As he turned back into the room, Sophia caught him by the arm.
“Eleonore’s on the stairs,” she whispered, her face white as wax.
But Eleonore was no longer on the stairs. She was now in the room with the door shut behind her, and she had a hand clutching the handle to keep herself from falling.
“We are lost,” she moaned.
“No!”
Philip ran to her.
“Quick, Sophy!” He nodded towards his bedroom. “Through the dressing-room beyond. There’s a door to the stairs.” Whilst he spoke, he was half-carrying, half-supporting Eleonore von Knesebeck across the room.
“Wait till you hear me cry ‘Run!’ Then go!”
Sophia Dorothea gathered up her gloves. Königsmark thrust Eleonore von Knesebeck into his bedroom. Sophia followed upon their heels. “If only the confidante doesn’t faint,” Philip prayed, and to Sophia who in the midst of her terror still kept her head, “Well done!”
At that moment Maximilian’s voice rose from the street.
“Why, the door’s open!”
“Philip!” shouted Charles.
There was a sound of bodies falling and feet stumbling in the darkness of the stairs. A burst of uproarious laughter shook the house. Philip had just time enough to shut the bedroom door, when four youths, the young Prince of Brandenburg and a Monsieur de la Cittardie, led by Charles and Maximilian, burst into the room. They were all flushed with wine and riotous. The young Prince of Brandenburg lurched over to the small table and seizing the bottle of wine by the neck, filled a goblet to the brim.
“Wine!” he cried, and holding the goblet high he splashed a good half of its contents upon the floor. He took a great gulp. “Gut!” he explained and with a drunken bow to Monsieur de la Cittardie. Bong! It’s a most extraordinary thing,” he continued, slurring all his words into one and gravely conscious of a gigantic problem, “I have been drinking the whole evening and I’m thirstier than when I began. Philosophy — there’s a difficult word for a gentleman” — he nodded his head and tried without much success to refill his glass— “philosophy’ll have to deal with it, Leibnitz, Charles, Leibnitz, Max, good old Leibnitz, Monsieur. I’ll put it up to Leibnitz,” and he sat down heavily on a couch.
“Here’s one of them safe at all events,” thought Philip. He filled two more glasses and carried them over to Charles and Maximilian. Maximilian was standing with his nose in the air, sniffing.
“I’ll give you a toast,” cried Philip quickly. “Drink to it Prince Maximilian! The Turks on the run!” and he pronounced the word “run” loud enough for it to be heard all over the house. Charles drained the glass and repeated the toast, but Maximilian continued to sniff with his nose in the air. Charles stared at him. Then he slapped his thigh.
“I know,” he cried with a roar of laughter,” Philip’s got a girl in the house.”
Philip laughed. He could afford to now, for even while Charles was speaking, he heard the front door close with a tiny jar. The Princess and the confidante were away.
“You can search for her,” he cried.
But Charles fell to sniffing the air too, and Charles was Sophia’s familiar friend and might well recognise the scent she used; and indeed an odd look came over his face. For a moment he stared at Philip with his mouth open and apprehension in his eyes. But Maximilian seized on the permission to search. He was as malicious as a monkey.
“But I will,” he said.
“No,” Charles exclaimed valiantly and seized Maximilian by the arm. Maximilian tore himself away and ran to the bedroom door. There, however, he found Philip waiting for him, very civil and polite.
“Since you do me the honour, Sir, to wish to see my house,” said Philip respectfully, “I beg your leave to let me show it to you,” and he opened the door.”
Maximilian pushed past him. There was no one in the bedroom. But on the other side of the bedroom was a door. Maximilian darted forward and opened it. He was in Königsmark’s dressing- room. A lamp was burning low. On the floor were Philip’s riding- boots, scattered on chairs and on the floor too were the linen and the uniform which he had discarded. The door closed behind Maximilian, but after a few seconds he reappeared at the door of the parlour which opened on to the stairs. He was smiling with a quite vicious contentment.
“Charles, the birds have flown,” he cried.
