by John Buchan
“I’d sooner shoot the lot of you,” said Jaikie.
“Well, if you don’t you’d better shoot yourself. And me, too, for I won’t survive a fiasco. Mintha has got off on her high horse, and Juventus is following her. She has drawn up a programme of ceremonies a yard long, in which your old fellow is cast for a principal part. There’ll be bloody murder if they find themselves let down. They’re a great lot, and my own lot, but they won’t stand for ragging.”
II
Dickson, enveloped in a military great-coat and muffled up about the neck because of his advanced age and indifferent health, enjoyed his journey in the late afternoon from Krovolin to Melina. He sat beside Prince Odalchini on the back seat of a large Daimler, with Count Casimir opposite him. There were police cars in front and behind, and a jingling escort of National Guards who made their progress slow. The movement, the mellow air, the rich and sunlit champaign raised his spirits and dispelled his nervousness. His roving eye scanned the landscape and noted with pleasure the expectant villagers and the cheering group of countrymen. On the outskirts of the capital a second troop of Guards awaited them, and as they entered by the ancient River Port there was a salute of guns from the citadel and every bell in every steeple broke into music. It had been arranged, in deference to His Royal Highness’s frailty, that there should be no municipal reception, but the streets were thronged with vociferous citizens and the click of cameras was like the rattle of machine-guns.
The cars swung through what looked like a Roman triumphal arch into a great courtyard, on three sides of which rose the huge baroque Palace. At this point Dickson’s impressions became a little confused. He was aware that troops lined the courtyard — he heard a word of command and saw rifles presented at the salute. He was conscious of being tenderly assisted from his car, and conducted between bowing servants through a high doorway and across endless marble pavements. Then came a shallow staircase, and a corridor lined with tall portraits. He came to anchor at last in what seemed to be a bedroom, though it was as big as a church. The evening was warm, but there were fires lit in two fireplaces. As he got out of his great-coat he realised that he was alone with Prince Odalchini and Count Casimir, each of whom helped himself to a stiff whisky-and-soda from a side-table.
“Thank Heaven that is over,” cried the latter. “Well over, too. Your Royal Highness will keep your chamber to-night, and you will be valeted by my own man. Do not utter one word, and for God’s sake try to look as frail as possible. You are a sick man, you understand, which is the reason for this privacy. To-morrow you will have to show yourself from one of the balconies to the people of Melina. To-morrow, too, I hope that your own equerry will arrive. It is better that you should be alone to-night. You realise, I think, how delicate the position is? Silence and great bodily weakness — these are your trump cards. It may be a little lonely for you, but that is inevitable.”
Dickson looked round the immense room, which was hung with tapestries depicting the doings in battle of the sixteenth-century King John of Evallonia. From the windows there was a wide view over the glades of the park with a shining river at the end. The two fires burned brightly, and on a bed like a field he observed his humble pyjamas. His spirits were high.
“Ugh,” he said, “I’ll do fine. This is a cheery place. I’ll not utter a cheep, and I’ll behave as if I was a hundred years old. I hope they’ll send me up a good dinner, for I’m mortal hungry.”
Dickson spent a strange but not unpleasant evening. Count Casimir’s valet proved to be an elderly Frenchman whose reverence for royalty was such that he kept his eyes downcast and uttered no word except “Altesse,” and that in a tone of profound humility. Dickson was conducted to an adjoining bathroom, where he bathed in pale-blue scented water. In the bathroom he nearly drowned himself by turning on all the taps at once, but he enjoyed himself hugely splashing the water about and watching it running in marble grooves to an exit. After that he was enveloped in a wonderful silk dressing-gown, which hid the humbleness of his pyjamas — pyjamas from which he observed that the name-tag had been removed.
