Part 2

He decided to walk as far as The Castle; next day he would drive and perhaps pay his respects to Baron Zeppstein. He was impressed by the loneliness of the park, apparently an untouched wilderness except the road. The birds were singing. Now and then there would be a crash and he would see a deer making off, or a whir and a scurrying flapping, and he would get a glimpse of some wild bird in panic-stricken flight. As he came nearer to The Castle the signs of habitation were numerous, but still not a human being. At last he was close to the walls, looking up at them.

He could see nothing but the perfect order of the shrubbery to indicate that any one had been there recently. The huge gates--solid doors rather than gates--were closed. The sun was shining, the waters of the lake glistened, the foliage was fresh and vivid, the soft, strong air blew in a gentle breeze. But there was a profound hush, as if the grim old fortress-palace, and all within and around it, had long been locked in a magic sleep.

A sense of uncanniness was creeping over him in spite of his incredulous American mind. He was startled by a trumpet blast which seemed to come from the depth of the woods to the left. Standing in the middle of the road, he turned. He had just time to jump aside.

Out of the woods, by a cross-road he had not noted, swept a gorgeous cavalcade. As he looked he felt more strongly than ever like a time-wanderer who had been, in a twinkling, borne backward several centuries. First to pass him at a mad gallop were six soldiers on tall black chargers. They and their horses were trapped in the blue and white of the Household Guards. Corselets and plumed helmets and chains clashed and rattled and flashed as they flew past. A few yards behind them, at the same furious pace, came a graceful, long-bodied carriage of strange coloring and design, drawn by eight black horses with postilions. On a curious foot-board at the back of the carriage stood two footmen in a mediæval livery. They were hanging on by straps. Behind the carriage came six more black-horsed cavalrymen of the Household Guards.

As Grafton gaped through the dust in the wake of this ancient spectacle it halted before The Castle’s gates so abruptly that every horse reared to its haunches. But immediately all was quiet, motionless. One of the cavalrymen put a trumpet to his lips and sent a blast echoing and re-echoing like a peal of fairy laughter to and fro over the lake. As if there were enchantment in that blast, the great weather and battle scarred doors of The Castle swung noiselessly back. Out came eight men in mediæval costumes, each bearing a long, slender, brazen trumpet. Four went to either side of the entrance. They put the trumpets to their lips and sounded a fanfare.

Grafton’s expectation was at excitement pitch. What did this gorgeous revival of mediævalism presage? what dazzling apparition was about to greet his ravished eyes?

Now appeared a man in mediæval court costume, resplendent in velvet and lace and silver braid. He was walking backward, bowing low at each step, his velvet, beplumed hat in his hand. And then the central figure--His Royal Highness Casimir of Traubenheim, Grand Duke of Zweitenbourg, Prince of the Holy Roman Empire, Margrave of Plaut, Prince of Wiesser, of Dinn, of Feltenheim, Count in Brausch and in Ranau. He was a sallow, cross-looking little man, with thin shoulders, legs, and arms, and a great paunch of a stomach, dilated and sagged from overfeeding. He was dressed in a baggy tweed suit and a straight-brimmed top-hat. He seated himself in the carriage.

“What an anticlimax!” thought Grafton. But there was a second and briefer flourish of the trumpets, and then appeared the Duchess Erica, in a white cloth dress and a big white hat and carrying a white parasol. Grafton felt like applauding. “The spectacle is looking up,” he said. He was near enough to note that her sweet face was discontented, impatient, almost sad. She seated herself beside the Grand Duke. The mounted trumpeter blew, the cavalrymen in front wheeled and struck spurs into their horses, the whole procession was instant whirling away--it was gone. Grafton glanced at The Castle doors; they were closed again and the trumpeters and the courtier had disappeared. The dust settled, the magic sleep descended.

Grafton might have thought himself the victim of an illusion had he not seen, far away across the lake, a cloud of dust, and in front of it the gaudy cavalcade and the grand-ducal carriage, the shine of blue and silver and polished steel rushing along as if fleeing from a fiend. And after a few minutes it came towards The Castle again from the other direction. The horses were dripping, their coats streaked with foam. At the entrance there were the same startling halt, the same mysterious opening of doors, the same stage-like assembling of trumpeters, the same flourishes. The Grand Duke and his niece and the attendants disappeared, the procession fled into the woods; there was silence and ancient repose once more.

