CHAPTER XXII. AT ETZEL
The following morning the Countess Loschek left for a holiday. Minna,silent and wretched, had packed her things for her, moving about theroom like a broken thing. And the Countess had sat in a chair by awindow, and said nothing. She sent away food untasted, took no notice ofthe packing, and stared, hour after hour, ahead of her.
Certain things were clear enough. Karl could not now be reached by theold methods. She had, casting caution to the winds, visited theshop where Peter Niburg was employed. But he was not there, and theproprietor, bowing deeply, disclaimed all knowledge of his whereabouts.She would have to go to Karl herself, a difficult matter now. She wouldsurely be watched. And the thousand desperate plans that she thoughtof for escaping from the country and hiding herself,--in America,perhaps,--those were impossible for the same reason. She was helpless.
She had the choice of but two alternatives, to do as she had beencommanded, for it amounted to that, or to die. The Committee would notkill her, in case she failed them. It would be unnecessary. Enough thatthey place the letter and the code in the hands of the authorities, bysome anonymous means. Well enough she knew the Chancellor's inflexibleanger, and the Archduchess Annunciata's cold rage. They would sweep heraway with a gesture, and she would die the death of all traitors.
A week! Time had been when a week of the dragging days at the Palacehad seemed eternity. Now the hours flew. The gold clock on herdressing-table, a gift from the Archduchess, marked them with flyinghands.
She was, for the first time, cut off from the gossip of the Palace.The Archduchess let her severely alone. She disliked having anythinginterfere with her own comfort, disliked having her routine disturbed.But the Countess surmised a great deal. She guessed that Hedwig woulddefy them, and that they would break her spirit with high words. Shesurmised preparations for a hasty marriage--how hasty she dared notthink. And she guessed, too, the hopeless predicament of Nikky Larisch.
She sat and stared ahead.
During the afternoon came a package, rather unskillfully tied with agilt cord. Opening it, the Countess disclosed a glove-box of wood, witha design of rather shaky violets burnt into the cover. Inside was anote:
I am very sorry you are sick. This is to put your gloves in when you travel. Please excuse the work. I have done it in a hurry. FERDINAND WILLIAM OTTO.
Suddenly the Countess laughed, choking hysterical laughter that alarmedMinna; horrible laughter, which left her paler than ever, and gasping.
The old castle of the Loscheks looked grim and inhospitable when shereached it that, night. Built during the years when the unbelieveroverran southern Europe, it stood in a commanding position over avalley, and a steep, walled road led up to it. The narrow windows of itsturrets were built, in defiance of the Moslem hordes, in the shapeof the cross. Its walls had been hospitable enough, however, when thecrusaders had thronged by to redeem the Holy Sepulcher from the graspof the infidel. Here, in its stone hall, they had slept in weary rows onthe floor. From its battlements they had stared south and east along theroad their feet must follow.
But now, its ancient glory and good repute departed, its garrisongone, its drawbridge and moat things of the past, its very hangings andfurnishings mouldering from long neglect, it hung over the valley, apast menace, an empty threat.
To this dreary refuge the Countess had fled. She wanted the silence ofits still rooms in which to think. Wretched herself, its wretchednesscalled her. As the carriage which had brought her from, the railwayturned into its woods; and she breathed the pungent odor of pine andbalsam, she relaxed for the first time.
Why was she so hopeless? She could escape.
She knew the woods well. None who followed her could know them so well.She would get away, and somewhere, in a new world, make a fresh start.Surely, after all, peace was the greatest thing in the world.
Peace! The word attracted her. There were religious houses where onewould be safe enough, refuges high-walled and secure, into which noalien foot ever penetrated. And, as if to answer the thought, she sawat that moment across the valley the lights of Etzel, the tower of thechurch, with its thirteen bells, the monastery buildings behind it,and set at its feet, like pilgrims come to pray, the low houses of thepeasants. For the church at Etzel contained a celebrated shrine, noneother than that of Our Lady of the Angels, and here came, from all overthe kingdom, long lines of footsore and weary pilgrims, seeking peaceand sanctity, and some a miracle.
