



Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




The Great Court Scandal, by Willian Le Queux.

________________________________________________________________________















________________________________________________________________________
THE GREAT COURT SCANDAL, BY WILLIAN LE QUEUX.

PREFACE.

WILLIAM LE QUEUX.

William Le Queux, one of the most popular of present-day authors, was
born in London on July 2, 1864.  He has followed many callings in his
time.  After studying art in Paris, he made a tour on foot through
France and Germany.  Then he drifted into journalism, attaching himself
to the Paris "Morning News."  Later, he crossed to London, where he
joined the staff of the "Globe" in the Gallery of the House of Commons.
This was in 1888, and he continued to report Parliament till 1891, when
he was appointed a sub-editor on the "Globe."  Along with his work as a
journalist he developed his faculty for fiction, and in 1893 resigned
his position on the press to take up novel-writing as a business.  His
first book was "Guilty Bonds" published in 1890.  Since that date he has
issued an average of three novels a year.  One of Mr. Le Queux's
recreations is revolver practice, and that may account for the free use
of the "shooting iron" which distinguishes some of his romances.

PROLOGUE.

"The Ladybird will refuse to have anything to do with the affair, my
dear fellow.  It touches a woman's honour, and I know her too well."

"Bah!  We'll compel her to help us.  She must."

"She wouldn't risk it," declared Harry Kinder, shaking his head.

"Risk it!  Well, we'll have to risk something!  We're in a nice hole
just now!  Our traps at the Grand, with a bill of two thousand seven
hundred francs to pay, and `the Ladybird' coolly sends us from London a
postal order for twenty-seven shillings and sixpence--all she has!"

"She might have kept it and bought a new sunshade or a box of chocolates
with it."

"The little fool!  Fancy sending twenty-seven bob to three men stranded
in Paris!  I can't see why old Roddy thinks so much of her," remarked
Guy Bourne to his companion.

"Because she's his daughter, and because after all you must admit that
she's jolly clever with her fingers."

"Of course we know that.  She's the smartest woman in London.  But what
makes you think that when the suggestion is made to her she will
refuse?"

"Well, just this.  She's uncommonly good-looking, dresses with exquisite
taste, and when occasion demands can assume the manner of a high-born
lady, which is, of course, just what we want; but of late I've noticed a
very great change in her.  She used to act heedless of risk, and
entirely without pity or compunction.  Nowadays, however, she seems
becoming chicken-hearted."

"Perhaps she's in love," remarked the other with a sarcastic grin.

"That's just it.  I honestly think that she really is in love," said the
short, hard-faced, clean-shaven man of fifty, whose fair, rather scanty
hair, reddish face, tightly-cut trousers, and check-tweed suit gave him
a distinctly horsey appearance, as he seated himself upon the edge of
the table in the shabby sitting-room _au troisieme_ above the noisy Rue
Lafayette, in Paris.

"`The Ladybird' in love!  Whatever next!" ejaculated Guy Bourne, a man
some ten years his junior, and extremely well, even rather foppishly,
dressed.  His features were handsome, his hair dark, and outwardly he
had all the appearance of a well-set-up Englishman.  His gold
sleeve-links bore a crest and cipher in blue enamel, and his dark
moustache was carefully trained, for he was essentially a man of taste
and refinement.  "Well," he added, "I've got my own opinion, old chap,
and you're quite welcome to yours.  `The Ladybird' may be in love, as
you suspect, but she'll have to help us in this.  It's a big thing, I
know; but look what it means to us!  If she's in love, who's the jay?"
he asked, lighting a cigarette carelessly.

"Ah! now you ask me a question."

"Well," declared Bourne rather anxiously, "whoever he may be, the
acquaintanceship must be broken off--and that very quickly, too.  For us
the very worst catastrophe would be for our little `Ladybird' to fall in
love.  She might, in one of her moments of sentimentality, be
indiscreet, as all women are apt to be; and if so--well, it would be all
up with us.  You quite recognise the danger?"

"I do, most certainly," the other replied, with a serious look, as he
glanced around the poorly-furnished room, with its painted wood floor in
lieu of carpet.  "As soon as we're back we must keep our eyes upon her,
and ascertain the identity of this secret lover."

"But she's never shown any spark of affection before," Bourne said,
although he knew that the secret lover was actually himself.  "We must
ask Roddy all about it.  Being her father, he may know something."

"I only wish we were back in London again, sonny," declared Kinder.
"Paris has never been safe for us since that wretched affair in the
Boulevard Magenta.  Why Roddy brought us over I can't think."

"He had his eye on something big that unfortunately hasn't come off.
Therefore we're now landed at the Grand with a big hotel bill and no
money to pay it with.  The Johnnie in the bureau presented it to me this
morning, and asked for payment.  I bluffed him that I was going down to
the bank and would settle it this evening."

"With twenty-seven and sixpence!" remarked the clean-shaven man with
sarcasm.

"Yes," responded his companion grimly.  "I only wish we could get our
traps away.  I've got all my new rig-out in my trunk, and can't afford
to lose it."

"We must get back to London somehow," Harry said decisively.  "Every
moment we remain here increases our peril.  They have our photographs at
the Prefecture, remember, and here the police are pretty quick at making
an arrest.  We're wanted, even now, for the Boulevard Magenta affair.  A
pity the Doctor hit the poor old chap so hard, wasn't it?"

"A thousand pities.  But the Doctor was always erratic--always in fear
of too much noise being made.  He knocked the old fellow down when there
was really no necessity: a towel twisted around his mouth would have
been quite as effectual, and the affair would not have assumed so ugly a
phase as it afterwards did.  No; you're quite right, Harry, old chap;
Paris is no place for us nowadays."

"Ah!"  Kinder sighed regretfully.  "And yet we've had jolly good times
here, haven't we?  And we've brought off some big things once or twice,
until Latour and his cadaverous crowd became jealous of us, and gave us
away that morning at the St. Lazare station, just when Roddy was working
the confidence of those two American women.  By Jove! we all had a
narrow escape, and had to fly."

"I remember.  Two agents pounced upon me, but I managed to give them the
slip and get away that night to Amiens.  A good job for us," the younger
man added, "that Latour won't have a chance to betray his friends for
another fifteen years."

"What! has he been lagged?" asked the horsey man as he bit the end off a
cigar.

"Yes, for a nasty affair down at Marseilles.  He was opening a banker's
safe--that was his speciality, you know--and he blundered."

"Then I'm not sorry for him," Kinder declared, crossing the room and
looking out of the window into the busy thoroughfare below.

It was noon, on a bright May day, and the traffic over the granite setts
in the Rue Lafayette was deafening, the huge steam trams snorting and
clanging as they ascended the hill to the Gare du Nord.

Guy Bourne was endeavouring to solve a very serious financial
difficulty.  The three shabbily-furnished rooms in which they were was a
small apartment which Roddy Redmayne, alias "The Mute," alias Ward,
alias Scott-Martin, and alias a dozen other names beside, had taken for
a month, and were, truth to tell, the temporary headquarters of "The
Mute's" clever and daring gang of international thieves, who moved from
city to city plying their profession.

They had been unlucky--as they were sometimes.  Harry Kinder had
succeeded in getting some jewellery two days before, only to discover to
his chagrin that the diamonds were paste.  He had seen them in a bad
light, otherwise, expert that he was, he would never have touched them.
He always left pearls religiously alone.  There were far too many
imitations, he declared.  For three weeks the men had done themselves
well in Paris, and spent a considerable amount in ingratiating
themselves with certain English and American visitors who were there for
the season.  Kinder and Bourne worked the big hotels--the Grand, the
Continental, and the Chatham, generally frequenting the American bar at
the latter place each afternoon about four o'clock, on the keen lookout
for English pigeons to pluck.  This season, however, ill-luck seemed to
constantly follow them, with the result that they had spent their money
all to no purpose, and now found themselves with a large hotel bill, and
without the wherewithal to discharge it.

Guy Bourne's life had been a veritable romance.  The son of a wealthy
country squire, he had been at Eton and at Balliol, and his father had
intended him to enter the Church, for he had an uncle a bishop, and was
sure of a decent preferment.  A clerical career had, however, no
attractions for Guy, who loved all kinds of sport, especially racing, a
pastime which eventually proved his downfall.  Like many other young
men, he became mixed up with a very undesirable set--that unscrupulous
company that frequents racecourses--and finding his father's door shut
to him, gradually sank lower until he became the friend of Kinder and
one of the associates and accomplices of the notorious Roddy Redmayne--
known as "The Mute"--a king among Continental thieves.

Like the elder man who stood beside him, he was an audacious,
quick-witted, and ingenious thief, very merry and easy-going.  He was a
man who lived an adventurous life, and generally lived well, too;
unscrupulous about annexing other people's property, and therefore
retaining nowadays few of the traits of the gentleman.  At first he had
not been altogether bad; at heart he hated and despised himself; yet he
was a fatalist, and had long ago declared that the life of a thief was
his destiny, and that it was no use kicking against the pricks.

An excellent linguist, a well-set-up figure, a handsome countenance, his
hair slightly turning grey, he was always witty, debonair and
cosmopolitan, and a great favourite with women.  They voted him a
charming fellow, never for one moment suspecting that his polished
exterior and gentlemanly bearing concealed the fact that he had designs
upon their jewellery.

His companion, Harry Kinder, was a man of entirely different stamp;
rather coarse, muscular, well versed in all the trickery and subterfuge
of the international criminal; a clever pickpocket, and perhaps one of
the most ingenious sharpers in all Europe.  He had followed the
profession ever since a lad; had seen the interior of a dozen different
prisons in as many countries; and invariably showed fight if detected.
Indeed, Harry Kinder was a "tough customer," as many agents of police
had discovered to their cost.

"Then you really don't think `the Ladybird' will have anything to do
with the affair?"  Guy remarked at last, standing beside him and gazing
aimlessly out of the window.

"I fear she won't.  If you can persuade her, then it'll all be plain
sailing.  They'll help us, and the risk won't be very much.  Yet after
all it's a dirty trick to play, isn't it?"

His companion shrugged his shoulders, saying, "Roddy sees no harm in it,
and we must live the same as other people.  We simply give our services
for a stated sum."

"Well," declared Kinder, "I've never drawn back from any open and
straightforward bit of business where it was our wits against another's,
or where the victim is a fool or inexperienced; but I tell you that I
draw a line at entrapping an innocent woman, and especially an English
lady."

"What!" cried Bourne.  "You've become conscientious all at once!  Do you
intend to back out of it altogether?"

"I've not yet decided what I shall do.  The only thing is that I shall
not persuade `the Ladybird' either way.  I shall leave her entirely in
Roddy's hands."

"Then you'd better tell Roddy plainly when he comes back.  Perhaps
you're in love, just as you say `the Ladybird' is!"

"Love!  Why, my dear Guy--love at my age!  I was only in love once--when
I was seventeen.  She sat in a kind of fowl-pen and sold stamps in a
grocer's shop at Hackney.  Since then I can safely say that I've never
made a fool of myself over a woman.  They are charming all, from
seventeen to seventy, but there is not one I've singled out as better
than the rest."

"Ah, Harry!" declared Guy with a smile, "you're a queer fellow.  You are
essentially a lady's man, and yet you never fall in love.  We all
thought once that you were fond of `the Ladybird.'"

"`The Ladybird!'" laughed the elder man.  "Well, what next?  No.  `The
Ladybird' has got a lover in secret somewhere, depend upon it.  Perhaps
it is yourself.  We shall get at the truth when we return to town."

"When?  Do you contemplate leaving your things at the Grand, my dear
fellow?  We can't.  We must get money from somewhere--money, and to-day.
Why not try some of the omnibuses, or the crowd at one of the railway
stations?  We might work together this afternoon and try our luck," Guy
suggested.

"Better the Cafe Americain, or Maxim's to-night," declared Kinder, who
knew his Paris well.  "There's more money there, and we're bound to pick
up a jay or two."

At that moment the sharp click of a key in the lock of the outer door
caused them to pause, and a moment later they were joined by an elderly,
grey-haired, gentlemanly-looking man in travelling-ulster and grey felt
hat, who carried a small brown kit-bag which, by its hotel labels,
showed sign of long travel.

"Hulloa, Roddy!"  Kinder cried excitedly in his Cockney dialect.  "Luck,
I see!  What have you got?"

"Don't know yet," was the newcomer's reply, his intonation also that of
a born Londoner.  "I got it from a young woman who arrived by the
_rapide_ at the Gare de l'Est."  And throwing off his travelling get-up
he placed the kit-bag upon the table.  Then touching a spring in the
lock he lifted it again, and there remained upon the table a lady's
dressing-bag with a black waterproof cover.

"Looks like something good," declared Guy, watching eagerly.

The innocent-looking kit-bag was one of those specially constructed for
the use of thieves.  The bottom was hinged, with double flaps opening
inward.  The interior contained sharp iron grips, so that the bag, when
placed upon any object smaller than it, would cover it entirely, the
flaps forming the bottom opening inward, while the grips, descending,
held the bag or other object tight.  So the kit-bag, when removed, would
also remove the object concealed within it.

Roddy, a grey-faced, cool, crafty old fellow of sixty, bore such a
serious expression that one might readily have taken him for a
dissenting minister or a respectable surgeon.  He carefully took off the
outer cover of the crocodile-skin dressing-case, examined its gilt lock,
and then, taking from his pocket a piece of steel about six inches long,
with a pointed end, almost a miniature of a burglar's jemmy, he quickly
prised it open.

The trio eagerly looked within, and saw that it was an elegantly-fitted
bag, with gold-topped bottles, and below some miscellaneous articles and
letters lay a small, cheap leather bag.

In a moment the wily old thief had it open, and next instant there was
displayed a magnificent bodice ornament in diamonds, a pair of exquisite
pearl earrings, several fine bracelets, a long rope of splendid pearls,
a fine ruby brooch, and a quantity of other ornaments.

"Excellent!" exclaimed Guy.  "We're on our feet once more!  Well done,
Roddy, old man!  We were just thinking that we'd have to pick the
pockets of some poor wretches if things didn't change, and I never like
doing that."

"No," remarked the leader of the gang, critically examining one after
another of the articles he had stolen.  "I wonder to whom these belong?"
he added.  "They're uncommonly good stuff, at any rate.  Ascertain what
those letters say."

Guy took up the letters and glanced at the superscriptions upon the
envelopes.

"By Heaven!" he gasped next instant, and crushing the letters in his
hand stood staring at the open bag.  "What infernal irony of Fate is
this?  What curse is there upon us now?  Look!  They are hers--hers!
And we have taken them!"

The three men exchanged glances, but no word was uttered.

The startling truth held Guy Bourne speechless, staggered, stupefied.

CHAPTER ONE.

CONCERNS A COURT INTRIGUE.

The bright moon shed a white light over the great, silent courtyards of
the Imperial palace at Vienna.

A bugle had just sounded, the guards had changed with a sudden clang of
arms that rang out in the clear night, followed by the sound of men
marching back to the guardhouse.  A sharp word of command, a second
bugle note, and then all was quiet again, save for the slow, measured
tread of the sentries at each angle of the ponderous palace.

From without all looked grim and gloomy, in keeping with that strange
fate that follows the hapless Hapsbourgs; yet beyond those black walls,
in the farther wing of the Imperial palace were life and gaiety and
music; indeed there was presented perhaps the most magnificent scene in
all Europe.

The first Court ball of the season was at its height, and the aged
Emperor Francis-Joseph was himself present--a striking figure in his
uniform and orders.

Filled with the most brilliant patrician crowd in all the world--the
women in tiaras and blazing with jewels, and the men in Court dress or
in gorgeous uniforms--the huge ballroom, with its enormous crystal
electroliers and its gold--and--white Renaissance decorations, had never
been the scene of a more dazzling display.  Archdukes and archduchesses,
princes and princesses, nobles and diplomatists, ministers of the empire
and high functionaries of State danced or gossiped, intrigued or talked
scandal; or those whose first ball it was worried themselves over points
of etiquette that are always so puzzling to one not born in the Court
atmosphere.

The music, the scent of the flowers, the glare and glitter, the beauty
of the high-born women, the easy swagger of the bestarred and beribboned
men, combined to produce a scene almost fairy-like.

Laughter rang from pretty lips, and men bent to whisper into the ears of
their partners as they waltzed over the perfect floor, after having paid
homage to their Emperor--that lonely, broken man whose good wife, alas!
had fallen beneath the assassin's knife.

A sovereign's heart may be broken, but he must nevertheless keep up a
brave show before his subjects.

So he stood at the end of the room with the Imperial circle about him,
smiling upon them and receiving their homage, although he longed to be
back in his own quiet room at the farther end of the palace, where their
laughter and the strains of music could not reach his ears.

One pale, sweet-faced woman in that gay, irresponsible crowd glanced at
him and read his heart.

Her fair beauty was extremely striking, and her neat-waisted figure
perfect.  Indeed, she had long ago been acknowledged to be the most
lovely figure at the Austrian Court--the most brilliant Court of
Europe--a countenance which even her wide circle of enemies could not
criticise without showing their ill nature; a perfect countenance,
which, though it bore the hallmark of her imperial birth as an
Archduchess, yet was sweet, dimpled, and innocent as a child's.

The Princess Claire--Cecille-Marie-Alexandrine was twenty-four.  Born
and bred at that Court, she had three years before been married to the
Crown Prince of a German house, the royal house of Marburg, and had left
it for the Court at Treysa, over which her husband would, by reason of
his father's great age, very soon be sovereign.

At that moment she was back in Vienna on a brief visit to her father,
the Archduke Charles, and had taken a turn around the room with a smart,
well-set-up man in cavalry uniform--her cousin Prince George of Anhalt.
She was dressed in ivory white, wearing in her fair hair a wonderful
tiara; while in the edge of her low-cut bodice there showed the crosses
and ribbons of the Orders of St. Elizabeth and Teresa--decorations
bestowed only upon Imperial princesses.

Many eyes were turned upon her, and many of the friends of her girlhood
days she saluted with that charming frankness of manner which was so
characteristic of her open nature.  Suddenly, while walking around the
room, a clean-shaven, dark-haired, quick-eyed man of thirty in Court
dress bowed low before her, and in an instant, recognising him, she left
her cousin's side, and crossing spoke to him.

"I must see your Imperial Highness before she leaves Vienna," he
whispered quickly to her in English, after she had greeted him in German
and inquired after his wife.  "I have something private and important to
tell you."

The Crown Princess looked at him quickly, and recognised that the man
was in earnest.  Her curiosity became aroused; but she could ask no
questions, for a hundred eyes were now upon her.

"Make an appointment--quickly, your Highness.  I am here expressly to
see you," he said, noticing that Prince George was approaching to carry
her off to the upper end of the room, where the members of the Imperial
family were assembled.

"Very well.  In the Stadtpark, against the Caroline Bridge, at eight
to-morrow night.  It will be dark then."

"Be careful that you are not followed," he whispered; and then he bowed
deeply as she left him.

When her cousin came up he said,--

"You are very foolish, Claire!  You know how greatly such a breach of
etiquette annoys the Emperor.  Why do you speak with such people?"

"Because I like to," she answered defiantly.  "If I have the misfortune
to be born an Imperial Archduchess and am now Crown Princess, it need
surely not preclude me from speaking to people who are my friends?"

"Oh, he is a friend, is he?  Who is the fellow?" inquired the Prince,
raising his eyebrows.

"Steinbach.  He is in our Ministry of Foreign Affairs."

"You really possess some queer friends, Claire," the young man said,
smiling.  "They will suspect you of being a Socialist if you go on in
this way.  You always shock them each time you come back to Vienna
because of your extraordinary unconventionality."

"Do I?" she laughed.  "Well, I'm sure I don't care.  When I lived here
before I married they were for ever being scandalised by my conduct in
speaking to people.  But why shouldn't I?  I learn so much them.  We are
all too narrow-minded; we very little of the world beyond the palace
walls."

"I heard yesterday that you'd been seen walking in the Kamthnerstrasse
with two women who were not of the nobility.  You really oughtn't to do
that.  It isn't fair to us, you know," he said, twisting his moustache.
"We all know how wilful you are, and how you love to scandalise us; but
you should draw the line at displaying such socialistic tendencies
openly and publicly."

"My dear old George," she laughed, turning her bright eyes to him,
"you're only my cousin and not my husband.  I shall do exactly what I
like.  If it amuses and interests me to see the life of the people, I
shall do so; therefore it's no use talking.  I have had lots of lectures
from the Emperor long ago, and also from my stiff old father-in-law the
King.  But when they lecture me I only do it all the more," she
declared, with a mischievous laugh upon her sweet face.  "So they've
given me up."

"You're incorrigible, Claire--absolutely incorrigible," her cousin
declared as he swung along at her side.  "I only _do_ hope that your
unconventionality will not be taken advantage of by your jealous
enemies.  Remember, you are the prettiest woman at our Court as well as
at your own.  Before long, too, you will be a reigning queen; therefore
reflect well whether this disregard of the first rule of Court
etiquette, which forbids a member of the Imperial family to converse
with a commoner, is wise.  For my own part, I don't think it is."

"Oh, don't lecture me any more for goodness' sake," exclaimed the Crown
Princess with a little musical laugh.  "Have this waltz with me."

And next moment the handsome pair were on their way down the great room
with all eyes turned upon them.

When, ten minutes later, they returned to join the Imperial circle about
the Emperor, the latter motioned his niece towards him.

"Come to me when this is ended," he said in a serious voice.  "I wish to
talk to you.  You will find me in the white room at two o'clock."

The Crown Princess bowed, and returned to the side of her father, the
Archduke Charles, a tall, thin, grey-haired man in a brilliant uniform
glittering with orders.

She knew that his Majesty's quick eye had detected that she had spoken
with the commoner Steinbach, and anticipated that she was to receive
another lecture.  Why, she wondered, was Steinbach there?  Truth to
tell, Court life bored her.  She was tired to death of all that intrigue
and struggle for place, power, and precedence, and of that unhealthy
atmosphere of recklessness wherein she had been born and bred.  She
longed for the free open life in the country around Wartenstein, the
great old castle in the Tyrol that was her home, where she could tramp
for miles in the mountains and be friendly with the honest country folk.
After her marriage--a marriage of convenience to unite two royal
houses--she had found that she had exchanged one stiff and brilliant
Court for another, more dull, more stiff, and where the etiquette was
even more rigid.

Those three years of married life had wrought a very great change in
her.

She had left Vienna a bright, athletic girl, fond of all sports, a great
walker, a splendid horsewoman, sweet, natural, and quite unaffected; yet
now, after those three years of a Court, smaller yet far more severe
than that of Austria, she had become rebellious, with one desire--to
forsake it all and live the private life of an ordinary citizen.

Her own world, the little patrician but narrow world behind the throne,
whispered and shrugged its shoulders.  It was believed that her marriage
was an unhappy one, but so clever was she that she never betrayed her
bitterness of heart.  Like all her Imperial family, she was a born
diplomatist, and to those who sought to read her secret her face was
always sphinx-like.  Her own Court saw her as a merry, laughter-loving
woman, witty, clever, a splendid dancer, and with a polished and
charming manner that had already endeared her to the people over whom
she was very shortly to reign.  But at Court her enemies looked upon her
with distrust.  She exhibited no sign of displeasure on any occasion,
however provoking.  She was equally pleasant with enemies as with
friends.  For that reason they suspected her.

Her charming ingenuousness and her entire disregard of the traditional
distinction between the Imperial house and the people had aroused the
anger of her husband's father, the aged King, a sovereign of the old
school, who declared that she was fast breaking up all the traditions of
the royal house, and that her actions were a direct incentive to
Socialism and Anarchism within the kingdom.

But she only laughed.  She had trained herself to laugh gleefully even
when her young heart was filled with blackest sorrow; even though her
husband neglected and despised her; even though she was estranged for
ever from her own home and her own beloved family circle at the great
mountain stronghold.

Next to the Emperor Francis-Joseph, her father, the Archduke Charles,
was the greatest and wealthiest man in Austria.  He had a Court of his
own with all its appendages and functionaries, a great palace in the
Parkring in Vienna, another in Buda-Pesth, the magnificent castle of
Wartenstein, near Innsbruck, besides four other castles in various parts
of Austria, and a beautiful villa at Tivoli, near Rome.  From her birth
the Princess Claire had always breathed the vitiated air of the courts
of Europe; and yet ever since a girl, walking with her English governess
at Wartenstein, she had longed and dreamed of freedom.  Her marriage,
however, was arranged for her, and she awakened from the glamour of it
all to find herself the wife of a peevish prince who had not finished
the sowing of his wild oats, and who, moreover, seemed to have no place
for her in his heart.

Too late she realised the tragedy of it all.  When alone she would sit
for hours in tears.  Yet to no living soul, not even to her father or to
the dark-haired, middle-aged Countess de Trauttenberg, her
lady-in-waiting and confidante, did she utter one single syllable.  She
kept her secret.

The world envied her her marvellous beauty, her exquisite figure, her
wealth, her position, her grace and ineffable charm.  Yet what would it
have said had it known the ugly truth?  Surely it would have pitied her;
for even an Imperial archduchess, forbidden to speak with the common
world, has a human heart, and is entitled to human sympathy.

The Crown Prince was not present.  He was, alas I seldom with the
Princess.  As she stood there in the Imperial circle with folded hands,
laughing merrily and chatting vivaciously with the small crowd of
Imperial Highnesses, no one would have guessed that she was a woman
whose young heart was already broken.

Ah yes! she made a brave show to conceal her bitterness and sorrow from
the world, because she knew it was her duty to do so--her duty to her
princely family and to the kingdom over which she was soon to be queen.

The Emperor at last made his exit through the great white-and-gold
doors, the Imperial chamberlains bowing low as he passed out.  Then at
two o'clock the Crown Princess managed to slip away from the Imperial
circle, and with her rich train sweeping behind her, made her way
rapidly through the long, tortuous corridors to his Majesty's private
workroom, known as the White Chamber, on the other side of the great
palace.

She tapped upon the door with her fan, and obtained entrance at once,
finding the Emperor alone, standing near the great wood fire, for it was
a chilly evening, close to his big, littered writing-table.  His heavy
expression told her that he was both thoughtful and displeased.  The
chamber, in contrast to the luxury of the splendid palace, was plainly
furnished, essentially the workroom of the ruler of a great empire--the
room in which he gave audiences and transacted the affairs of the
Austria-Hungarian nation.

"Claire," he said, in a low, hard voice, "be seated; I wish to speak to
you."

"Ah, I know," exclaimed the brilliant woman, whose magnificent diamonds
glittered beneath the electric light, "I know!  I admit, sire, that I
committed an unpardonable breach of etiquette in speaking with
Steinbach.  You are going to reprove me--I know you are," she pouted.
"But do forgive me.  I did not reflect.  It was an indiscretion."


"You never reflect, Claire; you are too irresponsible," the Emperor said
in a tone of distinct displeasure.  "But it is not that.  I have called
you here to learn why the Crown Prince is not in Vienna with you."

He fixed his grey, deep-sunken eyes upon hers, and awaited her answer.

"Well--" she faltered.  "There are some Court dinners, and--and I
believe he has some military engagements--anniversaries or something."

The Emperor smiled dubiously.

"You are shielding him, Claire," he said slowly; "I see you are.  I know
that Ferdinand is estranged from you.  Of late I have learnt things
concerning you--more than you imagine.  You are unloved by your husband,
and unhappy, and yet you are bearing your burden in silence, though you
are a young and beautiful woman.  Now, Claire," he said in a changed
voice, placing his hand tenderly upon his niece's shoulder, "tell me the
truth.  I wish to hear the truth from your own lips.  Do you know what
they say of you?  They say," he added, lowering his voice--"they say
that you have a lover!"

"A lover!" she gasped hoarsely, starting from her chair, her beautiful
face as white as the dress she wore; "a lover!  Who--who told you so?"

CHAPTER TWO.

HER IMPERIAL HIGHNESS.

Whatever passed between the Emperor and his niece, whether she confessed
the truth or defied him, one fact was plain--she had been moved to
bitter tears.

When, half an hour later, she went back through those long corridors,
her rich train sweeping over the red carpets, her white-gloved hands
were clenched, her teeth set hard, her eyes red, her countenance
changed.  Her face was changed; it was that of a woman heart-broken and
desperate.

She did not return to the ballroom, but descended to the courtyard,
where one of the Imperial servants called her carriage, and she returned
alone to her father's splendid palace in the Parkring.

Ascending straight to her room, she dismissed the Countess de
Trauttenberg, her lady-in-waiting, and Henriette, her French maid; and
then locking the door, she tore off her tiara and her jewels and sank
upon her knees upon the old carved prie-dieu before the ivory crucifix
placed opposite her bed.

Her hands were clasped, her fair head bent, her sweet lips moved in
fervent prayer, her eyes the while streaming with tears.  Plunged in
grief and unhappiness, she besought the Almighty to aid and counsel her
in the difficult situation in which she now found herself.

"Help me, my Father!" she sobbed aloud.  "Have mercy upon me--mercy upon
a humble woman who craves Thy protection and direction."  And her
clasped hands trembled in the fervency of her appeal.

Those who had seen her an hour ago, the gay, laughing figure, blazing
with jewels, the centre of the most brilliant Court of Europe, would
have been astounded to see her at that moment prostrated before her
Maker.  In Austria, as in Germany, she was believed to be a rather giddy
woman, perhaps by reason of her uncommon beauty, and perhaps because of
her easy-going light-heartedness and disregard for all Court etiquette.
Yet the truth was that the strong religious principles instilled into
her by her mother, the deceased Archduchess Charles, had always
remained, and that no day passed without one hour set apart for her
devotions, in secret even from the Countess, from Henriette, and from
the Crown Prince, her husband.

She was a Catholic, of course, like all her Imperial house, but upon one
point she disagreed--that of confession.

Her husband, though he professed Catholicism, at heart scoffed at
religion; and more than once when he had found her in the private chapel
of the palace at Treysa had jeered at her.  But she bore it all in
patience.  She was his wife, and she had a duty to perform towards his
nation--to become its queen.

For nearly an hour she remained upon her knees before the crucifix, with
the tiny oil-light flickering in its cup of crimson glass, kneeling in
mute appeal, strong in her faith, yet humble as the humblest commoner in
the land.

"My God!" she cried aloud at last.  "Hear me!  Answer my prayer!  Give
me strength and courage, and direct my footsteps in the right path.  I
am a weak woman, after all; a humble sinner who has repented.  Help me,
O God!  I place all my trust in Thee!  Amen."

And, crossing herself, she rose slowly with a deep-drawn breath that
sounded weirdly through the fine room, and walking unsteadily towards
the big cheval glass, gazed at her own reflection.

She saw how pale and haggard was her face, and looked at her trembling
hands.

The ribbons and stars at the edge of her bodice caught her eye, and with
a sudden movement she tore them off and cast them heedlessly upon the
table as though the sight of them annoyed her.  They had been conferred
upon her on her marriage.  She sighed as she looked back at them.

Ah, the hollow mockery of it all!

She glanced out of the window, and saw in the bright moonlight the
sentry pacing up and down before the palace.  Across the wide boulevard
were the dark trees of the park.  It recalled to her the appointment she
had made there for the next evening.

"I wonder why Steinbach has followed me here?" she exclaimed to herself.
"How did he obtain entrance to the Court ball?  Probably he has some
friend here.  But surely his mission is urgent, or he would never have
run this risk.  I was, however, foolish to speak to him before them
all--very foolish.  Yet," she added slowly to herself, "I wonder what he
has to tell me?  I wonder--" And, without concluding her sentence, she
stood gazing out upon the dark park, deep in thought, her mind full of
grave apprehensions of the future.

She was a Hapsbourg--and evil fate follows a Hapsbourg always.  She had
prayed to God; for God alone could save her.

She, the most brilliant and the most envied woman in the Empire, was
perhaps the most heart-broken, the most unhappy.  Casting herself into
an armchair before the log fire, she covered her drawn, white face with
her hands and sobbed bitterly, until at last she sat immovable, staring
straight into the embers watching the spark die out, until she fell
asleep where she sat.

Next day her sweet, fresh face bore no traces of her desperation of the
night.  She was as gay and merry as ever, and only Henriette noticed in
her eyes a slight redness, but discreetly said nothing.

The Countess, a rather pleasant-faced but stiff-mannered person, brought
her her engagement-book, from which it appeared that she was due at a
review by the Emperor at eleven o'clock; therefore, accompanied by her
lady-in-waiting, she drove there, and was everywhere admired by the
great crowds assembled.  The Austrian people called her "our Claire,"
and the warm-hearted Viennese cheered when they recognised that she was
back again among them.

It was a brilliant scene in the bright spring sunlight, for many of the
Imperial Court were present, and the troops made a brave show as they
marched past his Majesty and the assembled members of the Imperial
house.

Then she had a luncheon engagement with the Archduchess Gisela, the wife
of Prince Leopold of Bavaria, afterwards drove in the Ringstrasse and
the Prater, dined early at her father's palace, after giving Henriette
leave of absence for the evening, and also allowing the Countess de
Trauttenberg her freedom, saying that she intended to remain at home.
Then, shortly before eight o'clock, she ascended to her room, exchanged
her turquoise-blue dinner-gown for a plain, stiff, tailor-made dress,
put on a hat with a lace veil that concealed her features, and managed
to slip across the courtyard of the domestic offices and out of the
palace unseen.

The night was cloudy and dark, with threatening rain, as she crossed the
broad Parkring, entering the park near the Kursalon, and traversing the
deserted walks towards the River Wien.  The chill wind whistled in the
budding trees above, sweeping up the dust in her path, and the
statuesque guard whom she passed in the shadow glanced inquisitively at
her, of course not recognising her.

There was no one in the Stadtpark at that hour, and all was silent,
gloomy, and dismal, well in keeping with her own sad thoughts.  Behind
her, the street lamps of the Parkring showed in a long, straight line,
and before her were the lights on the Caroline Bridge, the spot
appointed for the meeting.

Her heart beat quickly.  It was always difficult for her to escape
without the knowledge of De Trauttenberg or Henriette.  The former was,
as a good lady-in-waiting should be, ever at her side, made her
engagements for her, and saw that she kept them.  That night, however,
the Countess desired to visit her sister who was in Vienna with her
husband, therefore it had happened opportunely; and, freed of Henriette,
she had now little to fear.

The dress she wore was one she used when in the country.  She had thrown
a short cape of Henriette's about her shoulders, and was thus
sufficiently disguised to avoid recognition by people in the streets.

As she came around a sudden bend in the pathway to the foot of the
bridge the dark figure of a man in a black overcoat emerged from the
shadow, and was next instant at her side, holding his hat in his hand
and bowing before her.

"I began to fear that your Imperial Highness would not come," he said
breathlessly in German.  "Or that you had been prevented."

"Is it so very late, then?" she inquired in her sweet, musical voice, as
the man walked slowly at her side.  "I had difficulty in getting away in
secret."

"No one has followed you, Princess?" he said, glancing anxiously behind
him.  "Are you quite sure?"

"No one.  I was very careful.  But why have you asked me to come here?
Why were you at the ball last night?  How did you manage to get a card?"

"I came expressly to see you, Princess," answered the young man in a
deep earnest voice.  "It was difficult to get a command to the ball, but
I managed it, as I could approach you by no other way.  At your
Highness's own Court you, as Crown Princess, are unapproachable for a
commoner like myself, and I feared to write to you, as De Trauttenberg
often attends to your correspondence."

"But you are my friend, Steinbach," she said.  "I am always to be seen
by my friends."

"At your own risk, your Highness," he said quickly.  "I know quite well
that last night when you stopped and spoke to me it was a great breach
of etiquette.  Only it was imperative that I should see you to-night.
To you, Princess, I owe everything.  I do not forget your great kindness
to me; how that I was a poor clerk out of work, with my dear wife ill
and starving, and how, by your letter of recommendation, I was appointed
in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, first as French translator, and now
as a secretary.  Were it not for you, Princess, I and my family would
have starved.  You saved me from ruin, and I hope you are confident that
in me, poor and humble though I am, you at least have a friend."

"I am sure of that, Steinbach," was her Highness's kindly reply.  "We
need not cross the bridge," she said.  "It is quiet along here, by the
river.  We shall meet no one."

For a few moments a silence fell between them, and the Princess began to
wonder why he had asked her there to meet him.

At last, when they were in a dark and narrower pathway, he turned
suddenly to her and said,--

"Princess, I--I hardly know how to speak, for I fear that you may take
what I have to say in a wrong sense.  I mean," he faltered, "I mean that
I fear you may think it impertinent of me to speak to you, considering
the great difference in our stations."

"Why?" she asked calmly, turning to him with some surprise.  "Have you
not just told me that you are my friend?"

She noticed at that moment that he still held his hat in his hand, and
motioned to him to reassume it.

"Yes.  I am your Highness's friend," he declared quickly.  "If I were
not, I would not dare to approach you, or to warn you of what at this
moment is in progress."

"What is in progress?" she exclaimed in surprise.  "Tell me."

She realised that this man had something serious to say, or surely he
would never have followed her to Vienna, and obtained entrance to the
Imperial Court by subterfuge.

"Your Highness is in peril," he declared in a low voice, halting and
standing before her.  "You have enemies, fierce, bitter enemies, on
every side; enemies who are doing their utmost to estrange you from your
husband; relentless enemies who are conspiring might and main against
you and the little Princess Ignatia.  They--"

"Against my child?" cried the Princess, amazed.  "Do you really mean
that there is actually a conspiracy against me?"

"Alas! that is so, Highness," said the man, seriously and distinctly.
"By mere chance I have learnt of it, and being unable to approach you at
your own Court, I am here to give you timely warning of what is
intended."  She was silent, gazing straight into her companion's face,
which was, however, hardly distinguishable in the darkness.  She could
scarcely believe the truth of what this commoner told her.  Could this
man, whom she had benefited by her all-powerful influence, have any
ulterior motive in lying to her?

"And what is intended?" she inquired in a strange, hard voice, still
half dubious and half convinced.

"There is a plot, a dastardly, widespread conspiracy to cause your
Highness's downfall and part you from the Crown Prince before he comes
to the throne," was his answer.

"But why?  For what motive?" she inquired, starting at the amazing
revelation.

"Cannot your Highness discern that your jealous enemies are in fear of
you?" he said.  "They know that one day ere long our invalid King must
die, and your husband will then ascend the throne.  You will be Queen,
and they feel convinced that the day of your accession will be their
last day at Court--frankly, that having seen through their shams and
intrigues, you will dismiss them all and change the entire entourage."

"Ah!  I see," replied the Crown Princess Claire in a hoarse, bitter
voice.  "They fear me because they have realised their own shortcomings.
So they are conspiring against me to part me from my husband, and drive
me from Court!  Yes," she sighed heavily, "I know that I have enemies on
every side.  I am a Hapsbourg, and that in itself is sufficient to
prejudice them against me.  I have never been a favourite with their
Majesties the King and Queen because of my Liberal tendencies.  They
look upon me as a Socialist; indeed, almost as a revolutionist.  Their
sycophants would be glad enough to see me banished from Court.  And yet
the Court bow to me with all that hateful obsequiousness."

"Your Highness is, unfortunately, quite right," declared the man
Steinbach.  "The Crown Prince is being enticed farther and farther from
you, as part of the ingenious plot now afoot.  The first I knew of it
was by accident six months ago, when some letters from abroad fell into
my hands at the Ministry.  The conspiracy is one that permeates the
whole Court.  The daily talk of your enemies is the anticipation of your
downfall."

"My downfall!  But how is that to be accomplished?" she demanded, her
fine eyes flashing with indignation.  "I surely have nothing to fear--
have I?  I beg of you to be quite candid with me, Steinbach.  In this
affair your information may be of greatest service, and I am deeply
indebted to you.  It staggers me.  What have I done that these people
should seek my ruin?" she cried in blank dismay.

"Will your Highness pardon me if I tell the truth?" asked the man at her
side, speaking very seriously.  "You have been too free, too frank, and
too open-minded.  Every well-meant action of yours is turned to account
by those who seek to do you evil.  Those whom you believe to be your
friends are your worst antagonists.  I have longed to approach you and
tell you this for months, but I always feared.  How could I reach you?
They are aware that the secret correspondence passed through my hands,
and therefore they suspect me of an intention of betraying them."

"Then you are here at imminent risk to yourself, Steinbach," she
remarked very slowly, looking again straight into his dark face.

"I am here as your Highness's friend," replied the young man simply.
"It is surely worth the risk to save my gracious benefactress from
falling victim to their foul, dastardly conspiracy?"

"And who, pray, are my worst antagonists?" she asked hoarsely.

He gave her rapidly half a dozen names of Court officials and persons in
the immediate entourage of their Majesties.

"And," he added, "do not trust the Countess de Trauttenberg.  She is
playing you false.  She acts as spy upon you and notes your every
action."

"The Countess--their spy!" she gasped, utterly taken aback, for if there
was one person at Court in whom she had the utmost confidence it was the
woman who had been in her personal service ever since her marriage.

"I have documentary proof of it," the man said quietly.  "I would beg of
your Highness to make no sign whatever that the existence of the plot is
known to you, but at the same time exercise the greatest caution, both
for your own sake and that of the little Princess."

"Surely they do not mean to kill me, Steinbach?" she exclaimed in alarm.

"No--worse.  They intend to banish your Highness from Court in disgrace,
as a woman unworthy to reign over us as Queen.  They fear you because
you have discovered their own intrigues, corruptions, and scandals, and
they intend that, at all costs, you shall never ascend the throne."

"But my husband!  He should surely know this!"

"Princess," exclaimed the clean-shaven young man, speaking very slowly
and seriously, "I regret that it is I who am compelled to reveal this to
you, but the Crown Prince already believes ill of you.  He suspects; and
therefore whatever lies they, now invent concerning you he accepts as
truth.  Princess," he added in a low, hard voice, "you are in deadly
peril.  There, the truth is out, for I cannot keep it from you longer.
I am poor, unknown, without influence.  All I can do is to give you this
warning in secret, because I hope that I may call myself your friend."

The unhappy daughter of the Imperial house was silent.  The revelation
was startling and amazing.  She had never realised that a plot was afoot
against her in her husband's kingdom.  Words entirely failed her.  She
and her little daughter Ignatia were marked down as victims.  She now
for the first time realised her peril, yet she was powerless to stem the
tide of misfortune that, sooner or later, must overwhelm her and crush
her.  She stood there a defenceless woman.

CHAPTER THREE.

THE REVELATIONS OF A COMMONER.

Princess and commoner walked in silence, side by side.  The rough night
wind blew the dust in their faces, but they bent to it heedlessly, both
too full of their own thoughts for words; the man half confused in the
presence of the brilliant woman who ere long would be his sovereign; the
woman stupefied at the dastardly intrigue that had not only estranged
her husband from her, but had for its object the expulsion from the
kingdom of herself and her child.

