Chapter XIII: The Feast of St John Baptist (7)

Marquise. Are they to say it of me then, monsieur? (_She rises and stands by him, looking towards the Place, where the scaffold is now visible._)

Duc. (_Removing his hat and bowing humbly._) I beg your pardon.

Marquise. (_Very low._) Dear Louis, dear Louis!

Duc. I thought life done. I was wrong a thousand times!

Marquise. I cried when you----

Duc. Ah, if I beg them to torture me---- Would that atone?

Marquise. They found me crying. Think of the humiliation!

Duc. Oh, I must have a talk with a priest--after all I must! (_She turns away with a sob and then a gasping laugh._) Ay, that’s life, dearest Marquise--and perhaps it’s the other thing too.

Marquise. I care less now, Louis.

Duc. Give me your hand a minute. Yes, it’s warmer now. And the rouge--why, madame, I swear the rouge is utterly superfluous! Shall we throw it to the mob? It’s their favourite colour. I’ll leave it in the cart--when they turn on one another, some hero may be glad of it. Margot, dear Margot, are you cold? I thought you shivered as your arm touched mine.

Marquise. (_Low._) No. I’m--I’m just a little afraid, Louis.

Duc. Oh no, no, no--Margot, no. You’re cold. Or--(_Smiling._) Come, flatter me. Say it’s agitation--say it’s joy. Come, Margot, say that!

Marquise. (_Drawing nearer._) They didn’t know what they were doing when they sent me with you.

Duc. The ignorance of the fellows is extraordinary.

Marquise. Because--everybody knew.

Duc. Alas, I was never too discreet! (_More shouts are heard. The Guard in charge of the tumbril cries “Ready? We’re the last.”_) Hum! For to-day, I suppose he means! (_He looks at her; her lips are moving. He takes off his hat and stands bareheaded. The movement of her lips ceases and she turns to him. He smiles._) I think you can have little need of prayer.

Marquise. You say that? You?

Duc. Yes, I say that, Margot. (_They are at the foot of the scaffold now._) As for me--well, I have always followed the fashion--and prayers are not the fashion now. I was bitten by M. de Voltaire. By the way, perhaps he’s had something to do with this--and we made him the fashion! How whimsical! (_The National Guard turns and points his finger towards the scaffold._) What? Oh, at your service, monsieur. (_He turns to the_ MARQUISE, _smiling_.) I must leave you--this time in love.

Marquise. (_Stretching out her hands._) Let me go first.

Duc. On my soul, I couldn’t! (_Softly._) The way is dark, let me show it you.

Marquise. Louis, Louis!

Duc. And now--look now towards the river. Pray--towards the river! I want you to remember me at my best. And--Margot--you mustn’t--you mustn’t want the rouge. Your hand’s warm--still warm.

Marquise. (_Vehemently._) I will go first. I--I can’t see you--I will go first.

Duc. Your will is my law always. (_She turns to descend._) It has been pleasant to come with you.

Marquise. It was--easier--to come with you.

Duc. I am forgiven, Margot?

Marquise. Louis, dear Louis! (_He raises her hand to his lips. She goes. He stands bareheaded, facing the scaffold while she suffers. Then he puts his hat on and mounts the scaffold. They carry past him the basket containing her head. A priest holds a crucifix before him. He starts and bows to the priest._)

Duc. I beg your pardon, father, but--I knew the lady very well. She died bravely, eh? _Pardon?_ Think how we have lived as well as how we die? Yes, yes; most just and--er--apposite. Die truly penitent? Ah yes, yes. Forgive me--I’m not master of my time. (_He bows and turns to the executioner and his assistants._) Don’t keep me waiting. My desire is to follow Madame la Marquise. What? “The woman died well!” God save us--the woman! Well, as you please. Shall we say---- (_He places himself beneath the knife._) Shall we say--Margot? Nobody was ever like Margot. (_Smiles, then looks up._) Well? Oh, you wait for me. Good! _Messieurs, allez!_

THE RIDDLE OF COUNTESS RUNA

I

Having reduced the rest of his kingdom to obedience in three arduous campaigns, King Stanislas sat himself down with a great army before the strong place of Or, which was held against him by Runa, daughter of Count Theobald the Fierce. For Countess Runa said that since her father had paid neither obedience nor tribute to the King’s father for fifty years, neither would she pay obedience or tribute to the King, nor would she open the city gates to him save at her own time and by her own will. So the King came and enveloped the city on all sides, so that none could pass in or out, and sent his heralds to Countess Runa demanding surrender; in default of which he would storm the ramparts, sack the city, and lay the citadel level with the earth, in such wise that men should not remember the place where it had been.

Sitting on her high chair, beneath the painted window through which the sun struck athwart her fair hair, Runa heard the message.

“Tell the King--for a king he is, though no king of mine--that we are well armed and have knights of fame with us. Tell him that we are provisioned for more months than he shall reign years, and that we will tire him sooner than he can starve us.”

She ceased speaking, and the principal herald, bowing low, asked: “Is that all the message?”

“No, there is more. Tell him that the daughter of Count Theobald the Fierce rules in the city of Or.”

Bowing again, the principal herald asked: “Is that all the message?”

Runa sat silent for a minute. Then she said: “No, there is more. Tell the King that he must carry the citadel before he can pass the ramparts.”