The carriage drove on; Minna, on the box, crossed herself at sight ofthe church, and chatted with the driver, a great figure who crowded herto the very edge of the seat.
"I am glad to be here," she said. "I am sick of grandeur. My home isin Etzel." She turned and inspected the man beside her. "You are anewcomer, I think?"
"I have but just come to Etzel."
"Then you cannot tell me about my people." She was disappointed.
"And you," inquired the driver,--"you will stay for a visit?"
"A week only. But better than nothing."
"After that, you return to the city?"
"Yes. Madame the Countess--you would know, if you wereEtzel-born--Madame the Countess is lady-in-waiting to Her RoyalHighness, the Archduchess Annunciata."
"So!" said the driver. But he was not curious, and the broken roaddemanded his attention. He was but newly come, so very newly that he didnot know his way, and once made a wrong turning.
The Countess relaxed. She had not been followed. None but themselves hadleft the train. She was sure of that. And looking back, she satisfiedherself that no stealthy foot-traveler dogged their slow progress. Shebreathed quietly, for the first time.
She slept that night. She had wired ahead of her coming, and theold caretaker and his wife had opened a few rooms, her boudoir anddressing-room, and a breakfast-room on the first floor. They had sweptthe hall too, and built a fire there, but it had been built for a greathousehold, and its emptiness chilled her.
At four o'clock in the morning she roused at the ringing of a bell,telling that masses had already begun at the church. For with theapproach of Lent pilgrimages had greatly increased in numbers. But sheslept again, to waken to full sunlight, greatly refreshed.
When she had breakfasted and dressed, she went out on a balcony, andlooked down at the valley. It was late. Already the peasants of Etzelhad gone out to their fields. Children played along its single streets.A few women on the steps of the church made rosaries of beads which theystrung with deft fingers. A band of pilgrims struggled up the valley,the men carrying their coats, for the sun was warm, and the womenholding their skirts from the dust.
As they neared the church, however, coats were donned. The processiontook on order and dignity. The sight was a familiar one to the Countess.Her eyes dropped to the old wall below, where in the sunshine thecaretaker was beating a rug. Close to him, in intimate and cautiousconversation, was the driver of the night before. Glancing up, they sawher and at once separated.
Gone was peace, then. The Countess knew knew certainly. "Our eyes seeeverywhere." Eyes, indeed, eyes that even now the caretaker raisedfurtively from his rug.
Nevertheless, the Countess was minded to experiment, to be certain. Fornone is so suspicious, she knew, as one who fears suspicion. None soguilty as the guilty. During the forenoon she walked through thewoods, going briskly, with vigorous, mountainbred feet. No crackle ofunderbrush disturbed her. Swift turnings revealed no lurking figuresskulking behind the trunks of trees. But where an ancient stone bridgecrossed a mountain stream, she came on the huge driver of the nightbefore reflectively fishing.
He saluted her gravely, and the Countess paused and looked at him. "Youhave caught no fish, my friend?" she said.
"No, madame. But one plays about my hook."
She turned back. Eyes everywhere, and arms, great hairy arms. And feetthat, for all their size, must step lightly!
Restlessness followed her. She was a virtual Prisoner, free only inname. And the vigilance
of the Terrorists obsessed her. She found aday gone, and no plan made. She had come here to think, and consecutivethought was impossible. She went to vespers at the church, and sathuddled in a corner. She suspected every eye that turned on her in frankcuriosity. When, during the "Salve Regina," the fathers, followed bytheir pupils, went slowly down the aisle, in reverent procession betweenrows of Pilgrims, she saw in their habits only a grim reminder of theblack disguises of the Terrorists.
On the second day she made a desperate resolve, and characteristicallyput it into execution at once. She sent for the caretaker. When he came,uneasy, for the Loscheks were justly feared in the country side, andeven the thing of which he knew gave him small courage, she lost no timein evasion.
"Go," she said; "and bring here your accomplice--"
"My accomplice, madame! I do not--"
"You heard me," she said.
