"Go and sleep," said the prince to Maurice; "I will send an orderly for you when the time comes." And with this he dashed up the driveway to the main entrance of the palace, leaped from his horse and disappeared.
Maurice wheeled and drove leisurely to the Continental, leaving the amazed cuirassiers gaping after him.He experienced that exuberance of spirits which always comes with a delightful day dream.He forgot his weariness, his bruises.To mingle directly in the affairs of kings and princes, to be a factor among factors who surround and uphold thrones, seemed so at variance with his republican learning that he was not sure that all this was not one long dream--Fitzgerald and his consols, the meeting with the princess, the adventures at Madame's chateau, the duel with Beauvais, the last night's flight with the prince across the mountains! Yes; he had fallen asleep somewhere and had been whisked away into a kind of fairyland.Every one was in trouble just now, as they always are in certain chapters of fairy tales, but all would end happily, and then--he would wake.
Meanwhile the prince entered the palace and was proceeding up the grand corridor, when a bared sword stayed his progress.
"Monsieur," said von Mitter, "you have lost your way.You can not enter here.""I?" a haughty, threatening expression on his pale face."Are you sure?"Von Mitter fell back against the wall and all but lost hold of his saber."Your Highness?" he gasped, overcome.
"Even so!" said the prince."The archbishop! the Marshal! Lead me to them at once!"Von Mitter was too much the soldier not to master his surprise at once.He saluted, clicked his heels and limped toward the throne room.He stopped at the threshold, saluted again, and, in a voice full of quavers, announced:
"His Highness Prince Frederick of Carnavia."He stepped aside, and the prince pushed past him into the throne room.At this dramatic entrance there rose from the archbishop, the Marshal, the princess, the Carnavian ambassador, from all the court dignitaries, a cry of wonder and astonishment.
"His Highness!"
"Aye!" cried the prince, brokenly, for his joy at seeing the princess nigh overcame him."I have been a prisoner of Madame's, who at this moment is marching on Bleiberg with an army four thousand strong!" And stumblingly he related his misadventures.
The Marshal did not wait until he had done, nor did the new Colonel of the cuirassiers; both rushed from the room.The archbishop frowned; while the princess and the court stared at the prince with varying emotions.Before the final word had passed his lips, he approached her Highness, fell on his knee and raised her hand to his lips.He noticed not how cold it was.
"Thank God, Mademoiselle," he said, "that once more I look into your eyes.And if one wedding day is gone--well, there is yet time for another!" He, rose, and proudly before them all he drew her toward him and kissed her cheek.It was his right; she was, the light of all his dreams, at once his bride-to-be and lady-love.But in his joy and eagerness he did not see how pale she grew at the touch of his lips, nor how the lids of her eyes trembled and fell.
Next the prince recounted Maurice's adventures, how he became connected with those at the chateau, even Fitzgerald's fall from grace.The indignation and surprise which was accorded this recital was unbounded.
The brown eyes of the princess filled.In a moment she had traversed the space of ten years to a rare September noon, when a gray-haired old man had kissed her hand and praised her speech.
A young dog stood beside her, ready for a romp in the park.
Across the path sat her father, who was smiling, and who would never smile again.How many times had her girlish fancy pictured the son of that old man! How many times had she dreamed of him--aye, prayed for him! The room grew dark, and she pressed her hand over her heart.To her the future was empty indeed.There was nothing left but the vague perfume of the past, the faint incense of futile, childish dreams.To stand on the very threshold of life, and yet to see no joy beyond! She struggled against the sob which rose, and conquered it.
"To arms, Messieurs, to arms!" cried the prince, feverishly."To arms!"The archbishop stepped forward and took the prince's hand in his own.
"God wills all things," he said, sadly, "and perhaps he has willed that your Highness should come too late!" And that strange, habitual smile was gone--forever.No one could fathom the true significance of this peculiar speech.
"But "aux armes" was taken up, and spread throughout the city.
