CHAPTER XII
In fact, just about the time when the Prince's horses were beingunharnessed from his carriage on the heights of Mount Brenner, the hiredcarriage stopped before a little inn under the town wall of Innspruckhard by the bridge. And half an hour later, when the Prince was sittingdown to his supper before a blazing fire and thanking his stars that onso gusty and wild a night he had a stout roof above his head, a man anda woman came out from the little tavern under the town wall anddisappeared into the darkness. They had the streets to themselves, forthat night the city was a whirlpool of the winds. Each separate chasm inthe encircling hills was a mouth to discharge a separate blast. Thewinds swept down into the hollow and charged in a riotous combat aboutthe squares and lanes; at each corner was an ambuscade, and everywherethey clashed with artilleries of hail and sleet.
The man and woman staggered hand in hand and floundered in the deepsnow. They were soaked to the skin, frozen by the cold, and whipped bythe stinging hail. Though they bent their heads and bodies, though theyclung hand in hand, though they struggled with all their strength,there were times when they could not advance a foot and must needs waitfor a lull in the shelter of a porch. At such times the man wouldperhaps quote a line of Virgil about the cave of the winds, and thewoman curse like a grenadier. They, however, were not the only peoplewho were distressed by the storm.
Outside the villa in which the Princess was imprisoned stood the twosentinels, one beneath the window, the other before the door. There wereicicles upon their beards; they were so shrouded in white they had thelook of snow men built by schoolboys. Their coats of frieze could notkeep out the searching sleet, nor their caps protect their ears from theintolerable cold. Their hands were so numbed they could not feel themuskets they held.
The sentinel before the door suffered the most, for whereas hiscompanion beneath the window had nothing but the house wall before hiseyes, he, on his part, could see on the other side of the alley of treesthe red blinds of "The White Chamois," that inn which the Chevalier deSt. George had mentioned to Charles Wogan. The red blinds shone verycheery and comfortable upon that stormy night. The sentinel envied themen gathered in the warmth and light behind them, and cursed his ownmiserable lot as heartily as the woman in the porch did hers. The redblinds made it unendurable. He left his post and joined his companion.
"Rudolf," he said, bawling into his ear, "come with me! Our birds willnot fly away to-night."
The two sentries came to the front of the house and stared at thered-litten blinds.
"What a night!" cried Rudolf. "Not a citizen would thrust his nose outof doors."
"Not even the little Chateaudoux's sweetheart," replied the other, witha grin.
They stared again at the red blinds, and in a lull of the wind a clockstruck nine.
"There is an hour before the magistrate comes," said Rudolf.
"You take that hour," said his companion; "I will have the hour afterthe magistrate has gone."
Rudolf ran across to the inn. The sentinel at the door remained behind.Both men were pleased,--Rudolf because he had his hour immediately, hisfellow-soldier because once the magistrate had come and gone, he wouldtake as long as he pleased.
Meanwhile the man and woman hand in hand drew nearer to the villa, butvery slowly. For, apart from the weather's hindrances, the woman's angerhad grown. She stopped, she fell down when there was no need to fall,she wept, she struggled to free her hand, and finally, when they hadtaken shelter beneath a portico, she sank down on the stone steps, andwith many oaths and many tears refused to budge a foot. Strangelyenough, it was not so much the inclemency of the night or the danger ofthe enterprise which provoked this obstinacy, as some outrage anddishonour to her figure.
"You may talk all night," she cried between her sobs, "about O'Toole andhis beautiful German. They can go hang for me! I am only a servant, Iknow. I am poor, I admit it. But poverty isn't a crime. It gives no onethe right to make a dwarf of me. No, no!"--this as Wogan bent down tolift her from the ground--"plague on you all! I will sit here and die;and when I am found frozen and dead perhaps you will be sorry for yourcruelty to a poor girl who wanted nothing better than to serve you."Here Jenny was so moved by the piteousness of her fate that her tearsbroke out again. She wept loudly. Wogan was in an extremity of alarmlest someone should pass, or the people of the house be aroused. Hetried most tenderly to comfort her. She would have none of theconsolations. He took her in his arms and raised her to her feet. Sheswore more loudly than she had wept, she kicked at his legs, she struckat his head with her fist. In another moment she would surely have criedmurder. Wogan had to let her sink back upon the steps, where she fell towhimpering.
"I am not beautiful, I know; I never boasted that I was; but I have afigure and limbs that a painter would die to paint. And what do you makeof me? A maggot, a thing all body like a nasty bear. Oh, curse the daythat I set out with such tyrants! A pretty figure of fun I should makebefore your beautiful German, covered with mud to the knees. No, youshall hang me first! Why couldn't O'Toole do his own work, the ninny, Ihate him! He's tall enough, the great donkey; but no, I must do it,who am shorter, and even then not short enough for him and you, but youmust drag me through the dirt without heels!"