He turned, half sullen, half terrified, and paused. "Which do you referto, madame?"
She had seen only the one. Then there were others. Who could tell howmany others?
"The one who drove here."
So he went, leaving her to desperate reflection. When he returned, itwas to usher in the heavy figure of the spy.
"Which of you is in authority?" she demanded.
"I, madame." It was the spy who spoke.
She dismissed the caretaker with a gesture.
"Have you any discretion over me? Or must you refer matters to those whosent you?"
"I must refer to them."
"How long will it take to send a message and receive a reply?"
He considered. "Until to-morrow night, madame."
Another day gone, then, and nothing determined!
"Now, listen," she said, "and listen carefully. I have come here todecide a certain question. Whether you know what that question is ornot, does not matter. But before I decide it I must take a certainjourney. I wish to make that journey. It is into Karnia."
She watched him. "It is impossible. My instructions--"
"I am not asking your permission. I wish to send a letter to theCommittee. They, and they alone, will determine this thing. Will yousend the letter?"
When he hesitated, perplexed, she got up and moved to her writing-table.
"I shall write the letter," she said haughtily. "See that it is sent.When I report at the end of the time that I have sent such a letter, youcan judge better than I the result if it has not been received."
He was still dubious, but she wrote the letter and gave it to him, herface proud and scornful. But she was not easy, for all that, and shewatched from her balcony to see if any messenger left the castle anddescended the mountain road. She was rewarded, an hour later, by seeinga figure leave the old gateway and start afoot toward the village, apale-faced man with colorless hair. A part of the hidden guard thatsurrounded her, she knew, and somehow familiar. But, although she rackedher brains, she could not remember where she had seen him.
For the next twenty-four hours she waited. Life became one longendurance. She hated the forest, since she might not visit it alone. Shehated the castle, because it was her prison. She stood for hours thatfirst day on her balcony, surveying with scornful eyes the processionof the devout, weary women, perspiring men, lines of children going tosomething they did not comprehend, and carrying clenched in small, warmhands drooping bunches of early mountain flowers.
And always, calling her to something she scorned, rang the bells formass or for vespers. The very tower below beckoned her to peace--her,for whom there would never again be peace. She cursed the bell savagely,put her fingers in her ears, to be wakened at dawn the next morning toits insistent call.
There was no more sleep for her. She lay there in her bare room and gaveherself to bitter reflection. Here, in this very castle, she had metKarl. That was eleven years before. Prince Hubert was living. Duringa period of peace between the two countries a truce had been arranged,treaties signed, with every prospect of permanence. During that timeKarl and Hubert, glad of peace, had come here for the hunting. Sheremembered the stir about their coming, her father's hurried efforts toget things in order, the cleaning and refurbishing, the peasants calledin to serve the royal guests, and stripped of their quaint costumes tobe put into ill-fitting livery.
They had bought her a new frock for evening wear, the father who wasnow dead, and the old aunt who had raised her--an ugly black satin, toomature for her. She had put it on in that very room, and wept in verydespair.
Then came the arrival, her father on the doorstep, she and her auntbehind him, and in the hall, lines of uneasy and shuffling peasants. Howawkward and ill at ease they must have seemed! Then came the carriage,Hubert alighting first, then Karl. Karl had seen her instantly, over herfather's bent back.
Lying there, seeing things with the clear vision of the dawn, shewondered whether, had she met Karl later, in her sophisticated maturity,she would have fallen in love with him. There was no way to know. He haddawned on her then, almost the first man of rank she had ever seen. Shesaw him, not only with fresh eyes, but through the halo of his position.He was the Crown Prince of Karnia then, more dashing than Hubert, whowas already married and had always been a serious youth, handsomer, ablond in a country of few blond men. His joyous smile had not taken onthe mocking twist it acquired later. His blue eyes were gay and joyous.
When she had bowed and would have kissed his hand, it had been Karl whokissed hers, and straightened to smile down at her.
"This is a very happy day, Countess," he had said.
Then the old aunt had hustled forward, and the peasants had bowednervously, and bustle and noise had filled the old place.