The principal herald frowned, then smiled and said: “But with deference, madam, how can that be? For the citadel is high on a rock, and the city lies round it below, and again round the city lie the ramparts. How, then, shall the King carry the citadel before----?”

Runa raised her brows in weariness.

“Your speech is as long as your siege will be,” she said. “You are a mouthpiece, Sir Herald, not an interpreter. Begone, and say to the King what I have given you to say.”

So the heralds returned to King Stanislas and gave him Runa’s answer; but the King, in his wrath, listened more to the first part of it than to the last, and assaulted the ramparts fiercely for three days. But Runa’s men rolled his men back with loss and in confusion, for they were in good heart because of the message Runa had sent. “For,” they said, “our Countess has bidden the King perform what is impossible before she will yield the city; and as we trusted Theobald the father, so we trust the daughter Runa.”

After his three assaults had failed, King Stanislas waited in quiet for a month, drawing his cordon yet more closely round the city. Then he sent again to the Countess, saying that he would spend the first half of his reign outside the walls of Or, provided he could spend the second half of it inside the same; yet if she would yield now, she should have his favour and all her wealth; but if she would not yield, she must await starvation and sack and the extremity of his anger. To which summons she answered only: “Tell the King that he must carry the citadel before he can pass the ramparts.” And she would say no more to the heralds.

“A plague on her!” cried Stanislas. “A plague on the woman and her insolent riddles! Of what appearance is she? I have never seen her.”

“As the sun for beauty and the moon for dignity,” said the principal herald, whose occupation naturally bred eloquence.

“Stuff!” said King Stanislas very crossly.

The herald bowed, but with an offended air.

“Does she seem sane?” asked Stanislas.

“Perfectly sane, sire,” answered the herald. “Although, as your Majesty deigns to intimate, the purport of her message is certainly not such as might reasonably be expected from a lady presumably endowed with----”

“I am ready for the next audience,” said King Stanislas to his Chamberlain.

And after the next audience he sat down and thought. But, as often happens with meaner men, he took nothing by it, except a pain in the head and a temper much the worse. So that he ordered three more assaults on the ramparts of the City of Or, which ended as the first three had; and then sent another summons to Countess Runa, to which she returned the same answer. And for the life of him the King could see in it no meaning save that never in all his life should he pass the ramparts. “Only an army of birds could do what she says!” he declared peevishly. Indeed he was so chagrined and shamed that he would then and there have raised the siege and returned to the capital, had it not been for the unfortunate circumstance that, on leaving it, he had publicly and solemnly vowed never to return, nor to show himself to his lieges there, unless and until he should be master of the City of Or. So there he was, unable to enter either city, and saddled with a great army to feed, winter coming on, and the entire situation, as his Chancellor observed, full of perplexity. On the top of all this, too, there were constant sounds and signs of merriment and plenty within the city, and the Countess’s men, when they had eaten, took to flinging the bones of their meat to the besiegers outside--an action most insulting, however one might be pleased to interpret it.

Meanwhile Countess Runa sat among her ladies and knights, on her high chair under the emblazoned window, with the sun striking athwart her fair hair. Often she smiled; once or twice she sighed. Perhaps she was wondering what King Stanislas would do next--and when he would understand her message.

II

There was with King Stanislas’ army a certain friar named Nicholas, a man who was pious, brave, and cheerful, although, in the judgment of some, more given to good-fellowship and conviviality than became his sacred profession. He was a shrewd fellow too, and had a good wit; and for all these qualities Stanislas held him in good will and allowed him some degree of familiarity. Friar Nicholas had heard the Countess Runa’s message, which, indeed, had leaked through the army and been much discussed and canvassed round the camp fires. The friar had listened to all the talk, agreeing with every man in turn, nodding his head wisely, but holding his tongue closely. No man heard him utter any opinion whatsoever as to what Countess Runa meant--supposing her to mean anything save defiance pure and simple.

One night, when the King sat in his tent very moody and sore out of heart with his undertaking, the flap of the tent was lifted, and Friar Nicholas stood there.

“I did not summon you,” said the King.

“David did not summon Nathan,” said Nicholas. “But he came to him.”

“What ewe-lamb is it that I have taken?” Stanislas asked, smiling, for he was glad to be rid of his thoughts and have company. “Let Nathan drink with David,” he added, pushing a flagon of wine towards Nicholas, who, on this invitation, let the flap of the tent fall behind him and came in. “Is the ewe-lamb this one city which of all the realm holds out against me? Is Or the ewe-lamb of Countess Runa?”

“The City of Or is the ewe-lamb,” said Nicholas, after he had drunk.

“But in the first place, O Prophet, I have not taken it--a curse on it! And, in the second, it is mine by right, as by right it was my father’s before me. Why, then, am I to be denounced by my holy Prophet?”

“I do not come to denounce you for having taken it, but to show you how to take it,” answered Nicholas. And he stood there, in the centre of the tent, wrapping his frock close round him. “O King,” said he, “I will put a question to you.”

The King leant back in his chair. “I will listen and answer,” he said.

“Where is the citadel of an army, O King?” asked Nicholas.

