Chapter XIX: A Chance Word

The result of Queen Ernestine’s journey to Kaufenhafen was in one respect satisfactory, although it threw no light upon the mystery of her husband’s fate. The Emperor of Scythia received her kindly, and pledged his imperial word that neither he nor his ministers had had any hand in Count Mortimer’s disappearance, nor had they the slightest idea where he was at present. No reference was made to the Zionist plot, and the Emperor did not express any disapprobation of Cyril’s late political activity, which, said Prince Soudaroff when he heard of the interview, was a clear waste of a heaven-sent opportunity. Even if the Emperor did know nothing about Cyril, he might surely have dissembled his ignorance, and obtained some useful pledges from the Queen by means of vague promises and hinted hopes. But the whole subject of the interview amused Prince Soudaroff extremely, and he confided his _bon mot_ respecting the “Prince of the Captivity” so freely to the two or three kindred souls he contrived to gather round him even at Geneva, that it was repeated all over Europe before the end of the week. It was generally added, and the addition may also have been due to the kindred souls, that the Emperor had been wise in asserting his Chancellor’s non-participation in the _affaire Mortimer_ before, and not after, questioning the Chancellor himself on the subject.

Heart-sick from her failure, the Queen was driven almost mad by the accounts which reached her from Illyria of the discovery of Paschics’s body and the abortive search at Bagnanera. Fresh confusion had been imported into the matter by a surgeon of high reputation for whom Usk had telegraphed to the capital of the province, for he certified that the bruises on the body had been caused before death, and could not, therefore, be the result of a buffeting in the subterranean river. Anxious to examine into the mystery herself, and also pay the last tribute of gratitude to her husband’s faithful servant by attending his funeral, Queen Ernestine hurried away from Kaufenhafen, only to fall ill on her journey to Illyria. A nervous fever, brought on by grief and overstrain, kept her a prisoner at Vindobona, tended by her aunt Princess Amalie, who was almost as much at home in the sick-room as at a wedding, and watched over by Lord Caerleon, who had not the heart to leave her and go on to Novigrad.

Then, before Prince Soudaroff’s witticism had time to grow stale by repetition, and when the papers, having made the most of the sensation afforded by the medical evidence as to the cause of the secretary’s death, were beginning to hunt for a fresh topic of interest, there came a rush of events which swept the “Balkan mystery” clean out of men’s minds. Just at first it was remembered sufficiently for Prince Soudaroff’s friends to say among themselves, with exquisite glee, that if he had his secrets from the Emperor, the Emperor clearly kept one or two things secret from him. But as Prince Soudaroff only looked wise and said nothing in public, the world in general thought he had known of the matter all along, little guessing the gnashing of teeth and tearing of hair which had taken place in certain chancelleries, that of Scythia not excepted, when the news came. There was a revolution--the fifth, if minor outbreaks are left out of the calculation--in Neustria.