The dinner served in his bedroom was all that his heart would wish, and its only blemish was that, from a choice of wines offered him, he selected a tokay which tasted unpleasantly like a medicine of his boyhood, so that he was forced to relapse upon a whisky-and-soda. “Even in a palace life may be lived well,” he quoted to himself from a favourite poet. After dinner he was put to bed between sheets as fine as satin, and left with a reading-lamp on his bedside table surrounded by a selection of fruit and biscuits. He turned out the lamp, and lay for some time watching the glow of the fire and the amber twilight in the uncurtained windows. Outside he could hear the tramp of the sentries and far off the rumour of crowded streets. At first he was too excited to be drowsy, for the strangeness of his position came over him in gusts, and his chuckles were mingled with an unpleasant trepidation. “You’ll need to say your prayers, Dickson my man,” he told himself, “for you’re in for a desperate business. It’s the kind of thing you read about in books.” But the long day had wearied him, and he had dined abundantly, so before long he fell asleep.
He woke to a bright morning and a sense of extreme bodily well-being. He drank his tea avidly; he ran off the hot bath which had been prepared for him, and had a cold one instead. He took ten minutes instead of five over his exercises, and two instead of five over his prayers. He put on his best blue suit — he was thankful he had brought it from Rosensee — and a white shirt and a sober tie, for he felt that this was no occasion for flamboyance in dress. From all his garments he noted with interest that the marks of identification had been removed. As he examined his face in the glass he decided that he did not look the age of the Archduke and that he was far too healthily coloured for a sick man, so he rubbed some of the powder which Count Casimir had given him over his cheeks and well into his thinning hair. The result rather scared him, for he now looked a cross between a consumptive and a badly made-up actor. At breakfast he was compelled to exercise self-denial. He could have eaten everything provided, but he dared not repeat his performance at dinner the night before, so he contented himself with three cups of coffee, a peach, and the contents of the toast rack. The servants who cleared away saw an old man resting on a couch with closed eyes, the very image of a valetudinarian.
After that time hung heavy on his hands. It was a fine morning and he felt that he could walk twenty miles. The sound of the bustle of an awaking city, and the view from the windows of miles of sunburnt grass and boats on the distant river, made him profoundly restless. His great bedroom was furnished like a room in a public building, handsomely but dully; there was nothing in it to interest him, and the only book he had brought was Sir Thomas Browne, an author for whom at the moment he did not feel inclined. Urn-burial and a doctor’s religion were clean out of the picture. A sheaf of morning papers had been provided, but he could not read them, though he observed with interest the pictures of his entry into Melina. He prowled about miserably, taking exercise as a man does in the confined space of a ship’s deck.
Then it occurred to him that he might extend his walk and do a little exploration. He cautiously opened the door and looked into a deserted corridor. The place was as empty and as silent as a tomb, so there could be no risk in venturing a little way down it. He tried one or two doors which were locked. One opened into a vast chamber where the furniture was all in dust sheets. Then he came to a circular gallery around a subsidiary staircase, and he was just considering whether he might venture down it when he heard voices and the sound of footsteps on the marble. He skipped back the road he had come, and for an awful minute was uncertain of his room. One door which he tried refused to open, and the voices were coming nearer. Happily the next door on which he hurled himself was the right one, and he dropped panting into an armchair.
This adventure shook him out of all his morning placidity. “I won’t be able to stand this place very long,” he reflected. “I can’t behave like a
cripple, when I’m fair bursting with health. It’s worse than being in jyle.” And then an uglier thought came to him. “I’ve got in here easy enough, but how on earth am I going to get out? I must abdicate, and that’s simple, but what’s to become of me after that? How can I disappear, when there will be about a million folk wanting a sight of me?”
He spent a dismal forenoon. He longed for some familiar face, even Peter Wappit, who had been sent back to Tarta. He longed especially for Jaikie, and he indulged in some melancholy speculations as to that unfortunate’s fate. “He had to face the daft Countess,” he thought, “and Jaikie was always terrible nervous with women.” Then he began to be exasperated with Count Casimir and Prince Odalchini, who had left him in this anxious solitude. And Prince John. It was for Prince John’s sake that he had come here, and unless he presently got some enlightenment he would go out and look for it.