Wogan let her run on; he was at his wits' end what to do. All thisturmoil, these tears, these oaths and blows, came from nothing moreserious than this, that Jenny, to make her height less remarkable, mustwear no heels. It was ludicrous, it was absurd, but none the less thewhole expedition, carried to the very point of completion, must fail,utterly and irretrievably fail, because Jenny would not for one day gowithout her heels. The Princess must remain in her prison at Innspruck;the Chevalier must lose his wife; the exertions of Wogan and hisfriends, their risks, their ingenuity, must bear no fruit because Jennywould not show herself three inches short of her ordinary height.O'Toole had warned him there would be a difficulty; but that thedifficulty should become an absolute hindrance, should spoil a scheme ofso much consequence, that was inconceivable.
Yet there was Jenny sobbing her heart out on the steps not half a milefrom the villa; the minutes were passing; the inconceivable thing wastrue. Wogan could have torn his hair in the rage of his despair. Hecould have laughed out loudly and passionately until even on that stormynight he brought the guard. He thought of the perils he had run, thedifficulties he had surmounted. He had outwitted the Countess de Bergand Lady Featherstone, he had persuaded the reluctant Prince Sobieski,he had foiled his enemies on the road to Schlestadt, he had made hisplans, he had gathered his friends, he had crept out with them fromStrasbourg, yet in the end they had come to Innspruck to be foiledbecause Jenny would not go without her heels. Wogan could have wept likeJenny.
But he did not. On the contrary, he sat down by her side on the stepsand took her hand, gentle as a sheep.
"You are in the right of it, Jenny," said he, in a most remorsefulvoice.
Jenny looked up.
"Yes," he continued. "I was in the wrong. O'Toole is the most selfishman in the whole world. Cowardly, too! But there never was a selfish manwho was not at heart a bit of a coward. Sure enough, sooner or later thecowardice comes out. It is a preposterous thing that O'Toole shouldthink that you and I are going to rescue his heiress for him while hesits at his ease by the inn fire. No; let us go back to him and tell himto his face the selfish cowardly man he is."
It seemed, however, that Jenny was not entirely pleased to hear her ownsentiments so frankly uttered by Mr. Wogan. Besides, he seemed toexaggerate them, for she said with a little reluctance, "I would not saythat he was a coward."
"But I would," exclaimed Wogan, hotly. "Moreover, I do. With all myheart I say it. A great lubberly monster of a coward. He is envious,too, Jenny."
Jenny had by this time stopped weeping.
"Why envious?" she asked with an accent of rebellion which was very muchto Wogan's taste.
"It's as plain as the palm of my hand. Why should he make a dwarf ofyou, Jenny?--for it's the truth he has d
one that; he has made a littledwarf out of the finest girl in the land by robbing her of her heels."Jenny was on the point of interrupting with some indignation, but Woganwould not listen to her. "A dwarf," he continued, "it was your own word,Jenny. I could say nothing to comfort you when you spoke it, for it wasso true and suitable an epithet. A little dwarf he has made of you, allbody and no legs like a bear, a dwarf-bear, of course; and why, if it isnot that he envies you your figure and is jealous of it in a mean anddiscreditable way? Sure, he wants to have all the looks and to appearquite incomparable to the eyes of his beautiful German. So he makes adwarf of you, a little bear dwarf--"
Jenny, however, had heard this phrase often enough by now. Sheinterrupted Wogan hotly, and it seemed her anger was now as muchdirected against him as it had been before against O'Toole.
"He is not envious," said she. "A fine friend he has in you, I amthinking. He has no need to be envious. Captain O'Toole could carry meto the house in his arms if he wished, which is more than you could doif you tried till midday to-morrow," and she turned her shoulder toWogan, who, in no way abashed by her contempt, cried triumphantly,--
"But he didn't wish. He let you drag through the mud and snow withoutso much as a patten to keep you off the ground. Why? Tell me that,Jenny! Why didn't he wish?"
Jenny was silent.
"You see, if he is not envious, he is at all events a coward," arguedWogan, "else he would have run his own risks and come in your stead."
"But that would not have served," cried Jenny. It was her turn now tospeak triumphantly. "How could O'Toole have run away with his heiressand at the same time remained behind in her bed to escape suspicion, asI am to do?"
"I had forgotten that, to be sure," said Wogan, meekly.
Jenny laughed derisively.
"O'Toole is the man with the head on his shoulders," said she.
"And a pitiful, calculating head it is," exclaimed Wogan. "Think of theinconvenience of your position when you are discovered to-morrow. Thinkof the angry uncle! O'Toole has thought of him and so keeps out of hisway. Here's a nice world, where hulking, shapeless giants like O'Toolehide themselves from angry uncles behind a dwarf-girl's petticoats. Bah!We will go back and kick O'Toole."
Wogan rose to his feet. Jenny did not move; she sat and laughedscornfully.
"_You_ kick O'Toole! You might once, if he happened to be asleep. But hewould take you up by the scruff of the neck and the legs and beat yourface against your knees until you were dead. Besides, what do I care foran angry uncle! I am well paid to put up with his insults."
"Well paid!" said Wogan, with a sneer. "A hundred guineas and a damaskgown! Three hundred guineas and a gown all lace and gold tags would notbe enough. Besides, I'll wager he has not paid you a farthing. He'llcheat you, Jenny. He's a rare bite is O'Toole. Between you and me,Jenny, he is a beggarly fellow!"
