“At any rate your Highness has spent a pleasant hour,” I said, grudgingly. For hitherto I had had a kind of monopoly of her, and I could not bear that the enemy should share her goodwill. And then, while all this had been going on, here had I been hidden out of the way in my room! “And made a charming acquaintance,” I added.
She did not see, or would not see, my ill-temper. “He has a heart,” she replied. “One would not think so from all one has heard, Mr. Cartwright. But it is so.”
“He appears to have proved it to you,” I said.
She looked at me, a gleam of amusement in her eyes. “To be sure,” she said, “he is not a stock or a stone. He was telling me about—” And she paused, willing I think to draw me on.
“About what — if I may presume to inquire?” I asked, rising sulkily to the fly.
“About his wife, monsieur,” with a moue, half triumphant, half tender. “Of his Aimee, who is certainly his Bien Aimee! To whom he writes every day, bien entendu, this man of iron. Oh, he was delightful, I assure you, while he talked of her. He might have been a little boutiquier, six months married, and separated from his Marthe or his Mathilde! Or a preux chevalier, like Mr. Cartwright, six days engaged to his — to his Norma, shall I say,” her laughing eyes passing by me, and pouncing by chance on the portrait behind me—” and sighing for the honeymoon! Oh, I assure you he was charming in that mood, M. le Prince!”
“Her Highness amuses herself,” I said. I could not help it.
She made an odd little face at me. “And Mr. Cartwright — what is he doing? Is it possible that he is fain to amuse himself also? Fie, my friend! Who was homeless and we took him in? Friendless and we comforted him?” Her tone grew more grave. “ Hungry and thirsty and we—”
But I could not bear that she should go on, and “Forgive me, forgive me, Highness!” I cried. After all, it was but a passing folly — what right had I to be jealous? “I am an ungrateful beast! Believe me, I shall never forget the kindness I have received from you — and from the Grand Duke.”
“That is better,” she said. “ For it is due to him. He is the best of men. And indeed we have no time to quarrel, Mr. Cartwright — no time and no reason, my friend, for we must part — here and now. The Prince sups with us and I must be dressing. And you must be going — while you may. The Fraulein has not returned — I know not why, for she should have been here hours ago. But you cannot wait, and I have ordered that a carriage shall be ready for you at five to-morrow morning.”
“Then the Marshal—”
She nodded. “Yes, he has heard some word of you, I fear. I fear so. He informed the Grand Duke that there was a matter on which he desired to see him tomorrow — a trifle, but unpleasant. And I have no doubt that Huth has seen him. But, n’importe! If you start as I have said, at five to-morrow, you will be half way to Berlin before the storm breaks.”
“I am sorry that the Grand Duke should be incommoded,” I said lamely.
She shrugged her shoulders. “ After all — he is the Grand Duke,” with a touch of pride. “And with you safe and out of reach we can afford to smile even though Monseigneur le Prince frowns. His Highness will tell him who you are and that you will be found, if he desires to question you, in Berlin. He can then take what steps he pleases. You will have been identified by that time and no great harm can happen to you. And now, Mr. Cartwright,” and as she gave me her hand, she looked at me very kindly, “we must say farewell.”
“Say rather, au revoir,” I answered, hardly able to control my voice, “In better times, Madam.”
“Alas,” sorrowfully, “the better times may be long in coming! And you — are going home! Home, my friend!” And there was I know not what of pathos in her voice. “You will see the sea and the white cliffs of England, you will walk in Bond street, you will hear the dear English tongue, hear the very beggars speak it! And one day perhaps you will hear the grouse call, and watch the autumn sun reddening the bracken on the hills that fall down to Loch Duich! But there, farewell, farewell, Mr. Cartwright. Think of me sometimes, my friend.”
She turned abruptly away, but I knew that there were tears in her eyes. And I — I could not have spoken had I wished!
I sat for an hour, feeling very lonely and making perhaps a little more of my melancholy than was necessary.