Grafton set out on the return walk, trying to force himself to stop thinking of Her Serene Highness and to resume thinking of her uncle and his Spaniard. He had not gone far when a court-officer issued from a by-path. He paused to get a good look at this romantic figure, and presently recognized beneath the enfoldings of finery his commonplace, voluble acquaintance of the Paris picture-shop, Baron Zeppstein.

“Why, how d’ye do, Baron Zeppstein!” he called out.

The Baron looked at him superciliously, then collapsed into cordiality. “Meester Grafton!” he exclaimed. “It is a pleasure--a joyful surprise. I did not know you at first.”

“Nor I you,” said Grafton. “I seem to be the only modern thing here--except the old gentleman who took that quiet jog around the lake a few minutes ago.”

“His Royal Highness,” corrected the Baron, pompously. “He takes a drive every afternoon.”

“A good show,” said Grafton. “But I think I’d tire of it. I’d rather look at it than be in it. I should say that he earned his salary.”

The Baron laughed vaguely. “You Americans do not understand our ways,” he said. “You are so practical--so busy. You have no time for tradition and beauty and ceremony.”

“No; we’re a common lot,” said Grafton. “We’d think this sort of thing was a joke if it happened outside of a circus. But it’s a very serious business, isn’t it?” His face was grave.

“It is; it is, indeed,” said Zeppstein, his shallow old face taking on a look of melancholy importance. “But we must do our public duty; we must accept the cares of high station. And His Royal Highness--ah, how he suffers! We others have our relaxations--we get away to our families. But His Royal Highness--this is his vacation. And, mein Gott, he yawns and curses all day long. Yes, it is trying to be near the great of earth, but not so trying as to be great.”

“He looks ill-tempered,” said Grafton, sympathetically.

“But think what he suffers. Imagine! Usually he must wear a heavy, tight uniform and a steel helmet; he says it has given him the headache almost every day for twenty-seven years. But the dignity of the nation must be maintained.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Grafton. “And when is the best time to see him? I’m going to call on him.”

Zeppstein looked at the American as if he thought him insane. “But, my dear sir,” he said, deprecatingly, “you don’t understand. You will have to wait until His Royal Highness’s vacation is over. Then you must go to your minister and he will lay your wish before the Grand Chamberlain. And if possible your name will be placed on the list for one of the levees--there are five each winter.”

“Oh, I don’t want to see the Grand Duke in his official capacity; it’s a little private matter--about a picture.”

“But the Grand Duke has no other capacity. He is head of the state; he is the state every hour of every day, except when he’s abroad. Then he often graciously condescends to be a mere gentleman.”

“But I can’t wait. You ought to be able to arrange it. You’ve got influence.”

“Yes.” Baron Zeppstein was flattered. “But, unfortunately, none is permitted to speak to His Royal Highness unless he has commanded it--that is, no one but his son, the Inheriting Grand Duke, and his niece, the Duchess Erica, and the Grand Chamberlain. And--I am, just at present, at outs with them. Her Serene Highness is most intractable--one of the new school of wild young princesses who are cutting loose from everything in these degenerate days.”

“She certainly doesn’t look tame.”

“I had the honor of escorting her to Paris when I went for His Royal Highness’s picture,” Zeppstein continued. “It was a painful experience. And instead of sustaining me, His Royal Highness--but it was most humiliating.”

“Excellent,” said Grafton. “I can be of service to you. I own a Rembrandt which I wish to let the Grand Duke have at a bargain. I’m certain he’ll be most anxious to get it once he hears of it. Now, if you should be of assistance to him in getting it, he would be grateful, wouldn’t he?”

Zeppstein became thoughtful. “Not grateful,” he said. “It isn’t in His Royal Highness to be grateful. But it might make him think me useful. What do you propose?”

“I don’t know; I can’t tell yet. Keep quiet until I’ve looked over the ground and made my plans.”

“I am at your service,” said Zeppstein. “You would weep to hear how the Grand Chamberlain and his faction have humiliated me. They make me the butt of their jokes at dinner to amuse His Royal Highness. They--”

“You shall be revenged,” said Grafton, shaking hands with him and hurrying away.

