A PRINCE OF LOVERS

“It is indeed farewell, dear Princess? I am to go?”

Frontispiece.

A Prince of Lovers

A Romance

By
SIR WILLIAM MAGNAY Bart
Author of “The Red Chancellor,” “The Man-Trap,”
“The Heiress of the Season,” Etc., Etc.

ILLUSTRATIONS BY CYRUS CUNEO

Boston
Little, Brown and Company
1905

Copyright, 1905,
By Little, Brown, and Company.

All rights reserved
Published March, 1905
Plates by The Husted Linotype Co., Cleveland, U. S. A.
Presswork by The University Press, Cambridge, U. S. A.

CONTENTS

A Prince of Lovers

CHAPTER I
THE DUKE AND HIS MASTER

FOR the greater part of two centuries after the close of the Thirty Years War there existed in Germany some two hundred independent states. It is with two of these, lying in the midst of what was once the Hercynian forest, which tract even then, although in slow process of clearing, retained much of its primitive, desolate wildness, that the events of the following story are concerned.

And it may be well to premise, seeing that nowadays in story-telling the realms of imagination have often a two-fold meaning, literal as well as metaphorical, that, though the embroidery of this tale may be fanciful, the ground upon which it is worked is of the substance called fact. For the once secret chronicles of these two hundred kingdoms, principalities, palatinates, bishoprics, duchies, landgravates and what not form very pretty reading to the student of humanity; and the dull atmosphere of much pettiness and fatuous pomp is lighted up in welcome fashion by occasional stars of romance. And, after all, apart from the favourable soil they find in that traditional land of the romantic, these flowers which continually spring up amid the dull herbage are easily accounted for. For what is romance but the opposite of the humdrum? And is not human nature the same all the world over, flourishing even when found in the stifling confinement of a formal and etiquette-bound court? And does not young and healthy humanity rebel against the humdrum, and fight tooth and nail against its own repression?

Thus it came about that the somewhat dramatic romance of the following pages was played upon a fitting stage, with a change of scenes, the royal palace, and the castle in the wood, homes respectively of the heroine and the villain of the piece. The actors have been dead and forgotten for more than a century, although they live in their types to-day, the style of their playing alone being changed. The weak sovereign, the ambitious, astute, unscrupulous minister, the brave, chivalrous hero, the heroine for whom pride and love and policy are desperately fighting—at least we all know her—the cold, imperious beauty with the burning heart. And the unprincipled man-of-the-world, self-indulgent and scheming to his own gratification, at least he is not extinct, nor is the weakly ambitious plotter who would grasp the fruit but fears to climb the tree, and the evil councillor who for the benefit of his own desperate fortunes eggs him up.

With quieter methods they are in our midst to-day. They are walking through their parts with just as much determination of spirit as was theirs who fought and strutted and fretted and postured in the days before life was so carefully toned down—in the days of this story. And that the story is in the main true the annals above mentioned can vouch, even if the events may not in the reality have welded themselves together just as here set down with a mind for the reader’s patience as well as his hoped-for entertainment.

In his private cabinet Duke Theodor of Waldavia was going through his daily consultation with his Chancellor, Baron Rollmar; a prescribed custom as irksome to both as it was unnecessary to either.

“Your excellency has reckoned without your host,” said the Duke.

“I do not propose, Highness,” replied the Chancellor, grimly confident, “that my host shall have the making up of the reckoning at all.”

“He may not submit to dictation,” suggested his highness.

“Then he will be a greater fool than I take him for, seeing that this project is as much for his benefit as ours.”

“Some men,” the Duke hazarded out of his somewhat limited experience, “would not take kindly to a forced marriage.”

“Your Highness uses a harsh word,” Rollmar observed indifferently.

“Perhaps. I was thinking of my daughter.”

The Chancellor just checked a shrug. “Dukes’ daughters and beggars cannot be choosers. But we have yet to learn that Princess Ruperta has occasion to bewail her particular lot.”

“She is in an abominably false position. Prince Ludwig’s silence and indifference would be galling enough to any woman’s pride. And Ruperta has, perhaps, more than her share.”

The old minister gave a slight bow of assent. Crowned monarchs are not to be contradicted gratuitously, even when they indulge in self-disparagement.

“The position is becoming intolerable,” his highness continued.

“Any hour may end it,” said Rollmar, quietly. Then he added, “Surely you approve of the alliance, sire?”

“Naturally.” Duke Theodor emphasised the word with a nod which was intended to express the dignity which in his conferences with his Chancellor was always provokingly elusive. “Of course it would be of untold advantage to both crowns. It is a most natural desire. The uniting of the two kingdoms would more than double their power and influence.”

“It should increase them tenfold,” said Rollmar, as repeating a cut-and-dried argument for his policy. “And not only their power but their wealth; the development, more especially, of the natural wealth of the one by union with the labour of the other.”

“Yes, yes,” snapped the Duke, impatiently, almost petulantly. “That is our view. Our immediate concern, however, is that of Ruperta and Prince Ludwig.”

Rollmar smiled, and his smile seemed hardly to endorse the word concern.

“Except to themselves, is it very material?” he asked significantly.

The Duke tried to look resolute. “I have my daughter’s happiness to think of, Baron,” he protested.

“Doubtless. So have I,” he returned imperturbably. “And am taking the measures to secure it.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” the Duke admitted pettishly. “But this state of affairs will not do so. We shall be a laughing-stock.”

“Let him laugh who wins.”

“Ludwig’s conduct in ignoring the matter is an insult.”

“We will not think so, much less say so.”

“But others will.”

“Others are not going to marry him.”

“Are we?”

“Certainly; without fail; most assuredly.”

The Duke rose and paced the room.

“But how long is this state of things going to last, Baron? You must remember that Ruperta is not one to take kindly to the part of a puppet. She is a girl of spirit, and this wretched fellow Ludwig, by his cavalier treatment, is rousing it in a way that threatens difficulties to our project. Can nothing be done? Where is the fellow?”

“Nobody knows. If anybody did it would be I.”

“I feel inclined,” said Theodor, working himself into a weak man’s passion, “to throw over the whole affair. It would be the most dignified course.”

“And the most foolish.”

The Duke turned sharply at the blunt rejoinder. “Certainly not more foolish than we are showing ourselves at present.”

Rollmar gave a great audible sigh as he often did when his master was particularly tiresome.

