The Prisoner of Zenda, Anthony Hope [free reads .TXT] 📗
- Author: Anthony Hope
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“It’s hard for you. Don’t think I don’t trust you; I know you have nothing but true thoughts in your heart.”
But I turned away from him, thankful that he could not see what my heart held, but only be witness to the deeds that my hands were to do.
Yet even he did not understand, for he had not dared to lift his eyes to the Princess Flavia, as I had lifted mine.
Our plans were now all made, even as we proceeded to carry them out, and as they will hereafter appear. The next morning we were to start on the hunting excursion. I had made all arrangements for being absent, and now there was only one thing left to do—the hardest, the most heart-breaking. As evening fell, I drove through the busy streets to Flavia’s residence. I was recognized as I went and heartily cheered. I played my part, and made shift to look the happy lover. In spite of my depression, I was almost amused at the coolness and delicate hauteur with which my sweet lover received me. She had heard that the King was leaving Strelsau on a hunting expedition.
“I regret that we cannot amuse your Majesty here in Strelsau,” she said, tapping her foot lightly on the floor. “I would have offered you more entertainment, but I was foolish enough to think—”
“Well, what?” I asked, leaning over her.
“That just for a day or two after—after last night—you might be happy without much gaiety;” and she turned pettishly from me, as she added, “I hope the boars will be more engrossing.”
“I’m going after a very big boar,” said I; and, because I could not help it, I began to play with her hair, but she moved her head away.
“Are you offended with me?” I asked, in feigned surprise, for I could not resist tormenting her a little. I had never seen her angry, and every fresh aspect of her was a delight to me.
“What right have I to be offended? True, you said last night that every hour away from me was wasted. But a very big boar! that’s a different thing.”
“Perhaps the boar will hunt me,” I suggested. “Perhaps, Flavia, he’ll catch me.”
She made no answer.
“You are not touched even by that danger?”
Still she said nothing; and I, stealing round, found her eyes full of tears.
“You weep for my danger?”
Then she spoke very low:
“This is like what you used to be; but not like the King—the King I—I have come to love!”
With a sudden great groan, I caught her to my heart.
“My darling!” I cried, forgetting everything but her, “did you dream that I left you to go hunting?”
“What then, Rudolf? Ah! you’re not going—?”
“Well, it is hunting. I go to seek Michael in his lair.”
She had turned very pale.
“So, you see, sweet, I was not so poor a lover as you thought me. I shall not be long gone.”
“You will write to me, Rudolf?”
I was weak, but I could not say a word to stir suspicion in her.
“I’ll send you all my heart every day,” said I.
“And you’ll run no danger?”
“None that I need not.”
“And when will you be back? Ah, how long will it be!”
“When shall I be back?” I repeated.
“Yes, yes! Don’t be long, dear, don’t be long. I shan’t sleep while you’re away.”
“I don’t know when I shall be back,” said I.
“Soon, Rudolf, soon?”
“God knows, my darling. But, if never—”
“Hush, hush!” and she pressed her lips to mine.
“If never,” I whispered, “you must take my place; you’ll be the only one of the House then. You must reign, and not weep for me.”
For a moment she drew herself up like a very queen.
“Yes, I will!” she said. “I will reign. I will do my part though all my life will be empty and my heart dead; yet I’ll do it!”
She paused, and sinking against me again, wailed softly.
“Come soon! come soon!”
Carried away, I cried loudly:
“As God lives, I—yes, I myself—will see you once more before I die!”
“What do you mean?” she exclaimed, with wondering eyes; but I had no answer for her, and she gazed at me with her wondering eyes.
I dared not ask her to forget, she would have found it an insult. I could not tell her then who and what I was. She was weeping, and I had but to dry her tears.
“Shall a man not come back to the loveliest lady in all the wide world?” said I. “A thousand Michaels should not keep me from you!”
She clung to me, a little comforted.
“You won’t let Michael hurt you?”
“No, sweetheart.”
“Or keep you from me?”
“No, sweetheart.”
“Nor anyone else?”
And again I answered:
“No, sweetheart.”
Yet there was one—not Michael—who, if he lived, must keep me from her; and for whose life I was going forth to stake my own. And his figure—the lithe, buoyant figure I had met in the woods of Zenda—the dull, inert mass I had left in the cellar of the hunting-lodge—seemed to rise, double-shaped, before me, and to come between us, thrusting itself in even where she lay, pale, exhausted, fainting, in my arms, and yet looking up at me with those eyes that bore such love as I have never seen, and haunt me now, and will till the ground closes over me—and (who knows?) perhaps beyond.
