The Historical Nights' Entertainment by Rafael Sabatini (most important books to read .txt) đź“–
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informed of the cordial reception which everywhere awaited Ankarstrom
on his release. He perceived how far he had overshot his mark, and
how, in seeking treacherously to hurt Ankarstrom, he had succeeded
only in hurting himself. Nor had he appeased the general indignation
by his pardon. True, the flame of revolt had been quelled. But he had
no lack of evidence that the fire continued to burn steadily in secret,
and to eat its way further and further into the ranks of noble and
simple alike.
It is little wonder, then, that in this moment, with that warning
lying there before him, the name of Ankarstrom should be on his lips,
the thought of Ankarstrom, the fear of Ankarstrom, looming big in
his mind. It was big enough to make him heed the warning. He
dropped into a chair.
“I will not go,” he said, and Bjelke saw that his face was white,
his hands shaking.
But when the secretary had repeated the proposal which had earlier
gone unheard, Gustavus caught at it with sudden avidity, and with
but little concern for the danger that Bjelke might be running. He
sprang up, applauding it. If a conspiracy there was, the
conspirators would thus be trapped; if there were no conspiracy,
then this attempt to frighten him should come to nothing; thus he
would be as safe from the mockery of his enemies as from their
knives. Nor did Armfelt protest or make further attempts to
dissuade him from going. In the circumstances proposed by Bjelke,
the risk would be Bjelke’s, a matter which troubled Armfelt not at
all; indeed, he had no cause to love Bjelke, in whom he beheld a
formidable rival, and it would be to him no cause for tears if the
knife intended for the royal vitals should find its way into
Bjelke’s instead.
So Baron Bjelke, arrayed in the domino copied from the penitential
sack, departed for the Opera House, leaving Gustavus to follow.
Yet, despite the measure of precaution, no sooner had the masked
King himself entered the crowded theatre, leaning upon the arm of
the Count of Essen, than he conceived that he beheld confirmation
of the warning, and regretted that he had not heeded it to the
extent of remaining absent. For one of the first faces he beheld,
one of the few unmasked faces in that brilliantly lit salon, was
the face of Ankarstrom, and Ankarstrom appeared to be watching the
entrance.
Gustavus checked in his stride, a tremor ran through him, and he
stiffened in his sudden apprehension, for the sight of the tall
figure and haughty, resolute face of the nobleman he had wronged
was of more significance than at first might seem. Ever since his
infamous trial Ankarstrom had been at pains to seize every occasion
of marking his contempt for his Prince. Never did he fail upon the
King’s appearance in any gathering of which he was a member to
withdraw immediately; and never once had he been known deliberately
to attend any function which was to be graced by the presence of
Gustavus. How, then, came he here to this ball given by the King’s
own command unless he came for the fell purpose of which the letter
had given warning?
The King’s impulse was to withdraw immediately. He was taken by a
curious, an almost unreasoning, fear that was quite foreign to him,
who, for all his faults, had never yet lacked courage. But, even
as he hesitated, a figure swept past him in a domino flecked with
flames, surrounded by revellers of both sexes, and he remembered
that if Ankarstrom were bent on evil his attention would be held by
that figure before which the crowd fell back, and opened out
respectfully, believing it to be the King’s. Yet none the less it
was Gustavus himself that Ankarstrom continued to regard in such a
ay that the King had a feeling that his mask was made of glass.
And then quite suddenly, even as he was on the point of turning,
another wave of revellers swept frantically up, and in a moment
Gustavus and the Count of Essen were surrounded. Another moment
and the buffeting crowd had separated him from his grand equerry.
He found himself alone in the centre of this knot of wild fellows
who, seeming to mistake him for one of themselves, forced him
onward with them in their career. For a moment he attempted to
resist. But as well might he have resisted a torrent. Their rush
was not to be stemmed. It almost swept him from his feet, and to
save himself he must perforce abandon himself to the impetus. Thus
he was swirled away across the floor of the amphitheatre, helpless
as a swimmer in strong waters, and with the fear of the drowning
clutching now at his heart.
He had an impulse to unmask, proclaim himself, and compel the
respect that was his due. But to do so might be to expose himself
to the very danger of whose presence he was now convinced. His
only hope must lie in allowing himself to be borne passively along
until a chance opening allowed him to escape from these madmen.
The stage had been connected with the floor of the theatre by a
broad flight of wooden steps. Up this flight he was carried by that
human wave. But on the stage itself he found an anchorage at last
against one of the wings. Breathing hard, he set his back to it,
waiting for the wave to sweep on and leave him. Instead, it paused
and came to rest with him, and in that moment some one touched him
on the shoulder. He turned his head, and looked into the set face
of Ankarstrom, who was close behind him. Then a burning, rending
pain took him in his side, and he grew sick and dizzy. The uproar
of voices became muffled; the lights were merged into a luminous
billow that swelled and shrank and then went out altogether.
