The Second Seal

by Dennis Wheatley

  “Oh, no. I do not return to Vienna until Monday, and Sárolta will be on duty on Saturday.”

  “Perhaps; but most unfortunately I have to leave here first thing on Friday morning.”

  “Indeed!” She turned to stare at him in surprised dismay. “I—I thought you meant to take every opportunity as long as I was here of showing your devotion to me. Yet now you speak of leaving three days before I do; and without even asking my permission to do so.”

  “You may be sure I would not leave Ischl so soon had I any choice in the matter,” he assured her quickly. “But before I arrived here I was already committed to dine in Vienna next Friday night.”

  “Can you not possibly cancel your engagement?”

  He gave her a rueful smile. “It is now I who must plead etiquette. I have to obey a royal command. At least it amounts to that, as my host will be the Heir Apparent; although I was actually bidden to dine by the Duchess of Hohenberg.”

  In a second Ilona was on her feet, her arched brows lifted in angry astonishment, her blue eyes flashing.

  “What!” she exclaimed. “That woman! The Chotek! You dare to place her before me? Oh, but I see it all now. The night when we had that horrid waltz at the Czernins; you danced with her afterwards. I saw her smiling up into your face, and you were laughing down at her. I behaved like a dumb little fool; but she is a woman of the world and knows how to attract men. So you prefer her to me? Oh, I hate you! I hate you!”

  Adam Grünne was seated, barely out of earshot, beside Sárolta on the bank of the stream below. Ilona’s raised voice might have caused him to look up, so de Richleau did not dare to take the hand of the outraged princess who stood glaring at him, or even to stretch out both his own in a gesture of pleading. Being debarred from such a course, he swiftly decided that the best alternative was to treat her like an ordinary girl who had given way to a fit of jealous temper without good reason.

  “Stop it!” he snapped. “I have never thought you a fool, but you are behaving like one now.”

  Her eyes opened to their fullest extent, and she gaped at him; but he went on swiftly: “Would I be here if I preferred the Duchess to you? Why should I have hurried to Ischl on receiving your letter, instead of tearing it up and remaining in Vienna to pay my court to her. Do you think I enjoy wearing these absurd clothes and being treated like a servant? Either you will apologise for your unjust suspicions or I mean to catch the first train north this evening.”

  “Apologise!” she gasped.

  “Yes. That is usual between people of good breeding when one of them is proved to have been flagrantly at fault. And I take it none of your governesses was quite so servile as to teach you that royal blood is an excuse for bad manners.”

  Slowly she sat down again, turning her white face from him; and evidently she underwent a fierce silent struggle before she could bring herself to whisper: “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said. It—it was the thought of your associating with that woman.”

  His tone changed instantly. “Believe me, dear Princess, I would not dream of going did I not feel I positively had to. And your sweet wish that I should remain here till you leave yourself, makes it all the harder. The trouble is that the Duchess has asked me specially to meet someone for a definite purpose, and I feel that to back out at the last minute would be extremely tactless. All the same, if you desire me to, I will send a telegram saying that I have met with an accident.”

  Ilona shook her head. “No, you had better go, although it means our losing Saturday. You are so clever, I feel sure you will find ways of seeing me when I get back to Vienna.”

  “Wild horses shall not prevent my doing so,” declared the Duke. ‘But that is my main reason for wishing to remain on good terms with the Duchess. She could, I feel sure, be a dangerous enemy or a good friend; and in the latter guise might later on prove very useful to us.”

  Again Ilona lifted her chin a little. “I should not care to be beholden to that woman.”

  “Why?”

  “She is a Czech—a nobody—an upstart!”

  “Oh, come!” laughed the Duke. “You are talking now as though your own forebears had been noble for only four or five generations. It does not become people like ourselves, who are of truly ancient lineage, to display such snobbishness.”

  For a second her mouth hardened. Then she too, laughed. “Perhaps you are right; but after this afternoon I shall be tempted to think that instead of a knight errant I have acquired another governess.”