“An army has no citadel,” answered the King. “A city has a citadel, a fortress of stone or of brick, set in the middle of it and on high. But an army lies in tents or on the bare ground, moving hither and thither. An army has no citadel, O Prophet! Are you answered?”

“Where is the citadel of an army, O King?” asked Nicholas again.

“An army has no citadel,” replied the King. “A city that is made of brick and of stone has a citadel. But an army is not of brick and stone, but is made and composed only of men, of their flesh and bones, their sinews and muscles, their brains and hearts. An army has no citadel, O Prophet! Are you answered?”

“Where is the citadel of an army, O King?” asked Nicholas for the third time.

Then, seeing that he had a meaning, the King took thought; for many minutes he sat in meditation, while Nicholas stood in the centre of the tent, never moving, with his eyes set on the King’s face.

At last the King answered.

“An army has a citadel,” he said. “The citadel of an army is the stout heart of him who leads it. His heart is its citadel, O Prophet! Are you answered?”

“You have spoken it. I am answered, O King!” said Nicholas, and he turned and went out from the King’s tent.

But the King sprang to his feet with an eager cry. “It is not otherwise with a city!” he cried. “And before I can pass the ramparts of Or, I must carry the citadel!”

III

Countess Runa sat in her high chair under the emblazoned window of the great hall, with her ladies and knights about her, and one of her officers craved leave to bring a prisoner into her presence. Leave given, the officer presented his charge--a tall and comely young man, standing between two guards, yet bearing himself proudly and with a free man’s carriage of his head. His hair was dark, his eyes blue, his shoulders broad; he was long in the leg and lean in the flank. Runa suffered her eyes to glance at him in approval.

“Where did you find him?” she asked of the officer.

“He came late last night to the southern gate,” the officer answered, “and begged asylum from the anger of King Stanislas.”

“He’s a deserter, then?” she asked, frowning a little.

“He has told us nothing. He would tell his story, he said, to your Highness only.”

“Let him speak,” she said, taking a peacock fan from one of her ladies and half hiding her face behind it.

“Speak, prisoner,” said the officer.

“If I am a prisoner, it is by my own will,” said the stranger; “but I was in such straits that my will had no alternative save to cause me to throw myself on the mercy of your Highness. Yet I am no traitor, and wish naught but good to my lord King Stanislas.”

“Then you had best wish that he shall return to his own city and leave mine alone,” said Runa.

The knights smiled and the ladies tittered. The stranger took no heed of these things, nor, as it seemed, of her Highness’s remark.

“I was high in the King’s confidence,” he said. “He deemed me a wise man, and held that I knew all that was to be known, and that by my aid alone he could discover all that was hidden, and unravel any riddle, however difficult. Through three victorious campaigns I was by his side, and then he brought me to the walls of Or, not doubting that by my valour and counsel he should be enabled to make himself master of the city. I do not boast. I repeat only what the King has many a time said of me, both publicly and when we two were alone.”

“Then one man at least has a good esteem of you,” said Runa. “Indeed, as I think, two.”

Again the ladies tittered and the knights smiled. But the stranger was unmoved.

“Then,” he went on in a smooth equable voice whose rich tones struck pleasantly on their ears and made the ladies sorry for their mocking, “came the day, fatal to me, when your Highness was pleased to send his Majesty a message. For when the King asked me the meaning of your riddle--asked how a man could carry the citadel before he passed the ramparts--I told him to take no heed of it, for it was an idle vaunt. And he believed me and assaulted the ramparts three times in vain. And in vain brave men died. Again came your message, and when the King asked me the meaning of it, I said it was insolent defiance. And he believed me, and assaulted the ramparts three times in vain. And in vain brave men died. Then came the message a third time, and the King demanded of me the meaning of it. But I did not know the meaning, and, lest more men should die, I confessed to him that I could not read the riddle.”

“You learnt wisdom late and at a cost,” said Runa, setting her eyes on him over the top of the peacock fan.

“When I confessed that, he called me a blockhead and, with many hard words, told me plainly that all my credit stood on my reading him that riddle, and reading it, the third time, right; and that if I could not read it, I could never see home again nor my own people, but that my life must end here outside the walls of the city, and end in disgrace and defeat. So the King said to me in his wrath, and in fear of him and of the death he threatened I stole by night from his camp and delivered myself to the officer of your Highness’s watch at the southern gate of the city.”

“What do you want of me?” asked Runa.

“Either the answer to the riddle, that I may carry it back to the King forthwith and have his favour again----”

“And failing that?” said Runa, smiling.

“Leave to abide here for a while, in the hope that by my own wit I may discover the meaning.”

The knights laughed and murmured scornfully, but the ladies, on whom the stranger’s appearance had made no small impression, sighed sadly, as though it were lamentable to hear a personable brave man ask such foolish things. But Runa sank her head in thought. When she raised her eyes she met those of the stranger fixed full on her. They gleamed blue and keen. A faint flush rose on Runa’s cheek--or was it a red light from the painted window over her head?

“Seven days and seven nights you may abide here,” she said, “but on condition that at the end of that time my officers deliver you to your King again. If by then you have read the riddle, it will be good for the King and for you. But if you have not read it, let it be evil for you as for him--evil unto death. How say you?”

“I accept the condition, and I will abide,” said the stranger.

Runa signed that he should be led forth. “And leave me alone, all of you,” she said.