Open-hearted as she was, liberal-minded, pleasant, easy-going, and a
delightful companion, she had never sufficiently realised that at that
stiff, narrow-minded Court there were men and women who hated her.  All
of us are so very loth to believe that we have enemies, and more
especially those who believe in the honesty and integrity of mankind.

She reflected upon her interview with the Emperor.  She remembered his
Majesty's hard words.  Had those conspiring against her obtained his
ear?

Even De Trauttenberg, the tall, patient, middle-aged woman in whom she
had reposed such confidence, was their spy!  Steinbach's story staggered
belief.  And yet--and yet was not the Emperor's anger plain proof that
he knew something--that a foul plot was really in progress?

Along those dark winding paths they strolled slowly, meeting no one, for
the place was utterly deserted.  It was an exciting escapade, and
dangerous withal.

The man at last broke the silence, saying,--

"I need not impress upon your Imperial Highness the necessity for
discretion in this matter.  To betray your knowledge of the affair would
be to betray me."

"Trust me," was her answer.  "I know how to keep a secret, and I am not
likely to forget this important service you have rendered me."

"My only regret is that I was unable to approach you months ago, when I
first made the discovery.  Your Highness would have then been able to
avoid the pitfalls constantly set for you," the man said meaningly.

The Princess Claire bit her lip.  She knew to what he referred.  She had
been foolish, ah yes; very foolish.  And he dare not be more explicit.

"Yes," she sighed.  "I know--I know to what you refer.  But surely we
need not discuss it.  Even though I am Crown Princess, I am a woman,
after all."

"I beg your Highness's pardon," he exclaimed quickly, fearing that she
was annoyed.

"There is nothing to pardon," was her reply.  "You are my friend, and
speak to me in my own interests.  For that I thank you.  Only--only--"
she added, "all that you've just told me is such a startling revelation.
My eyes are opened now.  I see the dastardly ingenuity of it all.  I
know why my husband--"

But she checked herself instantly.  No.  However ill-treated she had
been she would preserve her secret.  She would not complain to a
commoner at risk of her domestic infelicity going forth to her people.

It was true that within a year of marriage he had thrown her down in her
room and kicked her in one of his paroxysms of temper.  He had struck
her blows innumerable; but she had borne all in patience, and De
Trauttenberg had discovered dark marks upon her white shoulders which
she had attributed to a fall upon the ice.  She saw now the reason of
his estrangement; how his sycophants had poisoned his mind against her
because they feared her.

"Steinbach," she said at last, "tell me the truth.  What do the people
think of me?  You are a commoner and live among them.  I, imprisoned at
Court, unfortunately, know nothing.  The opinions of the people never
reach us."

"The people, your Highness, love you.  They call you `their Claire.'
You surely know how, when you drive out, they raise their hats and shout
in acclamation."

"Yes," she said in a low, mechanical voice, "but is it real enthusiasm?
Would they really love me if I were Queen?"

"Your Highness is at this moment the most popular woman in the whole
kingdom of Marburg.  If it were known that this plot was in progress
there would in all probability be a revolution.  Stuhlmann and his
friends are hated everywhere, and their overthrow would cause universal
satisfaction."

"And the people do not really think ill of me?"

"Think ill of you, Princess?" he echoed.  "Why, they literally worship
you and the little Princess Ignatia."

She was silent again, walking very slowly, and reflecting deeply.  It
was so seldom she had opportunity of speaking with one of the people
unless he were a deputy or a diplomatist, who then put on all his Court
manners, was unnatural, and feared to speak.  From the man beside her,
however, she saw she might learn the truth of a matter which was ever
uppermost in her mind.  And yet she hesitated to approach what was,
after all, a very delicate subject.

Suddenly, with her mind made up, she halted, and turning to him, said,--

"Steinbach, I want you to answer me truthfully.  Do not evade the
question for fear of annoying me.  Speak openly, as the friend you are
to me.  I wish to know one thing," and she lowered her voice until it
almost faltered.  "Have you heard a--well, a scandal concerning myself?"

He made no answer.

She repeated her question; her veiled face turned to his.

"Your Highness only a few moments ago expressed a desire not to discuss
the matter," he replied in a low, distinct voice.

"But I want to know," she urged.  "I must know.  Tell me the truth.  If
you are my friend you will at least be frank with me when I command."

"If you command, Princess, then I must obey, even with reluctance," was
his response.  "Yes.  I have heard some gossip.  It is spoken openly in
Court by the _dames du palais_, and is now being whispered among the
people."

She held her breath.  Fortunately, it was dark, for she knew that her
countenance had gone crimson.

"Well?" she asked.  "And what do they say of me?"

"They, unfortunately, couple your Highness's name with that of Count
Leitolf, the chief of the private cabinet of his Majesty," was his low
answer.

"Yes," she said in a toneless voice.  "And what more?"

"They say that Major Scheel, attache at the Embassy in Paris, recognised
you driving with the Count in the Avenue de l'Opera, when you were
supposed to be at Aix-les-Bains with the little Princess Ignatia."

"Yes.  Go on."

"They say, too, that he follows you everywhere--and that your maid
Henriette helps you to leave the palace in secret to meet him."

She heard his words, and her white lips trembled.

"They also declare," he went on in a low voice, "that your love of the
country is only because you are able to meet him without any one
knowing, that your journey here to Vienna is on account of him--that he
has followed you here."

She nodded, without uttering a word.

"The Count has, no doubt, followed your Highness, indiscreetly if I may
say so, for I recognised him last night dining alone at Breying's."

"He did not see you?" she exclaimed anxiously.

"No.  I took good care not to be seen.  I had no desire that my journey
here should be known, or I should be suspected.  I return to-night at
midnight."

"And to be frank, Steinbach, you believe that all this has reached my
husband's ears?" she whispered in a hard, strained voice.

"All that is detrimental to your Highness reaches the Crown Prince," was
his reply to the breathless woman, "and certainly not without
embellishments.  That is why I implore of you to be circumspect--why I
am here to tell you of the plot to disgrace you in the people's eyes."

"But the people themselves are now speaking of--of the Count?" she said
in a low, uncertain voice, quite changed from her previous musical tones
when first they met.

"A scandal--and especially a Court one--very soon spreads among the
people.  The royal servants gossip outside the palace, and moreover your
Highness's many enemies are only too delighted to assist in spreading
such reports.  It gives motive for the Crown Prince's estrangement."

Her head was bent, her hands were trembling.  The iron had entered her
soul.

The people--the people whom she so dearly loved, and who had waved their
hands and shouted those glad welcomes to her as she drove out--were now
whispering of Leitolf.

She bit her lip, and her countenance went pale as death as the truth
arose before her in all its hideous ghastliness.

Even the man at her side, the humble man who had stood by her as her
friend, knew that Leitolf was there--in Vienna--to be near her.  Even
Steinbach could have no further respect for her as a woman--only respect
because she was one day to be his sovereign.

Her hands were clenched; she held her breath, and shivered as the chill
wind cut through her.  She longed to be back in her father's palace; to
be alone in her room to think.

"And nothing more?" she asked in that same blank voice which now caused
her companion to wonder.

"Only that they say evil of you that is not worth repeating," was his
brief answer.

She sighed again, and then when she had sufficiently recovered from the
effect of his words, she whispered in a low voice,--

"I--I can only thank you, Steinbach, for giving me this warning.
Forgive me if--if I am somewhat upset by it--but I am a woman--and
perhaps it is only natural.  Trust me to say nothing.  Leave Vienna
to-night and return home.  If you ever wish to communicate with me write
guardedly, making an appointment, and address your letter to Madame
Emond at the Poste Restante in Brussels.  You will recollect the name?"

"Most certainly I shall, your Highness.  I can only ask pardon for
speaking so openly.  But it was at your request."

"Do not let us mention it further," she urged, her white lips again
compressed.  "Leave me now.  It is best that I should walk down yonder
to the Parkring alone."

He halted, and bowing low, his hat in his hand, said,--

"I would ask your Imperial Highness to still consider me your humble
servant to command in any way whatsoever, and to believe that I am ever
ready to serve you and to repay the great debt of gratitude I owe to
you."

And, bending, he took her gloved hand and raised it to his lips in
obeisance to the princess who was to be his queen.

"Adieu, Steinbach," she said in a broken voice.  "And for the service
you have rendered me to-night I can only return you the thanks of an
unhappy woman."

Then she turned from him quickly, and hurried down the path to the park
entrance, where shone a single gas lamp, leaving him standing alone,
bowing in silence.

He watched her graceful figure out of sight, then sighed, and turned
away in the opposite direction.

A few seconds later the tall, dark figure of a man emerged noiselessly
from the deep shadow of the tree where, unobserved, he had crept up and
stood concealed.  The stranger glanced quickly up and down at the two
receding figures, and then at a leisurely pace strode in the direction
the Princess had taken.

When at last she had turned and was out of sight he halted, took a
cigarette from a silver case, lit it after some difficulty in the
tearing wind, and muttered some words which, though inaudible, were
sufficiently triumphant in tone to show that he was well pleased at his
ingenious piece of espionage.

CHAPTER FOUR.

HIS MAJESTY CUPID.

As the twilight fell on the following afternoon a fiacre drew up before
the Hotel Imperial, one of the best and most select hotels in the
Kartner Ring, in Vienna, and from it descended a lady attired in the
deep mourning of a widow.

Of the gold-laced concierge she inquired for Count Carl Leitolf, and was
at once shown into the lift and conducted to a private sitting-room on
the second floor, where a young, fair-moustached, good-looking man, with
well-cut, regular features and dark brown eyes, rose quickly as the door
opened and the waiter announced her.

The moment the door had closed and they were alone he took his visitor's
hand and raised it reverently to his lips, bowing low, with the
exquisite grace of the born courtier.

In an instant she drew it from him and threw back her veil, revealing
her pale, beautiful face--the face of her Imperial Highness the Crown
Princess Claire.

"Highness!" the man exclaimed, glancing anxiously at the door to
reassure himself that it was closed, "I had your note this morning,
but--but are you not running too great a risk by coming here?  I could
not reply, fearing that my letter might fall into other hands; otherwise
I would on no account have allowed you to come.  You may have been
followed.  There are, as you know, spies everywhere."

"I have come, Carl, because I wish to speak to you," she said, looking
unflinchingly into his handsome face.  "I wish to know by what right you
have followed me here--to Vienna?"

He drew back in surprise, for her attitude was entirely unexpected.

"I came here upon my own private affairs," he answered.

"That is not the truth," she declared in quick resentment.  "You are
here because you believed that you might meet me at the reception after
the State dinner to-night.  You applied for a card for it in order that
you could see me--and this, after what passed between us the other day!
Do you consider that you are treating me fairly?  Cannot you see that
your constant attentions are compromising me and causing people to
talk?"

"And what, pray, does your Imperial Highness care for this idle Court
gossip?" asked the well-dressed, athletic-looking man, at the same time
placing a chair for her and bowing her to it.  "There has been enough of
it already, and you have always expressed the utmost disregard of
anything that might be said, or any stories that might be invented."

"I know," she answered.  "But this injudicious action of yours in
following me here is utter madness.  It places me in peril.  You are
known in Vienna, remember."

"Then if that is your view, your Highness, I can only apologise," he
said most humbly.  "I will admit that I came here in order to be able to
get a few minutes' conversation with you to-night.  At our Court at home
you know how very difficult it is for me to speak with you, for the
sharp eye of the Trauttenberg is ever upon you."

The Princess's arched brows contracted slightly.  She recollected what
Steinbach had revealed to her regarding her lady-in-waiting.

"And it is surely best that you should have difficulty in approaching
me," she said.  "I have not forgotten your foolish journey to Paris,
where I had gone incognito to see my old nurse, and how you compelled me
to go out and see the sights in your company.  We were recognised.  Do
you know that?" she exclaimed in a hard voice.  "A man who knew us both
sent word to Court that we were in Paris together."

"Recognised!" he gasped, the colour fading instantly from his face.
"Who saw us?"

"Of his identity I'm not aware," she answered, for she was a clever
diplomatist, and could keep a secret well.  She did not reveal Scheel's
name.  "I only know that our meeting in Paris is no secret.  They
suspect me, and I have you to thank for whatever scandal may now be
invented concerning us."

The lithe, clean-limbed man was silent, his head bent before her.  What
could he reply?  He knew, alas! too well, that in following her from
Germany to Paris he had acted very injudiciously.  She was believed to
be taking the baths at Aix, but a sudden caprice had seized her to run
up to Paris and see her old French nurse, to whom she was much attached.
He had learnt her intention in confidence, and had met her in Paris and
shown her the city.  It had been an indiscretion, he admitted.

Yet the recollection of those few delightful days of freedom remained
like a pleasant dream.  He recollected her childish delight of it all.
It was out of the season, and they believed that they could go hither
and thither, like the crowds of tourists do, without fear of
recognition.  Yet Fate, it seemed, had been against them, and their
secret meeting was actually known!

"Cannot you see the foolishness of it all?" she asked in a low, serious
voice.  "Cannot you see, Carl, that your presence here lends colour to
their suspicions?  I have enemies--fierce, bitter enemies--as you must
know too well, and yet you imperil me like this!" she cried
reproachfully.

"I can make no defence, Princess," he said lamely.  "I can only regret
deeply having caused you any annoyance."

"Annoyance!" she echoed in anger.  "Your injudicious actions have placed
me in the greatest peril.  The people have coupled our names, and you
are known to have followed me on here."

Her companion was silent, his eyes downcast, as though not daring to
meet her reproachful gaze.

"I have been foolish--very foolish, I know," she cried.  "In the old
days, when we knew each other at Wartenstein, a boy-and-girl affection
sprang up between us; and then, when you left the University, they sent
you as attache to the Embassy in London, and we gradually forgot each
other.  You grew tired of diplomacy, and returned to find me the wife of
the Crown Prince; and in a thoughtless moment I promised, at your
request, to recommend you to a post in the private cabinet of the King.
Since that day I have always regretted.  I ought never to have allowed
you to return.  I am as much to blame as you are, for it was an entirely
false step.  Yet how was I to know?"

"True, my Princess!" said the man in a low, choking voice.  "How were
you to know that I still loved you in silence, that I was aware of the
secret of your domestic unhappiness, that I--"

"Enough!" she cried, drawing herself up.  "The word love surely need not
be spoken between us.  I know it all, alas!  Yet I beg of you to
remember that I am the wife of another, and a woman of honour."

"Ah yes," he exclaimed, his trembling hand resting on the back of the
chair upon which she sat.  "Honour--yes.  I love you, Claire--you surely
know that well.  But we do not speak of it; it is a subject not to be
discussed by us.  Day after day, unable to speak to you, I watch you in
silence.  I know your bitterness in that gilded prison they call the
Court, and long always to help you and rescue you from that--that man to
whom you are, alas! wedded.  It is all so horrible, so loathsome, that I
recoil when I see him smiling upon you while at heart he hates you.  For
weeks, since last we spoke together, how I have lived I scarcely know--
utter despair, insane hopes alternately possess me--but at last the day
came, and I followed you here to speak with you, my Princess."

She remained silent, somewhat embarrassed, as he took her gloved hand
and again kissed it.

She was nervous, but next instant determined.

"Alas!  I have not failed to notice your strong affection for me, Carl,"
she said with a heavy sigh, her beautiful face slightly flushed.  "You
must therefore control this passion that seems to have been rekindled
within your heart.  For my sake go, and forget me," she implored.
"Resign your appointment, and re-enter the diplomatic service of the
Emperor.  I will speak to Lindenau, who will give you an appointment,
say, in Rome or Paris.  But you must not remain at Treysa.  I--I will
not allow it."

"But, Princess," he cried in dismay, "I cannot go and leave you there
alone among your enemies.  You--"

"You must; for, unintentionally, because you have my interests at heart,
you are my worst enemy.  You are indiscreet, just as every man is who
loves a woman truly."

"Then you really believe I love you still, Claire," he cried, bending
towards her.  "You remember those delightfully happy days at Wartenstein
long ago, when--"

She held up her hand to stop the flow of his words.

He looked at her.  For an instant her glance wavered and shrank.

She was his idol, the beautiful idol with eyes like heaven.

Yes, she was very beautiful--beautiful with all the beauty of woman now,
not with the beauty of the girl.

And she, with her sad gaze fixed upon him, remembered all the past--the
great old castle in the far-off Tyrol, her laughter at his awkwardness;
their chats in English when both were learning that language; the
quarrel over the lilac blossom.  At Arcachon--the shore and the pine
forest; the boyish kiss stolen under the mistletoe; the declaration of
their young love on that lonely mountain-side with the world lying at
their feet; the long, sweet, silent kisses exchanged on their homeward
walk; the roses she had given him as farewell pledge when he had left
for London.

All had gone--gone for ever.

Nevertheless, though everything was past, she could not resist an
impulse to recall it--oh, very briefly--in a few feeling words, as one
may recall some sweet and rapturous dream.

"We were very foolish," she said.

He was silent.  His heart was too full for words.  He knew that a woman
who can look back on the past--on rapture, delight, the first thrilling
kiss, the first fervent vow--and say, "We were very foolish," is a woman
changed beyond recall.

In other days, had he heard such sacrilegious words a cry of horror
would have sprung from his lips.  But now, though he shuddered with
anguish, he simply said,--

"I shall always remember it, Princess;" adding, with a glance at her,
"and you."

Her wonderful eyes shrank once more and her lips quivered, as though for
one second touched again by the light wing of love--as if, indeed, she
felt she had done something unworthy of her, something which might bring
her regret hereafter.

In the midst of his confusion, the man remained victorious.  She would
never be his, and yet she would be his for ever.  No matter how she
might strive, she would never entirely forget.

She sighed, and rising, walked unsteadily to the window, where, below,
the street lamps were just being lit.  Daylight had faded, and in the
room it was almost dark.

"To-night, Carl, we meet for the last time," she said with an effort, in
a hard, strained voice.  "Both for you and for me it is best that we
should part and forget.  I did wrong to recommend you to the post at
Court, and I ought to have foreseen the grave peril of the situation.
Fortunately, I have realised it in time, even though our enemies already
believe ill and invent lies concerning us.  You must not return to
Court.  Remember, I forbid you.  To-night, at the State dinner, I will
speak to Lindenau and ask him to send you as attache to Rome or to
Petersburg.  It is the wisest course."

"Then your Highness really intends to banish me?" he said hoarsely, in a
low, broken voice of reproach.

"Yes," she faltered.  "I--I must--Carl--to--to save myself."

"But you are cruel--very cruel--Princess," he cried, his voice trembling
with emotion.

"You must realise my peril," she said seriously.  "Your presence at
Court increases my danger hourly, because"--and she hesitated--"because,
Carl, I confess to you that I do not forget--I never shall forget," she
added as the tears sprang to her blue eyes.  "Therefore, go!  Let me
bear my own burden as best I can alone, and let me remember you as what
you have always been--chivalrous to an unhappy woman; a man of honour."

Slowly she moved across the room towards the door, but he arrested her
progress, and took her small hand quickly in his grasp.

For some moments, in the falling gloom, he looked into her sweet,
tearful face without speaking; then crushing down the lump that arose in
his throat, he raised to his hot, passionate lips the hand of the woman
he loved, and, imprinting upon it a tender, lingering kiss, murmured,--

"Adieu, Claire--my Princess--my first, my only love!"  She drew her hand
away as his passionate words fell upon her ear, sighed heavily, and in
silence opened the door and passed out from his presence.

And thus were two brave hearts torn asunder.

CHAPTER FIVE.

SOME SUSPICIONS.

State dinners, those long, tedious affairs at which the conversation is
always stilted and the bearing of everybody is stiff and unnatural,
always bored the Crown Princess Claire to death.

Whenever she could she escaped them; but as a Crown Princess she was
compelled by Court etiquette to undergo ordeals which, to a woman not
educated as an Imperial Archduchess, would have been impossible.  She
had trained herself to sit for hours smiling and good-humoured, although
at heart she hated all that glittering formality and rich display.
There were times when at her own Court at Treysa, at the military
anniversary dinners that were so often held, she had been compelled to
sit at table with her husband and the guests for four and five hours on
end, without showing any sign of fatigue beyond taking her
smelling-salts from the hand of her lady-in-waiting.  Yet she never
complained, though the eating, and more especially the drinking,
disgusted her.  It was a duty--one of the many wearisome, soul-killing
duties which devolve upon a Crown Princess--of which the world at large
is in utter ignorance.  Therefore she accepted it in silence, yet bored
always by meeting and speaking with the same circle of people day after
day--a small circle which was ever intriguing, ever consumed by its own
jealousies, ever striving for the favour of the aged king; the
narrow-minded little world within the Palace who treated those outside
as though of different flesh and blood to themselves.

Whether at a marriage, at a funeral, at the opera, at a review, or at a
charity _fete_--everywhere where her Court duties called her--she met
the same people, she heard the same interminable chatter and the same
shameful scandals, until, unhappy in her own domestic life, she had
grown to loathe it all, and to long for that liberty of which she had
dreamed when a girl at her father's castle at Wartenstein, or at the
great old Residenz-Schloss, or palace, at Pressburg.

Yet what liberty could she, heiress to a throne, obtain; what, indeed,
within her husband's Court, a circle who dined at five o'clock and were
iron-bound by etiquette?

The State dinner at the Imperial palace that night differed but little
from any other State dinner--long, dull, and extremely uninteresting.
Given in honour of a Swedish Prince who was at the moment the guest of
the Emperor, there were present the usual circle of Imperial Archdukes
and Archduchesses, who after dinner were joined in the great reception
room by the Ministers of State, the British, French, and Italian
Ambassadors, the Swedish Minister and the whole staff of the Swedish
Embassy in the Schwindgasse.  Every one was in uniform and wore his
orders, the Emperor himself standing at the end of the room, chatting
with his young guest in French.

The Crown Princess Claire, a striking figure in turquoise chiffon, was
standing near, discussing Leoncavallo's new opera with her cousin, the
Princess Marie of Bourbon, who had arrived only a few days before from
Madrid.  Suddenly her eye caught the figure she had all the evening been
in Search of.

Count de Lindenau, Privy Councillor, Chamberlain, Minister of the
Imperial Household, and Minister for Foreign Affairs of the Austrian
Empire--a short, rather stout, bald-headed man, with heavy white
moustache, with the crimson ribbon of the Order of Saint Stephen of
Hungary across his shirt-front and the Grand Cross in brilliants upon
his coat--stopped to bow low before the Crown Princess, who in an
instant seized the opportunity to leave her cousin and speak with him.

"It is really quite a long time since we met, Count," she exclaimed
pleasantly.  "I met the Countess at Cannes in January, and was delighted
to see her so much better.  Is she quite well again?"

"I thank your Imperial Highness," responded the Minister.  "The Countess
has completely recovered.  At present she is at Como.  And you?  Here
for a long stay in Vienna, I hope.  We always regret that you have left
us, you know," he added, smiling, for she had, ever since a girl, been
friendly with him, and had often visited his wife at their castle at
Mauthhausen.

"No; I regret that I must return to Treysa in a few days," she said as
she moved along and he strolled at her side down the great gilded room
where the little groups were standing gossiping.  Then, when his
Excellency had asked after the health of the Crown Prince and of the
little Princess Ignatia, she drew him aside to a spot where they could
not be overheard, and halting, said in a lower tone,--

"I have wished to meet you, Count, because I want you to do me a
favour."

"Your Imperial Highness knows quite well that if I can serve you in any
way I am always only too delighted."  And he bowed.

More than once she had asked favour of Lindenau, the stern Foreign
Minister and favourite of the Emperor, and he had always acted as she
wished.  She had known him ever since her birth.  He had, indeed, been
present at her baptism.

"Well, it is this," she said.  "I want to give my recommendation to you
on behalf of Count Leitolf, who is at present chief of the King's
private cabinet at Treysa, and who is strongly desirous of returning to
the Austrian diplomatic service, and is anxious for a post abroad."
Mention of Leitolf's name caused the wily old Minister to glance at her
quickly.  The rumour had reached his ears, and in an instant he
recognised the situation--the Crown Princess wished to rid herself of
him.  But the old fellow was diplomatic, and said, as though compelled
to recall the name,--

"Leitolf?  Let me see.  That is Count Carl, whom I sent to London a few
years ago?  He resigned his post to take service under your
father-in-law the King.  Ah yes, I quite recollect.  And he now wishes
to be appointed abroad again, eh?  And you wish to recommend him?"

"Exactly, Count," she answered.  "I think that Leitolf is tired of our
Court; he finds it too dull.  He would prefer Rome, he tells me."

"Your Imperial Highness is well aware that any recommendation of yours
always has the most earnest attention," said the Minister, with a polite
bow.  His quick grey eyes were watching the beautiful woman sharply.  He
wondered what had occurred between her and Count Carl.

"Then you will send him to Rome?" she asked, unable to conceal her
eagerness.

"If he will present himself at the Ministry, he will be at once
appointed to the Embassy to the Quirinal," responded his Excellency
quietly.

"But he will not present himself, I am afraid."

"Oh, why not?" inquired the great Austrian diplomatist, regarding her in
surprise.

"Because--" and she hesitated, as a slight flush crossed her
features--"because he is rather ashamed to ask for a second appointment,
having resigned from London."

The old Minister smiled dubiously.

"Ah!" he exclaimed confidentially, "I quite understand.  Your Imperial
Highness wishes to get rid of him from your Court, eh?"

The Princess started, twisting her diamond bracelet nervously round her
wrist.

"Why do you think that, Count?" she asked quickly, surprised that he
should have thus divined her motive.

"Well, your Imperial Highness is rather unduly interested in the man--if
you will permit me to say so," was his answer.  "Besides, if I may speak
frankly, as I know I may, I have regarded his presence in your Court as
distinctly dangerous--for you.  There are, you know, evil tongues ever
ready to invent scandal, even against a Crown Princess."

"I know," she said, in a low, changed voice.  "But let us walk;
otherwise they will all wonder why I am talking with you so long," and
the two moved slowly along side by side.  "I know," she went on--"I know
that I have enemies; and, to confess the truth, I wish, in order to show
them that they lie, to send him from me."

"Then he shall go.  To-morrow I will send him orders to rejoin the
service, and to proceed to Rome immediately.  And," he added in a kindly
voice, "I can only congratulate your Imperial Highness upon your
forethought.  Leitolf is entirely without discretion.  Only this evening
I was actually told that he had followed you to Vienna, and--"

But he stopped abruptly, without concluding his sentence.  "And what
else?" she asked, turning pale.  Even the Minister knew; therefore
Leitolf had evidently allowed himself to be seen.

"Shall I tell you, Princess?"

"Certainly; you need not keep anything from me."

"I was also told that he is staying at the Hotel Imperial, and that you
had called upon him this afternoon."  She started, and looked him
straight in the face.

"Who told you that?" she demanded.

"I learned it from the report of the secret agents of the Ministry."

"Then I am spied upon here!" she exclaimed, pale with anger.  "Even in
my own home watch is kept upon me."

"Not upon your Imperial Highness," was the great Minister's calm reply,
"but upon the man we have recently been discussing.  It was, I venture
to think, rather indiscreet of you to go to the hotel; although, of
course, the knowledge of your visit is confidential, and goes no further
than myself.  It is a secret of the Ministry."

"Indiscreet!" she echoed with a sigh.  "In this polluted atmosphere, to
breathe freely is to be indiscreet.  Because I am an Archduchess I am
fettered as a prisoner, and watched like a criminal under surveillance.
My enemies, jealous of my position and power, have invented scandalous
stories that have aroused suspicion, and for that reason you all believe
ill of me."

"Pardon me, Princess," said the crafty old man, bowing, "I, for one, do
not.  Your anxiety to rid yourself of the fellow is proof to me that the
scandal is a pure invention, and I am only too pleased to render you
this service.  Your real enemies are those around your husband, who have
hinted and lied regarding you in order to estrange you from Court."

"Then you are really my friend, Count?" she asked anxiously.  "You do
not believe what they say regarding me?"

"I do not, Princess," he replied frankly; "and I trust you will still
regard me, as I hope I have ever been, your Imperial Highness's friend.
I know full well how Leitolf craved your favour for recommendation to
your King; and you, with a woman's blindness to the grave eventualities
of the future, secured him the appointment.  Of late you have, I
suppose, realised the fatal mistake?"

"Yes," she said in a low voice; "I have now foreseen my own peril.  I
have been very foolish; but I have halted, and Leitolf must go."

"Very wise--very wise indeed!  Your Imperial Highness cannot afford to
run any further risk.  In a few months, or a couple of years at most,
the poor King's disease must prove fatal, and you will find yourself
Queen of a brilliant kingdom.  Once Queen, your position will be
assured, and you will make short work of all those who have conspired to
secure your downfall.  You will, perhaps, require assistance.  If so,
rely upon me to render you in secret whatever help lies in my power.
With you, a Hapsbourg, as Queen, the influence of Austria must be
paramount, remember.  Therefore I beg of your Imperial Highness to
exercise the greatest discretion not to imperil yourself.  The Crown
Prince must be allowed no loophole through which he can openly quarrel
with you.  Remain patient and forbearing until you are Queen."

They were in a corner of the great hall, standing behind one of the high
marble columns and unobserved.

"I am always patient, Count," was her rather sad response, her chest
heaving beneath her chiffon.  "As you well know, my marriage has not
been a happy one; but I strive to do my duty to both the Court and the
people.  I make no denial to you.  You doubtless know the truth--that
when a girl I loved Count Leitolf, and that it was an act prompted by
foolish sentimentalism to have connived at his appointment at my
husband's own Court.  Betrayed, perhaps, by my own actions, my enemies
have seized upon my embarrassing situation to lie about me.  Ah," she
added bitterly, "how little they know of my own dire unhappiness!"

"No, no," urged the Minister, seemingly full of sympathy for her,
knowing the truth as he did.  "Bear up; put a brave countenance always
towards the world.  When Leitolf has gone your Imperial Highness will
have less embarrassment, and people cannot then place any
misconstructions upon your actions.  You will not have the foolish young
man following you wherever you go, as he now does.  At noon to-morrow I
will sign the decree for his immediate appointment to Rome, and he will
receive but little leave of absence, I can assure you.  He will be as
much a prisoner in the Palazzo Chigi as is his Holiness in the Vatican,"
he added.

"Thank you," she answered simply, glancing gratefully into his grey,
deeply-lined face; and as he bowed to her she left him and swept up the
room to where the Emperor was engaged in conversation with Lord
Powerstock, the British Ambassador.

The old Minister's face had changed the instant he left her.  The mask
of the courtier had fallen from the wily old countenance, and glancing
after her, he muttered some words that were inaudible.

If she had but seen the evil smile that played about the old
diplomatist's lips, she would have detected that his intention was to
play her false, and she might then have saved herself.

But, alas! in her ignorance she went on light-heartedly, her long train
sweeping behind her, believing in De Lindenau's well-feigned sympathy,
and congratulating herself that the all-powerful personage behind the
Emperor was still her friend.

The Minister saw that she was satisfied; then turning on his heel, he
gave vent to a short, hard laugh of triumph.

CHAPTER SIX.

THE HOUSE OF HER ENEMIES.

Two days later the Crown Princess Claire returned to Marburg.

In the twilight the express from Vienna came to a standstill in the big,
echoing station at Treysa, the bright and wealthy capital, and
descending from her private saloon, she walked over the red carpet laid
for her, bowing pleasantly to the line of bareheaded officials waiting
to receive her; then, mounting into her open landau, she drove up the
fine, tree-lined Klosterstrasse to the royal palace.

De Trauttenberg was with her--the woman whom she now knew to be a spy.
Around her, on every side, the crowd at her side shouted a glad welcome
to "their Claire," as they called her, and just before the royal
carriage could move off, two or three of the less timorous ones managed
to seize her hand and kiss it, though the police unceremoniously pushed
them away.

She smiled upon the enthusiastic crowd; but, alas! she was heavy of
heart.  How little, she thought, did those people who welcomed her dream
of her unhappiness!  She loved the people, and, looking upon them,
sighed to think that she was not free like them.

Behind her clattered the hoofs of her cavalry escort, and beside the
carriage were two agents of police on bicycles.  Wherever she moved in
her husband's kingdom she was always under escort, because of anarchist
threats and socialistic rumours.

Marburg was one of the most beautiful and wealthiest of the kingdoms and
duchies comprised in the German Empire.  The fine capital of Treysa was
one of the show cities of Germany, always bright, gay, and brilliant,
with splendid streets, wide, tree-lined promenades, a great opera house,
numerous theatres, gay restaurants, and an ever-increasing commerce.
Frequented much by English and Americans, there were fine hotels,
delightful public gardens, and pleasant suburbs.  In no other part of
the Empire were the nobility so wealthy or so exclusive, and certainly
no Court in Europe was so difficult of access as that of Marburg.

The kingdom, which possessed an area of nearly seven thousand square
miles and a population of over fifteen millions, was rich in
manufactures and in minerals, besides being a smiling country in a high
state of cultivation, with beautiful mountainous and wooded districts,
where in the valleys were situated many delightful summer resorts.

Through its length and breadth, and far beyond the frontiers, the name
of the Crown Princess Claire was synonymous of all that was good and
affable, generous to the poor, and ever interested in the welfare of the
people.

The big electric globes were already shining white in the streets as she
drove back to the beautiful royal palace that was, alas! to her a
prison.  Her few days of liberty in Vienna were over, and when
presently, after traversing many great thoroughfares full of life and
movement, the carriage swung out into a broader tree-lined avenue, at
the end of which were the great gates of the royal gardens, her brave
heart fell within her.

Beyond was the house of her enemies, the house in which she was
compelled to live friendless, yet surrounded by those who were daily
whispering of her overthrow.

The great gates swung open to allow the cavalcade to pass, then closed
again with a clang that, reaching her ear, caused her to shudder.

The Countess noticed it, and asked whether she felt cold.  To this she
gave a negative reply, and still remained silent, until the carriage,
passing up through the beautiful park, at last drew up before the
magnificent palace.

Descending, she allowed the gorgeously-dressed man in the royal livery
to take her cloak from her shoulders; and then, without a word, hastened
along the great marble hall, up the grand staircase and along corridor
after corridor--those richly-carpeted corridors of her prison that she
knew so well--to her own splendid suite of apartments.

The servants she met at every turn bowed to her, until she opened the
door of a large, airy, well-furnished room, where a middle-aged woman,
in cap and apron, sat reading by a shaded lamp.

In an instant, on recognising the newcomer, she sprang to her feet.  But
at the same moment the Princess rushed to the dainty little cot in the
corner and sank down beside the sleeping curly-haired child--her child--
the little Princess Ignatia.

So passionately did she kiss the sweet chubby little face of the
sleeping child that she awoke, and recognising who it was, put out her
little hands around her mother's neck.

"Ah, my little pet!" cried the Princess.  "And how are you?  It seems so
long, so very long, since we parted."  And her voice trembled, for tears
stood in her eyes.  The child was all she had in the world to love and
cherish.  She was her first thought always.  The glare and glitter of
the brilliant Court were all hateful to her, and she spent all the time
she dared in the nursery with little Ignatia.

The English nurse, Allen, standing at her side, said, with that
formality which was bound to be observed within those walls,--

"The Princess is in most excellent health, your Imperial Highness.  I
have carried out your Highness's instructions, and taken her each day
for a walk in the park."

"That's right, Allen," responded the mother, also in English.  "Where is
the Crown Prince?"

"I have not seen him, your Highness, since you left.  He has not been in
to see Ignatia."

Claire sighed within herself, but made no outward sign.  "Ah, I expect
he has been away--to Berlin, perhaps.  Is there any function to-night,
have you heard?"

"A State ball, your Highness.  At least they said so in the servants'
hall."

The Princess glanced at the little silver timepiece, for she feared that
her presence was imperative, even though she detested all such
functions, where she knew she would meet that brilliant crowd of men and
women, all of them her sworn enemies.  What Steinbach had told her in
confidence had lifted the scales from her eyes.  There was a wide and
cleverly-contrived conspiracy against her.

She took her fair-haired child in her arms, while Allen, with deft
fingers, took off her hat and veil.  Her maids were awaiting her in her
own room, but she preferred to see Ignatia before it was too late to
disturb the little one's sleep.  With the pretty, blue-eyed little thing
clinging around her neck, she paced the room with it, speaking, in
German, as every fond mother will speak to the one she adores.

Though born to the purple, an Imperial Princess, Claire was very human
after all.  She regretted always that she was not as other women were,
allowed to be her own mistress, and to see and to tend to her child's
wants instead of being compelled so often to leave her in the hands of
others, who, though excellent servants, were never as a mother.

She sent Allen upon a message to the other end of the palace in order to
be alone with the child, and when the door closed she kissed its soft
little face fondly again and again, and then burst into tears.  Those
Court sycophants were conspiring, to drive her away--perhaps even to
part her from the only one for whom she entertained a spark of
affection.  Many of her enemies were women.  Could any of them really
know all that was meant by a mother's heart?

Prince Ferdinand-Leopold-Joseph-Marie, her husband, seldom, if ever, saw
the child.  For weeks he never mentioned its existence, and when he did
it was generally with an oath, in regret that it was not a son and an
heir to the throne.

In his paroxysms of anger he had cursed her and his little daughter, and
declared openly that he hated the sight of them both.  But she was ever
patient.  Seldom she responded to his taunts or his sarcasm, or resented
his brutal treatment.  She was philosophic enough to know that she had a
heavy burden to bear, and for the sake of her position as future Queen
of Marburg she must bear it bravely.

Allen was absent fully a quarter of an hour, during which time she spoke
continually to little Ignatia, pacing up and down the room with her.

The child, seeing her mother's tears, stared at her with her big,
wide-open eyes.

"Why does mother cry?" she asked in her childish voice, stroking her
cheek.

"Because mother is not happy, darling," was the Princess's sad answer.
"But," she added, brightening up, "you are happy, aren't you?  Allen has
bought you such a beautiful doll, she tells me."

"Yes, mother," the child answered.  "And to-morrow, Allen promises, if I
am very good, that we will go to buy a perambulator for my dolly to ride
in.  Won't that be nice?"

"Oh, it will!  But you must be very, very good--and never cry, like
mother, will you?"

"No," answered the little one.  "I'll never cry, like mother does."

And the unhappy woman, hearing the child's lisping words, swallowed the
great lump that arose in her throat.  It was surely pathetic, that
admission of a heart-broken mother to her child.  It showed that even
though an Imperial Princess, she was still a womanly woman, just as any
good woman of the people.

A few moments later Allen returned with the reply to the message she had
sent to the aged King.

"His Majesty says that, though regretting your Imperial Highness is
tired after her journey, yet your presence with the Crown Prince at the
ball is imperative."  Claire sighed with a heavy heart, saying,--

"Very well, Allen.  Then we will put Ignatia to bed, for I must go at
once and dress," and she passed her hand across her hot, wearied brow.

Again and again she kissed the child, and then, having put her back into
her cot, over which was the royal crown of Marburg in gold, she bade the
infant Princess goodnight, and went along to eat a hasty dinner--for she
was hungry after her eighteen-hour journey--and afterwards to put
herself in the charge of her quick-handed maids, to prepare her for the
brilliant function of that evening.

Two hours later, when she swept into the magnificent Throne Room, a
brilliant, beautiful figure in her Court gown of cream, and wearing her
wonderful tiara, her face was as stern and haughty as any of those
members of the royal family present.  With her long train rustling
behind her, and with her orders and ribbons giving the necessary touch
of colour to her bodice, she took up her position beside her husband, a
fair-headed, round-faced, slight-moustached man, in a dark-blue uniform,
and wearing a number of orders.  His face was flat and expressionless.

Though they had not met for a week, no word of greeting escaped him.
They stood side by side, as though they were strangers.  He eyed her
quickly, and his countenance turned slightly pale, as though displeased
at her presence.

Yet the whole assembly, even though hating her, could not but admire her
neat waist, her splendid figure, and matchless beauty.  In the whole of
the Courts of Europe there was no prettier woman than the Crown Princess
Claire; her figure was perfect, and her gait always free--the gait of a
princess.  Even when dressed in her maid's dresses, as she had done on
occasion, her walk betrayed her.  Imperial blood can seldom be
disguised.

The hundred women, those German princesses, duchesses, countesses,
baronesses, to each of whom attached their own particular scandal--the
brilliant little world that circled around the throne--looked at her
standing there with her husband, her hands clasped before her, and
envied her looks, figure, position--everything.  She was a marked woman.

The proud, haughty expression upon her face as she regarded the assembly
was only assumed.  It was the mask she was compelled to wear at Court at
the old King's command.  Her nature was the reverse of haughty, yet the
artificiality of palace life made it necessary for the Crown Princess to
be as unapproachable as the Queen herself.

The guests were filing before the white-haired King, the hide-bound old
martyr to etiquette, when the Crown Prince spoke to his wife in an
undertone, saying roughly, with bitter sarcasm,--

"So you are back?  Couldn't stay away from us longer, I suppose?"

"I remained in Vienna as long as I said I should," was the sweet-faced
woman's calm reply.

"A pity you didn't stay there altogether," he muttered.  "You are
neither use nor ornament here."

"You have told me that several times before.  Much as I regret it,
Ferdinand, my place is here."

"Yes, at my side--to annoy me," he said, frowning.

"I regret to cause you any annoyance," she answered.  "It is not
intentional, I assure you."

A foul oath escaped him, and he turned from her to speak with Count
Graesal, grand-marechal of the Court.  Her face, however, betrayed
nothing of his insult.  At Court her countenance was always sphinx-like.
Only in her private life, in that gorgeous suite of apartments on the
opposite side of the palace, did she give way to her own bitter
unhappiness and blank despair.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

A SHAMEFUL TRUTH.

When at last the brilliant company moved on into the great ballroom she
had an opportunity of walking among those men and women who, though they
bent before her, cringing and servile, were, she knew, eagerly seeking
her ruin.  The Ministers, Stuhlmann, Hoepfner, and Meyer, all three
creatures of the King, bowed low to her, but she knew they were her
worst enemies.  The Countess Hupertz, a stout, fair-haired,
masculine-looking woman, also bent before her and smiled--yet this woman
had invented the foulest lies concerning her, and spread them
everywhere.  In all that brilliant assembly she had scarcely one single
person whom she could term a friend.  And for a very simple reason.
Friendliness with the Crown Princess meant disfavour with the King, and
none of those place-seekers and sycophants could afford to risk that.

Yet, knowing that they were like a pack of hungry wolves about her,
seeking to tear her reputation to shreds and cast her out of the
kingdom, she walked among them, speaking with them, and smiling as
though she were perfectly happy.

Presently, when the splendid orchestra struck up and dancing commenced,
she came across Hinckeldeym, the wily old President of the Council of
Ministers, who, on many occasions, had showed that, unlike the others,
he regarded her as an ill-used wife.  A short, rather podgy, dark-haired
man, in Court dress, he bowed, welcomed her back to Treysa, and inquired
after her family in Vienna.

Then, as she strolled with him to the farther end of the room, lazily
fanning herself with her great ostrich-feather fan, she said in a low
voice,--

"Hinckeldeym, as you know, I have few friends here.  I wonder whether
you are one?"