  “I would willingly don skirts if that would enable me to be near you more frequently.”

  Ilona giggled. “How funny you would look in them. But seriously, I have good cause to dislike the Chotek. She is an evil woman, and has brought dissension into the Imperial family.”

  “Had you given your last reason first, I would not have challenged it. But about her being evil, I am not so certain. She loves her husband, and one cannot blame a mother for fighting for what she believes to be the rights of her children. I thought her not at all a bad creature, but she is as sharp as a needle. As she watched us dancing together that night at the Czernins, she is more likely than anyone else in Viennese society to guess my interest in you. That is another reason why I wish to stand well with her. Then, if she sees us together again and suspects anything, she is much more likely to refrain from starting malicious gossip.”

  Ilona agreed to the wisdom of that, and for a while they talked of other people in Viennese society. Then Adam Grünne got to his feet and called up: “It is nearly four o’clock. Does not your Highness think that we ought to be getting back to the carriage?”

  Too late, de Richleau and Ilona realised that their precious time together had raced by almost unnoticed, and that they had spent most of it bickering. Before the others could reach them he whispered; “If I have disappointed you to-day, please forgive me. The things I said to you were clumsy only because there is so much in my heart that I may not say.”

  The blood mounted to her face, then she whispered back: “I know, I understand. But you must not say it.”

  Wednesday, apart from stolen glances, proved a blank; for the narrow-eyed, rather stupid-looking Baroness Paula took her duties very seriously. During their walk she was never more than three paces distant from her mistress—even when de Richleau led the way up as steep a pile of rocks as he thought Ilona could manage—and, apparently, either the fear of arousing suspicion, or her upbringing as an Archduchess, still so dominated Ilona that she could not bring herself to tell the girl to remain behind with Adam Grünne while she made the climb alone with their guide.

  But Thursday was a day that de Richleau long remembered as one of the happiest in his life. On the previous evening, when dismissing him, Adam Grünne had said that, if the weather remained fine, Her Imperial Highness had decided to go for a picnic: so instead of reporting at two-thirty, as usual, he was to be at the Palace at eleven o’clock.

  The Duke woke early, jumped out of bed and ran to the window. There was no streak of warning red in the eastern sky, and the trees in the distance had that intense early morning stillness which presages a perfect summer day. By ten to eleven, now a familiar figure at the Palace gates, he walked through them and up to the portico. At eleven o’clock, with the punctuality which marked all the Imperial arrangements, they set off.

  Ilona had decided on an expedition towards Ehensee, so they drove northward for about eight miles before halting the carriage. Normally, as they were to picnic, the footman would have brought up the rear carrying the luncheon basket: but as Ilona stepped down into the road she said that their guide could quite well do so. De Richleau, realising her intention of being freed from the prying eyes of a servant, willingly abandoned his rucksack, and had the hamper strapped to his back in its place. They then entered the shady woods that rose steeply from the right hand side of the road.

  As usual the Duke led the way, some twenty paces in advance of the others, but when they had been walking for some ten minutes an
d were well out of sight of the carriage, Ilona called to him to stop. Then, when they had caught up with him, she smiled at Sárolta and Adam Grünne, and said:

  “Both of you know the real identity of our guide, so to-day we will make no silly pretences, but really enjoy ourselves for once. Come, Duke, give me your arm, and we’ll lead the way together. I shouldn’t be surprised if I make a better guide than you do.”

  When he had exchanged a pleasant greeting with the others, he replied with a laugh, “I am quite sure you will, Princess, for I will now confess that I have never before had the chance to go so far in this direction.” Then he gave her his arm, and the two couples resumed their ascent of the woodland track.

  Adam Grünne was quick to realise what a happy chance the arrangement gave him to make love to Sárolta so, with her arm in his, he eased his pace until they had dropped some way behind. After the party had covered a hundred yards, Ilona glanced back, and seeing that she and de Richleau were out of earshot, said:

  “Do you know, although we have really seen very little of one another, I feel that in some ways I know you more intimately than any man I have ever met. Yet I still do not know your Christian name.”

