Long Live the King!

"She loves you too," I replied. "She has encouraged me in my search for you, and will be stricken with grief when she hears that I have found you too late."

Here I broke down altogether, and sobbed with my head upon my hands.

"My dear old fellow," said Max, stroking my hair, "you must not give way like this. There is nothing to be sorry for. I have fought for my country, and have given my life for her, as so many thousands of other men have done. Fate has played with me all my life, but in death she is kinder than she has ever been before."

There was another short pause, during which I knelt beside him, his hand resting upon my shoulder. Never in my life before had I suffered such agony as I did then. Max, on the other hand, was quite calm; he spoke of our father and mother; later, of our country and her future.

"Please God, happier days are in store for her," he said. "You will make a good king, Paul, and under your rule she will prosper as she has not done for years past. Ottilie will make you a noble queen, and together you will win the love and admiration of your people. I should have liked to see you happy together."

At this I again broke down completely.

"Oh, Max!" I faltered, "do not talk of us. What will anything mean to Ottilie and myself when we have lost you?"

As I spoke I thought of our boyhood, of the old, happy days in Pannonia, when we had been such firm and dear companions. I could recall nothing in Max's character that was not self-sacrificing, and to think that his life should end like this! I took his hand and held it tenderly in mine. Oh, why could I not give my life for his, and thus draw him back from that dark land into which he was so swiftly passing? That the end was very near there could be no doubt. Once more opening his eyes, which had remained closed for upwards of a minute, he whispered to me that he would like to bid farewell to the general and to the man who had been his companion in so many strange places and under such different circumstances. Accordingly, I went to the door and called them in. Groplau was the first to advance towards the bed. The old man was genuinely affected. Max looked up at him and gave him his hand. Not a word passed between them; indeed, speech was unnecessary. There was a long silence, a hand-grip, and then Groplau stepped back, and Bertram, the Englishman, took his place. He made no attempt to conceal his grief. "Good-bye," said Max. "You have been a good friend to me, Bertram; be as faithful to my brother. It is my wish that you should serve him. God bless you both!"

Bertram tried to speak, but his voice failed him, and he turned away with the tears streaming down his face. Then Max looked at me, and I went to him again.

"Paul," he said, but so feebly that I could scarcely hear the words, "it is very near now. God bless you, Paul. Kiss me, dear old brother; we've been – "

Stooping, I kissed him on the forehead, on which the dews of death were quickly gathering.

Then, softly as a tired child, he fell asleep.

Maximilian, the uncrowned King of Pannonia, was dead!

CHAPTER XXI

The last moments of a loved friend or relative are, and must be, sacred. Let it suffice, therefore, that for some minutes after my poor brother had drawn his last breath I knelt beside the bed in silent prayer, then, with one last look at the face I loved so well, I left the room, taking Bertram with me. General Groplau would, I knew, make all the necessary arrangements. In the meantime it behoved me to summon another council, and that done, to despatch messengers to the capital with the sad intelligence. Within an hour a proclamation had been issued, and it was known that the King, who had been missing for so long, had in reality been serving with his army, and had given his life, as unostentatiously as its humblest unit, for the country he loved so well. The announcement was received with a sort of stupefaction by the army. If the news caused a sensation in their ranks, however, I could imagine how much greater the surprise would be in Europe generally. Remembering this, one of my first acts was to communicate with Ottilie, in order that she might hear the sad intelligence from me personally, before receiving it from any other source. For you to realise the effect that the finding of Max, under such mournful circumstances, had upon me would be impossible. Indeed, every one and everything around me seemed to share the impression. The silent, almost deserted streets, the unhappy townsfolk (though they were unhappy from another cause), and even the dull, leaden sky overhead, seemed to mourn with me. We had won a great victory, it is true, but at what a cost to me and to the nation of which I was now the head!

The council being over, and the official communication of the news sent forth to the world, I gave orders that Bertram should be admitted to my presence. So far I had not had much opportunity of observing him; now, however, I found him a tall, well-set-up young Englishman of the higher middle class.

"Mr. Bertram," I said in English, "you may remember what my poor brother said to me concerning you, just before he died. He said he trusted that you would be as good a friend to me as you had been to him. May I hope that you will enter my service, as he wished?"

"I will do so, if your Majesty really desires it," he answered. "Though I scarcely know in what capacity I can serve you."

"You can do so by proving yourself my friend," I answered.