“Pardon me, sire. A thousand times worse, although I do not seem able to convince you of the fact. I may be so unfortunate as to differ in ideas from your Highness, but my notion of foolishness would be to abandon a magnificent chance of imperial aggrandisement for the sake of taking umbrage at a boy’s want of manners. Ludwig is a fool; he may not know it, but we do, and when he sets his eyes for the first time on Princess Ruperta he will know it too. The mischief is that they have taken it into their heads to dislike each other before they have ever met. But I anticipate little difficulty on that account.”

“Perhaps not,” replied the Duke, who rejoiced in his rare opportunities of twitting his masterful minister with failure. “But you must first find your runaway bridegroom.”

“I intend to find him,” Rollmar returned quietly.

“When found you may perhaps discover a wife as well,” suggested Theodor, making the most of his temporary advantage.

The Chancellor smiled grimly, and there was an ugly gleam in his dark, fierce eyes. “It would be a pity—more particularly for her,” he rejoined. “But as his bride would certainly not be of his own rank the position would present little difficulty.”

The Duke understood his words the more clearly as read by the pitiless light in his eyes. The talk was taking a turn which he always made a point of avoiding. If he was virtually governed by his astute old servant and left him practically a free hand he would at least take no responsibility for or cognisance of his ruthlessly unscrupulous methods.

“At least we may take care that my daughter forms no undesirable attachment,” he said somewhat feebly to give a turn to the subject.

“You may leave me to deal with such a contingency,” Rollmar said, drawing back his lips in a significant smile.

“Ludwig’s unheard-of conduct is enough to make a girl of spirit rebel.”

“She may rebel,” Rollmar retorted, beginning to grow impatient. “We are prepared for rebellion. I think your Highness’ hint can be referred to no actual cause?”

“No,” said the Duke, weakly. “I know of no attachment. I only fear it.”

“You need not fear it, sire,” replied Rollmar, with infinite meaning in his smile. “The favoured lover’s life would be a very short one.”

CHAPTER II
AT THE FORTUNE-TELLER’S

THE moonlit gables of the city threw a zig-zag pattern on the cobble-paved streets, and brought alternately into view and obscurity the few passers-by, among whom were two women, who, hurrying along, seemed, by keeping as near as possible to the base of the triangular shadows, to shun observation. Recognition, indeed, would not have been easy, for the ample hoods of their grey cloaks were drawn well over their faces; only their figures and lightness of step told that they were young. As to their looks there was, for the reason already given, no room for more than speculation. Close as they kept together but few words passed between them, and those scarcely above a whisper. Of the people whom they met a good many turned to look after them in curiosity, but owing no doubt to their air of purposeful hurry, no man seemed to think it worth while to follow them. Up to a certain point, that is.

Arrived at the fork where one street ran into two the women paused as if uncertain which to take. It was necessary to look up and read the names, and as they did so a man crossing the street caught a momentary glimpse of one of the up-turned faces silhouetted against an oil lamp, which, from its place some yards away, was brought into level with the girl’s head. He stopped, almost with a start, then crossing quickly to the shadow of an entry, waited till the girls resumed their way, upon which he came out and followed them.

They went, however, but a couple of hundred yards farther. Before a house in a small secluded Platz they stopped and stood hesitating. On the door was a plate where by the light of a bluish lamp which hung in the portico could be read the one word, “Parabosco.” The courage of the two girls, if checked, soon returned; they went boldly to the door, which at their approach opened silently and admitted them. The man who had followed them now paced up and down the Platz in thoughtful indecision.

He was a good-looking young fellow, alert and soldier-like; yet in the strong moonlight the face seemed much more than that of a mere city lounger; its beauty was intellectual, its distinction manifestly came from a sense of power, power in action united with gentleness of manner. That was the man’s attraction, his easily imagined fascination, that sense of quiet, unobtrusive strength; the charm lay not in his mere features but in the spirit behind them.

Presently, as though his resolve was taken, he went up to the blue-lit door. An unseen hand opened it as before and, without a word, he passed in. Meanwhile the two girls had entered a room hung with dark velvet on which were worked strange cabalistic devices. The air was subtily perfumed and a light shining through a globe of blue crystal just illuminated the room enough to enhance its character of mystery. Perhaps the most striking feature of this was the dead silence, a stillness that seemed to strike the visitors dumb with its almost appalling intensity.

“I wish we had not come.” Fear forced out the whisper from one of the girls.

“We cannot help it now,” returned her companion, whose voice, scarcely above her breath, seemed only just to repress a tremor.

“I had no idea it was a place like this,” the other said, looking round with almost a shudder. “If they—he—the man should find out——”

“He will, easily, if you chatter.”

“Well,” persisted the irrepressible one, “this is not what I bargained for. I thought it would be a piece of fun, but I don’t—oh!”

Her talk was cut short by a woman in oriental dress who had suddenly appeared and, holding the curtains aside, was motioning the visitors to pass through. With a momentary hesitation they followed her gesture, and as they crossed a small ante-room a door in front of them swung open and they found themselves in the presence of the fortune-teller to whom their curiosity had attracted them. The sanctum of this modern soothsayer was furnished with the usual stock-in-trade of his profession, objects calculated to inspire awe—or something worse—in the vulgar, and to throw a glamour of the supernatural over what, stripped of the mystic surroundings, might have been a common-place personality. The flamboyant chart of the heavens, the divining crystal, a skull, the glowing brazier, all were there, and at a table by a great parchment volume sat the fortune-teller. A sharp-eyed man with clean-shaven, cunning face in which a certain suggestion of intellectuality was spoilt by the expression resulting from the habitual practice of roguery.

The light was so arranged that it fell on the visitors, leaving the fortune-teller in comparative obscurity, like a great spider in the corner of his web.

“Ladies,” he said in his professional phrase, with a well practised trick of voice, unnatural and therefore calculated to add to the air of the supernatural, “you have come, I presume, to consult the stars and the oracles of the unseen world whose humble interpreter I am. It is well; the time is propitious, the hour is golden.”

Doubtless the emphasis he laid upon the last word was intended as a hint, for with that he pushed toward his clients a silver shell in which lay several coins. Each of the girls added a piece of gold, at which the eyes gleaming out of the semi-darkness seemed to give a flash of satisfaction. With that the soothsayer made a show of the tricks of his trade. He described figures with his wand; cast chemicals into the brazier, causing ghastly flames to leap and spirt; he took, perfunctorily indeed, an observation of the heavens and affected an invocative rapture. All this, however, did not last long, possibly because the performer may have received an intimation that another visitor was waiting to consult him. But the farce was gone through with a gravity which did credit to the restraint behind that very mundane face.

“Now will one of you ladies advance and place the lines of your hand under observation?” he said in a tone of commanding request.