  “It is Jean Armand Duplessis,” he replied; “but most of my friends call me Armand.”

  “Then, as long as we are alone together to-day, I will call you that, and if you like—Armand, you may call me Ilona.”

  In those days Christian names were not lightly bandied about, or ever used between men and women who were not lovers, relatives or old friends; so to hear her almost whisper his name thrilled him as few things could have done. Pressing her arm very lightly, he said:

  “Thank you, my beautiful Princess. The name Ilona will come easily to my lips, for it is ever in my thoughts and in my sweetest dreams.”

  Unlike their previous meetings, to-day no shadow of restraint or misunderstanding lay between them. As they mounted gently through the twilit woods, they talked of a dozen subjects. He told her of some of the strange places he had visited, and thrilled her with a full account of the abortive attempt in which he had participated as a young officer to place the Duke de Vendôme on the throne of France. She shyly confessed that she sometimes wrote poetry and had had some of her poems set to music, so that she could sing them; although she said her voice was very small, and that she rarely sang except in private for her own amusement, and occasionally for her old grandfather, the Emperor, who liked her to sing him to sleep in an arm-chair when he was tired out from poring over his endless State papers.

  It was Ilona who led the way to a glade on the crest, which opened out to the northward with a lovely view of lower, wooded hilltops and, beyond them, the little town of Ehensee, with its long lake shimmering in the summer sun. There, the others caught up with them and helped to spread out the picnic lunch. Ilona’s gaiety infected them all and her happiness lent a new radiance to her beauty. Her lips and cheeks seemed more highly coloured than usual, her eyes were pools of deepest blue, and her chestnut hair caught the sunshine in its high-piled waves. For an hour, while they ate the cold collation which had been provided and drank a refreshing light Moselle, they laughed and joked together in all the joy of youth; the dark future, which only de Richleau feared to be so close at hand, mercifully hidden from them.

  When they had packed up the picnic things, the two couples walked on a little farther and, separating by unspoken agreement, sat down some distance apart to admire the view. For another hour and a half Ilona and Armand, as they now called one another freely, talked of their lives before they had met, which now seemed an age away. Every now and then their eyes met in a long gaze and a short happy silence fell between them. When he gently took her hand in his, she did not withdraw it; and they would have sat on, unheeding of the passage of time, until nightfall, had not Count Adam come over to warn them that they were already over-late in starting back.

  To make up time a little, in case the servants began to fear that an accident had befallen them, they hurried rather on the way downwards, so talked only at infrequent intervals. But when they got to within ten minutes’ walk of the road, de Richleau broached the subject of future meetings.

  Ilona said that, on her return to Vienna, she would ride in the Prater every morning, except Sundays, between eight and nine o’clock, so he could meet her then as though by chance, and of course she would invite him to her birthday party on the 13th of June; but that was still over a fortnight away, and they should be able to meet several times at social functions which she would attend before then.

  “As a starving man I gladly snatch at every crust,” he smiled. “But I dare not run into you while riding in the Prater too frequently, or dance with you more than once at any ball, otherwise tongues will begin to wag. I think I have an idea, though, by which we might spend a good part of two or three days together.”

  “Oh, tell me!” she exclaimed in delight.

  “It is to open up my castle at Königstein. As you may know, it is on the Danube only some twenty-five miles west of Vienna. If I gave a house-warming, with a ball and other entertainments, would it not be possible for you to come to stay for a couple of nights, with the Aulendorfs and the rest of your suite, as my guest of honour?”

  Sadly she shook her head. “It is a lovely idea, but I am afraid not practical. If a married couple wished to entertain me in that way, I could express my desire to the wife to pay her a visit; but I could not do that to a single man, and it would be a shocking breach of etiquette for you to invite me, even if you did so through Countess Aulendorf.”

