At any rate, that is what I did, and I had been more or less than man if I had not. But at length with a laugh at my folly I shook myself out of my tender musings, I paid to her beauty and her goodness the tribute of a sigh, and turned to the review of my own affairs.
It would not be pleasant to tell my story to Hardenberg. The figure I should cut in the German Minister’s eyes would be little to my credit. And, the story told and that ordeal over, I was but at the beginning of my troubles. I had still the Office at home to face and the Chief; and I could imagine no colour that I could put upon my actions that would commend them either to the one or the other.
And Perceval Ellis — who had doubtless returned seething with indignation, and denouncing my desertion? And my colleagues who would one and all condemn me? It was plain, too plain, that whatever face I might succeed in putting upon the situation, I could not hope to escape reprimand, and certainly I could not hope for further employment. It would be much if, by the use of my small influence and the intercession of friends, I could escape the brand of dismissal.
And all because in a moment of irritation I had lost my temper and taken one false step! All, I now saw, because of that d — d Klatz, and my feeling about him! What a stupid fool I had been to suspect the man, and to persist in my suspicions!
Ten to one — witness the attack on Ellis at Wittenberg, whither I and not Klatz had insisted on going — he had been as innocent as I, and as ignorant. Now that I reviewed the matter coldly I saw this; and I saw, too, that the fact, which I should not be able to deny, riddled my only defence through and through.
The gaiety and glitter of the gardens, laid out after the fashion of Versailles — but how unlike the Versailles I had last seen in’02, triste and deserted! — were so little in unison with my thoughts that I presently retired to my room. Here I stood awhile, gazing at the portrait of the girl on the easel, but in truth sunk in a reverie so deep that I saw nothing of that which was before my eyes. Later, and as I awoke to the face before me, I was seized with wonder at the series of chances that had first presented the girl to me in her own person, and then in this limned semblance.
I fancied or I saw in the grave eyes and the drooping lips something of the loneliness and appeal which the girl’s attitude had betrayed on that ill-starred evening at Wittenberg. The eyes that met mine, that followed me to whatever part of the room I went, that seemed to be trying to convey to me a message or a warning, wrought on me, impressed me with a sense of tragedy, inspired me with a vague apprehension.
Fancy, of course, pure fancy, I told myself! And on the morrow I should be convinced of it. I should see the girl as she was, and the chances were that the light of everyday life would dissipate at a stroke this bizarre impression and with it the spell which the brooding eyes and oval face, so often viewed, had laid upon me. After all, it was not hard to account for the impression, for I had begun by seeing the girl ill at ease and in strange surroundings, and doubtless I had let the circumstances colour my vision.
To-morrow I should see her alight full of life and spirits, thankful that the weary journey was over, and delighted to return to a milieu that welcomed her. In place of the Ophelia that I had created, I should see a commonplace English Fraulein, with no weeds in her hair and no cloud in her life, descend from a dusty German postchaise as little romantic as herself.
Which, nevertheless, was a sight I was not to see. There was indeed to be an arrival on the Wednesday, but the newcomer did not turn out to be Fraulein Mackay. That was my last day at the Schloss, and Babetta had commanded me to a final game at battledore after dinner. We had retired for the purpose to her favourite playground, a circle of fine turf, surrounded by a lime hedge, wherein four ancient moss-grown seats of carved stone stood recessed.
We had been playing for some time, the shuttlecock had been in the air for an unconscionable period, and I remember that Babetta, her childish treble quivering with excitement, was counting the strokes, when — I think it must have been about three o’clock, for I was facing south-west and the sun was in my eyes — I heard an impatient voice summoning me by name. I turned to see who wanted me, made my stroke too late, and the shuttlecock fell to the ground.
“Oh, clumsy!” cried Babetta. “There hundred and forty! And we might have gone on to—”
“Freiherr! Freiherr!” Breathless with running a page appeared at the entrance to the circle. “You are to go to your room, if you please! Auf einmal!”
“Wunderbar l” I exclaimed. “Why, lad? What has happened?”
