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

“Then what brings you here?”

“Why, the same thing that was about to bring you to the lodge: the need of a meeting between yourself and me, sire.”

“But the lodge—is it left unguarded?”

“The lodge is safe enough,” said Colonel Sapt.

Unquestionably there was a secret, a new secret, hidden behind the curt words and brusque manner. I could restrain myself no longer, and sprang forward, saying: “What is it? Tell us, Constable!”

He looked at me, then glanced at Mr. Rassendyll.

“I should like to hear your plan first,” he said to Rudolf. “How do you mean to account for your presence alive in the city to-day, when the king has lain dead in the shooting-box since last night?”

We drew close together as Rudolf began his answer. Sapt alone lay back in his chair. The queen also had resumed her seat; she seemed to pay little heed to what we said. I think that she was still engrossed with the struggle and tumult in her own soul. The sin of which she accused herself, and the joy to which her whole being sprang in a greeting which would not be abashed, were at strife between themselves, but joined hands to exclude from her mind any other thought.

“In an hour I must be gone from here,” began Rudolf.

“If you wish that, it’s easy,” observed Colonel Sapt.

“Come, Sapt, be reasonable,” smiled Mr. Rassendyll. “Early to-morrow, we—you and I—”

“Oh, I also?” asked the colonel.

“Yes; you, Bernenstein, and I will be at the lodge.”

“That’s not impossible, though I have had nearly enough riding.”

Rudolf fixed his eyes firmly on Sapt’s.

“You see,” he said, “the king reaches his hunting-lodge early in the morning.”

“I follow you, sire.”

“And what happens there, Sapt? Does he shoot himself accidentally?”

“Well, that happens sometimes.”

“Or does an assassin kill him?”

“Eh, but you’ve made the best assassin unavailable.”

Even at this moment I could not help smiling at the old fellow’s surly wit and Rudolf’s amused tolerance of it.

“Or does his faithful attendant, Herbert, shoot him?”

“What, make poor Herbert a murderer!”

“Oh, no! By accident—and then, in remorse, kill himself.”

“That’s very pretty. But doctors have awkward views as to when a man can have shot himself.”

“My good Constable, doctors have palms as well as ideas. If you fill the one you supply the other.”

“I think,” said Sapt, “that both the plans are good. Suppose we choose the latter, what then?”

“Why, then, by to-morrow at midday the news flashes through Ruritania—yes, and through Europe—that the king, miraculously preserved to-day—”

“Praise be to God!” interjected Colonel Sapt; and young Bernenstein laughed.

“Has met a tragic end.”

“It will occasion great grief,” said Sapt.

“Meanwhile, I am safe over the frontier.”

“Oh, you are quite safe?”

“Absolutely. And in the afternoon of to-morrow, you and Bernenstein will set out for Strelsau, bringing with you the body of the king.” And Rudolf, after a pause, whispered, “You must shave his face. And if the doctors want to talk about how long he’s been dead, why, they have, as I say, palms.”

Sapt sat silent for a while, apparently considering the scheme. It was risky enough in all conscience, but success had made Rudolf bold, and he had learnt how slow suspicion is if a deception be bold enough. It is only likely frauds that are detected.

“Well, what do you say?” asked Mr. Rassendyll. I observed that he said nothing to Sapt of what the queen and he had determined to do afterwards.

Sapt wrinkled his forehead. I saw him glance at James, and the slightest, briefest smile showed on James’s face.

“It’s dangerous, of course,” pursued Rudolf. “But I believe that when they see the king’s body—”

“That’s the point,” interrupted Sapt. “They can’t see the king’s body.”

Rudolf looked at him with some surprise. Then speaking in a low voice, lest the queen should hear and be distressed, he went on: “You must prepare it, you know. Bring it here in a shell; only a few officials need see the face.”

Sapt rose to his feet and stood facing Mr. Rassendyll.

“The plan’s a pretty one, but it breaks down at one point,” said he in a strange voice, even harsher than his was wont to be. I was on fire with excitement, for I would have staked my life now that he had some strange tidings for us. “There is no body,” said he.

Even Mr. Rassendyll’s composure gave way. He sprang forward, catching Sapt by the arm.

“No body? What do you mean?” he exclaimed.

Sapt cast another glance at James, and then began in an even, mechanical voice, as though he were reading a lesson he had learnt, or playing a part that habit made familiar:

“That poor fellow Herbert carelessly left a candle burning where the oil and the wood were kept,” he said. “This afternoon, about six, James and I lay down for a nap after our meal. At about seven James came to my side and roused me. My room was full of smoke. The lodge was ablaze. I darted out of bed: the fire had made too much headway; we could not hope to quench it; we had but one thought!” He suddenly paused, and looked at James.

“But one thought, to save our companion,” said James gravely.

“But one thought, to save our companion. We rushed to the door of the room where he was. I opened the door and tried to enter. It was certain death. James tried, but fell back. Again I rushed in. James pulled me back: it was but another death. We had to save ourselves. We gained the open air. The lodge was a sheet of flame. We could do nothing but stand watching, till the swiftly burning wood blackened to ashes and the flames died down. As we watched we knew that all in the cottage must be dead. What could we do? At last James started off in the hope of getting help. He found a party of charcoal-burners, and they came with him. The flames were burnt down now; and we and they approached the charred ruins. Everything was in ashes. But”—he lowered his voice—“we found what seemed to be the body of Boris the hound; in another room was a charred