IV

Seven days and seven nights, then, the stranger abode in the city. Every day he held speech with Runa, both in the great hall, with the ladies and the knights, and privately. Much he told her concerning the kingdom and the King, and she showed him all the wealth and power of her city. But when she bade him speak of himself, he would answer, “I am nothing without the King,” and would say no more of himself, so that she was full of wonder about him, and pondered more and more as to who he was and whence he came. And meanwhile the King’s army lay idle in its tents and made no assault on the ramparts.

At last, on the third day, she said to him: “Tell me why the King your master leaves all his great kingdom and makes war on my poor city?”

“The King,” he answered, “makes war that peace may come, and union, and power. In three years he has brought peace to all the kingdom. This city alone is left, a foe set among friends, disobedient among the obedient, a weakness amidst that which is strong. Without the kingdom the city is nothing, and without the city the kingdom is feeble.”

Runa knit her brows and heard him in silence. But after a while she said:

“Had the King sent an embassy to me with these words, it may be that I should have listened. But he sent me only a summons to surrender.”

The next day she sent for him again and said: “If I give up my city and submit myself to the King, what am I then--I who was Runa of Or?”

“You will be high in the King’s counsel and in his love,” he answered.

“I do not covet the King’s love,” said Runa, knitting her brows again.

“You do not know what it is, madam,” he said softly.

On the fifth day she sent for him again, and privately, and said to him:

“If I give up my city and submit myself to the King, and there is peace in the kingdom such as there has not been since the day my father Count Theobald ruled in Or, what will the King do?”

“He will enrich the kingdom, and make it fair and secure it against all foes.”

“And what will you do?” she asked.

“I shall be by the King’s side,” he answered, “if by chance I can give him good counsel.”

“And he will reward you with high honour?”

“All honour is at once mine if I read the riddle,” he replied.

“You have not read it?”

“I seek to read it in your eyes,” he answered boldly, and Runa turned her glance away from him, lest he should read the riddle there.

On the seventh day, in the evening, she sent for him again in secret, unknown to any of her knights or ladies. The great hall in which she sat alone was dimly lighted; only her face, her fair hair, and her rich robe of white gleamed from the gloom. He came and stood before her.

“To-morrow at sunrise,” she said, “I must deliver you to the King your master according to our agreement. What gift do you carry in your hand to turn his wrath into favour?”

“If I do not bear in my hand the keys of the citadel, I bear nothing,” he answered.

There fell a long silence between them, and the great hall was marvellously still. The stranger drew very near to Countess Runa and stood by the arm of her high chair.

“Madam, farewell,” he said.

She looked up at him and murmured softly: “Farewell.”

“Yet we shall meet again.”

“When?” she asked, with lips just parted and eyes that strained to see his face.

“In a day’s time, outside the ramparts.”

“Outside the ramparts?”

“Yes.” He knelt before her and kissed her hand. “The citadel of the city is the heart of its mistress,” he said.

She rose suddenly to her feet and would have spoken, but he raised his hand to impose silence on her. With one long look he turned away and left her alone, standing under the emblazoned window, through which one ray of moonlight caught her fair hair and illumined it.

She stood with clasped hands, her eyes still set on the door by which he had gone out.

“My heart knows its lord,” she whispered. “I have been speaking with my King.”

V

On the morrow, in the afternoon, King Stanislas, being returned from a journey on which affairs of State had called him, and having assumed again the command of his army, led it forth in battle array, and took up his position in the plain before the southern gate, not far from the ramparts of the city.

“We are going to assault the ramparts again,” said an old soldier to Friar Nicholas, who was there to see what passed and to exercise his sacred functions in case need arose.

“Nay, I think the King is going to carry the citadel,” answered the Friar, with a laugh. And all of them laughed, thinking that he jested at the King’s expense.

As the clock struck four the King rode forth, magnificently appointed, and bestriding a black war-horse of great strength and spirit. When he was two hundred yards from the walls, he halted all his army and rode forward alone, save for the herald by his side. Coming close under the ramparts, which were thronged with Countess Runa’s knights and men-at-arms, to say nothing of those who were ready to pour down stones and molten pitch and heavy bars of iron on the assaulters, he bade the herald cry that King Stanislas would speak with her Highness the Countess Runa.

Much stir arose on the ramparts at this message, but the King sat calm and motionless on his great black horse. So passed half-an-hour or so. Then the city gate rolled open, and Runa rode forth, in a robe of scarlet, seated on a white palfrey, and with all her knights and ladies round about her.

“This is no assault on the ramparts,” said the old soldier to Friar Nicholas, grumbling because there was danger that he should be balked of a fight.

“I think you will soon pass them, though,” said Nicholas.

When the King saw Countess Runa he touched his horse with the spur and rode up to her where she awaited his coming. When she saw him, her eyes brightened to a new brilliance. Yet she showed no wonder.

“My heart knew,” she said, when her ladies and her knights marvelled.

King Stanislas saluted her.

“Whither, my King?” she asked.

He leant down, put his arm about her waist, and lifted her from her palfrey. A great shout went up from the army in the plain and from the defenders on the walls. The King set her in front of him on his great horse.

“I carry the citadel,” he said. “And now I will pass the ramparts”; and they two rode together into the city amidst mighty rejoicings.