I understood that I was not to show myself, and as the evening closed in, and the comers of the room grew shadowy, until even the face on the easel gleamed but palely through the dusk, I felt myself deserted. The servants were busy with the entertainment and did not come near me.
Now and again a thin stream of music penetrated to my ears and I guessed that the Grand Ducal band was playing at the supper. Once, some door being open, I caught the lilt of a gavotte, one of Handel’s I fancied, and I thought that all the world was gay but I.
A little later a servant brought in lights and my supper, and later still the Grand Duke’s secretary appeared, and with something more of secrecy than I thought was called for, placed in my hands half a dozen rouleaux of thalers; a sum amply, nay generously sufficient for the expenses of my journey, which nevertheless it was not quite pleasant to receive.
However, I was penniless, and there was no help for it, and as I drew out a receipt — the secretary I could see thought his master unduly lavish — I tried to make my acknowledgments commensurate with the man’s expectations.
The receipt given, he laid on the table a handsome fur cloak — almost as handsome a cloak as that which I had provided for the Envoy Extraordinary when in the first blush of hope and exhilaration I had left England for Vienna. “His Highness trusts that you will accept this in memory of your visit,” he said.
It was a kind and thoughtful gift and I knew whom I had to thank for it. I accepted it, and requested him to convey my most grateful thanks to His Highness. “Is the Prince of Eckmuhl still here?” I asked as the man prepared to leave me.
“Yes. Her Highness,” an unexpected gleam of humour in his eyes, “is graciously singing to him — English ballads.”
“Witching the beast with hostile minstrelsy” rose to my lips, but I crushed down the indiscretion, and only said, “So! Indeed!”
Again the man yielded to his feelings. “Even a black cow gives white milk,” he said “if properly milked.”
“To be sure,” I assented as gravely. “It is true.”
“Then mein Herr will be called at four?” he rejoined, as he turned to the door. “The carriage will be at the entrance gates at five, if he will be good enough to be ready.”
I replied that I would be ready, and with a final bow he left me, the receipt in his hand. A stiff fellow, but with an unusual streak of humour in him — for a German.
They kept early hours at the Schloss, and I went betimes to bed, still feeding my melancholy. For an hour or more I sighed most romantically; and then having real troubles to face, and turning my mind to them — and trouble is a rare fosterer of slumber — I fell asleep. Two or three times during the night I awoke and nervously consulted my watch by the light of the veilleuse, but always to find that the hour for rising was not come.
Then, as often happens, a little before the time I went off into a sound nap, and when I awoke the sun was not only up, but was flooding my chamber with its beams. I leapt out of bed in a panic; it must be long past four! Had they forgotten to call me? Or what had happened? There was a handbell on the table, and hastily drawing on some clothes I opened the door and rang the hand-bell in the passage. I glanced at my watch. It wanted little of seven. Seven! Good heavens!
I was vexed beyond measure, and fearing that I was in fault, I was the less able to curb my impatience. I opened the door again and looked out. No one! The corridor was empty. I fetched the bell and was about to ring it more loudly when I heard slipshod feet coming my way, and a moment later the old lady who had nursed me appeared, emerging from a side-passage. I did not wait for her to reach me “Why was I not called,” I cried in wrath, “at four as was arranged? It is sev
en o’clock. Seven!”
“Hist!” she muttered, and glanced over her shoulders. Then, “It is not so simple as that, young gentleman. The gates are watched; it’s lucky for you we learned it in time. There is no going out or in — for you. The great man who was here yesterday has seen to that, though he looked as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, plague take him! You don’t want to walk into the mouse-trap, do you?”
“But what is to be done then? “I asked, aghast. This was serious news.
“That is to be seen,” she rejoined with German phlegm. “Truth is I don’t know. But for the present you’d best go back to your room and stay there. Stay there and keep close, young gentleman. There’s others thinking for you, and more than you deserve if you ask me,” with a sharp look.
“But if I cannot get out?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “After all the coil’s of your own making,” she said. “No use to blame us!”