This new revolution was the crowning glory of its kind. Other revolutions had been bungled at their inception, or had dragged on for several years before they could fairly be considered successful, but this one seemed to have been born full-grown. One night Prince Timoleon Malasorte was a casual sojourner in a Lutetian hotel, so little thought of as a political personage that the police either were not aware of his arrival in the forbidden capital, or winked at it. The next night he was master of the army, and by its means of every fortress in the country, master of the ecclesiastical system, and through it of the women of Neustria, master also of the national purse-strings. The whole thing came about with almost the suddenness of a transformation scene. It was never known publicly when and how the idea of the revolution had taken shape, or how long the astutest minds in Europe had toiled by devious and underground paths to prepare its way; all that was certain was that one morning the city was white and purple with unauthorised proclamations, posted in all sorts of forbidden places. The police tore them down, only to find that whatever way they turned, fresh bills were posted behind their backs, and while they did their confused best to keep pace with the bill-stickers, a drastic “Pride’s Purge” was being administered at the centre of parliamentary life. The Senate and the Chamber of Deputies were found to be surrounded by troops, and the alarmed legislators saw their sacred precincts invaded by armed men, headed by--as it seemed to their startled eyes--the counterfeit presentment of Timoleon I. Without giving them time to recover from their surprise, the new Timoleon informed them that he had assumed the office of Dictator in order to save the country from the evils menacing it, and announced a dissolution. Before even the most violent deputy could raise his voice in protest, soldiers were filing down the alleys between the rows of seats, and arresting one man here and another there. Those arrested were taken at once into safe keeping, where they met many of their friends in other walks of life, who had been apprehended at their homes or places of business. The city Municipality, indeed, found its numbers almost complete in this new place of meeting. The whole scheme could not, naturally, be carried out with the same celerity and certainty as these preliminary steps, and in the streets of Lutetia there were a number of spasmodic attempts to erect barricades. But Prince Timoleon and his supporters were not men to be trifled with; troops had been posted at strategic points throughout the whole city, and there were cannon ready wherever they were likely to be needed. In these circumstances the barricade-builders found it well to carry back into the houses the bedding and furniture they had requisitioned, to restore the overturned cabs to their normal position, and even to lay down again the torn-up paving-stones. In the more respectable portions of the city no opposition was offered to the new rule. The better class of people were so sick of their late government, so weary of a long succession of mediocrities diversified by knaves, that they were ready to welcome any change that promised stability and some measure of relief from corruption, and above all, they hailed the advent of a man--a commanding personality who would not only command but be obeyed. The priests headed processions of their flocks to take the oath of allegiance to the new government, and--surest sign of the strength that lay behind the movement--the credit of the country rose higher than before, and the Dictator had no difficulty in obtaining money. In all the larger provincial towns a similar change of affairs had taken place, and each town saw that the district round it followed its example. The rural inhabitants submitted to the altered conditions quite philosophically. They had always been of the opinion that they lived in the worst possible world for honest people, so that it was clear they could not become worse off. There was some fear lest the sacred names which had been handed down from the days of the first revolution should be lost to sight, and an absolutist empire, supported, as it was now currently believed this new enterprise had been throughout, on one side by the Jews and on the other by the Jesuits, be set up. But the Dictator was too wise for this. The proclamation which he issued on the night of his triumph, dated from the Presidential palace (which the former occupant had quitted in haste and without much reluctance), was a model in its way. After a short sketch of Roman history, appropriate to the occasion, Prince Timoleon called the nation to witness that he had been welcomed as the saviour of society by the whole people, and established at the head of the government with scarcely the shedding of a drop of blood. There was the inevitable reference to the deeds, sacrifices, and triumphs of his ancestors; but with touching modesty and fairness Timoleon Lucanor, Prince-Dictator, concluded by saying that he proposed immediately to take a _plébiscite_ of the whole nation on the question of reviving the imperial form of government in Neustria. This clinched matters. Timoleon Lucanor trusted the people.

When the great news was flashed over the wires from Neustria to Illyria, and the flock of newspaper correspondents which had settled upon the country round Novigrad, like rooks upon a ploughed field, pocketed their notebooks and their fountain-pens, and took the quickest way back to Europe, they were followed also by all the detectives who had been engaged in the search for Cyril. Curiously enough, as it seemed to Usk and Helene, these men all saw in the Neustrian revolution a chance of exercise for their peculiar talents, and no bribe would induce them to remain. Consequently, to continue the investigation of the mystery there were only Mr Hicks, still pursuing his inquiries in the Bagnanera district, the Chevalier Goldberg, who was called away every few days to Vindobona on business of European importance, but returned doggedly to Novigrad when it was settled, and the two young people at Drinitza, who were now absolutely at a loss, and could not even think of anything more that might be done. They made long driving excursions, during which Helene was duly tutored in the use of the reins, and which were always made the occasion of questioning any country-people who might be met on the road, and they wandered through the beech-forests on the Pelenko estate, and invented wonderful series of events which might happen, to crown all their work and anxiety with success, if only some clue would opportunely show itself. But in the minds of both there was surely growing up the conviction, hateful and long resisted, that the black pool in the cave at Bagnanera held the clue to the secret.