VI

To which story there are a number of morals quite out of proportion to its size.

This for Kings and Rulers: That they should state their objects openly--provided that they wish to have them known.

This for Children: That what their fathers did for fifty years, it may be wise for them to cease from doing immediately--especially if they wish to make good marriages.

This for Men: That though it be impossible that a woman should mean what she says, yet she means something by what she says--at any rate, if she says it three times.

This for Women: That though the ramparts protect the citadel, the citadel may often betray the ramparts.

And this for Everybody: That he who devotes a good intelligence to enlightening others is like unto a man who cooks his neighbour’s dinner without being invited to table. For when once the citadel was carried, the ramparts passed, and the lovers happy, neither King nor Countess nor anybody else gave another thought to poor Friar Nicholas!

THE LADY AND THE FLAGON

The Duke of Belleville--which name, by the way, you must pronounce by no means according to its spelling, if you would be in the fashion; for as Belvoir is Beevor, and Beauchamp is Beecham, even so on polite lips Belleville is Bevvle--the Duke of Belleville shut the hall door behind him, and put his latchkey into the pocket of his trousers. It was but ten in the evening, yet the house was as still as though it had been two in the morning. All was dark, save for a dim jet of gas in the little sitting-room; the blinds were all down; from without the villa seemed uninhabited, and the rare passer-by--for rare was he in the quiet lane adjoining but not facing Hampstead Heath--set it down as being to let. It was a whim of the Duke’s to keep it empty; when the world bored him, he fled there for solitude; not even the presence of a servant was allowed, lest his meditations should be disturbed. It was long since he had come; but to-night weariness had afflicted him, and, by a sudden change of plan, he had made for his hiding-place in lieu of attending a Public Meeting, at which he had been advertised to take the chair. The desertion sat lightly on his conscience, and he heaved a sigh of relief, as, having turned up the gas, he flung himself into an arm-chair and lit a cigar. The Duke of Belleville was thirty years of age; he was unmarried; he had held the title since he was fifteen; he seemed to himself rather old. He was at this moment yawning. Now when a man yawns at ten o’clock in the evening something is wrong with his digestion or his spirits. The Duke had a perfect digestion.

“I should define wealth,” murmured the Duke, between his yawns, “as an unlimited command of the sources of _ennui_, rank as a satirical emphasising of human equality, culture as a curtailment of pleasures, knowledge as the death of interest.” Yawning again, he rose, drew up the blind, and flung open the window. The summer night was fine and warm. Although there were a couple of dozen other houses scattered here and there about the lane, not a soul was to be seen. The Duke stood for a long while looking out. His cigar burnt low and he flung it away. Presently he heard a church clock strike eleven. At the same moment he perceived a tall and burly figure approaching from the end of the lane. Its approach was slow and interrupted, for it paused at every house. A moment’s further inspection revealed in it a policeman on his beat.

“He’s trying the windows and doors,” remarked the Duke to himself. Then his eyes brightened. “There are possibilities in a door always,” he murmured, and his thoughts flew off to the great doors of history and fiction--the doors that were locked when by all laws human and divine they should have been open, and the even more interesting doors that proved to be open and yielded to pressure when any man would have staked his life on their being bolted, barred, and impregnable. “A door has the interest of death,” said he. “For how can you know what is on the other side till you have passed through it? Now suppose that fellow found a door open, and passed through it, and, turning the rays of his lantern on the darkness within, saw revealed to him--Heavens!” cried the Duke, interrupting himself in great excitement, “is all this to be wasted on a policeman?” And without a moment’s hesitation, he leant out of the window and shouted, “Constable, constable!”--which is, as all the world knows, the politest mode of addressing a policeman.

The policeman, perceiving the Duke and the urgency of the Duke’s summons, left his examination of the doors in the lane and ran hastily up to the window of the villa.

“Did you call, sir?” he asked.

“Don’t you know me?” inquired the Duke, turning a little, so that the light within the room should fall on his features.

“I beg your Grace’s pardon,” cried the policeman. “Your Grace gave me a sovereign last Christmas. The Duke of Belle-ville, isn’t it, your Grace?”

“You will know,” said the Duke patiently, “how to pronounce my name when I tell you that it rhymes with ‘Devil.’ Thus: ‘Devvle, Bevvle.’”

“Yes, your Grace. You called me?”

“I did. Do you often find doors open when they ought to be shut?”

“Almost every night, your Grace.”

“What do you do?”

“Knock, your Grace.”

“Good heavens,” murmured the Duke, “how this man throws away his opportunities!” Then he leant forward, and laying his hand on the policeman’s shoulder drew him nearer, and began to speak to him in a low tone.

“I couldn’t, your Grace,” urged the policeman. “If I was found out I should get the sack.”

“You should come to no harm by that.”

“And if your Grace was found out----”

“You can leave that to me,” interrupted the Duke.

Presently the policeman, acting on the Duke’s invitation, climbed into the window of the villa, and the conversation was continued across the table. The Duke urged, produced money, gave his word to be responsible for the policeman’s future; the policeman’s resistance grew less strong.

“I am about your height and build,” said the Duke. “It is but for a few hours, and you can spend them very comfortably in the kitchen. Before six o’clock I will be back.”

“If the Inspector comes round, your Grace?”