The flabby-faced old Minister pursed his lips, and glanced at her
quickly, for he was a wily man.  Then, after a moment's pause, he
said,--

"I think that ever since your Imperial Highness came here as Crown
Princess I have been your partisan.  Indeed, I thought I had the honour
of reckoning myself among your Highness's friends."

"Yes, yes," she exclaimed quickly.  "But I have so many enemies here,"
and she glanced quickly around, "that it is really difficult for me to
distinguish my friends."

"Enemies!" echoed the tactful Minister in surprise.  "What causes your
Highness to suspect such a thing?"

"I do not suspect--I know," was her firm answer as she stood aside with
him.  "I have learnt what these people are doing.  Why?  Tell me,
Hinckeldeym--why is this struggling crowd plotting against me?"

He looked at her for a moment in silence.  He was surprised that she
knew the truth.

"Because, your Imperial Highness--because they fear you.  They know too
well what will probably occur when you are Queen."

"Yes," she said in a hard, determined voice.  "When I am Queen I will
sweep clear this Augean stable.  There will be a change, depend upon it.
This Court shall be an upright and honourable one, and not, as it now
is, a replica of that of King Charles the Second of England.  They hate
me, Hinckeldeym--they hate me because I am a Hapsbourg; because I try
and live uprightly and love my child, and when I am Queen I will show
them that even a Court may be conducted with gaiety coupled with
decorum."

The Minister--who, though unknown to her, was, perhaps, her worst enemy,
mainly through fear of the future--listened to all she said in discreet
silence.  It was a pity, he thought, that the conspiracy had been
betrayed to her, for although posing as her friend he would have been
the first to exult over her downfall.  It would place him in a position
of safety.

He noted her threat.  It only confirmed what the Court had anticipated--
namely, that upon the death of the infirm old monarch, all would be
changed, and that brilliant aristocratic circle would be sent forth into
obscurity--and by an Austrian Archduchess, too!

The Princess Claire unfortunately believed the crafty Hinckeldeym to be
her friend, therefore she told him all that she had learnt; of course,
not betraying the informer.

"From to-day," she went on in a hard voice, "my attitude is changed.  I
will defend myself.  Against those who have lied about me, and invented
their vile scandals, I will stand as an enemy, and a bitter one.
Hitherto I have been complacent and patient, suffering in silence, as so
many defenceless women suffer.  But for the sake of this kingdom, over
which I shall one day be Queen, I will stand firm; and you, Hinckeldeym,
must remain my friend."

"Your Imperial Highness has but to command me," replied the false old
courtier, bowing low with the lie ever ready upon his lips.  "I hope to
continue as your friend."

"From the day I first set foot in Treysa, these people have libelled me
and plotted my ruin," she went on.  "I know it all.  I can give the
names of each of my enemies, and I am kept informed of all the
scandalous tales whispered into my husband's ears.  Depend upon it that
those liars and scandalmongers will in due time reap their reward."

"I know very little of it," the Minister declared in a low voice, so
that he could not be overheard.  "Perhaps, however, your Highness has
been indiscreet--has, I mean, allowed these people some loophole through
which to cast their shafts?"

"They speak of Leitolf," she said quite frankly.  "And they libel me, I
know."

"I hear to-day that Leitolf is recalled to Vienna, and is being sent as
attache to Rome," he remarked.  "Perhaps it is as well in the present
circumstances."

She looked him straight in the face as the amazing truth suddenly dawned
upon her.

"Then you, too, Hinckeldeym, believe that what is said about us is
true!" she exclaimed hoarsely, suspecting, for the first time, that the
man with the heavy, flabby face might play her false.

And she had confessed to him, of all men, her intention of changing the
whole Court entourage the instant her husband ascended the throne!  She
saw how terribly injudicious she had been.

But the cringing courtier exhibited his white palms, and with that
clever exhibition of sympathy which had hitherto misled her, said,--

"Surely your Imperial Highness knows me sufficiently well to be aware
that in addition to being a faithful servant to his Majesty the King, I
am also a strong and staunch friend of yours.  There may be a plot," he
said; "a vile, dastardly plot to cast you out from Marburg.  Yet if you
are only firm and judicious, you must vanquish them, for they are all
cowards--all of them."  She believed him, little dreaming that the words
she had spoken that night had sealed her fate.  Heinrich Hinckeldeym was
a far-seeing man, the friend of anybody who had future power in his
hands--a man who was utterly unscrupulous, and who would betray his
closest friend when necessity demanded.  And yet, with his courtly
manner, his fat yet serious face, his clever speech, and his marvellous
tact, he had deceived more than one of the most eminent diplomatists in
Europe, including even Bismarck himself.

He looked at her with his bright, ferret-like eyes, debating within
himself when the end of her should be.  He and his friends had already
decided that the blow was soon to be struck, for every day's delay
increased their peril.  The old King's malady might terminate fatally at
any moment, and once Queen, then to remove her would be impossible.

She had revealed to him openly her intention, therefore he was
determined to use in secret her own words as a weapon against her, for
he was utterly unscrupulous.

The intrigues of Court had a hundred different undercurrents, but it was
part of his policy to keep well versed in them all.  His finger was ever
upon the pulse of that circle about the throne, while he was also one of
the few men in Marburg who had the ear of the aristocratic old monarch
with whom etiquette was as a religion.

"Your Imperial Highness is quite right in contemplating the Crown
Prince's accession to the throne," he said ingeniously, in order to
further humour her.  "The doctors see the King daily, and the
confidential reports made to us Ministers are the reverse of reassuring.
In a few months at most the end must come--suddenly in all probability.
Therefore the Crown Prince should prepare himself for the
responsibilities of the throne, when your Highness will be able to repay
your enemies for all their ill-nature."

"I shall know the way, never fear," she answered in a low, firm voice.
"To-day their power is paramount, but to-morrow mine shall be.  I shall
then live only for my husband and my child.  At present I am living for
a third reason--to vindicate myself."

"Then your Imperial Highness contemplates changing everything?" he asked
simply, but with the ingenuity of a great diplomatist.  Every word of
her reply he determined to use in order to secure her overthrow.

"I shall change all Ministers of State, Chamberlains, every one, from
the Chancellor of the Orders down to the Grand Master of the Ceremonies.
They shall all go, and first of all the _dames du palais_--those women
who have so cleverly plotted against me, but of whose conspiracy I am
now quite well aware."  And she mentioned one or two names--names that
had been revealed to her by the obscure functionary Steinbach.

The Minister saw that the situation was a grave, even desperate one.  He
was uncertain how much she knew concerning the plot, and was therefore
undecided as to what line he should adopt.  In order to speak in private
they left the room, pacing the long, green-carpeted corridor that,
enclosed in glass, ran the whole length of that wing of the palace.  He
tried by artful means to obtain from her further details, but she
refused to satisfy him.  She knew the truth, and that, she declared, was
all sufficient.

Old Hinckeldeym was a power in Marburg.  For eighteen years he had been
the confidant of the King, and now fearing his favour on the wane, had
wheedled himself into the good graces of the Crown Prince, who had given
him to understand, by broad hints, that he would be only too pleased to
rid himself of the Crown Princess.  Therefore, if he could effect this,
his future was assured.  And what greater weapon could he have against
her than her own declaration of her intention to sweep clear the Court
of its present entourage?

He had assuredly played his cards wonderfully well.  He was a past
master in deception and double-dealing.  The Princess, believing that he
was at least her friend, had spoken frankly to him, never for one moment
expecting a foul betrayal.

Yet, if the truth were told, it was that fat-faced, black-eyed man who
had first started the wicked calumny which had coupled her name with
Leitolf; he who had dropped scandalous hints to the Crown Prince of his
beautiful wife's _penchant_ for the good-looking _chef du cabinet_; he
who had secretly stirred up the hostility against the daughter of the
Austrian Archduke, and whose fertile brain had invented lies which were
so ingeniously concocted that they possessed every semblance of truth.

A woman of Imperial birth may be a diplomatist, versed in all the
intricacies of Court etiquette and Court usages, but she can never be at
the same time a woman of the world.  Her education is not that of
ordinary beings; therefore, as in the case of the Princess Claire,
though shrewd and tactful, she was no match for the crafty old Minister
who for eighteen years had directed the destiny of that most important
kingdom of the German Empire.

The yellow-haired Countess Hupertz, one of Hinckeldeym's puppets,
watched the Princess and Minister walking in the corridor, and smiled
grimly.  While the orchestra played those dreamy waltzes, the tragedy of
a throne was being enacted, and a woman--a sweet, good, lovable woman,
upright and honest--was being condemned to her fate by those fierce,
relentless enemies by which she was, alas! surrounded.

As she moved, her splendid diamonds flashed and glittered with a
thousand fires, for no woman in all the Court could compare with her,
either for beauty or for figure.  And yet her husband, his mind poisoned
by those place-hunters--a man whose birth was but as a mushroom as
compared with that of Claire, who possessed an ancestry dating back a
thousand years--blindly believed that which they told him to be the
truth.

De Trauttenberg, in fear lest she might lose her own position, was in
Hinckeldeym's pay, and what she revealed was always exaggerated--most of
it, indeed, absolutely false.

The Court of Marburg had condemned the Crown Princess Claire, and from
their judgment there was no appeal.  She was alone, defenceless--doomed
as the victim of the jealousies and fears of others.

Returning to the ballroom, she left the Minister's side; and, by reason
of etiquette, returned to join that man in the dark-blue uniform who
cursed her--the man who was her husband, and who ere long was to reign
as sovereign.

Stories of his actions, many of them the reverse of creditable, had
reached her ears, but she never gave credence to any of them.  When
people discussed him she refused to listen.  He was her husband, the
father of her little Ignatia, therefore she would hear nothing to his
discredit.

Yes.  Her disposition was quiet and sweet, and she was always loyal to
him.  He, however, entirely misjudged her.

An hour later, when she had gone to her room, her husband burst in
angrily and ordered the two maids out, telling them that they would not
be wanted further that night.  Then, when the door was closed, he strode
up to where she sat before the great mirror, lit by its waxen candles,
for Henriette had been arranging her hair for the night.

"Well, woman!" he cried, standing before her, his brows knit, his eyes
full of fire, "and what is your excuse to me this time?"

"Excuse?" she echoed, looking at him in surprise and very calmly.  "For
what, Ferdinand?"

"For your escapade in Vienna!" he said between his teeth.  "The instant
you had left, Leitolf received a telegram calling him to Wiesbaden, but
instead of going there he followed you."

"Not with my knowledge, I assure you," she said quickly.  "Why do you
think so ill of me--why do you always suspect me?" she asked in a low,
trembling voice of reproach.

"Why do I suspect you?  You ask me that, woman, when you wrote to the
man at his hotel, made an appointment, and actually visited him there?
One of our agents watched you.  Do you deny it?"

"No," she answered boldly.  "I do not deny going to the Count's hotel.
I had a reason for doing so."

He laughed in her face.

"Of course you had--you, who pretend to be such a good and faithful
wife, and such a model mother," he sneered.  "I suppose you would not
have returned to Treysa so soon had he not have come back."

"You insult me!" she cried, rising from her chair, her Imperial blood
asserting itself.

"Ah!" he laughed, taunting her.  "You don't like to hear the truth, do
you?  It seems that the scandal concerning you has been discovered in
Vienna, for De Lindenau has ordered the fellow to return to the
diplomatic service, and is sending him away to Rome."

She was silent.  She saw how every word and every action of hers was
being misconstrued.

"Speak, woman!" he cried, advancing towards her.  "Confess to me that
you love the fellow."

"Why, Ferdinand, do you wish me to say what is untrue?" she asked in a
low voice, quite calm again, notwithstanding his threatening attitude.

"Ah, you deny it!  You lie to me, even when I know the truth--when all
the Court discuss your affection for the fellow whom you yourself
introduced among us.  You have been with him in Paris.  Deny that!"

"I deny nothing that is true," she answered.  "I only deny your right to
charge me with what is false."

"Oh yes," he cried.  "You and your brat are a pretty pair.  You believe
we are all blind; but, on the contrary, everything is known.  Confess!"
he muttered between his teeth.  "Confess that you love that man."

She was silent, standing before him, her beautiful eyes fixed upon the
carpet.

He repeated his question in a harder tone than before, but still she
uttered no word.  She was determined not to repeat the denial she had
already given, and she recognised that he had some ulterior motive in
wringing from her a confession which was untrue.

"You refuse to speak!" he cried in a quick paroxysm of anger.  "Then
take that!" and he struck her with his fist a heavy blow full in the
face, with such force, indeed, that she reeled, and fell backwards upon
the floor.

"Another time perhaps you'll speak when I order you to," he said through
his set teeth, as with his foot he kicked her savagely twice, the dull
blows sounding through the big, gilt-ceilinged room.

Then with a hard laugh of scorn upon his evil lips the brute that was a
Crown Prince, and heir to a European throne, turned and left with an
oath upon his lips, as he slammed the door after him.

In the big, gorgeous room, where the silence was broken by the low
ticking of the ormolu clock, poor, unhappy Claire lay there where she
had fallen, motionless as one dead.  Her beautiful face was white as
death, yet horribly disfigured by the cowardly blow, while from the
corner of her mouth there slowly trickled a thin red stream.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

IS MAINLY ABOUT THE COUNT.

Next morning, when she saw her reflection in the mirror, she sighed
heavily, and hot tears sprang to her eyes.

Her beautiful countenance, bruised and swollen, was an ugly sight; her
mouth was cut, and one of her even, pretty teeth had been broken by the
cowardly blow.

Henriette, the faithful Frenchwoman, had crept back to her mistress's
room an hour after the Crown Prince had gone, in order to see if her
Highness wanted anything, when to her horror she discovered her lying
insensible where she had been struck down.

The woman was discreet.  She had often overheard the Prince's torrents
of angry abuse, and in an instant grasped the situation.  Instead of
alarming the other servants, she quickly applied restoratives, bathed
her mistress's face tenderly in eau de Cologne, washing away the blood
from the mouth, and after half an hour succeeded in getting her
comfortably to bed.

She said nothing to any one, but locked the door and spent the remainder
of the night upon the sofa near her Princess.

While Claire was seated in her wrap, taking her chocolate at eight
o'clock next morning, the Countess de Trauttenberg, her husband's spy,
who probably knew all that had transpired, entered with the
engagement-book.

She saw what a terrible sight the unhappy woman presented, yet affected
not to notice it.

"Well, Trauttenberg?" asked the Princess in a soft, weary voice, hardly
looking up at her, "what are our engagements to-day?"

The lady-in-waiting consulted the book, which upon its cover bore the
royal crown above the cipher "C," and replied,--

"At eleven, the unveiling of the monument to Schilling the sculptor in
the Albert-Platz; at one, luncheon with the Princess Alexandrine, to
meet the Duchess of Brunswick-Lunebourg; at four, the drive; and
to-night, `Faust,' at the Opera."

Her Highness sighed.  The people, the enthusiastic crowd who applauded
her, little knew how wearying was that round of daily duties, how
soul-killing to a woman with a broken heart.  She was "their Claire,"
the woman who was to be their Queen, and they believed her to be happy!

"Cancel all my engagements," she said.  "I shall not go out to-day.
Tell the Court newsman that I am indisposed--a bad cold--anything."

"As your Imperial Highness commands," responded De Trauttenberg, bowing,
and yet showing no sign that she observed the disfiguration of her poor
face.

The woman's cold formality irritated her.

"You see the reason?" she asked meaningly, looking into her face.

"I note that your Imperial Highness has--has met with a slight
accident," she said.  "I trust it is not painful."

That reply aroused the fire of the Hapsbourg blood within her veins.
The woman was her bitter enemy.  She had lied about her, and had
poisoned her husband's mind against her.  And yet she was helpless.  To
dismiss her from her duties would only be a confirmation of what the
woman had, no doubt, alleged.

It was upon the tip of her tongue to charge her openly as an enemy and a
liar.  It was that woman, no doubt, who had spied upon her when she had
called upon Count Leitolf, and who on her return to Treysa had gone
straight to the Crown Prince with a story that was full of vile and
scandalous inventions.

"Oh, dear, no," she said, managing to control her anger by dint of great
effort.  "It is not at all painful, I assure you.  Perhaps,
Trauttenberg, you had better go at once and tell the newsman, so that my
absence at the Schilling unveiling will be accounted for."

Thus dismissed, the woman, with her false smiles and pretended sympathy,
went forth, and the journals through Germany that day reported, with
regret, that the Crown Princess Claire of Marburg was confined to her
room, having caught a severe chill on her journey from Vienna, and that
she would probably remain indisposed for a week.

When her maids had dressed her she passed on into her gorgeous little
blue-and-gold boudoir, her own sanctum, for in it were all the little
nick-nacks, odds and ends which on her marriage she had brought from her
own home at Wartenstein.  Every object reminded her of those happy days
of her youth, before she was called upon to assume the shams of royal
place and power; before she entered that palace that was to her but a
gilded prison.

The long windows of the room looked out upon the beautiful gardens and
the great lake, with its playing fountains beyond, while the spring
sunlight streaming in gave it an air of cheerfulness even though she was
so despondent and heavy of heart.  The apartment was gorgeously
furnished, as indeed was the whole of the great palace.  Upon the backs
of the chairs, embroidered in gold upon the damask, was the royal crown
and cipher, while the rich carpet was of pale pastel blue.  For a long
time she stood at the window, looking out across the park.

She saw her husband in his cavalry uniform riding out with an escort
clattering behind him, and watched him sadly until he was out of sight.
Then she turned and glanced around the cosy room which everywhere bore
traces of her artistic taste and refinement.  Upon the side-tables were
many photographs, signed portraits of her friends, reigning sovereigns,
and royal princes; upon the little centre-table a great old porcelain
bowl of fresh tea-roses from the royal hot-houses.  Her little buhl
escritoire was littered with her private correspondence--most of it
being in connection with charities in various parts of the kingdom in
which she was interested, or was patroness.

Of money, or of the value of it, she knew scarcely anything.  She was
very wealthy, of course, for her family were one of the richest in
Europe, while the royal house of Marburg was noted for its great wealth;
yet she had never in her life held in her possession more than a few
hundred marks at a time.  Her bills all went to the official of the
household whose duty it was to examine and pay them, and to charities
she sent drafts through that same gold-spectacled official.

She often wondered what it was like to be poor, to work for a daily wage
like the people she saw in the street and in the theatres.  They seemed
bright, contented, happy, and at least they had their freedom, and loved
and married whom they chose.

Only the previous night, when she had entered her carriage at the
station, a working-man had held his little child up to her for her to
pat its head.  She had done so, and then sighed to compare the
difference between the royal father and that proud father of the people.

Little Ignatia, sweet and fresh, in her white frock and pale pink sash,
was presently brought in by Allen to salute her mother, and the latter
snatched up the child gladly in her arms and smothered its chubby face
with fond kisses.

But the child noticed the disfigured countenance, and drew herself back
to look at it.

"Mother is hurt," she said in English, in her childish speech.  "Poor
mother!"

"Yes, I fell down, darling," she answered.  "Wasn't that very
unfortunate?  Are you sorry?"

"Very sorry poor mother is hurt," answered the child.  "And, why!--one
of poor mother's tooths have gone."  The Princess saw that Allen was
looking at her very hard, therefore she turned to her and explained,--

"It is nothing--nothing; a slight accident.  I struck myself."

But the child stroked its mother's face tenderly with the soft, chubby
little hand, saying,--

"Poor mother must be more careful another time or I shall scold her.
And Allen will scold her too."

"Mother will promise to be more careful," she assured the little one,
smiling.  And then, seating herself, listened for half an hour to the
child's amusing prattle, and her joyous anticipation of the purchase of
a perambulator for her dolly.

With tender hands the Crown Princess retied the broad pink ribbon of the
sash, and presently produced some chocolates from the silver bon-bon box
which she kept there on purpose for her little one.

And Allen, the rather plain-faced Englishwoman, who was the best of
nurses, stood by in silence, wondering how such an accident could have
happened to her Imperial mistress, but, of course, unable to put any
question to her.

"You may take Ignatia to buy the perambulator, Allen," said she at last
in English.  "Get a good one; the best you can.  And after luncheon let
me see it.  I shall not go out to-day, so you can bring the Princess
back to me at two o'clock."

"Very well, your Highness."

And both she and the child withdrew, the latter receiving the maternal
kiss and caramels in each hand.

Again alone, Claire sat for a long time in deep thought.  The
recollection of those cruel, bitter accusations which her husband had
uttered was still uppermost in her mind.  What her humble friend
Steinbach had told her was, alas! only too true.  At Court it was said
that she loved Leitolf, and the Crown Prince believed the scandalous
libel.

"Ah, if Ferdinand only knew!" she murmured to herself.  "If he could
only read my heart!  Then he would know the truth.  Perhaps, instead of
hating me as he does, he would be as forbearing as I try to be.  He
might even try to love me.  Yet, alas!" she added bitterly, "such a
thing cannot be.  The Court of Marburg have decided that, in the
interests of their own future, I must be ruined and disgraced.  It is
destiny, I suppose," she sighed; "my destiny!"

Then she was silent, staring straight before her at Bronzino's beautiful
portrait of the Duchess Eleanor on the wall opposite.  The sound of a
bugle reached her, followed by the roll of the drums as the palace guard
was changed.  The love of truth, the conscientiousness which formed so
distinct a feature in Claire's character, and mingled with its
picturesque delicacy a certain firmness and dignity, she maintained
consistently always.

The Trauttenberg returned, but she dismissed her for the day, and when
she had left the boudoir the solitary woman murmured bitterly aloud,--

"A day's leave will perhaps allow you to plot and conspire further
against the woman to whom you owe everything, and upon whose charity
your family exist.  Go and report to my husband my appearance this
morning, and laugh with your friends at my unhappiness!"  She rose and
paced the room, her white hands clasped before her in desperation.

"Carl!  Carl!" she cried in a hoarse, low voice.  "I have only your
indiscretion to thank for all this!  And yet have I not been quite as
indiscreet?  Why, therefore, should I blame you?  No," she said in a
whisper, after a pause, "it is more my own fault than yours.  I was
blind, and you loved me.  I foolishly permitted you to come here,
because your presence recalled all the happiness of the past--of those
sweet, idyllic days at Wartenstein, when we--when we loved each other,
and our love was but a day-dream never to be realised.  I wonder whether
you still recollect those days, as I remember them--those long rambles
over the mountains alone by the by-paths that I knew from my childhood
days, and how we used to stand together hand in hand and watch the
sinking sun flashing upon the windows of the castle far away.  Nine
years have gone since those days of our boy-and-girl love--nine long,
dark years that have, I verily believe, transformed my very soul.  One
by one have all my ideals been broken and swept away, and now I can only
sit and weep over the dead ashes of the past.  The past--ah! what that
means to me--life and love and freedom.  And the future?" she sighed.
"Alas! only black despair, ignominy, and shame."  Again she halted at
the window, and hot tears coursed down her pale cheeks.  Those words,
uttered almost without consciousness on her own part, contained the
revelation of a life of love, and disclosed the secret burden of a heart
bursting with its own unuttered grief.  She was repulsed, she was
forsaken, she was outraged where she had bestowed her young heart with
all its hopes and wishes.  She was entangled inextricably in a web of
horrors which she could not even comprehend, yet the result seemed
inevitable.

"These people condemn me!  They utter their foul calumnies, and cast me
from them unjustly," she cried, pushing her wealth of fair hair from her
brow in her desperation.  "Is there no justice for me?  Can a woman not
retain within her heart the fond remembrance of the holy passion of her
youth--the only time she has loved--without it being condemned as a sin?
without--"

The words died on her dry lips, for at that moment there was a tap at
the door, and she gave permission to enter.

One of the royal servants in gorgeous livery bowed and advanced,
presenting to her a small packet upon a silver salver, saying,--

"The person who brought this desired that it should be given into your
Imperial Highness's hands at once."

She took the packet, and the man withdrew.

A single glance was sufficient to show her that the gummed address label
had been penned by Count Carl Leitolf's own hand.  Her heart beat
quickly as she cut the string and opened the packet, to find within a
book--a dull, uninteresting, philosophical treatise in German.  There
was no note or writing of any kind.

She ran through the leaves quickly, and then stood wondering.  Why had
he sent her that?  The book was one that she certainly could never read
to understand.  Published some fifteen years before, it bore signs of
not being new.  She was much puzzled.

That Leitolf had a motive in sending it to her she had no doubt.  But
what could it denote?  Again and again she searched in it to find some
words or letters underlined--some communication meant for her eye alone.

Presently, utterly at a loss to understand, she took up the brown-paper
wrapping, and looked again at the address.  Yes, she was not mistaken.
It was from Carl.

For a few moments she held the paper in her hand, when suddenly she
detected that the gummed address label had only been stuck on lightly by
being wetted around the edge, and a thought occurred to her to take it
off and keep it, together with the book.

Taking up the large ivory paper-knife, she quickly slipped it beneath
the label and removed it, when to her astonished eyes there were
presented some written words penned across the centre, where the gum had
apparently been previously removed.

The words, for her eye alone, were in Carl's handwriting, lightly
written, so that they should not show through the label.

The message--the last message from the man who loved her so fondly, and
whose heart bled for her in her gilded unhappiness--read:--

"Adieu, my Princess.  I leave at noon to-day, because you have willed it
so.  I have heard of what occurred last night.  It is common knowledge
in the palace.  Be brave, dear heart.  May God now be your comforter.
Recollect, though we shall never again meet, that I shall think ever and
eternally of you, my Princess, the sweet-faced woman who was once my
own, but who is now, alas! lost to me for ever.  Adieu, adieu.  I kiss
your hand, dear heart, adieu!"

It was his last message.  His gentle yet manly resignation, the deep
pathos of his farewell, told her how full of agony was his own heart.
How bitter for her, too, that parting, for now she would stand alone and
unprotected, without a soul in whom to confide, or of whom to seek
advice.

As she reread those faintly-traced words slowly and aloud the light died
from her face.

"I kiss your hand, dear heart, adieu!" she murmured, and then, her heart
overburdened by grief, she burst into a flood of emotion.

CHAPTER NINE.

THE THREE STRANGERS.

By noon all Treysa knew, through the papers, of the indisposition of the
Crown Princess; and during the afternoon many smart carriages called at
the gates of the royal palace to inquire after her Imperial Highness's
health.

The pompous, scarlet-liveried porters told every one that the Princess
had, unfortunately, caught a severe chill on her journey from Vienna,
and her medical advisers, although they did not consider it serious,
thought, as a precaution, it was best that for a few days she should
remain confined to her room.

Meanwhile the Princess, in her silent, stunning, overwhelming sorrow,
was wondering how she might call Steinbach.  She was unapproachable to
any but the Court set, therefore to call a commoner would be an
unheard-of breach of etiquette.  And yet she desired to see him and
obtain his advice.  In all that gay, scheming circle about her he was
the only person whom she could trust.  He was devoted to her service
because of the little charitable actions she had rendered him.  She knew
that he would if necessary lay down his very life in order to serve her,
for he was one of the very few who did not misjudge her.

The long day dragged by.  She wrote many letters--mostly to her family
and friends in Vienna.  Then taking a sheet of the royal notepaper from
the rack, she again settled herself, after pacing the boudoir in thought
for some time, and penned a long letter, which when finished she reread
and carefully corrected, afterwards addressing it in German to "His
Imperial Majesty the Emperor, Vienna," and sealing it with her own
private seal.

"He misjudges me," she said to herself very gravely; "therefore it is
only right that I should defend myself."

Then she rang, and in answer to her summons one of the royal footmen
appeared.

"I want a special messenger to carry a letter for me to Vienna.  Go at
once to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and ask the Under-Secretary,
Fischer, whether Steinbach may be placed at my service," she commanded.

"Yes, your Imperial Highness," answered the clean-shaven, grave-faced
man, who bowed and then withdrew.

Allen soon afterwards brought in little Ignatia to show the doll's
perambulator, with which the child was delighted, wheeling it up and
down the boudoir.  With the little one her mother played for upwards of
an hour.  The bright little chatterbox caused her to forget the tragedy
of her own young life, and Allen's kindly English ways were to her so
much more sympathetic than the stiff formalities of her treacherous
lady-in-waiting.

The little one in her pretty speeches told her mother of her adventures
in the toy-shops of Treysa, where she was, of course, recognised, and
where the shopkeepers often presented her little Royal Highness with
dolls and games.  In the capital the tiny Ignatia was a very important
and popular personage everywhere; certainly more popular with the people
than the parrot-faced, hard-hearted old King himself.

Presently, while the Crown Princess was carrying her little one
pick-a-pack up and down the room, the child crowing with delight at its
mother's romping and caresses, there came a loud summons at the door,
the rap that announced a visitor, and the same grave-faced manservant
opened the long white doors, saying,--

"Your Imperial Highness.  Will it please you to receive Herr Steinbach
of the Department of Foreign Affairs?"

"Bring Herr Steinbach here," she commanded, and then, kissing the child
quickly, dismissed both her and her nurse.

A few moments later the clean-shaven, dark-haired man in sombre black
was ushered in, and bending, kissed the Crown Princess's hand with
reverent formality.

As soon as they were alone she turned to him, and, taking up the letter,
said,--

"I wish you, Steinbach, to travel to Vienna by the express to-night,
obtain audience of the Emperor, and hand this to him.  Into no other
hand must you deliver it, remember.  In order to obtain your audience
you may say that I have sent you; otherwise you will probably be
refused.  If there is a reply, you will bring it; if not--well, it does
not matter."

The quick-eyed man, bowing again, took the letter, glanced at the
superscription, and placing it in the inner pocket of his coat, said,--

"I will carry out your Imperial Highness's directions."

The Princess crossed to the door and opened it in order to satisfy
herself that there were no eavesdroppers outside.  Then returning to
where the man stood, she said in a low voice,--

"I see that you are puzzled by the injury to my face when the papers are
saying I have a chill.  I met with a slight accident last night."  Then
in the next breath she asked, "What is the latest phase of this
conspiracy against me, Steinbach?  Tell me.  You need conceal nothing
for fear of hurting my feelings."

The man hesitated a moment; then he replied,--

"Well, your Imperial Highness, a great deal of chatter has been
circulated regarding Count Leitolf.  They now say that, having grown
tired of him, you have contrived to have him transferred to Rome."

"Well?"

"They also say that you visited Leitolf while you were in Vienna.  And I
regret," he added, "that your enemies are now spreading evil reports of
you among the people.  Certain journalists are being bribed to print
articles which contain hints against your Highness's honour."

"This is outrageous!" she cried.  "Having ruined me in the eyes of my
husband and the King, they now seek to turn the people against me!  It
is infamous!"

"Exactly.  That really seems their intention.  They know that your
Highness is the most popular person in the whole Kingdom, and they
intend that your popularity shall wane."

"And I am helpless, Steinbach, utterly helpless," she cried in
desperation.  "I have no friend except yourself."

The man sighed, for he was full of sympathy for the beautiful but
unjustly-treated woman, whose brave heart he knew was broken.  He was
aware of the love-story of long ago between the Count and herself, but
he knew her too well to believe any of those scandalous tales concerning
her.  He knew well how, from the very first days of her married life,
she had been compelled to endure sneers, insult, and libellous report.
The King and Queen themselves had been so harsh and unbending that she
had always held aloof from them.  Her every action, either in private or
in public, they criticised adversely.  She even wore her tiaras, her
jewels, and her decorations in a manner with which they found fault; and
whatever dress she assumed at the various functions, the sharp-tongued
old Queen, merely in order to annoy her, would declare that she looked
absolutely hideous.  And all this to a bride of twenty-one, and one of
the most beautiful girls in Europe!

All, from the King himself down to the veriest palace lackey, had
apparently united to crush her, to break her spirit, and drive her to
despair.

"I hope, as I declared when we last met, Princess, that I shall ever
remain your friend," said the humble employe of the Foreign Ministry.
"I only wish that I could serve you to some good purpose--I mean, to do
something that might increase your happiness.  Forgive me, your
Highness, for saying so."

"The only way to give me happiness, Steinbach, is to give me freedom,"
she said sadly, as though speaking to herself.  "Freedom--ah, how I long
for it!  How I long to escape from this accursed palace, and live as the
people live!  I tell you," she added in a low, half-whisper, her pale,
disfigured face assuming a deadly earnest look--"I tell you that
sometimes I feel--well, I feel that I can't endure it much longer, and
that I'm slowly being driven insane."

He started at her words, and looked her straight in the face.  Should he
tell her the truth of an amazing discovery he had made only on the
previous day; or was it really kinder to her to hold his tongue?

His very heart bled for her.  To her influence he owed all--everything.

No; he could not tell her of that new and dastardly plot against her--at
least not yet.  Surely it was not yet matured!  When he returned from
Vienna would be quite time enough to warn her against her increased
peril.  Now that Leitolf had left her, life might perhaps be a trifle
more happy; therefore why should he, of all men, arouse her suspicions
and cause her increased anxiety?

Steinbach was a cautious man; his chief fault perhaps was his
over-cautiousness.  In this affair he might well have spoken frankly;
yet his desire always was to avoid hurting the feelings of the woman
with whom he so deeply sympathised--the Imperial Princess, to whom he
acted as humble, devoted, and secret friend.

"You must not allow such fears to take possession of you," he urged.
"Do not heed what is said regarding you.  Remember only that your own
conscience is clear, even though your life is, alas, a martyrdom!  Let
them see that you are heedless and defiant, and ere long they will grow
tired of their efforts, and you will assume a power at Court far greater
than hitherto."

"Ah no--never!" she sighed.  "They are all against me--all.  If they do
not crush me by force, they will do so by subterfuge," declared the
unhappy woman.  "But," she added quickly with an effort, "do not let us
speak of it further.  I can only thank you for telling me the truth.  Go
to-night to Vienna, and if there is a reply, bring it to me immediately.
And stay--what can I do to give you recompense?  You have no
decoration!  I will write at once a recommendation for you for the cross
of St. Michael, and whenever you wear it you will, I hope, remember the
grateful woman who conferred it upon you."

"I thank your Highness most truly," he said.  "I have coveted the high
honour for many years, and I can in turn only reassure you that any
mission you may entrust to me will always be carried out in secret and
faithfully."

"Then adieu, Steinbach," she said, dismissing him.  "_Bon voyage_, and a
quick return from Vienna--my own dear Vienna, where once I was so very
happy."

The man in black bent low and again kissed the back of the soft white
hand, then, backing out of the door, bowed again and withdrew.

When Henriette came that evening to change her dress the woman said in
French,--

"I ask your Imperial Highness's pardon, but the Prince, who returned
half an hour ago, commanded me to say that he would dine with you this
evening, and that there would be three men guests."

"Guests!" she cried.  "But the Prince must be mad!  How can I receive
guests in this state, Henriette?"

"I explained that your Imperial Highness was not in a fit state to dine
in public," said the maid quietly; "but the Prince replied that he
commanded it."

What fresh insult had her husband in store for her?  Did he wish to
exhibit her poor bruised face publicly before her friends?  It was
monstrous!

Yet he had commanded; therefore she allowed Henriette to brush her fair
hair and dress her in a black net dinner-gown, one that she often wore
when dining in the privacy of her own apartments.  Henriette cleverly
contrived, by the aid of powder and a few touches of make-up, to half
conceal her mistress's disfiguration; therefore at eight o'clock the
Princess Claire entered the fine white-and-gold reception-room, lit by
its hundreds of small electric lamps, and there found her husband in
uniform, speaking earnestly with three elderly and rather
distinguished-looking men in plain evening dress.

Turning, he smiled at her as though nothing had occurred between them,
and then introduced his friends by name; but of their names she took no
notice.  They were strangers, and to her quite uninteresting.

Yet she bowed, smiled, and put on that air of graciousness that, on
account of her Court training, she could now assume at will.

The men were from somewhere in North Germany, she detected by their
speech, and at the dinner-table the conversation was mostly upon the
advance of science; therefore she concluded, from their spectacled
appearance and the technical terms they used, that they were scientists
from Berlin to whom her husband wished to be kind, and had invited them
quite without formality.

Their conversation did not interest her in the least; therefore she
remained almost silent throughout the meal, except now and then to
address a remark to one or other of her guests.  She noticed that once
or twice they exchanged strange glances.  What could it mean?

At last she rose, and after they had bowed her out they reseated
themselves, and all four began conversing in a lower tone in English,
lest any servant should enter unexpectedly.

Then ten minutes later, at a signal from the Prince, they rose and
passed into the _fumoir_, a pretty room panelled with cedar-wood, and
with great palms and plashing fountains, where coffee was served and
cigars were lit.

There the conversation in an undertone in English was again resumed, the
Prince being apparently very interested in something which his guests
were explaining.  Though the door was closed and they believed
themselves in perfect privacy, there was a listener standing in the
adjoining room, where the cedar panelling only acted as a partition.

It was the Princess Claire.  Her curiosity had been aroused as to who
the strangers really were.

She could hear them speaking in English at first with difficulty, but
presently her husband spoke.  The words he uttered were clear.  In an
instant they revealed to her an awful, unexpected truth.

She held her breath, her left hand upon her bare chest above her
corsage, her mouth open, her white face drawn and haggard.

Scarce believing her own ears, she again listened.  Could it really be
true?

Her husband again spoke.  Ah yes! of the words he uttered there could be
not the slightest doubt.  She was doomed.

With uneven steps she staggered from her hiding-place along the corridor
to her own room, and on opening the door she fell forward senseless upon
the carpet.

CHAPTER TEN.

THE PERIL OF THE PRINCESS.

That night, six hours later, when the great palace was silent save for
the tramping of the sentries, the Princess sat in the big chair at her
window, looking out upon the park, white beneath the bright moonbeams.

The room was in darkness, save for the tiny silver lamp burning before
the picture of the Madonna.  The Trauttenberg had found her lying
insensible, and with Henriette's aid had restored her to consciousness
and put her to bed.  Then the Countess had gone along to the Crown
Prince and told him that his wife had been seized with a fainting fit,
and was indisposed.

And the three guests, when he told them, exchanged significant glances,
and were silent.

In the darkness, with the moonlight falling across the room, the
Princess, in her white silk dressing-gown, sat staring straight before
her out upon the fairy-like scene presented below.  No word escaped her
pale lips, yet she shuddered, and drew her laces about her as though she
were chilled.

She was recalling those hard words of her husband's which she had
overheard--the words that revealed to her the ghastly truth.  If ever
she had suffered during her married life, she suffered at that moment.
It was cruel, unjust, dastardly.  Was there no love or justice for her?

The truth was a ghastly one.  Those three strangers whom her husband had
introduced to her table as guests were doctors, two from Berlin and the
third from Cologne--specialists in mental disease.  They had come there
for the purpose of adding their testimony and certificates to that of
Veltman, the crafty, thin-nosed Court physician, to declare that she was
insane!

What fees were promised those men, or how that plot had been matured,
she could only imagine.  Yet the grim fact remained that her enemies,
with the old King and her husband at their head, intended to confine her
in an asylum.

She had heard her husband himself suggest that on the morrow they should
meet Veltman, a white-bearded, bald-headed old charlatan whom she
detested, and add their testimony to his that she was not responsible
for her actions.  Could anything be more cold-blooded, more absolutely
outrageous?  Those words of her husband showed her plainly that in his
heart there now remained not one single spark either of affection or of
sentiment.  He was anxious, at all hazards and at whatever cost, by fair
means or foul, to rid himself of her.

Her enemies were now playing their trump card.  They had no doubt bribed
those three men to certify what was a direct untruth.  A royal sovereign
can, alas I command the services of any one; for everybody, more or
less, likes to render to royalty a service in the hope of decoration or
of substantial reward.  Most men are at heart place-seekers.  Men who
are most honest and upright in their daily lives will not hesitate to
perjure themselves, or "stretch a point" as they would doubtless put it,
where royalty is concerned.

Gazing out into the brilliant moonlight mirrored upon the smooth surface
of the lake, she calmly reviewed the situation.

She was in grave peril--so grave, indeed, that she was now utterly
bewildered as to what her next step should be.  Once certified as a
lunatic and shut up in an asylum somewhere away in the heart of the
country, all hope of the future would be cut off.  She would be entirely
at the mercy of those who so persistently and unscrupulously sought her
end.  Having failed in their other plot against, her, they intended to
consign her to a living tomb.

Yet by good fortune had her curiosity been aroused, and she had
overheard sufficient to reveal to her the truth.  Her face was now hard,
her teeth firmly set.  Whatever affection she had borne her husband was
crushed within her now that she realised how ingeniously he was
conspiring against her, and to what length he was actually prepared to
go in order to rid himself of her.

She thought of Ignatia, poor, innocent little Ignatia, the child whom
its father had cursed from the very hour of its birth, the royal
Princess who one day might be crowned a reigning sovereign.  What would
become of her?  Would her own Imperial family stand by and see their
daughter incarcerated in a madhouse when she was as sane as they
themselves--more sane, perhaps?

She sat bewildered.

With the Emperor against her, however, she had but little to hope for in
that quarter.  His Majesty actually believed the scandal that had been
circulated concerning Leitolf, and had himself declared to her face that
she must be mad.

Was it possible that those hot words of the Emperor's had been seized
upon by her husband to obtain a declaration that she was really insane?

Insane?  She laughed bitterly to herself at such a thought.

"Ah!" she sighed sadly, speaking hoarsely to herself.  "What I have
suffered and endured here in this awful place are surely sufficient to
send any woman mad.  Yet God has been very good to me, and has allowed
me still to preserve all my faculties intact.  Why don't they have some
assassin to kill me?" she added desperately.  "It would surely be more
humane than what they now intend."

Steinbach, her faithful but secret friend, was on his way to Vienna.
She wondered whether, after reading the letter, the Emperor would relent
towards her?  Surely the whole world could not unite as her enemy.
There must be human pity and sympathy in the hearts of some, as there
was in the heart of the humble Steinbach.

Not one of the thirty millions over whom she would shortly rule was so
unhappy as she that night.  Beyond the park shone the myriad lights of
the splendid capital, and she wondered whether any one living away there
so very far from the world ever guessed how lonely and wretched was her
life amid all that gorgeous pomp and regal splendour.

Those three grave, spectacled men who had dined at her table and talked
their scientific jargon intended to denounce her.  They had been quick
to recognise that a future king is a friend not to be despised, while
the bankers' drafts that certain persons had promised them in exchange
for their signatures as experts would no doubt be very acceptable.

Calmly she reviewed the situation, and saw that, so clearly had her
enemies estranged her from every one, she was without one single friend.

For her child's sake it was imperative for her to save herself.  And she
could only save herself by flight.  But whither?  The only course open
to her was to leave secretly, taking little Ignatia with her, return to
her father, and lay before him the dastardly plot now in progress.

Each hour she remained at the palace increased her peril.  Once
pronounced insane by those three specialists there would be no hope for
her.  Her enemies would take good care that she was consigned to an
asylum, and that her actions were misconstrued into those of a person
insane.

