he proceeded to the dining hall. Fadette, the maid, was laying the silver.

"Ah, the 'pantry maid,'" he thought. "Good day, Fadette."

"Does Monsieur wish for something?"

"A glass of water. Thanks!"

She retreated and kept her eyes lowered.

"Fadette, you are charming. Has any one ever told you that?"

"O, Monsieur!" blushing.

"Have they?" lessening the distance between them.

"Sometimes," faintly. She could not withstand his glance, so she retired a few more steps, only to find herself up with the wall.

With a laugh he sprang forward and caught her face between his hands and imprinted a kiss on her left cheek. Suddenly she wrenched herself loose, uttered a frightened cry and fled down the pantryway.

"What's the matter with the girl?" he muttered aloud. "I wanted to ask her some questions."

"Ask them of me, Monsieur," said a voice from the doorway.

Maurice wheeled. It was Madame, but her face expressed nothing. He saw that he had been caught. The humor of the situation got the better of him, and he laughed. Madame ignored this unseemly hilarity.

"Monsieur, is this the way you return my kindness?"

"Permit me to apologize. As to your kindness, I have just discovered that it is of a most dangerous quality."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I could not kiss Madame the countess with the same sense of security as I could the—pantry maid," bowing.

Just now Madame's face expressed a good deal. "Of what are you talking?" advancing a step.

"I had in mind what our friend, Colonel Beauvais, remarked in his recent dispatch: I know no discrimination. The fact is, I do. I found the dispatch on the floor this morning. Allow me to return it to you. I have kept silent, Madame, because I did not know how to act."

"You have dared—?" her lips pressed and her eyes thunderous.

"To read it? Aye. I am a prisoner; it was in self-defense. Madame, you do me great honor. A countess! What consideration to the indiscriminate! Au revoir, then, till luncheon;" and he left the room, whistling—

Voici le sabre de mon pere!



CHAPTER XI. THE DENOUEMENT

At no time during the afternoon did Maurice find the opportunity to speak privately to Fitzgerald. Madame hovered about, chatting, smiling and humming snatches of song. She seemed to have formed a sudden attachment for Maurice; that is to say, she could not bear to lose sight of him, not for the briefest moment.

He swallowed his chagrin, for he could but confess that it was sugar-coated. Madame had at last considered his case, and had labeled him dangerous. Somehow a man always likes to be properly valued. It re-establishes his good opinion of himself.

Well, well; however affectionate Madame might be, she could scarcely carry it beyond the threshold of his chamber, and he was determined to retire at an early hour. But he had many things to learn.

Fitzgerald was abandoned to the countess, who had still much color to regain. From time to time the Englishman looked over his shoulder to see what was going on between Madame and his friend, and so missed half of what the countess said.

"Come," thought Maurice, "it is time I made a play."

The blackberries were ripe along the stone walls which surrounded the chateau. Maurice wandered here and there, plucking what fruit he could find. Now and then he would offer a branch to Madame. At length, as though by previous arrangement with Madame, the countess led Fitzgerald around to the other side of the chateau, so that Madame and Maurice were alone. Immediately the smile, which had rested on her lips, vanished. Her companion was gazing mountainward, and cogitating. How fared those in Bleiberg?

"What a beautiful world it is!" said a low, soft voice close to his ear.

Maurice resumed his berry picking.

"What exquisite tints in the skies!" went on the voice; "what matchless color in the forests!"

Maurice plucked a berry, ate it, and smacked his lips. It was a good berry.

"But what a terrible thing it would be if one should die suddenly, or be thrown into a windowless dungeon, shut out from all these splendid reaches?"

Maurice plucked another berry, but he did not eat it. Instinctively he turned—and met a pair of eyes as hard and cold and gray as new steel.

"That," said he, "sounds like a threat."

"And if it were, Monsieur, and if it were?"

"If it were, I should say that you had discovered that I know too much. I suspected from the first; the picture merely confirmed my suspicions. I see now that it was thoughtless in me not to have told my friend; but it is not too late."

"And why, I ask, have I not suppressed you before this?"

"Till to-day, Madame, you had not given me your particular consideration." Then, as if the conversation was not interesting him, he returned to the berries. "There's a fine one there. It's a little high; but then!" He tiptoed, drew the branch from the wall, and snatched the luscious fruit. "Ah!"

"Monsieur, attend to me; the berries can wait."

"Madame, the life of a good blackberry is short."

"To begin with, you say that I did not show you consideration. Few princes have been shown like consideration."

"I was wrong. It is not every man that has a countess—and a pretty one, too!—thrown at his head."

Madame was temporarily silenced by this retort; it upset her calculations. She scrutinized the clean, smooth face, and she saw lines which had hitherto escaped her notice. She was at last convinced that she had to contend with a man, a man who had dealt with both men and women. How deep was he? Could honors, such as she could give, and money plumb the depths?... He was an American. She smiled the smile of duplicity.

"Monsieur," she said, "do you lack wealth?"

"Yes, I lack it; but that is not to say that I desire it."

"Perhaps it is honors you desire?"

"Honors? To what greater honor may I aspire than that which is written in my passports?"

"What is written in your passports?"

"That I am a citizen of the United States of America. It would not be good taste in me to accept honors save those that my country may choose to confer."

Again Madame found her foil turned aside. She began to lose patience. Her boot patted the sod. "Monsieur, since the countess is not high enough, since gold and honors have no charm, listen."

"I am listening, Madame."

"I permit you to witness the comic opera, but I shall allow no prompting from outsiders."

"Madame, do you expect me to sit calmly by and see my friend made a fool?" He spoke warmly and his eyes remained steadfast.

"Certainly that is what you shall do," coldly.

"Madame, you are a beautiful woman; heaven has endowed you with something more than beauty. Is it possible that the gods forgot to mix conscience in the mold?"

"Conscience? Royalty knows none."

"Ah, Madame, wait till you are royal."

"Take care. You have not felt my anger."