“You must take a little risk for twenty pounds,” the Duke reminded him.

The struggle could end but one way. A quarter of an hour later the policeman, attired in the Duke’s overcoat, sat by the kitchen hearth, while the Duke, equipped in the policeman’s garments, prepared to leave the house and take his place on the beat.

“I shall put out all lights and shut the door,” said he. “The window of this kitchen looks out to the back, and you will not be seen. You will particularly oblige me by remaining here and taking no notice of anything that may occur till I return and call you.”

“But, your Grace, if there’s murder done----”

“We can hardly expect that,” interrupted the Duke, a little wistfully. Yet, although, remembering how the humdrum permeates life, he would not pitch his anticipations too high, the Duke started on the expedition with great zest and lively hopes. The position he had assumed, the mere office that he discharged vicariously, seemed to his fancy a conductor that must catch and absorb the lightning of adventurous incident. His big-buttoned coat, his helmet, the lantern he carried, his deftly hidden truncheon, combined to make him the centre of anything that might move, and to involve him in coils of crime or of romance. He refused to be disappointed although he tried a dozen doors and found all securely fastened. For never till the last, till fortune was desperate and escape a vanished dream, was wont to come that marvellous Door that gaped open-mouthed. Ah! The Duke started violently, the blood rushing to his face and his heart beating quick. Here, at the end of the lane most remote from his own villa, at a small two-storeyed house bright with green paint and flowering creepers, here, in the most unlikely, most inevitable place, was the open door. Barred? It was not even shut, but hung loose, swaying gently to and fro, with a subdued bang at each encounter with the doorpost. Without a moment’s hesitation the Duke pushed it open. He stood in a dark passage. He turned the glare of his bull’s-eye on the gloom, which melted as the column of light pierced it, and he saw--

“There is nothing at all,” said the Duke of Belleville with a sigh.

Nor, indeed, was there, save an umbrella-rack, a hatstand, and an engraving of the Queen’s Coronation--things which had no importance for the Duke.

“They are only what one might expect,” said he.

Yet he persevered and began to mount the stairs with a silent cautious tread. He had not felt it necessary to put on the policeman’s boots, and his thin-soled well-made boots neither creaked nor crunched as he climbed, resting one hand on the balustrade and holding his lantern in the other. Yet suddenly something touched his hand, and a bell rang out, loud, clear and tinkling. A moment later came a scream; the Duke paused in some bewilderment. Then he mounted a few more steps till he was on the landing. A door to his right was cautiously opened; an old gentleman’s head appeared.

“Thank heaven, it’s the police!” cried the old gentleman. Then he pulled his head in and said, “Only the police, my dear.” Then he put his head out again and asked, “What in the world is the matter? I thought you were burglars when I heard the alarm.”

“Your hall door was standing open,” said the Duke accusingly.

“Tut, tut, tut! How very careless of me, to be sure! And I thought I locked it! Actually open! Dear me! I’m much obliged to you.”

A look of disappointment had by now spread over the Duke’s face.

“Didn’t you leave it open on purpose?” he asked. “Come now! You can trust me.”

“On purpose? Do you take me for a fool?” cried the old gentleman.

“A man who leaves his door open on purpose may or may not be a fool,” said the Duke. “But there is no doubt about a man who leaves it open without a purpose,” and, so saying, the Duke turned, walked downstairs, and, going out, slammed the door behind him. He was deeply disgusted.

When, however, he had recovered a little from his chagrin, he began to pace up and down the lane. It was now past midnight, and all was very quiet. The Duke began to fear that Fortune, never weary of tormenting him, meant to deny all its interest to his experiment. But suddenly, when he was exactly opposite his own house, he observed a young man standing in front of it. The stranger was tall and well made; he wore a black cloth Inverness, which, hanging open at the throat, showed a white tie and a snowy shirt front. The young man seemed to be gazing thoughtfully at the Duke’s villa. The Duke walked quietly up to him, as though he meant to pass by. The young man, however, perceiving him, turned to him and said:

“It’s very annoying, but I have lost my latchkey, and I don’t know how to get into my house.”

“Indeed, sir?” said the Duke sympathetically. “Which is your house?”

“This,” answered the young man, pointing to the Duke’s villa.

The Duke could not entirely repress a slight movement of surprise and pleasure.

“This your house? Then you are----?” he began.

“Yes, yes, the Duke of Belleville,” interrupted the young man. “But there’s nobody in the house. I’m not expected----”

“I suppose not,” murmured the Duke.

“There are no servants, and I don’t know how to get in. It’s very awkward, because I’m expecting a--a friend to call.”

“With my assistance,” said the Duke deferentially, “your Grace might effect an entry by the window.”

“True!” cried the young man. “Bring your lantern and give me a light. Look here, I don’t want this talked about.”

“It is a matter quite between ourselves, your Grace,” the Duke assured him, as he led the way to the window.

“By-the-by, you might help me in another matter if you like. I’ll make it worth your while.”

“I shall be very glad,” said the Duke.

“Could you be spared from your beat for an hour?”

“It might be possible.”

“Good. Come in with me, and we’ll talk it over.”

The Duke had by this time opened the window of his villa; he gave the young man a leg-up, and afterwards climbed in himself.

“Shut the window again,” commanded the stranger. “Oh, and you might as well just close the shutters.”

