Part 5

Grafton went into the public square, opposite the hotel, and walked up and down under the trees. Schemes plausible and schemes fantastical crowded his brain; the wildest was as practicable as the most sensible. He cursed his lack of ingenuity. He felt that the intensity of his love for Erica was paralyzing thought. “In matters about which I care nothing,” he said to himself, “I can always think of something to do.” And now he could think of no plan which he did not almost instantly dismiss. He could not even devise a scheme for seeing Ernestine. To go to her would be fatal, as the secret police would go with him, were no doubt watching her.

He seated himself on a bench at the other end of which was an American tourist. There was a certain sense of companionship, of strength, in the nearness of a man from “home” at such a time. He noted that his fellow-countryman was a youth of the unmistakable American type--tall, thin, with a narrow, shrewd, frank face. The longer he looked at him the better he liked him. After perhaps twenty minutes the young American rose to go.

“Please sit again without looking at me or seeming to notice me,” said Grafton, not moving his lips.

The young American involuntarily glanced at him, but looked away instantly. He seated himself, yawned, took out his cigarette-case, lighted a cigarette, and began smoking languidly. A newsboy passed; Grafton stopped him and bought a paper. He rested his elbows on his knees, and so held the paper that his face could not be seen, yet was apparently not designedly hid.

“My name is Frederick Grafton, and I’m from Chicago,” he said. “I’ve fallen in love with a girl here, and--well, there’s the devil to pay. I’m being watched; her family’s got a lot of influence. It is vital that I see her maid. She lives at No. 643 Emperor Ferdinand Second Street, over the bake-shop. Her name is Ernestine Wundsch. Describe me to her and tell her to come and sit on the end of this bench, or, better, send some one she can trust absolutely. Probably she’s watched, so be careful not to go directly there from here. Will you help me? On my honor there is nothing in this affair which, if you knew it, would make you hesitate.”

Grafton straightened up and could see from the corner of his eye that his countryman was studying his face. “I’ll risk it,” said the youth, rising and lounging away.

Soon Grafton began to watch the faces of passing women. After nearly an hour a working-man came and sat on the other end of the bench. Grafton scowled at him, but he sat placidly smoking his pipe. At last he said: “Ernestine, my sister, did not dare come. She sent me by the back way. She says nothing can be done. I waited to be sure it was you.”

At this moment Grafton saw Moltzahn coming towards him. “Wait,” he said to Ernestine’s brother. “Don’t move until I’ve spoken to you again.”

Moltzahn advanced towards him and bowed politely, much to Grafton’s surprise. “I know that you are watched,” he said to Grafton. “As I have something to communicate to you, we must seem to meet as friendly acquaintances and to be talking on indifferent subjects. Will you walk with me a few minutes, please?”

There was a thinly veiled contempt in Moltzahn’s tone which made Grafton feel like kicking him. But in the circumstances he would have been civil to Aloyse himself in the hope of laying hold of something that would bring him nearer Erica. He rose, and they began a slow promenade.

“His Royal Highness, the Inheriting Grand Duke, has made me the reluctant bearer of a challenge to you. I have tried to dissuade him, but he is determined to punish you for your insults. He waives the difference in rank, the fact that he has no right to send a challenge to such as you.”

“It will be a great pleasure,” said Grafton, with grim joy. “I, too, will waive the difference of rank--the fact that he is not a gentleman.”

“It is impossible for me to answer you as you deserve--”

“You couldn’t say anything that would disturb the friendly feeling I have for you,” said Grafton. “You don’t know how grateful I am to you for bringing me this--this opportunity. I could almost--yes, I think I could--shake hands with you.”

“What weapons?” said Moltzahn. “But have you a second?”

“I shall have one--and I choose pistols.”

“I suggest that the meeting be at a little town on the Swiss border--Zoltenau. Do you know it?”

“Yes; I shall be there.”

“The circumstances make it impossible to follow the formalities and arrange through your second. When can you be there?”

“Whenever you say.”

“Then at three to-morrow morning. We shall be on the main road about a hundred yards from the last house--the inn--at the eastern end of the village. But will you be able to evade the police?”

“Easily; I shall be there.”