"I would rather that than your love."

She marveled at her patience.

"If you have no conscience, Madame, I have. I shall warn him. You shall not dishonor him if I can prevent it. You wish to win his love, and you have gauged the possibilities of it so accurately that you know you will have but to ask, be it his honor or his life. A far finer thing it would be for you to win your crown at the point of the sword. There would be a little glory in it then. But even then, the world would laugh at you. For you would be waging war against a lonely woman, a paralytic king, a prelate who is a man of peace. What resistance could these three offer?

"But to gain your ends by treachery and deceit, to rob a man of his brains and heart, laughing the while in your sleeve; to break his life and make him curse all women, from Eve to you and the mother who bore him! Ah, Madame, let me plead with you. Give him his liberty. Let him go back and complete the task imposed on him. Do not break his life, for life is more than a crown; do not compel him to sully his honor, for honor is more than life.

"Your cause is just, I will admit, but do not tarnish it by such detestable means. 'Tis true that a crown to me signifies nothing, but life and honor are common to us both. With all his strength and courage, my friend is helpless. All his life he has been without the society of women. If he should love you—God help him! His love would be without calculation, without reason, blind and furious. Madame, do not destroy him."

Sometimes, in the passing, we are stopped by the sound of a voice. It is not the words it utters, nor the range nor tone. It is something indefinable, and, though we can not analyze it, we are willing to follow wherever it leads. Such a voice Maurice possessed, though he was totally ignorant of its power. But Madame, as she listened, felt its magic influence, and for a moment the spell rendered her mute.

"Monsieur, you have missed your vocation; you plead well, indeed. Unfortunately, I can not hear; my ears are of wax. No, no! I have nourished these projects too long; they are a part of me. Laughed at, you say? Have I not been laughed at from one end of the continent to the other?" passionately. "It is my turn now, and woe to those who have dared to laugh. I shall sweep all obstacles away; nothing shall stop me. Mine the crown is, and mine it shall be. I am a woman, and I wished to avoid bloodshed. But not even that shall stay me; not even love!" Her bosom heaved, her hands were clenched, and her gray eyes flashed like troubled waters in the sunlight.

"Madame, if you love him—"

"Well?" proudly.

"No, I am wrong. If you loved him you would prize above all else this honor of which you intend to rob him."

"I brought you here not to discuss whether I am right or wrong. Look about you."

Maurice was somewhat troubled to discover several troopers lounging about just out of earshot. They were so arranged as to prevent egress from the park. He looked thoughtfully at the wall. It was eight feet in height.

Madame saw the look, and said, "Corporal!"

There was a noise on the other side of the wall, and presently a head bobbed up.

"Madame?" inquired the head.

"Nothing. I wished to know if you were at your post." She turned to Maurice, who was puzzled to know what all this was preamble to. "Monsieur Carewe, I never forget details. I had an idea that when I submitted my proposals to you, you might be tempted to break your parole."

Maurice gnawed his lip. "Proceed, Madame."

"There are only two. If you do not promise here and now in no way to interfere with my plans, these troopers will convey you to Brunnstadt, where you will be kept in confinement until the succession to the throne is decided one way or the other. The other proposal is, if you promise—and I have faith in your word—the situation will continue the same as at present. Choose, Monsieur. Which is it to be?"

The devil gleamed in his eyes. He remained silent.

"Well! Well!" impatiently.

"I accept the alternative," with bad grace. "If I made a dash—"

"You would be shot; those were my orders."

"And if I went to prison—"

"You would miss what you call the comic opera, but which to me is all there is in life. You say that I have read your friend well. That is true. Do you think that it is easy for me to lessen myself in my own eyes? No woman lives who is prouder than I. Remember, you are not to hint at what I propose to do, nor who I am. See! It is all because you read something which was not intended for your eyes. Be my friend, or be my enemy, it is a matter of indifference to me. You have only yourself to blame. Had you gone about your business and not intruded where you were not wanted, neither you nor your friend would be here. No interference from you, Monsieur; that is the understanding." She raised her hand and made a sign, and the troopers took themselves off. "Now you may go—to the countess, if you wish; though I dare say that she will not find you in the best of tempers."

"I dare say she won't," said Maurice.



Fitzgerald sat by a window in the music room. He had resurrected from no one knew where a clay with a broken stem. There was a thoughtful cast to his countenance, and he puffed away, blissfully unconscious of, or indifferent to, the close proximity of the velvet curtains. A thrifty housewife, could she have seen the smoke rise and curl and lose itself in the folds above, would have experienced the ecstasy of anxiety and perturbation. But there was no thrifty housewife at the Red Chateau, nothing but dreams of conquest and revenge.

Twilight was gathering about, soft-footed and shadowful. Long reaches of violet and vermilion clouds pressed thickly on the western line of hills. The mists began to rise, changing from opal to sapphire. The fantastic melodies of wandering gypsy songs went throbbing through the room; rollicking gavots, Hungarian dances, low and slumbrous nocturnes. As the music grew sadder and dreamier, the smoker moved uneasily.

Somehow, it gripped his heart; and the long years of loneliness returned and overwhelmed him. They marshaled past, thirteen in all; and there were glimpses of deserts, snowcapped mountains, men moving in the blur of smoke, long watches in the night. Thirteen years in God-forsaken outposts, with never a sight of a woman's face, the sound of her voice, the swish of her gown, nor a touch of the spell which radiates from her presence.

He had never made friends. Others had come up to him and passed him, and had gone to the cities, leaving him to bear the brunt of the cold, the heat, the watchfulness. He had made his bed; he was too much his father's son to whine because it was hard. Often he used to think how a few words, from a pride humbled, would have removed the barrier. But the words never came, nor was the pride ever humbled.