“Certainly, your Grace,” said the Duke, and he did as he was bid.

The young man began to move round the room, examining the articles that furnished the side-tables and decorated the walls. The Duke of Belleville had been for a year or two an eager collector of antique plate, and had acquired some fine specimens in both gold and silver. Some of these were now in the villa, and the young man scrutinised them with close attention.

“Dear me,” said he in a vexed tone, as he returned to the hearth, “I thought the Queen Bess flagon was here. Surely I sent it here from Belleville Castle!”

The Duke smiled; the Queen Bess flagon had never been at Belleville Castle, and it was now in a small locked cabinet which stood on the mantelpiece. He made no remark; a suspicion had begun to take shape in his mind concerning this strange visitor. Two thousand seven hundred and forty guineas was the price that he had paid for the Queen Bess flagon; all the other specimens in the little room, taken together, might be worth perhaps a quarter as much.

“Your Grace spoke of some other matter in which I might assist you?” he suggested, for the young man seemed to have fallen into a reverie.

“Why, yes. As I tell you, I expect a friend; and it looks very absurd to have no servant. You’re sure to find a suit of dress clothes in my bedroom. Pray put them on and represent my valet. You can resume your uniform afterwards.”

The Duke bowed and left the room. The moment the door closed behind him he made the best of his way to the kitchen. A few words were enough to impart his suspicions to the policeman. A daring and ingenious scheme was evidently on foot, its object being the theft of the Queen Bess flagon. Even now, unless they acted quickly, the young man might lay hands on the cabinet in which the treasure lay and be off with it. In a trice the Duke had discarded the police uniform, its rightful owner had resumed it, and the Duke was again in the convenient black suit which befits any man, be he duke or valet. Then the kitchen window was cautiously opened, and the policeman crawled silently round to the front of the house; here he lay in waiting for a summons or for the appearance of a visitor. The Duke returned immediately to the sitting-room.

On entering, he perceived the young man standing in front of the locked cabinet, and regarding it with a melancholy air. The Duke’s appearance roused him, and he glanced with visible surprise at the distinguished and aristocratic figure which the supposed policeman presented. But he made no comment and his first words were about the flagon.

“Now I come to remember,” said he, “I put the Queen Bess flagon in this cabinet. It must be so, although, as I have left my key at my rooms in St James’s Street, I can’t satisfy myself on the point.”

The Duke, now perfectly convinced of the character of his visitor, waited only to see him lay his hands on the cabinet. Such an action would be the signal for his instant arrest. But before the young man had time either to speak again or to put out his hand towards the cabinet, there came the sound of wheels quickly approaching the villa. A moment later a neat brougham rolled up to the door. The young man darted to the window, tore open the shutters, and looked out. The Duke, suspecting the arrival of confederates, turned towards the cabinet and took his stand in front of it.

“Go and open the door,” ordered the young man, turning round. “Don’t keep the lady waiting outside at this time of night.”

Curiosity conquered prudence; the Duke set more value on a night’s amusement than on the Queen Bess flagon. He went obediently and opened the door of the villa. On the step stood a young and very handsome girl. Great agitation was evident in her manner.

“Is--is the Duke here?” she asked.

“Yes, madam. If I lead you to the sitting-room, you will find him there,” answered the Duke gravely; and with a bow he preceded her along the passage.

When they reached the room, the lady, passing by him, darted forward and flung herself affectionately into the young man’s arms. He greeted her with equal warmth, while the Duke stood in the doorway in some natural embarrassment.

“I escaped so successfully!” cried the lady. “My aunt went to bed at eleven; so did I. At twelve I got up and dressed. Not a soul heard me come downstairs, and the brougham was waiting at the door just as you said.”

“My darling!” murmured the young man fondly. “Now, indeed, is our happiness certain. By to-morrow morning we shall be safe from all pursuit.” Then he turned to the Duke. “I need not tell you,” said he, “that you must observe silence on this matter. Oblige me now by going to my room and packing a bag; you’ll know what I shall want for two or three days; I can give you a quarter of an hour.”

The Duke stood in momentary hesitation. He was bewildered at the sudden change in the position caused by the appearance of this girl. Was he assisting, then, not at a refined and ingenious burglary, but at another kind of trick? The disguise assumed by the young man might have for its object the deception of a trustful girl, and not an abduction of the Queen Bess flagon.

“Well, why don’t you obey?” asked the young man sharply; and, stepping up to the Duke, he thrust a ten-pound note into his hand, whispering, “Play your part, and earn your money, you fool.”

The Duke lingered no longer. Leaving the room, he walked straight, rapidly, and with a firm tread, upstairs. When he reached the top he paused to listen. All was still! Stay! A moment later he heard a slight noise--the noise of some metal instrument turning, proceeding from the room which he had just left. The Duke sat down on the landing and took off his boots. Then with silent feet he crept cautiously downstairs again. He paused to listen for an instant outside the sitting-room door. Voices were audible, but he could not hear the words. The occupants of the room were moving about. He heard a low amused laugh. Then he pursued his way to the hall door. He had not completely closed it after admitting the lady, and he now slipped out without a sound. The brougham stood in front of the door. The Duke dodged behind it, and the driver, who was leaning forward on his seat, did not see him. The next moment he was crouching down by the side of his friend the policeman, waiting for the next development in the plot of this comedy, or crime, or whatever it might turn out to be. He put out his hand and touched his ally. To his amusement the man, sitting there on the ground, had fallen fast asleep.