Still keeping her hood well over her face, one of the girls went forward to the table and extended her hand, a long aristocratic hand of exquisite shape, a hand that even to a man less shrewd than the fortune-teller must have revealed the station of its owner. Whether indeed he had suspected or not the character of his visitors, the man glanced up from the hand with a sharp look of inquiry at the half-concealed face. The scrutiny was but momentary, next instant he was bending with a magnifying glass over the outstretched palm. The time-honoured jargon of the fortune-teller was repeated; then the cards told the same tale with alluring variations, the stars gave a confirmatory horoscope.

“Jupiter in conjunction with Venus points to a great, we might almost venture to say a royal marriage,” the seer pronounced with professional glibness.

“No, no, not that!” the girl exclaimed with a vehemence which startled the professor. “At least, I mean it is not certain, is it? It can be prevented, it can be fought against?”

The smile on the man’s face did not hide the look of intense curiosity with which he regarded her.

“Fight against the stars?” he protested with a deprecating laugh. “You are a bold young lady to imagine that.”

“Against the stars? No,” she returned impetuously. “But against the powers here below that would coerce fate.”

“The fate I have predicted,” rejoined the fortune-teller dryly, “is scarcely one which a woman would fight against.”

“That may be,” the girl retorted, “but perhaps, Herr Professor, if your skill in divination were as great as is pretended you would hardly be surprised at my distaste for the fate you have predicted.”

The sharp eyes with their keen iridescence were fastened on her now in triumphant premeditation.

“My skill scarcely deserves your sneer, madame,” he replied with a repressing of his thoughts. “It may be greater than you imagine or than I claim. Dare you challenge me to put it to the proof? Will you—it is no light test—will you look into the magic mirror?”

“Why should I?” the girl asked half contemptuously.

“Merely that your scepticism may see how far it is warranted. The mirror may confirm my verbal forecast,” he gave a shrug, “or not. Only I warn you that what you shall see there may not be agreeable.”

The other girl who had so far sat intently silent rose and caught her companion’s arm. “No,” she urged in a frightened whisper, “do not look, I beg you. It may be terrible.”

“Worse than the royal marriage?” the other exclaimed with a scornful laugh. “I cannot stop half-way now. I have heard my fate, I must see its confirmation.”

“As you will,” said the fortune-teller quietly. “Only do not blame me should the result be displeasing.”

“Show me, Herr Professor.”

He rose. “For that,” he said, “you must be here alone. Your friend may wait in the ante-chamber.”

“You hear, Minna?”

“No, no; it is not right. I will not leave you. Surely you have heard enough.”

“No; I mean to see what this mirror has to show. What,” laughing, “did we come for but to know the future?”

The dark eyes out of the shadow were watching the two girls furtively, but their owner spoke no word of persuasion. Doubtless his knowledge of human nature told him that curiosity would prevail unaided. And so it was. The companion was forced reluctantly to leave them, and when the two were alone the fortune-teller quietly slipped round and, under pretence of seeing that the door was securely shut, slipped home its bolt.

“Remove your hood,” he said facing the girl.

“It is unnecessary,” she replied. “I came to see, not to be seen.”

“Precisely,” the professor returned with a sarcastic grin. “And you thought to trifle with our sublime art. You judge so meanly of it as to fancy that we whose knowledge passes human comprehension are ignorant of the very identity of those who consult us. You pay us a poor compliment, Princess.”

For a few moments there was silence as she stood, half-fascinated, watching his glittering eyes. The light was on his face now bringing out its Jewish cast, the lines of greed and cunning. If the face disquieted her, she did not show it, she was too proud, too completely mistress of herself for that. Simply, with a slight inclination of the head she accepted his protest, giving no sign of discomfiture at the word which proclaimed her identity, merely saying, as though she were speaking to a servant—

“Will you let me see what the mirror has to show?”

He was thinking, designing actively as he watched her. “Surely, Princess,” he said, with an affectation of humility, “the resources of my art are at your gracious disposal. Will you be seated till the moment of revelation arrives?”

He turned and busied himself with certain preparations. Presently with a gesture of warning he drew aside a dark curtain and disclosed a deep-set mirror, the surface showing nothing but a dead black reflection. Immediately it was disclosed, a vapour spread over and blurred the glass.

The Princess had risen and taken a step towards the mirror. Parabosco turned sharply as the vapour rose; there was evil intent in his face.

“Princess,” he said significantly, “you are not as ordinary inquirers are. The destinies of royal personages float in a higher plane, are woven in a grander frame than those of ordinary mortals. The rewards of divination must be proportionate.”

The man’s meaning was as obvious as his looks were evil. After a moment’s hesitation she took out her purse and laid another gold piece upon the table. The man’s eyes remained fixed in their greed.

“That is no price,” he said bluntly, “for the revelation of a royal destiny.”

“The rewards of divination, as you call them,” the Princess replied with quiet scorn, “seem to be governed not so much by proportion as by extortion. Here, I will give you no more.”

As she spoke she laid a second gold coin beside the other. Parabosco took them up and turned to the mirror, still obscured by the rising vapour. Without looking back, he beckoned her to his side and enjoining silence by a gesture, pointed to the recess. Gradually the vapour became less dense till at length it was so attenuated that the black reflection could once more be seen. The professor recited a rigmarole in the style of an incantation—once more the vapour swept across the glass and as it rolled away a picture became faintly visible. Standing erect, Parabosco signed to his companion to look closely into the mirror. As she bent forward to see through the tantalising mist, the dim picture grew clearer till she could make out its subject.

The interior of a church, a priest at the altar, before him a bride and bridegroom, the man in a splendid uniform. But the whole indistinct, and remaining only a few seconds before it was obscured by a fresh cloud of vapour.

“You saw?” Parabosco asked.

“Very little. The faces were hidden.”

“Was that less than you—bargained for, Princess?” he returned sarcastically. “The lady was yourself.”

“How do I know that?”

“The mirror shows the fate of none but the gazer.”

“Is that all?”

“By no means. It was hardly worth while to be shown that, except that it has confirmed what I have already predicted. Look,” he exclaimed, pointing with a swift gesture to the mirror, “the vapour is agitated! There is fate behind it; the great crisis, the real story, doubtless, of your life. Dare you read it?”

“Indeed I dare,” she answered half-mockingly, as though she had begun to see through the charlatan’s trick. “Do not delay; I have no time to waste.”

Her words were unfortunate, suggesting to him that for the time she was in his power. “You must give me a larger fee, Princess,” he demanded sharply. “Look! Quickly, before the charm dissolves.”