Out of all the thirteen years he could remember only six months of pleasure. He had been transferred temporarily to Calcutta, where his Colonel, who had received secret information concerning him, had treated him like a gentleman, and had employed him as regimental interpreter, for he spoke French and German and a smattering of Indian tongues. During his lonely hours he had studied, for he knew that some day he would be called upon to administer a vast fortune.... He laid the pipe on the sill, rested his elbows beside it, and dropped his chin in his hands. What a fool he had been to waste the best years of his life! His father would have opened to him a boundless career; he would have seen the world under the guidance of a master hand. And here he was to-day, the possessor of millions, a beggar in friends, no niche to fill, a wanderer from place to place.

The old pile in England, he never wished to see it again; the memories which it would arouse would be too bitter.... The shade of Beethoven touched him as it passed; Mozart, Mendelssohn, Chopin. But he was thinking only of his loneliness, and the marvelous touch of the hands which evoked the great spirits was lost upon him.

Maurice was seated in one of the gloomy corners. He had still much good humor to recover. He pulled at his lips, and wondered from time to time what was going on in Fitzgerald's head. Poor devil! he thought; could he resist this woman whose accomplishments were so varied that at one moment she could overthrow a throne and at the next play Phyllis to some strolling Corydon? Since he himself, who knew her, could entertain for her nothing but admiration, what hope was there for the Englishman? What a woman! She savored of three hundred years off. To plan by herself, to arrange the minutest detail, and above all to wait patiently! Patience has never been the attribute of a woman of power; Madame possessed both patience and power.

The countess was seated in another dark corner. Suddenly she arose and said, in a voice blended with great trouble and impatience: "For pity's sake, Madame, cease those dirges! Play something lively; I am sad."

The music stopped, but presently began again. Maurice leaned forward. Madame was playing Chopin's polonaise. He laughed silently. He was in Madame's thoughts. It struck him, however, that the notes had a defiant ring.

"Lights!" called Madame, rising from the stool.

Immediately a servant entered with candles and retired. Maurice, when his eyes had grown accustomed to the lights, scanned the three faces. Madame's was radiant. Fitzgerald's was a mixture—a comical mixture—of content and enjoyment, but the countess's was as colorless as the wax in the candlesticks. He asked himself what other task she had to perform that she should take so long to recover her roses. Had the knowledge of her recent humiliation been too much for her?

She was speaking to him. "Monsieur, will you walk with me in the park? I am faint."

"Are you ill, countess?" asked Madame, coming up and placing her hand under the soft round chin of the other and striving to read her eyes.

"Not so ill, Madame, that a breath of fresh air will not revive me." When they had gained the park, the countess said to Maurice: "Monsieur, I have brought you here to tell you something. I fear that your friend is lost, for you can do nothing."

"Not even if I break my word?" he asked.

"It would do no good."

"Why?"

"It is too late," lowly. "I have been Madame's understudy too long not to read. Forgive me. I was to keep you apart; I have done so. The evil can not now be repaired. Your hope is that Madame has not fully considered his pride."

"Has she any regard for him?"

"Sentiment?—love?" She uttered a short, incredulous laugh. "Madame has brain, not heart. Could a woman with a heart plan as she plans?"

"Well, let us not talk of plots and plans; let us talk of—"

"Monsieur, do not be unkind. I have asked your forgiveness. Let us not talk; let us be silent and listen to the night;" and she leaned over the terrace balustrade.

Maurice floated. As he leaned beside her a strand of perfumed hair blew across his nostrils. ... The princess was at best a dream. It was not likely that he ever would speak to her again. The princess was a poem, unlettered and unrhymed. But here, close to him, was a bit of beautiful material prose. The hair again blew out toward him and he moved his lips. She heard the vague sound and lifted her head.

Far away came the call of the sentry; a horse whinneyed in the stables. There was in the air the odor of an approaching storm.



CHAPTER XII. WHOM THE GODS DESTROY AND A FEW OTHERS

Some time passed before Fitzgerald became aware of Maurice's departure. When he saw that he and Madame were alone, he said nothing, but pulled all the quicker at his clay. He wondered at the desire which suddenly manifested itself. Fly? Why should he fly? The beat of his pulse answered him.... What a fine thing it was to feel the presence of a woman—a woman like this! What a fine thing always to experience the content derived from her nearness!

He looked into his heart; there was no animosity; there was nothing at all but a sense of gratefulness. In the dreary picture of his life there was now an illumined corner. He had ceased to blame her; she was doing for her country what he, did necessity so will, would do for his. And after all, he could not war against a woman—a woman like this. His innate chivalry was too deep-rooted.

How soft her voice was! The color of her hair and eyes followed him night and day. Once he had been on the verge of sounding Maurice in regard to Madame, Maurice was so learned in femininities; but this would have been an acknowledgment of his ignorance, and pride closed his mouth. It was all impossible, but then, why should he return to his loneliness without attempting to find some one to share it with him? The king was safe; his duty was as good as done; his conscience was at ease in that direction. He needed not love, he thought, so much as sympathy.... Sympathy. He turned over the word in his mind as a gem merchant turns over in his hand a precious jewel. Sympathy; it was the key to all he desired—woman's sympathy. There was nothing but ash in the bowl of his pipe, but he continued to puff.

Madame was seated at the piano again, idly thrumming soft minor chords. She was waiting for him to speak; she wanted to test his voice, to know and measure its emotion. At times she turned her head and shot a sly glance at him as he sat there musing. There was a wrinkle of contempt and amusement lurking at the corners of her eyes. Had Maurice been there he would have seen it. Fitzgerald might have gazed into those eyes until doomsday, and never have seen else than their gray fathoms. Minute after minute passed, still he did not speak; and Madame was forced to break the monotony. She was not sure that the countess could hold Maurice very long.

"Of what are you thinking, Monsieur?" she asked, in a soft key.

He started, looked up and laid the pipe on the sill. "Frankly, I was thinking that nothing can be gained by keeping us prisoners here." He told the lie rather diffidently.

"Not even forgiveness?" The lids of the gray eyes drooped and the music ceased.