From the moment he recognized old Zeppstein until he left him he had been fighting to restrain himself from leading the talk to Erica. He now caught himself regretting it. He stopped short. “Ridiculous!” he exclaimed. “What an idiot I am to let such ideas into my head. It must be in the air here. I’m getting as romantic as--as--as she looks.” And he walked on, her face and her voice haunting him.

III

A Skirmish

Grafton learned that the next was one of the three weekly public days at the Grand Duke’s galleries. About eleven the next morning he went to look at his Spaniard and develop his plans for its capture. As he neared The Castle he saw a gardener at work upon his knees, trimming a bush of big pink and white flowers.

“Where is the entrance to the galleries?” he asked, when he was within a yard of the gardener.

“Sh!” whispered the gardener, looking nervously up at the windows.

“What is it?” said Grafton, following his glance and seeing nothing.

“His Royal Highness permits no noise,” replied the gardener in an undertone. “He hears every sound--especially every little sound. Only Sunday it was that he sent out to have the noise stopped. And there was no noise that anybody could hear. And when the First Gentleman of the Bedchamber reported it to His Royal Highness, what do you think His Royal Highness said? It was marvellous!”

“And what did he say?” inquired Grafton.

“His Royal Highness said, ‘It is the sound of the grass and bushes growing. Tear them up!’ Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Wonderful!” said Grafton. “Why aren’t they torn up?”

“All the gentlemen of the court entreated and at last dissuaded His Royal Highness. It was a terrible crisis. Some of the gentlemen were weak from agitation and sweating. Yes, His Royal Highness is a true prince. Only a true prince could hear grass and bushes grow.”

“It’s fortunate he’s a prince, isn’t it?” said Grafton. “Now, if he were an ordinary mortal they’d lock him up in a lunatic asylum.”

The gardener gave a frightened look at the windows, then almost whispered: “Yes, that is so. But princes are different from us; they’re so sensitive, so high-bred. I often think of the things they do here, and I say, ‘If I were to do that, they’d think I was light in the head.’ But, of course, princes can’t be judged like ordinary people.”

“No, indeed,” assented Grafton, “that would never do. Where is the entrance to the galleries?”

“Take the path to the left until you come to the modern wing. The entrance is under the balcony; you will see it.”

Grafton followed the gardener’s directions and, climbing the steps, was about to open the door. At each side, in the same frame, were long, narrow glass windows. At one of these peeping-windows he saw the Grand Duke, his mouth distended in a tremendous yawn. Grafton hesitated. The Grand Duke, in an old, black frock-suit, opened the door.

“Good-morning,” said Grafton. “Are you the keeper of the galleries. These are the Grand Duke’s galleries, are they not?”

“Yes.” The Grand Duke beamed. “Won’t you come in?”

“I’m an American,” continued Grafton, “and I’m much interested in pictures. I particularly wished to see the Grand Duke’s Rembrandts.”

“Ah; it will be a pleasure to show you through. We like Americans here.” He spoke in excellent English. “We once had an American at our little court. But when her husband died she fled. It was too dull for her. But we have to stay here.”

“You surprise me,” said Grafton. “I had always heard that the Grand Duke was a most interesting, a most unusual man.”

Casimir shrugged his shoulders. “He is the most bored of all. He does nothing but regret his youth. He is old, worn-out, a poor creature--no strength, no stomach, no nothing but memories, and a bad temper. And he doesn’t get much pleasure out of his temper. Of what use is a temper when no one dares answer back?”

They had come to Grafton’s Spaniard, indifferently hung among the fierce-looking Teutonic war-lords in armor. “Evidently he doesn’t care especially for it,” said Grafton to himself. Aloud he said: “What a collection of fighters!”

“No wonder they fought,” replied the Grand Duke. “They were so bored that they had to fight to save themselves from suicide or lunacy. Any one would make war in their position--if he dared.”

“But it isn’t allowed so much nowadays.”

“No; worse luck,” growled the Grand Duke.

“Why!” exclaimed Grafton. “There’s the spurious Velasquez from Acton’s collection. Surely the Grand Duke wasn’t caught on that.” Grafton went to the proper distance and angle and examined his beloved Spaniard with a tranquil face and a covetous heart. “It seems strange to meet an old acquaintance so far from home. If I hadn’t been ill when Acton sold, I’d have bid on this. It’s pleasing, very pleasing, though clearly not a Velasquez.”