“I will give you nothing more,” she replied firmly.

“Then I will close the mirror, and the chance will be gone forever. See! Even now it may be too late,” he cried in a pretended excitement. “It is to see your fate for good or ill. Give me your purse. Quick! Your jewels, it is worth all that and more!”

She had drawn back and stood facing him steadily. “I will give you nothing more, I tell you,” she said resolutely. “Your conjuring tricks have been already overpaid.”

“Tricks?” he screamed. “You dare to blaspheme our sublime art and mysteries. You know not the risk you run, how near the brink of deadly horror you stand. You shall see your destiny. The fates are not to be invoked lightly. You came here to know the future, you shall know it and shall pay for the knowledge.”

The design of intimidation and extortion was manifest now in all its vulgar brutality, but the quack had in his victim, although a woman, yet a woman of character and spirit.

“Not one kreutzer more,” she maintained. “I have had enough of this nonsense and your rudeness. Show me the way out of this place.”

“Not till you have satisfied my just demands,” he returned with an ugly look of menace. “The revelation has been invoked for you and you shall pay for it whether you look or not.”

She took a step towards the door. He sprang forward and intercepted her.

“Not so, Princess. You go not till you give what I demand.”

Mortified as she was at having put herself in the man’s power and at risking the discovery of her identity which was sure to excite his greed, she yet never lost her presence of mind.

“You will let me go at once, fellow,” she said haughtily, “or it will be the worse for you.”

But he judged shrewdly that it might be the worse for him in any event. “You will pay me to the utmost of your power or it will be the worse for you,” he retorted. “I am sorry to have to speak to you bluntly, Princess, but necessity cannot dance attendance on fine speeches or miss golden opportunities, eh?”

For a moment she deliberated on the simplest way out of a false position, false enough and to most women terrifying, although her high spirit ignored its danger. Distasteful as it was to make terms with the ruffian, it yet seemed the most sensible way out. A scandal would to her proud spirit be hateful, and then there was Chancellor Rollmar to think of.

“I am content to pay for my folly in coming to this den of jugglery,” she said composedly. “I will give you two gold ducats beyond what you have already extorted.”

“I must have more than that,” he demanded threateningly. “What? Five ducats all told? It is absurd. Princesses do not come to me every day.”

As he spoke he made a grab at her purse and thrust it into the folds of his gown. “Now, your jewels, my Princess; they are trifles to you but much to me. Come! Don’t force my need to extremity. Pay your ransom, and then you shall go.”

Her hood was thrown back now, disclosing the proud beauty of her face in its defiant indignation. The lips were set in unutterable contempt and loathing. It was the first great indignity she had ever suffered, but if the situation brought its inevitable fear, that was repressed behind the steady, scornful eyes. Parabosco could not meet the look, could not raise his greedy eyes beyond the diamond at her breast.

“You shall pay for this, you ruffian,” she said between her teeth.

“I care not,” he flung back, “so that you pay first. Hand over your jewels, or must I take them?”

In her determination she glanced round as though for a weapon of defence, but none was available. Interpreting her look, the man sprang forward and clutched her wrist, at the same time endeavoring to force the rings from her fingers. It was the fellow’s brutal touch that now for the first time beat down her courage and extorted a cry for help.

“Minna!” she called desperately. “Minna! Come! Quickly!”

“It is useless to call,” the fellow protested as he struggled to open her clenched hand. “Your friend cannot hear you. You had best be quiet. So!”

Failing to force back her fingers he had seized her brooch and torn it from her bodice.

“Minna! Help!” she cried, putting her strength against her assailant’s in a fierce effort to regain the jewel.

The handle of the door was tried and rattled.

“Your friend cannot come to you,” the professor laughed. “Better be reasonable, and——”

With a great thud and snap the door was sent flying open and a man appeared in the opening; the young man who had followed the Princess to the house, and who now took in the scene with a frown under which Professor Parabosco manifestly quailed.

“What does this mean, ruffian?” he demanded. But the fortune-teller was silent. The young man turned to the Princess with a bow.

“May I ask you, madame?”

Save for the flush on her face, she seemed to have regained her habitual composure. “This man, this charlatan whom I foolishly came to consult, has robbed me,” she answered.

“Robbed you?” As he turned to the quacksalver his face, which had softened, resumed its stern expression. Behind him were now two anxious spectators of the scene, the princess’s companion, Minna, and the woman, his wife, perhaps, who acted as usher to the fortune-teller.

“Not robbed,” the fellow cried in defiant reply to the look. “The lady has availed herself of the most transcendent mysteries of our art, and refuses adequate recompense.”

He had dropped into the jargon of his calling, and his tone fell from bluster to complaint.

“You take a somewhat unmannerly way of enforcing your demands,” the other observed sarcastically. “I will take a leaf out of your book. Restore at once to this lady what you have taken from her.”

The professor gave a grin of cunning defiance.

“If I tell you who this lady is,” he returned, with a malignant look at the princess, who had meanwhile drawn over her face the hood and cloak which the struggle had thrown off, “you may think, my good sir, that I am not unreasonably paid.”

The veiled threat was significant, but before any possible effect could be apparent the young officer quietly took the wind out of the other’s sails.

“I am as well aware of this lady’s identity as you can be, Master Quacksalver,” he said. “Now, as her highness cannot wish to stay here longer, you will at once restore what you have taken.”

Parabosco hesitated. The diamond ornament was worth many a week’s income to him, and his game in that city was up. Quietly, but with intensely significant action, the young man drew his sword. The jewel was not to be kept; Parabosco sullenly tossed it on the table.

The other man took it up in surprise. “That?” he exclaimed. “You filched that, you scoundrel, to pay for your hocus-pocus! Princess, your brooch.” He placed it in her hand with a bow almost of homage.

“I thank you, sir,” she said simply, so coolly that under the circumstances the words sounded almost ungracious.

“That is not all, perhaps?”

“He took my purse.”

He held out his hand. “The purse!”

“It was my fee.”

“The purse!”

It fell with a sharp ring on the table and was presented to its owner as the brooch had been.

“I am indeed grateful, sir,” she said, this time with more animation, as though sensible of seeming ungracious. “This man had been already well paid for his trickery. I had given him five gold ducats.”

“Under compulsion, Princess, I fear?”

“Perhaps. But I am satisfied.”

“Then he must return at least four.”

“No, let him keep them; I must pay for my foolish escapade.”

“As you will, Princess. But——”

“Will you add to your service by escorting me out of this place?”

