“Bernstorff doesn’t love me, but he wouldn’t wait at a corner in the dark to put a knife into my back.”
“I was thinking of someone of a lower degree who would.”
“I know of no such person. Why do you ask?”
“Because early this morning a man leading a horse met you in the gateway of Monplaisir—”
Philip’s eyebrows drew together in a frown. All the good humour departed from his face. He fixed his eyes upon Anthony with a savage glance.
“How do you know?” he asked sharply.
Anthony grew red. He had been so intent upon shooting his arrow that he had given no thought to the equivocal position he had been himself occupying in the lime-tree avenue. He did not answer.
“You were watching?” said Königsmark.
“I was watching,” Craston returned. “I saw you flinch. I heard the cry you uttered. You were afraid, my Colonel of the Guards. You were terribly afraid.”
Philip’s face darkened as the blood rushed into it. His body shook but it was with rage; and the glitter of his eyes was the glitter of swords. For a little while he choked so that he could not utter a word. Then his hand went to his sword-hilt and came away again with a gesture almost of despair.
“I was taken by surprise,” he said at length in a quiet sullen voice. “I once passed some terrible hours in the chapel at Celle. I was a boy. I was helpless. I felt a bow-string tightening round my throat. I suffered such terror as I thought no one could suffer and live. I am tormented by shame when I remember it. The man leading the horse was one of the two men who held me at their mercy. When I came face to face with him suddenly in the dark of the morning and the lamp flashed upon his face, I was suddenly a boy again, the cords on wrists and ankles—” and he broke off with such a look of shame and fury upon his face as Craston had never seen on any face. Philip beheld himself on his knees again at Bernstorff’s feet, cringing, pleading for his life with the tears wet upon his cheeks. He stepped forward and beat with his clenched fish upon the table.
“Yes, I was frightened last night, Mr Craston,” he cried. “Make the most of it. But, believe me, you never did a more unwise thing that to remind me of it.”
He threw back his head. His lips twisted in a sneer. His eyes challenged Craston as they had challenged him in the Court of the Old Bailey.
“I must go,” he said quietly. “I am to meet Prince Charles in a few minutes at the Leine Palace. He is to take me to pay my respects to Her Highness the Princess Sophia Dorothea.”
Prince Charles, as Anthony Craston knew well, was the one friend whom Sophia Dorothea had amongst the five brothers of her husband.
“We shall meet then in the Princess’s apartments,” said Anthony. “For I am carrying to her some messages from her mother at Celle.”
“Arrivederci then,” said Königsmark lightly and he went out of the room and down the stairs. A minute afterwards Craston heard his carriage roll away. Then he shouted for his servant.
“Quick, man! I must change my clothes. I have a visit to pay. Help me!”
XX. ACHILLES AND IPHIGENIA MEET AGAIN
PHILIP KÖNIGSMARK THREW off his leisurely indifference as soon as he had closed the door behind him. He ran down the stairs and sprang into his carriage. To the footman who was holding open the door he said: “To the Leine Palace and as quick as you can.”
He leaned back against the cushions.
“The young diplomatist is smitten to the heart,” he reflected with a chuckle. “The young diplomatist lurked jealously in the avenue and has a story which does not show me in the prettiest light. He is thinking that it will be good diplomacy to tell it. And it might be if he could tell it first. But the great God Etiquette stands in his way. Our morals may be loose but our etiquette is irreproachable. Anthony cannot present himself in his boots to Her Highness the Princess Sophia Dorothea.”
So whilst Anthony Craston was hurriedly changing into a more seemly attire, Philip drove into the great courtyard at the side of the Leine Palace. Facing him was the long wing in which Sophia Dorothea had her apartments. To his left was the guard-room and the entrance. Philip was shown at once to the rooms of Prince Charles on the second floor which looked across the street to the Alte Palace.
“Charles, we must be quick,” he said.