"Forgiveness? O, there is nothing to forgive you; it is only your mistress I can not forgive. On the contrary, there is much to thank you for."

"Still, whatever I do or have done is merely in accordance with her Highness's wishes."

He moved uneasily. "It is her will, not yours."

"Yes; the heart of Madame Amerbach is supine to the brain of Madame the duchess." She rose and moved silently to the window and peered out. He thought her to be star-gazing; but she was not. She was endeavoring to see where Maurice and the countess were.

"Madame, shall I tell you a secret?"

"A secret? Tell me," sitting in the chair next to his.

"This has been the pleasantest week I have known in thirteen years."

"Then you forgive me!" Madame was not only mistress of music but of tones.

"Yes."

And then, out of the fullness of his lonely heart, he told her all about his life, its emptiness, its deserts, its longings. Each sentence was a knife placed in her hands; and as she contemplated his honest face which could conceal nothing, his earnest eyes which could hide nothing, Madame was conscious of a vague distrust of herself. If only he had offered to fight, she thought. But he had not; instead, he was giving to her all his weapons of defense.

"Ah, Monsieur, you do wrong to forgive me!" impulsively.

He smiled.

"Why should you be friendly to me when I represent all that is antagonistic to you?"

"To me you represent only a beautiful woman."

"Ah; you have been taking lessons of your friend."

"He is a good teacher. He is one of those men whom I admire. Women have never mastered him. He knows so much about them."

"Yes?" a flicker in her eyes.

"Beneath all his banter there is a brave heart. He is a rare man who, having brain and heart to guide, follows the heart." He picked up the pipe and began to play a tattoo on the sill. "As for me, I know nothing of women, save what I have read in books, and save that I have been too long without them."

"And you have gone all these years without knowing what it is to love?" To a man less guileless, this question would not have been in good taste.

Fitzgerald was silent; he dared not venture another lie.

"What! you are silent? Is there, after all, a woman somewhere in your life?"

"Yes." He continued to tap the pipe. His gaze wandered to the candles, strayed back to the window, then met hers steadfastly, so steadfastly, that she could not resist. She was annoyed.

"Tell me about her."

"My vocabulary is too limited. You would laugh at me."

"I? No; love is sacred." She had boasted to Maurice that she was without conscience; she had only smothered it. "Come; is she beautiful?"

"Yes." These questions disturbed him.

"Certainly she must be worthy or you would not love her. She is rich?"

"That does not matter; I am." He was wishing that Maurice would hurry back; the desire to fly was returning.

"And she rejected you and sent you to the army?"

"She has not rejected me, though I dare say she would, had I the presumption to ask her."

"A faint heart, they say—"

"My heart is not faint; it is my tongue." He rose and wandered about the room. Her breath was like orris, and went to his head like wine.

"Monsieur," she said, "is it possible that you have succumbed to the charms of Madame the countess?"

He laughed. "One may admire exquisite bric-a-brac without loving it."

"Bric-a-brac! Poor Elsa!" and Madame laughed. "If it were the countess I could aid you."

"Love is not merchandise, to traffic with."

Madame's cheeks grew warm. Sometimes the trick of fence is beaten down by a tyro's stroke.

"Eh, bien, since it is not the countess—"

He came toward her so swiftly that instinctively she rose and moved to the opposite side of her chair. Something in his face caused her to shiver. She had no time to analyze its meaning, but she knew that the shiver was not unmixed with fear.

"Madame, in God's name, do not play with me!" he cried.

"Monsieur, you forget yourself," for the moment forgetting her part.

"Yes, there is no self in my thoughts since they are all of you! You know that I love you. Who could resist you? Thirteen years? They are well wasted, in the end to love a woman like you."

Before she could withdraw her hands from the top of the chair he had seized them.

"Monsieur, release me." She struggled futilely.

"I love you." He began to draw her from behind the chair.

"Monsieur, Monsieur!" she, cried, genuinely alarmed; "do not forget that you are a gentleman."

"I am not a gentleman now; I am a man who loves."

Madame was now aware that what she had aroused could not be subdued by angry words.

"Monsieur, you say that you love me; do not degrade me by forcing me into your arms. I am a woman, and weak, and you are hurting me."

He let go her hands, and they stood there, breathing deeply and quickly. But for her it was a respite. She had been too precipitate. She brought together the subtle forces of her mind. She could gain nothing by force; she must use cunning. To hold him at arm's length, and yet to hold him, was her desire. She had reckoned on wax; a man stood before her. All at once the flutter of admiration stirred in her heart. She was a soldier's daughter, the daughter of a man who loved strong men. And this man was doubly strong because he was fearless and honest. She read in his eyes that a moment more and he had kissed her, a thing no man save her father had ever done.

"O, Monsieur," she said lightly, "you soldiers are such forward lovers! You have not even asked me if I love you." He made a move to regain her hands. "No, no!" darting behind the chair. "You must not take my hands; you do not realize how strong you are. I am not sure that my heart responds to yours."

"Tell me, what must I do?" leaning across the chair.

"You must have patience. A woman must be wooed her own way, or not at all. What a whirlwind you are!"

"I would to heaven," with a gesture indicative of despair, "that you had kept me behind bars and closed doors." He dropped his hands from the chair and sought the window, leaning his arms against the central frame.

Madame had fully recovered her composure. She saw her way to the end.

"It is true," she said, "that I do not love you, but it is also true that I am not indifferent to you. What proof have I that you really love me? None, save your declaration; and that is not sufficient for a woman such as I am. Shall I place my life in your hands for better or for worse, simply because you say you love me?"

"My love does not reason, Madame."

She passed over this stroke. "I do not know you; it is not less than natural for me to doubt you. What proof have I that your declaration of love is not a scheme to while away your captivity at my expense? My heart is not one to be taken by storm. There is only one road to my affections; it is narrow. Other men have made love to me, but they have hesitated to enter upon this self-same road."

"Love that demands conditions? I have asked none."

Madame blushed. "A man offers love; a woman confers it."

