Rupert of Hentzau [97]
and tried to concentrate my brain on the facts of our position. We were ringed round with difficulties. To solve them was beyond my power; but I knew where my wish and longing lay. I had no desire to find means by which Rudolf Rassendyll should escape unknown from Strelsau; the king, although dead, be again in death the king, and the queen be left desolate on her mournful and solitary throne. It might be that a brain more astute than mine could bring all this to pass. My imagination would have none of it, but dwelt lovingly on the reign of him who was now king in Strelsau, declaring that to give the kingdom such a ruler would be a splendid fraud, and prove a stroke so bold as to defy detection. Against it stood only the suspicions of Mother Holf--fear or money would close her lips--and the knowledge of Bauer; Bauer's mouth also could be shut, ay, and should be before we were many days older. My reverie led me far; I saw the future years unroll before me in the fair record of a great king's sovereignty. It seemed to me that by the violence and bloodshed we had passed through, fate, for once penitent, was but righting the mistake made when Rudolf was not born a king.
For a long while I stood thus, musing and dreaming; I was roused by the sound of the door opening and closing; turning, I saw the queen. She was alone, and came towards me with timid steps. She looked out for a moment on the square and the people, but drew back suddenly in apparent fear lest they should see her. Then she sat down and turned her face towards mine. I read in her eyes something of the conflict of emotions which possessed her; she seemed at once to deprecate my disapproval and to ask my sympathy; she prayed me to be gentle to her fault and kind to her happiness; self-reproach shadowed her joy, but the golden gleam of it strayed through. I looked eagerly at her; this would not have been her bearing had she come from a last farewell; for the radiance was there, however much dimmed by sorrow and by fearfulness.
"Fritz," she began softly, "I am wicked--so wicked. Won't God punish me for my gladness?"
I fear I paid little heed to her trouble, though I can understand it well enough now.
"Gladness?" I cried in a low voice. "Then you've persuaded him?"
She smiled at me for an instant.
"I mean, you've agreed?" I stammered.
Her eyes again sought mine, and she said in a whisper: "Some day, not now. Oh, not now. Now would be too much. But some day, Fritz, if God will not deal too hardly with me, I--I shall be his, Fritz."
I was intent on my vision, not on hers. I wanted him king; she did not care what he was, so that he was hers, so that he should not leave her.
"He'll take the throne," I cried triumphantly.
"No, no, no. Not the throne. He's going away."
"Going away!" I could not keep the dismay out of my voice.
"Yes, now. But not--not for ever. It will be long--oh, so long--but I can bear it, if I know that at last!" She stopped, still looking up at me with eyes that implored pardon and sympathy.
"I don't understand," said I, bluntly, and, I fear, gruffly, also.
"You were right," she said: "I did persuade him. He wanted to go away again as he went before. Ought I to have let him? Yes, yes! But I couldn't. Fritz, hadn't I done enough? You don't know what I've endured. And I must endure more still. For he will go now, and the time will be very long. But, at last, we shall be together. There is pity in God; we shall be together at last."
"If he goes now, how can he come back?"
"He will not come back; I shall go to him. I shall give up the throne and go to him, some day, when I can be spared from here, when I've done my--my work."
I was aghast at this shattering of my vision, yet I could not be hard to her. I said nothing, but took her hand and pressed it.
"You wanted him to be king?" she whispered.
"With all my heart, madam," said I.
"He wouldn't, Fritz. No, and I shouldn't dare to do that, either."
I fell back on the practical difficulties. "But how can he go?" I asked.
"I don't know. But he knows;
For a long while I stood thus, musing and dreaming; I was roused by the sound of the door opening and closing; turning, I saw the queen. She was alone, and came towards me with timid steps. She looked out for a moment on the square and the people, but drew back suddenly in apparent fear lest they should see her. Then she sat down and turned her face towards mine. I read in her eyes something of the conflict of emotions which possessed her; she seemed at once to deprecate my disapproval and to ask my sympathy; she prayed me to be gentle to her fault and kind to her happiness; self-reproach shadowed her joy, but the golden gleam of it strayed through. I looked eagerly at her; this would not have been her bearing had she come from a last farewell; for the radiance was there, however much dimmed by sorrow and by fearfulness.
"Fritz," she began softly, "I am wicked--so wicked. Won't God punish me for my gladness?"
I fear I paid little heed to her trouble, though I can understand it well enough now.
"Gladness?" I cried in a low voice. "Then you've persuaded him?"
She smiled at me for an instant.
"I mean, you've agreed?" I stammered.
Her eyes again sought mine, and she said in a whisper: "Some day, not now. Oh, not now. Now would be too much. But some day, Fritz, if God will not deal too hardly with me, I--I shall be his, Fritz."
I was intent on my vision, not on hers. I wanted him king; she did not care what he was, so that he was hers, so that he should not leave her.
"He'll take the throne," I cried triumphantly.
"No, no, no. Not the throne. He's going away."
"Going away!" I could not keep the dismay out of my voice.
"Yes, now. But not--not for ever. It will be long--oh, so long--but I can bear it, if I know that at last!" She stopped, still looking up at me with eyes that implored pardon and sympathy.
"I don't understand," said I, bluntly, and, I fear, gruffly, also.
"You were right," she said: "I did persuade him. He wanted to go away again as he went before. Ought I to have let him? Yes, yes! But I couldn't. Fritz, hadn't I done enough? You don't know what I've endured. And I must endure more still. For he will go now, and the time will be very long. But, at last, we shall be together. There is pity in God; we shall be together at last."
"If he goes now, how can he come back?"
"He will not come back; I shall go to him. I shall give up the throne and go to him, some day, when I can be spared from here, when I've done my--my work."
I was aghast at this shattering of my vision, yet I could not be hard to her. I said nothing, but took her hand and pressed it.
"You wanted him to be king?" she whispered.
"With all my heart, madam," said I.
"He wouldn't, Fritz. No, and I shouldn't dare to do that, either."
I fell back on the practical difficulties. "But how can he go?" I asked.
"I don't know. But he knows;