For four days the royal hunters had stayed. On the third day Karl hadpleaded fatigue, and they had walked through the pine woods. On thatvery devil's bridge he had kissed her. They had had serious talks, too.Karl was ambitious, even then. The two countries were at peace, but forhow long? Contrary to opinion, he said, it was not rulers who led theirpeople into war. It was the people who forced those wars. He spoke oflong antagonisms, old jealousies, trade relations.
She had listened, flattered, had been an intelligent audience. Even now,she felt that it was her intelligence as much as her beauty that hadensnared Karl. For ensnared he had been. She had dreamed wild dreamsthat night after he kissed her, dreams of being his wife. She was nottoo young to know passion in a man's eyes, and Karl's had burned withit.
Then, the next day, while the hunters were away, her aunt had come toher, ugly, dowdy, and alarmed. "Little fool!" she had said. "They play,these princes. But they are evil with women, and dangerous. I have seenyour eyes on him, sick with love. And Karl will amuse himself--it is theblood--and go away, laughing."
She had been working with the satin dress, trying to make it lovelyfor him. Over it her eyes had met her aunt's, small and twitching withanxiety. "But suppose he cares for me?" she had asked. "Sometimes Ithink--Why should you say he is evil?"
"Bah!"
She had grown angry then and, flinging the dress on the floor, had risenhaughtily. "I think he will marry me," she had announced, to be met withblank surprise, followed by cackling old laughter.
Karl had gone away, kissing her passionately, before he left her, in thedark hall. And many things had followed. A cousin, married into Karniabecame lady-in-waiting to the old Queen. Olga Loschek had visited her.No accident all this, but a carefully thought-out plan of Karl's. Shehad met Karl again. She was no longer the ill-dressed, awkward girl ofthe mountains, and his passion grew, rather than died.
He had made further love to her then, urged her to go away with him ona journey to the eastern end of the kingdom, would, indeed, havecompromised her hopelessly. But, young as she was, she had had courageand strength; perhaps shrewdness too. Few women could have resisted him.He was gentleness itself with her, kindly, considerate, passionate. Butshe had kept her head.
And because she had kept her head, she had kept him. Through his manylapses, his occasional mad adventures, he had always come ba
ck to her.Having never possessed her, he had always wanted her. But not enough,she said drearily to herself, to pay the price of marriage.
She was fair enough to him. Nothing but a morganatic marriage would bepossible, and this would deprive his children of the throne. But lessthan marriage she would not have.
The old Queen died. Her cousin retired to the country, and raisedpheasants for gayety. Olga Loschek's visits to Karnia ceased. In time aplace was made for her at the Court of Livonia and a brilliant marriagefor her was predicted. But she did not marry. Now and then she retiredto the castle near the border, and Karl visited her there. And, at last,after years, the inevitable happened.
She was deeply in love, and the years were passing. The burden ofresistance had always been on her, and marriage was out of the question.She was alone now. Her father had died, and the old aunt was inseclusion in a nunnery, where she pottered around a garden and knittedendless garments for the poor.
For a time Olga had been very happy. Karl's motor crossed the mountains,and he came on foot through the woods. No breath of scandal touched her.And, outwardly, Karl did not change. He was still her ardent lover. Butthe times when they could meet were few.
And the Court of Livonia heard rumors--a gamekeeper's daughter, anactress in his own capital, these were but two of the many. Olga Loschekwas clever. She never reproached him or brought him to task. She hadfelt that, whatever his lapses, the years had made her necessary to him.
The war that followed the truce had seen her Karl's spy in Livonia. Shehad undertaken it that the burden of gratitude should be on him--a falsestep, for men chafe under the necessity for gratitude.
Then had come another peace, and his visit to the summer palace. Therehe had seen Hedwig, grown since his last visit to lovely girlhood, andhaving what Olga Loschek could never again possess, youth.
And now he would marry her, and Olga Loschek, his tool and spy, was indanger of her life.
That day, toward evening, the huge man presented himself. He brought noletter, but an oral message. "Permission is given, madame," he said. "Imyself shall accompany you."