The Historical Nights' Entertainment by Rafael Sabatini (most important books to read .txt) đź“–
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when first he entered the palace.
Gustavus, a slight, handsome man of a good height, was standing
before a cheval-glass when Bjelke came in. Francois, the priceless
valet His Majesty had brought back from his last pleasure-seeking
visit to pre-revolutionary Paris some five years ago, was standing
back judicially to consider the domino he had just placed upon the
royal shoulders. Baron Armfelt whom the conspirators accused of
wielding the most sinister of all the sinister influences that
perverted the King’s mind - dressed from head to foot in shimmering
white satin, lounged on a divan with all the easy familiarity
permitted to this most intimate of courtiers, the associate of all
royal follies.
Gustavus looked over his shoulder as he entered.
“Why, Bjelke,” he exclaimed, “I thought you had gone into the
country!”
“I am at a loss,” replied Bjelke, “to imagine what should have given
Your Majesty so mistaken an impression.” And he might have smiled
inwardly to observe how his words seemed to put Gustavus out of
countenance.
The King laughed, nevertheless, with an affectation of ease.
“I inferred it from your absence from Court on such a night. What
has been keeping you?” But, without waiting for an answer, he
fired another question. “What do you say to my domino, Bjelke?”
It was a garment embroidered upon a black satin ground with tongues
of flame so cunningly wrought in mingling threads of scarlet and
gold that as he turned about now they flashed in the candlelight,
and seemed to leap like tongues of living fire.
“Your Majesty will have a great success,” said Bjelke, and to
himself relished the full grimness of his joke. For a terrible
joke it was, seeing that he no longer intended to discharge the
errand which had brought him in such haste to the palace.
“Faith, I deserve it!” was the flippant answer, and he turned again
to the mirror to adjust a patch on the left side of his chin.
“There is genius in this domino, and it is not the genius of
Francois, for the scheme of flames is my very own, the fruit of a
deal of thought and study.”
There Gustavus uttered his whole character. As a master of the
revels, or an opera impresario, this royal rake would have been a
complete success in life. The pity of it was that the accident of
birth should have robed him in the royal purple. Like many another
prince who has come to a violent end, he was born to the wrong
metier.
“I derived the notion,” he continued, “from a sanbenito in a Goya
picture.”
“An ominous garb,” said Bjelke, smiling curiously. “The garment of
the sinner on his way to penitential doom.”
Armfelt cried out in a protest of mock horror, but Gustavus laughed
cynically.
“Oh, I confess that it would be most apt. I had not thought of it.”
His fingers sought a pomatum box, and in doing so displaced a
toilet-case of red morocco. An oblong paper package fell from the
top of this and arrested the King’s attention.
“Why, what is this?” He took it up - a letter bearing the
superscription:
To His MAJESTY THE KING
SECRET AND IMPORTANT
“What is this, Francois?” The royal voice was suddenly sharp.
The valet glided forward, whilst Armfelt rose from the divan and,
like Bjelke, attracted by the sudden change in the King’s tone and
manner, drew near his master.
“How comes this letter here?”
The valet’s face expressed complete amazement. It must have been
placed there in his absence an hour ago, after he had made all
preparations for the royal toilette. It was certainly not there
at the time, or he must have seen it.
With impatient fingers Gustavus snapped the seal and unfolded the
letter. Awhile he stood reading, very still, his brows knit.
Then, with a contemptuous “Poof!” he handed it to his secretary.
At a glance Bjelke recognized the hand for that of Colonel Lillehorn,
one of the conspirators, whose courage had evidently failed him in
the eleventh hour. He read:
SIRE, - Deign to heed the warning of one who, not being in your
service, nor solicitous of your favours, flatters not your crimes,
and yet desires to avert the danger threatening you. There is a
plot to assassinate you which would by now have been executed but
for the countermanding of the ball at the opera last week. What
was not done then will certainly be done tonight if you afford
the opportunity. Remain at home and avoid balls and public
gatherings for the rest of the year; thus the fanaticism which
aims at your life will evaporate.
“Do you know the writing?” Gustavus asked.
Bjelke shrugged. “The hand will be disguised, no doubt,” he
evaded.
“But you will heed the warning, Sire?” exclaimed, Armfelt, who had
read over the secretary’s shoulder, and whose face had paled in
reading.
Gustavus laughed contemptuously. “Faith, if I were to heed every
scaremonger, I should get but little amusement out of life.”
Yet he was angry, as his shifting colour showed. The disrespectful
tone of the anonymous communication moved him more deeply than its
actual message. He toyed a moment with a hair-ribbon, his nether
lip thrust out in thought. At last he rapped out an oath of
vexation, and proffered the ribbon to his valet.
“My hair, Francois,” said he, “and then we will be going.”
“Going!”
It was an ejaculation of horror from Armfelt, whose face was now as
white as the ivory-coloured suit he wore.
“What else? Am I to be intimidated out of my pleasures?” Yet that
his heart was less stout than his words his very next question
showed. “Apropos, Bjelke, what was the reason why you countermanded
the ball last week?”