“And Philip’s yawning enough to crack his jaws,” Charles returned.
“I’m on duty, sir, at the camp before six,” said Philip.
“And I too,” added Charles.
They went at last, rioting down the staircase into the street. Philip was left along staring with moody eyes into the flame of the silver lamp.
It was at this hour that Sophia Dorothea, safe in her apartment in the Leine Palace, searched for but could not find one of those fringed and embroidered gloves which George Louis had sent to her from Flanders.
The winter of that year was the harshest known for a generation. The Opera, however, at Hanover, exceeded in magnificence any which had gone before. All the voices came from Venice and visitors acknowledged that Italy could show nothing to equal it. The Carnival opened on January 1st with its usual glitter and the windows of Monplaisir blazed upon the night. Sophia Dorothea received a few letters from Philip. He had grown a beard like a hermit’s; it was bitterly cold; the army was marching immediately from Prestina in Albania and would be in touch with the Turks in a week or two. And then silence.
It was halfway through the Carnival when a rumour began to spread through the town. By what breath it was brought no one knew. But it was a rumour of disaster and all the more therefore it ran from mouth to mouth like a fire. The army had been destroyed. Charles was dead. Königsmark was dead or a prisoner. For three weeks Hanover waited in suspense. Then followed definite news. The Hanoverian forces had been overwhelmed. Prince Charles had been cut to pieces by scimitar strokes in hand to hand fighting. The fate of Königsmark was not known. It was thought that he was either killed at Charles’s side or that he had been taken prisoner. It was believed that a small remnant of the troops was making a desperate effort to cut its way back into friendly territory. Then once more silence shrouded the Duchy like a dark cloud. Duchess Sophia took to her bed heart-broken and physically ill. Sophia Dorothea had a double cause for grief and under the one which she could avow, she must hide as best she could the one which was forbidden. Festivities came to an abrupt end, and Court arranged to go into retirement at Luisburg, and Sophia Dorothea carried away her sorrows on a visit to her parents at Celle. In March, however, her gloom was lightened. For in the first week of that month, one hundred and eighty-three men, all that was left of the army of eleven thousand, forced their way back after desperate marches and attacks under Philip Königsmark’s command on to the friendly soil of Austria.
Philip, on his return to Hanover, drove out to Herrenhausen and presented to its heart-broken mistress what few belongings of Prince Charles he had been able to retrieve. On his way back he stopped at Monplaisir, where Clara von Platen received him very graciously. The public mourning had thrown a pall over the gaieties of Hanover; the reception rooms of Monplaisir were all the more crowded and Philip was the hero of the hour. He was young enough for pallor and fatigue to add a romantic appeal to his beauty rather than to tarnish it, and dressed in black with his brown hair tumbling properly trimmed about his shoulders and the curious stamp of fatality which even so indifferent an observer as Anthony Craston had remarked in his face, his bearing and his presence, he had the air of some seventeenth century Hamlet. He was flattered and cosseted and implored to tell of his adventures. The Turks — there was never a masquerade at Hanover, Dresden or Vienna, without a quadrille of Turks with their jewelled Viziers and lovely slaves — were exciting. Fine ladies could never hear enough of their politeness and their barbarities, their wealth of precious stones and their vast harems. But Philip spoke chiefly of Charles and his gallant death. He did indeed contrive to lose some hu
ndreds of pistoles to Clara at Ombre but his heart was not in the game.
“I came first to you, Madame,” he said, smiling wistfully, “since here I knew that I should find balm for my wounds. I pray you now to excuse a man harassed by grief and the lack of sleep and to accept him again when his vigour has been restored to him.”
Thus he spoke to the reluctant mistress of Monplaisir, who made a little grimace which threatened to crack the red and white enamel of her cheeks.
“You are going?” cried Monsieur de la Cittardie, scandalised that anyone should desert the great lady of Hanover before midnight had struck.
“Yes,” Philip returned. “I have Countess von Platen’s pardon. I have been granted leave for a few weeks and I go tomorrow to my estates at Hamburg, which have fallen into sad neglect.”