Her heart beat quickly as she thought out the best means of secret
escape.

To leave that night was quite impossible.  Allen was sleeping with
Ignatia; and besides, the guards at the palace gate, on seeing her make
her exit at that hour, would chatter among themselves, in addition to
which there were no express trains to Vienna in the night.  The best
train was at seven o'clock in the evening, for upon it was a _wagon-lit_
and dining-car that went through to the Austrian capital, _via_ Eger.

About six o'clock in the evening would be the best time to secure the
child, for Allen and Henriette would then both be at dinner, and little
Ignatia would be in charge of the under-nurse, whom she could easily
send away upon some pretext.  Besides, at that hour she could secure
some of Henriette's clothes, and with her veil down might pass the
sentries, who would probably take her for the French maid herself.

She calculated that her absence would not be noted by her servants till
nearly eight; for there was a Court ball on the morrow, and on nights of
the balls she always dressed later.

And so, determined to leave the great palace which to her was a prison,
she carefully thought over all the details of her flight.  On the morrow
she would send to the royal treasurer for a sum of money, ostensibly to
make a donation to one of her charities.

Presently rising, she closed the shutters, and switching on the electric
light, opened the safe in the wall where her jewels were kept--mostly
royal heirlooms that were worth nearly a million sterling.

Case after case she drew out and opened.  Her two magnificent tiaras,
her emerald and diamond necklet, the great emerald pendant, once the
property of Catherine di Medici, six wonderful collars of perfect pearls
and some other miscellaneous jewels, all of them magnificent, she
replaced in the safe, as they were heirlooms of the Kingdom.  Those
royal tiaras as Crown Princess she placed in their cases and put them
away with a sigh, for she knew she was renouncing her crown for ever.
Her own jewels, quite equal in magnificence, she took from their cases
and placed together upon the bed.  There was her magnificent long rope
of pearls, that when worn twice twisted around her neck hung to below
the knees, and was declared to be one of the finest in the world; her
two diamond collars, her wonderful diamond bodice ornaments, her many
pairs of earrings, antique brooches, and other jewels--she took them all
from their cases until they lay together, a brilliant, scintillating
heap, the magnificent gems flashing with a thousand fires.

At last she drew forth a leather case about six inches square, and
opening it, gazed upon it in hesitancy.  Within was a large true-lover's
knot in splendid diamonds, and attached to it was the black ribbon and
the jewelled cross--her decoration as Dame de la Croix Etoilee of
Austria, the order bestowed upon the Imperial Archduchesses.

She looked at it wistfully.  Sight of it brought to her mind the fact
that in renouncing her position she must also renounce that mark of her
Imperial birth.  Yet she was determined, and with trembling fingers
detached the ribbon and cross from the diamond ornament, threw the
latter on to the heap upon the bed, and replaced the former with the
jewels she intended to leave behind.

The beautiful cross had been bestowed upon her by her uncle the Emperor
upon her marriage, and would now be sent back to him.

She took two large silk handkerchiefs from a drawer, and made two
bundles of the precious gems.  Then she hid them away until the morrow,
and reclosing the safe, locked it; and taking the key off the bunch,
placed it in the drawer of her little escritoire.

Thus she had taken the first step towards her emancipation.

Her eye caught the Madonna, with its silver lamp, and she halted before
it, her head bowed, her lips moving in silent prayer as she sought help,
protection, and guidance in the act of renunciation she was about to
commit.

Then, after ten minutes or so, she again moved slowly across the room,
opening the great inlaid wardrobe where hung a few of her many dresses.
She looked upon them in silence.  All must be left behind, she decided.
She could only take what she could carry in her hand.  She would leave
her personal belongings to be divided up by that crowd of human wolves
who hungered to destroy her.  The Trauttenberg might have them as her
perquisites--in payment for her treachery.

By that hour to-morrow she would have left Treysa for ever.  She would
begin a new life--a life of simplicity and of freedom, with her darling
child.

Presently she slept again, but it was a restless, fevered sleep.
Constantly she wondered whether it would be possible for her to pass
those palace guards with little Ignatia.  If they recognised the child
they might stop her, for only Allen herself was permitted to take her
outside the palace.

Yet she must risk it; her only means of escape was that upon which she
had decided.

Next day passed very slowly.  The hours dragged by as she tried to
occupy herself in her boudoir, first with playing with the child, and
afterwards attending to her correspondence.  She wrote no letter of
farewell, as she deemed it wiser to take her leave without a word.  Yet
even in those last hours of her dignity as Crown Princess her thoughts
were with the many charitable institutions of which she was patroness,
and of how best she could benefit them by writing orders to the royal
treasurer to give them handsome donations in her name.

She saw nothing of her husband.  For aught she knew, those three
grave-faced doctors might have already consulted with Veltman; they
might have already declared her insane.

The afternoon passed, and alone she took her tea in English fashion,
little Ignatia being brought to her for half an hour, as was the rule
when she was without visitors.  She had already been to Henriette's room
in secret, and had secured a black-stuff dress and packet, a long black
travelling-coat and a felt canotte, all of which she had taken to her
own room and hidden in her wardrobe.

When Allen took the child's hand in order to lead her out, her mother
glanced anxiously at the clock, and saw that it was half-past five.

"You can leave Ignatia here while you go to dinner," she said in
English; "she will be company for me.  Tell the servants that I am not
to be disturbed, even by the Countess de Trauttenberg."

"Very well, your Highness," was the Englishwoman's answer, as bowing she
left the room.

For another quarter of an hour she laughed and played with the child,
then said,--

"Come, darling, let us go along to my room."  And taking her tiny hand,
led her gently along the corridor to her own chamber.  Once within she
locked the door, and quickly throwing off her own things, assumed those
of the maid which she took from the wardrobe.  Then upon Ignatia she put
a cheap dark coat of grey material and a dark-blue woollen cap which at
once concealed the child's golden curls.  This concluded, she assumed a
thick black lace veil, which well concealed her features, and around her
throat she twisted a silken scarf.  The collar of her coat, turned up,
hid the colour of her hair, and her appearance was in a few moments well
transformed.  Indeed, she presented the exact prototype of her maid
Henriette.

The jewels were in a cheap leather hand-bag, also the maid's property.
This she placed in her dressing-bag, and with it in her hand she took up
little Ignatia, saying,--

"Hush, darling! don't speak a word.  You'll promise mother, won't you?"

The child, surprised at all this preparation, gave her promise, but
still remained inquisitive.

Then the Crown Princess Claire gave a final glance around the room, the
scene of so much of her bitter domestic unhappiness.  Sighing heavily,
she crossed herself before the Madonna, uttered a few low words in
prayer, and unlocking the door stole out into the long, empty corridor.

Those were exciting moments--the most exciting in all her life.

With her heart beating quickly she sped onward to the head of the great
marble gilt staircase.  Along one of the side corridors a royal valet
was approaching, and the man nodded to her familiarly, believing her to
be Henriette.

At the head of the staircase she looked down, but saw nobody.  It was
the hour when all the servants were at their evening meal.  Therefore,
descending quickly, she passed through the great winter garden, a
beautiful place where, among the palms and flowers, were cunningly
placed tiny electric lamps.  Across a large courtyard she went--as it
was a short cut from that wing of the palace in which her apartments
were situated--and at last she reached the main entrance, where stood
the head concierge in his cocked hat and scarlet livery, and where idled
an agent of police in plain clothes, reading the evening paper.

At her approach they both glanced at her.

She held her breath.  What if they stopped her on account of the child?

But summoning all her courage she went forward, compelled to pass them
quite closely.

Then as she advanced she nodded familiarly to the gold-laced janitor,
who to her relief wished her good-evening, and she passed out into the
park.

She had successfully passed through one peril, but there was yet a
second--those carefully-guarded gilded gates which gave entrance to the
royal demesne.  Day and night they were watched by palace servants and
the agents of police entrusted with his Majesty's personal safety.

She sped on down the broad gravelled drive, scarce daring to breathe,
and on arrival at the gatehouse passed in it, compelled to make her exit
through the small iron turnstile where sat two men, the faithful
white-bearded old gatekeeper, who had been fifty years in the royal
service, and a dark-faced brigadier of police.  Recognition would mean
her incarceration in an asylum as insane.

Both men looked up as she entered.  It was the supreme moment of her
peril.  She saw that the detective was puzzled by her veil.  But she
boldly passed by them, saying in French, in a voice in imitation of
Henriette's,--

"_Bon soir, messieurs_!"

The old gatekeeper, in his low, gruff German, wished her good-night
unsuspiciously, drew the lever which released the turnstile, and next
moment the Crown Princess Claire stepped out into the world beyond--a
free woman.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

DOOM OR DESTINY.

With quickened footsteps she clasped the child to her, and hurrying on
in the falling gloom, skirted the long, high walls of the royal park,
where at equal distances stood the sentries.

More than one, believing her to be Mademoiselle, saluted her.

She was free, it is true; but she had yet to face many perils, the
greatest of them all being that of recognition by the police at the
station, or by any of the people, to whom her countenance was so well
known.

Presently she gained the broad Klosterstrasse, where the big electric
lamps were already shining; and finding a fiacre at the stand, entered
it and drove to a small outfitter's shop, where she purchased two
travelling-rugs and a shawl for little Ignatia.  Thence she went to a
pastrycook's and bought some cakes, and then drove up the wide
Wolbeckerstrasse to the central railway station.

The streets were alive with life, for most of the shops were closed, the
main thoroughfares were illuminated, and all Treysa was out at the cafes
or restaurants, or promenading the streets, for the day was a national
festival.  The national colours were displayed everywhere, and the band
of the 116th Regiment was playing a selection from "La Boheme" as she
crossed the great Domplatz.

Hers was indeed a strange position.

Unknown and unrecognised, she drove in the open cab, with the tiny,
wondering Princess at her side, through the great crowds of
holiday-makers--those people who had they known of her unhappiness would
in all probability have risen in a body and revolted.

She remembered that she had been "their Claire," yet after that night
she would be theirs no longer.  It was a sad and silent leave-taking.
She had renounced her crown and imperial privileges for ever.

Many men and women stared at her as she passed under the bright electric
street lamps, and once or twice she half feared that they might have
penetrated her disguise.  Yet no cheer was raised; none rushed forward
to kiss her hand.

She gave the cabman orders to drive up and down several of the principal
thoroughfares, for there was still plenty of time for the train; and,
reluctant to take leave of the people of Treysa whom she loved so well,
and who were her only friends, she gazed upon them from behind her veil
and sighed.

At the busy, echoing station she arrived ten minutes before the express
was due, and took her tickets; but when she went to the _wagon-lit_
office, the official, not recognising her, sharply replied that the
places had all been taken by an American tourist party.  Therefore she
was compelled to enter an ordinary first-class compartment.  The train
was crowded, and all the corner seats were taken.  Fearing to call a
porter to her assistance lest she should be recognised--when the royal
saloon would at once be attached to the train for her--she was compelled
to elbow her way through the crowd and take an uncomfortable seat in the
centre of a compartment, where all through the night she tried to sleep,
but in vain.

Little Ignatia soon closed her eyes and was asleep, but Claire, full of
regrets at being compelled to renounce husband, crown, everything, as
she had done, and in wonder of what the future had in store for her, sat
silent, nursing her child through the long night hours.  Her
fellow-travellers, two fat Germans of Jewish cast, and three women,
slept heavily, the men snoring.

The grey dawn showed at last over the low green hills.  Had her absence
been discovered?  Most certainly it had, but they had now passed the
confines of the kingdom, and she was certain that the people at the
palace would not telegraph news of her disappearance for fear of
creating undue scandal.

At last she had frustrated their dastardly plot to incarcerate her in an
asylum.  She sat there, a figure of sweet loveliness combined with
exceeding delicacy and even fragility--one of the most refined elegance
and the most exquisite modesty.

At a small wayside station where they stopped about seven o'clock she
bought a glass of coffee, and then they continued until the Austrian
frontier at Voitersreuth was reached; and at Eger, a few miles farther
on, she was compelled to descend and change carriages, for only the
_wagon-lit_ went through to the capital.

It was then eleven o'clock in the morning, and feeling hungry, she took
little Ignatia into the buffet and had some luncheon, the child
delighted at the novel experience of travelling.

"We are going to see grandfather," her mother told her.  "You went to
see him when you were such a wee, wee thing, so you don't remember him."

"No," declared the child with wide-open, wondering eyes; "I don't
remember.  Will Allen be there?"

"No, darling, I don't think so," was the evasive reply to a question
which struck deep into the heart of the woman fleeing from her
persecutors.

While Ignatia had her milk, her mother ate her cutlet at the long table
among the other hasty travellers, gobbling up their meal and shouting
orders to waiters with their mouths full.

Hitherto, when she passed there in the royal saloon, the railway
officials had come forward, cap in hand, to salute her as an Imperial
Archduchess of Austria; but now, unknown and unrecognised, she passed as
an ordinary traveller.  Presently, when the Vienna express drew up to
the platform, she fortunately found an empty first-class compartment,
and continued her journey alone, taking off her hat and settling herself
for the remaining nine hours between there and the capital.  Little
Ignatia was still very sleepy, therefore she made a cushion for her with
her cape and laid her full length, while she herself sat in a corner
watching the picturesque landscape, and thinking--thinking deeply over
all the grim tragedy of the past.

After travelling for three hours, the train stopped at a small station
called Protovin, the junction of the line from Prague, whence a train
had arrived in connection with the express.  Here there seemed quite a
number of people waiting upon the platform.

She was looking out carelessly upon them when from among the crowd a
man's eyes met hers.  He stared open-mouthed, turned pale, and next
instant was at the door.  She drew back, but, alas! it was too late.
She was without hat or veil, and he had recognised her.

She gave vent to a low cry, half of surprise, half of despair.

Next second the door opened, and the man stood before her, hat in hand.

"Princess!" he gasped in a low, excited voice.  "What does this mean?
You--alone--going to Vienna?"

"Carl!" she cried, "why are _you_ here?  Where have you come from?"

"I have been to my estate up at Rakonitz, before going to Rome," was his
answer.  "Is it Destiny that again brings us together like this?"

And entering the carriage, he bent and kissed her hand.

Was it Destiny, or was it Doom?

"You with Ignatia, and no lady-in-waiting?  What does this mean?" he
inquired, utterly puzzled.

The porter behind him placed his bag in the carriage, while he, in his
travelling-ulster and cap, begged permission to remain there.

What could she say?  She was very lonely, and she wanted to tell him
what had occurred since her return to Treysa and of the crisis of it
all.  So she nodded in the affirmative.

Then he gave the porter his tip, and the man departed.  Presently,
before the train moved off, the sleeping child opened her eyes, shyly at
first, in the presence of a stranger; but a moment later, recognising
him, she got up, and rushing gladly towards him, cried in her pretty,
childish way,--

"Leitolf!  Good Leitolf to come with us!  We are so very tired!"

"Are you, little Highness?" exclaimed the man laughing, and taking her
upon his knee.  "But you will soon be at your destination."

"Yes," she pouted, "but I would not mind if mother did not cry so much."

The Princess pressed her lips together.  She was a little annoyed that
her child should reveal the secret of her grief.  If she did so to
Leitolf she might do so to others.

After a little while, however, the motion of the train lulled the child
off to sleep again, and the man laid her down as before.  Then, turning
to the sorrowing woman at his side, he asked,--

"You had my message--I mean you found it?"

She nodded, but made no reply.  She recollected each of those
finely-penned words, and knew that they came from the heart of as honest
and upright a man as there was in the whole empire.

"And now tell me, Princess, the reason of this second journey to
Vienna?" he asked, looking at her with his calm, serious face.

For a moment she held her breath.  There were tears welling in her eyes,
and she feared lest he might detect them--feared that she might break
down in explaining to him the bitter truth.

"I have left Treysa for ever," she said simply.

He started from his seat and stared at her.

"Left Treysa!" he gasped.  "Left the Court--left your husband!  Is this
really true?"

"It is the truth, Carl," was her answer in a low, tremulous tone.  "I
could bear it no longer."

He was silent.  He recognised the extreme gravity of the step she had
taken.  He recognised, too, that, more serious than all, her
unscrupulous enemies who had conspired to drive her from Court had now
triumphed.

His brows were knit as he realised all that she was suffering--this
pure, beautiful woman, whom he had once loved so fondly, and whose
champion he still remained.  He knew that the Crown Prince was a man of
brutal instinct, and utterly unsuited as husband of a sweet, refined,
gentle woman such as Claire.  It was, indeed, a tragedy--a dark tragedy.

In a low voice he inquired what had occurred, but she made no mention of
the brutal, cowardly blow which had felled her insensible, cut her lip,
and broken her white teeth.  She only explained very briefly the
incident of the three guests at dinner, and the amazing conversation she
had afterwards overheard.

"It is a dastardly plot!" he cried in quick anger.  "Why, you are as
sane as I am, and yet the Crown Prince, in order to get rid of you, will
allow these doctors to certify you as a lunatic!  The conspiracy shall
be exposed in the press.  I will myself expose it!" he declared,
clenching his fists.

"No, Carl," she exclaimed quickly.  "I have never done anything against
my husband's interest, nor have I ever made complaint against him.  I
shall not do so now.  Remember, what I have just told you is in strict
confidence.  The public must not know of it."

"Then will you actually remain a victim and keep silence, allowing these
people to thus misjudge you?" he asked in a tone of reproach.

"To bring opprobrium upon my husband is to bring scandal upon the Court
and nation," was her answer.  "I am still Crown Princess, and I have
still my duty to perform towards the people."

"You are a woman of such high ideals, Princess," he said, accepting her
reproof.  "Most other wives who have been treated as you have would have
sought to retaliate."

"Why should I?  My husband is but the weak-principled puppet of a
scandalous Court.  It is not his own fault.  He is goaded on by those
who fear that I may reign as Queen."

"Few women would regard him in such a very generous light," Leitolf
remarked, still stunned by the latest plot which she had revealed.  If
there was an ingenious conspiracy to confine her in an asylum, then
surely it would be an easy matter for the very fact of her flight to be
misconstrued into insanity.  They would tear her child from her, and
imprison her, despairing and brokenhearted.  The thought of it goaded
him to desperation.  She told him of her intention of returning to her
father, the Archduke Charles, and of living in future in her old home at
Wartenstein--that magnificent castle of which they both had such
pleasant recollections.

"And I shall be in Rome," he sighed.  "Ah, Princess, I shall often think
of you, often and often."

"Never write to me, I beg of you, Carl," she said apprehensively.  "Your
letter might fall into other hands, and certainly would be
misunderstood.  The world at large does not believe in platonic
friendship between man and woman, remember."

"True," he murmured.  "That is why they say that you and I are still
lovers, which is a foul and abominable lie."  Their eyes met, and she
saw a deep, earnest look in his face that told her that he was thinking
still of those days long ago, and of that giddy intoxication of heart
and sense which belongs to the novelty of passion which we feel once,
and but once, in our lives.

At that moment the train came to a standstill at the little station of
Gratzen, and, unnoticed by them, a man passed the carriage and peered in
inquisitively.  He was a thick-set, grey-bearded, hard-faced German,
somewhat round-shouldered, rather badly dressed, who, leaning heavily
upon his stick, walked with the air of an invalid.

He afterwards turned quickly upon his heel and again limped past, gazing
in, so as to satisfy himself that he was not mistaken.

Then entering a compartment at the rear of the train the old fellow
resumed his journey, smiling to himself, and stroking his beard with his
thin, bony hand, as though he had made a very valuable discovery and yet
was puzzled.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

"AN OPEN SCANDAL!"

At Klosterneuberg, six miles from Vienna, Leitolf kissed her hand in
deep reverence, taking sad leave of her, for on arrival at the capital
she would probably be recognised, and they both deemed it judicious that
she should be alone.

"Good-bye," he said earnestly, holding her hand as the train ran into
the suburban station.  "This meeting of ours has been a strange and
unexpected one, and this is, I suppose, our last leave-taking.  I have
nothing to add," he sighed.  "You know that I am ever your servant, ever
ready to serve your Imperial Highness in whatsoever manner you may
command.  May God bless and comfort you.  Adieu."

"Good-bye, Carl," she said brokenly.  It was all she could say.  She
restrained her tears by dint of great effort.

Then, when he had gone and closed the carriage door, she burst into a
fit of sobbing.  By his absence it seemed to her that the light of her
life had been extinguished.  She was alone, in hopeless despair.

Darkness had now fallen, and as the train rushed on its final run along
the precipitous <DW72>s of the Kahlenberg, little Ignatia placed her arms
around her mother's neck and said,--

"Mother, don't cry, or I shall tell Allen, and she'll scold you.  Poor,
dear mother!"

The Princess kissed the child's soft arms, and at length managed to dry
her own eyes, assuming her hat and veil in preparation for arrival at
the capital.  And none too soon, for ere she had dressed Ignatia and
assumed her own disguise the train slowed down and stopped, while the
door was thrown open and a porter stood ready to take her wraps.

She took Ignatia in her arms and descended in the great station, bright
beneath its electric lamps, and full of bustle and movement.  She saw
nothing more of Leitolf, who had disappeared into the crowd.  He had
wished her farewell for ever.

A fiacre conveyed her to her father's magnificent palace in the
Parkring, where on arrival the gorgeous concierge, mistaking her for a
domestic, treated her with scant courtesy.

"His Imperial Highness the Archduke is not in Vienna," was his answer.
"What's your business with him, pray?"

The Princess, laughing, raised her veil, whereupon the gruff old fellow,
a highly-trusted servant, stammered deep apologies, took off his hat,
and bent to kiss the hand of the daughter of the Imperial house.

"My father is away, Franz?  Where is he?"

"At Wartenstein, your Imperial Highness.  He left yesterday," and he
rang the electric bell to summon the major-domo.

She resolved to remain the night, and then resume her journey to the
castle.  Therefore, with little Ignatia still in her arms, she ascended
the grand staircase, preceded by the pompous servitor, until she reached
the small green-and-gilt salon which she always used when she came
there.

Two maids were quickly in attendance, electric lights were switched on
everywhere, and the bustle of servants commenced as soon as the news
spread that the Archduchess Claire had returned.

Several of the officials of the Archducal Court came to salute her, and
the housekeeper came to her to receive orders, which, being simple, were
quickly given.

She retired to her room with little Ignatia, and after putting the child
to bed, removed the dust of travel and went to one of the smaller
dining-rooms, where two men in the Imperial livery served her dinner in
stiff silence.

Her father being absent, many of the rooms were closed, the furniture
swathed in holland, and the quiet of the great, gorgeous place was to
her distinctly depressing.  She was anxious to know how her father would
take her flight--whether he would approve of it or blame her.

She sent distinct orders to Franz that no notice was to be given to the
journals of her unexpected return, remarking at the same time that he
need not send to the station, as she had arrived without baggage.  If it
were known in Vienna that she had returned, the news would quickly be
telegraphed back to Treysa.  Besides, when the fact of her presence in
the Austrian capital was known, she would, as Crown Princess, be
compelled by Court etiquette to go at once and salute her uncle the
Emperor.  This she had no desire to do just at present.  His hard,
unjust words at her last interview with him still rankled in her memory.

His Majesty was not her friend.  That had recently been made entirely
plain.

So, after dining, she chatted for a short time with De Bothmer, her
father's private secretary, who came to pay his respects to her, and
then retired to her own room--the room with the old ivory crucifix where
the oil light burnt dimly in its red glass.

She crossed herself before it, and her lips moved in silent prayer.

A maid came to her and reported that little Ignatia was sleeping
soundly, but that was not sufficient.  She went herself along the
corridor to the child's room and saw that she was comfortable, giving
certain instructions with maternal anxiety.

Then she returned to her room accompanied by the woman, who, inquisitive
regarding her young mistress's return, began to chat to her while she
brushed and plaited her hair, telling her all the latest gossip of the
palace.

The Archduke, her father, had, it appeared, gone to Wartenstein for a
fortnight, and had arranged to go afterwards to Vichy for the cure, and
thence to Paris; therefore, next morning, taking the maid with her to
look after little Ignatia, she left Vienna again for the Tyrol,
travelling by Linz and Salsburg to Rosenheim, and then changing on to
the Innsbruck line and alighting, about six o'clock in the evening, at
the little station of Rattenberg.  There she took a hired carriage along
the post road into the beautiful Zillerthal Alps, where, high up in a
commanding position ten miles away, her old home was situated--one of
the finest and best-preserved mediaeval castles in Europe.

It was already dark, and rain was falling as the four horses, with their
jingling bells, toiled up the steep, winding road, the driver cracking
his whip, proud to have the honour of driving her Imperial Highness, who
until four years ago had spent the greater part of her life there.
Little Ignatia, tired out by so much travelling, slept upon her mother's
knee, and the Crown Princess herself dozed for a time, waking to find
that they were still toiling up through the little village of Fugen,
which was her own property.

Presently, three miles farther on, she looked out of the carriage
window, and there, high up in the darkness, she saw the lighted windows
of the great, grim stronghold which, nearly a thousand years ago, had
been the fortress of the ancient Kings of Carinthia, those warlike
ancestors of hers whose valiant deeds are still recorded in song and
story.

Half an hour later the horses clattered into the great courtyard of the
castle, and the old castellan came forth in utter amazement to bow
before her.

Electric bells were rung, servants came forward quickly, the Archduke's
chamberlain appeared in surprise, and the news spread in an instant
through the servants' quarters that the Archduchess Claire--whom the
whole household worshipped--had returned and had brought with her the
tiny Princess Ignatia.

Everywhere men and women bowed low before her as, preceded by the
black-coated chamberlain, she went through those great, old vaulted
halls she knew so well, and up the old stone winding stairs to the room
which was still reserved for her, and which had not been disturbed since
she had left it to marry.

On entering she glanced around, and sighed in relief.  At last she was
back at home again in dear old Wartenstein.  Her dream of liberty was
actually realised!

Little Ignatia and the nurse were given an adjoining room which she had
used as a dressing-room, and as she stood there alone every object in
the apartment brought back to her sweet memories of her girlhood, with
all its peaceful hours of bliss, happiness, and high ideals.

It was not a large room, but extremely cosy.  The windows in the
ponderous walls allowed deep alcoves, where she loved to sit and read on
summer evenings, and upon one wall was the wonderful old
fourteenth-century tapestry representing a tournament, which had been a
scene always before her ever since she could remember.  The bed, too,
was gilded, quaint and old-fashioned, with hangings of rich crimson silk
brocade of three centuries ago.  Indeed, the only modern innovations
there were the big toilet-table with its ancient silver bowl and ewer,
and the two electric lights suspended above.

Old Adelheid, her maid when she was a girl, came quickly to her, and
almost shed tears of joy at her young mistress's return.  Adelheid, a
stout, round-faced, grey-haired woman, had nursed her as a child, and it
was she who had served her until the day when she had left Vienna for
Treysa after her unfortunate marriage.

"My sweet Princess!" cried the old serving-woman as she entered, and,
bending, kissed her hand, "only this moment I heard that you had come
back to us.  This is really a most delightful surprise.  I heard that
you were in Vienna the other day, and wondered whether you would come to
see us all at old Wartenstein--or whether at your Court so far away you
had forgotten us all."

"Forgotten you, Adelheid!" she exclaimed quickly, pushing her fair hair
from her brow, for her head ached after her fatiguing journey; "why, I
am always thinking of the dear old place, and of you--who used to scold
me so."

"When you deserved it, my Princess," laughed the pleasant old woman.
"Ah!" she added, "those were happy times, weren't they?  But you were
often really incorrigible, you know, especially when you used to go down
into the valley and meet young Carl Leitolf in secret.  You remember--
eh?  And how I found you out?"

Claire held her breath for a moment at mention of that name.

"Yes, Adelheid," she said in a somewhat changed tone.  "And you were
very good.  You never betrayed our secret."

"No.  Because I believed that you both loved each other--that
boy-and-girl love which is so very sweet while it lasts, but is no more
durable than the thistledown.  But let us talk of the present now.  I'll
go and order dinner for you, and see that you have everything
comfortable.  I hope you will stay with us a long, long time.  This is
your first return since your marriage, remember."

"Where is my father?" her Highness asked, taking off her hat, and
rearranging her hair before the mirror.

"In the green salon.  He was with the secretary, Wernhardt, but I passed
the latter going out as I came up the stairs.  The Archduke is therefore
alone."

"Then I will go and see him before I dine," she said; so, summoning all
her courage, she gave a final touch to her hair and went out, and down
the winding stairs, afterwards making her way to the opposite side of
the ponderous stronghold, where her father's study--called the green
salon on account of the old green silk hangings and upholstery--was
situated.

She halted at the door, but for an instant only; then, pale-faced and
determined, she entered the fine room with the groined roof, where, at a
table at the farther end, her father, in plain evening dress, was
writing beneath a shaded lamp.

He raised his bald head and glanced round to see who was the intruder
who entered there without knocking.  Then, recognising his daughter, he
turned slowly in his writing-chair, his brows knit, exclaiming coldly
the single inquiry,--

"Well?"

His displeasure at her appearance was apparent.  He did not even welcome
her, or inquire the reason of her return.  The expression upon his thin,
grey face showed her that he was annoyed.

She rushed across to kiss him, but he put out his hand coldly, and held
her at arm's length.

"There is time for that later, Claire," he said in a hard voice.  "I
understand that you have left Treysa?"

"Yes, I have.  Who told you?"

"The Crown Prince, your husband, has informed me by telegraph of your
scandalous action."

"Scandalous action!" she cried quickly, while in self-defence she began
to implore the sympathy of the hard-hearted old Archduke, a man of iron
will and a bigot as regarded religion.  In a few quick sentences, as she
stood before him in the centre of the room, she told him of all she had
suffered; of her tragic life in her gilded prison at Treysa; of the
insults heaped upon her by the King and Queen; of her husband's
ill-treatment; and finally, of the ingenious plot to certify her as
demented.

"And I have come to you, father, for protection for myself and my
child," she added earnestly.  "If I remain longer at Treysa my enemies
will drive me really insane.  I have tried to do my duty, God knows, but
those who seek my downfall are, alas! too strong.  I am a woman, alone
and helpless.  Surely you, my own father, will not refuse to assist your
daughter, who is the victim of a foul and dastardly plot?" she cried in
tears, advancing towards him.  "I have come back to live here with my
child in seclusion and in peace--to obtain the freedom for which I have
longed ever since I entered that scandalous and unscrupulous Court of
Treysa.  I implore of you, father, for my dear, dead mother's sake, to
have pity upon me, to at least stand by me as my one friend in all the
world--you--my own father!"

He remained perfectly unmoved.  His thin, bloodless face only relaxed
into a dubious smile, and he responded in a hard voice,--

"You have another friend, Claire," Then he rose from his chair, his eyes
suddenly aflame with anger as he asked, "Why do you come here with such
lies as these upon your lips?  To ask my assistance is utterly useless.
I have done with you.  It is too late to-night for you to leave
Wartenstein, but recollect that you go from here before ten o'clock
to-morrow morning, and that during my lifetime you never enter again
beneath this roof!"

"But, father--why?" she gasped, staring at him amazed.

"Why?  Why, because the whole world is scandalised by your conduct!
Every one knows that the reason of your unhappiness with the Crown
Prince is because you have a lover--that low-bred fellow Leitolf--a man
of the people," he sneered.  "Your conduct at Treysa was an open
scandal, and in Vienna you actually visited him at his hotel.  The
Emperor called me, and told me so.  He is highly indignant that you
should bring such an outrageous scandal upon our house, and--"

"Father, I deny that Count Leitolf is my lover!" she cried, interrupting
him.  "Even you, my own father, defame me," she added bitterly.

"Defame you!" he sneered.  "Bah! you cannot deceive me when you have
actually eloped from Treysa with the fellow.  See," he cried, taking a
telegram from the table and holding it before her, "do you deny what is
here reported--that you and he travelled together, and that he descended
from the train just before reaching Vienna, in fear of recognition.
No," he went on, while she stood before him utterly stunned and rendered
speechless by his words, which, alas! showed the terrible
misconstruction placed upon their injudicious companionship upon the
journey.  "No, you cannot deny it!  You will leave Wartenstein tomorrow,
for you have grown tired of your husband; you have invented the story of
the plot to declare you insane; and you have renounced your crown and
position in order to elope with Leitolf!  From to-night I no longer
regard you as my daughter.  Go!" and he pointed imperiously to the door.
"Go back to the people--the common herd of whom you are so very fond--
go back to your miserable lover if you wish.  To me your future is quite
immaterial, and understand perfectly that I forbid you ever to return
beneath my roof.  You have scandalised the whole of Europe, and you and
your lover may now act just as you may think proper."

"But, father!" she protested, heartbroken, bursting into bitter tears.
"Leitolf is not my lover!  I swear to you it is all untrue!"

"Go!" he shouted, his face red with anger.  "I have said all I need say.
Go!  Leave me.  I will never see you again--never--_never_!"

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

THE MAN WITH THE RED CRAVAT.

A secret service agent--one of the spies of the crafty old Minister
Minckeldeym--had followed Claire from Treysa.  Her accidental meeting
with Leitolf had, he declared, been prearranged.

It was now said that she, a Crown Princess of the Imperial blood, had
eloped with her lover!  The Court scandal was complete.

Alone in her room that night she sat for hours sobbing, while the great
castle was silent.  She was now both homeless and friendless.  All the
desperate appeals she had made to her father had been entirely
unavailing.  He was a hard man always.  She had, he declared, brought a
shameful scandal upon this Imperial house, and he would have nothing
further to do with her.  Time after time she stoutly denied the false
and abominable charge, trying to explain the dastardly plot against her,
and the combination of circumstances which led to her meeting with the
Count at Protovin.  But he would hear no explanation.  Leitolf was her
lover, he declared, and all her excuses were utterly useless.  He
refused her his protection, and cast her out as no child of his.

After long hours of tears and ceaseless sobbing, a strange thought
crossed her mind.  True, she was unjustly condemned as having eloped
with Carl; yet, after all, was not even that preferable to the fate to
which her husband had conspired to relegate her?  The whole of Europe
would say that she left the Court in company with a lover, and she bit
her lip when she thought of the cruel libel.  Yet, supposing that they
had no ground for this gossip, was it not more than likely that her
enemies would seek to follow her and confine her in an asylum?

The strange combination of circumstances had, however, given them good
ground for declaring that she had eloped, and if such report got abroad,
as it apparently had done, then her husband would be compelled to sue
for a divorce.

She held her breath.  Her fingers clenched themselves into her palms at
thought of it--a divorce on account of the man who had always, from her
girlhood, been her true, loyal, and platonic friend!  And if it was
sought to prove what was untrue?  Should she defend herself, and
establish her innocence?  Or would she, by refusing to make defence,
obtain the freedom from Court which she sought?

She had been utterly dumbfounded by her father's allegations that she
had eloped.  Until he had denounced her she had never for one moment
seen the grave peril in which his presence at Protovin had placed her.
He had compromised her quite unintentionally.  Her own pure nature and
open mind had never suspected for one moment that those who wished her
ill would declare that she had eloped.

Now, as she sat there in the dead silence, she saw plainly, when too
late, how injudicious she had been--how, indeed, she had played into the
hands of those who sought her downfall.  It was a false step to go to
Leitolf at the hotel in Vienna, and a worse action still to ask that he
should be recalled from her Court and sent away as attache to Rome.  The
very fact that she showed interest in him had, of course, lent colour to
the grave scandals that were being everywhere whispered.  Now the report
that she, an Imperial Archduchess, had eloped with him would set the
empires of Austria and Germany agog.

What the future was to be she did not attempt to contemplate.  She was
plunged in despair, utterly hopeless, broken, and without a friend
except Steinbach.  Was it destiny that she should be so utterly
misjudged?  Even her own father had sent her forth as an outcast!

Early next morning, taking little Ignatia and the bag containing her
jewels, but leaving the maid behind, she drove from the castle, glancing
back at it with heavy heart as the carriage descended into the green,
fertile valley, gazing for the last time upon that old home she loved so
well.  It was her last sight of it.  She would never again look upon it,
she sadly told herself.

She, an Imperial Archduchess of Austria, Crown Princess of a great
German kingdom, a Dame of the Croix Etoilee, a woman who might any day
become a reigning queen, had renounced her crown and her position, and
was now an outcast!  Hers was a curious position--stranger, perhaps,
than that in which any woman had before found herself.  Many a royalty
is to-day unhappy in her domestic life, suffering in silence, yet making
a brave show towards the world.  She had tried to do the same.  She had
suffered without complaint for more than three long, dark years--until
her husband had not only struck her and disfigured her, but had
contemplated ridding himself of her by the foulest and most cowardly
means his devilish ingenuity could devise.

As she drove through those clean, prosperous villages which were on her
own private property, the people came forth, cheering with enthusiasm
and rushing to the carriage to kiss her hand.  But she only smiled upon
them sadly--not, they said, shaking their heads after she had passed,
not the same smile as in the old days, before she married the German
Prince and went to far-off Treysa.

The stationmaster at Rattenberg came forward to make his obeisance, and
as certain military manoeuvres were in progress and some troops were
drawn up before the station, both officers and men drew up and saluted.
An old colonel whom she had known well before her marriage came forward,
and bowing, offered to see her to her compartment, expressing delight at
having met her again.

"Your Imperial Highness will never be forgotten here," declared the
gallant, red-faced old fellow, who wore fierce white moustaches.  "The
poor are always wondering whether you are ever coming back.  And at last
your Highness is here!  And going--where?"

She hesitated.  Truth to tell, she had never thought of her destination.

"I go now to Lucerne, incognito," she replied, for want of something
else to say; and they both walked on to the platform, he carrying
Henriette's cheap little leather bag containing her jewels.

"So this," he said, "is our little Princess Ignatia, about whom we have
heard so much."  And laughingly he touched the shy child's soft cheek
caressingly.

"And who are you?" inquired the child wonderingly, examining his bright
uniform from head to foot.

The Princess joined in the Colonel's laughter.  Usually the child was
shy, but, strangely enough, always talkative with any one who wore a
uniform, even though he might be a private soldier on sentry duty at the
palace.

The Colonel was not alone in remarking within himself the plainness and
cheapness of her Imperial Highness's costume.  It had been remarked
everywhere, but was supposed that she wore that very ordinary costume in
order to pass incognito.

The train took her to Innsbruck, and after luncheon at the buffet she
continued her journey to Lucerne, arriving there late in the evening,
and taking the hotel omnibus of the Schweizerhof.  There she gave her
name as the Baroness Deitel, and declared that her luggage had been
mis-sent--a fact which, of course, aroused some suspicion within the
mind of the shrewd clerk in the bureau.  Visitors without luggage are
never appreciated by hotel-keepers.

Next day, however, she purchased a trunk and a number of necessaries,
_lingerie_ for herself and for the little Princess, all of which was
sent to the hotel--a fact that quickly re-established confidence.

A good many people were staying in the place as usual, and very quickly,
on account of her uncommon beauty and natural grace, people began to
inquire who she was.  But the reply was that she was Baroness Deitel of
Frankfort--that was all.  From her funereal black they took her for a
young widow, and many of the idle young men in the hotel endeavoured to
make her acquaintance.  But she spoke to no one.  She occupied herself
with her child, and if alone in the hall she always read a book or
newspaper.

The fact was that she was watching the newspapers eagerly, wondering if
they would give currency to the false report of her elopement.  But as
day after day went by and nothing appeared, she grew more assured,
hoping that at least the Court at Treysa had suppressed from the press
the foul lie that had spread from mouth to mouth.

One paragraph she read, however, in a Vienna paper was very significant,
for it stated that the Crown Prince Ferdinand of Marburg had arrived in
Vienna at the invitation of the Emperor, who had driven to the station
to meet him, and who had embraced him with marked cordiality.

She read between the lines.  The Emperor had called him to Vienna in
order to hear his side of the story--in order to condemn her without
giving her a chance to explain the truth.  The Emperor would no doubt
decide whether the fact of her leaving the Court should be announced to
the public or not.

Her surmise was not far wrong, for while sitting in the big hall of the
hotel after luncheon four days later, she saw in the _Daily Mail_ the
following telegram, headed, "A German Court Scandal: Startling
Revelations."

Holding her breath, and knowing that, two young Englishmen, seated
together and smoking, were watching her, she read as follows:--

"Reuter's correspondent at Treysa telegraphs it has just transpired that
a very grave and astounding scandal has occurred at Court.  According to
the rumour--which he gives under all reserve--late one night a week ago
the Crown Princess Ferdinand escaped from the palace, and taking with
her her child, the little Princess Ignatia, eloped to Austria with Count
Charles-Leitolf, an official of the Court.  A great sensation has been
caused in Court circles in both Germany and Austria.  The Crown Princess
before her marriage was, it will be remembered, the Archduchess Claire,
only daughter of the Archduke Charles of Austria, and notable at the
Court of Vienna on account of her extreme beauty.  It appears that for
some time past at the Court of Treysa there have been rumours regarding
the intimate friendship between the Crown Princess and the Count, who
was for some time attache at the Austrian Embassy in London.  Matters
culminated a short time ago when it became known that the Count had
followed the Princess to Vienna, where she had gone to visit her father.
She returned to Treysa for a few days, still followed by Leitolf, and
then left again under his escort, and has not since been seen.

"In Treysa the sensation caused is enormous.  It is the sole topic of
conversation.  The Crown Princess was greatly beloved by the people, but
her elopement has entirely negatived her popularity, as the scandal is
considered utterly unpardonable.  The Crown Prince has left hurriedly
for Vienna in order to confer with the Emperor, who, it is rumoured, has
issued an edict withdrawing from the Princess her title, and all her
rights as an Imperial Archduchess, and her decorations, as well as
forbidding her to use the Imperial arms.  The excitement in the city of
Treysa is intense, but in the Court circle everything is, of course,
denied, the King having forbidden the press to mention or comment upon
the matter in any way.  Reuter's correspondent, however, has, from
private sources within the palace, been able to substantiate the above
report, which, vague though it may be, is no doubt true, and the details
of which are already known in all the Courts of Europe.  It is thought
probable in Treysa that the Crown Prince Ferdinand will at once seek a
divorce, for certain of the palace servants, notably the
lady-in-waiting, the Countess de Trauttenberg, have come forward and
made some amazing statements.  A Council of Ministers is convened for
to-morrow, at which his Majesty will preside."

"De Trauttenberg!" exclaimed the Princess bitterly between her teeth.
"The spy!  I wonder what lies she has invented."

She saw the two Englishmen with their eyes still upon her, therefore she
tried to control her feelings.  What she had read was surely sufficient
to rouse her blood.  She returned to her room.  "I am no longer popular
with the people!" she thought to herself.  "They too believe ill of me!
My enemies have, alas! triumphed."  She re-read the telegram with its
bold heading--the announcement which had startled Europe two days
before--and then with a low sigh replaced the paper upon the table.