“Her Highness sent me!” the boy panted. “It is an order. I was to take you back.”
But Babetta broke in, stamping with anger. “ Pig! Dummer Junge!” she shrieked. “How dare you intrude? How dare you break in in this fashion when!”
“Stop! Stop!” I said. “Let me understand! If it is Her Highness’s order—”
“It is, Freiherr, it is!” the boy said eagerly. “I was to take you back at once by the way I came.”
I threw down my battledore. “Excuses, Princess!”
I said. “I must obey.” Then to the lad, “ Go on, I am with you.” It was strange, and rather disturbing, but there must be a reason for it.
I left Babetta, still screaming out childish abuse, and I followed the boy. Skirting one hedge and another, turning this way and that, but always under covert — no doubt the young rascal had played truant in his time — we traversed the gardens as far as the foot of the steps leading up to the Terrace. There the boy signed to me to pause, and moving before me, he looked up and down. Apparently he found the coast clear, for he beckoned to me to advance, and together we hurried across the open space.
But safe in my room I collared him. “Now, mein Knabe, out with it!” I said. “What is it? What is the matter? If this is any trick of you young scamps—”
“Nein! Nein!” he cried. “Her Highness bade me and I obeyed. And I contrived it cleverly, eh?” with a grin. “ Oh, I knew the way. But I fancy, if you must know, Excellency—”
“Yes?”
“That someone has arrived unlooked for, and Her Highness,” slyly, “does not wish you to be seen.”
“Oh,” I said. “Is that all?” But lightly as I spoke I felt a check. Who could it be whose coming loomed so important that the Grand Duchess had put herself out for him?— “Then you can tell your mistress,” I added, “that I have obeyed, and convey to her my grateful acknowledgments. But don’t do so if she be in company.”
“Have I fleas in my ear?” the young rogue replied, and with an impudent wink he ran off. But I noticed that he retired not by the window and the Terrace, but by the corridor that led through the house.
I felt anxious and I waited until the sound of his footsteps had died away; then I opened the door and listened. Yes, there was an unusual stir in the Schloss, a flutter of skirts as women scuttled to their rooms, a hurrying of feet on the floor above, a slamming of doors, a murmur of voices breaking out and sinking again. Something fell with a crash, a man swore, a bell rang sharply.
“Go out by the other door, fool!” a voice, cried and a moment later as I still listened, my apprehensions by no means allayed, the trumpets blared out, sharp, brazen, imperious — calling, I judged, the guard together.
Certainly something of moment had happened.
I wondered what it could be; wondered uneasily. I had a notion, but I did not wish to accept the notion. I left the door, I crossed the room to the window, and peeped out, keeping myself concealed. Yes, here, too, all was now commotion. Footmen were carrying out chairs, among them a State chair for the Grand Duke, another for Her Highness, a third almost as important.
The major-domo was shifting the seats here and there, sending for footstools, standing back to judge of the effect, adding a table in front of the first chair. Next, it was the Chamberlain who appeared, white staff in hand, a valet running beside him, and setting right his stock. He, too, cast a look at the arrangement, nodded, departed. His place was taken by a serg
eant of the guard who posted four sentries at intervals along the edge of the Terrace. Then he, too, departed.
And now the officers of the household began to muster, red-necked, flustered old gentlemen, with powdered heads and queues, in uniforms hastily put on, and not of the newest. They grouped themselves behind the chairs, and then there followed a pause, presently broken by a murmur of voices as the Grand Duke came into view, walking beside the Grand Duchess and attended by the White Staff and two or three ladies.
As they passed my window I fancied that Her Highness cast a hasty glance at it, but I was hidden by the curtains. They took their seats, and simultaneously the Court Physician, last to arrive, came bustling up, puffing and blowing, from the Gardens, his face under his huge white wig almost as scarlet as his coat.