“Another proof,” mused the Duke in whimsical despair, “that it is impossible to make any mode of life permanently interesting. How this fellow would despise the state of excitement which I, for the moment, am so fortunate as to enjoy! Well, I won’t wake him unless need arises.”

For some little while nothing happened. The policeman slept on, and the driver of the brougham seemed sunk in meditation, unless, indeed, he also were drowsy. The shutters of the sitting-room were again closely shut, and no sound came from behind them. The Duke crouched motionless but keenly observant.

Then the hall door creaked. The policeman snored quietly, but the Duke leant eagerly forward, and the driver of the brougham suddenly sat up quite straight, and grasped his reins more firmly. The door was cautiously opened: the lady and the young man appeared on the threshold. The young man glanced up and down the lane; then he walked quickly towards the brougham, and opened the door. The lady followed him. As she went she passed within four or five feet of where the Duke lay hidden. And, as she went by, the Duke saw--what he half-expected, yet what he could but half-believe--the gleam of the gold of the Queen Bess flagon, which she held in her gloved hands.

As has been hinted, the Duke attached no superstitious value to this article. The mad fever of the collector had left him long ago; but amidst the death of other emotions and more recondite prejudices there survives in the heart of man the primitive dislike of being “done.” It survived in the mind of the Duke of Belleville, and sprang to strong and sudden activity when he observed his Queen Bess flagon in the hands of the pretty unknown lady.

With a sudden and vigorous spring he was upon her; with a roughness which the Duke trusted that the occasion to some extent excused, he seized her arm with one hand, and with the other violently twisted the Queen Bess flagon out of her grasp. A loud cry rang from her lips. The driver threw down the reins and leapt from his seat. The young man turned with an oath and made for the Duke. The Duke of Belleville, ignoring the mere prejudice which forbids timely retreat, took to his heels, hugging the Queen Bess flagon to his breast, and heading, in his silk socks, as hard and as straight as he could for Hampstead Heath. After him pell-mell came the young man, the driver, and the lady, amazed, doubtless, at the turn of events, but resolved on the recapture of the flagon. And just as their figures vanished round the corner, the policeman rubbed his eyes and looked round, exclaiming, “What’s the row?”

In after days the Duke of Belleville was accustomed to count his feelings as he fled barefooted (for what protection could silk socks afford?) across Hampstead Heath, with three incensed pursuers on his track, among the keenest sensations of his life. The exhilaration of the night air and the chances of the situation in which he found himself combined to produce in him a remarkable elation of spirits. He laughed as he ran, till shortening breath warned him against such extravagant wasting of his resources; then he settled down to a steady run, heading across the Heath, up and down, over dip and hillock. Yet he did not distance the pack. He heard them close behind him; a glance round showed him that the lady was well up with her friends, in spite of the impediment of her skirts. The Duke began to pant; his feet had grown sore and painful; he looked round for a refuge. To his delight he perceived, about a hundred yards to his right, a small and picturesque red-brick house. It was now between one and two o’clock, but he did not hesitate. Resolving to appeal to the hospitality of this house, hoping, it may be, again to find a door left open, he turned sharp to the right, and with a last spurt made for his haven.

Fate seemed indeed kind to him; the door was not only unbarred, it stood ajar. The Duke’s pursuers were even now upon him; they were no more than five or six yards behind when he reached the little red-tiled porch and put out his hand to push the door back.

But at the same instant the door was pulled open, and a burly man appeared on the threshold. He wore a frock coat embellished with black braid and a peaked cap. The Duke at once recognised in him an inspector of police. Evidently he was, when surprised by the Duke’s arrival, about to sally out on his round. The Duke stopped and, between his pants, made shift to address the welcome ally; but before he could get a word out the young man was upon him.

“Inspector,” said the young man in the most composed manner, “I give this fellow in charge for stealing my property.”

“I saw him take the tankard,” observed the driver, pointing towards the Queen Bess flagon.

The lady said nothing but stood by the young man, as though ready with her testimony in case it were needed.

The Inspector turned curious eyes on the Duke of Belleville; then he addressed the young man respectfully.

“May I ask, sir, who you are?”

“I am the Duke of Belleville,” answered the young man.

“The Duke of Belle-ville!” cried the Inspector, his manner showing an increased deference. “I beg your Grace’s----”

“The name,” said the Duke, “is pronounced Bevvle--to rhyme with devil.”

The Inspector looked at him scornfully.

“Your turn will come, my man,” said he, and, turning again to the young man, he continued: “Do you charge him with stealing this cup?”

“Certainly I do.”

“Do you know who he is?”

“I imagine you do,” said the young man, with a laugh. “He’s one of your own policeman.”

The Inspector stepped back and turned up the gas in his passage. Then he scrutinised the Duke’s features.

“One of my men?” he cried. “Your Grace is mistaken. I have never seen the man.”

“Yes, yes,” cried the young man, and, in his eagerness to convince the Inspector, he stepped forward, until his face fell within the range of the passage light. As this happened, the Inspector gave a loud cry.