“I am honoured, Princess.” He stepped aside, and she moved towards the door. “May I say a word to this fellow, Highness?” he begged.

“Is it necessary?”

“Only to warn him that if he sees daylight in this place to-morrow, it will be through the bars of the town prison.”

The professor evidently thought it very probable; anyhow he did not dispute the contingency, and in a few moments his three visitors were outside in the street.

“Oh, Princess, what a horrible adventure,” cried the impressionable Minna.

“What an amazing piece of folly,” her mistress corrected with a little shudder of self-reproach. “One can scarcely blame the wretched man for trying to take advantage of it.” She turned to the young man. “Let me thank you again, sir, for having rescued us from an awkward predicament. It was a foolish whim that led us into it, but we had heard a wonderful account of the fortune-teller, and one gets tired of being always sensible.”

The explanation seemed wrung from her. The constraint of her tone from which a touch of haughtiness was not absent, showed that the speaker was not used to apologize or account for her actions. But here the intolerable humiliation of a false position made it imperative.

“A very natural curiosity, Princess,” he replied with a smile. “And the accident of the fellow’s rudeness was hardly to have been foreseen. It is very hard,” he continued with what seemed perhaps a strange temerity, “that those in exalted positions should be debarred from most of the fun and adventures of life.” Seeming to recollect himself, he added with a deferential bow, “I am truly favoured at having been permitted to free your Highness from an embarrassing situation.”

She had moved away, but now, as by an afterthought, turned back. “I may ask who has rendered me this service?”

“I am honoured, Princess. My name is Lieutenant Ludovic von Bertheim.”

“You live in this city?”

“No; I am at present a wanderer. My home is in Beroldstein.”

“Ah, in Beroldstein.” The name seemed to awaken thoughts which were hardly pleasant, but she dismissed them with a little inward careless laugh. “Well, good-night, Herr Lieutenant, and many thanks. I hope there is no need to ask you not to speak of this affair.”

Her manner was a curious mixture of coldness and a sense of duty which told her that she owed her defender some graciousness.

“There is no need, Princess,” he answered gravely. “You may trust my honour.”

For the first time there was manifest interest in the look which read his face. “I am sure of it. Again, good-night,” she said.

But he took a step after her. “Your Highness will not refuse my escort to the Palace. It is late and——”

She cut him short. “You are good, but an escort is unnecessary. It is not far, we are two, and we know our way.”

With innate good sense he divined an obvious objection to his proposal. “I may at least follow at a distance till I see that your Highness is safe,” he urged.

“As you please,” she replied coldly. “Come, Minna,” and the two hurried off.

Von Bertheim followed at a distance near enough for protection, too distant for remark or scandal. Nothing more than a few curious glances was encountered, and presently the Lieutenant saw them arrive in safety at one of the private doors of the palace. At the distance, some fifty paces, which he had punctiliously kept, he stopped and watched, hoping perhaps for a parting sign from the Princess; but she went in quickly without turning her head in his direction. Her companion, however, looked back and the watcher thought she made a sign to him. As she lingered he hurried forward.

“Good-night,” she said with a demureness which was obviously not quite natural. “The Princess thanks you again. And, oh,” she added with a burst of more characteristic eagerness, “you will not breathe a word of this folly, will you, Herr Lieutenant! It would be terrible for us all. The Princess trusts to your honour.”

Although it was more likely that the exhortation was rather prompted by her own fears than a message from her mistress, von Bertheim replied gravely, “I am sorry that the Princess should deem it necessary to mention it not twice but once even.”

“Oh,” she protested hastily, “it is my fault. Her Highness has every confidence in your chivalry. It was lucky,” she laughed with an admiring glance. “Good-night.”

The door closed upon her and he turned away. “Lucky?” he repeated. “Yes. How will the luck turn out? Ah, yes, it was a fortunate chance even if the luck stop there.”

CHAPTER III
A SOLDIER OF FORTUNE

LUDOVIC VON BERTHEIM walked back now through the nearly deserted streets towards the heart of the city. Small wonder was it that his manner was preoccupied, his face set in characteristic thought. The last hour had brought him an adventure such as might befall the lot of few men, even in days when manners were freer, life less circumscribed, and adventures more plentiful. Judged from his expression, the train of his thought led to very complex considerations, there was doubt, there was pleasure, anger, exultation, doubt again, ever recurring, the whole capped and bound by determination. Once he stopped and, turning, stood looking at the moon-bathed towers of the palace. Only for a moment or two till an impatient gesture swung him round and sent him again on his way.

He had not gone far, however, when he was roused from his abstraction by a hubbub in the street. Recalling his mind to his surroundings, he saw under the half-extinguished lights of an inn adjoining a play-house an excited group round what seemed to be two quarreling men. To avoid the vulgar obstruction, he crossed the street and walked quickly on. He had not gone more than a hundred paces when there came up behind him the sound of running footsteps. A man, bare-headed, and with a naked sword in his hand was flying as though for his life. The fellow wore military dress, and instead of, as his pace and condition suggested, panting with fear, he laughed as he ran. His whole appearance was so extraordinary that Ludovic, standing by to let him pass, could not help saying, “What is the matter, friend?”

The man checked his speed and gave a searching look at his questioner.

“Come!” he cried, catching Ludovic’s sleeve and trying to drag him on. “Get me out of this for the love of Heaven. Come, or I am a dead man!”

There was no fear in the fellow’s face, indeed he seemed to take his situation as a joke, but his appeal was somehow so irresistible that Ludovic found himself hurrying on by his side.

They had not gone far, however, when sounds of pursuit were heard.

“They are after us still, the dogs,” the man panted. “This comes of making myself cheap with canaille and crossing swords with a cowardly bully.”

“You have run a man through?” Ludovic asked.

“Something like it. No; he ran himself on to my point, clumsy brute. But I doubt not it is a hanging matter. Don’t empty your lungs any lower on my account, friend. It is not worth it. I am obliged for your company but we will part here. Perhaps we may meet again in the next world, it is not likely in this.”

In spite of his devil-may-care speech there was a refinement about the man which rather interested Ludovic in him. The signs of pursuit were now uncomfortably near. “No, no,” he urged quickly. “You must not be taken like this, man. You know the Jena Platz?”

“Well.”

“Take this key, it will open the door of number eleven. I will throw these people off the scent and join you presently. Quick! Down there! It will take you straight.”