Prince Charles, a youth two years younger than Philip, with the face of a cherub, was standing in front of a looking-glass and carefully drawing a fall of lace-edged batiste over a cluster of satin bows at his throat.
“I have sent word that we are coming. Sophia is expecting us. There’s no hurry,” said Charles.
“There’s all the hurry in the world,” said Philip.
“I am ready.”
Charles led his friend down to the first floor and through a succession of high rooms with painted walls and curtains of red velvet and ceilings decorated with gold, the Throne Room, the Council hall, the ballroom, the great parlour.
“I should lose my way without you for a guide,” said Philip.
He was laughing now and a gleam of sunlight glistened on the gold of the ceilings and flamed upon the walls. But an hour was to come when all these rooms were dark and Philip was to blunder from one to the other with outstretched hands, like a man blindfold in a labyrinth.
“It is not as intricate as the Palace at Dresden,” said Charles.
It was at Dresden that the two had met and begun their friendship.
At the end of the great parlour a door led into the wing of the Castle, and as he opened it, Charles stopped.
“I should like you to be a friend to Sophy,” he said earnestly. “I hold no brief for the Platen woman. Sophy declared war and held her own for awhile — she had more spirit than wisdom — and for awhile after her boy was born, it looked as if she might win. But there’s my father, you see,” and he shrugged his shoulders. “The von Platen woman holds the big cards and knows how to play them, damn her!”
He hesitated as if he had something more to say.
“I had the honour to know the Princess when I was a page at Celle a long time ago,” said Philip. “She has no doubt forgotten me but—”
“Oh no, she hasn’t,” her brother-in-law interrupted.
“When I sent her word that I was bringing you, she replied that she had very pleasant memories of you,” again he hesitated and again he flew off upon a different theme than the one he had in his mind.
“I haven’t told her of your appointment here. I shall leave you to break that good news to her yourself.”
“Thank you,” said Philip.
He was anxious to move on. Anthony Craston would be dressed now. He might be hurrying to the Leine Palace. It was possible that he had already been admitted into Sophia Dorothea’s presence. But Charles still held his ground, with his hand twisting the handle of the door and never opening it.
“Look you, Charles,” said Philip. “You have something you want to say to me. Let me hear it!”
Charles nodded his head.
“I have, but it’s delicate. You may say that it’s none of my business. You’ll have the right to. But I’m thinking of Sophy. You led out George Louis’ lady in a minuet last night,” he blurted out.
“I did,” answered Königsmark quietly.
“It’s said too, that you went out to Monplaisir afterwards.”
“It’s true.”
“And lost a large sum to Clara.”
Philip shrugged his shoulders.
“Five thousand thalers.”
“And remained after the last guest had gone.”
Philip did not answer that accusation and Charles went on quickly.
“We might keep all that from Sophy. She would be — well — hurt. An old friend rushing off hot-foot to the enemy — d’you see? — to the enemy who’s keeping open house on Sophy’s money. Not too pretty! I was disappointed. There, it’s out! You have made a name for yourself in the world. I’m nobody. I hope you won’t resent what I’ve said.”
An
d Charles, having rid himself of his rebuke with a good deal of flushing and shuffling and looking down on the ground and up to the ceiling — Charles at the age of twenty was little more than a pleasant boy — drew a breath and waited for an answer in a suspense.
Philip laid his hand upon the boy’s arm.
“I am a little moved,” he said gravely. “I like you all the better for your frankness.”
Charles smiled in a great relief.
“That’s the best of news to me, Philip. Then,” and he looked eagerly at Königsmark, “We’ll keep yesterday night a secret from Sophy?”
Philip shook his head.
“We can’t.”
“Surely,” Charles urged. “The von Platen woman won’t talk. She has my good father to think about. And for the others — why it’ll pass for the ordinary malice of the day.”
“That won’t do,” said Philip.
“Why?”
“An old friend of mine is hurrying as fast as he can to carry the horrid story to Her Highness.”