Riding back to the inn one day from Novigrad, tired and dusty, and perhaps a little cross, Usk caught sight of Helene talking to a lady on the terrace. The lady’s face was not familiar to him, and there was something about her look and dress which made him think she was not likely to be an acquaintance of the Schwarzwald-Molzau family, but Helene was so deeply engrossed in listening to her that she had not even heard him ride up.

“Who is the lady talking to Lady Usk?” he asked of the landlord, who came out to take his horse.

The old man looked embarrassed. “It is a Scythian lady, honourable sir, who has driven out to see the glen. Her name is--at least she calls herself--Mlle. Garanine.”

“Tania Garanine--the actress?” cried Usk.

“I know, honourable sir. She is not suitable company for the gracious lady, but what could I do? It was not for me to----”

Usk had left him, and was hastening round the corner of the house. As he reached the terrace, however, he saw the stranger already descending the steps to her carriage. She glanced over her shoulder at him--he noticed that her eyelids were artificially darkened--and laughed gaily when she saw his angry face. In a moment she was driving away, kissing her finger-tips lightly to Helene. The action raised Usk’s wrath to white heat.

“How dare you take up that woman?” he demanded fiercely of Helene. “Surely your own self-respect ought to have kept you from speaking to her.”

“I thought she wasn’t very nice,” murmured Helene, gazing at him with dilated eyes. “Her hair was such a strange colour--I think it must be false--and her skin looked--oh, so _dead_ when she came close. But she sat down here by me, and talked.”

“She’s one of the most notorious women in Europe,” fumed Usk, “and now she’ll spread it abroad that you have noticed her and received her, and what will your people think of me for letting you do it?”

“But you couldn’t help it, nor could I,” pleaded Helene.

“Why didn’t you get rid of her, when you saw the kind of woman she was? I thought exalted persons like you always knew how to dispose of people who tried to force themselves upon your notice?”

“I don’t know how to be rude,” said Helene, with heightened colour. “No one who was unfit to speak to me has ever been allowed to come near me before.”

“That’s a nasty one for me!” said Usk, whose wrath was beginning to evaporate.

“Oh, Nym, I am so sorry; I didn’t mean it. And see, I will tell you how it was that I felt obliged to listen to her. I didn’t dare even to try to cut her short, lest I should lose something important. She talked about the dear Count.”

“I might have known it! More lies, I suppose?”

“I don’t know; I suppose so, I hope so. She said, just as Cousin Ottilie did, that he had gone away of his own accord, but--I couldn’t quite understand--I think she wanted to make me believe that she was the lady Prince Pelenko said he saw in the carriage with him. At least, she talked as if she knew him quite well, and could tell us where he was now, and she said such horrible things. I don’t know whether she only suggested them, or really said they had happened, but I know she hinted that the Count had--had got rid of poor M. Paschics because he knew too much, and he had no more money with which to keep his mouth shut. And she talked about a gay life among the islands somewhere, and then she spoke just as if the dear Count was mad, and told me a dreadful story about some one she knew once who had spent all his money, and was found by his relations, quite by chance, in a refuge for lunatics somewhere near Trieste. She said they had advertised for him everywhere, but he had forgotten his own name, and it was only because his nephew happened to catch sight of him that he was recognised. Do you think--she could mean--that the dear Count is in one of those terrible places?”

Usk pondered a moment. “No; I don’t!” he cried suddenly. “They want to get us out of the neighbourhood, Nell, that’s it! Now that Malasorte has made his _coup d’état_, they see through the bogus plot, and they want to undo their work, if they can. I’m certain they have him hidden somewhere near--in a cave or something of that kind--and find they can’t get him out of the country without our knowing. We’ll stick on here and tire them out. To-morrow I’ll go over and bring Hicks back with me, if I have to drag him by main force. If the whole crew know he’s on our side I don’t care. He’s the man to smell them out.”

“How clever you are, Nym! I never thought that it might be a trick. I do wish I was older, and--and----”

“Wiser?” suggested Usk.

“Yes, wiser, and able to give you good advice.”

“Thanks; I’d just as soon not. I probably shouldn’t take it, you know.”

“Oh, Nym, I wish you wouldn’t laugh. I want to be a better wife to you.”