"And what is this narrow road called which leads to your affections? Is your heart a citadel?"

"It is called sacrifice. Those who dwell in my heart, which you call a citadel, enter by that road."

"Sacrifice?" Fervor lighted his face again. "Do you wish my fortune? It is yours. My life? It is yours. Do you wish me to lead the army of the duchess into Bleiberg? It shall be done. Sacrifice? I have sacrificed the best years of youth for nothing; my life has been made up of sacrifices."

"Monsieur, if I promised to listen to you here-after, if I promised a heart that has never known the love of man, if I promised lips that have never known the lips of any man save my father—" She moved away from the chair, within an arm's length of him. "If I promised all these without reservation, would you aid me to give back to the duchess her own?"

Instantly her arms were pinioned to her sides, and he had drawn her so close that she could feel his heart beat against her own.

"Have no fear," he said. The voice was unfamiliar to her ears. "I shall not kiss you. Let me look into your eyes, Madame, your eyes, and read the lie which is written there. My fortune and my life are not enough. Keep your love, Madame; I have no wish to purchase it. What! if I surrender my honor it is agreed that you surrender yours? A love such as mine requires a wife. You would have me break my word to the dead and to the living, and you expect me to believe in your promises! Faugh!" He pushed her from him, and resumed his stand by the window.

The hate of a thousand ancestors surged into her heart, and she would have liked to kill him. Mistress! He had dared. He had dared to speak to her as no other man living or dead had dared. And he lived. All that was tigerish in her soul rose to the surface; only the thought of the glittering goal stayed the outburst. She had yet one weapon. A minute went by, still another; silence. A hand was laid tremblingly on his arm.

"Forgive me! I was wrong. Love me, love me, if you must. Keep your honor; love me without conditions. I—" She stumbled into the chair, covered her eyes and fell to weeping.

Fitzgerald, dumfounded and dismayed, looked down at the beautiful head. He could fight angry words, tempests of wrath—but tears, a woman's tears, the tears of the woman he loved!

"Madame," he said gently, "do you love me?"

No answer.

"Madame, for God's sake, do not weep! Do you love me? If you love me—if you love me—"

She sprang to her feet. Once again she experienced that shiver; again her conscience stirred.

"I do not know," she said. "But this I may say: your honor, which you hold above the price of a woman's love, will be the cause of bloodshed. Mothers and wives and sisters will execrate your name, brave men will be sacrificed needlessly. What are the Osians to you? They are strangers. You will do for them, and uselessly, what you refuse to do for the woman you profess to love. I abhor bloodshed. Your honor is the offspring of pride and egotism. Can you not see the inevitable? War will be declared. You can not help Leopold; but you can save him the degradation of being expelled from his throne by force of arms. The army of the duchess is true to its humblest sword. Can you say that for the army of the king? Would you witness the devastation of a beautiful city, by flame and sword?

"Monsieur, Austria is with us, and she will abide with us whichever way we move. Austria, Monsieur, which is Leopold's sponsor. And this Leopold, is he a man to sit upon a throne? Is he a king in any sense of the word? Would a king submit to such ignominy as he submits to without striking a blow? Would he permit his ministers to override him? Would he permit his army to murmur, his agents to plunder, his people to laugh at him, if he possessed one kingly attribute? No, no! If you were king, would you allow these things? No! You would silence all murmurs, you would disgorge your agents, you would throttle those who dared to laugh.

"Put yourself in the duchess's place. All these beautiful lands are hers by right of succession; is she wrong to desire them? What does she wish to accomplish? She wishes to join the kingdom and the duchy, and to make a great kingdom, as it formerly was. Do you know why Leopold was seated upon the throne?

"Some day the confederation will decide to divide all these lands into tidbits, and there will be no one to oppose them. Madame the duchess wishes to be strong enough to prevent it. And you, Monsieur, are the grain of sand which stops all this, you and your pride. Not even a woman's love—There, I have said it!—not even a woman's love—will move your sense of justice. Go! leave me. Since my love is nothing, since the sacrifice I make is useless, go; you are free!" The tears which came into her eyes this time were genuine; tears of chagrin, vexation, and of a third sensation which still remained a mystery to her.

To him, as she spoke, with her wonderful eyes flashing, a rich color suffusing her cheeks and throat and temples, the dim candle light breaking against the ruddy hair; honor or pride, whichever it was, was well worth the losing. He was a man; it is only the pope who is said to be infallible. His honor could not save the king. All she had said was true. If he held to his word there would be war and bloodshed.

On the other hand, if he surrendered, less harm would befall the king, and the loss of his honor—was it honor?—would be well recompensed for the remainder of his days by the love of this woman. His long years of loneliness came back; he wavered. He glanced first at her, then at the door; one represented all that was desirable in the world, the other more loneliness, coupled with unutterable regret. Still he wavered, and finally he fell.

"Madame, will you be my wife?"

"Yes." And it seemed to her that the word, came to her lips by no volition of hers. As she had grown red but a moment gone, she now grew correspondingly pale, and her limbs shook. She had irrevocably committed herself. "No, no!" as she saw him start forward with outstretched arms, "not my lips till I am your wife! Not my lips; only my hands!"

He covered them with kisses.

"Hush!" as she stepped back.

It was time. Maurice and the countess entered the room. Maurice glanced from Madame to Fitzgerald and back to Madame; he frowned. The Englishman, who had never before had cause to dissemble, caught up his pipe and fumbled it. This act merely discovered his embarrassment to the keen eyes of his friend. He had forgotten all about Maurice. What would he say? Maurice was something like a conscience to him, and his heart grew troubled.

"Madame," Maurice whispered to the countess, "I have lost all faith in you; you have kept me too long under the stars."

"Confidences?" said Madame, with a swift inquiring glance at the countess.

"O, no," said Maurice. "I simply complained that Madame the countess had kept me too long under the stars. But here is Colonel Mollendorf, freshly returned from Brunnstadt to inform you that the army is fully prepared for any emergency. Is not that true, Colonel?" as he beheld that individual standing in the doorway.