"He has already paid me half," cried Jenny. It was no knowledge toWogan, who, however, counterfeited a deal of surprise.
"Well," said he, "he has only done it to cheat you the more easily ofthe other fifty. We will go straight back and tell him that it coststhree hundred guineas, money down, and the best gown in Paris to turn afine figure of a girl into a dwarf-bear."
He leaned down and took Jenny by the arm. She sprang to her feet andtwisted herself free.
"No," she said, "you can go back if you will and show him what a goodfriend you are to him. But I go on. The poor captain shall have oneperson in the world, though she's only a servant, to help him when hewants."
Thus Wogan won the victory. But he was most careful to conceal it. Hewalked by her side humble as a whipped dog. If he had to point out theway, he did it with the most penitent air; when he offered his hand tohelp her over a snow-heap and she struck it aside, he merely bowed hishead as though her contempt was well deserved. He even whispered in herear in a trembling voice, "Jenny, you will not say a word to O'Tooleabout the remarks I made of him? He is a strong, hasty man. I know notwhat might come of it."
Jenny sneered and shrugged her shoulders. She would not speak to Woganany more, and so they came silently into the avenue of trees between"The White Chamois" and the villa. The windows in the front of the villawere dark, and through the blinding snow-storm Wogan could not havedistinguished the position of the house at all but for the red blinds ofthe tavern opposite which shone out upon the night and gave the snowfalling before them a tinge of pink. Wogan crept nearer to the house andheard the sentinel stamping in the snow. He came back to Jenny andpointed the sentinel out to her.
"Give me a quarter of an hour so far as you can judge. Then pass thesentinel and go up the steps into the house. The sentinel is preparedfor your coming, and if he stops you, you must say 'Chateaudoux' in awhisper, and he will understand. You will find the door of the houseopen and a man waiting for you."
Jenny made no answer, but Wogan was sure of her now. He left herstanding beneath the dripping trees and crept towards the side of thehouse. A sentry was posted beneath her Highness's windows, and throughthose windows he had to climb. He needed that quarter of an hour towait for a suitable moment when the sentry would be at the far end ofhis beat. But that sentry was fuddling himself with a vile spiritdistilled from the gentian flower in the kitchen of "The White Chamois."Wogan, creeping stealthily through the snow-storm, found the side of thehouse unguarded. The windows on the ground floor were dark; those on thefirst floor which lighted her Highness's apartments were ablaze. Henoticed with a pang of dismay that one of those lighted windows was wideopen to the storm. He wondered whether it meant that the Princess hadbeen removed to another lodging. He climbed on the sill of the lowerwindow; by the side of that window a stone pillar ran up the side of thehouse to the windows on the first floor. Wogan had taken note of thatpillar months back when he was hawking chattels in Innspruck. He set hishands about it and got a grip with his foot against the sash of thelower window. He was just raising himself when he heard a noise abovehim. He dropped back to the ground and stood in the fixed attitude of asentinel.
A head appeared at the window, a woman's head. The light was behind,within the room, so that Wogan could not see the face. But the shape ofthe head, its gracious poise upon the young shoulders, the curve of theneck, the bright hair drawn backwards from the brows,--here were marksWogan could not mistake. They had been present before his eyes thesemany months. The head at the open window was the head of the Princess.Wogan felt a thrill run through his blood. To a lover the sight of hismistress is always unexpected, though he foreknows the very moment ofher coming. To Wogan the sight of his Queen had the like effect. He hadnot seen her since he had left Ohlau two years before with her promiseto marry the Chevalier. It seemed to him, though for this he had livedand worked up early and down late for so long, a miraculous thing thathe should see her now.
She leaned forward and peered downwards into the lane. The lightstreamed out, bathing her head and shoulders. Wogan could see the snowfall upon her dark hair and whiten it; it fell, too, upon her neck, butthat it could not whiten. She leaned out into the darkness, and Woganset foot again upon the lower window-sill. At the same moment anotherhead appeared beside Clementina's, and a sharp cry rang out, a cry ofterror. Then both heads disappeared, and a heavy curtain swung acrossthe window, shutting the light in.
Wogan remained motionless, his heart sinking with alarm. Had that crybeen heard? Had the wind carried it to the sentry at the door? Hewaited, but no sound of running footsteps came to his ears; the cry hadbeen lost in the storm. He was now so near to success that dangers whicha month ago would have seemed of small account showed most menacing andfatal.
"It was the Princess-mother who cried out," he thought, and was remindedthat the need of persuasions was not ended for the night with theconquest of Jenny. He had to convince the Princess-mother of hisauthority without a line of Prince Sobieski's writing to support him; hehad to overcome her timidity. But he was prepared for the encounter; hehad foreseen it, and had an argument ready for the Princess-mother,though he woul
d have preferred to wring the old lady's neck. Her crymight spoil everything. However, it had not been heard, and since it hadnot been heard, Wogan was disposed to forgive it.
For the window was still open, and now that the curtain was drawn no rayof light escaped from the room to betray the man who climbed into it.