They bowed, Moltzahn went his way, Grafton returned to the bench. With his face concealed, he said to the working-man: “In case I should wish to send a message to Ernestine for her mistress, is there an address that would be safe?”

“Johann Windmuller, 41 Duke Albrecht Street,” he answered.

“Very well. And if there should be any news for me, send a letter or telegram to Victor Brandt, care the American Consul, Schaffhausen. Can you remember that?”

“Yes,” said the man, and he repeated it twice.

Grafton sent him away; he felt that the police could not have suspected. He went to the hotel and in the smoking-room, near the entrance, found the American youth. Grafton dropped into a seat beside him. “Thank you,” he said. “May I ask who has done me this great service?”

“My name is Burroughs; I come from San Francisco.”

They discovered that they had many acquaintances and a few friends in common, and both belonged to the same club in New York. Burroughs, who was seven or eight years younger than Grafton, and just out of college, had often heard of him.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied Grafton. “Since I saw you I’ve engaged to fight a duel at three to-morrow morning, and I need a second.”

“I’d be pleased if you’d accept me, though I’ve had no experience.”

“But I warn you that it may be an ugly business before it’s ended, though I think I can arrange to get you out of it. I mean to kill my man and his death’ll make a row in this part of the world.”

“I’ll see you through,” said Burroughs.

Grafton took him to his rooms, and, having tested him thoroughly, gave him his entire confidence. When he had finished the story, Burroughs said: “I feel that you’re going to win out.” His eyes were sparkling with excitement. “But don’t kill him; remember, he’s her cousin. She might balk at marrying you if you’d killed her cousin.”

Grafton thought for a few minutes. “That gives me an idea--that remark of yours. We’ll talk it over to-night.”

As Zoltenau was about midway between the town of Zweitenbourg and Bâle--a score of miles from each--they decided to evade the Grand Duke’s spies by going to Bâle. Burroughs went on the seven-o’clock train to arrange for a doctor and a carriage. Grafton, leaving on the nine-o’clock express, bought places in the bed-car for Venice. At Bâle he dropped from the car as the train was passing out at the end of the station. His servant went on with the baggage, to return by a roundabout route to Schaffhausen and there await the arrival of Victor Brandt.

IX

The Crown Prince is Decorated

As the road from Zweitenbourg to Zoltenau is almost level, except the last four miles, Aloyse, Moltzahn, and Dr. Kirschner did not set out until nearly one o’clock. Aloyse and Moltzahn had deceived the doctor; he thought he was going to a friend of theirs who had been desperately wounded in a duel. Aloyse was thus unable to boast of what he was about to do to the “American pig-dog.” As he could think of nothing else, the drive passed in silence, broken only by feeble attempts on the part of the doctor to improve his good fortune of being in such distinguished company. They reached the inn at a quarter before the hour. As they walked up the road the doctor was undeceived by Moltzahn.

He stopped and fell to weeping and wringing his hands with fright. “A duel--my Crown Prince a principal--my God, Highness, I shall be ruined! I refuse to go.”

Moltzahn caught him by the arm. “Come on, imbecile!” he said, roughly. “There is no turning back now. You will be protected. But if anything should happen, think of my fate.”

Aloyse was a few yards in advance. He was strutting along with his chest out. He was confident that the “American upstart” would give him little trouble. “A physical bully,” he said to himself. “Only a gentleman can be brave in a duel.” He turned. “How does the doctor take it?” he asked.

“My Crown Prince!” exclaimed the doctor. “I beg you--I implore you--” He fell on his knees before Aloyse.

“Get up! Get up!” Aloyse spoke in a kindly, condescending tone. It always delighted him to receive ocular proof of his superiority; some of his father’s remarks were most disquieting. “No harm shall come to you, my good man.”

The doctor, still weeping and in such mental turmoil that he forgot to dust the knees of his trousers and the tails of his long, black coat, kept pace with Moltzahn. Aloyse was whistling and brandishing a small cane. His round face, empty of all save appetites, was gay--it became a prince thus to go to the duel. And, in fact, he was not a coward, except before his father; and he longed to punish the low creature who had dared to lift his eyes to a princess of the house of Traubenheim, had dared to lay hands in anger upon a royal person.