“We got it because it is a portrait of one of our house--the Duke of Hispania Media, who captured Barcelona early in the eighteenth century.”

“Was that before or after the Archduke Charles took it?”

“It was the capture sometimes erroneously credited to the Archduke Charles. He was present, I believe.”

Grafton laughed good-naturedly. “And in England I suppose they’d say Peterborough took it--he was present, I believe.”

“The English are great liars,” said Casimir, sourly.

“That’s what every nation says about every other,” said Grafton.

The Grand Duke chuckled. “And all are right. Now we come to the Rembrandts.”

It was a fine collection, and Grafton and the Grand Duke went slowly from picture to picture, from drawing to drawing, comparing opinions, telling stories of experiences in collecting. When they reached the examples of Rembrandt’s early work, Grafton was enthusiastic. “But,” said he, “it is too small; there should be more examples.”

“True,” Casimir sighed. “It is not so satisfactory as we wish.”

“Possibly I attach more importance to this weak spot,” continued Grafton, “than another would, because I have an example of his early work and so am interested in it.”

“What is your example, may I ask?” Casimir spoke in a too casual tone.

“A peasant woman with an astonishingly handsome-ugly face; it’s usually described as ‘The Woman with the Earrings,’ because they are very queerly shaped.”

As Grafton thus described the smaller and less interesting of his two early Rembrandts, he watched Casimir’s face mirrored in the glass over a picture. He saw a swift glance, so piercing that he would not have believed those burned-out eyes capable of it. But when Casimir spoke it was to say, carelessly, “I think I’ve heard of it--a small affair, isn’t it?”

“I couldn’t get more than fifteen or twenty thousand marks for it, if I were selling it,” said Grafton. If he had not seen the swoop of that covetous collector glance he would have been discouraged and would have begun to talk of his larger Rembrandt. But he decided to wait. Perhaps the smaller Rembrandt would alone get him his Spaniard, and possibly another picture to boot.

They went on with their examination. Apparently the Grafton Rembrandt had passed from the Grand Duke’s mind. After three-quarters of an hour he said: “Now this, I think, antedates your ‘Armorer.’”

The only outward sign of confusion Grafton gave was to pause abruptly in his walk. “Your ‘Armorer’!”--that was his other and finer Rembrandt. How did the Grand Duke know he had it when he had not spoken of it? “Fool that I am!” he said to himself. “The Grand Duke knows his subject, knows where the Rembrandts are. Why, he now knows my name, I’ll wager.” He was much depressed; he felt that he would not get his Spaniard either easily or cheaply. “The only advantage I have left is that he doesn’t know just what I want, though, no doubt, he has made up his mind that I’m not here for mere sight-seeing.”

As he was thinking he was examining the picture to which Casimir had called attention. He now said: “No, I think not; I’m sure my ‘Woman with the Earrings’ antedates it.” Again the glass covering of a picture betrayed Casimir; Grafton saw a look of relief in his face. “He knew he’d made a break,” thought Grafton, “and now he hopes I didn’t notice it.”

After a few minutes Grafton said he must be going. Casimir’s face was as unreadable as his own; no one could have suspected from looking at either that both were determined to meet again. Grafton thanked Casimir heartily and turned away.

“Do you stay long here?” asked Casimir.

“A day or two, perhaps,” replied Grafton. “My plans are unsettled.”

“To-morrow is a closed day. But if you return, I shall be glad to show you the rest of the collection.”

Grafton knew he had scored. “You are very kind,” he said.

“It is possible that I may be able to show you through His Royal Highness’s apartments. There are several remarkable pictures--a Leonardo, a few Van Dycks, and some interesting moderns.”

“That would be delightful.”

“Then it is agreed?”

“If I can arrange it. At what hour?”

“At ten. I shall expect you.”

“I think I can come. You are most courteous.”

“It is a pleasure. Until to-morrow!”

IV

Two in the Trees

Clear of The Castle, Grafton looked at his watch; it was half-past three. “That’s why the servant poked his head in at the door so often,” he thought. “We were at it more than three hours.” He strode along in a jubilant frame of mind. He felt that the Spaniard was practically his; it was a question of detail. And Casimir was a worthy antagonist; the struggle would be full of interest for both.

