The Second Seal

by Dennis Wheatley

  “My sword arm is near to dropping off from the ache in it to kill dragons for you, Princess,” he smiled back.

  “Alas!” she laughed. “My dragons are all nice old ladies, like the Grafin Aulendorf; or old gentlemen who escort me to state functions.”

  “There will be no state functions when you come to Königstein, and somehow we will get rid of your female dragons for a while, I promise.”

  She frowned. “My secretary has not yet said a word to me about your party. In fact, I had to tell him only last night to refuse an engagement which was proposed for me for the 11th. When did you submit your list?”

  “I posted it from Königstein on Wednesday evening. I could not do so before as I had to find out which of my neighbours were in residence and could put up guests. But it should have reached the Duchess first thing on Thursday morning.”

  “Oh well, she may have been too busy to deal with it these past two days. No doubt she will ask this weekend if I wish to go. But do tell me about the lovely time you are preparing for us. I can hardly wait to get there, and I think of it not as her party but as ours.”

  “And so it is, Princess,” he assured her with a tender smile. Then he went on to speak of the water-picnic, the fireworks, and the dance that he was planning for her delight. But all too soon the ride was over and when they parted, as he had to return to Königstein that night, it was with the knowledge that they would have no further opportunity of meeting until they did so there on the following Wednesday.

  That day he completed his final preparations in Vienna, and in the late afternoon set out for the castle. A number of letters were awaiting him, and among them a big envelope bearing the Imperial arms. On opening it he saw that it was from the Comptroller of the Archduke’s Household. Then the blow fell. His list of guests was approved, except that General von Hötzendorf had begged to be excused on the plea of duty, and that the names of Ilona and her suite had been struck out.

  Slowly he went white with rage. Then he tore the letter violently across and damned Sophie von Hohenberg to all eternity. The one thing which had occurred neither to Ilona nor himself was that the Chotek might for once allow jealousy to get the better of her tactfulness. It was true that Ilona, being of the Imperial blood, took precedence over her; but at a private party such as this, and one announced as in her special honour, there could be no question of her being relegated to the background. Yet jealousy seemed the only reason which could be attributed to the act; and it was one of extreme rudeness. If she felt so strongly about the matter, she could at least have done her host the courtesy of having a private word with him on it, but to have simply struck out Ilona’s name was not only discourteous to him, it implied that she, of all people, was not the type of woman who could be received in polite society.

  De Richleau could only suppose that the Duchess was counting on Ilona never getting to hear of the flagrant insult that had been done her. He smiled grimly at the thought that here was a case of heredity coming out, and that, though she could not know it, through her ill-breeding the Chotek had made an enemy for life. But that was no consolation whatever to him.

  Seething with anger and disgust, he made a moody tour of inspection round the castle. Much had been done in his three days’ absence, but innumerable things still remained to be done if the place was to be in apple-pie order by Wednesday. The thought of the money he had wasted aggravated his fury, but even that was a bagatelle compared with the bitter, searing disappointment which tore his heart at the realisation that he was not, after all, to have his beautiful Ilona under his own roof for two days and nights.

  He spent a long time in the bedroom that was being made ready for her. The hangings he had bought for it were nearly finished: they were of blue satin to match her eyes, and had gold cupids and true lover’s-knots embroidered on them. The mattress of the bed he had chosen and tested himself as the softest in the castle. The sheets were of the finest lawn, and the pillows of finest swansdown. With his slim fingers he caressed them for a moment, and tears dimmed his bright grey eyes. Turning hastily away, he caught sight of his reflection in the long gilt cheval glass. She would have gazed into that, perhaps to put a last chestnut curl into place and admire her own perfection, before coming down to dine at his side. Then his glance fell upon a shallow alcove, in which stood a high-backed elbow chair. Behind it a panel, painted the same colour as the rest of the wall, could be slid back to reveal a low oak door. Beyond the door was a little stone balcony, from one side of which a narrow spiral of steps led down to the main terrace twenty feet below. The previous Sunday night he had oiled the lock, bolts and hinges of the door, so that it could be opened without a sound. After the dance, when everyone had gone to bed, he had hoped. Shutting his eyes, he clenched his teeth, and stood rigid in an agony of frustration. At length his breath escaped in a gasp and, wheeling round, he flung himself out of the room.

  Eventually he went to bed, but proper sleep refused to come to him, and when he fell into a doze he was beset by horrid visions of Ilona in tears and the Chotek leering at him. At five o’clock he got up and, after a bath, into which he poured a quarter of a bottle of Lubin’s fragrant essence, he felt a little more rational-minded, though no less bitter.

  At six, he summoned his head servants and gave them fresh instructions as, although the thought of the party was now as ashes in his mouth, there could be no question of cancelling it, and the preparations must go on. Then, after toying with his breakfast, in spite of the fact that he was now needed there to supervise many arrangements in person, he left for Vienna.

  De Richleau was not the man to say die lightly, and he had determined to see the Duchess on the chance that he could persuade her to alter her mind. But when he arrived at the Belvedere Palace he found, to his renewed fury, that his luck had completely deserted him. The Chotek had gone away the previous morning for the weekend, and was not expected back until Monday afternoon.