This crisis she had foreseen.  The Court had given those facts to the
press correspondent because they intended to hound her down as an
infamous and worthless woman, because they had conspired to drive her
out of Treysa; and victory was now theirs.

But none of the tourist crowd in the Schweizerhof ever dreamed that the
cheaply-dressed, demure little widow was the notorious woman whom all;
the world was at that moment discussing--the royal Ionian who had boldly
cast aside a crown.

What she read caused her to bite her lips till they bled.  She returned
to her room, and sat for an hour plunged in bitter tears.  All the world
was against her, and she had no single person in whom to confide, or of
whom to seek assistance.

That night, acting upon a sudden impulse, she took little Ignatia with
her, and left by the mail by way of Bale for Paris, where she might the
better conceal herself and the grief that was slowly consuming her brave
young heart.

The journey was long and tedious.  There was no _wagon-lit_, and the
child, tired out, grew peevish and restless.  Nevertheless, half an hour
before noon next day the express ran at last into the Gare de l'Est, and
an elderly, good-natured, grave-looking man in black, with a bright red
tie, took her dressing-bag and gallantly assisted her to alight.  She
was unused to travelling with the public, for a royal saloon with bowing
servants and attendants had always been at her disposal; therefore, when
the courteous old fellow held out his hand for her bag, she quite
mechanically gave it to him.

Next instant, however, even before she had realised it, the man had
disappeared into the crowd of alighting passengers.

The truth flashed upon her in a second.

All her magnificent jewels had been stolen!

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

IN SECRET.

Realising her loss, the Princess quickly informed one of the station
officials, who shouted loudly to the police at the exit barrier that a
theft had been committed, and next moment all was confusion.

Half a dozen police agents, as well as some gardes in uniform, appeared
as though by magic, and while the exit was closed, preventing the weary
travellers who had just arrived from leaving, an inspector of police
came up and made sharp inquiry as to her loss.

In a moment a knot of inquisitive travellers gathered around her.

"A man wearing a bright red cravat has taken my dressing-bag, and made
off with it.  All my jewels are in it!"  Claire exclaimed excitedly.

"Pardon, madame," exclaimed the police official, a shrewd-looking
functionary with fair, pointed beard, "what was the dressing-bag like?"

"A crocodile one, covered with a black waterproof cover."

"And the man wore a red tie?"

"Yes.  He was dressed in black, and rather elderly.  His red tie
attracted me."

For fully a quarter of an hour the iron gate was kept closed while,
accompanied by the inspector and two agents, she went among the crowd
trying to recognise the gallant old fellow who had assisted her to
alight.  But she was unable.  Perhaps she was too agitated, for
misfortune seemed now to follow upon misfortune.  She had at the first
moment of setting foot in Paris lost the whole of her splendid jewels!

With the police agents she stood at the barrier when it was reopened,
and watched each person pass out; but, alas! she saw neither the man
with the red tie nor her dressing-bag.

And yet the man actually passed her unrecognised.  He was wearing a neat
black tie and a soft black felt hat in place of the grey one he had worn
when he had taken the bag from her hand.  He had the precious
dressing-case, but it was concealed within the serviceable pigskin
kit-bag which he carried.

She was looking for the grey hat, the red tie, and her own bag, but, of
course, saw none of them.

And so the thief, once outside the station, mounted into a fiacre and
drove away entirely unsuspected.

"Madame," exclaimed the inspector regretfully, when the platform had at
last emptied, "I fear you have been the victim of some clever
international thief.  It is one of the tricks of jewel-thieves to wear a
bright- tie by which the person robbed is naturally attracted.
Yet in a second, so deft are they, they can change both cravat and hat,
and consequently the person robbed fails to recognise them in the
excitement of the moment.  This is, I fear, what has happened in your
case.  But if you will accompany me to the office I will take a full
description of the missing property."

She went with him to the police-office on the opposite side of the great
station, and there gave, as far as she was able, a description of some
of the stolen jewels.  She, however, did not know exactly how many
ornaments there were, and as for describing them all, she was utterly
unable to do so.

"And Madame's name?" inquired the polite functionary.

She hesitated.  If she gave her real name the papers would at once be
full of her loss.

"Deitel," she answered.  "Baroness Deitel of Frankfort."

"And to what hotel is Madame going?"

She reflected a moment.  If she went to Ritz's or the Bristol she would
surely be recognised.  She had heard that the Terminus, at the Gare St.
Lazare, was a large and cosmopolitan place, where tourists stayed, so
she would go there.

"To the Terminus," was her reply.

Then, promising to report to her if any information were forthcoming
after the circulation of the description of the thief and of the stolen
property, he assisted her in obtaining her trunk, called a fiacre for
her, apologised that she should have suffered such loss, and then bowed
her away.

She pressed the child close to her, and staring straight before her,
held her breath.

Was it not a bad augury for the future?  With the exception of a French
bank-note for a thousand francs in her purse and a little loose change,
she was penniless as well as friendless.

At the hotel she engaged a single room, and remained in to rest after
her long, tiring journey.  With a mother's tender care her first thought
was for little Ignatia, who had stood wondering at the scene at the
station, and who, when her mother afterwards explained that the thief
had run away with her bag, declared that he was "a nasty, bad man."

On gaining her room at the hotel the Princess put her to bed, but she
remained very talkative, watching her mother unpack the things she had
purchased in Lucerne.

"Go to sleep, darling," said her mother, bending down and kissing her
soft little face.  "If you are very good Allen will come and see you
soon."

"Will she?  Then I'll be ever so good," was the child's reply; and thus
satisfied, she dropped off to sleep.

Having arranged the things in the wardrobe, the Princess stood at the
window gazing down upon the traffic in the busy Rue Saint Lazare, and
the cafes, crowded at the hour of the absinthe.  Men were crying "_La
Presse_" in strident voices below.  Paris is Paris always--bright, gay,
careless, with endless variety, a phantasmagoria of movement, the very
cinematograph of human life.  Yet how heavy a heart can be, and how
lonely is life, amid that busy throng, only those who have found
themselves in the gay city alone can justly know.

Her slim figure in neat black was a tragic one.  Her sweet face was
blanched and drawn.  She leaned her elbows upon the window-ledge, and
looking straight before her, reflected deeply.

"Is there any further misfortune to fall upon me, I wonder?" she asked
herself.  "The loss of my jewels means to me the loss of everything.  On
the money I could have raised upon them I could have lived in comfort in
some quiet place for years, without any application to my own lawyers.
Fate, indeed, seems against me," she sighed.  "Because I have lived an
honest, upright life, and have spoken frankly of my intention to sweep
clean the scandalous Court of Treysa, I am now outcast by both my
husband and by my father, homeless, and without money.  Many of the
people would help me, I know, but it must never be said that a Hapsbourg
sought financial aid of a commoner.  No, that would be breaking the
family tradition; and whatever evil the future may have in store for me
I will never do that."

"I wonder," she continued after a pause--"I wonder if the thief who took
my jewels knew of my present position, my great domestic grief and
unhappiness, whether he would not regret?  I believe he would.  Even a
thief is chivalrous to a woman in distress.  He evidently thinks me a
wealthy foreigner, however, and by to-night all the stones will be
knocked from their settings and the gold flung into the melting-pot.
With some of them I would not have parted for a hundred times their
worth--the small pearl necklace which my poor mother gave me when I was
a child, and my husband's first gift, and the Easter egg in diamonds.
Yet I shall never see them again.  They are gone for ever.  Even the
police agent held out but little hope.  The man, he said, was no doubt
an international thief, and would in an hour be on his way to the
Belgian or Italian frontier."

That was true.  Jewel-thieves, and especially the international gangs,
are the most difficult to trace.  They are past masters of their art,
excellent linguists, live expensively, and always pass as gentlemen
whose very title and position cause the victim to be unsuspicious.  The
French and Italian railways are the happy hunting-ground of these wily
gentry.  The night expresses to the Riviera, Rome, and Florence in
winter, and the "Luxe" services from Paris to Arcachon, Vichy, Lausanne,
or Trouville in summer, are well watched by them, and frequent hauls are
made, one of the favourite tricks being that of making feint to assist a
lady to descend and take her bag from her hand.

"I don't suppose," she sighed, "that I shall ever see or hear of my
ornaments again.  Yet I think that if the thief but knew the truth
concerning me he would regret.  Perhaps he is without means, just as I
am.  Probably he became a thief of sheer necessity, as I have heard many
men have become.  Criminal instinct is not always responsible for an
evil life.  Many persons try to live honestly, but fate is ever
contrary.  Indeed, is it not so with my own self?"

She turned, and her eyes fell upon the sleeping child.  She was all she
had now to care for in the whole wide world.

Recollections of her last visit to Paris haunted her--that visit when
Carl had so very indiscreetly followed her there, and taken her about
incognito in open cabs to see the sights.  There had been no harm in it
whatsoever, no more harm than if he had been her equerry, yet her
enemies had, alas! hurled against her their bitter denunciations, and
whispered their lies so glibly that they were believed as truth.  Major
Scheel, the attache at the Embassy, had recognised them, and being
Leitolf's enemy, had spread the report.  It had been a foolish caprice
of hers to take train from Aix-les-Bains to Paris to see her old French
nurse Marie, who had been almost as a mother to her.  The poor old
woman, a pensioned servant of the Archducal family, had, unfortunately,
died a month ago, otherwise she would have had a faithful, good friend
in Paris.  Marie, who knew Count Leitolf well, could have refuted their
allegations had she lived; but an attack of pneumonia had proved fatal,
and she had been buried with a beautiful wreath bearing the simple words
"From Claire" upon her coffin.

As the sunset haze fell over Paris she still sat beside the sleeping
child.  If her enemies condemned her, then she would not defend herself.
God, in whom she placed her fervent trust, should judge her.  She had
no fear of man's prejudices or misjudgment.  She placed her faith
entirely in her Maker.  To His will she bowed, for in His sight the
pauper and the princess are equal.

That evening she had a little soup sent to her room, and when Ignatia
was again sleeping soundly she went forth upon the balcony leading from
the corridor, and sitting there, amused herself by looking down upon the
life and movement of the great salon below.  To leave the hotel was
impossible because of Ignatia, and she now began to regret that she had
not brought the maid with her from Wartenstein.

Time after time the misfortune of the loss of her jewels recurred to
her.  It had destroyed her independence, and it had negatived all her
plans.  Money was necessary, even though she were an Imperial
Archduchess.  She was incognito, and therefore had no credit.

The gay, after-dinner scene of the hotel was presented below--the
flirtations, the heated conversations, and the lazy, studied attitudes
of the bloused English girl, who lolls about in cane lounge-chairs after
dining, and discusses plays and literature.  From her chair on the
balcony above she looked down upon that strange, changeful world--the
world of tourist Paris.  Born and bred at Court as she had been, it was
a new sensation to her to have her freedom.  The life was entirely fresh
to her, and would have been pleasant if there were not behind it all
that tragedy of her marriage.

Several days went by, and in order to kill time she took little Ignatia
daily in a cab and drove in the Bois and around the boulevards,
revisiting all the "sights" which Leitolf had shown her.  Each morning
she went out driving till the luncheon-hour, and having once lunched
with old Marie upstairs at the Brasserie Universelle in the Avenue de
l'Opera, she went there daily.

You probably know the place.  Downstairs it is an ordinary _brasserie_
with a few chairs out upon the pavement, but above is a smart restaurant
peculiarly Parisian, where the _hors d'oeuvres_ are the finest in
Eurorie and the _vin gris_ a speciality.  The windows whereat one sits
overlook the Avenue, and from eleven o'clock till three it is crowded.

She went there for two reasons--because it was small, and because the
life amused her.  Little Ignatia would sit at her side, and the pair
generally attracted the admiration of every one on account of their
remarkably good looks.  The habitues began inquiring of the waiters as
to who was the beautiful lady in black, but the men only elevated their
shoulders and exhibited their palms.  "A German," was all they could
answer.  "A great lady evidently."

That she attracted attention everywhere she was quite well aware, yet
she was not in the least annoyed.  As a royalty she was used to being
gazed upon.  Only when men smiled at her, as they did sometimes, she met
them with a haughty stare.  The superiority of her Imperial blood would
on such occasions assert itself, much to the confusion of would-be
gallants.

Thus passed those spring days with Paris at her gayest and best.  The
woman who had renounced a crown lived amid all that bright life, lonely,
silent, and unrecognised, her one anxiety being for the future of her
little one, who was ever asking when Allen would return.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

THE SHY ENGLISHMAN.

One afternoon about four o'clock, as the Princess, leading little
Ignatia, who was daintily dressed in white, was crossing the great hall
of the Hotel Terminus on her way out to drive in the Bois, a rather
slim, dark-haired man, a little under forty, well dressed in a
blue-serge suit, by which it required no second glance to tell that he
was an Englishman, rose shyly from a chair and bowed deeply before her.

At that hour there were only two or three elderly persons in the great
hall, all absorbed in newspapers.

She glanced at the stranger quickly and drew back.  At first she did not
recognise him, but an instant later his features became somehow
familiar, although she was puzzled to know where she had met him before.

Where he had bowed to her was at a safe distance from the few other
people in the hall; therefore, noticing her hesitation, the man
exclaimed in English with a smile,--

"I fear that your Imperial Highness does not recollect me, and I trust
that by paying my respects I am not intruding.  May I be permitted to
introduce myself?  My name is Bourne.  We met once in Treysa.  Do you
not recollect?"

In an instant the truth recurred to her, and she stood before him
open-mouthed.

"Why, of course!" she exclaimed.  "Am I ever likely to forget?  And yet
I saw so little of your face on that occasion that I failed now to
recognise you!  I am most delighted to meet you again, Mr. Bourne, and
to thank you."

"Thanks are quite unnecessary, Princess," he declared; whereupon in a
low voice she explained that she was there incognito, under the title of
the Baroness Deitel, and urged him not to refer to her true station lest
some might overhear.

"I know quite well that you are here incognito," he said.  "And this is
little Ignatia, is it?" and he patted the child's cheeks.  Then he
added, "Do you know I have had a very great difficulty in finding you.
I have searched everywhere, and was only successful this morning, when I
saw you driving in the Rue Rivoli and followed you here."

Was this man a secret agent from Treysa, she wondered.  In any case,
what did he want with her?  She treated him with courtesy, but was at
the same time suspicious of his motive.  At heart she was annoyed that
she had been recognised.  And yet was she not very deeply indebted to
him?

"Well, Mr. Bourne," said the Princess, drawing herself up, and taking
the child's hand again to go out, "I am very pleased to embrace this
opportunity of thanking you for the great service you rendered me.  You
must, however, pardon my failure to recognise you."

"It was only natural," the man exclaimed quickly.  "It is I who have to
apologise, your Highness," he whispered.  "I have sought you because I
have something of urgent importance to tell you.  I beg of you to grant
me an interview somewhere, where we are not seen and where we cannot be
overheard."

She looked at him in surprise.  The Englishman's request was a strange
one, yet from his manner she saw that he was in earnest.  Why, she
wondered, did he fear being seen with her?

"Cannot you speak here?" she inquired.

"Not in this room, among these people.  Are there not any smaller salons
upstairs? they would be empty at this hour.  If I recollect aright,
there is a small writing-room at the top of the stairs yonder.  I would
beg of your Highness to allow me to speak to you there."

"But what is this secret you have to tell me?" she inquired curiously.
"It surely cannot be of such a nature that you may not explain it in an
undertone here?"

"I must not be seen with you, Princess," he exclaimed quickly.  "I run
great risk in speaking with you here in public.  I will explain all if
you will only allow me to accompany you to that room."

She hesitated.  So ingenious had been the plots formed against her that
she had now grown suspicious of every one.  Yet this man was after all a
mystery, and mystery always attracted her, as it always attracts both
women and men equally.

So with some reluctance she turned upon her heel and ascended the
stairs, he following her at a respectful distance.

Their previous meeting had indeed been a strange one.

Fond of horses from her girlhood, she had in Treysa made a point of
driving daily in her high English dogcart, sometimes a single cob, and
sometimes tandem.  She was an excellent whip, one of the best in all
Germany, and had even driven her husband's coach on many occasions.  On
the summer's afternoon in question, however, she was driving a cob in
one of the main thoroughfares of Treysa, when of a sudden a motor car
had darted past, and the animal, taking fright, had rushed away into the
line of smart carriages approaching on the opposite side of the road.

She saw her peril, but was helpless.  The groom sprang out, but so
hurriedly that he fell upon his head, severely injuring himself; while
at that moment, when within an ace of disaster, a man in a grey flannel
suit sprang out from nowhere and seized the bridle, without, however, at
once stopping the horse, which reared, and turning, pinned the stranger
against a tree with the end of one of the shafts.

In an instant a dozen men, recognising who was driving, were upon the
animal, and held it; but the next moment she saw that the man who had
saved her had fallen terribly injured, the shaft having penetrated his
chest, and he was lying unconscious.

Descending, she gazed upon the white face, from the mouth of which blood
was oozing; and having given directions for his immediate conveyance to
the hospital and for report to be made to her as soon as possible, she
returned to the palace in a cab, and telephoned herself to the Court
surgeon, commanding him to do all in his power to aid the sufferer.

Next day she asked permission of the surgeon that she might see the
patient, to thank him and express her sympathy.  But over the telephone
came back the reply that the patient was not yet fit to see any one,
and, moreover, had expressed a desire that nobody should come near him
until he had quite recovered.

In the fortnight that went by she inquired after him time after time,
but all that she was able to gather was that his name was Guy Bourne,
and that he was an English banker's clerk from London, spending his
summer holiday in Treysa.  She sent him beautiful flowers from the royal
hothouses, and in reply received his thanks for her anxious inquiries.
He told the doctor that he hoped the Princess would not visit him until
he had quite recovered.  And this wish of his she had of course
respected.  His gallant action had, without a doubt, saved her from a
very serious accident, or she might even have lost her life.

Gradually he recovered from his injuries, which were so severe that for
several days his life was despaired of, and then when convalescent a
curious thing happened.

He one day got up, and without a word of thanks or farewell to doctors,
staff, or to the Crown Princess herself, he went out, and from that
moment all trace had been lost of him.

Her Highness, when she heard of this, was amazed.  It seemed to her as
though for some unexplained reason he had no wish to receive her thanks;
or else he was intent on concealing his real identity with some
mysterious motive or other.

She had given orders for inquiry to be made as to who the gallant
Englishman was; but although the secret agents of the Government had
made inquiry in London, their efforts had been futile.

It happened over two years ago.  The accident had slipped from her
memory, though more than once she had wondered who might be the man who
had risked his life to save hers, and had then escaped from Treysa
rather than be presented to her.

And now at the moment when she was in sore need of a friend he had
suddenly recognised her, and come forward to reveal himself!

Naturally she had not recognised in the dark, rather handsome face of
the well-dressed Englishman the white, bloodless countenance of the
insensible man with a brass-tipped cart-shaft through his chest.  And he
wanted to speak to her in secret?  What had he, a perfect stranger, to
tell her?

The small writing-room at the top of the stairs was fortunately empty,
and a moment later he followed her into it, and closed the door.

Little Ignatia looked with big, wondering eyes at the stranger.  The
Princess seated herself in a chair, and invited the Englishman to take
one.

"Princess," he said in a refined voice, "I desire most humbly to
apologise for making myself known to you, but it is unfortunately
necessary."

"Unfortunately?" she echoed.  "Why unfortunately, Mr. Bourne, when you
risked your life for mine?  At that moment you only saw a woman in grave
peril; you were not aware of my station."

"That is perfectly true," he said quietly.  "When they told me at the
hospital who you were, and when you sent me those lovely flowers and
fruit, I was filled with--well, with shame."

"Why with shame?" she asked.  "You surely had no need to be ashamed of
your action?  On the contrary, the King's intention was to decorate you
on account of your brave action, and had already given orders for a
letter to be sent to your own King in London, asking his Majesty to
allow you as a British subject to receive and wear the insignia of the
Order of the Crown and Sword."

"And I escaped from Treysa just in time," he laughed.  Then he added,
"To tell you the truth, Princess, it is very fortunate that I left
before--well, before you could see me, and before his Majesty could
confer the decoration."

"But why?" she asked.  "I must confess that your action in escaping as
you did entirely mystified me."

"You were annoyed that I was ungentlemanly enough to run away without
thanking your Highness for all your solicitude on my behalf, and for
sending the surgeon of the royal household to attend to my injuries.
But, believe me, I am most deeply and sincerely grateful.  It was not
ingratitude which caused me to leave Treysa in secret as I did, but my
flight was necessary."

"Necessary?  I don't understand you."

"Well, I had a motive in leaving without telling any one."

"Ah, a private motive!" she said--"something concerning your own private
affairs, I suppose?"

He nodded in the affirmative.  How could he tell her the truth?

His disinclination to explain the reason puzzled her sorely.  That he
was a gallant man who had saved a woman without thought of praise or of
reward was proved beyond doubt, yet there was something curiously
mysterious about him which attracted her.  Other men would have at least
been proud to receive the thanks and decoration of a reigning sovereign,
while he had utterly ignored them.  Was he an anarchist?

"Princess," he said at last, rising from his chair and flushing
slightly, "the reason I have sought you to-day is not because of the
past, but is on account of the present."

"The present! why?"

"I--I hardly know what to say, Princess," he said confusedly.  "Two
years ago I fled from you because you should not know the truth--because
I was in fear.  And now Fate brings me again in your path in a manner
which condemns me."

"Mr. Bourne, why don't you speak more plainly?  These enigmas I really
cannot understand.  You saved my life, or at least saved me from a very
serious accident, and yet you escaped before I could thank you
personally.  To-day you have met me, and you tell me that you escaped
because you feared to meet me."

"It is the truth, your Highness.  I feared to meet you," he said, "and,
believe me, I should not have sought you to-day were it not of most
urgent necessity."

"But why did you fear to meet me?"

"I did not wish you to discover what I really am," he said, his face
flushing with shame.

"Are you so very timid?" she asked with a light laugh.

But in an instant she grew serious.  She saw that she had approached
some sore subject, and regretted.  The Englishman was a strange person,
to say the least, she thought.

"I have nothing to say in self-defence, Princess," he said very simply.
"The trammels of our narrow world are so hypocritical, our laws so
farcical and full of incongruities, and our civilisation so fraught with
the snortings of Mother Grundy, that I can only tell you the truth and
offer no defence.  I know from the newspapers of your present perilous
position, and of what is said against you.  If you will permit me to say
so, you have all my sympathy."  And he paused and looked straight into
her face, while little Ignatia gazed at him in wonder.

"I wonder if your Highness will forgive me if I tell you the truth?" he
went on, as though speaking to himself.

"Forgive you?  Why, of course," she laughed.  "What is there to
forgive?"

"Very much, Princess," he said gravely.  "I--I'm ashamed to stand here
before you and confess; yet I beg of you to forgive me, and to accept my
declaration that the fault is not entirely my own."

"The fault of what?" she inquired, not understanding him.

"I will speak plainly, because I know that your good nature and your
self-avowed indebtedness to me--little as that indebtedness is--will not
allow you to betray me," he said in a low, earnest tone.  "You will
recollect that on your Highness's arrival at the Gare de l'Est your
dressing-bag was stolen, and within it were your jewels--your most
precious possession at this critical moment of your life?"

"Yes," she said in a hard voice of surprise, her brows contracting, for
she was not yet satisfied as to the stranger's _bona fides_.  "My bag
was stolen."

"Princess," he continued, "let me, in all humility, speak the truth.
The reason of my escape from Treysa was because your police held a
photograph of me, and I feared that I might be identified.  I am a
thief--one of an international gang.  And--and I pray you to forgive me,
and to preserve my secret," he faltered, his cheeks again colouring.
"Your jewels are intact, and in my possession.  You can now realise
quite plainly why--why I escaped from Treysa!"

She held her breath, staring at him utterly stupefied.  This man who had
saved her, and so nearly lost his own life in the attempt, was a thief!

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

LIGHT FINGERS.

Her Highness was face to face with one of those clever international
criminals whose _coups_ were so constantly being reported in the
Continental press.

She looked straight into his countenance, a long, intense look, half of
reproach, half of surprise, and then, in a firm voice, said,--

"Mr. Bourne, I owe you a very great debt.  To-day I will endeavour to
repay it.  Your secret, and the secret of the theft, shall remain mine."

"And you will give no information to the police?" he exclaimed
quickly--"you promise that?"

"I promise," she said.  "I admire you for your frankness.  But, tell
me--it was not you who took my bag at the station?"

"No.  But it was one of us," he explained.  "When the bag containing the
jewels was opened I found, very fortunately, several letters addressed
to you--letters which you evidently brought with you from Treysa.  Then
I knew that the jewels were yours, and determined, if I could find you,
to restore them to you with our apologies."

"Why?" she asked.  "You surely do not get possession of jewels of that
value every day?"

"No, Princess.  But the reason is, that although my companions are
thieves, they are not entirely devoid of the respect due to a woman.
They have read in the newspapers of your domestic unhappiness, and of
your flight with the little Princess, and have decided that to rob a
defenceless woman, as you are at this moment, is a cowardly act.  Though
we are thieves, we still have left some vestige of chivalry."

"And your intention is really to restore them to me?" she remarked, much
puzzled at this unexpected turn of fortune.

"Yes, had I not found those letters among them, I quite admit that, by
this time, the stones would have been in Amsterdam and re-cut out of all
recognition," he said, rather shamefacedly.  Then, taking from his
pocket the three letters addressed to her--letters which she had carried
away from Treysa with her as souvenirs--he handed them to her, saying,--

"I beg of you to accept these back again.  They are better in your
Imperial Highness's hands than my own."

Her countenance went a trifle pale as she took them, and a sudden
serious thought flashed through her mind.

"Your companions have, I presume, read what is contained in these?"

"No, Princess; they have not.  I read them, and seeing to whom they were
addressed, at once took possession of them.  I only showed my companions
the addresses."

She breathed more freely.

"Then, Mr. Bourne, I am still more deeply in your debt," she declared;
"you realised that those letters contained a woman's secret, and you
withheld it from the others.  How can I sufficiently thank you?"

"By forgiving me," he said.  "Remember, I am a thief, and if you wished
you could call the hotel manager and have me arrested."

"I could hardly treat in that way a man who has acted so nobly and
gallantly as you have," she remarked, with perfect frankness.  "If those
letters had fallen into other hands they might, have found their way
back to the Court, and to the King."

"I understand perfectly," he said, in a low voice.  "I saw by the dates,
and gathered from the tenor in which they were written that they
concealed some hidden romance.  To expose what was written there would
have surely been a most cowardly act--meaner even than stealing a
helpless, ill-judged woman's jewels.  No, Princess," he went on; "I beg
that although I stand before you a thief, to whom the inside of a gaol
is no new experience, a man who lives by his wits and his agility and
ingenuity in committing theft, you will not entirely condemn me.  I
still, I hope, retain a sense of honour."

"You speak like a gentleman," she said.  "Who were your parents?"

"My father, Princess, was a landed proprietor in Norfolk.  After college
I went to Sandhurst, and then entered the British Army; but gambling
proved my ruin, and I was dismissed in disgrace for the forgery of a
bill in the name of a brother officer.  As a consequence, my father left
me nothing, as I was a second son; and for years I drifted about
England, an actor in a small travelling company; but gradually I fell
lower and lower, until one day in London I met a well-known
card-sharper, who took me as his partner, and together we lived well in
the elegant rooms to which we inveigled men and there cheated them.  The
inevitable came at last--arrest and imprisonment.  I got three years,
and after serving it, came abroad and joined Roddy Redmayne's gang, with
whom I am at present connected."

The career of the man before her was certainly a strangely adventurous
one.  He had not told her one tithe of the remarkable romance of his
life.  He had been a gentleman, and though now a jewel thief, he still
adhered to the traditions of his family whenever a woman was concerned.
He was acute, ingenious beyond degree, and a man of endless resource,
yet he scorned to rob a woman who was poor.

The Princess Claire, a quick reader of character, saw in him a man who
was a criminal, not by choice, but by force of circumstance.  He was now
still suffering from that false step he had taken in imitating his
brother officer's signature and raising money upon the bill.  However
she might view his actions, the truth remained that he had saved her
from a terrible accident.

"Yours has been an unfortunate career, Mr. Bourne," she remarked.  "Can
you not abandon this very perilous profession of yours?  Is there no way
by which you can leave your companions and lead an honest life?"

When she spoke she made others feel how completely the purely natural
and the purely ideal can blend into each other, yet she was a woman
breathing thoughtful breath, walking in all her natural loveliness with
a heart as frail-strung, as passion-touched, as ever fluttered in a
female bosom.

"Ah, Princess!" he cried earnestly, "I beg of you not to reproach me;
willingly I would leave it all.  I would welcome work and an honest
life; but, alas! nowadays it is too late.  Besides, who would take me in
any position of trust, with my black record behind me?  Nobody."  And he
shook his head.  "In books one reads of reformed thieves, but there are
none in real life.  A thief, when once a thief, must remain so till the
end of his days--of liberty."

"But is it not a great sacrifice to your companions to give up my
jewellery?" she asked in a soft, very kindly voice.  "They, of course,
recognise its great value?"

"Yes," he smiled.  "Roddy, our chief, is a good judge of stones--as
good, probably, as the experts at Spink's or Streeter's.  One has to be
able to tell good stuff from rubbish when one deals in diamonds, as we
do.  Such a quantity of fake is worn now, and, as you may imagine, we
don't care to risk stealing paste."

"But how cleverly my bag was taken!" she said.  "Who took it?  He was an
elderly man."

"Roddy Redmayne," was Bourne's reply.  "The man who, if your Highness
will consent to meet him, will hand it back to you intact."

"You knew, I suppose, that it contained jewels?"

"We knew that it contained something of value.  Roddy was advised of it
by telegraph from Lucerne."

"From Lucerne?  Then one of your companions was there?"

"Yes, at your hotel.  An attempt was made to get it while you were on
the platform awaiting the train for Paris, but you kept too close a
watch.  Therefore, Roddy received a telegram to meet you upon your
arrival in Paris, and he met you."

What he told her surprised her.  She had been quite ignorant of any
thief making an attempt to steal the bag at Lucerne, and she now saw how
cleverly she had been watched and met.

"And when am I to meet Mr. Redmayne?" she asked.

"At any place and hour your Imperial Highness will appoint," was his
reply.  "But, of course, I need not add that you will first give your
pledge of absolute secrecy--that you will say nothing to the police of
the way your jewels have been returned to you."

"I have already given my promise.  Mr. Redmayne may rely upon my
silence.  Where shall we fix the meeting?  Here?"

"No, no," he laughed--"not in the hotel.  There is an agent of police
always about the hall.  Indeed, I run great risk of being recognised,
for I fear that the fact of your having reported your loss to the police
at the station has set Monsieur Hamard and his friends to watch for us.
You see, they unfortunately possess our photographs.  No.  It must be
outside--say at some small, quiet cafe at ten o'clock to-night, if it
will not disturb your Highness too much."

"Disturb me?" she laughed.  "I ought to be only too thankful to you both
for restoring my jewels to me."

"And we, on our part, are heartily ashamed of having stolen them from
you.  Well, let us say at the Cafe Vachette, a little place on the
left-hand side of the Rue de Seine.  You cross the Pont des Arts, and
find it immediately; or better, take a cab.  Remember, the Vachette, in
the Rue de Seine, at ten o'clock.  You will find us both sitting at one
of the little tables outside, and perhaps your Highness will wear a
thick veil, for a pretty woman in that quarter is so quickly noticed."

She smiled at his final words, but promised to carry out his directions.
Surely it was a situation unheard of--an escaped princess making a
rendezvous with two expert thieves in order to receive back her own
property.

"Then we shall be there awaiting you," he said.  "And now I fear that
I've kept you far too long, Princess.  Allow me to take my leave."

She gave him her hand, and thanked him warmly, saying--

"Though your profession is a dishonourable one, Mr. Bourne, you have,
nevertheless, proved to me that you are at heart still a gentleman."

"I am gratified that your Imperial Highness should think so," he
replied, and bowing, withdrew, and stepped out of the hotel by the
restaurant entrance at the rear.  He knew that the agent of police was
idling in the hall that led out into the Rue St. Lazare, and he had no
desire to run any further risk of detection, especially while that bag
with its precious contents remained in the shabby upstairs room in the
Rue Lafayette.

Her Highness took little Ignatia and drove in a cab along the Avenue des
Champs Elysees, almost unable to realise the amazing truth of what her
mysterious rescuer of two years ago had revealed to her.  She now saw
plainly the reason he had left Treysa in secret.  He was wanted by the
police, and feared that they would recognise him by the photograph sent
from the Prefecture in Paris.  And now, on a second occasion, he was
serving her against his own interests, and without any thought of
reward!

With little Ignatia prattling at her side, she drove along, her mind
filled with that strange interview and the curious appointment that she
had made for that evening.

Later that day, after dining in the restaurant, she put Ignatia to bed
and sat with her till nine o'clock, when, leaving her asleep, she put on
a jacket, hat, and thick veil--the one she had worn when she escaped
from the palace--and locking the door, went out.

In the Rue St. Lazare she entered a cab and drove across the Pont des
Arts, alighting at the corner of the Rue de Seine, that long, straight
thoroughfare that leads up to the Arcade of the Luxembourg, and walked
along on the left-hand side in search of the Cafe Vachette.

At that hour the street was almost deserted, for the night was chilly,
with a boisterous wind, and the small tables outside the several
uninviting cafes and _brasseries_ were mostly deserted.  Suddenly,
however, as she approached a dingy little place where four tables stood
out upon the pavement, two on either side of the doorway, a man's figure
rose, and with hat in hand, came forward to meet her.

She saw that it was Bourne, and with scarcely a word, allowed herself to
be conducted to the table where an elderly, grey-haired man had risen to
meet her.

"This is Mr. Redmayne," explained Bourne, "if I may be permitted to
present him to you."

The Princess smiled behind her veil, and extended her hand.  She
recognised him in an instant as the gallant old gentleman in the bright
red cravat, who, on pretence of assisting her to alight, had made off
with her bag.

She, an Imperial Archduchess, seated herself there between the pair of
thieves.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

IN WHICH "THE MUTE" IS REVEALED.

When, in order to save appearances, Bourne had ordered her a _bock_,
Roddy Redmayne bent to her, and in a low whisper said,--

"I beg, Princess, that you will first accept my most humble apologies
for what I did the other day.  As to your Highness's secrecy, I place
myself entirely in your hands."

"I have already forgiven both Mr. Bourne and yourself," was her quiet
answer, lifting her veil and sipping the _bock_, in order that her
hidden face should not puzzle the waiter too much.  "Your friend has
told me that, finding certain letters in the bag, you discovered that it
belonged to me."

"Exactly, and we were all filled with regret," said the old thief.  "We
have heard from the newspapers of your flight from Treysa, owing to your
domestic unhappiness, and we decided that it would be a coward's action
to take a woman's jewels in such circumstances.  Therefore we resolved
to try and discover you and to hand them back intact."

"I am very grateful," was her reply.  "But is it not a considerable
sacrifice on your part?  Had you disposed of them you would surely have
obtained a good round sum?"

The man smiled.

"We will not speak of sacrifice, your Highness," the old fellow said.
"If you forgive us and accept back your property, it is all that we ask.
I am ashamed, and yet at the same time gratified, that you, an Imperial
Princess, should offer me your hand, knowing who and what I am."

"Whatever you may be, Mr. Redmayne," she said, "you have shown yourself
my friend."

"And I am your friend; I'll stand your friend, Princess, in whatever
service you may command me," declared the keen-eyed old man, who was
acknowledged by the Continental police to be one of the cleverest
criminals in the length and breadth of Europe.  "We have discovered that
you are alone here; but remember that you are not friendless.  We are
your friends, even though the world would call us by a very ugly name--a
gang of thieves."

"I can only thank you," she sighed.  "You are extremely good to speak
like this.  It is true that misfortune has fallen upon me, and being
friendless, it is reassuring to know that I have at least two persons in
Paris ready to perform any service I require.  Mr. Bourne once rendered
me a very great service, but refused to accept any reward."  And she
added, laughing, "He has already explained the reason of his hurried
departure from Treysa."

"Our departures are often hurried ones, your Highness," he said.  "Had
we not discovered that the jewels were yours, we should in an hour have
dispersed, one to England, one to Germany, and one to Amsterdam.  But in
order to discover you we remained here, and risked being recognised by
the police, who know me, and are aware of my profession.  To-morrow we
leave Paris, for already Hamard's agents, suspecting me of the theft,
are searching everywhere to discover me."

"But you must not leave before I make you some reward," she said.
"Where are the jewels?"

"In that closed cab.  Can you see it away yonder?" and he pointed to the
lights of a vehicle standing some distance up the street.  "Kinder, one
of our friends, has it with him.  Shall we get into the cab and drive
away?  Then I will restore the bag to you, and if I may advise your
Highness, I would deposit it in the Credit Lyonnais to-morrow.  It is
not safe for a woman alone to carry about such articles of great value.
There are certain people in Paris who would not hesitate to take your
life for half the sum they represent."

"Thank you for your advice, Mr. Redmayne," she said.  "I will most
certainly take it."

"Will your Highness walk to the cab with me?"  Bourne asked, after he
had paid the waiter.  "You are not afraid to trust yourself with us?" he
added.

"Not at all," she laughed.  "Are you not my friends?"  And she rose and
walked along the street to where the cab was in waiting.  Within the
vehicle was a man whom he introduced to her as Mr. Kinder, and when all
four were seated within, Bourne beside her and Redmayne opposite her,
the elder man took the precious bag from Kinder's hand and gave it to
her, saying,--

"We beg of your Highness to accept this, with our most humble apologies.
You may open it and look within.  You will not, I think, find anything
missing," he added.

She took the dressing-bag, and opening it, found within it the cheap
leather bag she had brought from Treysa.  A glance inside showed her
that the jewels were still there, although there were so many that she,
of course, did not count them.

For a few moments she remained in silence; then thanking the two for
their generosity, she said,--

"I cannot accept their return without giving you some reward, Mr.
Redmayne.  I am, unfortunately, without very much money, but I desire
you to accept these--if they are really worth your acceptance," and
taking from the bag a magnificent pair of diamond earrings she gave them
into his hand.  "You, no doubt, can turn them into money," she added.

The old fellow, usually so cool and imperturbable, became at once
confused.

"Really, Princess," he declared, "we could not think of accepting these.
You, perhaps, do not realise that they are worth at least seven hundred
pounds."

"No; I have no idea of their value.  I only command you to accept them
as a slight acknowledgment of my heartfelt gratitude."

"But--"

"There are no buts.  Place them in your pocket, and say nothing
further."

A silence again fell between them, while the cab rolled along the
asphalte of the boulevard.

Suddenly Bourne said,--

"Princess, you cannot know what a weight of anxiety your generous gift
has lifted off our minds.  Roddy will not tell you, but it is right that
you should know.  The fact is that at this moment we are all three
almost penniless--without the means of escape from Paris.  The money we
shall get for those diamonds will enable us to get away from here in
safety."

She turned and peered into his face, lit by the uncertain light of the
street lamps.  In his countenance she saw a deep, earnest look.

"Then the truth is that without money to provide means of escape you
have even sacrificed your chances of liberty, in order to return my
jewels to me!" she exclaimed, for the first time realising the true
position.

He made no response; his silence was an affirmative.  Kinder, who had
spoken no word, sat looking at her, entirely absorbed by her grace and
beauty.

"Well," she exclaimed at last, "I wonder if you would all three do me
another small favour?"

"We shall be only too delighted," was Bourne's quick reply.  "Only
please understand, your Highness, that we accept these earrings out of
pure necessity.  If we were not so sorely in need of money, we should
most certainly refuse."

"Do not let us mention them again," she said quickly.  "Listen.  The
fact is this.  I have very little ready money, and do not wish at this
moment to reveal my whereabouts by applying to my lawyers in Vienna or
in Treysa.  Therefore it will be best to sell some of my jewellery--say
one thousand pounds' worth.  Could you arrange this for me?"

"Certainly," Roddy replied, "with the greatest pleasure.  For that
single row diamond necklet we could get from a thousand to twelve
hundred pounds--if that amount is sufficient."

She reopened the bag, and after searching in the fickle light shed by
the street lamps she at length pulled out the necklet in question--one
of the least valuable of the heap of jewels that had been restored to
her in so curious and romantic a manner.

The old jewel thief took it, weighed it in his hand, and examined it
critically under the feeble light.  He had already valued it on the day
when he had secured it.  It was worth in the market about four thousand
pounds, but in the secret channel where he would sell it he would not
obtain more than twelve hundred for it, as, whatever he said, the
purchaser would still believe it to be stolen property, and would
therefore have the stones recut and reset.

"You might try Pere Perrin," Guy remarked.  "It would be quicker to take
it to him than to send it to Amsterdam or Leyden."

"Or why not old Lestocard, in Brussels?  He always gives decent prices,
and is as safe as anybody," suggested Kinder.

"Is time of great importance to your Highness?" asked the head of the
association, speaking with his decidedly Cockney twang.

"A week or ten days--not longer," she replied.

"Then we will try Pere Perrin to-morrow, and let you know the result.
Of course, I shall not tell him whose property it is.  He will believe
that we have obtained it in the ordinary way of our profession.  Perrin
is an old Jew who lives over at Batignolles, and who asks no questions.
The stuff he buys goes to Russia or to Italy."

"Very well.  I leave it to you to do your best for me, Mr. Redmayne,"
was her reply.  "I put my trust in you implicitly."

"Your Imperial Highness is one of the few persons--beyond our own
friends here--who do.  To most people Roddy Redmayne is a man not to be
trusted, even as far as you can see him!" and he grinned, adding, "But
here we are at the Pont d'Austerlitz.  Harry and I will descend, and
you, Bourne, will accompany the Princess to her hotel."

Then he shouted an order to the man to stop, and after again receiving
her Highness's warmest thanks, the expert thief and his companion
alighted, and, bowing to her, disappeared.

When the cab moved on again towards the Place de la Bastille, she turned
to the Englishman beside her, saying--

"I owe all this to you, Mr. Bourne, and I assure you I feel most deeply
grateful.  One day I hope I may be of some service to you, if," and she
paused and looked at him--"well, if only to secure your withdrawal from
a criminal life."

"Ah, Princess," he sighed wistfully, "if I only could see my way clear
to live honestly!  But to do so requires money, money--and I have none.
The gentlemanly dress which you see me wearing is only an imposture and
a fraud--like all my life, alas! nowadays."

She realised that this man, a gentleman by birth, was eager to extricate
himself from the low position into which he had, by force of adverse
circumstances, fallen.  He was a cosmopolitan of cosmopolitans, a quiet,
slow-speaking, slightly built, high-browed, genial-souled man, with his
slight, dark moustache, shrewd dark eyes, and a mouth that had humour
smiling at the corners; a man of middle height, his dark hair showing
the first sign of changing early to grey, and a countenance bitten and
scarred by all the winds and suns of the round globe; a wise and quiet
man, able to keep his own counsel, able to get his own end with few
words, and yet unable to shape his own destiny; a marvellous impostor,
the friend of men and women of the _haut monde_, who all thought him a
gentleman, and never for one instant suspected his true occupation.

