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- Author: Anthony Hope
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Having got rid of my dear brother and his friends, I returned to make my adieu to my cousin. She was standing at the door. I bade her farewell, taking her hand in mine.
“Rudolf,” she said, very low, “be careful, won’t you?”
“Of what?”
“You know—I can’t say. But think what your life is to—”
“Well to—?”
“To Ruritania.”
Was I right to play the part, or wrong to play the part? I know not: evil lay both ways, and I dared not tell her the truth.
“Only to Ruritania?” I asked softly.
A sudden flush spread over her incomparable face.
“To your friends, too,” she said.
“Friends?”
“And to your cousin,” she whispered, “and loving servant.”
I could not speak. I kissed her hand, and went out cursing myself.
Outside I found Master Fritz, quite reckless of the footmen, playing at cat’s-cradle with the Countess Helga.
“Hang it!” said he, “we can’t always be plotting. Love claims his share.”
“I’m inclined to think he does,” said I; and Fritz, who had been by my side, dropped respectfully behind.
CHAPTER 9 A New Use for a Tea-table
If I were to detail the ordinary events of my daily life at this time, they might prove instructive to people who are not familiar with the inside of palaces; if I revealed some of the secrets I learnt, they might prove of interest to the statesmen of Europe. I intend to do neither of these things. I should be between the Scylla of dullness and the Charybdis of indiscretion, and I feel that I had far better confine myself strictly to the underground drama which was being played beneath the surface of Ruritanian politics. I need only say that the secret of my imposture defied detection. I made mistakes. I had bad minutes: it needed all the tact and graciousness whereof I was master to smooth over some apparent lapses of memory and unmindfulness of old acquaintances of which I was guilty. But I escaped, and I attribute my escape, as I have said before, most of all, to the very audacity of the enterprise. It is my belief that, given the necessary physical likeness, it was far easier to pretend to be King of Ruritania than it would have been to personate my next-door neighbour. One day Sapt came into my room. He threw me a letter, saying:
“That’s for you—a woman’s hand, I think. But I’ve some news for you first.”
“What’s that?”
“The King’s at the Castle of Zenda,” said he.
“How do you know?”
“Because the other half of Michael’s Six are there. I had enquiries made, and they’re all there—Lauengram, Krafstein, and young Rupert Hentzau: three rogues, too, on my honour, as fine as live in Ruritania.”
“Well?”
“Well, Fritz wants you to march to the Castle with horse, foot, and artillery.”
“And drag the moat?” I asked.
“That would be about it,” grinned Sapt, “and we shouldn’t find the King’s body then.”
“You think it’s certain he’s there?”
“Very probable. Besides the fact of those three being there, the drawbridge is kept up, and no one goes in without an order from young Hentzau or Black Michael himself. We must tie Fritz up.”
“I’ll go to Zenda,” said I.
“You’re mad.”
“Some day.”
“Oh, perhaps. You’ll very likely stay there though, if you do.”
“That may be, my friend,” said I carelessly.
“His Majesty looks sulky,” observed Sapt. “How’s the love affair?”
“Damn you, hold your tongue!” I said.
He looked at me for a moment, then he lit his pipe. It was quite true that I was in a bad temper, and I went on perversely:
“Wherever I go, I’m dogged by half a dozen fellows.”
“I know you are; I send ‘em,” he replied composedly.
“What for?”
“Well,” said Sapt, puffing away, “it wouldn’t be exactly inconvenient for Black Michael if you disappeared. With you gone, the old game that we stopped would be played—or he’d have a shot at it.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“De Gautet, Bersonin, and Detchard are in Strelsau; and any one of them, lad, would cut your throat as readily—as readily as I would Black Michael’s, and a deal more treacherously. What’s the letter?”
I opened it and read it aloud:
“If the King desires to know what it deeply concerns the King to know, let him do as this letter bids him. At the end of the New Avenue there stands a house in large grounds. The house has a portico, with a statue of a nymph on it. A wall encloses the garden; there is a gate in the wall at the back. At twelve o’clock tonight, if the King enters alone by that gate, turns to the right, and walks twenty yards, he will find a summerhouse, approached by a flight of six steps. If he mounts and enters, he will find someone who will tell him what touches most dearly his life and his throne. This is written by a faithful friend. He must be alone. If he neglects the invitation his life will be in danger. Let him show this to no one, or he will ruin a woman who loves him: Black Michael does not pardon.”
“No,” observed Sapt, as I ended, “but he can dictate a very pretty letter.”
I had arrived at the same conclusion, and was about to throw the letter away, when I saw there was more writing on the other side.
“Hallo! there’s some more.”
“If you hesitate,” the writer continued, “consult Colonel Sapt—”
“Eh,” exclaimed that gentleman, genuinely astonished. “Does she take me for a greater fool than you?”
I waved to him to be silent.
“Ask him what woman would do most to prevent the duke from marrying his cousin, and therefore most to prevent him becoming king? And ask if her name begins with—A?”
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