“The councillors from Gefle claimed Your Majesty’s immediate
attention,” Bjelke reminded him.
“So you said at the time. But the business seemed none so urgent
when we came to it. There was no other reason in your mind - no
suspicion?”
His keen, dark blue eyes were fixed upon the pale masklike face of
the secretary.
That grave, almost stern countenance relaxed into a smile.
“I suspected no more than I suspect now,” was his easy equivocation.
“And all that I suspect now is that some petty enemy is attempting
to scare Your Majesty.”
“To scare me?” Gustavus flushed to the temples. “Am I a man to be
scared?”
“Ah, but consider, Sire, and you, Bjelke,” Armfelt was bleating.
“This may be a friendly warning. In all humility, Sire, let me
suggest that you incur no risk; that you countermand the masquerade.”
“And permit the insolent writer to boast that he frightened the King?”
sneered Bjelke.
“Faith, Baron, you are right. The thing is written with intent to
make a mock of me.”
“But if it were not so, Sire?” persisted the distressed Armfelt.
And volubly he argued now to impose caution, reminding the King of
his enemies, who might, indeed, be tempted to go the lengths of
which the anonymous writer spoke. Gustavus listened, and was
impressed.
“If I took heed of every admonition,” he said, “I might as well
become a monk at once. And yet - ” He took his chin in his hand,
and stood thoughtful, obviously hesitating, his head bowed, his
straight, graceful figure motionless.
Thus until Bjelke, who now desired above all else the very thing he
had come hot-foot to avert, broke the silence to undo what Armfelt
had done.
“Sire,” he said, “you may avoid both mockery and danger, and yet
attend the masquerade. Be sure, if there is indeed a plot, the
assassins will be informed of the disguise you are to wear. Give
me your flame-studded domino, and take a plain black one for
yourself.”
Armfelt gasped at the audacity of the proposal,
but Gustavus gave no sign that he had heard. He continued standing
in that tense attitude, his eyes vague and dreamy. And as if to
show along what roads of thought his mind was travelling, he uttered
a single word a name - in a questioning voice scarce louder than a
whisper.
Ankarstrom?
Later again he was to think of Ankarstrom, to make inquiries
concerning him, which justifies us here in attempting to follow
those thoughts of his. They took the road down which his conscience
pointed. Above all Swedes he had cause to fear John Jacobi
Ankarstrom, for, foully as he had wronged many men in his time, he
had wronged none more deeply than that proud, high-minded nobleman.
He hated Ankarstrom as we must always hate those whom we have
wronged, and he hated him the more because he knew himself despised
by Ankarstrom with a cold and deadly contempt that at every turn
proclaimed itself.
That hatred was more than twenty years old. It dated back to the
time when Gustavus had been a vicious youth, and Ankarstrom himself
a boy. They were much of an age. Gustavus had put upon his young
companion an infamous insult, which had been answered by a blow.
His youth and the admitted provocation alone had saved Ankarstrom
from the dread consequence of striking a Prince of the Royal Blood.
But they had not saved him from the vindictiveness of Gustavus.
He had kept his lust of vengeance warm, and very patiently had he
watched and waited for his opportunity to destroy the man, who had
struck him.
That chance had come four years ago - in 1788 - during the war with
Russia. Ankarstrom commanded the forces defending the island of
Gothland. These forces were inadequate for the task, nor was the
island in a proper state of defence, being destitute of forts. To
have persevered in resistance might have been heroic, but it would
have been worse than futile, for not only would it have entailed
the massacre of the garrison, but it must have further subjected
the inhabitants to all the horrors of sack and pillage.
In the circumstances, Ankarstrom had conceived it his duty to
surrender to the superior force of Russia, thereby securing immunity
for the persons and property of the inhabitants. In this the King
perceived his chance to indulge his hatred. He caused Ankarstrom
to be arrested and accused of high treason, it being alleged against
him that he had advised the people of Gothland not to take up arms
against the Russians. The royal agents found witnesses to bear
false evidence against Ankarstrom, with the result that he was
sentenced to twenty years’ imprisonment in a fortress. But the
sentence was never carried out. Gustavus had gone too far, as he
was soon made aware. The feelings against him which hitherto had
smouldered flamed out at this crowning act of injustice, and to
repair his error Gustavus made haste, not, indeed, to exonerate
Ankarstrom from the charges brought against him, but to pardon him
for his alleged offences.
When the Swedish nobleman was brought to Court to receive this
pardon, he used it as a weapon against the King whom he despised.
“My unjust judges,” he announced in a ringing voice, the echoes of
which were carried to the ends of Sweden, “have never doubted in
their hearts my innocence of the charges brought against me, and
established by means of false witnesses. The judgment pronounced
against me was unrighteous. This exemption from it is my proper
due. Yet I would rather perish through the enmity of the King than
live dishonoured by his clemency.”
Gustavus had set his teeth in rage when those fierce words were
reported
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