“I can hardly wait to get at the dog, Moltzahn,” he said. “I’m afraid he won’t come.”

Moltzahn replied, “Yes, Your Royal Highness,” absently. The nearer he got to the field the gloomier he became. He had taken many risks, had done many degrading things in furthering the ambition of his life, to be the man next the throne in Zweitenbourg. But this risk was a senseless fly straight into the face of fate.

It was almost broad day when Grafton, Burroughs, and a doctor from Bâle arrived. They lifted their hats to the first-comers. Dr. Kirschner lifted his hat in return; Moltzahn gave a slight salute to Burroughs. Aloyse stared insolently at Grafton and made no salutation whatever.

Grafton turned to Burroughs. “You see, Burroughs, what kind of cattle they are. I apologize again for bringing you.”

Burroughs was white and nervous. “Which one do I deal with?” he asked, in an undertone.

Grafton pointed at Moltzahn. “And keep your eyes on him. He’s a blackguard through and through, capable of anything.”

Aloyse continued to stare at Grafton, a cruel smile on his lips, and the vindictive hate of the brainless in his eyes. Grafton did not like that smile. “I am taking long chances,” he muttered, “but--I must!” He turned his face towards the north, towards Zweitenbourg, and forgot Aloyse.

Moltzahn and Burroughs found a level well back from the road and private. To this the party went. The snow on the peaks was rosy red, and the birds were awakening to full song, and from the earth rose the fresh, living gladness of welcome to the new day. The lot decided that Aloyse should face the south and Grafton the north--“a good omen,” thought Grafton, and the look in his face showed how far murder was from his heart.

As they were about to take their places he said to Aloyse, “I wish a few words with you in private.”

“Absurd--impossible!” interrupted Moltzahn. “Such conduct is intolerable!”

Grafton looked at Aloyse as if Moltzahn had not spoken.

Aloyse hesitated. “Don’t!” pleaded Moltzahn, in a whisper. “He may say something that will unsettle your nerves.”

Aloyse drew himself up haughtily. “Stand aside,” he ordered, “all of you. The fellow may wish to apologize. If so, I may let him off with a sound caning.”

Grafton went close to him. “It may be,” he said, in an even voice, “that you will kill me, so I take the precaution of speaking beforehand. I could easily kill you, because I happen to be a dead shot with the pistol. But I shall spare your life. I shall only shatter your right hand. I do it that you may wear, as long as your body holds together, the badge of my mercy to you--for her sake.”

“How dare you speak of her!” fumed Aloyse. “Yes; I shall kill you for your insolence to our house.”

“It amuses me to see you rage,” said Grafton. “It makes me realize what I rescued her from.”

Aloyse was in a paroxysm of anger. “My cousin and I will marry the day after to-morrow. It is all arranged--”

“All--except her consent,” answered Grafton, with a mocking smile. “I love her. I know her. I trust her. However this may fall out, she will never marry you.”

He returned to his place. “I think I’ve put a shake into his hand,” he said to Burroughs, in an undertone. “I don’t mind admitting I tried to, as this is a farce so far as I am concerned. I’m not anxious to die if I can help it.”

Moltzahn, holding the pistols, was standing midway between Aloyse and Grafton, and a little to one side. He looked from Grafton to Aloyse. “Walk towards me,” he said, “and when you are face to face turn your backs each to the other. I will hand each of you a pistol. Walk towards your places again, and when you reach them stand without turning until Mr. Burroughs begins to count. At three turn and fire at your convenience. Are you ready, gentlemen?”

Aloyse and Grafton bowed.

“Advance!”

They walked slowly and steadily, each towards the other. Grafton seemed dreamy and abstracted, Aloyse’s little brown eyes were angry and his brows were drawn in an exaggerated frown. When they were about two feet apart, Moltzahn, standing as near to one as to the other, said: “Turn!”

They wheeled, and he handed each a cocked pistol. “To your places, gentlemen,” he said. They began the slow return. Burroughs, his hands trembling, was trying to moisten his lips for the giving of the signal. The two doctors, all in black and with long brown beards, stood apart, the Swiss doctor interested but calm, the Zweitenbourgian with his knees knocking together and his hands sliding nervously one over the other. The sun, clearing the crest of a ridge, sent an enormous billow of light to burst through the mists and flood the dense, dew-showered foliage of the western front of the valley.