Traces of grief still remained upon his face. It was certain that the affection he had shown to Max was genuine, and that he mourned him almost as sincerely as I did myself.

"And now," I said, "I want you to tell me as much as you can of his life since you first met him. Remember, I know nothing. It is all mystery to me. Where did you meet him, and how does it come about that you're in Pannonia together?"

Thereupon he furnished me with a summary of Max's life from the time when they first met in Brazil, beginning with the unhappy diamond expedition, and continuing until the moment was reached when Max fell mortally wounded on the steps of the church in the market-square. From his narrative, I was able to gather something, not only of Max's past life, but also of the character of the man I had before me now. Never once during his recital of the tale did he sound his own praises, or represent himself as playing anything but a secondary part in the drama that was destined to end so tragically. Instinctively I took a liking to the man; perhaps not so much because of the fact that he had been Max's friend as because of what I felt to be his inherent good qualities. When, at my request, he consented to serve me as one of my gentlemen-in-waiting, I felt that I had secured a friend whose fidelity was in no way dependent upon the rewards or emoluments he might receive.

That evening the body of my brother was to be conveyed to the Council Hall, where it would remain closely guarded until the time should arrive for it to be removed to the capital for interment in our grand cathedral, where repose so many of our House. Before Max's remains were taken from the house, I had a last look at his face, and Bertram and I walked quickly back, for the night was cold, to the residence where I had taken up my abode. We had only just left the market-square, and were approaching our destination, when we were suddenly confronted by a man. So cutting was the wind, so keen the sleet that was now driving straight into our faces, that we did not become aware of his proximity until he had collided with Bertram.

"Why don't you look where you are going, my friend?" inquired the other, with a somewhat foreign accent. "Have you no eyes in your head?"

Then he uttered a cry of surprise, and next moment was running down the street as fast as his legs could carry him.

"That was an unmannerly fellow," I said to Bertram, who was standing on the pavement watching the other's receding figure.

To my surprise, however, he did not answer. When he turned his face to me again, dark though it was, I could see that there was a look of extreme astonishment, if not of almost consternation, upon it.

"What is the matter?" I inquired, I fear a little sharply. "Why do you look like that?"

"That man," he answered. "I must be mistaken, and yet – "

"And yet what?" I inquired. "Come, my friend, tell me the reason of your extraordinary behaviour."

Bertram hesitated again before he replied.

"I only caught a glimpse of his face," he said at length, "and yet I feel almost certain that the person who ran into me, and who bade me look where I was going, was none other than Rodriguez, one of the men who accompanied us on that fatal journey to the diamond fields in Brazil."

For a moment, for some reason that was not quite apparent to me, he seemed almost beside himself. He must have communicated this feeling to me, for I remember taking him by the arm and laughing loudly, though, Heaven knows, I was not in the humour to laugh at anything.

"Have you taken leave of your senses?" I inquired scornfully, as soon as I had somewhat recovered my self-control. "How could he be here now, and why, since he was then in South America, should he be in Zaarfburg, of all places in the world?"

But Bertram did not answer. For the moment it looked as if the shock he had received had been too much for him. Whoever, or whatever, this man Rodriguez may have been, it is quite certain that the mere thought of meeting him again was sufficient to exert a powerful influence over Max's faithful friend. In silence we resumed our walk, and presently reached the house in which I had, for the time being, taken up my residence. Two hours later my poor brother's coffin was conveyed from the clockmaker's house to the city hall, the great council chamber of which had been converted into an impromptu chapelle ardente. A guard was placed upon it, while additional sentries were posted at the outer doors.

At the council meeting that evening, it had been arranged that the remains should be conveyed to Pannonia on the day following, and that I should accompany them to the capital. Accordingly, at noon, amidst the thunder of artillery and the respectful homage of the army, we set out, escorted by a regiment of cavalry, of which Max, as a boy, had been colonel-in-chief. Bertram, who was now a recognised member of my suite, accompanied me.