“You’re tons too good as it is, so don’t get any better. Was I awfully down on you just now about that Garanine woman, Nell? I didn’t mean it, but you must learn to protect yourself, you know. Just say, ‘I was a silly little idiot, and I’ll never do it again.’”

Helene repeated the words with admirable docility. “But I do wish I could think of clever and useful things like you,” she added with a sigh.

When Usk betook himself to Bagnanera the next day, he left Helene listless and unhappy. The actress’s words had affected her more than she knew, and the vision of Cyril, nameless and robbed of everything, in a pauper lunatic asylum, was constantly before her eyes. The prospect of spending the whole day alone, since ten hours at least must elapse before Usk could return, if he was to bring Mr Hicks with him, was terrible, for she could think of nothing but that vision. At last she took herself resolutely in hand, determining to set to work at something that would occupy her thoughts. She would spend the day in the beech-woods, and make a sketch for her mother, setting herself the task of finishing it at a sitting. Telling Jakob that she would need his attendance, she went to her room to get out her colour-box. Hannele, who was mending a torn gown, was pleased to approve of her intention. Sketching was a lady-like and elegant accomplishment (provided the sketcher took care not to sit on the grass), and far more suited to the daughter of a princely house than tearing about over the country with a husband as thoughtless as herself. Helene felt that the rebuke was not undeserved, for she had torn the gown disgracefully in scrambling through a thicket with Usk, and she did not venture to suggest that it might be discarded, although Hannele, in her huge spectacles, had the half-resentful, half-triumphant aspect of an unwilling martyr. Hannele was grumbling monotonously on, therefore, when Helene silenced her suddenly by an imperative gesture. Standing near the window, she had been half-unconsciously aware that two Englishmen who had spent the night at the inn were discussing the views as they breakfasted on the terrace, but now her full attention was aroused by hearing the name of Shishman Pelenko mentioned.

“Queer thing that we should have come straight from Shishman Pelenko to his ancestral halls,” one man had said.

“Would it be well to call? The place looks inhabited.”

“I think not. We know that Shishman isn’t there, and though he’s a good sort, his elder brother is a queer lot, I believe.”

Helene dropped her paint-box, and running down the stairs, presented herself suddenly before the astonished tourists.

“I must ask you to excuse me for disturbing you,” she said, with the little air of dignity which sat so oddly and yet so well on her, “but I think I heard you mention the name of Prince Shishman Pelenko? He is a kind of relation of ours--at least, he is the cousin of a cousin--and his movements have--have puzzled us a little of late.” Was this untrue? she wondered uncomfortably.

“He is an erratic fellow,” said the elder of the two Englishmen--they had both risen politely when she addressed them, “but I am glad to be able to assure you that he was all right ten days ago, Fräulein. We have been mountaineering with him in the Caucasus for more than two months, and though he has had several hairbreadth escapes, he’s as fit as he can be.”

“We heard a rumour--about a duel,” hazarded Helene.

“He has had no opportunity of fighting a duel for three months at least, madame”--the speaker had caught sight of the wedding-ring on Helene’s finger. “Indeed, I know, for he told me himself, that his last duel happened quite three years ago.”

“Thank you. You have relieved my mind very much,” said Helene simply, but she returned into the house with slow, dragging steps. Was her mind relieved, or was it oppressed with a new and vague anxiety? Prince Shishman Pelenko had never been in the neighbourhood at all; his duel, his remorse, his flight from society, were all alike inventions of the Scythian Chancellor’s fertile brain. But if he had not been occupying the Pelenko mansion, then who was the recluse there, who never walked beyond the garden, whom no one in Drinitza had seen? Conviction forced itself upon Helene. The Princess of Dardania’s apparently purposeless display of Prince Valerian’s letter, the visit and the glib falsehoods of Prince Soudaroff, the strange hints of Tania Garanine--all pointed to one fact and one alone. Cyril was imprisoned down there in the Pelenko mansion, and Helene could take no steps to rescue him for a whole day. The idea was intolerable. She must at any rate try to find out whether she was right--and in a moment she saw how this might be done. Only once had she and Usk approached the great house closely in their walks, and then they had noticed a corner of the garden wall where a tree, growing against the masonry, had forced the lower courses out of position, and dislodged the upper stones. Usk had remarked that it was a standing invitation to burglars, and now she would play burglar.