“Now, Mr. Burroughs,” said Moltzahn, in a low tone.

“One!” said Burroughs, and his voice was thin and shrill; the sound of it made him shiver. “Oh, God!” he thought, “I may be giving the signal for a murder.”

“Two!” His voice was hoarse.

“Three!” wrenched itself from his tightening throat in a gasp. He hid his face in his arms. “What have I done? What have I done?” he groaned. It seemed an eternity; why did they not shoot and have it over with? He dropped his arm and looked; they had had barely time to come round face to face.

Aloyse fired first by an instant; then Grafton. Grafton stood motionless. Aloyse gave an exclamation of pain; his pistol dropped to the ground and the blood spurted over his shattered hand until it was red and raining red from every finger.

Grafton, his feet together, began slowly to fall forward, his eyes closing. Burroughs cried out and rushed to him and caught him.

“Where is it?” he whispered.

“A mere trifle--a scratch on the arm,” whispered Grafton. “Sh! Be careful!” And he closed his eyes and lay motionless.

“Quick, Dr. Berners!” exclaimed Burroughs, starting up wildly from beside his friend. “I think he’s been killed.”

Berners was already there, was tearing open Grafton’s coat, waistcoat, shirt, and undershirt. Dr. Kirschner, his face beaming and his hands rubbing, bustled up. “His Royal Highness has been graciously pleased to send me to render what aid I can. His Royal Highness’s own wound is slight--”

“Back to your master!” exclaimed Burroughs, apparently beside himself with rage and grief, and standing between Kirschner and Grafton. “My friend is dead--shot down by that assassin!”

Dr. Kirschner put on the death-bed look. “Let us hope not so bad as that.”

“Yes--dead,” said Berners, looking round at his colleague and shielding Grafton so that Kirschner could not see his chest. “He is shot through the heart.”

Kirschner rushed to Aloyse and Moltzahn. Aloyse was ruefully regarding the bandage Kirschner had hastily wrapped round his hand before going on Aloyse’s magnanimous mission. “I regret to inform Your Royal Highness that Mr. Grafton’s wound is most serious.”

“Is that all?” Aloyse scowled. “I aimed for his heart.”

Dr. Kirschner lowered his eyes; even his humble soul revolted. “Your Royal Highness,” he said, in a low voice, “Mr. Grafton is dead.”

“Dead!” Aloyse’s lips shrivelled and he staggered slightly.

“Your Royal Highness shot him through the heart,” said Moltzahn, in a congratulatory tone.

“Dead!” Aloyse’s voice was hoarse. “Let us go,” he said.

“But I must dress Your Royal Highness’s wound,” urged Kirschner.

“In the carriage,” Aloyse answered, impatiently. He cast a hasty glance towards the group on the grass--the prostrate man, the two kneeling beside him. “Let us go,” he said, and led the way.

X

The Grand Duke Prepares to Celebrate

On the drive back to Zweitenbourg Aloyse’s spirits gradually rose. He ceased to see that group with such painful distinctness; Moltzahn and presently Dr. Kirschner flattered him on his marksmanship. Pshaw! it had been a mere coincidence that Grafton had shot him precisely as he said he would. He forced himself to remember more and more vividly Grafton’s impudence--and impudence to a Traubenheim! And impudence to a Traubenheim in an affair of the heart!--and that affair one in which the lady was also a Traubenheim. He had but meted out just punishment for an assault upon his own honor, the honor of his wife-to-be, the honor of his house.

In the last two or three miles he was hilarious, boasting boisterously--he had had something to drink and nothing to eat--of his prowess and of how all Traubenheims always thus served the impudent enemies of their house. And Moltzahn, concealing his contempt and disgust, and Dr. Kirschner, full of the loyalty of a devoted subject, urged him on. He set the doctor down at his house and Moltzahn at his club--Moltzahn did not dare show himself at The Castle. Then he drove on with a growing appetite. He reached The Castle at seven o’clock, just in time for his regular breakfast with his father.