CHAPTER VIII
A GAME OF CHESS
THAT was cold comfort, and so I found it when old Martha had gone and in obedience to her warning I had sneaked back to my room and closed the door. The money that the Grand Duke had sent me lay on the table, the fur cloak hung across a chair, and as I dressed I eyed them wistfully. For, by this time, had things gone as we had planned, I should have been far on the road to Berlin.
Instead, I was cooped up here, forbidden to show myself, a fugitive without the excitement of flight. And all too clearly I recognized that the sentimental dejection of the evening before had been so much time wasted, which it would have been wiser in me to devote to the consideration of my own plight, and the prospect before me.
What was the prospect before me? In effect, if it was indeed on my account that the gates were watched, if things had reached that point, my position might become serious indeed. But how serious I still shrank from deciding. The diplomat soon learns, it is the first lesson he does learn, that his person is sacred.
The consequence is that, lapped in personal security, and taught to consider that he is not as other men, he finds it hard to believe that either his life or his liberty is threatened. Even when they are menaced, he is reluctant to admit it, since by the admission he strips himself of his privilege. Instinctively, then, he turns his eyes from the danger point, and persuades himself that the thing cannot be.
That had been my own habit of mind, even when I had warned Perceval Ellis that the journey he proposed to take was not without its perils. For I had not really put much faith in those perils; and now when they seemed to be taking a solid and a very ugly shape, the old habit persisted, and I would fain shy from the grisly apparition. It was not the kind of thing that I had been accustomed to face, and I shrank from admitting that I was really cast for the part.
But I could not altogether shut my eyes to facts. The French in their German campaign had lived on the country, but they had not been guilty of gross excesses. Discipline had been maintained. But against the rights of States, and the privileges of ambassadors, they had again and again transgressed.
In the case of Rumbold, of Wagstaffe the messenger, of Taylor at Cassel, of Wynn at Dresden, they had gone out of their way to trample upon international usage; and they had done this with a vengeance wherever an Englishman was in question.
That being so, I could not deny that the position in which I had placed myself laid me open. I might be an envoy, or attached to one. But I had nothing about me to prove it, no attendants, no credentials, no papers. And Davout might deny the fact, and maintain that in travelling where I was, in disguise, off the main road, and in the neighbourhood of his fortresses, I had forfeited my claim to protection.
It is an old sour saying, proverbial among soldiers, that every ambassador is a spy; and if the Marshal could lay hands on me, the case might be made to look very unpleasant.
Then I had to consider that, if the worst happened, England was far, and if the news ever crossed the sea what could England do beyond what she was doing? There would be a protest, protocols, rejoinders — I knew the file by heart; but nothing would be done, the conversations would die away, and in twelve months the incident and my fate would be alike forgotten.
So I passed, I confess, some very uneasy moments that morning, now pacing the room, now listening at the door; and even with pride to help me I had much ado to keep panic at bay. And I had nothing to distract me, no employment, no means of learning what was passing, or what impended. About nine a servant brought me tea and a roll, but, glum and stolid, the man had nothing to say. I fancied that he looked at me curiously, and that was all.
It was ten before anything happened. Then at last I caught the sound of footsteps in the corridor, and someone knocked sharply at my door. I opened it, thankful that here at length was something, no matter what, to break the monotony of suspense. With astonishment I found the Grand Duchess herself, standing outside.
She had the old Grafin von Hess in attendance, and a single glance showed me that the sentiment of the previous evening had vanished. Her eyes met mine with a look as keen and direct as eyes of so liquid a blue could cast.
Moreover, she opened with no word of greeting, but “Mr. Cartwright,” she said, her voice as sharp as her looks, “What is this story about Wittenberg? Tell me at once, if you please! And briefly, for I must not be missed, and my time is short.”
“About Wittenberg?” I exclaimed, more surprised than I can say. Indeed for a moment I was puzzled.
“Yes, yes, of Wittenberg — and you? They have some story — it has come to the Prince of Eckmuhl’s ears — that you were at a restaurant there drinking toasts — toasts that you should not have drunk — with a party of students. Drinking to Major Schill — that unfortunate! They have chapter and verse for it, and I cannot tell you how important it is that you should be able to deny the tale.”