With a gasp of thanks the man darted off down the street so narrow that its high houses screened all moonlight from its roadway. Ludovic ran on along the wider thoroughfare at a pace which allowed the pursuers to draw well in sight of him. As he came into view they gave tongue like hounds; he sped on at a leisurely swing; they, with the zest of following an imagined blood-trail, came on now with a rush, caught him and prepared to pull him down. But as he turned and faced them they saw that he was the very contrast of their man. They howled for disappointment.

“Where is he? You have seen him running, the big fellow? He has killed a man. Which way did he take?”

“I saw him, yes; and ran after him. But his legs were better than mine and I lost sight of him in this street. You will catch him if you do not waste time. He cannot be far away.”

One or two grumbled and looked suspicious, but the more ardent man-hunters ran on and the spirit of the chase was contagious. It was clear as the flooding moonlight that Ludovic was not the man nor one of his feather. He was left alone.

Without loss of time he turned his steps towards his lodging in the Jena Platz. His new acquaintance had not only found an asylum but had made himself quite at home therein; his comfortable attitude suggested nothing of a fugitive taking sanctuary. However, he received his host and preserver with a hearty expression of gratitude.

“You drew the dogs off cleverly; it was a good deed,” he remarked with the glib coolness of a man whose wits and muscles have kept him going in an adventurous world; “a good deed, and one that will be recompensed elsewhere better than I can ever hope to repay it. You have a snug billet here; ah, well, it is my own fault if it is better than I have been accustomed to of late. Your face is unfamiliar, sir,” he scrutinised him coolly. “No matter for that. It is the face I would have wagered on for a handsome action. You are new to this precious city of peacocks and kites with the big vulture hovering over all?”

“You mean the Chancellor? Yes. I have been here but a week. I come from Drax-Beroldstein.”

“Ah! That’s a fine bold land, with hot-headed men and pretty women. Yes; I have loved and fought there—as in a good many lands besides. But in truth I began to find the climate of your Beroldstein a trifle too warm for my complexion. I never could keep out of the blaze, you understand; it takes a sober fool to walk always on the shady side, and though I may have folly enough and to spare, sobriety is a vice I cannot confess to.”

“Then you are just as well outside of Beroldstein,” Ludovic laughed. “Will you fill a glass now? You may stand in need of refreshment after your late exertion.”

He pointed to a side table on which decanters stood. His visitor showed no backwardness in pouring out a glass of spirits and tossing it off.

“Ah, yes,” he observed with a meditative smack of the lips; “it was a ticklish affair. Always a woman; that is my experience, and I have tossed about the world enough to speak of its tides and currents, squalls and tempests with authority. Look now. At the play to-night—an infernally silly piece—a girl laughed at me. Could I help that? Or laughing back? The play was dull and the girl was pretty. What would you have? I am no priest to look like a saint and think like a devil. Well, our interchange of courtesies seemed to give offence to a smart fellow with a hawk’s eye and a rabbit’s heart, who wanted to monopolise the lady’s glances. Was it my fault again if she preferred to look at my shock head than at his wonderful moustachios turned up to his eyes? The less my deserts the greater my gratitude. And this brave fellow, like many another, mistook gratitude for love. Anyhow he grew consumedly jealous, and when the play was over and I was ready to escort the lady through the crowd he tried to jostle me away. Jostle me!” He laughed, merrily scornful. “Me, who have fought in half the countries of Europe; whose sword and a stout heart and arm behind it (pardon a passing boast) are my stock-in-trade. Naturally I did not give way, never yet quailed before a pair of fierce moustachios—pah! Albrecht von Ompertz frightened of a tuft of hair!—and never shall. He had to carry it boldly before the lady, and when two men are bold and not agreed, why, it means cold steel. He waited for me by the tavern, mad with rage and jealousy or—well, poor fellow, they will never trouble him again in this world. And so I have brought my neck uncomfortably near the hempen cravat. It was only when my point stuck in that I remembered the new decree against brawling. Well, what’s done is done; one cannot blow the fire with burst bellows or get a dance out of a fellow with a skewered lung.” He drained off another glass of spirits; his situation seemed to affect him as little as though it were but the loss of a few pieces at play.

“Von Ompertz, then your name is?” Ludovic said.

“Add Captain,” the other replied with a mock bow and a flourish. “Devotedly at your service; I would say everlastingly did not that seem a big word from a man who has but a few more breathing hours before him. But for those you can command me, and what is more to the point, my sword.” He took it up from the couch on which he had thrown it and glanced down the blade. “Don Moustachio’s hot blood has bubbled away, it seems. Ah, this good little fellow and I have been through some tight squeezes, I tell you; some warm encounters, official and private, for personal considerations and for imperial motives. I have held commissions in pretty well half the states of Europe.”

“A free-lance, Captain?”

“Just so.” He threw his arms out and then pushed back the shock of hair that fell across one side of his face like a half-drawn curtain.

“I love two things in a lesser degree, but they are comparative trifles as my old General Freiherr von Aremberg observed after Schweidnitz when he heard that a church full of people had been fired and its contents roasted. Yes, I have a keen nose for a quarrel, international or individual, and it is worth something to be free to follow one’s sympathies, although that usually means enlisting on the weaker side. Well, if it is all over now, I’ve lived my life and with plenty of pepper to spice it.”

All through Captain von Ompertz’ voluble talk his host had been quietly observing him with amused interest. “You must get away, Captain,” he said. “A man of your resource and experience is surely not going to hang about and be taken.”

“Not if I can help it,” the other replied cheerfully. “But get away is easier to say than to do in this country where Rollmar, the old spider, has his feelers out on every side. It is nothing but a big net, sir. We can move about, but we cannot fly, and when he wants to be down on us the spider moves quickest.”

“And you, devotee of freedom, stay here,” laughed Ludovic.

Ompertz gave a shrug. “The place is lively and is a good point from which to scan the horizon for a war cloud. And now—donnerwetter! what the devil did that fool with the moustachios want to draw on me for?”

It was arranged that Captain von Ompertz should stay there in hiding till a chance occurred of getting away in safety. His host left him comfortably stretched on a couch with a cloak wrapped round him. But when in the early morning Ludovic entered the room, his guest had flown, leaving a few scrawled lines of apology.

“I am none the less grateful because I cannot be a burden to you. The chance of escape over the net is as fair to-day as it will be to-morrow, and I hate suspense. If I get clear away you shall hear from me (though I know not your name); if not you will assuredly hear of me. A thousand thanks from your grateful servant, A. v. O.”