"Yes; but how the deuce—your pardon, ladies!—did you find that out?" demanded the Colonel.

"I guessed it," was the answer. "But there will be no need of an army now. Come, John, the Colonel, who is no relative of the king's minister of police, has not the trick of concealing his impatience. He has something important to say to Madame, and we are in the way. Come along, AEneas, follow your faithful Achates; Thalia has a rehearsal."

Fitzgerald thrust his pipe into a pocket. "Good night, Madame," he said diffidently; "and you, countess."

"Good night, Colonel," sang out Maurice over his shoulder, and together the pair climbed the stairs.

Fitzgerald was at a loss how to begin, for something told him that Maurice would demand an explanation, though the affair was none of his concern. He filled his pipe, fired it and tramped about the room. Sometimes he picked up the end of a window curtain and felt of it; sometimes he posed before one of the landscape oils.

"You have something on your mind," said Maurice, pulling off his hussar jacket and kicking it across the room.

"Madame has promised to be my wife."

"And the conditions?" curtly.

Fitzgerald pondered over the other's lack of surprise. "What would you do if you loved a woman and she promised to be your wife?"

"I'd marry her," sitting down at the table.

"What would you do in my place, and Madame had promised to marry you?" puffing quickly.

"I'd marry her," answered Maurice, banging his fist on the table, "even if all the kings and queens of Europe rose up against me. I would marry her, if I had to bind her hands and feet and carry her to the altar and force the priest at the point of a pistol, which, in all probability, is what you will have to do."

"I love her," sullenly.

"Do you know who she is?"

"No."

"Would it make any difference?"

"No. Who is she?"

"She is a woman without conscience; she is a woman who, to gain her miserable ends, will stop neither at falsehood, deceit nor bloodshed. Do you want me to tell you more? She is—"

"Maurice, tell me nothing which will cause me to regret your friendship. I love her; she has promised to be my wife."

"She will ruin you."

"She has already done that," laconically.

"Do you mean to tell me—"

"Yes! For the promise of her love I am dishonored. For the privilege of kissing her lips I have sold my honor. To call her mine, I would go through hell. God! do you know what it is to be lonely, to starve in God-forsaken lands, to dream of women, to long for them?"

"And the poor paralytic king?"

"What is he to me?"

"And your father?"

"What are my dead father's wishes? Maurice, I am mad!"

"You are a very sick man," Maurice replied crossly. "What's to become of all these vows—"

"You are wasting your breath! Do you remember what Rochefoucauld said of Madame de Longueville?—'To win her heart, to delight her beautiful eyes, I have taken up arms against the king; I would have done the same against the gods!' Is she not worth it all?" with a gesture of his arms which sent the live coals of his pipe comet-like across the intervening space. "Is she not worth it all?"

"Who?—Madame de Longueville? I thought she was dead these two hundred years!"

"Damn it, Maurice!"

"I will, if you say so. The situation is equal to a good deal of plain, honest damning." Maurice banged his fist again. "John, sit down and listen to me. I'll not sit still and see you made a fool. Promises? This woman will keep none. When she has wrung you dry she will fling you aside. At this moment she is probably laughing behind your back. You were brought here for this purpose. Threats and bribes were without effect. Love might accomplish what the other two had failed to do. You know little of the ways of the world. Do you know that this house party is scandalous, for all its innocence? Do you know that Madame's name would be a byword were it known that we have been here more than two weeks, alone with two women? Who but a woman that feels herself above convention would dare offer this affront to society? Do you know why Madame the countess came? Company for Madame? No; she was to play make love to me to keep me out of the way. Ass that I was, I never suspected till too late! Madame's name is not Sylvia Amerbach; it is—"

The door opened unceremoniously and in walked the Colonel.

"Your voices are rather high, gentlemen," he said calmly, and sat down in an easy chair.



CHAPTER XIII. BEING OF COMPLICATIONS NOT RECKONED ON

Maurice leaped to his feet, a menace in his eyes. The Colonel crossed his legs, rested his hands on the hilt of his saber, and smiled.

"I could not resist the desire to have a friendly chat with you."

"You have come cursed inopportune," snarled Maurice. "What do you want?"

"I want to give you the countersigns, so that when you start for Bleiberg to-morrow morning you'll have no trouble."

"Bleiberg!" exclaimed Maurice.

"Bleiberg. Madame desires me to say to you that you are to start for that city in the morning, to fetch those slips of parchment which have caused us all these years of worry. Ah, my friend," to Fitzgerald, "Madame would be cheap at twenty millions! You sly dog! And I never suspected it."

Fitzgerald sent him a scowl. "You are damned impertinent, sir."

"Impertinent?" The Colonel uncrossed his legs and brought his knees together. "Madame has been under my care since she was a child, Monsieur; I have a fatherly interest in her. At any rate, I am glad that the affair is at an end. It was very noble in you. If I had had my way, though, it would have been war, pure and simple. I left the duchess in Brunnstadt this morning; she will be delighted to attend the wedding."

"She will attend it," said Maurice, grimly; "but I would not lay odds on her delight. Colonel, the devil take me if I go to Bleiberg on any such errand." He went to the window seat.

The Colonel rose and followed him. "Pardon me," he said to Fitzgerald, who did not feel at all complimented by Madame's haste; "a few words in Monsieur Carewe's ear. He will go to Bleiberg; he will be glad to go." He bent towards Maurice. "Go to Bleiberg, my son. A word to him about Madame, and off you go to Brunnstadt. Will you be of any use there? I think not. The little countess would cry out her pretty eyes if she heard that you were languishing in the city prison at Brunnstadt, where only the lowest criminals are confined. Submit gracefully, that is to say, like a soldier against whom the fortunes of war have gone. Go to Bleiberg."

"I'll go. I give up." It was not the threat which brought him to this decision. It was a vision of a madonna-like face. "I'll go, John. Where are the certificates?"