The report of the pistol had been lost in the general din to all but
those who stood near the spot where it had been fired. And these
found themselves suddenly borne backwards by the little crowd of
maskers that fell away from the figure lying prone and bleeding on
the stage.
Voices were raised, shouting “Fire! Fire!” Thus the conspirators
sought to create confusion, that they might disperse and lose
themselves in the general crowd. That confusion, however, was very
brief. It was stemmed almost immediately by the Count of Essen,
who leapt up the steps to the stage with a premonition of what had
happened. He stooped to rip away the mask from the face of the
victim, and, beholding, as he had feared, the livid countenance of
his King, he stood up, himself almost as pale.
“Murder has been done!” he roared. “Let the doors be closed and
guarded, and let no one leave the theatre.” Instantly was his
bidding done by the officers of the guard.
Those of the King’s household who were in attendance came forward
now to raise Gustavus, and help to bear him to a couch. There
presently he recovered consciousness, whilst a physician was seeing
to his hurt, and as soon as he realized his condition his manner
became so calm that, himself, he took command of the situation. He
issued orders that the gates of the city should be closed against
everybody, whilst himself apologizing to the Prussian minister who
was near him for issuing that inconvenient but necessary order.
“The gates shall remain closed for three days, sir,” he announced.
“During that time you will not be able to correspond with your Court;
but your intelligence, when it goes, will be more certain, since by
that time it should be known whether I can survive or not.”
His next order, delivered in a voice that was broken by his intense
suffering, was to the chamberlain Benzelstjerna, commanding that
all present should unmask and sign their names in a book before
being suffered to depart. That done, he bade them bear him home on
the couch on which he had been placed that he might be spared the
agony of more movement than was necessary.
Thus his grenadiers bore him on their shoulders, lighted by torches,
through the streets that were now thronged, for the rumour had now
gone forth that the King was dead, and troops had been called out
to keep order. Beside him walked Armfelt in his suit of shimmering
white satin, weeping at once for his King and for himself, for he
knew that he was of those who must fall with Gustavus. And, knowing
this, there was bitter rage in his heart against the men who had
wrought this havoc, a rage that sharpened his wits to an unusual
acuteness.
At last the King was once more in his apartments awaiting the
physicians who were to pronounce his fate, and Armfelt kept him
company among others, revolving in his mind the terrible suspicion
he had formed.
Presently came Duke Charles, the King’s brother, and Benzelstjerna
with the list of those who had been present at the ball.
“Tell me,” he asked, before the list was read to him, “is the name
of Ankarstrom included in it?”
“He was the last to sign, Sire,” replied the chamberlain.
The King smiled grimly. “Tell Lillesparre to have him arrested and
questioned.”
Armfelt flung forward. “There is another who should be arrested,
too!” he cried fiercely. And added, “Bjelke!”
“Bjelke?”
The King echoed the name almost in anger at the imputation. Armfelt
spoke torrentially. “It was he persuaded you to go against your own
judgment when you had the warning, and at last induced you to it by
offering to assume your own domino. If the assassins sought the
King, how came they to pass over one who wore the King’s domino, and
to penetrate your own disguise that was like a dozen others?
Because they were informed of the change. But by whom - by whom?
Who was it knew?”
“My God!” groaned the unfortunate King, who had in his time broken
faith with so many, and was now to suffer the knowledge of this
broken faith in one whom he had trusted above all others.
Baron Bjelke was arrested an hour later, arrested in the very act
of entering his own home. The men of Lillesparre’s police had
preceded him thither to await his return. He was quite calm when
they surged suddenly about him, laid hands upon him, and formally
pronounced him their prisoner.
“I suppose,” he said, “it was to have been inferred. Allow me to
take my leave of the Baroness, and I shall be at your disposal.”
“My orders, Baron, are explicit,” he was answered by the officer in
charge. “I am not to suffer you out of my sight.”
“How? Am I to be denied so ordinary a boon?” His voice quivered
with sudden anger and something else.
“Such are my orders, Baron.”
Bjelke pleaded for five minutes’ grace for that leavetaking. But
the officer had his orders. He was no more than a machine. The
Baron raised his clenched hands in mute protest to the heavens,
then let them fall heavily.
“Very well,” he said, and suffered them to thrust him back into his
carriage and carry him away to the waiting Lillesparre.
He found Armfelt in the office of the chief of the police, haranguing
Ankarstrom, who was already there under arrest. The favourite broke
off as Bjelke was brought in.
“You were privy to this infamy, Bjelke,” he cried. “If the King
does not recover -
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