The Prisoner of Zenda Anthony Hope (read e book TXT) 📖

old Sapt (who, I began to find, loved a good lie for its own sake), “has slept without a break all night.”

The young gentleman (he reminded me of Osric in Hamlet) bowed himself out again. The farce was over, and Fritz von Tarlenheim’s pale face recalled us to reality⁠—though, in faith, the farce had to be reality for us now.

“Is the king dead?” he whispered.

“Please God, no,” said I. “But he’s in the hands of Black Michael!”

VIII A Fair Cousin and a Dark Brother

A real king’s life is perhaps a hard one; but a pretended king’s is, I warrant, much harder. On the next day, Sapt instructed me in my duties⁠—what I ought to do and what I ought to know⁠—for three hours; then I snatched breakfast, with Sapt still opposite me, telling me that the king always took white wine in the morning and was known to detest all highly seasoned dishes. Then came the chancellor, for another three hours; and to him I had to explain that the hurt to my finger (we turned that bullet to happy account) prevented me from writing⁠—whence arose great to-do, hunting of precedents and so forth, ending in my “making my mark,” and the chancellor attesting it with a superfluity of solemn oaths. Then the French ambassador was introduced, to present his credentials; here my ignorance was of no importance, as the king would have been equally raw to the business (we worked through the whole corps diplomatique in the next few days, a demise of the Crown necessitating all this bother).

Then, at last, I was left alone. I called my new servant (we had chosen, to succeed poor Josef, a young man who had never known the king), had a brandy and soda brought to me, and observed to Sapt that I trusted that I might now have a rest. Fritz von Tarlenheim was standing by.

“By heaven!” he cried, “we waste time. Aren’t we going to throw Black Michael by the heels?”

“Gently, my son, gently,” said Sapt, knitting his brows. “It would be a pleasure, but it might cost us dear. Would Michael fall and leave the king alive?”

“And,” I suggested, “while the king is here in Strelsau, on his throne, what grievance has he against his dear brother Michael?”

“Are we to do nothing, then?”

“We’re to do nothing stupid,” growled Sapt.

“In fact, Fritz,” said I, “I am reminded of a situation in one of our English plays⁠—The Critic⁠—have you heard of it? Or, if you like, of two men, each covering the other with a revolver. For I can’t expose Michael without exposing myself⁠—”

“And the king,” put in Sapt.

“And, hang me if Michael won’t expose himself, if he tries to expose me!”

“It’s very pretty,” said old Sapt.

“If I’m found out,” I pursued, “I will make a clean breast of it, and fight it out with the duke; but at present I’m waiting for a move from him.”

“He’ll kill the king,” said Fritz.

“Not he,” said Sapt.

“Half of the Six are in Strelsau,” said Fritz.

“Only half? You’re sure?” asked Sapt eagerly.

“Yes⁠—only half.”

“Then the king’s alive, for the other three are guarding him!” cried Sapt.

“Yes⁠—you’re right!” exclaimed Fritz, his face brightening. “If the king were dead and buried, they’d all be here with Michael. You know Michael’s back, colonel?”

“I know, curse him!”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” said I, “who are the Six?”

“I think you’ll make their acquaintance soon,” said Sapt. “They are six gentlemen whom Michael maintains in his household; they belong to him body and soul. There are three Ruritanians; then there’s a Frenchman, a Belgian, and one of your countrymen.”

“They’d all cut a throat if Michael told them,” said Fritz.

“Perhaps they’ll cut mine,” I suggested.

“Nothing more likely,” agreed Sapt. “Who are here, Fritz?”

“De Gautet, Bersonin, and Detchard.”

“The foreigners! It’s as plain as a pikestaff. He’s brought them, and left the Ruritanians with the king; that’s because he wants to commit the Ruritanians as deep as he can.”

“They were none of them among our friends at the lodge, then?” I asked.

“I wish they had been,” said Sapt wistfully. “They had been, not six, but four, by now.”

I had already developed one attribute of royalty⁠—a feeling that I need not reveal all my mind or my secret designs even to my intimate friends. I had fully resolved on my course of action. I meant to make myself as popular as I could, and at the same time to show no disfavour to Michael. By these means I hoped to allay the hostility of his adherents, and make it appear, if an open conflict came about, that he was ungrateful and not oppressed.

Yet an open conflict was not what I hoped for.

The king’s interest demanded secrecy; and while secrecy lasted, I had a fine game to play in Strelsau, Michael should not grow stronger for delay!

I ordered my horse, and, attended by Fritz von Tarlenheim, rode in the grand new avenue of the Royal Park, returning all the salutes which I received with punctilious politeness. Then I rode through a few of the streets, stopped and bought flowers of a pretty girl, paying her with a piece of gold; and then, having attracted the desired amount of attention (for I had a trail of half a thousand people after me), I rode to the residence of the Princess Flavia, and asked if she would receive me. This step created much interest, and was met with shouts of approval. The princess was very popular, and the chancellor himself had not scrupled to hint to me that the more I pressed my suit, and the more rapidly I brought it to a prosperous conclusion, the stronger should I be in the affection of my subjects. The chancellor, of course, did not understand the difficulties which lay in the way of following his loyal and excellent advice. However, I thought I could do no harm by calling; and in this view Fritz supported me with a cordiality that surprised me, until