Such was the man who had once risked his life for hers, the man who had
now returned her stolen jewels to her, and who was at that moment seated
at her side escorting her to her hotel on terms of intimate friendship.

She thought deeply over his bitter words of regret that he was what he
was.  Could she assist him, she wondered.  But how?

"Remain patient," she urged, in a calm, kindly tone.  "I shall never
forget my great indebtedness to you, and I will do my utmost in order
that you may yet realise your wish to lead an honest life.  At this
moment I am, like yourself, an outcast, wondering what the future may
have in store for me.  But be patient and hope, for it shall be my most
strenuous endeavour to assist you to realise your commendable desire."

"Ah! really your Highness is far too kind," he answered, in a voice that
seemed to her to falter in emotion.  "I only hope that some way will
open out to me.  I would welcome any appointment, however menial, that
took me out of my present shameful profession--that of a thief."

"I really believe you," she said.  "I can quite understand that it is
against the nature of a man of honour to find himself in your position."

"I assure you, Princess, that I hate myself," he declared in earnest
confidence.  "What greater humility can befall a man than to be
compelled to admit that he is a thief--as I admitted to you this
afternoon?  I might have concealed the fact, it is true, and have
returned the jewels anonymously; yet an explanation of the reason of my
sudden flight from Treysa after all your kindness was surely due to you.
And--well, I was forced to tell you the whole truth, and allow you to
judge me as you will."

"As I have already said, Mr. Bourne, your profession does not concern
me.  Many a man of note and of high position and power in the Ministries
of Europe commits far greater peculations than you do, yet is regarded
as a great man, and holds the favour of his sovereign until he commits
the unpardonable sin of being found out.  No, a man is not always what
his profession is."

"I thank you for regarding me in such a lenient light, your Highness,
and I only look forward with hope to the day when, by some turn of
Fortune's wheel, I gain the liberty to be honest," he answered.

"Remember, Mr. Bourne, that I am your friend; and I hope you are still
mine in return," she said, for the cab had now stopped at the corner of
the Rue d'Amsterdam, as he had ordered it, for it was running
unnecessary risk for him to drive with her up to the hotel.

"Thank you, Princess," he said earnestly, raising his hat, his dark,
serious eyes meeting hers.  "Let us be mutual friends, and perhaps we
can help each other.  Who knows?  When I lay in the hospital with my
chest broken in I often used to wonder what you would say if you knew my
real identity.  You, an Imperial Princess, were sending flowers and
fruit from the royal table to a criminal for whom half the police in
Europe were in active search!"

"Even an Imperial Princess is not devoid of gratitude," she said, when
he was out upon the pavement and had closed the door of the cab.

The vehicle moved forward to the hotel, and he was left there, bowing in
silence before her, his hat in his hand.

To the hall porter she gave the precious bag, with orders to send it at
once to her room, and then turned to pay the cabman.

But the man merely raised his white hat respectfully, saying,--

"Pardon, Madame, but I have already been paid."

Therefore she gave him a couple of francs as tip.

Then she ascended in the lift to her room, where a porter with the bag
was awaiting her, and unlocking the door, found that little Ignatia,
tired out by her afternoon drive, had not stirred.

Locking the door and throwing off her things, she opened the bag and
took out the magnificent ornaments one by one.  She had not counted them
before leaving the palace, therefore could not possibly tell if all were
intact.  In handfuls she took them out and laid them in a glittering
heap upon the dressing-table, when of a sudden she found among them a
small envelope containing something hard to the touch.

This she opened eagerly, and took out a cheap, tiny little brooch, about
half an inch long, representing a beetle, scarlet, with black spots--the
innocent little insect which has so interested all of us back in our
youthful days--a ladybird.

The ornament was a very cheap one, costing one franc at the outside, but
in the envelope with it was a letter.  This she opened, scanned the few
brief lines quickly, then re-read it very carefully, and stood staring
at the little brooch in her hand, puzzled and mystified.

The words written there revealed to her the existence of a secret.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

THE LADYBIRD.

The note enclosed with the cheap little brooch ran,--

"If your Imperial Highness will wear this always in a prominent
position, so that it can be seen, she will receive the assistance of
unknown friends."

That was all.  Yet it was surely a curious request, for her to wear that
cheap little ornament.

She turned it over in her hand, then placing it upon a black dress, saw
how very prominently the scarlet insect showed.

Then she replaced all the jewels in her bag and retired, full of
reflections upon her meeting with the friendly thieves and her curious
adventure.

Next morning she took the bag to the Credit Lyonnais, as Roddy Redmayne
had suggested, where it was sealed and a receipt for it was given her.
After that she breathed more freely, for the recovery of her jewels now
obviated the necessity of her applying either to her father or to
Treysa.

The little ladybird she wore, as old Roddy and his companions suggested,
and at the bank and in the shops a number of people glanced at it
curiously, without, of course, being aware that it was a secret symbol--
of what?  Claire wondered.

Both Roddy and Guy had told her that they feared to come to her at the
Terminus, as a detective was always lurking in the hall; therefore she
was not surprised to receive, about four o'clock, a note from Roddy
asking her to meet him at the Vachette at nine.

When Ignatia was asleep she took a cab to the dingy little place, where
she found Roddy smoking alone at the same table set out upon the
pavement, and joined him there.  She shook hands with him, and then was
compelled to sip the _bock_ he ordered.

"We will go in a moment," he whispered, so that a man seated near should
not overhear.  "I thought it best to meet you here rather than risk your
hotel.  Our friend Bourne asked me to present his best compliments.  He
left this morning for London."

"For London!  Why?"

"Because--well," he added, with a mysterious smile, "there were two
agents of police taking an undue interest in him, you know."

"Ah!" she laughed; "I understand perfectly."

The old thief, who wore evening dress beneath his light black overcoat,
smoked his cigar with an easy, nonchalant air.  He passed with every one
as an elderly Englishman of comfortable means; yet if one watched
closely his quick eyes and the cunning look which sometimes showed in
them, they would betray to the observer that he was a sly, ingenious old
fellow--a perfect past master of his craft.

Presently they rose, and after she had dismissed her cab, walked in
company along the narrow street, at that hour almost deserted.

"The reason I asked you here, your Highness, was to give you the
proceeds of the necklet.  I sold it to-day to old Perrin for twelve
hundred and sixty pounds.  A small price, but it was all he would give,
as, of course, he believed that I could never have come by it honestly,"
and he grinned broadly, taking from his pocket an envelope bulky with
French thousand-franc bank-notes and handing it to her.

"I am really very much obliged," she answered, transferring the envelope
to her pocket.  "You have rendered me another very great service, Mr.
Redmayne; for as a matter of fact I was almost at the end of my money,
and to apply for any would have at once betrayed my whereabouts."

"Ah, your Highness," replied the old thief, "you also have rendered me a
service; for with what you gave us last night we shall be able to leave
Paris at once.  And it is highly necessary, I can tell you, if we are to
retain our liberty."

"Oh! then you also are leaving," she exclaimed, surprised, as they
walked slowly side by side.  She almost regretted, for he had acted with
such friendliness towards her.

"Yes; it is imperative.  I go to Brussels, and Kinder to Ostend.  Are
you making a long stay here?"

"To-morrow I too may go; but I don't know where."

"Why not to London, Princess?" he suggested.  "My daughter Leucha is
there, and would be delighted to be of any service to you--act as your
maid or nurse to the little Princess.  She's a good girl, is Leucha."

"Is she married?" asked her Highness.

"No.  I trained her, and she's as shrewd and clever a young woman as
there is in all London.  She's a lady's maid," he added, "and to tell
you the truth--for you may as well know it at first as at last--she
supplies us with much valuable information.  She takes a place, for
instance, in London or in the country, takes note of where her lady's
jewels are kept, and if they are accessible, gives us all the details
how best to secure them, and then, on ground of ill-health, or an
afflicted mother, or some such excuse, she leaves.  And after a week or
two we just look in and see what we can pick up.  So clever is she that
never once has she been suspected," he added, with paternal pride.  "Of
course, it isn't a nice profession for a girl," he added apologetically,
"and I'd like to see her doing something honest.  Yet how can she? we
couldn't get on without her."

The Princess remained silent for a few moments.  Surely her life now was
a strange contrast to that at Treysa, mixing with criminals and becoming
the confidante of their secrets!

"I should like to meet your daughter," she remarked simply.

"If your Imperial Highness would accept her services, I'm sure she might
be of service to you.  She's a perfect maid, all the ladies have said;
and besides, she knows the world, and would protect you in your present
dangerous and lonely position.  You want a female companion--if your
Highness will permit me to say so--and if you do not object to my Leucha
on account of her profession, you are entirely welcome to her services,
which to you will be faithful and honest, if nothing else."

"You are very fond of her!" the Princess exclaimed.  "Very, your
Highness.  She is my only child.  My poor wife died when she was twelve,
and ever since that she has been with us, living upon her wits--and
living well too.  To confess all this to you I am ashamed; yet now you
know who and what I am, and you are our friend, it is only right that
you should be made aware of everything," the old fellow said frankly.

"Quite right.  I admire you for telling me the truth.  In a few days I
shall cross to London, and shall be extremely glad of your daughter's
services if you will kindly write to her."

"When do you think of leaving?"

"Well, probably the day after to-morrow, by the first service _via_
Calais."

"Then Leucha shall meet that train on arrival at Charing Cross.  She
will be dressed as a maid, in black, with a black straw sailor hat and a
white lace cravat.  She will at once enter your service.  The question
of salary will not be discussed.  You have assisted us, and it is our
duty to help you in return, especially at this most perilous moment,
when you are believed to have eloped with a lover."

"I'm sure you are very, very kind, Mr. Redmayne," she declared.  "Truth
to tell, it is so very difficult for me to know in whom to trust; I have
been betrayed so often.  But I have every confidence in both you and
your daughter; therefore I most gladly accept your offer, for, as you
say, I am sadly in need of some one to look after the child--some one,
indeed, in whom I can trust."  An exalted charm seemed to invest her
always.

"Well, your Highness," exclaimed the pleasant-faced old fellow, "you
have been kind and tolerant to us unfortunates, and I hope to prove to
you that even a thief can show his gratitude."

"You have already done so, Mr. Redmayne; and believe me, I am very much
touched by all that you have done--your actions are those of an honest
man, not those of an outlaw."

"Don't let us discuss the past, your Highness," he said, somewhat
confused by her kindly words; "let's think of the future--your own
future, I mean.  You can trust Leucha implicitly, and as the police,
fortunately, have no suspicion of her, she will be perfectly free to
serve you.  Hitherto she has always obtained employment with an ulterior
motive, but this fact, I hope, will not prejudice her in your eyes.  I
can only assure you that for her father's sake she will do anything, and
that for his sake she will serve you both loyally and well."  He halted
beneath a street lamp, and tearing a leaf from a small notebook, wrote
an address in Granville Gardens, Shepherd's Bush, which he gave to her,
saying: "This is in case you miss her at Charing Cross.  Send her a
letter, and she will at once come to you."

Again she thanked him, and they walked to the corner of the Boulevard
Saint Germain, where they halted to part.

"Remember, Princess, command me in any way," said the old man, raising
his hat politely.  "I am always at your service.  I have not concealed
anything from you.  Take me as I am, your servant."

"Thank you, Mr. Redmayne.  I assure you I deeply appreciate and am much
touched by your kindness to a defenceless woman.  _Au revoir_."  And
giving him her hand again, she mounted into a fiacre and drove straight
back to her hotel.

Her friendship with this gang of adventurers was surely giving a curious
turn to the current of strange events.  She, a woman of imperial birth,
had at last found friends, and among the class where one would hesitate
to look for them--the outcasts of society!  The more she reflected upon
the situation, the more utterly bewildering it was to her.  She was
unused as a child to the ways of the world.  Her life had always been
spent within the narrow confines of the glittering Courts of Europe, and
she had only known of "the people" vaguely.  Every hour she now lived
more deeply impressed her that "the people" possessed a great and loving
heart for the ill-judged and the oppressed.

At the hotel she counted the notes Roddy had given her, and found the
sum that he had named.  The calm, smiling old fellow was actually an
honest thief!

The following day she occupied herself in making some purchases, and in
the evening a police agent called in order to inform her that up to the
present nothing had been ascertained regarding her stolen jewels.  They
had knowledge of a gang of expert English jewel thieves being in Paris,
and were endeavouring to discover them.

The Princess heard what the man said, but, keeping her own counsel,
thanked him for his endeavours and dismissed him.  She congratulated
herself that Roddy and his two associates were already out of France.

On the following afternoon, about half-past four, when the Continental
express drew slowly into Charing Cross Station, where a knot of eager
persons as usual awaited its arrival, the Princess, leading little
Ignatia and wearing the ladybird as a brooch, descended from a
first-class compartment and looked about her in the bustling crowd of
arrivals.  A porter took her wraps and placed them in a four-wheeled cab
for her, and then taking her baggage ticket said,--

"You'll meet me yonder at the Custom 'ouse, mum," leaving her standing
by the cab, gazing around for the woman in black who was to be her maid.
For fully ten minutes, while the baggage was being taken out of the
train, she saw no one answering to Roddy's description of his daughter;
but at last from out of the crowd came a tall, slim, dark-haired, rather
handsome young woman, with black eyes and refined, regular features,
neatly dressed in black, wearing a sailor hat, a white lace cravat, and
black kid gloves.

As she approached the Princess smiled at her; whereupon the girl,
blushing in confusion, asked simply,--

"Is it the Crown Princess Claire? or am I mistaken?"

"Yes.  And you are Leucha Redmayne," answered her Highness, shaking
hands with her, for from the first moment she became favourably
impressed.

"Oh, your Highness, I really hope I have not kept you waiting," she
exclaimed concernedly.  "But father's letter describing you was rather
hurried and vague, and I've seen several ladies alone with little girls,
though none of them seemed to be--well, not one of them seemed to be a
Princess--only yourself.  Besides, you are wearing the little ladybird."

Her Highness smiled, explained that she was very friendly with her
father, who had suggested that she should enter her service as maid, and
expressed a hope that she was willing.

"My father has entrusted to me a duty, Princess," was the dark-eyed
girl's serious reply.  "And I hope that you will not find me wanting in
the fulfilment of it."

And then they went together within the Customs barrier and claimed the
baggage.

The way in which she did this showed the Princess at once that Leucha
Redmayne was a perfectly trained maid.

How many ladies, she wondered, had lost their jewels after employing
her?

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

LEUCHA MAKES CONFESSION.

Leucha Redmayne was, as her father had declared, a very clever young
woman.

She was known as "the Ladybird" on account of her habit of flitting from
place to place, constantly taking situations in likely families.  Most
of the ladies in whose service she had been had regretted when she left,
and many of them actually offered her higher wages to remain.  She was
quick and neat, had taken lessons in hairdressing and dressmaking in
Paris, could speak French fluently, and possessed that quiet, dignified
demeanour so essential to the maid of an aristocratic woman.

Her references were excellent.  A well-known Duchess--whose jewels,
however, had been too carefully guarded--and half a dozen other titled
ladies testified to her honesty and good character, and also to their
regret on account of her being compelled to leave their service;
therefore, armed with such credentials, she never had difficulty in
obtaining any situation that was vacant.

So ingenious was she, and so cleverly did she contrive to make her
excuses for leaving the service of her various mistresses, that nobody,
not even the most astute officers from Scotland Yard, ever suspected
her.

The case of Lady Harefield's jewels, which readers of the present
narrative of a royal scandal will well remember, was a typical one.
Leucha, who saw in the _Morning Post_ that Lady Harefield wanted a maid
to travel, applied, and at once obtained the situation.  She soon
discovered that her Ladyship possessed some extremely valuable diamonds;
but they were in the bank at Derby, near which town the country place
was situated.  She accompanied her Ladyship to the Riviera for the
season, and then returning to England found out that her mistress
intended to go to Court upon a certain evening, and that she would have
the diamonds brought up from Derby on the preceding day.  His Lordship's
secretary was to be sent for them.  As soon as she obtained this
information she was taken suddenly ill, and left Lady Harefield's
service to go back to her fictitious home in the country.  At once she
called her father and Bourne, with the result that on the day in
question, when Lord Harefield's secretary arrived at St. Pancras
Station, the bag containing the jewels disappeared, and was never again
seen.

More than once too, she had, by pre-arrangement with her father, left
her mistress's bedroom window open and the jewel-case unlocked while the
family were dining, with the result that the precious ornaments had been
mysteriously abstracted.  Many a time, after taking a situation, and
finding that her mistress's jewels were paste, she had calmly left at
the end of the week, feigning to be ill-tempered and dissatisfied, and
not troubling about wages.  If there were no jewels she never remained.
And wherever she chanced to be--in London, in the country, or up in
Scotland--either one or other of her father's companions was generally
lurking near to receive her secret communications.

Hers had from childhood been a life full of strange adventures, of
ingenious deceptions, and of clever subterfuge.  So closely did she keep
her own counsel that not a single friend was aware of her motive in so
constantly changing her employment; indeed, the majority of them put it
down to her own fickleness, and blamed her for not "settling down."

Such was the woman whom the Crown Princess Claire had taken into her
service.

At the Savoy, where she took up a temporary abode under the title of
Baroness Deitel of Frankfort, Leucha quickly exhibited her skill as
lady's maid.  Indeed, even Henriette was not so quick or deft as was
this dark-eyed young woman who was the spy of a gang of thieves.

While she dressed the Princess's hair, her Highness explained how her
valuable jewels had been stolen, and how her father had so generously
restored them to her.

"Guy--Mr. Bourne, I mean--has already told me.  He is back in London,
and is lying low because of the police.  They suspect him on account of
a little affair up in Edinburgh about three months ago."

"Where is he?" asked the Princess; "I would so like to see him."

"He is living in secret over at Hammersmith.  He dare not come here, I
think."

"But we might perhaps pay him a visit--eh?"

From the manner in which the girl inadvertently referred to Bourne by
his Christian name, her Highness suspected that they were fond of each
other.  But she said nothing, resolving to remain watchful and observe
for herself.

That same evening, after dinner, when Ignatia was sleeping, and they sat
together in her Highness's room overlooking the dark Thames and the long
lines of lights of the Embankment, "the Ladybird," at the Princess's
invitation, related one or two of her adventures, confessing openly to
the part she had played as her father's spy.  She would certainly have
said nothing had not her Highness declared that she was interested, and
urged her to tell her something of her life.  Though trained as an
assistant to these men ever since she had left the cheap boarding-school
at Weymouth, she hated herself for the despicable part she had played,
and yet, as she had often told herself, it had been of sheer necessity.

"Yes," she sighed, "I have had several narrow escapes of being suspected
of the thefts.  Once, when in Lady Milborne's service, down at Lyme
Regis, I discovered that she kept the Milborne heirlooms, among which
were some very fine old rubies--which are just now worth more than
diamonds in the market--in a secret cupboard in the wall of her bedroom,
behind an old family portrait.  My father, with Guy, Kinder, and two
others, were in the vicinity of the house ready to make the _coup_; and
I arranged with them that on a certain evening, while her Ladyship was
at dinner, I would put the best of the jewels into a wash-leather bag
and lower them from the window to where Guy was to be in waiting for
them in the park.  He was to cut the string and disappear with the bag,
while I would draw up the string and put it upon the fire.  Her Ladyship
seldom went to the secret cupboard, and some days might elapse before
the theft was discovered.  Well, on the evening in question I slipped up
to the bedroom, obtained the rubies and let them out of the window.  I
felt the string being cut, and hauling it back again quickly burnt it,
and then got away to another part of the house, hoping that her Ladyship
would not go to her jewels for a day or two.  In the meantime I dare not
leave her service, or suspicion might fall upon me.  Besides, the
Honourable George, her eldest son--a fellow with a rather bad reputation
for gambling and racing--was about to be married to the daughter of a
wealthy landowner in the neighbourhood; a most excellent match for him,
as the Milbornes had become poor owing to the depreciation in the value
of land.

"About two hours after I had let down the precious little bag I chanced
to be looking out into the park from my own window, and saw a man in the
public footway strike three matches in order to light his pipe--the
signal that my friends wanted to speak to me.  In surprise I slipped
out, and there found Guy, who, to my utter amazement, told me that they
had not received the bag; they had been forestalled by a tall man in
evening dress who had emerged from the Hall, and who chanced to be
walking up and down smoking when the bag dangled in front of him!
Imagine my feelings!

"Unfortunately I had not looked out, for fear of betraying myself; and
as it was the exact hour appointed, I felt certain that my friend would
be there.  The presence of the man in evening dress, however, deterred
them from emerging from the bushes, and they were compelled to remain
concealed and watch my peril.  The man looked up, and though the room
was in darkness, he could see my white apron.  Then in surprise he cut
the string, and having opened the bag in the light, saw what it
contained, placed it in his pocket, and re-entered the house.  Guy
described him, and I at once knew that it was the Honourable George, my
mistress's son.  He would no doubt denounce me as a thief.

"I saw the extreme peril of the situation.  I had acted clumsily in not
first ascertaining that the way was clear.  To fly at once was to
condemn myself.  I reflected for a moment, and then, resolving upon a
desperate course of action, returned to the house, in spite of Bourne's
counsel to get away as quickly as possible.  I went straight to her
Ladyship's room, but from the way she spoke to me saw that up to the
present her son had told her nothing.  This was fortunate for me.  He
was keeping the secret in order, no doubt, to call the police on the
morrow and accuse me in their presence.  I saw that the only way was to
bluff him; therefore I went very carefully to work.

"Just before midnight I slipped into his sitting-room, which adjoined
his bedroom, and secreted myself behind the heavy plush curtains that
were drawn; then when he was asleep I took the rubies from the drawer in
which he had placed them, but in doing so the lock of the drawer
clicked, and he awoke.  He saw me, and sprang up, openly accusing me of
theft.  Whereupon I faced him boldly, declaring that if he did not keep
his mouth closed I would alarm the household, who would find me alone in
his room at that hour.  He would then be compromised in the eyes of the
woman whom in two days he was about to marry.  Instantly he recognised
that I held the whip-hand.  He endeavoured, however, to argue; but I
declared that if he did not allow me to have the rubies to replace in
the cupboard and maintain silence, I would arouse the household.  Then
he laughed, saying, `You're a fool, Leucha.  I'm very hard up, and you
quite providentially lowered them down to me.  I intend to raise money
on them to-morrow.'  `And to accuse me!'  I said.  `No, you don't.  I
shall put them back, and we will both remain silent.  Both of us have
much to lose--you a wife, and I my liberty.  Why should either of us
risk it?  Is it really worth while?'  This argument decided him.  I
replaced the jewels, and next day left Lady Milborne's service.

"That was, however, one of the narrowest escapes I ever had, and it
required all my courage to extricate myself, I can tell you."

"So your plots were not always successful," remarked the Princess,
smiling and looking at her wonderingly.  She was surely a girl of great
resource and ingenuity.

"Not always, your Highness.  One, which father had planned here a couple
of months ago, and which was to be effected in Paris, has just failed in
a peculiar way.  The lady went to Paris, and, unknown to her husband,
suddenly sold all her jewels _en masse_ in order to pay her debts at
bridge."

"She forestalled him!"

"Exactly," laughed the girl.  "But it was a curious _contretemps_, was
it not?"

Next day proved an eventful one to the Crown Princess, for soon after
eleven o'clock, when with Leucha and Ignatia she went out of the hotel
into the Strand, a man selling the _Evening News_ held a poster before
her, bearing in large capitals the words:--

EVENING NEWS, FRIDAY, JUNE 26th.

DEATH OF THE KING OF MARBURG.

EVENING NEWS.

She halted, staring at the words.

Then she bought a newspaper, and opening it at once upon the pavement,
amid the busy throng, learnt that the aged King had died suddenly at
Treysa, on the previous evening, of senile decay.

The news staggered her.  Her husband had succeeded, and she was now
Queen--a reigning sovereign!

In the cruelly wronged woman there still remained all the fervour of
youthful tenderness, all the romance of youthful fancy, all the
enchantment of ideal grace--the bloom of beauty, the brightness of
intellect, and the dignity of rank, taking the peculiar hue from the
conjugal character which shed over all like a consecration and a holy
charm.  Thoughts of her husband, the man who had so cruelly ill-judged
her, were in her recollections, acting on her mind with the force of a
habitual feeling, heightened by enthusiastic passion, and hallowed by a
sense of duty.  Her duty to her husband and to her people was to return
at once to Treysa.  As she walked with Leucha towards Trafalgar Square
she reflected deeply.  How could she go back now that her enemies had so
openly condemned her?  No; she saw that for her own happiness it was far
better that she still remain away from Court--the Court over which at
last she now reigned as Queen.

"My worst enemies will bow to me in adulation," she thought to herself.
"They fear my retaliation, and if I went back I verily believe that I
should show them no mercy.  And yet, after all, it would be
uncharitable.  One should always repay evil with good.  If I do not
return, I shall not be tempted to revenge."

That day she remained very silent and pensive, full of an acute sense of
the injustice inflicted upon her.  Her husband the King was no doubt
trying to discover her whereabouts, but up to the present had been
unsuccessful.  The papers, which spoke of her almost daily, stated that
it was believed she was still in Germany, at one or other of the quieter
spas, on account of little Ignatia's health.  In one journal she had
read that she had been recognised in New York, and in another it was
cruelly suggested that she was in hiding in Rome, so as to be near her
lover Leitolf.

The truth was that her enemies at Court were actually paying the more
scurrilous of the Continental papers--those which will publish any libel
for a hundred francs, and the present writer could name dozens of such
rags on the Continent--to print all sorts of cruel, unfounded scandals
concerning her.

During the past few days she had scarcely taken up a single foreign
paper without finding the heading, "The Great Court Scandal," and
something outrageously against her; for her enemies, who had engaged as
their secret agent a Jew money-lender, had started a bitter campaign
against her, backed with the sum of a hundred thousand marks, placed by
Hinckeldeym at the unscrupulous Hebrew's disposal with which to bribe
the press.  A little money can, alas! soon ruin a woman's good name, or,
on the other hand, it can whitewash the blackest record.

This plot against an innocent, defenceless woman was as brutal as any
conceived by the ingenuity of a corrupt Court of office-seekers and
sycophants, for at heart the King had loved his wife--until they had
poisoned his mind against her and besmirched her good name.

Of all this she was well aware, conscious of her own weakness as a
woman.  Yet she retained her woman's heart, for that was unalterable,
and part of her being: but her looks, her language, her thoughts, even
in those adverse circumstances, assumed the cast of the pure ideal; and
to those who were in the secret of her humane and pitying nature,
nothing could be more charming and consistent than the effect which she
produced upon others.

As the hot, fevered days went by, she recognised that it became hourly
more necessary for her to leave London, and conceal her identity
somewhere in the country.  She noticed at the Savoy, whenever she dined
or lunched with Leucha, people were noting her beauty and inquiring who
she was.  At any moment she might be recognised by some one who had
visited the Court at Treysa, or by those annoying portraits that were
now appearing everywhere in the illustrated journals.

She decided to consult Guy Bourne, who, Leucha said, usually spent half
his time in hiding.  Therefore one evening, with "the Ladybird," she
took a cab to a small semi-detached villa in Wolverton Gardens, off the
Hammersmith Road, where she alighted and entered, in utter ignorance,
unfortunately, that another hansom had followed her closely all the way
from the Savoy, and that, pulling up in the Hammersmith Road, the fare,
a tall, thin, middle-aged man, with a black overcoat concealing his
evening dress, had alighted, walked quickly up the street, and noted the
house wherein she and her maid had entered.

The stranger muttered to himself some words in German, and with a smile
of self-satisfaction lit a cigar and strolled back to the Hammersmith
Road to wait.

A fearful destiny had encompassed her.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

THE HERMIT OF HAMMERSMITH.

Guy Bourne, in his shirt sleeves, was sitting back in a long cane
lounge-chair in the little front parlour when the Princess and her
companion entered.  He had just finished his frugal supper.

He jumped up confusedly, threw the evening paper aside, and apologised
that her Highness had discovered him without a coat.

"Please don't apologise, Mr. Bourne.  This is rather an unusual hour for
a visit, is it not?  But pray forgive me," she said in English, with
scarcely any trace of a German accent.

"Your Highness is always welcome--at any hour," he laughed, struggling
into his coat and ordering his landlady to clear away the remnants of
the meal.  "Leucha was here yesterday, and she told me how you were
faring.  I am sorry that circumstances over which I, unfortunately, have
no control have not permitted my calling at the Savoy.  At present I can
only go out after midnight for a breath of air, and time passes rather
slowly, I can assure you.  As Leucha has probably told you, certain
persons are making rather eager inquiries about me just now."

"I understand perfectly," she laughed.  "It was to obtain your advice as
to the best way to efface myself that I came to see you this evening.
Leucha tells me you are an expert in disappearing."

"Well, Princess," he smiled, offering her a chair, "you see it's part of
my profession to show myself as little as possible, though
self-imprisonment is always very irksome.  This house is one among many
in London which afford accommodation for such as myself.  The landlady
is a person who knows how to keep her mouth shut, and who asks no
questions.  She is, as most of them are, the widow of a person who was a
social outcast like myself."

"And this is one of your harbours of refuge," her Highness exclaimed,
looking around curiously upon the cheaply furnished but comfortable
room.  There was linoleum in lieu of carpet, and to the Londoner the
cheap walnut overmantel and plush-covered drawing-room suite spoke
mutely of the Tottenham Court Road and the "easy-payment" system.

The Princess was shrewd enough to notice the looks which passed between
Leucha and the man to whom she was so much indebted.  She detected that
a passion of love existed between them.  Indeed, the girl had almost
admitted as much to her, and had on several occasions begged to be
allowed to visit him and ascertain whether he was in want of anything.

It was an interesting and a unique study, she found, the affection
between a pair of the criminal class.

What would the world say had it known that she, a reigning Queen, was
there upon a visit to a man wanted by the police for half a dozen of the
most daring jewel robberies of the past half-century?

She saw a box of cheap cigarettes upon the table, and begged one,
saying,--

"I hope, Mr. Bourne, you will not be shocked, but I dearly love a
cigarette.  You will join me, of course?"

"Most willingly, your Highness," he said, springing to his feet and
holding the lighted match for her.  She was so charmingly unconventional
that people of lower station were always fascinated by her.

"You know," she exclaimed, laughing, "I used to shock them very much at
Court because I smoked.  And sometimes," she added mischievously, "I
smoked at certain functions in order purposely to shock the prudes.  Oh,
I've had the most delightful fun very often, I assure you.  My husband,
when we were first married, used to enter into the spirit of the thing,
and once dared me to smoke a cigarette in the Throne Room in the
presence of the King and Queen.  I did so--and imagine the result!"

"Ah!" he cried, "that reminds me.  Pray pardon me for my breach of
etiquette, but you have come upon me so very unexpectedly.  I've seen in
the _Mail_ the account of his Majesty's death, and that you are now
Queen.  In future I must call you `your Majesty.'  You are a reigning
sovereign, and I am a thief.  A strange contrast, is it not?"

"Better call me your friend, Mr. Bourne," she said, in a calm, changed
voice.  "Here is no place for titles.  Recollect that I am now only an
ordinary citizen, one of the people--a mere woman whose only desire is
peace."

Then continuing, she explained her daily fear lest she might be
recognised at the Savoy, and asked his advice as to the best means of
hiding herself.

"Well, your Majesty," said the past master of deception, after some
thought, "you see you are a foreigner, and as such will be remarked in
England everywhere.  You speak French like a _Parisienne_.  Why not pass
as French under a French name?  I should suggest that you go to some
small, quiet South Coast town--say to Worthing.  Many French people go
there as they cross from Dieppe.  There are several good hotels; or you
might, if you wished to be more private, obtain apartments."

"Yes," she exclaimed excitedly; "apartments in an English house would be
such great fun.  I will go to this place Worthing.  Is it nice?"

"Quiet--with good sea air."

"I was once at Hastings--when I was a child.  Is it anything like that?"

"Smaller, more select, and quieter."

"Then I will go there to-morrow and call myself Madame Bernard," she
said decisively.  "Leucha will go with me in search of apartments."

Having gained her freedom, she now wanted to see what an English
middle-class house was like.  She had heard much of English home life
from Allen and from the English notabilities who had come to Court, and
she desired to see it for herself.  Hotel life is the same all the world
over, and it already bored her.

"Certainly.  Your Majesty will be much quieter and far more comfortable
in apartments, and passing as an ordinary member of the public," Leucha
said.  "I happen to know a very nice house where one can obtain
furnished apartments.  It faces the sea near the pier, and is kept by a
Mrs. Blake, the widow of an Army surgeon.  When I was in service with
Lady Porthkerry we stayed there for a month."

"Then we will most certainly go there; and perhaps you, Mr. Bourne, will
find it possible to take the sea air at Worthing instead of being cooped
up here.  You might come down by a night train--that is, if you know a
place where you would be safe."

He shook his head dubiously.

"I know a place in Brighton--where I've stayed several times.  It is not
far from Worthing, certainly.  But we will see afterwards.  Does your
Majesty intend to leave London to-morrow?"

"Yes; but please not `your Majesty,'" she said, in mild reproach, and
with a sweet smile.  "Remember, I am in future plain Madame Bernard, of
Bordeaux, shall we say?  The landlady--as I think you call her in
English--must not know who I am, or there will soon be paragraphs in the
papers, and those seaside snap-shotters will be busy.  I should quickly
find myself upon picture postcards, as I've done, to my annoyance, on
several previous occasions when I've wanted to be quiet and remain
incognito."

And so it was arranged that she should establish herself at Mrs.
Blake's, in Worthing, which she did about six o'clock on the following
evening.

The rooms, she found, were rather frowzy, as are those of most seaside
lodgings, the furniture early Victorian, and on the marble-topped
whatnot was that ornament in which our grandmothers so delighted--a case
of stuffed birds beneath a glass dome.  The two windows of the
first-floor sitting-room opened out upon a balcony before which was the
promenade and the sea beyond--one of the best positions in Worthing,
without a doubt.

Mrs. Blake recognised Leucha at once, terms were quickly fixed, and the
maid--as is usual in such cases--received a small commission for
bringing her mistress there.

When they were duly installed, Leucha, in confidence, told the
inquisitive landlady that her mistress was one of the old French
aristocracy, while at the same moment "Madame" was sitting out upon the
balcony watching the sun disappear into the grey waters of the Channel.

In the promenade a few people were still passing up and down, the
majority having gone in to dinner.  But among them was one man, who,
though unnoticed, lounged past and glanced upward--the tall, thin,
grey-haired man who had on the previous night watched her enter the
house in Hammersmith.

He wore a light grey suit, and presented the appearance of an idler from
London, like most of the other promenaders, yet the quick, crafty look
he darted in her direction was distinctly an evil one.

Yet in ignorance she sat there, in full view of him, enjoying the calm
sundown, her eyes turned pensively away into the grey, distant haze of
the coming night.

Her thoughts were away there, across the sea.  She wondered how her
husband fared, now that he was King.  Did he ever think of her save with
angry recollections; or did he ever experience that remorse that sooner
or later must come to every man who wrongs a faithful woman?

That morning, before leaving the Savoy, she had received two letters,
forwarded to her in secret from Brussels.  One was from Treysa, and the
other bore the postmark "Roma."

The letter from Treysa had been written by Steinbach three days after
the King's death.  It was on plain paper, and without a signature.  But
she knew his handwriting well.  It ran:--

"Your Majesty will have heard the news, no doubt, through the
newspapers.  Two days ago our King George was, after luncheon, walking
on the terrace with General Scheibe, when he was suddenly seized by
paralysis.  He cried, `I am dying, Scheibe.  Help me indoors!' and fell
to the ground.  He was carried into the palace, where he lingered until
nine o'clock in the evening, and then, in spite of all the physicians
could do, he expired.  The Crown Prince was immediately proclaimed
Sovereign, and at this moment I have just returned from the funeral,
whereat the greatest pomp has been displayed.  All the Sovereigns of
Europe were represented, and your Majesty's absence from Court was much
remarked and commented upon.  The general opinion is that you will
return--that your difference with the King will now be settled; and I am
glad to tell you that those who were your Majesty's bitterest enemies a
week ago are now modifying their views, possibly because they fear what
may happen to them if you really do return.  At this moment the Court is
divided into two sets--those who hope that you will take your place as
Queen, and those who are still exerting every effort to prevent it.  The
latter are still crying out that you left Treysa in company with Count
Leitolf, and urging his Majesty to sue for a divorce--especially now
that the Emperor of Austria has degraded you by withdrawing your
Imperial privileges and your right to bear the Imperial arms of Austria,
and by decree striking you off the roll of the Dames de la Croix
Etoilee.  From what I have gathered, a spy of Hinckeldeym's must have
followed your Majesty to Vienna and seen you meet the Count.  At
present, however, although every effort is being made to find you, the
secret agents have, it is said, been unsuccessful.  I have heard that
you are in Italy, to be near Leitolf; evidently a report spread by
Hinckeldeym and his friends.

"The people are clamouring loudly for you.  They demand that `their
Claire' shall be brought back to them as Queen.  Great demonstrations
have been made in the Dom Platz, and inflammatory speeches have been
delivered against Hinckeldeym, who is denounced as your arch-enemy.  The
mob on two occasions assumed an attitude so threatening that it had to
be dispelled by the police.  The situation is serious for the
Government, inasmuch as the Socialists have resolved to champion your
cause, and declare that when the time is ripe they will expose the plots
of your enemies, and cause Hinckeldeym's downfall.

"I am in a position to know that this is no mere idle talk.  One of the
spies has betrayed his employers; hence the whole Court is trembling.
What will the King do? we are all asking.  On the one hand the people
declare you are innocent and ill-judged, while on the other the Court
still declares with dastardly motive that your friendship with Leitolf
was more than platonic.  And, unfortunately, his Majesty believes the
latter.

"My own opinion is that your Majesty's best course is still to remain in
concealment.  A squadron of spies have been sent to the various
capitals, and photographs are being purposely published in the
illustrated press in order that you may be identified.  I hope, however,
that just at present you will not be discovered, for if so I fear that
in order to stem the Socialistic wave even your friends must appear to
be against you.  Your Majesty knows too well the thousand and one
intrigues which form the undercurrent of life at our Court, and my
suggestion is based upon what I have been able to gather in various
quarters.  All tends to show that the King, now that he has taken the
reins of government, is keenly alive to his responsibility towards the
nation.  His first speech, delivered to-day, has shown it.  He appears
to be a changed man, and I can only hope and pray that he has become
changed towards yourself.

"If you are in Paris or in London, beware of secret agents, for both
capitals swarm with them.  Remain silent, patient and watchful; but,
above all, be very careful not to allow your enemies any further food
for gossip.  If they start another scandal at this moment, it would be
fatal to all your Majesty's interests; for I fear that even the people,
faithful to your cause up to the present, would then turn against you.
In conclusion, I beg to assure your Majesty of my loyalty, and that what
ever there is to report in confidence I will do so instantly through
this present channel.  I would also humbly express a hope that both your
Majesty and the Princess Ignatia are in perfect health."

The second letter--the one bearing the Rome postmark--was headed,
"Imperial Embassy of Austria-Hungary, Palazzo Chigi," and was signed
"Carl."

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

LOVE AND "THE LADYBIRD."

Re-entering the room she found herself alone, Leucha having gone
downstairs into the garden to walk with Ignatia.  Therefore she drew the
letter from her pocket and re-read it.

"Dearest Heart," he wrote,--"To-night the journals in Rome are
publishing the news of the King's death, and I write to you as your
Majesty--my Queen.  You are my dear heart no longer, but my Sovereign.
Our enemies have again libelled us.  I have heard it all.  They say that
we left Treysa in company, and that I am your lover; foul lies, because
they fear your power.  The _Tribuna_ and the _Messagero_ have declared
that the King contemplates a divorce; yet surely you will defend
yourself.  You will not allow these cringing place-seekers to triumph,
when you are entirely pure and innocent?  Ah, if his Majesty could only
be convinced of the truth--if he could only see that our friendship is
platonic; that since the clay of your marriage no word of love has ever
been spoken between us!  You are my friend--still my little friend of
those old days at dear old Wartenstein.  I am exiled here to a Court
that is brilliant though torn by internal intrigue, like your own.  Yet
my innermost thoughts are ever of you, and I wonder where you are and
how you fare.  The spies of Hinckeldeym have, I hope, not discovered
you.  Remember, it is to that man's interest that you should remain an
outcast.

"Cannot you let me know, by secret means, your whereabouts?  One word to
the Embassy, and I shall understand.  I am anxious for your sake.  I
want to see you back again at Treysa with the scandalous Court swept
clean, and with honesty and uprightness ruling in place of bribery and
base intrigue.  Do not, I beg of you, forget your duty to your people
and to the State.  By the King's death the situation has entirely
changed.  You are Queen, and with a word may sweep your enemies from
your path like flies.  Return, assert your power, show them that you are
not afraid, and show the King that your place is at his side.  This is
my urgent advice to you as your friend--your oldest friend.

"I am sad and even thoughtful as to your future.  Somehow I cannot help
thinking that wherever you are you must be in grave peril of new
scandals and fresh plots, because your enemies are so utterly
unscrupulous.  Rome is as Rome is always--full of foreigners, and the
Corso bright with movement.  But the end of the season has come.  The
Court moves to Racconigi, and we go, I believe, to Camaldoli, or some
other unearthly hole in the mountains, to escape the fever.  I shall,
however, expect a single line at the Embassy to say that my Sovereign
has received my letter.  I pray ever for your happiness.  Be brave
still, and may God protect you, dear heart.--Carl."

Tears sprang to her beautiful eyes as she read the letter of the man who
was assuredly her greatest friend--the man whom the cruel world so
erroneously declared to be her lover.

The red afterglow from over the sea streamed into the room as she sat
with her eyes fixed away on the distant horizon, beyond which lay the
wealthy, picturesque kingdom over which she was queen.

Leucha entered, and saw that she was _triste_ and thoughtful, but, like
a well-trained maid, said nothing.  Little Ignatia was already asleep
after the journey, and dinner would be served in half an hour.

"I hope Madame will like Worthing," the maid remarked presently, for
want of something else to say.  She had dropped the title of Majesty,
and now addressed her mistress as plain "Madame."

"Delightful--as far as I have seen," was the reply.  "More rural than
Hastings, it appears.  To-morrow I shall walk on the pier, for I've
heard that it is the correct thing to do at an English watering-place.
You go in the morning and after dinner, don't you?"

"Yes, Madame."

"Mr. Bourne did well to suggest this place.  I don't think we shall ever
be discovered here."

"I hope not," was Leucha's fervent reply.  "Yet what would the world
really say, I wonder, if it knew that you were in hiding here?"

