Rupert of Hentzau: From The Memoirs of Fritz Von Tarlenheim<br />Sequel to The Prisoner of Zenda by Anthony Hope (the reading list TXT) 📗

only over his chin. “You call very peremptorily,” he continued, staring contemptuously. “What’s your business with me?”

With a violent start, the sergeant—for such the star on his collar and the lace on his cuff proclaimed him—leant forward in the saddle to look at the man whom he had hailed. Rudolf said nothing and did not move. The man’s eyes studied his face intently. Then he sat bolt upright and saluted, his face dyed to a deep red in his sudden confusion.

“And why do you salute me now?” asked Rudolf in a mocking tone. “First you hunt me, then you salute me. By Heaven, I don’t know why you put yourself out at all about me!”

“I—I—” the fellow stuttered. Then trying a fresh start, he stammered, “Your Majesty, I didn’t know—I didn’t suppose—”

Rudolf stepped towards him with a quick, decisive tread.

“And why do you call me ‘Your Majesty’?” he asked, still mockingly.

“It—it—isn’t it your Majesty?”

Rudolf was close by him now, his hand on the horse’s neck.

He looked up into the sergeant’s face with steady eyes, saying:

“You make a mistake, my friend. I am not the king.”

“You are not—?” stuttered the bewildered fellow.

“By no means. And, sergeant—?”

“Your Majesty?”

“Sir, you mean.”

“Yes, sir.”

“A zealous officer, sergeant, can make no greater mistake than to take for the king a gentleman who is not the king. It might injure his prospects, since the king, not being here, mightn’t wish to have it supposed that he was here. Do you follow me, sergeant?”

The man said nothing, but stared hard. After a moment Rudolf continued:

“In such a case,” said he, “a discreet officer would not trouble the gentleman any more, and would be very careful not to mention that he had made such a silly mistake. Indeed, if questioned, he would answer without hesitation that he hadn’t seen anybody even like the king, much less the king himself.”

A doubtful, puzzled little smile spread under the sergeant’s moustache.

“You see, the king is not even in Strelsau,” said Rudolf.

“Not in Strelsau, sir?”

“Why, no, he’s at Zenda.”

“Ah! At Zenda, sir?”

“Certainly. It is therefore impossible—physically impossible—that he should be here.”

The fellow was convinced that he understood now.

“It’s certainly impossible, sir,” said he, smiling more broadly.

“Absolutely. And therefore impossible also that you should have seen him.” With this Rudolf took a gold piece from his pocket and handed it to the sergeant. The fellow took it with something like a wink.

“As for you, you’ve searched here and found nobody,” concluded Mr. Rassendyll. “So hadn’t you better at once search somewhere else?

“Without doubt, sir,” said the sergeant, and with the most deferential salute, and another confidential smile, he turned and rode back by the way he had come. No doubt he wished that he could meet a gentleman who was—not the king—every morning of his life. It hardly need be said that all idea of connecting the gentleman with the crime committed in the Konigstrasse had vanished from his mind. Thus Rudolf won freedom from the man’s interference, but at a dangerous cost—how dangerous he did not know. It was indeed most impossible that the king could be in Strelsau.

He lost no time now in turning his steps towards his refuge. It was past five o’clock, day came quickly, and the streets began to be peopled by men and women on their way to open stalls or to buy in the market. Rudolf crossed the square at a rapid walk, for he was afraid of the soldiers who were gathering for early duty opposite to the barracks. Fortunately he passed by them unobserved, and gained the comparative seclusion of the street in which my house stands, without encountering any further difficulties. In truth, he was almost in safety; but bad luck was now to have its turn. When Mr. Rassendyll was no more than fifty yards from my door, a carriage suddenly drove up and stopped a few paces in front of him. The footman sprang down and opened the door. Two ladies got out; they were dressed in evening costume, and were returning from a ball. One was middle-aged, the other young and rather pretty. They stood for a moment on the pavement, the younger saying:

“Isn’t it pleasant, mother? I wish I could always be up at five o’clock.”

“My dear, you wouldn’t like it for long,” answered the elder. “It’s very nice for a change, but—”

She stopped abruptly. Her eye had fallen on Rudolf Rassendyll. He knew her: she was no less a person than the wife of Helsing the chancellor; his was the house at which the carriage had stopped. The trick that had served with the sergeant of police would not do now. She knew the king too well to believe that she could be mistaken about him; she was too much of a busybody to be content to pretend that she was mistaken.

“Good gracious!” she whispered loudly, and, catching her daughter’s arm, she murmured, “Heavens, my dear, it’s the king!”

Rudolf was caught. Not only the ladies, but their servants were looking at him.

Flight was impossible. He walked by them. The ladies curtseyed, the servants bowed bare-headed. Rudolf touched his hat and bowed slightly in return. He walked straight on towards my house; they were watching him, and he knew it. Most heartily did he curse the untimely hours to which folks keep up their dancing, but he thought that a visit to my house would afford as plausible an excuse for his presence as any other. So he went on, surveyed by the wondering ladies, and by the servants who, smothering smiles, asked one another what brought his Majesty abroad in such a plight (for Rudolf’s clothes were soaked and his boots muddy), at such an hour—and that in Strelsau, when all the world thought he was at Zenda.

Rudolf reached my house. Knowing that he was watched he had abandoned all intention of giving the signal agreed on between my wife and himself and of making his way in through the window. Such a sight would indeed have given the excellent Baroness von Helsing matter for gossip! It was better to let every servant in my house see his open entrance. But, alas, virtue itself sometimes leads to ruin. My dearest Helga, sleepless and watchful in the interest of her mistress, was even now behind the shutter, listening with all her ears and peering through the chinks. No sooner did Rudolf’s footsteps become audible than she cautiously unfastened the shutter, opened the window, put her pretty head out, and called softly: “All’s safe! Come in!”

The mischief was done then, for the faces of Helsing’s wife and daughter, ay, and the faces of Helsing’s servants, were intent on this most strange spectacle. Rudolf, turning his head over his shoulder, saw them; a moment