He was slightly pacified by the arrival of both the Count and Prince Odalchini about midday, for both were in high spirits. Luncheon was served to the three in his bedroom, a light meal at which no servants were present and they waited on themselves. They had news of high importance for him. Prince John was with Juventus — had been accepted with acclamation by Juventus and not least by the Countess Araminta. Juventus was in a friendly mood and appeared willing to accept the overtures of the Monarchists, who had already informed it that the Archduke would not resist what was plainly the desire of the people, but would relinquish all claims to the throne. “We must prepare your abdication,” said Count Casimir. “It should be in the papers to-morrow, or the day after at the latest. For the day after to-morrow Juventus will reach Melina.”
“Thank God for that,” said Dickson. “I’ll abdicate like a shot, but what I want to know is, how I’m to get away. I must be off long before they arrive, for yon Countess will be wanting my blood.”
“I hope not,” said the Count. “Juventus will have too much on its hands to trouble about a harmless old gentleman.”
“I’m not worrying about Juventus,” said Dickson gloomily. “It’s the woman I’m thinking about, and from all I’ve heard I wouldn’t put it past her.”
“One of your difficulties will be the Press,” Prince Odalchini said. “Correspondents are arriving here from all quarters of Europe — mostly by the air, since the frontiers are closed.”
“Here! This is awful,” cried the alarmed Dickson. “I know the breed, and they’ll be inside this place and interviewing me, and where will we all be then?”
“I think not. You are well guarded. But there’s one man I’m uncertain about. He flew here this morning from Vienna, and I don’t quite know what to do about him. He’s not a correspondent, you see, but the representative of the English Press group that has always been our chief ally.”
“What’s his name?” Dickson asked with a sudden hope.
The Prince drew a card from his pocket. “Crombie,” he read. “The right-hand man of the great Craw. I haven’t seen him, but he has written to me. I felt that I was bound to treat him with some consideration, so he is coming here at three o’clock.”
“You’ll bring him to me at once,” said Dickson joyfully. “Man, you know him — you saw him in the Canonry — a lad with a red head and a dour face. It’s my old friend Dougal, and you can trust him to the other side of Tophet. You’ll bring him straight up, and you’ll never let on it’s me. He’ll get the surprise of his life.”
Mr McCunn was not disappointed. Dougal at three o’clock was duly ushered into the room by Count Casimir. “Your Royal Highness, I have to present Mr Crombie of the Craw Press,” he said, and bowed himself out.
Dougal made an awkward obeisance and advanced three steps. Then he stopped in his tracks and gaped.
“It’s you!” he stammered.
“Ay, it’s me,” said Dickson cheerfully. “You didn’t know what you were doing when you whippit me out of Rosensee and sent me on my travels. This was my own notion, and I’m sort of proud of it. I got it by minding what happened when Jimmy Turnbull was running for Lord Provost of Glasgow, and his backers put up David Duthie so that the other and stronger lot could run Jimmy. You’ll mind that?”
“I mind it,” said Dougal hoarsely, sinking into a chair.
“And by the mercy of Providence it turned out that I was the living image of the old Archduke. It has answered fine. Here I am as His Royal Highness, the brother of his late Majesty, and Juventus has gone daft about Prince John, and I’m about to abdicate, and in two-three days Prince John will be King of Evallonia and not a dog will bark. I think I’ve done well by that young man.”
“Ay, maybe you have,” said Dougal grimly. “But the question is, what is to become of you? This is not the Glasgow Town Council, and Evallonia is not Scotland. How are you going to get out of this?”
“Fine,” Dickson replied, but less confidently, for Dougal’s solemn face disquieted him. “There’s not a soul knows about it, except two or three whose interest it is to keep quiet. When I’ve abdicated I’ll just slip cannily away, and be over the border before Juventus gets here.”
“You think that will be easy? I only arrived this morning, but I’ve seen enough to know that the whole of Melina is sitting round the palace like hens round a baikie. They’re for you and they’re for Prince John, and they want to see the two of you make it up. And half the papers in Europe have sent their correspondents here, and I know too much about my own trade to take that lightly. To get you safely out of the country will be a heavy job, I can tell you.”