Anthony Craston would have recognised the bravado and the note of ironic banter in Philip’s voice. To Prince Charles it was new and it troubled him. He looked anxiously at the new Colonel of the Guards.
“Philip, I was hoping that you would be a good friend,” he said reproachfully. “Sophy has desperately few. Max, my elder brother, pesters her with his attentions. George Louis never goes near her if he can help it. My mother lectures her on English history and gives her formalities instead of affection. My father has a soft corner of his heart for her but it’s not a very noticeable corner. I think that Knesebeck, her maid-in-waiting and I are the only two in the whole Court of Hanover who are really fond of her. She doesn’t belong to us you see.” He looked Philip up and down. “We’re earthier than she is, and I hoped you would perhaps help to equalise the scales.”
“I came to Hanover with that purpose,” Königsmark said; and his face was now very grave and very gentle.
“Yet you went to Monplaisir,” Charles objected.
“And Mr Anthony Craston is hurrying to tell Her Highness of my visit,” Philip answered with a touch of impatience. “If she is to think of me as her friend, I and not another must be the first to tell her. Hurry, Charles, hurry, or Mr Craston will outpace us.”
Charles was persuaded. He opened the door and led the way into a corridor lighted by a row of windows looking on to the courtyard. At the first door he stopped and went in. A page sprang to his feet.
“Her Highness is expecting me,” said Charles, and the page threw open an inner door. Charles followed him so closely that the page had not time to call out his name. Over Charles’ shoulder Philip Königsmark saw Sophia Dorothea rise quickly out of a chair and come forward expectantly. He heard her voice, lower in tone than when he had last heard it, but with the same eager lilt.
“Charles,” she cried and then stopped in disappointment. “Oh, you sent me word—”
“That I was bringing a friend to you. I have not broken it,” and he turned in the doorway and held out his hand. “Philip!”
As Philip went forward, he heard Sophia Dorothea catch her breath and saw her step back so that the window was behind her and her face in shadow. She had been waiting for him all that morning, wondering what changes the six years had wrought in him. Yet now that he had come she was startled as though she had never expected his coming. She was even a little afraid.
Charles led his friend forward.
“This is Count Philip von Königsmark,” he said gaily with a mock air of presenting a stranger.
Sophia held out a hand which in spite of all her efforts would shake. Königsmark kneeled in front of her and raised it to his lips and kissed it.
“Your Highness,” he said, and she answered him in a whisper which no one heard but he.
“Philip!”
There was another woman in the room, older by a few years than Sophia, and taller. She had fair hair, was pleasant in her manner and handsome without distinction.
“This is my friend, Eleonore von Knesebeck,” said Sophia. “Like me she comes from Celle.”
Philip bowed to her and she dropped him a curtsey.
“So!” said Charles. “I have now done my morning’s work,” and he turned to von Knesebeck. “Shall we leave these aged friends to prattle of their vanished youth?” He nodded his head vigorously to the lady-in-waiting. “Philip, you dine today at my father’s table. I shall come back to fetch you both. Mademoiselle?” and he turned towards the door.
Eleonore von Knesebeck hesitated. The good God Etiquette demanded that she should stay where she was, but he seemed to have retired into a cloud after the fashion of gods. Charles was nodding at her like a China Mandarin, and Sophia Dorothea gave her no instructions whatever. Philip had risen to his feet and stood, patient and respectful. Sophia was watching him with a tremulous smile upon her lips. For those two there was no one else in the room. Mademoiselle de Knesebeck had to make up her mind for herself. She followed her inclinations, which were romantic — and went. Charles closed the door of the antechamber behind him and sent the page out into the corridor.
“Listen to me, Mademoiselle!” he said. “A young English gentleman will come in a few minutes for an audience with the Princess.”
“A Monsieur Craston.”
“That is the man. You will be very polite to him for he is on the English Ambassador’s staff and until we know whether we are going to fight for King Louis or for William of Orange, we must be sugar in the mouth to both sides. On the one side there’s a hat and on the other a purse and my good father and the Platen woman between them must decide which they are going to have.”