Then, another pause. I had time to note that the Grand Duke wore the Black Eagle on his grey silk coat and that the Grand Duchess’s bodice flashed with diamonds set about a portrait. The Grand Duke said something, Her Highness slowly waved her fan. Suddenly the trumpets blared out again. I caught a sound of footsteps advancing along the Terrace, the clink of a sword, the ring of spurs. The Grand Duke rose to his feet, stately and benevolent, an old-fashioned figure, not unimposing. I looked out eagerly.
The Chamberlain came into sight first; behind him, a small stoutish man in uniform — a blue coat, girt about the waist with a broad gold sash with pendant ends, white breeches, high boots. The stiff upstanding collar of his coat was embroidered with gold, and he wore gold spurs. A trim, brisk man in the prime of life, he advanced with a firm step, his head high. Behind him walked two officers their breasts glittering, their hands on their hilts. The Chamberlain stood aside, bowed low.
“Monseigneur le Marechal le Prince d’Eckmuhl,” he announced in his voice of ceremony. “To wait upon their Highnesses.”
“I am happy in the opportunity,” said the small stoutish man in a courteous tone.
Davout!
Ay, Davout! Of all men the last whom I desired to see. It was Davout — he who had governed Belgium, had governed Poland, who now governed Germany as Napoleon’s pro-consul! Whose harsh regime, mitigated only by the iron discipline that he maintained, whose devotion to his master, whose hatred of England, were commonplaces in the mouths of those whose business it was to weigh men! I felt a chill run down my spine, and interposing a curtain I fell back from the window.
This was certainly the last man by whom I could wish to be discovered! I was English, in a country where no Englishman might be, and I was without papers or passport, lurking in what might pass for a disguise! More I was within twenty miles of the jealously guarded fortresses of Magdeburg and Torgau.
To be discovered in such circumstances and by such a man might expose me to serious risk, and I no longer wondered that Her Highness had with such haste consigned me to my room, or that in the panic caused by the Marshal’s sudden arrival she had found no time to explain matters.
Having withdrawn from the window, I failed to be a witness of what passed during the first minute or two. Then curiosity got the better of alarm, and reflecting that the man could have no reason to suspect my presence, I returned to my place. Screened by the curtain I looked out.
He was seated now, and, leaning a little back in his chair, was engaged in conversation with the Duchess, whose fan, moving to and fro, betrayed I thought a soupcon of nervousness. He held his plumed hat in his lap — a bald little man, with nothing but a good breadth of forehead and something of hardness in his eyes to distinguish him from other men.
I recalled the portrait drawn of him by one who had seen him at Anspach in 1805 — a little, smooth-pated unpretentious man, who was never tired of dancing — and inadequate as it had seemed at the time, I now found it strangely near the mark.
But he did not impress me the less on that account. On the contrary, he was, it was quite true, a little, smooth-pated man with easy, polished manners, and I could picture him waltzing with all a small man’s verve and abandon — a figure that in a salon would not attract a second glance. But then, I reflected, how much must lie behind that deceptive appearance! What formidable things!
What an iron will, what a ruthless determination, what an intense devotion to his master, what a fanatical hatred of that master’s enemies! This little man had been the ruler of many lands, and now in Prussia was the power behind the throne, implacable, irresistible! In his easy manners I found nothing strange, for almost alone among Napoleon’s marshals he was of the old noblesse. But at nineteen he had cut himself off from his caste, had flung himself into the Revolution, and at twenty-one he had broken the fiery, unruly elements of the Revolution to the discipline he loved.
He had fought his way upwards, seeing service in every land, had commanded under the First Consul the cavalry of the Army of Italy; at the Emperor’s accession had received his baton, by virtue, it was said at the time, of his connection with the Buonaparte family, rather than on his merits. But on the fourteenth of October, 1805, Prussia’s fatal day, he had silenced his critics and had earned, as no other marshal ever earned, the jealousy of the master he served.
For on the very day on which Napoleon at Jena had crushed a wing of the Prussian forces, Davout, deserted by Bemadotte, who should have covered him, had defeated the main body at Auerstadt, a clear interval of thirteen miles separating the two battles.