If she had struck me in the face, I should hardly have been more taken aback. I could not speak, I could not utter a word. The affair at the Rathskeller had passed so entirely from my mind that for weeks I had not given a thought to it. A mere trifle at the time, it had come by now to belong to another, a far-off life. Judge then what I felt, judge of my dismay, when at this most unfortunate moment it rose to confront me.
I suppose that my face told the tale, for, “You don’t mean to say that it is true?” she exclaimed, clapping her hands softly together. “No, no!”
“I’m — I’m afraid it is,” I faltered. “ In part.”
“Schill and all? Oh, Mr. Cartwright,” in a voice of keen reproach. “how could you be so imprudent? How could you be so thoughtless? In your position? And what a dilemma you have placed yourself in! And us, who are helping you. I did not believe a word of it — not a syllable, when they told me!”
And still I had not a word to say. I could only look at her in shame and embarrassment. For I saw that if I told the truth, if I avowed the real motive which had led me to join those accursed students, I should condemn myself out of my own mouth. The desire to obtain information — what defence was that in the mouth of an alleged spy? I should be delivering myself into Davout’s hands. I should be making his case for him — and all the case he could desire!
“Speak!” she repeated urgently. “Don’t you see that?”
I found my voice at last. “You must give me up,” I said. It was all I could say.
“If it were as easy as that!” she rejoined. And again she clapped her hands softly. “You know it is not. You know that we cannot do that! Oh dear, oh dear, Mr. Cartwright,” in a voice of poignant distress, “how are we to save you? The Marshal is coming at twelve with a demand for you, and every gate is watched by his people. If in the meantime you put a foot outside you will be arrested, and I fear, I fear,” with increasing distress, “that he is inexorable. He says that it was England that paid and inspired Schill, and that belief makes him as hard as granite. Oh, dear, dear, I do not know what we can do.”
“Do nothing, Madam,” I said earnestly, and I thank heaven that I
was able to speak so that she saw that I meant it. “ The folly was mine and I must pay for it. I will go to him and give myself up. It is the least that I can do, and after all there was nothing, nothing that passed at Wittenberg that meant anything. When I explain—”
‘No!” she said firmly. “ That will not do. Whatever passed they will find sufficient for their purpose. You must not do that, Mr. Cartwright. You must get to Berlin! We must pass you out somehow. Somehow!”
“But, Highness,” I said stoutly. “This is my affair Let me—”
But “ No! No!” she cried imperiously. “And don’t distract me! I must think! I must plan something! Oh, I can manage it, I must manage it. We cannot abandon you. Only, we do not trust all about us, and I must not be seen coming to you again. The Countess will not let me, indeed.”
And in truth the old Grafin’s snowy headdress, which in the half light of the corridor looked like nothing so much as a huge cauliflower, was shaking with reprehension. “So if you get a hint, act on it at once. Do not wait. You understand? “ urgently. “Act on the instant, if you hear from me. We have but until noon, and it is after ten now.”
She nodded, waved her hand, and with the old lady hobbling after her, tripped away. I saw them turn the corner of the passage — they disappeared. She had not given me time to thank her.
I went into my room and I confess I was shaken. I saw my danger, saw that it was real and imminent, and for a moment I felt hot all over. But I was quite as much oppressed by doubt as by fear. What ought I to do? What was it my duty to do? Ought I to free the Grand Duke from his embarrassment and this brave woman from her responsibility by going out and giving myself up? One moment I was certain on the point, and I snatched up the cloak and looked for my hat.
The next, with my hand on the hasp of the window, I hesitated. In Berlin, with the backing I might get — in Berlin, the whole matter could be explained. And that being so, would it not be foolish of me to fling all away on the impulse of a moment? To give up all my chances and perhaps sacrifice my life — merely to save the Grand Duke from a temporary embarrassment? And the Duchess? She would not thank me, I was sure. I should only be giving her unnecessary pain.
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 686