“Ah! You go to Hamburg?” said Monsieur de la Cittardie slyly. Philip bowed to him and certainly on the next morning he sent forward his servants and baggage, and a few hours later rode out himself along the road to Hamburg. He was alone.
XXV. ANTHONY CRASTON TURNS SPY
IN THE CASTLE of Celle the lights were extinguished one by one. It still kept early hours and by midnight only the great lamp burned below the roof of the archway at the main entrance. The mass of the building towered dark against a sky of stars; even its cupolas were hidden. The man watching among the beech trees on the slope above the French garden had more than half a mind to abandon his vigil. It was the month of March and the cold as sharp as a knife. This was no business for a young gentleman engaged in the service of King William, who must be in his office in the morning, ciphering and deciphering despatches for the action of his betters.
“I am doing something desperately mean out of sheer jealousy. I shall catch the worst possible cold in the head. I am a fool into the bargain. For I am arguing that what I the humble scrivener would do, the lordly Count Philip will likewise do. I certainly, returning from a long and dangerous campaign, would rush to spend the night sighing beneath my mistress’s window. But Philip would argue that though the lady might feel flattered, she would esteem him the less. And probably Philip would be right.”
Yet Anthony Craston stayed on. For though he thus took himself to task he was not one little bit honest. He did not for one moment believe that if Philip came to Celle Castle tonight, it would be merely to sigh under his mistress’s window like some troubadour enamoured of a star. Indeed he did not seriously believe that Philip would come at all. He had only yesterday reached Hanover. There would be reports to make, ceremonious duties to fulfil. It would need an ardent lover to clear his desk in so short a time and then set out on the tedious road to Celle, and Anthony reckoned that there was more of calculation than ardour, more of vanity than passion in Philip Königsmark’s love- making. No, Philip was sleeping soundly in his bed at Hanover, as Anthony would be doing in Celle, if he was not an idiot.
Yet he stayed on, as he had once stayed before outside the gates of Monplaisir. His body was chilled to the marrow of his bones and his head was getting hot and heavy, and there was a separate ache in every limb. He was of those jealous unfortunates who must go out of their way to seek still more food for their jealousy, and invent it if they can’t find it, and revel luxuriously in their torments. So he lingered, blaming everyone but himself and Sophia Dorothea above all for his obstinacy; and just after the church clock had struck the hour of one, he heard behind him and below him the rattle of a chain. Anthony Craston jumped. A bitter sort of satisfaction brought a smile to his frozen lips. He had been right to wait. The thing which he never really believed would happen, was actually happening. Someone had unfastened the mooring chain of a boat on the farther side of the Aller.
He heard no one stumble into the boat, but a moment or two later he did hear the wash of sculls and the patter of drops as the blades were lifted out of the water. He counted the strokes — they were just short of a dozen — and then a tiny clatter of wood upon wood came to his ears, as the rower raised the sculls from the rowlocks and laid them along the boat. Once more silence followed and it lasted so long that Anthony had time to wonder whether he had really heard any sound at all. But it was broken and almost at his side by someone whistling — whistling cautiously and clearly. Anthony pressed himself against the bole of the tree by which he stood. But there was no need for his precaution. For the man who whistled was quite invisible to his eyes, strain them as he might. Anthony recognised the tune which was being whistled — half a dozen bars of the fashionable song of the year— “Les Folies d’Espagne.” The newcomer whistled them twice and the second time on a louder and more urgent note. Anthony Craston felt an impulse to snigger. No one was listening for the troubadour, and he had come such a very long way to troll out his little salutation in the darkness of a March morning.
But Anthony was premature. The tune had hardly died upon the night for the second time when in an upper window the curtains were thrust aside. He saw behind the glass a woman holding a lamp above her head. She moved the lamp three times up and down. Then she drew back again and the curtains closed, like the leaves of a leather case slowing upon a miniature. The whistling ceased. Anthony heard a swift brushing of feet through the grass. He followed, and he followed a man who had no thought for a pursuer. As he turned the corner where the back of the Castle looks towards the great beech-tree park, he heard the hinges of a window creak and whine. He was in time to see that the window was on the lowest floor. It stood open now for a lamp shone out and the light fell upon the lattices. It fell, too, upon the face of the man who clambered in.