An interval surely sufficient! But it had not suited Napoleon to acknowledge it. With a decision as audacious as politic, he had treated the two conflicts as one and had taken to himself his Marshal’s laurels. And Davout had accepted the decision. He had hidden his thoughts and been silent.
He had continued to serve with the same stem fidelity, and at Wagram, when all hung in the balance, and Napoleon’s star seemed trembling to its wane, he had, by the most delicate operation of the day, turned the Austrian flank, dislodged him by desperate fighting from his position on the heights, and decided the campaign.
He had done this almost under my own eyes — the little smooth-pated man, who now sat, leaning slightly forward, holding his hat on his knees as he chatted. There was no one, it was said, whom Napoleon trusted so entirely. He was Head of the Military Police of the Empire, and among the duties specially assigned to him was the secret service.
In Belgium he had made it his boast that he had hung every spy to the last man. And he was noted for his hatred of England, which he regarded as the irreconcilable foe, the stirrer-up of strife, the fomenter of war, the nation of shop-keepers, that paid others to fight its battles!
Altogether, a very remarkable and a very formidable little man. Fond of dancing? Yes, but how many men had he sent to dance on nothing!
CHAPTER VII
SUSPENSE
No doubt under other circumstances the man would not have impressed me so strongly. I should have viewed him with curiosity, perhaps even with admiration. But as things were, the sight of him, the very unimpressiveness of him, when one did not meet the hard directness of his gaze, chilled me. If he discovered my presence the consequences might be serious, for even to be interned in Magdeburg till the end of the war would not be pleasant, and that might not be the worst.
In 1801 I had seen Buonaparte and talked with him face to face. I had met Massena, and spoken to Lannes — in the same year. And in 1805 I had become acquainted with Berthier at the Corbetz reviews. But Davout I had never met, and such proof of my identity as he might be willing to accept would not be easy to obtain.
I had reached this stage when I saw that the party was breaking up. The Marshal was taking leave of the Grand Duke. I could hear more than one exchange of “Monseigneur” for “Votre Altesse.” But no, it was the Grand Duke who was withdrawing; the Marshal remained and under Her Highness’s guidance was descending to the gardens. Women are more adaptable than men, and I suspected that she was more at her ease with the formidable visitor than her husband, who, good easy man, benevolent but not clever, might well feel himself overweighted.
The two w
ere not long away. A few minutes only elapsed before they re-appeared on the Terrace, and now I thought that Davout would certainly go. But no, again I was disappointed; the two began to pace up and down, apparently on the best of terms.
As they passed the window I caught fragments of conversation, and I guessed that the Grand Duchess had been felicitating the Marshal on his new title, for “I am infinitely obliged to Your Highness” reached me, “and to be frank I am grateful to the Emperor, for his kindness relieves me from an embarrassment. My old title of Aiierstadt has an unpleasant sound in Prussian ears, and I would not willingly—”
I lost the rest, but a moment later they passed again, and this time I noticed that the lady looked a trifle put out — her colour was higher, her fan moved more quickly. Whether she had ventured to reproach him for his severity, I could not say, but I judged that something of the kind had passed between them, for his manner was that of one politely defending himself. “C’est pourtant, j’avone, un rude metier que je fais,” I heard him say.
After that they were absent a little longer, and when they again came into sight I observed that the Grand Duchess’s face wore a more gentle look. She was listening attentively, her countenance turned towards the Marshal, her fan hanging idly from her wrist. Unluckily he was not speaking as they went by, and I gained no clue to the subject which had brought that softer look to her eyes.
A moment later the two officers, who had spent their time in conversation with the household, disengaged themselves with many bows, and I guessed that Davout was taking leave — but away to the right, beyond my sight, where the end of the Terrace abutted on the entrance gates, and the town.
Two minutes later Her Highness appeared at my window, but I own that it irritated me to see that her face still wore that softened look. “No, you must not come out, Mr. Cartwright,” she said, glancing quickly to right and left. “Please do not show yourself. I will tell you why presently.”
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 685