  He had eaten little and drunk next to nothing for the past twenty-four hours, yet he felt as sick and ill as if he had been participating in a drunken orgy for a week. Instinctively he walked back across The Ring to Sacher’s. There he went up to his room, sat on his bed for a while, then rang for the waiter and ordered a double Absinthe. When it arrived, he added sugar and water and slowly drank the opal fluid. It had no more perceptible kick in it than lime juice, or a diluted paregoric cough mixture which it resembled in flavour, but he knew it held hidden properties which would act like a drug in clearing and accelerating his brain.

  A quarter of an hour later, he moved over to the window table and began to write a letter to the Chotek. It was no more than a last hope, for he dared not even hint in it, as he could have done to her personally, his own desire that Ilona should be asked to Königstein: moreover, he dare not presume too far on the idea that the Duchess regarded him as her adviser. But after three drafts, he produced the following:

  Your Highness,

  I trust you will pardon my temerity, but I note with some disquiet that you have thought fit to delete the name of H.I.H. the Archduchess Ilona Theresa from the list of guests for your Highness’ party at Königstein.

  Your reasons for so doing are beyond my knowledge and, no doubt, most excellent. But, after much hesitation, I bring myself to point out to your Highness that the Archduchess’ presence at your party could redound only to your own prestige—particularly with Count Tisza, who is to be among your guests.

  I was fortunate enough to have a long and very friendly conversation with the Count after making my adieus to your Highness on Friday, the 29th, and it was mainly on account of my earlier talk with you that I included both him and H.I.H. in the proposed list.

  I must add that my uneasiness is made the greater from having chanced to meet H.I.H. in the Prater while riding there on Saturday morning and, I pray that you will forgive me, as I was indiscreet enough to mention the fête to her; upon which she was so gracious as to say that she hoped to hear further from your Highness regardin
g it.

  I need hardly add that I would not presume to offer these points for your consideration were I not emboldened to do so by a heartfelt desire to further your Highness’ interests.

  I have the honour to be, etc. etc.”

  Having concluded with this flat lie, he damned the woman to perdition again, sealed up the envelope, and took it across to the Belvedere himself. Then he returned to Königstein.

  Monday and Tuesday the endless bustle at the castle continued. A stream of vans and wagons arrived from the surrounding district and from Vienna. Endless boxes and hampers were unpacked. Innumerable people did innumerable jobs above and below stairs, in the stables, on the river front, and in the grounds. Through this human ants’ nest the Duke moved ceaselessly, like an uneasy but all-seeing ghost. He had no idea what the Chotek’s reactions would be to his letter. In any case she could not have had it till Monday afternoon and by then, even if she changed her mind, Ilona might have become committed to other engagements. He knew that she would keep herself free till the last possible moment if she could, but it would not be easy for anyone in her position to refuse all duties for two days without any suitable excuse to offer.

  On Tuesday evening the Countess Prava arrived with her two daughters. At dinner that night the Duke endeavoured to be a cheerful host, but excused himself soon afterwards on the plea that he still had things to see to.

  On Wednesday at mid-day, accompanied by the Countess, he made a final inspection. The pandemonium of the preceding days had subsided as though it had never occurred. Except for the powdered and breeched footmen on duty in the hall, not a servant was to be seen. The June sunshine shone through the open mullioned windows on speckless rooms, kept at a comfortable temperature by small log fires, adorned with flowers. Afterwards, they went out on to the terrace. It ran along the south wall of the castle, which had been rebuilt late in the eighteenth century and contained rooms of fine proportions. From it, there was a splendid view along the Danube, which flowed a hundred feet below them. Anchored near the far shores of the river were the boats and barges from which the display of fireworks was to be given that night. It seemed that nothing had been left unthought of, and the Duke sent for his principal servants to thank them for their labours. Now, it only remained to be seen if the lady of his heart, for whom all this had been done, would ever set eyes upon it.

  At four o’clock the guests began to arrive, and for the next hour or two de Richleau was kept busy with their reception. By six they were all mustered in the great hall, awaiting the appearance of the Imperial party. Punctually, almost to the moment, the line of cars rolled into the courtyard and disgorged their occupants in front of the great double doors. Outside them stood the Duke, holding a blue velvet cushion on which reposed the keys of the castle. In accordance with ancient custom, he offered them to Franz Ferdinand, who touched them lightly, then, with a friendly smile, bade him keep them.

  Swiftly de Richleau’s glance took in the dozen people who had arrived with the Archduke. He suppressed a sigh that was like a pain piercing his middle. The absence of the lovely face of Ilona Theresa among them made the sun go dim for him. Up to the very last minute he had been hoping against hope that she would arrive with her cousin, although reason had told him plainly that had she been coming at all he would have been notified of it officially, at latest by that morning. Only now that his last hope was gone did he taste to the full the bitterness of his disappointment and realise how desperately he loved her.