Fräulein von Knesebeck tried to look shocked, but she preferred her politics put in this frank and attractive way. They were intelligible.
“At the same time,” Charles continued, “Monsieur Craston must not be admitted.”
“But Your Highness, he has an audience,” Eleonore von Knesebeck objected in dismay. “How shall I deny him?”
Prince Charles airily waved his hand.
“I leave that with complete confidence to your ingenuity, Mademoiselle,”
“I shall say that Count Philip von Königsmark has brought to Her Highness an important letter from the Elector of Dresden,” said Eleonore von Knesebeck, after a moment’s thought.
Charles shook his head.
“Even a thick-headed Englishman would find it difficult to swallow that,” he replied. “No, Mademoiselle, you will do better than that. And it will not be necessary to mention the name of Philip von Königsmark at all.”
“No?” cried Eleonore in a greater consternation than before.
“No,” answered Charles. “A simple, natural lie. What ailments do children have? The croup, say, and Her Highness is anxious that Mr Craston should not catch it. Or the little girl is flushed and it might be the measles, but we shan’t know definitely until this afternoon. I leave it to you Mademoiselle,” and Prince Charles sauntered out into the corridor, nodded to the page and went back towards the chief room.
Halfway along the corridor a staircase descended to a door opening on to the courtyard. Prince Charles, as he walked down the first steps, glanced through the window at his side. He stopped. In the courtyard below an usher was preceding a young gentleman dressed in mulberry velvet with silk stockings to match and a flowered waistcoat of while silk. Both were walking towards the door at which the staircase ended. Prince Charles chuckled.
“My friend, you have lingered for ten minutes too long before your dressing glass.”
He turned back and walked again past the doors of Sophia Dorothea’s apartment to a second and smaller flight of stairs. This ran down to a small private door on the side of the wing opposite to the courtyard. The door opened on to half a dozen broad steps above the Leine River. By the side of the steps a small footpath led along the bank of the river and climbed to an iron gate at the end of the river bridge. The gate was only locked at night and gave a priv
ate entrance to that wing of the Castle. Prince Charles passed through. He would give Philip half an hour in which to make his peace with his sister-in-law. There was altogether too much von Platen in Hanover.
XXI. A CONSPIRACY IS PLANNED
AFTER CHARLES HAD shut the door Sophia Dorothea held out her hand and drew Philip into the embrasure of the window. Her touch was almost careless and she laughed as she set him in the full light beside her. But there was a distinct anxiety in her eyes. She scanned his face to see how the six years of separation had dealt with him, whether they had marred him, whether they had made of him a stranger. But she was satisfied.
“Was it yesterday when I last spoke to you and you to me?” she asked.
Philip shook his head.
“For me there has been an eternity of yesterdays since then,” he said slowly and with a little gesture he swept them away on to the dust heap. There was a touch of the theatre in his movement but Sophia Dorothea was not in the mood to notice it. She was back in her beloved Celle. That was the Aller not the Leine River which flowed beneath her windows. The flat Parade ground shimmered and was changed into the French garden with its yew hedges, its beds of carnations, its gravelled walks between emerald strips of grass, its sleeping pool.
“It was on a summer evening... We were in the Castle Chapel,” he said, and with a little cry Sophia drew away.
Philip Königsmark’s face hardened. He had been too abrupt, he thought; he should have revived those old memories more gently, more delicately. But there were newer memories which made the Castle Chapel hateful to Sophia. Where he wished her to see a quiet place in the shadows of dusk with a boy and girl sitting close in a loving companionship, she only saw a crowded glittering company in the midst of which she stood and listened like one stunned to the mockery of a marriage service. Philip had not at this moment the insight to understand her distress. He was only aware that his attack had gone astray. He sought another way.
“We were rehearsing a play for Her Highness’ birthday,” he began and she turned quickly towards him with such pain in her eyes that he stopped.
Complete Works of a E W Mason Page 713