He was still a quarter of a mile from the park gates when he heard a scream. He listened; nearly half a minute of silence, and then a lusty-lunged feminine call for help. He dashed into the wilderness, breaking a path with difficulty through the heavy undergrowth. He had gone three or four hundred yards, guided by the repeated calls, when he heard in the same voice, in German: “Come no nearer until I explain.” He pressed on; there was a ferocious, growling grunt and a big wild boar, with open jaws and long yellow tusks, came at him. He made for a tree and scrambled up into its branches. He heard a suppressed laugh; his panic-stricken climb could not have been other than ludicrous to an on-looker; he glanced all round but could see no one through the curtain of leaves.

“Where the devil is she?” he said, in English, his voice louder than he thought.

“Here,” came the reply, also in English; “the third tree to your right--the lowest limb.”

He now saw a pair of laced boots with high tops and the edge of a brown cloth walking-skirt. “Those feet look promising,” he thought, as he watched them swinging cheerfully. He crawled farther out on the big limb. When he paused again he could see her waist; a brown silk sash with tasselled ends was wrapped several times round it. He could also see one of her hands; she had her glove off and the hand was as promising as the feet. He crawled a little farther. Pausing again, he peered out; he was looking into the charming, amused face of Her Serene Highness! She recognized him instantly. She tried to sober her features, but the spectacle of this dignified young man on all fours craning his neck at her through the leaves was too much for her gravity. She began to laugh, and, as he instinctively released one hand, took off his hat and bowed, she became almost hysterical.

He swung himself round and found a secure sitting from which he could view her. She said: “I beg your pardon; I’m so--”

“Don’t mind me,” he said, good-humoredly. “It’s most becoming to you to laugh.”

She straightened her face and elaborately brought forward a look designed to “put him in his place.”

“I prefer the laughter,” he said. “Posing isn’t a bit becoming to you--not a bit. You seem to have the habit of drawing me into disagreeable situations and then putting on airs. Who invited me down that passage-way at Paquin’s? Who dropped her handkerchief twice in my path and suspected me of flirtation? Who summoned me to come and amuse her by being chased by a wild boar?”

“But I told you to stop,” she protested, feebly.

“Rather late, wasn’t it? I’m not complaining. It’s delightful to have the chances fate has given me. But I strongly object to your blaming me for fate’s fault.”

“You are rude,” she said, hotly. “You are taking an unfair advantage of my helpless position.”

“Pray calm yourself,” he answered. “All I ask of you is ordinary civility or silence. I certainly have no desire to thrust myself upon you.”

Both were silent and sat watching the boar as it ranged frantically from one tree to the other, pausing at each to look up with an insane gleam in its wicked, little, blood-shot eyes. After fifteen minutes Grafton moved slowly back towards the fork of the tree. As he reached it and seemed about to descend, she said, in a humble tone that made him smile inwardly, “Where are you going, please?”

“I’m going to make a dash for a rifle I see on the ground,” he answered.

“You mustn’t--you mustn’t. I forbid it!” she exclaimed.

“Have you any suggestion to offer as to how we are to escape?”

“No,” she replied, reluctantly, “except to call out.”

“And bring somebody else to make an amusing spectacle of himself--if he doesn’t happen to get killed. I can’t congratulate you on your scheme.” And he continued his descent.

“Stop; for God’s sake, stop!” she called out. “I am ashamed of myself. I am sufficiently punished.”

“My dear young lady, I’m not punishing you; I’m trying to get myself, and incidentally you, out of this mess.”

“Please--_please_--come back where I can see you; I wish to say something to you.” It was certainly Erica and not Her Serene Highness who was speaking now.

He obeyed her. When he could see her again he said, “Well?”

“I--I want you to say that you forgive me,” she said, earnestly. “I want to see that you forgive me.”

He looked at her in a friendly way. “I understand how it is with you. I don’t in the least blame you. Only, in my country, we never permit any one to take that tone towards us. And now, please, Your Majesty of the Oak Tree, may I go for the rifle?”

“May I say that you mustn’t?” she asked, a smile in her eyes.

“I’d like to have a reason.”

“Well, in the first place”--she hesitated--“it isn’t loaded.”

He looked at her searchingly. She blushed.

“Is it your rifle?” he asked.