Almost at once the window was closed again. For a moment the light hovered, then it disappeared.
Anthony Craston stood like a man turned to stone. He had seen what he came out to see, yet what in his heart he had longed not to see. The woman who waved the lamp thrice was Sophia Dorothea, the man for whom the window was opened was Philip von Königsmark.
At what hour Anthony Craston reached home he could never say. He had a memory that he tramped about the park in such a desolation of spirit and so bottomless a misery as no man to his thinking could every have known before. Personal beauty and glitter and splash had won the day. What woman could resist them ever? And what sort of rivalry could he set up — he without wings and of the dull colour of earth?
He reached his lodgings whilst it was yet dark and stripping off his clothes flung himself shivering into his bed and slept at once until the sun was high.
XXVI. STEALING ACROSS THE TRAPS
WHEN PHILIP HAD climbed in he latched the window and turned to his Leonisse with his heart in his eyes. But she was parsimonious of her happiness, she had so little store of it, and she would not rob this first tryst after so long a separation of its bloom by snatching at it hastily.
“Wait!” she whispered with her face lowered from his. Philip would have felt that she regretted his coming but for the curve of her smile upon her cheeks and the thrill in her voice. She blew out the lamp and reaching out her hand in the darkness found his. Having found it, she held it as though never again for even one minute during the rest of her life could she let it go.
“Follow me!” she whispered again. “There are stairs.”
“I know them,” Philip answered with a gurgle of laughter no louder than her whisper. “That window was the pages’ private entrance when they came back after hours.”
They climbed a narrow staircase to the third storey of the Palace, turned along a broad corridor where they could walk side by side and stopped.
“Here.”
Sophia Dorothea opened a door within which a soft light glowed. She drew him into her bedroom and noiselessly latched the door behind them.
“Stand here,” she said.
She placed him where the lamplight must fall full upon his face. She unclasped his cloak with its high collar and let it slip from his shoulders to the floor.
“Philip!” she spoke his name slowly and with delight. She looked round the room as though every curtain, e
very piece of furniture had been miraculously so embellished that she no longer recognised it.
“It was a room. It is a temple.” She said with a laugh of divine contentment. She clasped her hands together behind his neck and leaned her cheek against his heart, and felt the pulse of its blood pass into her and repeat itself in her. But she could not stay thus for long. She must hold him off and search his face anxiously and the corners of his eyes for the deep lines and the tiny wrinkles which the year’s hardships and disasters had surely graven there. But Time keeps his tombstone tools for older years than twenty-five.
“And the beard!” she cried, laughing low and happily, as she smoothed his cheek with the palm of her hand. “The hermit’s beard which should brush your feet! And your nails? Let me see them, sir, this instant! And he held out obediently a hand, brown but as slim as a girl’s and as carefully tended as a girl’s “Oh!” she reproached him with just a touch of seriousness in her tone. “What! They were long enough to dig up your grandfather? Oh shame! And there were twelve grey hairs your servant found combing your hair!” She ran her fingers through his thick brown curls. “Where are they?”
“He pulled them out. I sat and suffered for your sake whilst one by one he snapped them off.”
Sophia shook her head.
“They were never there. Oh, unkind so to practise on a poor woman’s heart! Twelve grey hairs that were brown cost me twelve sleepless nights and twelve pillows drenched with tears.”
The laughter vanished from her voice and her face.
“But I forgive you all for bidding me to expect you privately tonight. Lover of mine, I could never have dared to meet you this first time after your return with other eyes upon us. I could not have spoken to you but my voice would have trembled. I could not have looked at you but my eyes would have flown my happiness like a banner.”
Complete Works of a E W Mason Page 717