"It would say something against me, no doubt--as it always does," she
answered, in a hard voice; and then she recollected Steinbach's serious
warning.

Dinner came at last, the usual big English joint and vegetables, laid in
that same room.  The housemaid, in well-starched cap, cuffs, and apron,
was a typical seaside domestic, who had no great love for foreigners,
because they were seldom lavish in the manner of tips.  An English
servant, no matter of what grade, reflects the same askance at the
foreigner as her master exhibits.  She regards all "forriners" as
undesirables.

"Madame" endeavoured to engage the girl in conversation, but found her
very loath to utter a word.  Her name was Richards, she informed the
guest, and she was a native of Thrapston, in Northamptonshire.

The bright, sunny days that followed Claire found most delightful.
Leucha took little Ignatia down to the sea each morning, and in the
afternoon, while the child slept, accompanied her mistress upon long
walks, either along the sea-road or through the quiet Sussex lanes
inland, now bright in the spring green.  The so-called season at
Worthing had not, of course, commenced; yet there were quite a number of
people, including the "week-enders" from London, the people who came
down from town "at reduced fares," as the railway company ingeniously
puts it--an expression more genteel than "excursion."  She hired a trap,
and drove with Leucha to Steyning, Littlehampton, Shoreham, those pretty
lanes about Amberley, and the quaint old town of Arundel, all of which
highly interested her.  She loved a country life, and was never so happy
as when riding or driving, enjoying the complete freedom that now, for
the first time in her life, was hers.

Weeks crept by.  Spring lengthened into summer, and Madame Bernard still
remained in Worthing, which every day became fuller of visitors, mostly
people from London, who came down for a fortnight or three weeks to
spend their summer holiday.  And with Leucha she became more friendly,
and grew very fond of her.

She had written to Leitolf the single line of acknowledgment, and sent
it to the Austrian Embassy in Rome, enclosing it in the official
envelope which he had sent her, in order to avoid suspicion.  To
Steinbach too she had written, urging him to keep her well informed
regarding the undercurrent of events at Court.

In reply he had sent her other reports which showed most plainly that,
even though the King might be contemplating an adjustment of their
differences in order that she might take her place as Queen, her enemies
were still actively at work in secret to complete her ruin.  Up to the
present, however, the spies of Hinckeldeym had entirely failed to trace
her, and their cruel story that she was in Rome had on investigation
turned out to be incorrect.  Her enemies were thus discomfited.

In the London papers she read telegrams from Treysa--no doubt inspired
by her enemies--which stated that the King had already applied to the
Ministry of Justice for a divorce, and that the trial was to be heard
_in camera_ in the course of a few weeks.

Should she now reveal her whereabouts?  Should she communicate with her
husband and deny the scandalous charges before it became too late?  By
her husband's accession her position had been very materially altered.
Her duty to the country of her adoption was to be at her husband's side,
and assist him as ruler.  Not that she regretted for one single instant
leaving Treysa.  She had not the slightest desire to re-enter that
seething world of intrigue; it was only the call of duty which caused
her to contemplate it.  At heart, indeed, if the truth were told, she
still retained a good deal of affection for the man who had treated her
so brutally.  When her mind wandered back to the early days of her
married life and the sweetness of her former love, she recollected that
he possessed many good traits of character, and felt convinced that only
the bitterness of her enemies had aroused the demon jealousy within him
and made him what he had now become.

If she were really able to clear herself of the stigma now upon her,
there might, after all, be a reconciliation--if not for her own sake,
then for the sake of the little Princess Ignatia.

These were the vague thoughts constantly in her mind during those warm
days which passed so quietly and pleasantly before the summer sea.

Ignatia was often very inquisitive.  She asked her mother why they were
there, and begged that Allen might come back.  From Leucha she was
learning to speak English, but with that Cockney twang which was
amusing, for the child, of course, imitated the maid's intonation and
expression.

One calm evening, when Ignatia had gone to bed and they were sitting
together in the twilight upon a seat before the softly-lapping waves up
at the west end of the town, Leucha said,--

"To-day I heard from father.  He is in Stockholm, and apparently in
funds.  He arrived in Sweden from Hamburg on the day of writing, and
says he hopes in a few days to visit us here."

Claire guessed by what means Roddy Redmayne had replenished his funds,
but made no remark save to express pleasure at his forthcoming visit.
From Stockholm to Worthing was a rather far cry, but with Roddy distance
was no object.  He had crossed the Atlantic a dozen times, and was,
indeed, ever on the move up and down Europe.

"Guy has also left London," "the Ladybird" said.  "He is in Brighton,
and would like to run over and call--if Madame will permit it."

"To call on you--eh, Leucha?" her royal mistress suggested, with a
kindly smile.  "Now tell me quite truthfully.  You love him, do you
not?"

The girl flushed deeply.

"I--I love him!" she faltered.  "Whatever made you suspect that?"

"Well, you know, Leucha, when one loves one cannot conceal it, however
careful one may be.  There is an indescribable look which always betrays
both man and woman.  Therefore you may as well confess the truth to me."

She was silent for a few moments.

"I do confess it," she faltered at last, with downcast eyes.  "We love
each other very fondly; but, alas, ours is a dream that can never be
realised!  Marriage and happiness are not for such as we," she added,
with a bitter sigh.

"Because you have not the means by which to live honestly?"  Claire
replied, in a voice of deep, heartfelt sympathy, for she had become much
attached to the girl.

"That is exactly the difficulty, madame," was the lady's maid's reply.
"Both Guy and myself hate this life of constant scheming and of
perpetual fear of discovery and arrest.  He is a thief by compulsion,
and I an assistant because I--well, I suppose I was trained to it so
early that espionage and investigation come to me almost as second
nature."

"And yet you can work--and work extremely well," remarked her royal
mistress, with a woman's tenderness of heart.  "I have had many maids
from time to time, in Vienna and at Treysa, but I tell you quite openly
that you are the handiest and neatest of them all.  It is a pity--a
thousand pities--that you lead the life of an adventuress, for some day,
sooner or later, you must fall into the hands of the police, and after
that--ruin."

"I know," sighed the girl; "I know--only too well.  Yet what can I do?
Both Guy and I are forced to lead this life because we are without
means.  And again, I am very unworthy of him," she added, in a low,
despondent tone.  "Guy is, after all, a gentleman by birth; while I,
`the Ladybird' as they call me, am merely the daughter of a thief."

"And yet, Leucha, you are strangely unlike other women who are
adventuresses.  You love this man both honestly and well, and he is
assuredly one worthy a woman's love, and would, under other
circumstances, make you a most excellent husband."

"If we were not outlaws of society," she said.  "But as matters are it
is quite hopeless.  When one becomes a criminal, one must,
unfortunately, remain a criminal to the end.  Guy would willingly cut
himself away from my father and the others if it were at all possible.
Yet it is not.  How can a man live and keep up appearances when utterly
without means?"

"Remain patient, Leucha," Claire said reassuringly.  "One day you may be
able to extricate yourselves--both of you.  Who knows?"

But the girl with the dark eyes shook her head sadly, and spoke but
little on their walk back to the house.

"Ah, Leucha," sighed the pale, thoughtful woman whom the world so
misjudged, "we all of us have our sorrows, some more bitter than others.
You are unhappy because you are an outlaw, while I am unhappy because I
am a queen!  Our stations are widely different; and yet, after all, our
burden of sorrow is the same."

"I know all that you suffer, madame, though you are silent," exclaimed
the girl, with quick sympathy.  "I have never referred to it, because
you might think my interference impertinent.  Yet I assure you that I
reflect upon your position daily, hourly, and wonder what we can do to
help you."

"You have done all that can be done," was the calm, kind response.
"Without you I should have been quite lost here in England.  Rest
assured that I shall never forget the kindnesses shown by all of you,
even though you are what you are."

She longed to see the pair man and wife, and honest; yet how could she
assist them?

Next evening, Guy Bourne, well-dressed in a grey flannel suit and straw
hat, and presenting the appearance of a well-to-do City man on holiday,
called upon her, and was shown up by the servant.

The welcome he received from both mistress and maid was a warm one, and
as soon as the door was closed he explained,--

"I managed to get away from London, even though I saw a detective I knew
on the platform at London Bridge.  Very fortunately he didn't recognise
me.  I've found a safe hiding-place in Brighton, in a small public-house
at the top of North Street, where lodgers of our peculiar class are
taken in.  Roddy is due to arrive at Hull to-day.  With Harry and two
others, he appears to have made a fine haul in Hamburg, and we are all
in funds again, for which we should be truly thankful."

"To whom did the stuff belong?"  Leucha inquired.

"To that German Baroness in whose service you were about eight months
ago--Ackermann, wasn't the name?  You recollect, you went over to
Hamburg with her and took observation."

"Yes, I remember," answered "the Ladybird" mechanically; and her head
dropped in shame.

Little Ignatia came forward, and in her sweet, childish way made friends
with the visitor, and later, leaving Leucha to put the child to bed,
"Madame Bernard" invited Guy to stroll with her along the promenade.
She wished to speak with him alone.

The night was bright, balmy, and starlit, the  lights on the
pier giving a pretty effect to the picture, and there were a good many
promenaders.

At first she spoke to him about Roddy and about his own dull, cheerless
life now that he was in such close hiding.  Then, presently, when they
gained the seat where she had sat with "the Ladybird" on the previous
evening, she suddenly turned to him, saying,--

"Mr. Bourne, Leucha has told me the truth--that you love each other.
Now I fully recognise the tragedy of it all, and the more so because I
know it is the earnest desire of both of you to lead an honest, upright
life.  The world misjudges most of us.  You are an outlaw and yet still
a gentleman, while she, though born of criminal parents, yet has a heart
of gold."

"Yes, that she has," he asserted quickly.  "I love her very deeply.  To
you I do not deny it--indeed, why should I?  I know that we both possess
your Majesty's sympathy."  And he looked into her splendid eyes in deep
earnestness.

"You do.  And more.  I urge you not to be despondent, either of you.
Endeavour always to cheer her up.  One day a means will surely be opened
for you both to break these hateful trammels that bind you to this
unsafe life of fraud and deception, and unite in happiness as man and
wife.  Remember, I owe you both a deep debt of gratitude; and one day, I
hope, I may be in a position to repay it, so that at least two loving
hearts may be united."  Though crushed herself, her great, generous
heart caused her to seek to assist others.

"Ah, your Majesty!" he cried, his voice trembling with emotion as,
springing up, he took her hand, raising it reverently to his lips.  "How
can I thank you sufficiently for those kind, generous words--for that
promise?"

"Ah!" she sighed, "I myself, though my position may be different to your
own, nevertheless know what it is to love, and, alas! know the acute
bitterness of the want of love."

Then a silence fell between them.  He had reseated himself, his manly
heart too full for words.  He knew well that this woman, whose
unhappiness was even tenfold greater than his own, was his firm and
noble friend.  The world spoke ill of her, and yet she was so upright,
so sweet, so true.

And while they sat there--he, a thief, still holding the soft white hand
that he had kissed with such reverence--a pair of shrewdly evil eyes
were watching them out of the darkness and observing everything.

At midnight, when he returned to Brighton, the secret watcher, a
hard-faced, thin-nosed woman, slight, narrow-waisted, rather elegantly
dressed in deep mourning, travelled by the same train, and watched him
to his hiding-place; and having done so, she strolled leisurely down to
the King's Road, where, upon the deserted promenade, she met a bent,
wizened-faced, little old man, who was awaiting her.

With him she walked up and down until nearly one o'clock in the morning,
engaged in earnest conversation, sometimes accompanied by quick
gesticulation.

And they both laughed quietly together, the old man now and then
shrugging his shoulders.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

SHOWS HINCKELDEYM'S TACTICS.

Five weeks later.

A hot summer's night in Treysa.  It was past midnight, yet before the
gay, garish cafes people still lingered at the little tables, enjoying
to the full the cool breeze after the heat and burden of the day, or
strolled beneath the lime avenues in the Klosterstrasse, gossiping or
smoking, all loth to retire.

In the great palace beyond the trees at the end of the vista the State
dinner had ended, and the lonely King, glad to escape to the privacy of
his own workroom in the farther wing of the palace, had cast himself
into a long lounge-chair and selected a cigar.  He was still in his
military uniform, rendered the more striking by the many glittering
orders across his breast--the Golden Fleece, the Black Eagle, the Saint
Hubert, the Saint Andrew, and the rest.  As he lit his cigar very slowly
his face assumed a heavy, thoughtful look, entirely different from the
mask of careless good-humour which he had worn at the brilliant function
he had just left.  The reception had not ended; it would continue for a
couple of hours longer.  But he was tired and bored to death of it all,
and the responsibility as ruler already weighed very heavily upon him.

Though he made no mention of it to a single soul, he thought of his
absent wife often--very often.  Now and then a pang of remorse would
cause him to knit his brows.  Perhaps, after all, he had not treated her
quite justly.  And yet, he would reassure himself, she was surely not as
innocent as she pretended.  No, no; she was worthless.  They were
therefore better apart--far better.

Since his accession he had, on several occasions, been
conscience-stricken.  Once, in the empty nursery, he had noticed little
Ignatia's toys, her dolls and perambulator, lying where the child had
left them, and tears had sprung to his eyes.  Allen, the kindly
Englishwoman, too, had been to him and resigned her appointment, as she
had no further duties to perform.

The Crown Princess's disappearance had at first been a nine-days' wonder
in Treysa, but now her continued absence was regarded with but little
surprise.  The greatest scandal in the world dies down like grass in
autumn.  Those who had conspired against her congratulated themselves
that they had triumphed, and were now busy starting fresh intrigues
against the young Queen's partisans.

Since the hour that his sweet-faced wife had left the palace in secret,
the King had received no word from her.  He had learned from Vienna that
she had been to Wartenstein, and that her father had cast her out; but
after that she had disappeared--to Rome he had been told.  As Crown
Prince he had had his liberty, but now as King he lived apart, and was
unapproachable.  His was a lonely life.  The duties of kingship had
sobered him, and now he saw full well the lack of a clever consort as
his wife was--a queen who could rule the Court.

Those about him believed him to be blind to their defects and their
intrigues, because he was silent concerning them.  Yet, if the truth
were told, he was extremely wideawake, and saw with regret how, without
the Queen's aid, he must fall beneath the influence of those who were
seeking place and power, to the distinct detriment of the nation.

Serious thoughts such as these were consuming him as he sat watching the
smoke rings ascend to the dark-panelled ceiling.

"Where is she, I wonder?" he asked himself aloud, his voice sighing
through the room.  "She has never reproached me--never.  I wonder if all
they have told me concerning her is really true."  As he uttered these
words of suspicion his jaws became firmly set, and a hardness showed at
the corners of his mouth.  "Ah, yes!" he added.  "It is, alas! only too
true--too true.  Hinckeldeym would never dare to lie to me!"

And he sat with his serious eyes cast upon the floor, reflecting
gloomily upon the past, as he now so very often reflected.

The room was luxurious in its appointments, for since his father's death
he had had it redecorated and refurnished.  The stern old monarch had
liked a plain, severe, business-like room in which to attend to the
details of State, but his son held modern ideas, and loved to surround
himself with artistic things, hence the white-and-gold decorations, the
electric-light fittings, the furniture and the pale green upholstery
were all in the style of the _art nouveau_, and had the effect of
exquisite taste.

A tiny clock ticked softly upon the big, littered writing-table, and
from without, in the marble corridor, the slow, even tread of the sentry
reached his ear.

Suddenly, while he was smoking and thinking, a low rap was heard; and
giving permission to enter, he looked round, and saw Hinckeldeym, who,
in Court dress, bowed and advanced, with his cocked hat tucked beneath
his arm, saying,--

"I regret, sire, to crave audience at this hour, but it is upon a matter
both imperative and confidential."

"Then shut the inner door," his Majesty said in a hard voice, and the
flabby-faced old fellow closed the second door that was placed there as
precaution against eavesdroppers.

"Well?" asked the King, turning to him in some surprise that he should
be disturbed at that hour.

"After your Majesty left the Throne Room I was called out to receive an
urgent dispatch that had just arrived by Imperial courier from Vienna.
This dispatch," and he drew it from his pocket, "shows most plainly that
his Majesty the Emperor is seriously annoyed at your Majesty's laxness
and hesitation to apply for a divorce.  Yesterday he called our
Ambassador and remarked that although he had degraded the Princess,
taken from her all her titles, her decorations, and her privileges, yet
you, her husband, had done absolutely nothing.  I crave your Majesty's
pardon for being compelled to speak so plainly," added the wily old
fellow, watching the disturbing effect his words had upon his Sovereign.

"That is all very well," he answered, in a mechanical voice.  "The
Emperor's surprise and annoyance are quite natural.  I have been
awaiting your reports, Hinckeldeym.  Before my wife's disappearance you
seemed to be particularly well-informed--through De Trauttenberg, I
suppose--of all her movements and her intentions.  Yet since she left
you have been content to remain in utter ignorance."

"Not in entire ignorance, sire.  Did I not report to you that she went
to Vienna in the man's company?"

"And where is the man at the present moment?"

"At Camaldoli, a health resort in central Italy.  The Ambassador and
several of the staff are spending the summer up there."

"Well, what else do you know?" the King asked, fixing his eyes upon the
crafty old scoundrel who was the greatest power in the Kingdom.  "Can
you tell me where my wife is--that's the question?  I don't think much
of your secret service which costs the country so much, if you cannot
tell me that," he said frankly.

"Yes, your Majesty, I can tell you that, and very much more," the old
fellow answered, quite unperturbed.  "The truth is that I have known
where she has been for a long time past, and a great deal has been
discovered.  Yet, for your Majesty's peace of mind, I have not mentioned
so painful a subject.  Had I not exerted every effort to follow the
Princess I should surely have been wanting in my duties as Minister."

"Then where is she?" he asked quickly, rising from his chair.

"In England--at a small watering-place on the South Coast, called
Worthing."

"Well--and what else?"

Heinrich Hinckeldeym made no reply for a few moments, as though
hesitating to tell his royal master all that he knew.  Then at last he
said, with that wily insinuation by which he had already ruined the poor
Princess's reputation and good name,--

"The rest will, I think, best be furnished to the counsel who appears on
your Majesty's behalf to apply for a divorce."

"Ah!" he sighed sadly.  "Is it so grave as that?  Well, Hinckeldeym, you
may tell me everything, only recollect I must have proof--proof.  You
understand?" he added hoarsely.

"Hitherto I have always endeavoured to give your Majesty proof, and on
certain occasions you have complimented me upon my success in
discovering the secrets of the pair," he answered.

"I know I have, but I must have more proof now.  There must be no
surmises--but hard, solid facts, you understand!  In those days I was
only Crown Prince.  To-day I am King, and my wife is Queen--whatever may
be her faults."

The old Minister was considerably taken aback by this sudden refusal on
his royal master's part to accept every word of his as truth.  Yet
outwardly he exhibited no sign of annoyance or of disappointment.  He
was a perfect diplomatist.

"If your Majesty will deign to give them audience, I will, within half
an hour, bring here the two secret service agents who have been to
England, and they shall tell you with their own lips what they have
discovered."

"Yes, do so," the King exclaimed anxiously.  "Let them tell me the whole
truth.  They will be discreet, of course, and not divulge to the people
that I have given them audience--eh?"

"They are two of the best agents your Majesty possesses.  If I may be
permitted, I will go at once and send for them."

And walking backwards, he bowed, and left the room.  Three-quarters of
an hour later he returned, bringing with him a middle-aged, thin-faced
woman, rather tall and thin, dressed plainly in black, and a tall,
grey-haired, and rather gentlemanly looking man, whom he introduced to
their Sovereign, who was standing with his back to the writing-table.

The woman's name was Rose Reinherz and the man's Otto Stieger.

The King surveyed both of them critically.  He had never seen any member
of his secret service in the flesh before, and was interested in them
and in their doings.

"The Minister Hinckeldeym tells me," he said, addressing Stieger, "that
you are both members of our secret service, and that you have returned
from England.  I wish to hear your report from your own lips.  Tell me
exactly what you have discovered without any fear of giving me personal
offence.  I want to hear the whole truth, remember, however disagreeable
it may be."

"Yes," added the evil-eyed old Minister.  "Tell his Majesty all that you
have discovered regarding the lady, who for the present purposes may
remain nameless."  The spy hesitated for a moment, confused at finding
himself called so suddenly into the presence of his Sovereign, and
without an opportunity of putting on another suit of clothes.  Besides,
he was at a loss how to begin.

"Did you go to Vienna?" asked the King.

"I was sent to Vienna the instant it became known that the Crown
Princess--I mean the lady--had left the palace.  I discovered that she
had driven to her father's palace, but finding him absent had gone to
Wartenstein.  I followed her there, but she had left again before I
arrived, and I entirely lost track of her.  Probably she went to Paris,
but of that I am not sure.  I went to Rome, and for a fortnight kept
observation upon the Count, but he wrote no letters to her, which made
me suspect that she was hiding somewhere in Rome."

"You reported that she was actually in Rome.  Hinckeldeym told me that."

The Minister's grey brows were knit, but only for a second.

"I did not report that she was actually there, sire.  I only reported my
suspicion."

"A suspicion which was turned into an actual fact before it reached my
ears--eh?" he said in a hard voice.  "Go on."

Hinckeldeym now regretted that he had so readily brought his spies face
to face with the King.

"After losing touch with the lady for several weeks, it was discovered
that she was staying under an assumed name at the Savoy Hotel, in
London.  I travelled from Rome to London post haste, and took a room at
the hotel, finding that she had engaged a young Englishwoman named
Redmayne as maid, and that she was in the habit of meeting in secret a
certain Englishman named Bourne, who seemed to be leading a curiously
secluded life.  I reported this to the Minister Hinckeldeym, who at once
sent me as assistant Rose Reinherz, now before your Majesty.  Together
we have left no stone unturned to fully investigate the situation, and--
well, we have discovered many things."

"And what are they?  Explain."

"We have ascertained that Count Leitolf still writes to the lady,
sending her letters to the same address in Brussels as previously.  A
copy of one letter, which we intercepted, I placed in the Minister's
hands.  It is couched in terms that leave no doubt that this man loves
her, and that she reciprocates his affection."

"You are quite certain that it is not a mere platonic friendship?" asked
the King, fixing his eyes upon the spy very earnestly.

"As a man of the world, your Majesty, I do not think there is such a
thing as platonic friendship between man and woman."

"That is left to poets and dreamers," remarked the wily Hinckeldeym,
with a sneer.

"Besides," the spy continued, "we have carefully watched this man
Bourne, and find that when she went to live at Worthing he followed her
there.  They meet every evening, and go long walks together."

"I have watched them many times, your Majesty," declared Rose Reinherz.
"I have seen him kiss her hand."

"Then, to be frank, you insinuate that this man is her latest lover?"
remarked the King with a dark look upon his face.

"Unfortunately, that is so," the woman replied.  "He is with her almost
always; and furthermore, after much inquiry and difficulty, we have at
last succeeded in establishing who he really is."

"And who is he?"

"A thief in hiding from the police--one of a clever gang who have
committed many robberies of jewels in various cities.  This is his
photograph--one supplied from London to our own Prefecture of Police in
Treysa."  And he handed the King an oblong card with two portraits of
Guy Bourne, full face and profile, side by side.

His Majesty held it in his hand, and beneath the light gazed upon it for
a long time, as though to photograph the features in his memory.

Hinckeldeym watched him covertly, and glanced at the spy approvingly.

"And you say that this man is at Worthing, and in hiding from the
police?  You allege that he is an intimate friend of my wife's?"

"Stieger says that he is her latest lover," remarked Hinckeldeym.  "You
have written a full and detailed report.  Is not that so?" he asked.

The spy nodded in the affirmative, saying,--

"The fellow is in hiding, together with the leader of the association of
thieves, a certain Redmayne, known as `the Mute,' who is wanted by the
Hamburg police for the theft of the Baroness Ackermann's jewels.  The
papers of late have been full of the daring theft."

"Oh! then the police are searching for both men?" exclaimed the King.
"Is there any charge in Germany against this person--Bourne, you called
him?"

"One for theft in Cologne, eighteen months ago, and another for jewel
robbery at Eugendorf," was the spy's reply.

"Then, Hinckeldeym, make immediate application to the British Government
for their arrest and extradition.  Stieger will return at once to
Worthing and point them out to the English police.  It will be the
quickest way of crushing out the--well, the infatuation, we will call
it," he added grimly.

"And your Majesty will not apply for a divorce?" asked the Minister in
that low, insinuating voice.

"I will reflect, Hinckeldeym," was the King's reply.  "But in the
meantime see that both these agents are rewarded for their astuteness
and loyalty."

And, turning, he dismissed the trio impatiently, without further
ceremony.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

SECRET INSTRUCTIONS.

"You did exceedingly well, Stieger.  I am much pleased!" declared his
Excellency the Minister, when, outside the palace, he caused them both
to enter his carriage and was driving them to his own fine house on the
opposite side of the capital.  "His Majesty is taking a severe revenge,"
he laughed.  "This Englishman Bourne will certainly regret having met
the Queen.  Besides, the fact of her having chosen a low-born criminal
lover condemns her a thousandfold in the King's eyes.  I, who know him
well, know that nothing could cause him such anger as for her to cast
her royalty into the mud, as she has done by her friendship with this
gaolbird."

"I am pleased to have earned your Excellency's approbation," replied the
man.  "And I trust that his Majesty's pleasure will mean advancement for
me--at your Excellency's discretion, of course."

"To-morrow I shall sign this decree, raising you to the post of
functionary of the first class, with increased emoluments.  And to you,"
he added, turning to the thin-nosed woman, "I shall grant a
gratification of five thousand marks.  Over an affair of this kind we
cannot afford publicity.  Therefore say nothing, either of you.
Recollect that in this matter you are not only serving the King, but the
whole Ministry and Court.  The King must obtain a divorce, and we shall
all be grateful to you for the collection of the necessary evidence.
The latter, as I told you some time ago, need not be based on too firm a
foundation, for even if she defends the action the mere fact of her
alliance with this good-looking criminal will be sufficient to condemn
her in the eyes of a jury of Treysa.  Therefore return to England and
collect the evidence carefully--facts that have foundation--you
understand?"

The spy nodded.  He understood his Excellency's scandalous suggestion.
He was to manufacture evidence to be used against the Queen.

"You must show that she has lightly transferred her love from Leitolf to
this rascal Bourne.  The report you have already made is good, but it is
not quite complete enough.  It must contain such direct charges that her
counsel will be unable to bring evidence to deny," declared the
fat-faced man--the man who really ruled the Kingdom.

The old monarch had been a hard, level-headed if rather eccentric man,
who had never allowed Hinckeldeym to fully reach the height of his
ambition; yet now, on the accession of his son, inexperienced in
government and of a somewhat weak and vacillating disposition, the
crafty President of the Council had quickly risen to be a power as
great, if not greater than, the King himself.

He was utterly unscrupulous, as shown by his conversation with Stieger.
He was Claire's bitterest enemy, yet so tactful was he that she had once
believed him to be her friend, and had actually consulted him as to her
impossible position at Court.  Like many other men, he had commenced
life as a small advocate in an obscure provincial town, but by dint of
ingenious scheming and dishonest double-dealing he had wormed himself
into the confidence of the old King, who regarded him as a necessity for
the government of the country.  His policy was self-advancement at any
cost.  He betrayed both enemies and friends with equal nonchalance, if
they were unfortunate enough to stand in his way.  Heinrich Hinckeldeym
had never married, as he considered a wife an unnecessary burden, both
socially and financially, and as far as was known, he was without a
single relative.

At his own splendid mansion, in a severely furnished room, he sat with
his two spies, giving them further instructions as to how they were to
act in England.

"You will return to-morrow by way of Cologne and Ostend," he said, "and
I will at once have the formal requisition for their arrest and
extradition made to the British Foreign Office.  If this man Bourne is
convicted, the prejudice against the Queen will be greater, and she will
lose her partisans among the people, who certainly will not uphold her
when this latest development becomes known."  And his Excellency's fat,
evil face relaxed into a grim smile.

Presently he dismissed them, urging them to carry out the mission
entrusted to them without scruple, and in the most secret manner
possible.  Then, when they were gone, he crossed the room to the
telephone and asked the Ministers Stuhlmann, Meyer, and Hoepfner--who
all lived close by--whether they could come at once, as he desired to
consult them.  All three responded to the President's call, and in a
quarter of an hour they assembled.

Hinckeldeym, having locked the door and drawn the heavy _portiere_, at
once gave his friends a resume of what had taken place that evening, and
of the manner in which he had rearoused the King's anger and jealousy.

"Excellent!" declared Stuhlmann, who held the portfolio of Foreign
Affairs.  "Then I shall at once give Crispendorf orders to receive
Stieger and to apply to the British Foreign Office for the arrest of the
pair.  What are their names?  I did not quite catch them."

Hinckeldeym crossed to his writing-table and scribbled a memorandum of
the names Bourne and Redmayne, and the offences for which they were
wanted.

"They will be tried in Berlin, I suppose?"  Stuhlmann remarked.

"My dear friend, it does not matter where they are tried, so long as
they are convicted.  All we desire to establish is the one fact which
will strike the public as outrageous--the Queen has a lover who is a
criminal.  Having done that, we need no longer fear her return here to
Treysa."

"But is not the Leitolf affair quite sufficient?" asked Meyer, a
somewhat younger man than the others, who, by favour of Hinckeldeym, now
held the office of Minister of Justice.

"The King suspects it is a mere platonic friendship."

"And it really may be after all," remarked Meyer.  "In my opinion--
expressed privately to you here--the Queen has not acted as a guilty
woman would act.  If the scandal were true she would have been more
impatient.  Besides, the English nurse, Allen, came to me before she
left Treysa, and vowed to me that the reports were utterly without
foundation.  They were lovers, as children--that is all."

Hinckeldeym turned upon him furiously.

"We have nothing to do with your private misgivings.  Your duty as
Minister is to act with us," he said in a hard, angry voice.  "What does
it matter if the English nurse is paid by the Queen to whitewash her
mistress?  You, my dear Meyer, must be the very last person to express
disbelief in facts already known.  Think of what would happen if this
woman returned to Treysa!  You and I--and all of us--would be swept out
of office and into obscurity.  Can we afford to risk that?  If you can,
I tell you most plainly that I can't.  I intend that the King shall
obtain a divorce, and that the woman shall never be permitted to cross
our frontier again.  The day she does, recollect, will mark our
downfall."

Meyer, thus reproved by the man to whom he owed his present office,
pursed his lips and gave his shoulders a slight shrug.  He saw that
Hinckeldeym had made up his mind, even though he himself had all along
doubted whether the Queen was not an innocent victim of her enemies.
Allen had sought audience of him, and had fearlessly denounced, in no
measured terms, the foul lies circulated by the Countess de
Trauttenberg.  The Englishwoman had declared that her mistress was the
victim of a plot, and that although she was well aware of her
friendliness with Count Leitolf, yet it was nothing more than
friendship.  She had admitted watching them very closely in order to
ascertain whether what was whispered was really true.  But it was not.
The Queen was an ill-treated and misjudged woman, she declared,
concluding with a vow that the just judgment of God would, sooner or
later, fall upon her enemies.  What the Englishwoman had told him had
impressed him.  And now Hinckeldeym's demeanour made it plain that what
Allen had said had very good foundation.

He, Ludwig Meyer, was Minister of Justice, yet he was compelled to
conspire with the others to do to a woman the worst injustice that man's
ambition could possibly conceive.  His companion Hoepfner, Minister of
Finance, was also one of Hinckeldeym's creatures, and dared not dissent
from his decision.

"You forget, my dear Meyer," said the old President, turning back to
him.  "You forget all that the Countess Hupertz discovered, and all that
she told us."

"I recollect everything most distinctly.  But I also recollect that she
gave us no proof."

"Ah!  You, too, believe in platonic friendship!" sneered the old man.
"Only fools believe in that."

"No," interposed Stuhlmann quickly.  "Do not let us quarrel over this.
Our policy is a straightforward and decisive one.  The King is to apply
for a divorce, and our friend Meyer will see that it is granted.  The
thing is quite simple."

"But if she is innocent?" asked the Minister of Justice.

"There is no question of her innocence," snapped Hinckeldeym.  "It is
her guilt that concerns you--you understand!"

Then, after some further consultation, during which time Meyer remained
silent, the three men rose and, shaking hands with the President,
departed.

When they had gone Hinckeldeym paced angrily up and down the room.  He
was furious that Meyer should express the slightest doubt or
compunction.  His hands were clenched, his round, prominent eyes wore a
fierce, determined expression, and his gross features were drawn and
ashen grey.

"We shall see, woman, who will win--you or I!" he muttered to himself.
"You told me that when you were Queen you would sweep clean the Augean
stable--you would change all the Ministers of State, Chamberlains--every
one, from the Chancellor of the Orders down to the Grand Master of the
Ceremonies.  You said that they should all go--and first of all the
_dames du palais_.  Well, we shall see!" he laughed to himself.  "If
your husband is such a fool as to relent and regard your friendship with
Leitolf with leniency, then we must bring forward this newest lover of
yours--this man who is to be arrested in your company and condemned as a
criminal.  The people, after that, will no longer call you `their
Claire' and clamour for your return, and in addition, your fool of a
husband will be bound to accept the divorce which Meyer will give him.
And then, woman," he growled to himself, "you will perhaps regret having
threatened Heinrich Hinckeldeym!"

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

ROMANCE AND REALITY.

Roddy Redmayne, having returned safely from abroad, was living in quiet
seclusion with Guy in apartments in a small, pleasantly situated cottage
beyond West Worthing, on the dusty road to Goring.  Immediately on his
arrival from Hull he had gone to Brighton, but after a few days had
taken apartments in the ancient little place, with its old-world garden
filled with roses.

Both he and Guy, under assumed names, of course, represented themselves
as clerks down from London, spending their summer holidays, and
certainly their flannel suits, white shoes, and Panama hats gave them
that appearance.  Kinder was in hiding in a house up in
Newcastle-on-Tyne, having crossed to that port from Antwerp.  The
Baroness's jewels, which were a particularly fine lot, had been disposed
of to certain agents in Leyden, and therefore Roddy and his friends were
in funds, though they gave no sign of wealth to their landlady, the
thrifty wife of a cab proprietor.

It was a very pleasant little cottage, standing quite alone, and as the
two men were the only lodgers they were quite free to do as they liked.
The greater part of the day they smoked and read under the trees in the
big, old-fashioned garden, and at evening would walk together into
Worthing, and generally met Claire upon the pier.

"Madame," as they called her, went with Leucha several times and lunched
with them at the little place, while once or twice they had had the
honour of dining at her table, when they had found her a most charming
hostess.  Both men tried to do all they could to render her what little
services lay in their power, and each day they sent her from the
florist's large bunches of tea-roses, her favourite flowers.  Little
Ignatia was not forgotten, for they sent her dolls and toys.

Claire's life was now at last calm and peaceful, with her three strange
friends.  Leucha was most attentive to Ignatia, and took her each
morning for a run with bare feet upon the sands, while the two men who
seldom, if ever, went out before dusk, generally met her and walked with
her after dinner beside the sea.

Often, when alone, she wondered how her husband fared at Treysa, and how
Carl was enduring the broiling heat of the long, thirsty Italian summer.
Where was that traitress, the Trauttenberg, and what, she wondered, had
become of those two faithful servants, Allen and Henriette?  Her past
unhappiness at Treysa sometimes arose before her like some hideous but
half-remembered dream.  In those days she lived among enemies, but now
she was with friends, even though they might be outlawed from society.
With all her timid flexibility and soft acquiescence Claire was not
weak; for the negative alone is weak, and the mere presence of goodness
and affection implies in itself a species of power, power with repose--
that soul of grace.

Many a pleasant stroll after sundown she took with the courtly old
adventurer, who looked quite a gay old dog in his flannels and rakish
Panama pulled down over his eyes; or with Guy, who dressed a trifle more
quietly.  The last-named, however, preferred, of course, the society of
Leucha, and frequently walked behind with her.  Claire treated Roddy's
daughter more as an equal than as a dependant--indeed, treated her as
her lady-in-waiting, to fetch and carry for her, to tie her veil, to
button her gloves, and to perform the thousand and one little services
which the trained lady-in-waiting does so deftly and without ceremony.

Though at first very strange to the world, Claire was now beginning to
realise its ways, and to enjoy and appreciate more and more the freedom
which she had at last gained.  She delighted in those evening walks
beneath the stars, when they would rest upon a seat, listening to the
soft music of the sea, and watching the flashing light of the Owers and
the bright beacon on Selsea Bill.

Yes, life in the obscurity of Worthing was indeed far preferable to the
glare and glitter of the Court at Treysa.  The people in the town--
shopkeepers and others--soon began to know Madame Bernard by sight, and
so many were her kindly actions that the common people on the
promenade--cabmen, baggage-porters, bath-chair men, and the like--
touched their hats to her in respect, little dreaming that the
beautiful, sweet-faced foreigner with the pretty child was actually
queen of a German kingdom.

As the summer days went by, and the two men met her each evening at the
entrance to the pier, she could not close her eyes to the fact that the
affection between Guy and Leucha had increased until it now amounted to
a veritable passion.  They loved each other both truly and well, yet
what could be done?  There was, alas! the ghastly barrier of want
between them--a barrier which, in this cruel, hard world of ours,
divides so many true and loving hearts.

And as those peaceful summer days went by, the two strangers, a man and
a woman, who lived at separate hotels, and only met on rare occasions,
were ever watchful, noting and reporting the Queen's every action, and
keeping close observation upon the two men who were living at that
rose-embowered cottage in calm ignorance of the dastardly betrayal that
was being so ingeniously planned.

One evening, just before she sat down to dinner, the maidservant handed
her a letter with a Belgian stamp, and opening it, she saw that enclosed
was a communication from the faithful Steinbach.

She tore open the envelope with breathless eagerness, and read as
follows:--

"Your Majesty.--In greatest haste I send you warning to acquaint you
with another fresh conspiracy, the exact nature of which I am at present
unaware.  Confidential papers have, however, to-day passed through my
hands in the Ministry--a report for transmission to Crispendorf, in
London.  This report alleges that you are unduly friendly with a certain
Englishman named Guy Bourne, said to be living in the town of Worthing,
in the county of Sussex.  This is all I can at present discover, but it
will, I trust, be sufficient to apprise you that your enemies have
discovered your whereabouts, and are still seeking to crush you.  The
instant I can gather more I will report further.  Your Majesty's most
humble and obedient servant.--S."

She bit her lip.  Then they had discovered her, and, moreover, were
trying now to couple her name with Bourne's!  It was cruel, unjust,
inhuman.  In such a mind as hers the sense of a cruel injury, inflicted
by one she had loved and trusted, without awakening any violent anger or
any desire of vengeance, sank deep--almost incurably and lastingly deep.

Leucha, who entered the room at that moment, noticed her grave
expression as she held the letter in her hand, but was silent.

The tender and virtuous woman reread those fateful lines, and reflected
deeply.  Steinbach was faithful to her, and had given her timely
warning.  Yes, she had on many occasions walked alone with Guy along the
promenade, and he had, unseen by any one, kissed her hand in homage of
her royal station.  She fully recognised that, unscrupulous liars as her
enemies were, they might start another scandal against her as cruel as
that concerning Carl Leitolf.

She had little appetite for dinner but afterwards, when she went out
with Leucha into the warm summer's night, and, as usual, they met the
two men idling near the pier, she took Guy aside and walked with him at
some distance behind Roddy and his daughter.

At first their conversation was as usual, upon the doings of the day.
She gave him permission to smoke, and he lit his cigar, the light of the
match illuminating his face.

It was a delightful August night, almost windless, and with a crescent
moon and calm sea, while from the pier there came across the waters the
strains of one of the latest waltzes.  She was dressed all in white, and
Guy, glancing at her now and then, thought he had never seen her looking
more graceful and beautiful.  Nevertheless her Imperial blood betrayed
itself always in her bearing, even on those occasions when she had
disguised herself in her maid's gowns.

Presently, when father and daughter were some distance ahead, she turned
to him and, looking into his countenance, said very seriously,--

"Much as I regret it, Mr. Bourne, our very pleasant evenings here must
end.  This is our last walk together."

"What!  Madame!" he exclaimed.  "Are you leaving?" and he halted in
surprise.

"I hardly know yet," she replied, just a trifle confused, for she
hesitated to tell the cruel truth to this man who had once risked his
life for hers.  "It is not, however, because I am leaving, but our
parting is imperative, because--well--for the sake of both of us."

"I don't quite follow your Majesty," he said, looking inquiringly at
her.  They were quite alone, at a spot where there were no promenaders.

"No," she sighed.  "I expect not.  I must be more plain, although it
pains me to be so.  The fact is that my enemies at Court have learnt
that we are friends, and are now endeavouring to couple our names--you
and I.  Is it not scandalous--when you love Leucha?"

"What!" he cried, starting back amazed.  "They are actually endeavouring
to again besmirch your good name!  Ah!  I see!  They say that I am your
latest lover--eh?  Tell me the truth," he urged fiercely.  "These liars
say that you are in love with me!  They don't know who I am," he laughed
bitterly.  "I, a thief--and you, a sovereign!"

"They are enemies, and will utter any lies to create scandal concerning
me," she said, with quiet resignation.  "For that reason we must not be
seen together.  To you, Mr. Bourne, I owe my life--a debt that I fear I
shall never be able to sufficiently repay.  Mr. Redmayne and yourself
have been very kind and generous to me, a friendless woman, and yet I am
forced by circumstances to withdraw my friendship because of this latest
plot conceived by the people who have so ingeniously plotted my ruin.
As you know, they declared that Count Leitolf was my lover, but I swear
before God that he was only my friend--my dear, devoted friend, just as
I believe that you yourself are.  And yet," she sighed, "it is so very
easy to cast scandal against a woman, be she a seamstress or of the
blood royal."

"I am certainly your devoted friend," the man declared in a clear,
earnest tone.  "You are misjudged and ill-treated, therefore it is my
duty as a man, who, I hope, still retains some of the chivalry of a
gentleman, to stand your champion."

"In this, you, alas! cannot--you would only compromise me," she
declared, shaking her head sadly.

"We must part.  You and Mr. Redmayne are safe here.  Therefore I shall
to-morrow leave Worthing."

"But this is dastardly!" he cried in fierce resentment.  "Are you to
live always in this glass house, for your enemies to hound you from
place to place, because a man dares to admire your beauty?  What is your
future to be?"

She fixed her calm gaze upon him in the pale moonlight.

"Who can tell?" she sighed sadly.  "For the present we must think only
of the present.  My enemies have discovered me, therefore it is
imperative that we should part.  Yet before doing so I want to thank you
very much for all the services you and Mr. Redmayne have rendered me.
Rest assured that they will never be forgotten--never."

Roddy and Leucha had seated themselves upon a seat facing the beach, and
they were now slowly approaching them.