  He was greatly disappointed at this douche of cold water on the plan that he had been nurturing, and quickly began to cast about in his mind for a way of getting over the difficulty. Perhaps if he could get some suitable couple to act as host and hostess for him—his thoughts had got no further when she impulsively tightened her clasp on his arm, and cried:

  “I have it! The Chotek shall help us.”

  “How? I thought you disliked her far too much to ask any favour of her?”

  Ilona laughed. “I do. But, like yourself, I am not averse to making use of her. You must ask her instead of myself to be your guest of honour at Königstein. Nothing delights my cousin, Franz, so much as to see his morganatic wife treated like an Archduchess. Act as though she were one. Tell Franz Ferdinand, when you see him tomorrow night, that you would like to fête them at your castle, but have not the temerity to invite her. Providing he is not too heavily engaged, he will certainly accept for them both. Then submit your list of guests, including the names of myself and my suite.”

  “And you would then be allowed to come?”

  “Yes. Unless she told my cousin to strike my name out, but that is unlikely. Although we are not friends, I have always been polite to her in public. If the Heir Apparent is to be present, then there is no rule to prevent me, as his relative, from also enjoying your hospitality.”

  “Then, if persuasion can do the trick, it shall be done,” declared the Duke happily.

  A few minutes later they were approaching an opening in the wood, from which the road was visible, so she stopped and said: “I think, Armand, that you had better go on alone from here.”

  He turned and faced her. “Ilona, it has been a glorious day, and one I shall always treasure in my memory. May I—may I hope from it that you feel just a little towards me, as I feel towards you?”

  Her eyelashes fluttered, then she looked down and whispered; “Please don’t ask me. You know that I must not even allow myself to think such thoughts. But I—I like you more than anyone I’ve ever met.”

  That night was his last at the Gasthaus Pohl. Next morning the eccentric Englishman, dressed like a Tyrolese, who had begun his stay with incredibly long early-morning walks and eaten sandwiches instead of dinner, was driven to the station. Before reaching Linz, he carried his bag along to a lavatory, stripped off his whiskers, changed his clothes, and emerged from the train with nothing remaining of his disguise except his g
rey hair and eyebrows. These were a somewhat more tricky matter, as a week’s application of powder was going to take some getting off: but after lunching at Linz, he went to a barbers, told the attendant that he had been to a fancy-dress dance the night before, and had a thorough shampoo. Then he caught a train on to Vienna.

  Owing to his having broken his journey for three hours in Linz, it was after seven o’clock when he arrived in the capital, so he had to hurry. As he entered Sacher’s, he told the porter to have a taxi waiting for him at eight o’clock, took the sheaf of letters that the man held out to him, thrust them into his pocket and strode over to the lift. At ten past eight the taxi set him down outside the Oberes Belvedere, and at eight-fifteen, his dark hair now shining, and immaculate in evening dress, he was kissing the hand which ‘the Chotek’ extended to him with a gracious smile.

  The party again consisted of about two dozen people, but when they were all assembled de Richleau saw that, whereas those who had attended the luncheon at which he had been present had been mostly of the lesser nobility, many of these held important official positions. Among them were Admiral von Kailer, the chief of the Austrian Navy, Count Krobatin, the War Minister, and Count Hoyos, von Berchtold’s right hand man at the Foreign Office. So it was clear that the Duchess Sophie had done her utmost to impress her principal guest, Count Tisza.

  With the exception of the Hungarians, all the subject peoples of the Dual Monarchy were treated as subservient to Austria, and enjoyed only the right to send their elected representatives to the central parliament. But Hungary, under her ancient constitution, remained a separate kingdom, enjoying a considerable amount of theoretical independence, with her own parliament, which sat in Budapest. The Emperor, therefore, had two Prime Ministers or, as they were termed, Minister-Presidents; Count Stürgkh, who represented the Imperial Austrian electorate, and Count Tisza, who represented the electorate of Hungary.