Her face was flushed with excitement when she entered her room again, and she gathered her paint-brushes together with shaking hands. She could think of nothing but her scheme, and did not at first perceive that Hannele was grumbling still.

“Going out alone on the public terrace and speaking to two strangers--Englishmen, too, who have no reverence or good manners! That was not the way your august parents taught you to behave, Highness. And asking after a young rip of a Scythian captain as if life and death hung upon it! What’s Prince Shishman Pelenko to your Highness, I should like to know? I wonder what your noble husband will think when he hears?”

This it was which reached Helene’s ears at last. She turned angrily upon the woman. “Silence, Hannele!” she said, with a decision Hannele had never seen in her before. “I justify myself to my husband, not to you.”

Leaving the maid crushed but indignant, she quitted the room with her painting materials. Jakob was in waiting, with her camp-stool and umbrella, and they climbed to the top of the hill, and plunged into the beech-woods on the other side. When Helene was as near the Pelenko mansion as seemed prudent, she chose a spot in a long grassy glade, bordered on either side by huge trees which were beginning to show the first touch of autumn, and set to work with uncertain fingers, wondering how long it would be before Jakob went to sleep. She had decided not to make him a partner in her enterprise. For one thing, there might be danger for him where a girl would pass unscathed; and again, he would be very likely to presume upon his long service with her family to prevent her doing anything. It seemed to her that her henchman was provokingly wakeful to-day. Generally it needed but a few minutes to set him propped against the trunk of a tree, slumbering peacefully, with his mouth as wide open as if he wished the squirrels to drop beech-nuts into it. But on this occasion it almost seemed that he must have been making resolutions against his drowsiness, so unwinkingly watchful did he remain. Helene thought hours must be passing before his rigid frame relaxed, and his grey head dropped gently back against the tree. When at last he was undoubtedly asleep, she tore out a leaf of her sketch-book, wrote on it in pencil, “I am going to seek another view. I will return here,” and laid it near him with a stone upon it to keep it from blowing away. Then she stole noiselessly past him, and made sure that the tree was between him and herself before she ventured to turn in the direction of the house. She was not long in reaching the corner of the wall, and although it was harder to climb than she had expected, she succeeded in getting over. Inside the wall was a thick belt of shrubbery, so wild and unkempt that it might almost be called a wood, and with beating heart she forced her way through this. There was a clear space in front, she saw, and presently she reached its edge. Crouching down and peering through the bushes, she found that she was close to the house, which looked much less imposing near at hand than from a distance. Originally a pretentious building of the sham classical style dear to the heart of the Europeanised Illyrian, with a good deal of ornamental work in plaster about it, it was now little better than a ruin. Great masses of the balustrading had fallen from the edge of the roof, the walls were cracked in many places, and there were only a few remnants of glass left in the windows. The garden was utterly neglected. Grass was springing up between the stones of the paved pathways, and the water in the large square tank was foul and choked with weed, above which the melancholy fragments of a broken fountain reared themselves. It was evident that whatever debts Prince Valerian Pelenko had contracted in Europe, he had not spent the money on his family seat.

As Helene peeped through the bushes, a slight movement attracted her attention to two persons whom she had not at first noticed--an old man, sitting on a stone seat beside the tank, in the shade of a clump of overgrown myrtles, and a servant, like his master in European dress, lounging against the wall of the house a little behind him. The picture was so pathetic that Helene felt the tears rise to her eyes--the old man sitting there among the ruined glories of his house, his gaze fixed on the dull stagnant waters of the tank. But there was a rustling in the bushes behind her; and turning her head, she saw that a huge fellow in the gorgeous Dardanian dress, his sash bristling with knives and pistols, had tracked her through the wood, and was now within a few feet of her, his cruel eyes gleaming in his fierce face. With a shrill scream she threw herself wildly forward, hoping to find safety in the company of the musing old man, but her foot caught in a briar, and she felt her pursuer’s great hand upon her throat. Her scream had aroused the two occupants of the garden, however, and she saw the old man look round.