"I hardly know how to take leave of you," Guy said, speaking slowly and
very earnestly.  "You, on your part, have been so good and generous to
Leucha and myself.  If these scandalmongers only knew that she loved me
and that I reciprocated her affection, they surely would not seek to
propagate this shameful report concerning us."

"It would make no difference to them," she declared in a low, hoarse
voice of grief.  "For their purposes--in order that I shall be condemned
as worthless, and prevented from returning to Treysa--they must continue
to invent their vile fictions against my honour as a woman."

"The fiends!" he cried fiercely.  "But you shall be even with them yet!
They fear you--and they shall, one day, have just cause for their fears.
We will assist you--Roddy and I.  We will together prove your honesty
and innocence before the whole world."

They gained the seat whereon Leucha and her father were sitting, and
Claire sat down to rest before the softly sighing sea, while her
companion stood, she having forgotten to give him permission to be
seated.  She was so unconventional that she often overlooked such
points, and, to her intimate friends, would suddenly laugh and apologise
for her forgetfulness.

While all four were chatting and laughing together--for Roddy had
related a droll incident he had witnessed that day out at Goring--there
came along the sea-path two figures of men, visitors like themselves,
judging from their white linen trousers and straw hats.  Their approach
was quite unnoticed until of a sudden they both halted before the group,
and one of them, a brown-bearded man, stepping up to the younger man,
said, in a stern, determined voice,--

"I identify you as Guy Bourne.  I am Inspector Sinclair of the Criminal
Investigation Department, and I hold a warrant for your arrest for jewel
robbery!"  Claire gave vent to a low cry of despair, while Leucha sprang
up and clung to the man she loved.  But at that same instant three other
men appeared out of the deep shadows, while one of them, addressing
Roddy, who in an instant had jumped to his feet, said,--

"I'm Detective-sergeant Plummer.  I identify you as Roddy Redmayne,
_alias_ Scott-Martin, _alias_ Ward.  I arrest you on a charge of jewel
robbery committed within the German Empire.  Whatever statement you may
make will be used in evidence against you on your trial."  Both men were
so utterly staggered that neither spoke a word.  Their arrest had been
so quickly and quietly effected that they had no opportunity to offer
resistance, and even if they had they would have been outnumbered.

Roddy uttered a fierce imprecation beneath his breath, but Guy, turning
sadly to Claire, merely shrugged his shoulders, and remarked bitterly,--

"It is Fate, I suppose!"

And the two men were compelled to walk back with a detective on either
side of them, while Leucha, in a passion of tears, crushed and
heart-broken, followed with her grave-faced mistress--a sad, mournful
procession.

Claire spoke to them both--kind, encouraging words, urging them to take
courage--whereupon one of the detectives said,--

"I really think it would be better if you left us, madam."  But she
refused, and walked on behind them, watched from a distance by the
German agent Stieger and Rose Reinherz, and, alas! in ignorance of the
vile, despicable plot of Hinckeldeym--the plot that was to ruin her for
ever in the eyes of her people.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

SOME UGLY TRUTHS.

Poor Leucha was beside herself with grief, for she, alas! knew too well
the many serious charges upon which her father and her lover were
wanted.  Both would receive long terms of penal servitude.  Against them
stood a very ugly list of previous convictions, and for jewel robbery,
judges were never lenient.

Claire was in deadly fear that Roddy's daughter might also be arrested
for the part she had played in the various affairs, but it appeared that
the information received by the police did not extend to "the Ladybird."

The blow was complete.  It had fallen and crushed them all.

That night Leucha lay awake, reflecting upon all that might be brought
against the pair--the Forbes affair, when the fine pearls of Mrs.
Stockton-Forbes, the wife of the American railroad king, were stolen
from the house in Park Lane; the matter of the Countess of Henham's
diamonds; the theft of Lady Maitland's emeralds, and a dozen other
clever jewel robberies that had from time to time startled readers of
the newspapers.

Claire, on her part, also lay wondering--wondering how best to act in
order to extricate the man who had so gallantly risked his life to save
hers, and the easygoing old thief who had showed her such great kindness
and consideration.  Could she extricate them?  No; she saw it was quite
impossible.  The English police and judges could not be bribed, as she
had heard they could be in some countries.  The outlook was hopeless--
utterly and absolutely hopeless.  Somebody had betrayed them.  Both men
had declared so, after their arrest.  They had either been recognised
and watched, or else some enemy had pointed them out to the police.  In
either case it was the same.  A long term of imprisonment awaited both
of them.

Though they were thieves, and as such culpable, yet she felt that she
had now lost her only friends.

Next morning, rising early, she sent Leucha to the police station to
inquire when they would be brought before the magistrate.  To her
surprise, however, "the Ladybird" brought back the reply that they had
been taken up to London by the six o'clock train that morning, in order
to be charged in the Extradition Court at Bow Street--the Court reserved
for prisoners whose extradition was demanded by foreign Governments.

Post-haste, leaving little Ignatia in charge of the landlady and the
parlour-maid, Madame Bernard and Leucha took the express to London, and
were present in the grim, sombre police court when the chief magistrate,
a pleasant-faced, white-headed old gentleman, took his seat, and the two
prisoners were placed in the dock.

Guy's dark eyes met Claire's, and he started, turning his face away with
shame at his position.  She was a royal sovereign, and he, after all,
only a thief.  He had been unworthy her regard.  Roddy saw her also, but
made no sign.  He feared lest his daughter might be recognised as the
ingenious woman who had so cleverly acted as their spy and accomplice,
and was annoyed that she should have risked coming there.

The men were formally charged--Redmayne with being concerned with two
other men, not in custody, in stealing a quantity of jewellery, the
property of the Baroness Ackermann, at Uhlenhorst, outside Hamburg.

The charge against Guy Bourne was "that he did, on June 16th, 1903,
steal certain jewellery belonging to one Joseph Hirsch of Eugendorf."

In dry, hard tones Mr. Gore-Palmer, barrister, who appeared on behalf of
the German Embassy, opened the case.

"Your Worship," counsel said, "I do not propose to go into great length
with the present case to-day.  I appear on behalf of the German Imperial
Embassy in London to apply for the extradition of these men, Redmayne
and Bourne, for extensive thefts of jewels within the German Empire.
The police will furnish evidence to you that they are members of a
well-known, daring, and highly ingenious international gang, who operate
mainly at the large railway stations on the Continent, and have, it is
believed, various accomplices, who take places as domestic servants in
the houses of persons known to be in possession of valuable jewellery.
For the last two years active search has been made for them; but they
have always succeeded in eluding the vigilance of the police until last
night, when they were apprehended at Worthing, and brought to this
Court.  The first case, that against Redmayne, is that one of the gang,
a woman unknown, entered the service of the Baroness Ackermann in
London, and after a few weeks accompanied her to Hamburg, where, on
discovering where this lady kept her jewels, she made an excuse that her
mother was dying, and returned to England.  Eight months afterwards,
however, the prisoner Redmayne, _alias_ Ward, _alias_ Scott-Martin, made
a daring entry into the house while the family were at dinner, opened
the safe, and escaped with the whole of its precious contents, some of
which were afterwards disposed of in Leyden and in Amsterdam.  The
charge against Bourne is that, on the date named, he was at the Cologne
railway station, awaiting the express from Berlin, and on its arrival
snatched the dressing-case from the Countess de Wallwitz's footman and
made off with it.  The servant saw the man, and at the police office
afterwards identified a photograph which had been supplied to the German
police from Scotland Yard as that of a dangerous criminal.  Against both
men are a number of charges for robbery in various parts of France and
Germany, one against Bourne being the daring theft, three years ago, of
a very valuable ruby pendant from the shop of a jeweller named Hirsch,
in the town of Eugendorf, in the Kingdom of Marburg.  This latter
offence, as your Worship will see, has been added to the charge against
Bourne, and the Imperial German Government rely upon your Worship
granting the extradition sought for under the Acts of 1870 and 1873, and
the Treaty of 1876."  Mention of the town of Eugendorf caused Claire to
start quickly.  He had actually been guilty of theft in her own Kingdom!
For that reason, then, he had escaped from Treysa the instant he was
well enough to leave the hospital.

"I have here," continued counsel, "a quantity of evidence taken on
commission before British Consuls in Germany, which I will put in, and I
propose also to call a servant of the Baroness Ackermann and the
jeweller Hirsch, both of whom are now in the precincts of the Court.  I
may add that the Imperial German Government have, through their
Ambassador, made diplomatic representations to the Secretary of State
for Foreign Affairs, as they attach the greatest importance to this
case.  The men, if my instructions are correct, will be found to be the
leaders of a very dangerous and daring gang, who operate mostly in
Germany, and seek refuge here, in their own country.  I therefore hope
that your Worship, after reading the depositions and hearing the
evidence, will make the order for them to be handed over to the German
authorities to be dealt with."

"I must have direct evidence," remarked the magistrate.  "Evidence on
commission is not sufficient.  They are both British subjects,
remember."

"I have direct evidence of identification against each prisoner,"
counsel replied.  "I take it that your Worship will be obliged to
adjourn the case for seven days, as usual; and if further evidence is
required from Germany, it will be forthcoming."

"Very well," said the magistrate, taking the mass of documents handed to
him, and proceeding to hear the formal evidence of arrest, as given by
the inspector and sergeant from New Scotland Yard.

Afterwards the interpreter of the Court was sworn, and following him a
tall, clean-shaven, yellow-haired German entered the witness-box, and
gave his name as Max Wolff, in the employ of the Baroness Ackermann, of
Uhlenhorst, near Hamburg.  The instant "the Ladybird" saw him she made
an excuse to Claire, and rising, escaped from the Court.  They had been
in service together, and he might recognise her!

The man's evidence, being translated into English, showed that suspicion
fell upon an English maid the Baroness had engaged in London, and who, a
few days after arriving in Hamburg, suddenly returned.  Indeed, she had
one day been seen examining the lock of the safe; and it was believed
that she had taken an impression of the key, for when the robbery was
committed, some months later, the safe was evidently opened by means of
a duplicate key.

"And do you identify either of the prisoners?" inquired the magistrate.

"I identify the elder one.  I came face to face with him coming down the
principal staircase with a bag in his hand.  I was about to give the
alarm; but he drew a revolver, and threatened to blow out my brains if I
uttered a word."

The accused man's face relaxed into a sickly smile.

"And you were silent?"

"For the moment, yes.  Next second he was out into the road, and took to
the open country.  I am quite certain he is the man; I would know him
among ten thousand."

"And you have heard nothing of this English lady's maid since?" asked
the magistrate.

"No; she disappeared after, as we suppose, taking the impression of the
key."

The next witness was a short, stout, dark-faced man with a shiny bald
head, evidently a Jew.  He was Joseph Hirsch, jeweller, of the
Sternstrasse, Eugendorf, and he described how, on a certain evening, the
prisoner Bourne--whom he identified--had entered his shop.  He took him
to be a wealthy Englishman travelling for pleasure, and showed him some
of his best goods, including a ruby pendant worth about fifty thousand
marks.  The prisoner examined it well, but saying that the light was not
good, and that he preferred to return next morning and examine it in the
daylight, he put it down and went out.  A quarter of an hour later,
however, he had discovered, to his utter dismay, that the pendant had
been cleverly palmed, and in its place in the case was left a cheap
ornament, almost a replica, but of brass and pieces of red glass.  He at
once took train to Treysa and informed the chief of police, who showed
him a photograph of the prisoner--a copy of one circulated by Scotland
Yard.

"And do you see in Court the man who stole the pendant?" asked the
magistrate.

"Yes; he is there," the Jew replied in German--"the younger of the two."

"You have not recovered your property?"

"No, sir."

The court was not crowded.  The London public take little or no interest
in the Extradition Court.  The magistrate glanced across at the
well-dressed lady in dark grey who sat alone upon one of the benches,
and wondered who she might be.  Afterwards one of the detectives
informed him privately that she had been with the men at Worthing when
they were arrested.

"I do not know, your Worship, if you require any further evidence,"
exclaimed Mr. Gore-Palmer, again rising.  "Perhaps you will glance at
the evidence taken on commission before the British Consul-General at
Treysa, the British Consul in Hamburg, and the British Vice-Consul at
Cologne.  I venture to think that in face of the evidence of
identification you have just heard, you will be convinced that the
German Government have a just right to apply for the extradition of
these two persons."

He then resumed his seat, while the white-headed old gentleman on the
bench carefully went through folio after folio of the signed and stamped
documents, each with its certified English translation and green
Consular stamps.

Presently, when about half-way through the documents, he removed his
gold pince-nez, and looking across at counsel, asked,--

"Mr. Gore-Palmer, I am not quite clear upon one point.  For whom do you
appear to prosecute--for the Imperial German Government, or for the
Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the Kingdom of Marburg?"

"I appear for both, your Worship, but I am instructed by the latter."

"By the Minister Stuhlmann himself, on behalf of the Government--not by
Herr Hirsch?"

"Yes, your Worship, by the Minister himself, who is determined to crush
out the continually increasing crimes committed by foreign criminals who
enter the Kingdom in the guise of tourists, as in the case of the
present prisoners."

Claire, when counsel's explanation fell upon her ears, sat upright, pale
and rigid.

She recollected Steinbach's warning, and in an instant the vile,
dastardly plot of Hinckeldeym and his creatures became revealed to her.

They would condemn this man to whom she owed her life as a low-bred
thief, and at the same time declare that he was her latest lover!

For her it was the end of all things--the very end!

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

PLACE AND POWER.

The grey-faced London magistrate had remanded the prisoners in custody
for seven days, and the papers that evening gave a brief account of the
proceedings under the heading: "Smart Capture of Alleged Jewel Thieves."

During the return journey to Worthing Claire remained almost silent at
Leucha's side.  The girl, whose gallant lover had thus been snatched
from her so cruelly, was beside herself in utter dejection and
brokenness of heart.  Surely they were a downcast pair, seated in the
corners of an empty first-class carriage on the way back to the seaside
town which possessed no further charm for them.

To Claire the plot was now revealed as clear as day.  She had, however,
never dreamed that Hinckeldeym and Stuhlmann would descend to such
depths of villainy as this.  Their spies had been at work, without a
doubt.  She had been watched, and the watchers, whoever they were, had
evidently established the identity of the two men to whom she owed so
very much.  And then Hinckeldeym, with that brutal unscrupulousness that
distinguished him, had conceived the hellish plot to create a fresh
scandal regarding the jewel thief Guy Bourne and herself.

The man who had risked his life for hers had now lost his liberty solely
on her account.  It was cruel, unjust, inhuman!  Night and day she had
prayed to her Maker for peace and for protection from the thousand
pitfalls that beset her path in that great complex world of which she
was almost as ignorant as little Ignatia herself.  Yet it seemed as
though, on the contrary, she was slowly drifting on and on to a ruin
that was irreparable and complete.

She felt herself doubting, but instantly her strong faith reasserted
itself.  Yes, God would hear her; she was sure He would.  She was a
miserable sinner, like all other women, even though she were queen of an
earthly kingdom.  He would forgive her; He would also forgive those two
men who stood charged with the crime of theft.  God was just, and in Him
she still placed her implicit trust.  In silence, as the train rushed
southward, she again appealed to Him for His comfort and His guidance.

Her bounden duty was to try and save the men who had been her friends,
even at risk to herself.  Their friendliness with her had been their own
betrayal.  Had they disappeared from Paris with her jewels they would
still have been at liberty.

Yet what could she do? how could she act?

Twenty years' penal servitude was the sentence which Leucha declared
would be given her father if tried in England, while upon Bourne the
sentence would not be less than fifteen years, having in view his list
of previous convictions.  In Germany, with the present-day prejudice
against the English, they would probably be given even heavier
sentences, for, according to Mr. Gore-Palmer, an attempt was to be made
to make an example of them.

Ah! if the world only knew how kind, how generous those two criminals
had been to her, a friendless, unhappy woman, who knew no more of the
world than a child in her teens, would it really judge them harshly, she
wondered.  Or would they receive from the public that deep-felt
compassion which she herself had shown them?

Many good qualities are, alas! nowadays dead in the human heart; but
happily chivalry towards a lonely woman is still, even in this twentieth
century, one of the traits of the Englishman's character, be he
gentleman or costermonger.

Alone in her room that night, she knelt beside the bed where little
Ignatia was sleeping so peacefully, and besought the Almighty to protect
her and her child from this last and foulest plot of her enemies, and to
comfort those who had been her friends.  Long and earnestly she remained
in prayer, her hands clasped, her face uplifted, her white lips moving
in humble, fervent appeal to God.

Then when she rose up she pushed back the mass of fair hair from her
brow, and paced the room for a long time, pondering deeply, but
discerning no way out of the difficulties and perils that now beset her.
The two accused men would be condemned, while upon her would be heaped
the greatest shame that could be cast upon a woman.

Suddenly she halted at the window, and leaning forward, looked out upon
the flashing light far away across the dark, lonely sea.  Beyond that
far-off horizon, mysterious in the obscurity of night, lay the
Continent, with her own Kingdom within.  Though freedom was so
delightful, without Court etiquette and without Court shams, yet her
duty to her people was, she recollected, to be beside her husband; her
duty to her child was to live that life to which she, as an Imperial
Archduchess, had been born, no matter how irksome it might be to her.

Should she risk all and return to Treysa?  The very suggestion caused
her to hold her breath.  Her face was pale and pensive in her silent,
lofty, uncomplaining despair.

Would her husband receive her?  Or would he, at the instigation of old
Hinckeldeym and his creatures, hound her out of the Kingdom as what the
liars at Court had falsely declared her to be?

Again she implored the direction of the Almighty, sinking humbly upon
her knees before the crucifix she had placed at the head of her bed,
remaining there for fully a quarter of an hour.

Then when she rose again there was a calm, determined look on her pale,
hard-set face.

Yes; her patience and womanhood could endure no longer.  She would take
Leucha and go fearlessly to Treysa, to face her false friends and
ruthless enemies.  They would start to-morrow.  Not a moment was to be
lost.  And instead of retiring to bed, she spent the greater part of the
night in packing her trunks in readiness for the journey which was to
decide her fate.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The summer's evening was breathless and stifling in Treysa.  Attired in
Henriette's coat and skirt, and wearing her thick lace veil, Claire
alighted from the dusty _wagon-lit_ that had brought her from Cologne,
and stood upon the great, well-remembered platform unrecognised.

The _douaniers_ at the frontier had overhauled her baggage; the railway
officials had clipped her tickets; the _wagon-lit_ conductor had treated
her with the same quiet courtesy that he had shown to her
fellow-passengers, and she had passed right into the splendid capital
without a single person recognising that the Queen--"their Claire"--had
returned among them.

Leucha descended with Ignatia, who at once became excited at hearing her
native tongue again; and as they stood awaiting their hand-baggage an
agent of police passed them, but even he did not recognise in the
neat-waisted figure the brilliant and beautiful soft-eyed woman who was
his sovereign.

At first she held her breath, trembling lest she might be recognised,
and premature information of her return be conveyed to Hinckeldeym or to
the Prefect of Police, who, no doubt, had his orders to refuse her
admittance.  Yet finding her disguise so absolutely complete, she took
courage, and passed out of the station to hail a closed cab.

They were all three utterly tired out after thirty-six hours of rail,
crossing by way of Dover and Ostend.

When Leucha and Ignatia had entered the cab she said to the man sharply,
in German,--

"Drive to the royal palace."

The man, who took her for one of the servants, settled himself upon his
box and drove up the straight tree-lined avenue to the great entrance
gates of the royal park, which were, as usual, closed.

As they approached them, however, her Majesty raised her veil, and
waited; while Leucha, with little Ignatia upon her knee, sat wondering.
She, "the Ladybird," the accomplice of the cleverest gang of thieves in
Europe, was actually entering a royal palace as intimate friend of its
Queen!

The cab halted, the sentries drew up at attention, and the gorgeous
porter came forward and put in his head inquisitively.

Next instant he recognised who it was, and started back; then, raising
his cocked hat and bowing low, gave orders to the cabman to drive on.
Afterwards, utterly amazed, he went to the telephone to apprise the
porter up at the palace that her Majesty the Queen had actually
returned.

When they drew up at the great marble steps before the palace entrance,
the gaudily-dressed porter stood bare-headed with three other
men-servants and the two agents of police who were always on duty there.

All bowed low, saluting their Queen in respectful silence as she
descended, and Leucha followed her with the little Princess toddling at
her side.  It was a ceremonious arrival, but not a single word was
uttered until Claire passed into the hall, and was about to ascend the
grand staircase on her way to the royal private apartments; for she
supposed, and quite rightly, that her husband had, on his accession,
moved across to the fine suite occupied by his late father.

Bowing slightly to acknowledge the obeisance of the servants, she was
about to ascend the broad stairs, when the porter came forward, and said
apologetically,--

"Will your Majesty pardon me?  I have orders from the Minister
Hinckeldeym to say that he is waiting in the blue anteroom, and wishes
to see you instantly upon your arrival."

"Then he knows of my return?" she exclaimed surprised.

"Your Majesty was expected by him since yesterday."  She saw that his
spies had telegraphed news of her departure from London.

"And the King is in the palace?"

"Yes, your Majesty; he is in his private cabinet," responded the man,
bowing.

"Then I will go to him.  I will see Hinckeldeym afterwards."

"But, your Majesty, I have strict orders not to allow your Majesty to
pass until you have seen his Excellency.  See, here he comes!"

And as she turned she saw approaching up the long marble hall a fat man,
her arch-enemy, attired in funereal, black.

"Your Majesty!" he said, bowing, while an evil smile played upon his
lips.  "So you have returned to us at Treysa!  Before seeing the King I
wish to speak to you in private."

Deadly and inexorable malice was in his countenance.  She turned upon
him with a quick fire in her eyes, answering with that hauteur that is
inherent in the Hapsbourg blood,--

"Whatever you have to say can surely be said here.  You can have nothing
concerning me to conceal!" she added meaningly.

"I have something to say that cannot be said before the palace
servants," he exclaimed quickly.  "I forbid you to go to the King before
I have had an opportunity of explaining certain matters."

"Oh! you forbid--_you_?" she cried, turning upon him in resentment at
his laconic insolence.  "And pray, who are you?--a mere paid puppet of
the State, a political adventurer who discerns further advancement by
being my enemy!  And you _forbid_?"

"Your Majesty--I--"

"Yes; when addressing me do not forget that I am your Queen," she said
firmly, "and that I know very well how to deal with those who have
endeavoured to encompass my ruin.  Now go to your fellow-adventurers,
Stuhlmann, Hoepfner, and the rest, and give them my message."  Every
word of hers seemed to blister where it fell.  Then turning to Leucha,
she said in English,--

"Remain here with Ignatia.  I will return to you presently."

And while the fat-faced officer of State who had so ingeniously plotted
her downfall stood abashed in silence, and confused at her defiance, she
swept past him, mounted the stairs haughtily, and turning into the
corridor, made her way to the royal apartments.

Outside the door of the King's private cabinet--that room wherein
Hinckeldeym had introduced his spies--she held her breath.  She was
helpless at once, and desperate.  Her hand trembled upon the door knob,
and the sentry, recognising her, started, and stood at attention.

With sudden resolve she turned the handle, and next second stood erect
in the presence of her husband.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

A WOMAN'S WORDS.

The King sprang up from his writing-table as though electrified.

"You!" he gasped, turning pale and glaring at her--"you, Claire!  Why
are you here?" he demanded angrily.

"To speak with you, Ferdinand.  That scheming reptile Hinckeldeym
forbade me to see you; but I have defied him--and have come to you."

"Forbade you! why?" he asked, in a deep voice, facing her, and at once
noticing that she was disguised as Henriette.

"Because he fears that I may expose his ingenious intrigue to you.  I
have discovered everything, and I have come to you, my husband, to face
you, and to answer any charges that this man may bring against me.  I
only ask for justice," she added, in a low, earnest voice.  "I appeal to
you for that, for the sake of our little Ignatia; for the sake of my own
good name, not as Queen, but as a woman!"

"Then Hinckeldeym was aware that you were returning?"

"His spies, no doubt, telegraphed information that I had left London.
He was awaiting me in the blue anteroom when I arrived, ten minutes
ago."

"He told me nothing," her husband remarked gruffly, knitting his brows
in marked displeasure.

"Because he fears the revelation of his dastardly plot to separate us,
and to hurl me down to the lowest depths of infamy and shame."

Her husband was silent; his eyes were fixed upon hers.  Only yesterday
he had called Meyer, the Minister of Justice, and given orders for an
application to the Court for a divorce.  Hinckeldeym, by continually
pointing out the Imperial displeasure in Vienna, had forced him to take
this step.  He had refrained as long as he could, but at last had been
forced to yield.

As far as government was concerned, Hinckeldeym was, he considered, an
excellent Minister; yet since that night when the man had introduced his
spies, he had had his shrewd suspicions aroused that all he had told him
concerning Claire was not the exact truth.  Perhaps, after all, he had
harshly misjudged her.  Such, indeed, was the serious thought that had a
thousand times of late been uppermost in his mind--ever since, indeed,
he had given audience to the Minister Meyer on the previous morning.

Claire went on, shining forth all her sweet, womanly self.  Her
intellectual powers, her elevated sense of religion, her high honourable
principles, her best feelings as a woman, all were displayed.  She
maintained at first a calm self-command, as one sure of carrying her
point in the end; and yet there was, nevertheless, a painful,
heart-thrilling uncertainty.  In her appeal, however, was an
irresistible and solemn pathos, which, falling upon her husband's heart,
caused him to wonder, and to stand open-mouthed before her.

"You allege, then, that all this outrageous scandal that has been the
talk of Europe has been merely invented by Hinckeldeym and his friends?"
asked the King, folding his arms firmly and fixing his eyes upon his
wife very seriously.

"I only ask you, Ferdinand, to hear the truth, and as Sovereign to
render justice where justice is due," was her calm response, her pale
face turned to his.  "I was too proud in my own honesty as your wife to
appeal to you: indeed, I saw that it was hopeless, so utterly had you
fallen beneath the influence of my enemies.  So I preferred to leave the
Court, and to live incognito as an ordinary person."

"But you left Treysa with Leitolf, the man who was your lover!  You
can't deny that, eh?" he snapped.

"I deny it, totally and emphatically," was her response, facing him
unflinchingly.  "Carl Leitolf loved me when I was a child, but years
before my marriage with you I had ceased to entertain any affection for
him.  He, however, remained my friend--and he is still my friend."

"Then you don't deny that to-day he is really your friend?" he said,
with veiled sarcasm.

"Why should I?  Surely there is nothing disgraceful that a man should
show friendliness and sympathy towards a woman who yearns for her
husband's love, and is lonely and unhappy, as I have been?  Again, I did
not leave Treysa with him.  He joined my train quite by accident, and we
travelled to Vienna together.  He left me at the station, and I have not
seen him since."

"When you were in Vienna, a few days before, you actually visited him at
his hotel?"

"Certainly; I went to see him just as I should call upon any other
friend.  I recognised the plot against us, and arranged with him that he
should leave the Court and go to Rome."

"I don't approve of such friends," he snapped again quickly.

"A husband should always choose his wife's male friends.  I am entirely
in your hands, Ferdinand."

"But surely you know that a thousand and one scandalous stories have
been whispered about you--not only in the palace, but actually among the
people.  The papers, even, have hinted at your disgraceful and
outrageous behaviour."

"And I have nothing whatever to be ashamed of.  You, my husband, I face
boldly to-night, and declare to you that I have never, for one single
moment, forgotten my duty either to you or to our child," she said, in a
very low, firm voice, hot tears at that moment welling in her beautiful
eyes.  "I am here to declare my innocence--to demand of you justice,
Ferdinand!"

His lips were pressed together.  He was watching her intently, noticing
how very earnestly and how very boldly she refuted those statements
which, in his entire ignorance of the conspiracy, he had believed to be
scandalous truths.  Was it really possible that she, his wife, whom all
Europe had admired for her grace, her sweetness, and her extraordinary
beauty, was actually a victim of a deeply-laid plot of Hinckeldeym's?
To him it seemed utterly impossible.  She was endeavouring, perhaps, to
shield herself by making these counter allegations.  A man, he
reflected, seldom gets even with a woman's ingenuity.

"Hinckeldeym has recently revealed to me something else, Claire," he
said, speaking very slowly, his eyes still fixed upon hers--"the
existence of another lover, an interesting person who, it appears, is a
criminal!"

"Listen, Ferdinand, and I will tell you the truth--the whole truth," she
said very earnestly.  "You will remember the narrow escape I had that
day when my cob shied at a motor car and ran away, and a stranger--an
Englishman--stopped the animal, and was so terribly injured that he had
to be conveyed to the hospital, and remained there some weeks in a very
precarious state.  And he afterwards disappeared, without waiting for me
to thank him personally?"

"Yes; I remember hearing something about him."

"It is that man--the criminal," she declared; and then, in quick,
breathless sentences, she explained how her jewels had been stolen in
Paris, and how, when the thieves knew of her identity, the bag had been
restored to her intact.  He listened to every word in silence,
wondering.  The series of romantic incidents held him surprised.  They
were really gallant and gentlemanly thieves, if--if nothing else, he
declared.

"To this Mr. Bourne I owe my life," she said; "and to him I also owe the
return of my jewels.  Is it, therefore, any wonder when these two men,
Bourne and Redmayne, have showed me such consideration, that, lonely as
I am, I should regard them as friends?  I have Redmayne's daughter with
me here, as maid.  She is below, with Ignatia.  It is this Mr. Bourne,
who is engaged to be married to Leucha Redmayne, that Hinckeldeym seeks
to denounce as my lover!"

"He says that both men are guilty of theft within the Empire; indeed,
Bourne is, it is said, guilty of jewel robbery in Eugendorf."

"They have both been arrested at Hinckeldeym's instigation, and are now
in London, remanded before being extradited here."

"Oh! he has not lost very much time, it seems."

"No.  His intention is that Mr. Bourne shall stand his trial here, in
Treysa, and at the same time the prisoner is to be denounced by inspired
articles in the press as my lover--that I, Queen of Marburg, have allied
myself with a common criminal!  Cannot you see his dastardly intention?
He means that this, his last blow, his master stroke, shall crush me,
and break my power for ever," she cried desperately.  "You, Ferdinand,
will give me justice--I know you will!  I am still your wife!" she
implored.  "You will not allow their foul lies and insinuations to
influence you further; will you?" she asked.  "In order to debase me in
your eyes and in the eyes of all Europe, Hinckeldeym has caused the
arrest of this man to whom I owe my life--the man who saved me, not
because I was Crown Princess, but because I was merely a woman in peril.
Think what betrayal and arrest means to these men.  It means long terms
of imprisonment to both.  And why?  Merely in order to attack me--
because I am their friend.  They may be guilty of theft--indeed they
admit they are; nevertheless I ask you to give them your clemency, and
to save them.  You can have them brought here for trial; and there are
ways, technicalities of the law, or something, by which their release
can be secured.  A King may act as he chooses in his own Kingdom."

Every word she spoke was so worthy of herself, so full of sentiment and
beauty, poetry and passion.  Too naturally frank for disguise, too
modest to confess her depth of love while the issue remained in
suspense, it was a conflict between love and fear and dignity.

"I think you ask me rather too much, Claire," he said, in a somewhat
quieter tone.  "You ask me to believe all that you tell me, without
giving me any proof whatsoever."

"And how can I give you proof when Mr. Bourne and his friend are in
custody in London?  Let them be extradited to Treysa, and then you may
have them brought before you privately and questioned."

For some moments he did not speak.  What she had just alleged had placed
upon the matter an entirely different aspect.  Indeed, within himself he
was compelled to admit that the suspicions he had lately entertained
regarding Hinckeldeym had now been considerably increased by her
surprising statements.  Was she speaking the truth?

Whenever he allowed his mind to wander back he recollected that it had
been the crafty old President who had first aroused those fierce jealous
thoughts within his heart.  It was he who had made those allegations
against Leitolf; he who, from the very first weeks of his marriage, had
treated Claire with marked antipathy, although to her face he had shown
such cordiality and deep obeisance that she had actually believed him to
be her friend.  Yes, he now recognised that this old man, in whom his
father had reposed such perfect confidence, had been the fount of all
those reports that had scandalised Europe.  If his calm, sweet-faced
wife had, after all, been a really good and faithful woman, then he had
acted as an outrageous brute to her.  His own cruelty pricked his
conscience.  It was for her to forgive, not for her to seek forgiveness.

She saw his hesitation, and believed it due to a reluctance to accept
her allegations as the real truth.

"If you doubt me, Ferdinand, call Hinckeldeym at this instant.  Let me
face this man before you, and let me categorically deny all the false
charges which he and his sycophants have from time to time laid against
me.  Here, at Court, I am feared, because they know that I am aware of
all my secret enemies.  Make a clearance of them all and commence
afresh," she urged, a sweet light in her wonderful eyes.  "You have
clever men about you who would make honest and excellent Ministers; but
while you are surrounded by such conspirators as these, neither you nor
the throne itself is safe.  I know," she went on breathlessly, "that you
have been seized by a terrible jealousy--a cruel, consuming jealousy,
purposely aroused against me in order to bring about the result which
was but the natural outcome--my exile from Treysa and our estrangement.
It is true that you did not treat me kindly--that you struck me--that
you insulted me--that you have disfigured me by your blows; but
recollect, I beg, that I have never once complained.  I never once
revealed the secret of my dire unhappiness; only to one man, the man who
has been my friend ever since my childhood--Carl Leitolf.  And if you
had been in my place, Ferdinand, I ask whether you would not have sought
comfort in relating your unhappiness to a friend.  I ask you that
question," she added, in a low, intense, trembling voice.  "For all your
unkindness and neglect I have long ago really forgiven you.  I have
prayed earnestly to God that He would open your eyes and show me in my
true light--a faithful wife.  I leave it to Him to be my judge, and to
deal out to my enemies the justice they deserve."

"Claire!" he cried, suddenly taking her slim white hand in his and
looking fiercely into her beautiful eyes, "is this the real truth that
you have just told me?"

"It is!" she answered firmly; "before God, I swear that it is!  I am a
poor sinner in His sight, but as your wife I have nothing with which to
reproach myself--nothing.  If you doubt me, then call Leitolf from Rome;
call Bourne.  Both men, instead of being my lovers, are your friends--
and mine.  I can look both you and them in the face without flinching,
and am ready to do so whenever it is your will."

All was consummated in that one final touch of truth and nature.  The
consciousness of her own worth and integrity which had sustained her
through all her trials of heart, and that pride of station for which she
had contended through long years--which had become more dear by
opposition and by the perseverance with which she had asserted it--
remained the last strong feeling upon her mind even at that moment, the
most fateful crisis of her existence.

Her earnest, fearless frankness impressed him.  Was it really possible
that his wife--this calm-faced woman who had been condemned by him
everywhere, and against whom he had already commenced proceedings for a
divorce--was really, after all, quite innocent?

He remembered Hinckeldeym's foul allegations, the damning evidence of
his spies, the copies of certain letters.  Was all this a tissue of
fraud, falsehood, and forgery?

In a few rapid words she went on to relate how, in that moment of
resentment at such scandalous gossip being propagated concerning her,
she had threatened that when she became Queen she would change the whole
entourage, and in a brief, pointed argument she showed him the strong
motive with which the evil-eyed President of the Council had formed the
dastardly conspiracy against her.

"Claire," he asked, still holding her soft hand with the wedding ring
upon it, "after all that has passed--after all my harsh, inhuman cruelty
to you--can you really love me still?  Do you really entertain one
single spark of love for me?"

"Love you!" she cried, throwing herself into his arms in a passion of
tears; "love you, Ferdinand!" she sobbed.  "Why, you are my husband;
whom else have I to love, besides our child?"

"Then I will break up this damnable conspiracy against you," he said
determinedly.  "I--the King--will seek out and punish all who have
plotted against my happiness and yours.  They shall be shown no mercy;
they shall all be swept into obscurity and ruin.  They thought," he
added, in a hard, hoarse voice, "to retain their positions at Court by
keeping us apart, because they knew that you had discovered their
despicable duplicity.  Leave them to me; Ferdinand of Marburg knows well
how to redress a wrong, especially one which concerns his wife's
honour," and he ran his hand over his wife's soft hair as he bent and
kissed her lips.

So overcome with emotion was she that at the moment she could not speak.
God had at last answered those fervent appeals that she had made ever
since the first year of their marriage.

"I have wronged you, Claire--deeply, very deeply wronged you," he went
on, in a husky, apologetic voice, his arm tenderly about her waist, as
he again pressed his lips to hers in reconciliation.  "But it was the
fault of others.  They lied to me; they exaggerated facts and
manufactured evidence, and I foolishly believed them.  Yet now that you
have lifted the scales from my eyes, the whole of their devilishly
clever intrigue stands plainly revealed.  It utterly staggers me.  I can
only ask you to forgive.  Let us from to-night commence a new life--that
sweet, calm life of trust and love which when we married we both
believed was to be ours for ever, but which, alas! by the interference
and malignity of our enemies, was turned from affection into hatred and
unhappiness."

"I am ready, Ferdinand," she answered, a sweet smile lighting up her
beautiful features.  "We will bury the past; for you are King and I am
Queen, and surely none shall now come between us.  My happiness tonight,
knowing that you are, after all, good and generous, and that you really
love me truly, no mere words of mine can reveal.  Yet even now I have
still a serious thought, a sharp pang of conscience for those who are
doomed to suffer because they acted as my friends when I was outcast and
friendless."

"You mean the men Bourne and Redmayne," the King said.  "Yes, they are
in a very perilous position.  We must press for their extradition here,
and then their release will be easy.  To-morrow you must find some means
by which to reassure them."

"And Hinckeldeym?"

"Hinckeldeym shall this very night answer to his Sovereign for the foul
lies he has spoken," replied the King, in a hard, meaning tone.  "But,
dearest, think no more of that liar.  He will never cross your path
again; I shall take good care of that.  And now," he said, imprinting a
long, lingering caress upon her white, open brow--"and now let us call
up our little Ignatia and see how the child has grown.  An hour ago I
was the saddest man in all the kingdom, Claire; now," he laughed, as he
kissed her again, "I admit to you I am the very happiest!"

Their lips met again in a passionate, fervent caress.

On her part she gazed up into his kind, loving eyes with a rapturous
look which was more expressive than words--a look which told him plainly
how deeply she still loved him, notwithstanding all the bitterness and
injustice of the black, broken past.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

CONCLUSION.

The greatest flutter of excitement was caused throughout Germany--and
throughout the whole of Europe, for the matter of that--when it became
known through the press that the Queen of Marburg had returned.

Reuter's correspondent at Treysa was the first to give the astounding
news to the world, and the world at first shrugged its shoulders and
grinned.

When, however, a few days later, it became known that the Minister
Heinrich Hinckeldeym had been summarily dismissed from office, his
decorations withdrawn, and he was under arrest for serious peculation
from the Royal Treasury, people began to wonder.  Their doubts were,
however, quickly set at rest when the Ministers Stuhlmann and Hoepfner
were also dismissed and disgraced, and a semi-official statement was
published in the Government _Gazette_ to the effect that the King had
discovered that the charges against his wife were, from beginning to
end, a tissue of false calumnies "invented by certain persons who sought
to profit by her Majesty's absence from Court."

And so, by degrees, the reconciliation between the King and Queen
gradually leaked out to the English public through the columns of their
newspapers.

But little did they guess that the extradition case pressed so very hard
at Bow Street last August against the two jewel thieves, Redmayne,
_alias_ Ward, and Guy Bourne, had any connection with the great scandal
at the Court of Marburg.

The men were extradited, Redmayne to be tried in Berlin and Bourne at
Treysa; but of their sentences history, as recorded in the daily
newspapers, is silent.  The truth is that neither of them was sentenced,
but by the private request of his Majesty, a legal technicality was
discovered, which placed them at liberty.

Both men afterwards had private audience of the King, and personally
received the royal thanks for the kindness they had shown towards the
Queen and to little Ignatia.  In order to mark his appreciation, his
Majesty caused a lucrative appointment in the Ministry of Foreign
Affairs, where a knowledge of English was necessary, to be given to
Roddy Redmayne, while Guy Bourne, through the King's recommendation, was
appointed to the staff of an important German bank in New York; and it
has been arranged that next month Leucha--who leaves her Majesty and
Ignatia with much regret--goes to America to marry him.  To her place,
as Ignatia's nurse, the faithful Allen has now returned, while the false
de Trauttenberg, who, instantly upon Hinckeldeym's downfall, went to
live in Paris, has been succeeded by the Countess de Langendorf, one of
Claire's intimate friends of her days at the Vienna Court, prior to her
marriage.

What actually transpired between Hinckeldeym and his Sovereign on that
fateful night will probably never be known.  The people of Treysa are
aware, however, that a few hours after "their Claire's" return the
President of the Council was commanded to the royal presence, and left
it ruined and disgraced.  On the following day he was arrested in his
own mansion by three gendarmes and taken to the common police office,
where he afterwards attempted suicide, but was prevented.

The serious charges of peculation against him were, in due course,
proved up to the hilt, and at the present moment he is undergoing a
well-merited sentence of five years' imprisonment in the common gaol at
Eugendorf.

Count Carl Leitolf was recalled from Rome to Treysa a few days later,
and had audience in the King's private cabinet.  The outcome was,
however, entirely different, for the King, upon the diplomat's return to
Rome, signed a decree bestowing upon him _di moto proprio_ the Order of
Saint Stephen, one of the highest of the Marburg Orders, as a signal
mark of esteem.

Thus was the public opinion of Europe turned in favour of the poor,
misjudged woman who, although a reigning sovereign, had, by force of
adverse circumstances, actually resigned her crown, and, accepting
favours of the criminal class as her friends, had found them faithful
and devoted.

Of the Ministers of the Kingdom of Marburg only Meyer retains his
portfolio at the present moment, while Steinbach has been promoted to a
very responsible and lucrative appointment.  The others are all in
obscurity.  Ministers, chamberlains, _dames du palais_ and _dames de la
cour_, all have been swept away by a single stroke of the pen, and
others, less prone to intrigue, appointed.

Henriette--the faithful Henriette--part of whose wardrobe Claire had
appropriated on escaping from Treysa, is back again as her Majesty's
head maid; and though the popular idea is that little real, genuine love
exists between royalties, yet the King and Queen are probably the very
happiest pair among the millions over whom they rule to-day.

Her Majesty, the womanly woman whose sweet, even temperament and
constant solicitude for the poor and distressed is so well known
throughout the Continent, is loudly acclaimed by all classes each time
she leaves the palace and smiles upon them from her carriage.

The people, who have universally denounced Hinckeldeym and his
unscrupulous methods, still worship her and call her "their Claire."
But, by mutual consent, mention is no longer made of that dark,
dastardly conspiracy which came so very near wrecking the lives of both
King and Queen--that dastardly affair which the journalists termed "The
Great Court Scandal."

The End.






End of Project Gutenberg's The Great Court Scandal, by William Le Queux

*** 