The Grand Duke was invariably in a vile humor in the morning; he ate so much and exercised so little that he slept badly. He insisted on his son always breakfasting alone with him, and, under the pretence of training him for the throne, wreaked his ill-humor upon him. Aloyse hurriedly changed from the plain clothes in which he had fought to an undress uniform, and flew to the breakfast-room. He was in high spirits; at last he had done something which his father would applaud. As he entered, Casimir looked at him sourly. He brought his heels together and saluted. Then he advanced, as usual, bent his knee, but put his left hand, instead of his right, under his father’s right hand extended for him to kiss.

“What is the matter with your right hand?” screamed the Grand Duke.

Aloyse jumped and shivered like a guilty child and his wits scattered. He held out his right hand in its sling, stupidly staring at it.

“Speak--and no lies!”

“In a duel,” he stammered.

The Grand Duke pushed back his chair from the table. His look was so frightful that terror gave speed to Aloyse’s tongue. “I challenged the American, father--and killed him,” he said, the last phrase explosively. “I shot him through the heart.”

Casimir brought his chair close to the table again, lifted his cup of coffee, and drew in several draughts, each with a loud, sucking sound. “Eat your breakfast!” he said, in a sharp but not unkindly tone. “You must be hungry; have one of my peaches.”

Casimir’s peaches were his especial dish. They were grown at great expense under his own eye, and no one else was permitted to have them. In all his life Aloyse could remember only one occasion on which his father had offered to share his peaches; it was twenty years before, when Aloyse, seated in a high-chair at that table, had seen the Prime Minister take one at Casimir’s request; the reason, as Aloyse learned long afterwards, was that the Prime Minister had saved the Traubenheims their title of “Royal Highness,” which was gravely threatened. Though he detested peaches, Aloyse ate the peach greedily, swelling with pride and importance.

Prudence bade him say no more of his achievement; but vanity and a loose tongue impelled him to seek further flatteries from his father. He looked at the old man’s sardonic, yellow face several times before he ventured to speak.

“I ask to be permitted to tell Erica myself,” he said.

His father stopped eating and raised his head from his plate. He seemed to have concentrated all the acidity of his nature in his face. The color rose in Aloyse’s cheeks and mounted his brow until his features were all ablaze and a sweat was standing on his forehead.

“You propose to tell the woman you wish to marry, and whose consent you must get--you propose to tell her that you have murdered her lover.” Casimir said the words slowly, without accent, quietly. Then he put his face down until it was again hovering within a few inches of his plate.

There was a long pause, and Casimir spoke again. “Every day you remind me more and more of your grand-uncle.” Aloyse remembered his grand-uncle--the Grand Duke Wilhelm, a jibbering idiot, who sat all day on the floor in a corner gnawing his nails and his great whiskers.

Another long pause, and Casimir spoke again. “Go to your apartments, and don’t leave them until I summon you. And never permit a syllable about your duel to escape your lips. Deny it; if necessary, _swear_ you know nothing about it. If possible, she must never know how he died or that he’s dead. Be off!”

Later in the morning Casimir read the report of the chief of his secret police on Grafton’s last hours in Zweitenbourg. His secret agents said that Grafton had communicated with no one except an American tourist--an obviously casual acquaintance and talk; that Ernestine had not moved from her home over the bake-shop in Emperor Ferdinand Second Street. And when the chief came to him and in great confusion confessed that his men had lost Grafton between Zweitenbourg and Venice, the Grand Duke was sarcastic but not angry. “Drop the matter,” he said.

He sent Baron Zeppstein to inquire how Her Serene Highness did, and whether she would permit His Royal Highness to do himself the honor of waiting upon her. As the answer was favorable, Casimir put on his most paternal face and went to Erica’s apartments. She was all fire and indignation.

“First,” she said, “I demand that Your Royal Highness send away that woman and that soldier.”

“Certainly, my child.” And he went to the door and himself ordered them away. As the woman was leaving he called her back. He returned to Erica. “Shall I send for your own maid?” he said. “This woman can fetch her. Yes?” And he told the woman to bring Ernestine forthwith.

“The peril is past,” he said, standing beside Erica and laying his hand on her shoulder. “I know what youth and hot blood are; I, too, have dreamed of happiness. But our rank means duty; to you it means Aloyse and the future of our ancient house. You think I’m harsh, child, but it is the kindness of experience.”