My story has taken so long to tell that I have no time or space left me in which to do more than briefly summarise that mournful journey. Let it suffice, therefore, that every hamlet and town through which we passed received us with tokens of respect and sorrow. Whenever I think of that mournful time, the picture of our return rises before my mind's eye. Dusk was falling as we entered our ancient capital – the dusk of a cold, raw day, quite in keeping with the sorrow which filled our hearts. We found the streets crowded to their utmost holding capacity. Signs of mourning were to be observed on every hand. Short though the notice had been, the majority of the houses were draped in black, while overhead sounded the mournful tolling of bells. At the entrance to the city I gave up my horse, and for the remainder of the distance followed the cortége my suite, the governor of the city and his staff, the chief burgomaster and his councillors, imitating my example. As we passed slowly along the Graben towards the cathedral, I recalled the night when Max and I, with our father and mother, had said good-bye to the capital, and had gone into exile. My father and mother had never seen their country again, and now Max was coming back to it, unconscious of the fact, to take his last long rest in the old grey cathedral in which so many of our race lay buried. Slowly and solemnly, to the accompaniment of wailing bands, we crossed the King's Square and approached the majestic pile, whose roofs and parapets towered above us, thickly coated with snow. The deep tones of the bell echoed mournfully in the gathering darkness, while the troops that lined the streets presented arms, and the crowd stood bareheaded as we passed. At last we reached the foot of the cathedral steps, where the white-robed clergy, with the archbishop – the same who had baptised us – at their head, were waiting to receive us. The coffin having been removed from the hearse, and a new procession formed, we entered the church and passed up the central aisle, to the music of the Dead March, towards the spot where a catafalque had been prepared for the lying-in-state. Upon this we placed the casket that contained the remains of our dear one, and when a short service had been conducted, and the guard of honour mounted, we left the cathedral and returned, through the still waiting crowd, to the palace on the other side of the square. On the morrow and the next day there was to be a public lying-in-state; and on the day following, the funeral would take place. In the meantime there was much for us to do. There were the representatives of the various European sovereigns to be received and lodged, the precedence of each to be settled, and their positions allotted by the chamberlains; while there was also the progress of the war, to which it was necessary that I should give almost unremitting attention. Fortunately, however, that was nearly at an end. Indeed, it was as if Max's death had set the final seal upon it. As a matter of fact, it was rumoured that proposals for peace were already in course of formation, and were soon to be submitted. Later in the evening came the news by telegram that Ottilie and her father had crossed the Channel, and were on their way to Pannonia. I had scarcely received it when old Antoine, my ever-faithful groom of the chambers, entered my study to inform me that the Count von Marquart had arrived at the palace, and craved an audience with me.

"Admit him at once," I said; and, indeed, I was glad to see him. His devotion to our House had never wavered. He had been one of the first to greet me on my return to Pannonia, and it seemed only fit and proper that he should hasten to my side when I was in such dire distress as now. Needless to say I greeted him most cordially, and I could see that he was much touched by my reception of him.

"This is a sad meeting indeed," said he, as I gave him my hand. "It has affected me more deeply than I can say."

I could see that what he said was true, for the old man, as he stood before me, was visibly overcome. He asked me certain questions concerning all that had transpired, and furnished me with an outline of the various arrangements he had made. Never before had I realised the extent of the ceremonial which must be observed in such cases. We were still discussing this important matter when Antoine, with a scared expression upon his face, an expression which even his long training could not conceal, entered the room. Through the half-open door I could see old Strekwitz, the Grand Chamberlain, and several people standing outside. Something was undoubtedly wrong, but what that something was I could not even conjecture.

"The Count von Strekwitz craves an audience," said Antoine, more abruptly, I think, than he had ever addressed me before.

"Ask him to be good enough to see me in the morning," I answered sharply. "Do you not notice that I am engaged with the Count von Marquart?"

"But, your Majesty, he states that his business is of the most important nature," Antoine persisted. "He implores you to see him at once, and says that there is not a moment to lose."

"Something has evidently gone wrong with his arrangements," said von Marquart. "Perhaps it would be as well if he were admitted."

"As you please, as you please," I continued, I am afraid, with a little irritation. Then, pulling out my watch, I added, as I looked at it, "It is nearly eleven o'clock. What possible business can he have with me that will not keep until the morning?"

"You will very soon discover," the Count replied. "Perhaps you would wish me to withdraw?"

"By no means," I answered. "It is possible I may stand in need of your advice."

A moment later Strekwitz entered the room, and from the moment that I looked at his face I saw that, whatever his news might be, it was certain he had not disturbed me without good cause. The man was more upset than I had ever yet seen him; his face was as white as the paper upon which I am now writing, while his hand, when he rested it upon the table beside which he stood, shook so that the pens upon the pen-rack trembled and rattled against each other.

"Well, Count, what is the matter?" I inquired. "What brings you here at this hour of the night?"

"The saddest news possible," he replied. "I scarcely know how to tell your Highness."