The Princess Dehra. Scott John Reed
ends or personal ambition, he had administered his office for a generation, and Frederick trusted him as few monarchs ever trusted a powerful subject. To the Nation, he was honesty and justice incarnate, and only the King and the Princess Royal excelled him in popularity and respect. Seventy years had passed over the tall and slender figure, leaving a crown of silver above the pale, lean face, with its tight-shut mouth, high cheek bones and faded blue eyes; but they had brought no stoop to the shoulders, nor feebleness to the step, nor dullness to the brain.
He saluted Armand with formal dignity; then bent over Dehra’s hand, silently and long – and when he rose a tear was trembling on his lashes. He dashed it away impatiently and turned to the Archduke.
“Sire,” he said – and Armand, in sheer surprise, made no objection – “I have brought the proclamation announcing His late Majesty’s death and your accession. It should be published in the morning. Will it please you to sign it now?”
There are moments in life so sharp with emotion that they cut into one’s memory like a sculptor’s tool, and, ever after, stand clear-lined and cameoed against the blurred background of commonplace existence. Such was the moment at the Palace when Frederick had handed him the patents of an Archduke, and such now was this. “Sire!” the word was pounding in his brain. “Sire!” he, who, less than a year ago, was but a Major in the American Army; “Sire!” he – he – King of Valeria!
Then, through the mirage, he saw Dehra’s smiling face, and he awoke suddenly to consciousness and the need for speech, and for immediate decision. Should he sign the proclamation on the chance that the decree was in his favor, and that he was, in truth, the King? He hesitated just an instant – tempted by his own desires and by the eager eyes of the fair woman before him; then he straightened his shoulders and chose the way of prudence.
He waved the Prime Minister to a chair.
“Your pardon, my lord,” he said; “your form of address was so new and unexpected, it for the moment bound my tongue.”
The old man bowed. “I think I understand, Sire,” he said, with a smile that, for an instant, softened amazingly his stern face. “Yet, believe me, one says it to you very naturally” – and his glance strayed deliberately to the wall opposite, where hung a small copy of the Great Henry’s portrait in the uniform of the Red Huzzars. “It is very wonderful,” he commented; – “and I fancy it won you instant favor and, even now, may be, makes us willing to accept you as our King. Sometimes, Your Majesty, sentiment dominates even a nation.”
“Then I trust sentiment will be content with the physical resemblance and not examine the idol too closely.”
The Count smiled again; this time rather coldly.
“The first duty of a king is to look like one,” he said; “and sentiment demands nothing else;” and, with placid insistence, he laid the proclamation on the table beside Armand.
The latter picked it up and read it – and put it down.
“My lord,” he said, “I prefer not to exercise any prerogative of kingship until the Royal Council has examined the Book of Laws and confirmed my title under the decrees.”
The faded blue eyes looked at him contemplatively.
“I assumed there was no question as to the Succession,” he remarked.
“Nor did I mean to intimate there was,” Armand answered.
“Then, with all respect, Sire, I see no reason why you should not sign the proclamation.”
Armand shook his head. “May be I am foolish,” he said; “but I will not assume the government until after the Council to-morrow – it will do no harm to delay the proclamation for a few hours. And, in the interim, you will oblige Her Royal Highness and me by keeping this key, which she removed from King Frederick’s watch chain, but a moment before you came.”
The Count nodded and took the key.
“I recognize it,” he replied. “I know the lock it opens.”
“Good,” said Armand; “the box is at the Palace, and doubtless you also know what it contains. For reasons you may easily appreciate, I desire to avoid any imputation that the Book has been touched since His Majesty’s demise. You will produce this key at the meeting to-morrow, explaining how and where you got it; and then, in the presence of the Council, I shall open the box and if, by the Laws of the Dalbergs, I am Head of the House, I will enter into my heritage and try to keep it.”
The Prime Minister got up; gladness in his heart, though his face was quite impassive. He had come in doubt and misgiving; he was easy now – here was a man who led, a man to be served; he asked no more – he was content.
“I understand,” he said; “the proclamation can wait;” then he drew himself to his full height. “God save Your Majesty!” he ended.
III
THE ROYAL COUNCIL
Count Epping was the last of the five Ministers to arrive at the Council, the following morning. He came in, a few minutes before the hour, acknowledged with grave courtesy, but brief words, the greetings of the others, and when his secretary had put his dispatch box on the table he immediately opened it and busied himself with his papers. It was his way – and none of them had ever seen him otherwise; but now there seemed to be a special significance in his silence and preoccupation.
The failure of the Court Journal to appear that morning had broken a custom that ante-dated the memory of man, and the information which was promptly conveyed to the Ministers that it was delayed until evening, and by the personal order of the Prime Minister, had provoked both amazement and expectancy. It could mean only that the paper was being held for something that must be in that day’s issue, and as they had promptly disclaimed to one another all responsibility, the inference was not difficult that it had to do with the new King’s first proclamation.
“The Count was at the Castle last evening,” Duval, the War Minister, had remarked, “and I assumed it was to submit the proclamation and have it signed.”
Baron Retz, the Minister of Justice, shrugged his shoulders.
“May be you assumed correctly,” he remarked.
The others looked at him with quick interest, but got only a smile and another shrug.
“Then why didn’t he sign it?” Duval demanded.
The Baron leaned back in his chair and studied the ceiling. “When you say ‘he,’ you mean – ?”
“The King, of course,” the other snapped. “Who the devil else would I mean?”
“And by ‘the King,’” drawled Retz, “you mean – ?”
There was a sudden silence – then General Duval brought his fist down on the table with a bang.
“Monsieur le Baron,” he exclaimed, “you understand perfectly whom I meant by the King – the Archduke Armand. If he is not the King, and you know it, it is your duty as a member of the Council to disclose the fact to us forthwith; this is no time nor place to indulge in innuendoes.”
The Baron’s small grey eyes turned slowly and, for a brief instant, lingered, with a dull glitter, on the War Minister’s face.
“My dear General,” he laughed, “you are so precipitate. If you ever lead an army you will deal only in frontal attacks – and defeats. I assure you I know nothing; but to restate your own question: if the Archduke Armand be the King, why didn’t he sign the proclamation?”
Steuben, the grey-bearded Minister of the Interior, cut in with a growl.
“What is the profit of all these wonderful theories?” he demanded, eyeing Retz. “The ordinary and reasonable explanation is that the proclamation is to be submitted to us this morning.”
“In which event,” said the Baron, “we shall have the explanation in a very few minutes,” and resumed his study of the ceiling.
“And in the meantime,” remarked Admiral Marquand,