CHAPTER IV
IN THE ROYAL CHAPEL

IT was in obedience to a very natural prompting that in his walks about the city Ludovic’s feet should be inevitably turned in the direction of the palace. Perhaps he hoped—of course he did—that chance might give him a glimpse of that provoking beauty, Princess Ruperta. The fascination was intensified by the strange situation in which he had met her. For it showed an underlying stratum of a far different and warmer nature beneath the hard, frozen surface that the world saw and noted, and, try as it would, could make no impression upon. So! Princess Cold-heart was human after all. He laughed as he spoke the words in his solitary ramble. Human? yes. But what chance had the humanity, the girl’s real feelings, to expand and flourish enmeshed in the rigid formality and etiquette, in the killing monotony of a German Court? And under the eye, benign and relentless, of that inscrutable, busy state-machine, the Chancellor Rollmar, what play-room could there be for a girl’s spirits and enjoyment of life? Small wonder, he thought, if she broke bounds, careless because ignorant of danger. A girl of high-spirited temperament is not to be completely repressed even by an astute and autocratic Minister. Does not rebellion thrive on oppression?

Ludovic had come to Waldenthor well provided with credentials. Only a night or two after his arrival he had attended a Court ball; and it was from his sight of the Princess on that occasion that he had been able to recognise her on the evening of her adventure. He was free of the Palace grounds, but after the affair at the fortune-teller’s, he, from motives of delicacy, refrained from walking in them. He would not seem to take advantage of his service by forcing himself upon the notice of the Princess. To hover on the outskirts, though, was a greater temptation than he, perhaps, could resist. And at last the hovering grew so tantalising that he told himself there could be no harm in taking a short road to the city by the broad walk which ran through the royal park. His way took him within a few paces of the King’s chapel. The tones of the organ in a subdued grandeur trembled out through the effigied windows. The witchery of the music, united with the glamour of the place, hallowed by romance ever since the days of chivalry, had an arresting effect. Ludovic stopped, took off his hat and leaning against a great elm, gave himself up to the entrancement of the moment.

Like a subtle spell the music stole out into the woodland till the quivering of the leaves seemed hushed by the charm; the place became fairyland, but the haunt of fairies of flesh and blood with souls for life and love, for dreams and hopes sweetening to fulfilment. If heaven was suggested there, it was heaven on earth.

There was a pause in the playing, but the spell which seemed to hold the listener was not broken. He remained motionless in his abstraction. Then the music floated out again in a lovely Andante of Scarlatti’s. The dreamy look turned to animation, he must drink to the full of that divine melody; he went forward on tip-toe to a little door which stood ajar, pushed it gently open and stood raptly breathing in the glorious strain which, rising and falling, flooded the chapel as with an angel’s song.

As the last notes trembled away along the groined roof Ludovic stole forward. The organ burst forth again. From where he stood a screen hid the player; by advancing a little farther he could see past it. Quietly he moved on, still the keyboard was hidden by a low curtain. But he saw something else which rewarded and at the same time rebuked his temerity, a girl working the handle of the bellows. It was Countess Minna, the Princess’s companion. Half sitting on a stool, she with a pretty suggestion of boredom was giving, as occasion called for, a casual and now and then an impatient pull at the handle which projected like a bowsprit before her. One hand grasped this, with the other she held up a book, but the necessity of not keeping her eyes too long off the leaden indicator must have made reading a somewhat tantalising pleasure. She would give a slow mechanical pull or two at the lever, then presently glancing up and seeing the wind nearly gone she would take both hands and giving a sufficient number of vicious tugs to bring the lead to its lowest point, she would return to her book. It was at one of these more energetic pumpings that the intruder’s presence caught her eye. She started and her face lengthened into an expression of humorous, half scandalized astonishment. This distraction lasted so long that the lead crept up unnoticed and the wind gave out bringing the melody to an abrupt and wheezy halt.

“Minna!” The Princess’s voice only confirmed the certainty Ludovic had felt as to the player.

“Pardon!” Minna energetically seized the handle and gave several vigorous pulls. “My book was so exciting that I forgot.”

The melody rose again, the absorbing book lay on the floor, and for a while the bellows received a pretty girl’s full, almost feverish, attention.

Presently she looked again at Ludovic and made a comic expression of disgust. He stood irresolute, telling himself that he ought to go, yet yielding to the temptation to linger. The girl’s facial suggestion was now supplemented, after a vehement sending down of the indicator, by a pantomime of weariness. There must have been an object in these signals, yet Ludovic did not take the hint. So Minna, abandoning vagueness, plainly beckoned to him, making signs that he should take her place at the bellows. The invitation could scarcely be disregarded. He came forward and took his position by the lever, while the girl slipped away and settling herself on a more comfortable bench, avidiously resumed her exciting story.

For about half an hour the music continued, Ludovic gravely keeping to his work at the bellows, and Minna, save for an occasional sly upward glance, seeming absorbed in her book. There were breaks in the playing between the ending of one piece and the beginning of another. In one interval of silence, as Ludovic stood waiting for the organ to swell out again, he looked up and saw the Princess standing before him. His involuntary glance at her face told him nothing. He bowed low.

“Pardon, Princess,” he said soberly, “the Countess was tired and I ventured to take her place.”

Minna had sprung up and came forward with a look of mingled apprehension and sly enjoyment of the situation.

“It is true, Highness,” she corroborated. “My arms began to ache and my book was so exciting that I asked Herr von Bertheim to blow till I had rested and the duel was over. One cannot blow the organ properly when one is in a state of terrific suspense.”

The Princess’s face gave no indication of how she took the situation.

“It is perhaps more a man’s work,” she said coldly. “I am obliged to Herr von Bertheim. I did not know he was in the chapel.”

Still no sign whether his presence gave her offence or not.

“I was passing down the Broad Walk when the music stopped me and drew me in,” he explained. “I had no idea, until I saw the Countess, that the player was your Highness.”

“It is perhaps an unusual thing,” she returned with a touch of bitterness, “to find a person in my position cultivating an art. I do not know whether it is one of the things we are bidden to leave to the less exalted, and not meddle with. Your ignorance can scarcely be blamed, sir.”

“I cannot blame it, Princess, unless my presence has given you offence.”

“That ought never to be,” she returned quickly, “seeing how welcome it once has been.”

“I could never presume on that chance service,” he said simply.

“No.” She spoke abstractedly, mechanically. Minna had fidgetted away behind the screen to the door, perhaps on the watch. “That makes it all the more acceptable,” the Princess added in the same distant tone, a tone which impelled him to reply.

“I take the hint, Highness.”

He half turned away, when the murmur of her voice recalled him.

