Rupert of Hentzau: From The Memoirs of Fritz Von Tarlenheim<br />Sequel to The Prisoner of Zenda, Anthony Hope [top 10 most read books in the world TXT] 📗

did they blindly wrong God’s providence. Yet, save that we are taught to believe that all is ruled, we are as blind as they, and are still left wondering why all that is true and generous and love’s own fruit must turn so often to woe and shame, exacting tears and blood. For myself I would leave the thing untold, lest a word of it should seem to stain her whom I serve; it is by her own command I write, that all may one day, in time’s fullness, be truly known, and those condemn who are without sin, while they pity whose own hearts have fought the equal fight. So much for her and him; for us less needs be said. It was not ours to weigh her actions; we served her; him we had served. She was our queen; we bore Heaven a grudge that he was not our king. The worst of what befell was not of our own planning, no, nor of our hoping. It came a thunderbolt from the hand of Rupert, flung carelessly between a curse and a laugh; its coming entangled us more tightly in the net of circumstances. Then there arose in us that strange and overpowering desire of which I must tell later, filling us with a zeal to accomplish our purpose, and to force Mr. Rassendyll himself into the way we chose. Led by this star, we pressed on through the darkness, until at length the deeper darkness fell that stayed our steps. We also stand for judgment, even as she and he. So I will write; but I will write plainly and briefly, setting down what I must, and no more, yet seeking to give truly the picture of that time, and to preserve as long as may be the portrait of the man whose like I have not known. Yet the fear is always upon me that, failing to show him as he was, I may fail also in gaining an understanding of how he wrought on us, one and all, till his cause became in all things the right, and to seat him where he should be our highest duty and our nearest wish. For he said little, and that straight to the purpose; no high-flown words of his live in my memory. And he asked nothing for himself. Yet his speech and his eyes went straight to men’s hearts and women’s, so that they held their lives in an eager attendance on his bidding. Do I rave? Then Sapt was a raver too, for Sapt was foremost in the business.

At ten minutes to eight o’clock, young Bernenstein, very admirably and smartly accoutred, took his stand outside the main entrance of the castle. He wore a confident air that became almost a swagger as he strolled to and fro past the motionless sentries. He had not long to wait. On the stroke of eight a gentleman, well-horsed but entirely unattended, rode up the carriage drive. Bernenstein, crying “Ah, it is the count!” ran to meet him. Rischenheim dismounted, holding out his hand to the young officer.

“My dear Bernenstein!” said he, for they were acquainted with one another.

“You’re punctual, my dear Rischenheim, and it’s lucky, for the king awaits you most impatiently.”

“I didn’t expect to find him up so soon,” remarked Rischenheim.

“Up! He’s been up these two hours. Indeed we’ve had the devil of a time of it. Treat him carefully, my dear Count; he’s in one of his troublesome humors. For example—but I mustn’t keep you waiting. Pray follow me.”

“No, but pray tell me. Otherwise I might say something unfortunate.”

“Well, he woke at six; and when the barber came to trim his beard there were—imagine it, Count!—no less than seven gray hairs.” The king fell into a passion. “Take it off!” he said. “Take it off. I won’t have a gray beard! Take it off!’ Well what would you? A man is free to be shaved if he chooses, so much more a king. So it’s taken off.”

“His beard!”

“His beard, my dear Count.” Then, after thanking Heaven it was gone, and declaring he looked ten years younger, he cried, “The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim breakfasts with me to-day: what is there for breakfast?” And he had the chef out of his bed and—“But, by heavens, I shall get into trouble if I stop here chattering. He’s waiting most eagerly for you. Come along.” And Bernenstein, passing his arm through the count’s, walked him rapidly into the castle.

The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim was a young man; he was no more versed in affairs of this kind than Bernenstein, and it cannot be said that he showed so much aptitude for them. He was decidedly pale this morning; his manner was uneasy, and his hands trembled. He did not lack courage, but that rarer virtue, coolness; and the importance—or perhaps the shame—of his mission upset the balance of his nerves. Hardly noting where he went, he allowed Bernenstein to lead him quickly and directly towards the room where Rudolf Rassendyll was, not doubting that he was being conducted to the king’s presence.

“Breakfast is ordered for nine,” said Bernenstein, “but he wants to see you before. He has something important to say; and you perhaps have the same?”

“I? Oh, no. A small matter; but—er—of a private nature.”

“Quite so, quite so. Oh, I don’t ask any questions, my dear Count.”

“Shall I find the king alone?” asked Rischenheim nervously.

“I don’t think you’ll find anybody with him; no, nobody, I think,” answered Bernenstein, with a grave and reassuring air.

They arrived now at the door. Here Bernenstein paused.

“I am ordered to wait outside till his Majesty summons me,” he said in a low voice, as though he feared that the irritable king would hear him. “I’ll open the door and announce you. Pray keep him in a good temper, for all our sakes.” And he flung the door open, saying, “Sire, the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim has the honor to wait on your Majesty.” With this he shut the door promptly, and stood against it. Nor did he move, save once, and then only to take out his revolver and carefully inspect it.

The count advanced, bowing low, and striving to conceal a visible agitation. He saw the king in his arm-chair; the king wore a suit of brown tweeds (none the better for being crushed into a bundle the night before); his face was in deep shadow, but Rischenheim perceived that the beard was indeed gone. The king held out his hand to Rischenheim, and motioned him to sit in a chair just opposite to him and within a foot of the window-curtains.

“I’m delighted to see you, my lord,” said the king.

Rischenheim looked up. Rudolf’s voice had once been so like the king’s that no man could tell the difference, but in the last year or two the king’s had grown weaker, and Rischenheim seemed to be struck by the vigor of the tones in which he was addressed. As he looked up, there was a slight movement in the curtains by him; it died away when the count gave no further signs of suspicion, but Rudolf had noticed his surprise: the voice, when it next spoke, was subdued.

“Most delighted,” pursued Mr. Rassendyll. “For I am pestered beyond endurance about those dogs. I can’t get the coats right, I’ve tried everything, but they won’t come as I wish. Now, yours are magnificent.”

“You are very good, sire. But I ventured to ask an audience in order to—”

“Positively you must tell me about the dogs. And before Sapt comes, for