"Between the mattresses and the slats of my bed you will find a gun in a case. The certificates are in the barrels." His countenance did not express any particular happiness; the lines about his mouth were sharper than usual.

"The devil!" cried the Colonel; "if only I had known that!" He laughed. "Well, I'll leave you. Six o'clock—what's this?" as he stooped and picked up Maurice's cast-off hussar jacket.

"I was about to use it as a door mat," said Maurice, who was in a nasty humor. That Fitzgerald had surrendered did not irritate him half so much as the thought that he was the real puppet. His hands were tied, he could not act, and he was one that loved his share in games.

The Colonel reddened under his tan. "No; I'll not lose my temper, though this is cause enough. Curse me, but you lack courtesy. This is my uniform, and whatever it may be to you it is sacred to me. You were not forced into it; you were not compelled to wear it. What would you do if a man wore your uniform and flung it around in this manner?"

"I'd knock him down," Maurice admitted. "I apologize, Colonel; it was not manly. But you must make allowances; my good nature has suffered a severe strain. I'll get into my own clothes to-morrow if you will have a servant sew on some buttons and mend the collar. By the way, who is eating three meals a day in the east corridor on the third floor?"

Their glances fenced. The Colonel rubbed his mustache.

"I like you," he said; "hang me if I don't. But as well as I like you, I would not give a denier for your life if you were found in that self-same corridor. The sentinel has orders to shoot; but don't let that disturb you; you will know sooner or later. It is better to wait than be shot. A horse will be saddled at six. You will find it in the court. The countersigns are Weixel and Arnoldt. Good luck to you."

"The same to you," rejoined Maurice, "only worse."

The Colonel's departure was followed by a period of temporary speechlessness. Maurice smoked several "Khedives," while Fitzgerald emptied two or three pipe-bowls.

"You seem to be in bad odor, Maurice," the latter ventured.

"In more ways than one. Where, in heaven's name, did you resurrect that pipe?"

"In the stables. It isn't the pipe, it's the tobacco. I had to break up some cigars."

Then came another period in the conversation. It occurred to both that something yawned between them—a kind of abyss. Out of this abyss one saw his guilt arise.... A woman stood at his side. He had an accomplice. He had thrown the die, and he would stand stubbornly to it. His pride built yet another wall around him, impregnable either to protests or to sneers. He loved—that was recompense enough. A man will forgive himself of grave sins when these are debtors to his love.

As for the other, he beheld a trust betrayed, and he was powerless to prevent it. Besides, his self-love smarted, chagrin made eyes at him; and, more than all else, he recognized his own share in the Englishman's fall from grace. It had been innocent mischief on his part, true, but nevertheless he stood culpable. He had no business to talk to a woman he did not know. The more he studied the aspects of the situation the more whimsical it grew. He was the prime cause of a king losing his throne, of a man losing his honor, of a princess becoming an outcast.

"Your bride-elect," he said, "seems somewhat over-hasty. Well, I'm off to bed."

"Maurice, can you blame me?"

"No, John; whom the gods destroy they first make mad. You will come to your senses when it is too late."

"For God's sake, Maurice, who is she?"

"What will you do if she breaks her promise?" adroitly evading the question.

"What shall I do?" He emptied the ashes from his pipe, and rose; all that was aggressive came into his face. "I will bind her hands and feet and carry her to the altar, and shoot the priest that refuses to marry us. O Maurice, rest easy; no woman lives who will make a fool of me, and laugh."

"That's comfort;" and Maurice turned in.

This night it was the Englishman who sat up till the morning hours. Sylvia Amerbach.... A fear possessed him. If it should be, he thought; if it should be, what then?



Midnight in Madame's boudoir; no light save that which streamed rosily from the coals in the grate. The countess sat with her slippered feet upon the fender. She held in her hand a screen, and if any thoughts marked her face, they remained in blurred obscurity.

"Heu!" said Madame from the opposite side; "it is all over. It was detestable. I, to suffer this humiliation! Do you know what I have done? I have promised to be his wife! His wife, I! Is it not droll?" There was a surprising absence of mirth in the low laugh which followed.

"I trust Madame will find it droll."

"And you?"

"And I, Madame?"

"Yes; did you not bring the clown to your feet?"

"No, Madame."

"How? You did not have the joy denied me—of laughing in his face?"

"No, Madame." With each answer the voice grew lower.

"Since when have I been Madame to you?"

"Since to-day."

Madame reached out a band and pressed down the screen. "Elsa, what is it?"

"What is what, Madame?"

"This strange mood of yours."

Silence.

"You were gay enough this morning. Tell me."

"There is nothing to tell, Madame, save that my sacrifices are at an end. I have nothing left."

"What! You forsake me when the end is won?" in astonishment.

"I did not say that I should desert you; I said that I had no more sacrifices to make." The Countess rose. "For your sake, Madame, because you have always been kind to me, and because it is impossible not to love you, I have degraded myself. I have pretended to love a man who saw through the artifice and told me so, to save me further shame. O Madame, it is all execrable!

"And you will use this love which you have gained—this first love of a man who has known no other and will know no other while he lives!—to bring about his ruin? This other, at whose head you threw me—beware of him. He is light-hearted and gay, perhaps. You call him a clown; he is cunning and brave; and unless you judge him at his true value, your fabric of schemes will fall ere it reaches its culmination. Could even you trick him with words? No. You were compelled to use force. Is he not handsome, Madame?" with a feverish gaiety. "Is there a gentleman at your court who is a more perfect cavalier? Why, he blushes like a woman! Is there in your court—" But her sentence broke, and she could not go on.

"Elsa, are you mad?"

"Yes, Madame, yes; they call it a species of madness." Then, with a sudden gust of wrath: "Why did you not leave me in peace? You have destroyed me! O, the shame of it!" and she fled into her own room.

Madame sat motionless. This, among other things, she had not reckoned on.