  Yet with him it was one of the principles of a lifetime that a host should not mar the enjoyment of his guests by allowing them even to suspect that he was a prey to personal troubles, and years of self-discipline now stood him in good stead. As though he had not a care in the world, he smilingly welcomed the rest of the Imperial party, and ushered them in to partake of the refreshments set out in the great hall.

  Soon after seven the two dozen people who now made up the house-party went to their rooms to change. At eight-thirty they assembled in the hall again, and at a quarter to nine went in to dinner. According to the custom of the day, on such occasions, the meal was a long one: fifteen courses were served and a different wine with each, so it was half past ten before they rose from the table. Other guests who were staying in the neighbourhood now began to arrive, and at eleven o’clock they all went out on to the terrace to see the fireworks.

  The night was fine; the display brilliant and unmarred by accidents. Between intervals of darkness Greek fire lit a long stretch of the Danube, turning it to red, green and blue; big Catherine wheels spun upon the barges moored in the river; rockets sent showers of stars higher than the topmost turrets of the castle; and the finale was a set-piece consisting of an outline portrait of the Duchess, having underneath it the words ‘Long live the future Queen of Hungary’.

  The Chotek was enchanted, and as the last sparks spluttered out she thanked her host effusively. Then, rising from her chair, she laid her plump hand on his arm and led him a little apart from the others towards the end of the terrace. When they were out of earshot she said:

  “This is the first chance I have had for a word with you alone, Duke, and I have been wanting to talk to you about your letter.”

  He could cheerfully have picked her up and thrown her over the battlements, but his smile lost none of its urbanity as he murmured, “I beg you not to give it another thought. It was an impertinence on my part to even question your judgment on such a matter.”

  “On the contrary,” she replied quickly. “You were quite right, and I was a fool not to see in the first place that Ilona Theresa’s presence here would strengthen my position with Count Tisza. It was stupid of me to allow the slights which the Imperial family have put upon me to influence me in a case like this.”

  De Richleau looked down at her in surprise. “May I ask, then, why you did not take the advice contained in my letter?”

  “I did, and covered my faux pas in a note that I wrote her on Monday night. In it I said I had only just learned that my secretary had been guilty of mislaying the original notification of the party, which should have reached her the previous week. But on the Tuesday I received a reply to the effect that she is committed to appear Tonight at a charity ball, and to-morrow at a public luncheon; and that, much as she would have liked to come with us to Königstein, it was now too late to alter her arrangements.”

  Silently but fluently the Duke cursed in seven languages, both the woman beside him and Ilona’s ingrained sense of duty. Then his heart gave such a jump that it seemed to hit him under the throat; for, after a little pause, the Duchess added: “However, she is going to join us here in time for the dance, and that is better than nothing.”

  Her last words could not have better expressed de Richleau’s feelings. An evil fate had denied him the joy of having Ilona there for much the greater part of what was secretly to have been their own party, but at least he had been reprieved to the extent that she would be present at its finale, and by comparison with ‘nothing’ that now seemed ‘everything’. His step was no more buoyant, but his heart was high as he led the Chotek back through the french windows into the drawing-room.

  As some of the guests had driven a considerable distance, a buffet supper was now being served, and for an hour or more the Duke moved about, having a few words with everyone in turn. Then Franz Ferdinand went up to bed and the party gradually broke up.

  Next morning de Richleau woke to find to his annoyance that it was raining. The change in the weather threatened to spoil his water-party, and might make it impossible for couples to stroll on the terrace, or in the grounds, during the dance. But the knowledge that, wet or fine, he would see Ilona that evening did far more than console him for this minor worry.

  In those days breakfast was taken in bed only by women and invalids, so all the men of the party assembled downstairs for it fully dressed. Normally they would have gone shooting, fishing or riding, according to the season; but as the weather was inclement they decided to st
ay indoors. Four made up a table for bridge, two sat down to write letters, and the rest—Franz Ferdinand, Count Hoyos and the Duke among them—congregated in the library.

  The Archduke took the opportunity of asking de Richleau his opinion of the Turkish Army, and after they had talked of it for some time the conversation turned to the amazing war machine that Germany had built up during the reign of Wilhelm II. It was clear to the Duke that the Austrians greatly envied their powerful neighbour the possession of this mighty weapon with which, had they controlled it, they obviously believed that they could have settled their long-standing differences with Russia, Italy, Serbia and Rumania at one stroke. It emerged that in the coming week Franz Ferdinand was going to his country estate of Konopischt, where he would be entertaining the Kaiser for a three-days’ visit, and Count Hoyos took occasion to remark on the high hopes his chief, von Berchtold, held that this meeting would further strengthen the Austro-German alliance.

  About eleven the rain stopped and the ladies began to appear, so several small parties drifted off for a walk in the grounds. As the Duchess had not come down, and Franz Ferdinand intimated that he wished to have a private talk with his aide-de-camp, Count Harrach, de Richleau found himself free to show his books to Count Tisza; who, up till then, had been writing letters. The Duke’s library was very fine, having been mainly inherited through many generations of ancestors and removed from France after his exile from that country; but in individual items having historical associations with famous people it did not rival that of the Count. Nevertheless, they spent a happy hour there and cemented their strong liking for one another.