“You need not take more than is meant to be given,” she said, and there was a sweetness in her tone he had never heard before. She gave a quick glance to where Minna stood, and then added, “If I seem far less grateful than an”—she gave a little shrug—“an ordinary woman would be you must not impute the churlishness to me but to my position. It is one of the attributes of royalty to be above the common feelings of the outside world.” The words seemed forced from her, the vent of a grievance, long resented, ever dwelt on. The situation was but an opportunity not the cause of its expression.

“I never could dream of imputing anything but graciousness to your Highness,” Ludovic protested eagerly. “I have no right here, I know: but being free of the Court I ventured to cross the park on my way home. Then the music caught my ear and I came in, thinking to listen without being seen.”

She was looking away, now her glance fell on him. “You come to Court?” she asked in a tone that was scarcely indifferent and yet tantalisingly vague.

“I had the honour to be present at the Hof-Ball last week.”

“Ah, I wondered——”

He understood that she was thinking of his recognition of her at the fortune-teller’s. His next words seemed surprisingly bold.

“Your Highness often plays here? Is it too much to ask to be allowed to officiate as organ-blower again?”

A little hardening of the Princess’s face told him that his temerity was resented. She gave him no answer. “Minna!” she called, “Come, dear; it is late.”

But before Minna could reach them he had spoken again.

“Pardon, Highness,” he said with great restraint yet urgently. “You have not forbidden me.”

But she spoke no word to him again. “Come, dear,” she said, linking her arm in Minna’s, and so they went across the chancel to the royal entrance leading by a covered way to the palace. He stood looking after them hoping for what he knew was beyond hope. Minna opened the door and the Princess passed out of sight without a backward look. Minna glanced round with an inscrutable laugh.

CHAPTER V
RUPERTA AND LUDOVIC

SHE had not forbidden him. Even when reminded of it the suggestion had not provoked a word of refusal. And yet she had gone without a sign of leave-taking, but with all the air of being offended. What was he to think? Turn it over as his mind would, it always came back to the one conclusion that he would go to the chapel again. “We are not allowed the feelings of ordinary people,” the Princess had said. Did not that account for the way she had recollected herself, or at least her station, and left him without another word? But she had talked with him for some time before that bold speech of his—lucky or unlucky, he would not own it either—she had assuredly shown no offence at finding him there in the chapel, at his presumption in assisting at her playing. Was that because he had done her a service at the fortune-teller’s? It was not a palatable suggestion, still less was it pleasant to think that his forwardness might be construed into a presuming upon that service. At any rate he would put it to the touch.

For the next days he haunted the park near the chapel but without hearing the music he listened for, or seeing the Princess except once when he caught just a glimpse of her driving in at the royal gates. But one afternoon, when he had begun to think that the organ was never to speak to him again, his ear caught its notes, softly penetrating, stealing out into the woodland. For a moment he hesitated. No; he had resolved to venture boldly; diffidence would avail nothing; after all, he knew his every feeling to be chivalrous; he would not hang back.

The door was opened. Ah, it might have been closed against him. He went in quietly; Countess Minna was at the bellows; she laughed, and her laugh told him that she, at least, had expected him. He returned her silent greeting and without hesitation went up and took the lever which she very readily relinquished. The music continued for a long hour, ever sharpening his hunger for a sight of the player, for the thrill of her voice again. Minna, as before, sat comfortably reading, with a certain demure enjoyment on her face, but whether caused by the book or the situation was not to be told. As each piece ended von Bertheim looked for that radiant presence to stand before him, and at each fresh swelling forth of the organ he felt a disappointment which, with his love of music, might have been incredible.

At length with the dying vibrations of a voluntary’s last notes there mingled the striking of a clock. Countess Minna jumped up hastily and ran forward.

“Princess! It is time to go. There is five striking.”

A wave of disappointment passed over him. Should he lose his reward like that? Was it a trick? As he wondered, the Princess came from behind the keyboard screen and saw him. Their eyes met; he bowed.

“Thank you,” she said simply. “It was kind of you to relieve Gräfin Minna.”

He had come near; she, preparing to turn away, held out her hand. He pressed it to his lips. That was all, except for the word “Good-bye,” which he scarcely heard, and the “thank you,” from Countess Minna which he heard not at all. Before he could realise their departure he was alone.

When he returned to his lodgings he found an official invitation to a state concert to be held two days later. It meant the chance, certainly of seeing, perhaps speaking to the Princess. That afternoon’s luck had rewarded his days of disappointment. She had given him her hand in token that in her eyes he was free from offence. “She has a heart after all,” he said as he sat down to write an acceptance.

The concert was as rigidly classical as though the severity of the Court’s forms and etiquette had infected the music, as, indeed, it had drawn out the programme. Only in one piece was indulgence given to mere beauty of melody, and in that he recognised a favourite of the Princess’s doubtless, since she had played it both times he had been in the chapel. Carried away by the sensuousness of the melody he sat with eyes almost involuntarily fixed on the Princess. She was unlikely to notice his gaze, but the inevitable Minna looked round towards the side row where he sat, and he suddenly became aware of her scrutiny. He wondered whether she would tell Princess Ruperta of his whereabouts, but by no sign could he be certain of that. “Why should she care? What a fool I am!” he told himself.

When the music was over the guests followed the royal party into the great drawing-room, where they circulated and chatted in groups. With his white face bent forward and hands clasped behind his back the Chancellor strolled observantly through the rooms exchanging a remark here and there, but ever on the watch, it seemed.

Ludovic von Bertheim stood looking after that fascinating, inscrutable personality when he heard a well-remembered voice at his side.

“When you have finished studying our Chancellor, Herr von Bertheim, may I ask you to give me a cup of coffee?”

They strolled off together to the Saal where refreshments were served.

“It is delightful to meet you here again,” Ludovic said; “after——”

“Where there are no organ-bellows to blow?” Minna suggested roguishly. “Oh! Hush!” She made a gesture of caution and raised her cup to her lips. Rollmar was passing them.

“I did not know he was so near,” she observed, in a low tone. “He has ears for whispers and eyes that see all round him. I warn you, Herr von Bertheim.”

“I will be careful,” he laughed.

“Yes. Not only for your own sake, but——” she checked herself with a shrug. “You see that young officer with red hair and eyes to match, like a ferret? You will never guess who he is. Our wonderful Chancellor’s son. Yes, you may well open your eyes. Captain von Rollmar; he is as sharp as his face, and——shall I tell you?—a great admirer of our Princess.”

She took a roguish delight in watching the effect of her whisper, laughing and sipping her coffee.

“The admiration is hardly returned, I should think,” he could not help saying.