Only the troopers and the servants slept in peace that night.

Maurice was up betimes next morning. The hills and valleys lay under a mantle of sparkling rime, and the very air, keen of edge and whistling, glistened in the sunlight. The iron shoes of the horses beat sharply on the stone flooring of the court yard. Maurice examined his riding furniture; pulled at the saddle, tugged at the rein buckles, lifted the leather flaps and tried the stirrup straps. It was not that he doubted the ability of the groom; it was because this particular care was second nature to him.

Fitzgerald watched him, and meditated. Some of his thoughts were not pleasant. His eyes were heavy. At times he would lift his shoulders and permit half a smile to flicker over his lips; a certain thought caused this. The Colonel sat astride a broad-chested cavalry horse, spotless white. He was going to accompany Maurice to the frontier. He had imbibed the exhilarating tonic of the morning, and his spirits ran high. At length Maurice leaped into the saddle, caught the stirrups well, and signaled to the Colonel that he was ready.

"You understand, Maurice?" Fitzgerald asked.

"Yes, John; all the world loves a lover. Besides, it is a glorious morning for a ride. Up, portcullis, down drawbridge!" waving his hand to the Colonel.

And away they went through the gateway, into the frosted road. Maurice felt the spirit of some medieval ancestor creep into his veins and he longed for an hour of the feudal days, to rescue a princess from some dungeon-keep and to harry an over-lord. After all, she was a wonderful woman, and Fitzgerald was only a man. To give up all for the love of woman is the only sacrifice a man can make.

"En avant!" cried the Colonel. "A fine day, a fine day for the house of Auersperg!"

"And a devilish bad one for the houses of Fitzgerald and Carewe. Woman's ambition, coupled with her deceit, is the root of all evil; money is simply an invention of man to protect himself from her encroachments. Eve was ambitious and deceitful; all women are her daughters. When the pages of history grow dull—"

"Time puts a maggot in my lady's brain," supplemented the Colonel. "It is like a row of dominoes. The power behind the throne, the woman behind the power; an impulse moves the woman, and lo! how they clatter down. But without woman, history would be poor reading. The greatest battles in the world, could we but see behind, were fought for women. Men are but footnotes, and unfortunately history is made up of footnotes. But it is a fine thing to be a footnote; that is my ambition.

"Ah, if you but knew what a pleasure it is for an old man like me to have a finger in the game time plays! To meddle with affairs, directly or indirectly! Kingdoms are but judy shows, kings and queens but puppets; but we who pull the strings—Ah, that is it! To play a game of chess with crowns!"

"There are exceptions; Madame seems to hold the strings in this instance."

"Madame follows my advice in all she does."

Maurice opened his eyes at this statement.

"Would you believe an old man like me could lay such a train? All this was my idea. It was difficult to get Madame to agree with my views. War? I am not afraid of it; I am suspicious of it. One day your friend returned a personal letter of Madame's having written across it, 'I laugh at you.' It was very foolish. No man laughs at Madame more than once. She will, one day, return this letter to him. A crown, a fine revenge, in one fell swoop."

"She will ruin him utterly?"

"Utterly."

"Have you any idea what sort of man my friend is?"

"He lacks the polish of a man of affairs, and he surrenders too easily."

"He will never surrender—Madame."

"How?"

"You remember his father; he will prove his father's son, every inch of him. O, my Colonel, the curtain has only risen. One fine morning your duchy will wake up without a duchess."

"What do you imply—an abduction?" The Colonel laughed.

"That is my secret."

"And the pretty countess?" banteringly.

"It was rather bad taste in Madame. It was putting love and patriotism to questionable purposes. I am a gentleman."

"It was out of consideration for you; Madame was not quite sure about you. But you are right; all of it has rather a dark shade. You may rob a man of his valuables and give them back; a broken word is not to be mended. Why did you keep the hiding place so secret? I could have got those consols, and all this would have been avoided."

"How should I know where they were? It was none of my affair."

"We are trusting you; I might have gone myself. You will return with the treasure. Why have I not asked your word? Curiosity will bring you back; curiosity. Besides this, you have an idea that with your presence about, a flaw in the glass may be found. Yes, you will be back. History is to be made; when you are old you will glance at the page and say: 'Look there; rather a pretty bit, eh? Well, I helped to make it; indeed, had it not been for me and my curiosity it would not have been made at all.' Above all things, do not stop to talk to veiled women."

There was a chuckling sound. "I say, your Englishman is clever now and then. In the gun barrels! Who would have looked for them there? But why did he come himself? Why did he not trust to his bankers? Why did he not turn over the affair to his representative, the British minister? There were a hundred ways of averting the catastrophe. Why did he not use a little fore-thought when he knew how anxious we were for his distinguished person?"

"Why does the moon rise at night and the sun at dawn? I am no Cumaean Sybil. Perhaps it is the impulse which moves the woman behind the power behind the throne; they call it fate. Had I been in his place I dare say I should have followed his footsteps."

Not long after they arrived at the frontier where they were to separate, to meet again under conditions disagreeable to both. The Colonel gave him additional instructions.

"Go; return as quickly as possible."

"Never fear; I should not like to miss the finale to this opera bouffe."

"Rail on, my son; call it by any name you please, only do not interrupt the prompter;" and with this the Colonel waved him an adieu.

Maurice began the journey through the mountain pass, thinking and planning and scheming. However he looked at the situation, the end was the same: the Osians were doomed. If he himself played false and retained the certificates until too late to be of benefit to the duchess, war would follow; and the kingdom would be soundly beaten.... Would Prince Frederick still hold to his agreement and marry her Royal Highness, however ill the fortunes of war fared? There was a swift current of blood to his heart. The Voiture-verse of a countess faded away.... Supposing Prince Frederick withdrew his claims? Some day her Highness would be free; free, without title or money or shelter. It was a wild dream. Was there not, when all was said, a faint hope for his own affairs in the fall of Fitzgerald?