“What is it that Danilo has found in the shrubbery--a child?” he asked the servant in French, and bewildered and shaken as Helene was, it seemed to her that the voice was familiar. The servant’s reply was inaudible, but she heard the old man say sharply, “Bring her to me, and I will reprove her. I will not have children mauled by these rough fellows.”

Helene’s captor released her reluctantly as the servant approached, but it appeared to her that the new-comer helped her up with equal reluctance, and cursed her under his breath. He gave the Dardanian some direction in his own language as he led Helene to his master, but she had no time to think what the words might mean, for it was Cyril who sat on the stone bench--Cyril whose clear blue eyes met hers without a trace of recognition. For a moment she was staggered--it could not be Cyril--but even before he spoke again she had no doubt. Old and white-haired and broken, this was the man to whom her childish devotion had been given.

“Do you know, young lady, that you are a trespasser?” he asked her in French. “Doubtless you found your way in by the little door in the wall?” Helene opened her lips to deny this, but he went on without giving her time to speak. “I know one of the servants was going into the town, and they are careless about the door. But you would hardly have gratified your curiosity by entering if you had known that my seclusion here is a matter of life and death.”

Helene gazed at him, unable to speak, and he went on.

“Probably you are unaware that my life is perpetually in danger? You know my name--Shishman Pelenko? But you will not have heard that my steps are continually dogged by hired ruffians. I can’t quite remember why it is--it happened a long time ago--but I am not safe except within these walls and under the protection of my faithful servants. This is Dr Gregorescu, my medical attendant”--he indicated a lithe dark-bearded man who had come up with a cat-like swiftness and softness of tread--“who is good enough to live here with me and watch over my health. My life may not be of much value to the world, but it has still some little charm for myself, and some value for my few friends, I think?” He looked round waggishly at Dr Gregorescu, and laughed--a foolish crackling laugh.

“Your life is most valuable to your friends, Highness,” replied the doctor, not smiling in return, but piercing Helene with his black eyes, “and I fear this young lady’s entrance here may endanger it.”

“Oh, nonsense! she is only a child, and what can she tell the ruffians outside but that I am well guarded? Desire the ruffians on our side to show themselves, if you please.”

“The young lady will be frightened,” objected the doctor.

“All the better for her--teach her a lesson,” was the testy answer. “What, am I to command twice?” he rattled his stick on the stones. “I wish my guard to be visible for an instant.”

For the moment Helene felt like Fitz-James at the instant of his introduction to Roderick Dhu, for at the word of command, reluctantly uttered by Dr Gregorescu, the belt of shrubbery seemed to be suddenly alive with stalwart Dardanians. They sprang up from their lairs in the underwood or started out from behind trees, and stood in full view for a moment, then, at a wave of the doctor’s hand, disappeared again, while the self-styled Prince Shishman improved the occasion.

“You have seen how thoroughly I am protected, young lady,” he said impressively. “Now I do not think, from your face, that you are in the pay of my cruel enemies outside, but if you should be questioned, you may say that these faithful fellows, all trained fighters from their cradles, keep guard over me day and night, and would rejoice at the chance of a fight. You may say also that Dr Gregorescu and the indoor servants are well armed, and that there are underground----”

“Is not your Highness afraid of giving publicity to the exact details of our defences?” asked the doctor smoothly, and Cyril nodded.

“You do well to remind me of prudence, Gregorescu. But I think the young lady, at any rate, will not penetrate within our walls again, for she will remember that to do so would cause great anxiety and pain of mind to a cruelly persecuted man. If you will be good enough to send for the key of the small gate, we will let her out, and see that the door is properly fastened.”

“Pray don’t trouble yourself, Highness,” said Dr Gregorescu hastily. “I will conduct the young lady to the gate.”

“No, Gregorescu. It is not that I distrust your vigilance, but I must satisfy myself that the gate is properly locked. It is a perfect nightmare to me. I am thinking of having it bricked up.”

The doctor offered no further objection, and Helene was conducted to the gate in solemn procession. Cyril bade her a lofty farewell, the bolts grated home, and, dazed and bewildered, she found herself outside.