The Princess Dehra. Scott John Reed
the Princess halted a moment in the doorway the Ministers sprang to their feet and stood waiting, while Ferdinand of Lotzen advanced and bowed low; not offering, however, to take her hand, fearing it would not be given, and having no notion to risk a snub in such company.
To his astonishment, Dehra extended her hand and let him kiss it.
“You come on a sad errand, cousin,” she said… “I would you were still in Lotzenia.” The words were so innocently fitting, yet the double meaning was so deliberate.
The Duke slowly straightened, discomfiture and amusement struggling for control, while Armand smiled openly and the Ministers looked away.
Meanwhile, the Princess passed on serenely to the table and took the chair at its head. Then, led by Count Epping, the Council came forward and made obeisance. She received them with just that touch of dignified sadness which the circumstances demanded, and which, with men, a woman must measure with the exactness of fine gold. And with it there was the low, sweet voice, the winning graciousness, and the dazzling smile – now softened just a trifle – that never yet had failed to conquer, and that had made her the toast of the Army and the pride of the Nation. And Armand had watched her, with glistening eyes, as one after another she sent the Ministers back to their places, bound to her chariot wheels; captive and content.
And Ferdinand of Lotzen, seeing, understood; and for the first time he realized fully what her aid meant to his rival, and how little chance he had to win, save with the Laws. And straightway the last faint scruple perished, and he set his cold heart against her, as well. Henceforth, for him, there was but one object in life – the Crown of his ancestors, and for all who interfered there would be neither consideration nor mercy.
And the Princess’ eye, resting for an instant on his face, read something of his mind, and with a lift of the chin and a careless smile she turned to the Council.
“My lords,” she said, “His Royal Highness has acquainted me with your desires, and I am glad indeed if I can serve you. His Majesty, the night before he died, executed the decree necessary to make the Archduke Armand his successor.”
“You saw the decree?” Count Epping asked.
“No, I did not, but what I know is this. Late that night I went into the King’s library; he was sitting at his desk, with the Book of Laws open before him and a pen in his hand. He was blotting a page as I entered. ‘You have made Armand’s decree?’ I cried, and went to his side to read it; but he laughed and closed the Book, saying: ‘You may see it to-morrow, child, after I have told Armand.’”
“And he did not tell you the words of the decree,” the Count asked, after a pause, “neither then nor the following day?”
The Princess closed her eyes and lowered her head. “No,” she said; “no – I never saw my father again – alive.”
There was a distressing silence – then Armand spoke:
“The Council will understand that His Majesty had no opportunity to tell me of the decree. I was with him yesterday only at the review; naturally he would not speak of it then.”
“And that was, I suppose, the last time you saw the Book of Laws?” Epping asked, addressing the Princess, who had recovered her composure.
“Yes – it was lying on the table when I left.”
“May I ask Your Highness,” said Steuben, “why, when you saw that His Majesty had been writing in the Book of Laws, you assumed, instantly, that it was ‘Armand’s decree,’ as you put it?”
“You must know, my lords,” she responded, “that it is rare, indeed, that a new law is made for the Dalbergs, there have been but five in the last hundred years, and the making is ever due to some extraordinary circumstance, which is known, of course, to all the family. We had been anticipating the decree, restoring Armand to his rightful place in the Line of Succession as Hugo’s heir, and hence it was very natural to assume it was that which His Majesty had written.” She paused, and, for an instant, her glance strayed to the Duke of Lotzen. “But it was particularly natural,” she went on, “inasmuch as the King had mentioned the matter to me twice within the week, the last time that very morning, and referring to it as ‘Armand’s decree.’”
Steuben nodded. “I am satisfied,” he said – and Duval and Marquand nodded.
The Prime Minister turned to Ferdinand.
“We would be glad to hear Your Royal Highness,” he said.
The Duke laughed softly in sneering amusement. He was still standing behind his chair, and now he tilted it forward and leaned across it, his arms folded on the rail.
“Small chance have I against such a Portia,” he answered. “Yet I would remind the Council that, where kingdoms are concerned, a pretty woman is a dangerous advocate to follow – and thrice dangerous when against her is the written Law and with her only – conjecture.”
“Our cousin of Lotzen does not mean to question my veracity?” the Princess asked quickly.
“Your veracity? – never, I assure you – only your inferences.”
“And yet, sir, what other inferences can be drawn?”
He shrugged his shoulders and turned to the Prime Minister.
“I reiterate my claim to the Crown,” he said; “and the only Law of the Dalbergs that is before you confirms it. I cannot conceive that the Royal Council of Valeria will arrogate to itself the right to annul a decree of Henry the Third.”
“His Highness of Lotzen misses the point,” said Armand. “I do not ask the Council to annul that decree, but only to assume from Her Royal Highness’ story that it was duly and legally annulled by Frederick the Fourth.”
“Exactly, my lords, exactly,” the Duke retorted; “inference against fact – guesses against an admitted Law.”
Then Armand made the play he had had in mind since it was certain that the Book of Laws was lost. He was standing behind the Princess’ chair – now he stepped forward and addressed the Duke.
“Cousin,” he said, “we are putting a grievous burden on the Ministers in obliging them to choose between us, with the proofs seemingly so strong on either side. It is not fair to them to drive them to the embarrassment nor to the misfortune that would attend a mistake. There ought to be no doubt in the mind of the Nation as to the title of the king; he who occupies the Throne should have his tenure unquestioned; and such cannot be if the one of us who is to-day made king is liable to be displaced to-morrow by the other. Besides, as I understand Henry the Third’s decree, the Council has no jurisdiction except by our agreement. You assert the decree of eligibility was not made by Frederick. If that be true, then, there being ‘a vacancy in the royal dignity without such decree being made,’ it is for the House of Nobles to enact my eligibility and so give me the Crown, or to refuse and so give it to you. Therefore, I propose that for the space of a year, or pending the recovery meanwhile of the Book of Laws, we let the question of succession remain in abeyance. If, at the end of the year, the Book has not been found, then the House of Nobles shall choose between us. And as in the interval there must be some one in supreme authority, let Her Royal Highness be proclaimed Regent of Valeria.”
Never before had there been such instant, open and cordial unanimity among the Ministers of the Royal Council. Here was a complete solution of the vexing problem, and one, moreover, that would relieve them of a most undesirable duty. Baron Retz’s smile was positively gleeful, and the others nodded enthusiastically and turned to the Duke expectantly.
And Lotzen saw that he was losing – and with rage and hatred in his heart, but with calm face and voice softer even than usual, he made his last play, knowing well that though it might not win, it would at least work a sweet revenge upon his rival.
“An admirable compromise for you, cousin mine,” he laughed; “and clever, very clever – you and Dehra are to be married on the twenty-seventh. What difference, think you, will there be between you as King and you as Consort of the Princess Regent?” Then he faced the Council and flung his last card: “Otherwise, my lords,” he said