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- Author: Anthony Hope
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“And when’s the wedding?” and as he spoke another struck him in the face, crying “Long live Duke Michael!” and the princess coloured—it was an admirable tint—and looked straight in front of her.
Now I felt in a difficulty, because I had forgotten to ask Sapt the state of my affections, or how far matters had gone between the princess and myself. Frankly, had I been the King, the further they had gone the better should I have been pleased. For I am not a slow-blooded man, and I had not kissed Princess Flavia’s cheek for nothing. These thoughts passed through my head, but, not being sure of my ground, I said nothing; and in a moment or two the princess, recovering her equanimity, turned to me.
“Do you know, Rudolf,” said she, “you look somehow different today?”
The fact was not surprising, but the remark was disquieting.
“You look,” she went on, “more sober, more sedate; you’re almost careworn, and I declare you’re thinner. Surely it’s not possible that you’ve begun to take anything seriously?”
The princess seemed to hold of the King much the same opinion that Lady Burlesdon held of me.
I braced myself up to the conversation.
“Would that please you?” I asked softly.
“Oh, you know my views,” said she, turning her eyes away.
“Whatever pleases you I try to do,” I said; and, as I saw her smile and blush, I thought that I was playing the King’s hand very well for him. So I continued and what I said was perfectly true:
“I assure you, my dear cousin, that nothing in my life has affected me more than the reception I’ve been greeted with today.”
She smiled brightly, but in an instant grew grave again, and whispered:
“Did you notice Michael?”
“Yes,” said I, adding, “he wasn’t enjoying himself.”
“Do be careful!” she went on. “You don’t—indeed you don’t—keep enough watch on him. You know—”
“I know,” said I, “that he wants what I’ve got.”
“Yes. Hush!”
Then—and I can’t justify it, for I committed the King far beyond what I had a right to do—I suppose she carried me off my feet—I went on:
“And perhaps also something which I haven’t got yet, but hope to win some day.”
This was my answer. Had I been the King, I should have thought it encouraging:
“Haven’t you enough responsibilities on you for one day, cousin?”
Bang, bang! Blare, blare! We were at the Palace. Guns were firing and trumpets blowing. Rows of lackeys stood waiting, and, handing the princess up the broad marble staircase, I took formal possession, as a crowned King, of the House of my ancestors, and sat down at my own table, with my cousin on my right hand, on her other side Black Michael, and on my left his Eminence the Cardinal. Behind my chair stood Sapt; and at the end of the table, I saw Fritz von Tarlenheim drain to the bottom his glass of champagne rather sooner than he decently should.
I wondered what the King of Ruritania was doing.
CHAPTER 6 The Secret of a Cellar
We were in the King’s dressing-room—Fritz von Tarlenheim, Sapt, and I. I flung myself exhausted into an armchair. Sapt lit his pipe. He uttered no congratulations on the marvellous success of our wild risk, but his whole bearing was eloquent of satisfaction. The triumph, aided perhaps by good wine, had made a new man of Fritz.
“What a day for you to remember!” he cried. “Gad, I’d like to be King for twelve hours myself! But, Rassendyll, you mustn’t throw your heart too much into the part. I don’t wonder Black Michael looked blacker than ever—you and the princess had so much to say to one another.”
“How beautiful she is!” I exclaimed.
“Never mind the woman,” growled Sapt. “Are you ready to start?”
“Yes,” said I, with a sigh.
It was five o’clock, and at twelve I should be no more than Rudolf Rassendyll. I remarked on it in a joking tone.
“You’ll be lucky,” observed Sapt grimly, “if you’re not the late Rudolf Rassendyll. By Heaven! I feel my head wobbling on my shoulders every minute you’re in the city. Do you know, friend, that Michael has had news from Zenda? He went into a room alone to read it—and he came out looking like a man dazed.”
“I’m ready,” said I, this news making me none the more eager to linger.
Sapt sat down.
“I must write us an order to leave the city. Michael’s Governor, you know, and we must be prepared for hindrances. You must sign the order.”
“My dear colonel, I’ve not been bred a forger!”
Out of his pocket Sapt produced a piece of paper.
“There’s the King’s signature,” he said, “and here,” he went on, after another search in his pocket, “is some tracing paper. If you can’t manage a ‘Rudolf’ in ten minutes, why—I can.”
“Your education has been more comprehensive than mine,” said I. “You write it.”
And a very tolerable forgery did this versatile hero produce.
“Now, Fritz,” said he, “the King goes to bed. He is upset. No one is to see him till nine o’clock tomorrow. You understand—no one?”
“I understand,” answered Fritz.
“Michael may come, and claim immediate audience. You’ll answer that only princes of the blood are entitled to it.”
“That’ll annoy Michael,” laughed Fritz.
“You quite understand?” asked Sapt again. “If the door of this room is opened while we’re away, you’re not to be alive to tell us about it.”
“I need no schooling, colonel,” said Fritz, a trifle haughtily.
“Here, wrap yourself in this big cloak,” Sapt continued to me, “and put on this flat cap. My orderly rides with me to the hunting-lodge tonight.”
“There’s an obstacle,” I observed. “The horse doesn’t live that can carry me forty miles.”
“Oh,
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