“I’ll trust my luck,” said Dickson stoutly, but his eyes were a little anxious. “Thank God you’re here, Dougal.”
“Yes, thank God I’m here. The trouble with you is you’re too brave. You don’t stop to think of risks. Suppose you’re found out. Juventus is a big thing, a bigger thing than the world knows, but it’s desperate serious, and it won’t understand pranks. Won’t understand, and won’t forgive. At present it’s inclined to be friendly with the Monarchists, and use them, for it badly needs them. But if it had a suspicion of this game, Count Casimir and Prince Odalchini and the rest would be in the dock for high treason. And yourself! Well, I’m not sure what would happen to you, but it wouldn’t be pleasant.”
“You’re a Job’s comforter, Dougal. Anyway, it’s a great thing to have you here. I wish I had Jaikie too. You’ll come and bide here, for I’ll want you near me?”
“Yes, I’d better move in. I’ll see the Count about it at once. Some of us will have to do some pretty solid thinking in the next twenty-four hours.”
Dougal found Count Casimir in a good humour, for he had further news from Krovolin. It appeared that Juventus not only forgave the putting forward of the Archduke, but applauded it as a chance of making the monarchical restoration impressive by enlisting both the surviving males of the royal house. The Countess Araminta was especially enthusiastic, and an elaborate programme had been drawn up — first the meeting of Prince John and his uncle — then the presentation to Melina of the young man by the old — and last, the ceremonial functioning of the Archduke at the Coronation.
“The wheel has come full circle,” said the Count. “Now all the land is royalist. But it is the more incumbent upon us to proceed with caution, for a slip now would mean a dreadful fall. We must get our friend away very soon.”
At this conference a third person was present — Randal Glynde, so very point-device that his own employees would scarcely have recognised in him the scarecrow of the Cirque Doré. His hair and beard were trimly barbered, the latter having been given a naval cut, and his morning suit was as exquisite a thing as the clothes he had worn at the Lamanchas’ party. “I am His Royal Highness’s chief equerry,” he told Dougal, “just arrived from France. The news will be in the evening papers. Since I speak Evallonian I can make life a little easier for him.”
Dougal had listened gloomily to Count Casimir’s exposition of the spectacular duties which Juventus proposed for the Archduke.
“You haven’t
told Mr McCunn that?” he demanded anxiously, and was informed that the Count had only just heard it himself.
“Well, you mustn’t breathe a word of it to him. Not on your life. He’s an extraordinary man, and though I’ve studied him for years, I haven’t got near the bottom of him. He’s what you might call a desperate character. What other man would have taken on a job like this — for fun? For fun, remember. He has always been like that. He thinks it was his promise to Prince John, but that was only a small bit of it. The big thing for him was that he was living up to a notion he has of himself, and that notion won’t let him shirk anything, however daft, if it appeals to his imagination. He’s the eternal adventurer, the only one I’ve ever met — the kind of fellow Ulysses must have been — the heart of a boy and the head of an old serpent. I’ve been trying to solemnise him by telling him what a needle-point he’s standing on — how hard it will be for him to get away, and what a devil’s own mess there’ll be if he doesn’t. He was impressed, and a little bit frightened — I could see that — but in a queer way he was pleased too. He’ll go into it with a white face and his knees trembling, but he’ll go through with it, and by the mercy of God he’ll get away with it. But just let him know what Juventus proposes and he won’t budge one step. The idea of a Coronation and his carrying the Sacred Lamp and all the rest of it would fair go to his head. He would be determined to have a shot at it and trust to luck to carry him through. Oh, I know it’s sheer mania, but that’s Mr McCunn, and when he sticks his hoofs into the ground traction engines wouldn’t shift him. . . . You’ve got that clear? I want you to arrange for me to move in here, for I ought to be near him.”
Count Casimir bowed. “I accept your reading of him,” he said, “and I shall act on it.” Then he added, rather to Randal than to Dougal, “I believe he was originally a Glasgow grocer. The provision-trade in Scotland must be a remarkable profession.”