About five miles from Zenda—on the opposite side from that on which the Castle is situated, there lies a large tract of wood. It is rising ground, and in the centre of the demesne, on the top of the hill, stands a fine modern chateau, the property of a distant kinsman of Fritz’s, the Count Stanislas von Tarlenheim. Count Stanislas himself was a student and a recluse. He seldom visited the house, and had, on Fritz’s request, very readily and courteously offered me its hospitality for myself and my party. This, then, was our destination; chosen ostensibly for the sake of the boar-hunting (for the wood was carefully preserved, and boars, once common all over Ruritania, were still to be found there in considerable numbers), really because it brought us within striking distance of the Duke of Strelsau’s more magnificent dwelling on the other side of the town. A large party of servants, with horses and luggage, started early in the morning; we followed at midday, travelling by train for thirty miles, and then mounting our horses to ride the remaining distance to the chateau.
We were a gallant party. Besides Sapt and Fritz, I was accompanied by ten gentlemen: every one of them had been carefully chosen, and no less carefully sounded, by my two friends, and all were devotedly attached to the person of the King. They were told a part of the truth; the attempt on my life in the summerhouse was revealed to them, as a spur to their loyalty and an incitement against Michael. They were also informed that a friend of the King’s was suspected to be forcibly confined within the Castle of Zenda. His rescue was one of the objects of the expedition; but, it was added, the King’s main desire was to carry into effect certain steps against his treacherous brother, as to the precise nature of which they could not at present be further enlightened. Enough that the King commanded their services, and would rely on their devotion when occasion arose to call for it. Young, well-bred, brave, and loyal, they asked no more: they were ready to prove their dutiful obedience, and prayed for a fight as the best and most exhilarating mode of showing it.
Thus the scene was shifted from Strelsau to the chateau of Tarlenheim and Castle of Zenda, which frowned at us across the valley. I tried to shift my thoughts also, to forget my love, and to bend all my energies to the task before me. It was to get the King out of the Castle alive. Force was useless: in some trick lay the chance; and I had already an inkling of what we must do. But I was terribly hampered by the publicity which attended my movements. Michael must know by now of my expedition; and I knew Michael too well to suppose that his eyes would be blinded by the feint of the boar-hunt. He would understand very well what the real quarry was. That, however, must be risked—that and all it might mean; for Sapt, no less than myself, recognized that the present state of things had become unendurable. And there was one thing that I dared to calculate on—not, as I now know, without warrant. It was this—that Black Michael would not believe that I meant well by the King. He could not appreciate—I will not say an honest man, for the thoughts of my own heart have been revealed—but a man acting honestly. He saw my opportunity as I had seen it, as Sapt had seen it; he knew the princess—nay (and I declare that a sneaking sort of pity for him invaded me), in his way he loved her; he would think that Sapt and Fritz could be bribed, so the bribe was large enough. Thinking thus, would he kill the King, my rival and my danger? Ay, verily, that he would, with as little compunction as he would kill a rat. But he would kill Rudolf Rassendyll first, if he could; and nothing but the certainty of being utterly damned by the release of the King alive and his restoration to the throne would drive him to throw away the trump card which he held in reserve to baulk the supposed game of the impudent impostor Rassendyll. Musing on all this as I rode along, I took courage.
Michael knew of my coming, sure enough. I had not been in the house an hour, when an imposing Embassy arrived from him. He did not quite reach the impudence of sending my would-be assassins, but he sent the other three of his famous Six—the three Ruritanian gentlemen—Lauengram, Krafstein, and Rupert Hentzau. A fine, strapping trio they were, splendidly horsed and admirably equipped. Young Rupert, who looked a dare-devil, and could not have been more than twenty-two or twenty-three, took the lead, and made us the neatest speech, wherein my devoted subject and loving brother Michael of Strelsau, prayed me to pardon him for not paying his addresses in person, and, further, for not putting his Castle at my disposal; the reason for both of these apparent derelictions being that he and several of his servants lay sick of scarlet fever, and were in a very sad, and also a very infectious state. So declared young Rupert with an insolent smile on his curling upper lip and a toss of his thick hair—he was a handsome villain, and the gossip ran that many a lady had troubled her heart for him already.
“If my brother has scarlet fever,” said I, “he is nearer my complexion than he is wont to be, my lord. I trust he does not suffer?”
“He is able to attend to his affairs, sire.”
“I hope all beneath your roof are not sick. What of my good friends,
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