3
Next morning, when Othomar rode out alone, he was thinking the whole time of Dutri. The difficulty of broaching the subject to his equerry struck him as unsurmountable. His heart beat when he met Dutri waiting for him in the Xaverius Barracks. But the young officer had the tact to whisper to him, very calmly and courteously, as though it were the simplest matter in the world:
"I was talking with the Duchess of Yemena, highness.... Her excellency told me that your highness wished to speak to her in private and did me the honour.... Will your highness take this key?..."
Othomar mechanically accepted the key. His face remained rigid and serious, but inwardly he felt much annoyed with the duchess and did not understand how and why she could drag Dutri into their secret. The ease and simplicity with which she had evidently done so flashed across him as something alarming. A confusion seemed to whirl through his head, as though the duchess and Dutri had, with one breath, blasted all sorts of firm convictions of his youth. He thought of the old duke. He considered all this wrong. He knew that Dutri was a young profligate; he was in the habit of hearing the whole gazette of court scandal from him, but he had never believed one-half of what Dutri related and had often told the equerry bluntly that he did not like to hear ill spoken of people whom they saw daily, people attached to his house. Now it seemed to him that everything that Dutri had said might be true and that yet worse things might well take place. This key, offered with such simple politeness, with such libertine ease, appeared to him as an object of searing dishonour. He was already ashamed of having put the thing in his pocket....
He went on, however. The key burnt him while he spoke with General Ducardi and, on his return to the Imperial, with his father and Myxila. Before going to visit the empress, who was awaiting him, he locked it away in his writing-table; then slowly, his forehead overshadowed, step by step he went through the long galleries to the empress' apartments. In the anteroom the lady-in-waiting rose, curtseyed, knocked at the door and opened it:
"His highness the Duke of Xara...."
Othomar silently made the sign of the Cross, as though he were entering a church:
"May God and His Mother forgive me!" he murmured between his lips.
Then he entered the empress' room.
She was sitting alone in the large drawing-room, at one of the open windows overlooking the park. She wore a very simple, smooth, dark dress. It struck him how young she looked; and he reflected that she was younger than the duchess. An aureole of delicate purity seemed to quiver around her tall, slender form like an atmosphere of light and gave her a distinction which other women did not possess. She smiled to him; and he came up slowly and kissed her hand.
She had not yet seen him that day; she took his head between her cool, slim hands and kissed him.
He sat down on a low chair by her side. Then she passed her hand over his forehead:
"What's the matter?" she asked.
He looked at her and said there was nothing particular. She suspected nothing further; this was not the first time he brought her a clouded forehead. She stroked it once more:
"I promised papa to have a serious talk with you," she said.
He looked up at her.
"He thought it better that I should talk to you, because it was his idea that I could do so more easily. For the rest, he is very pleased with you, my boy, and rejoices to find that you have such a clear judgement, sometimes, upon various political questions."
This opinion of his father's surprised him.
"And about what did you promise to talk to me?"
"About something very, very important," she said, with a gentle smile. "About your marriage, Othomar."
"My marriage?..."
"Yes, my boy.... You will soon be twenty-two. Papa married much later in life, but he had many brothers. They are dead. Uncle Xaverius is in his monastery. And we—papa and I—are not ever likely to have any more children, Othomar."
She put her arms about him and drew him to her. She whispered:
"We have no one but you, my boy, and our little Berengar. And ... papa therefore thinks that you ought to marry. We want an hereditary prince, a Count of Lycilia...."
His eyes became moist; he laid his head against her:
"Two to become emperor? Berengar, if I should be gone before him: is not that enough, mamma?"
She smilingly shook her head in denial. No, that was not certainty enough for the house of Czyrkiski-Xanantria.
"Mamma," he said, gently, "when sociologists speak of the social question, they deplore that so many children are born among the proletariate and they even hold the poor parents, who have nothing else but their love, responsible for the greater social misery which they cause through those children. Does not this reproach really affect us also? Or do you think an emperor so happy?"
Her brow became overcast.
"You are in one of your gloomy moods, Othomar. For God's sake, my boy, do not give way to them. Do not philosophize so much; accept life as it has been given to you. That is the only way in which to bear it. Do not reflect whether you will be happy, when you are emperor, but accept the fact that you must become emperor in your turn."
"Very well, for myself: but why children, mamma?"
"What sovereign allows his house to die out, Othomar? Do not be foolish. Cling to tradition: that is all in all to us. Don't have such strange ideas upon this question. They are not those of a future—I had almost said—autocrat; they are not those of a monarch. You understand, Othomar, do you not? You must, you must marry...."
Her voice sounded more decided than usual, sounded almost hard.
"And, dearest boy," she continued, "thank the circumstances and marry now, as quickly as possible. Our relations with foreign countries are at this moment such that there are no particular indications as to whom you ought to marry. You can more or less pick and choose. For you are the crown-prince of a great empire, my boy, of one of the greatest empires in Europe...."
He tried to speak; she continued, hurriedly:
"I repeat, you can—very nearly—choose. You don't know how much that means. Appreciate this, appreciate the circumstances. Travel to all the courts of Europe that are worth considering. Use your eyes, make your choice. There are pretty princesses in England, in Austria...."
Othomar closed his eyes an instant, as though exhausted with weariness:
"Later on, mamma," he whispered.
"No, my boy," said the empress, "do not speak of later on, do not put off. Think it over. Think how you will order your journey and whom you will take with you and then talk it over with papa and Myxila. Will you promise?"
He just pressed his head against her and promised, with a weary smile.
"But what's the matter with you, my boy?" she asked. "What is it?"
His eyes grew moist.
"I don't know, mamma. I am so tired sometimes...."
"Aren't you well?"
"Yes, I'm all right, but I am so tired...."
"But why, my child?"
He began to sob softly:
"Tired ... of everything ... mamma."
She looked at him for a long time, shook her head slowly, disapprovingly.
"Forgive me, mamma," he stammered, wiping his eyes. "I shan't give way like this again...."
"You promised me that once before, Othomar dear."
He leant his head against her once more, like a child:
"No, really," he declared, caressingly, "I really will resist it. It is not right of me, mamma. I will employ myself more, I shall grow stronger. I swear to you I shall grow stronger for your sake...."
She again looked long in his eyes, with her pure smile. Utter tenderness went out from her to him; he felt that he would never love any one so much as his mother. Then she took him in her arms and pressed him close against her:
"I accept your promise and I thank you ... my poor boy!" she whispered through her kiss.
At this moment there came a buzz of young voices, as though from birds set free, out of the park, through the open windows. The tripping of many little feet grated on the gravel. A high, shrill, childish voice suddenly rang with furious words from among the others; the others were silent....
The empress started with a shock that was electric. She drew herself up hastily, deadly pale:
"Berengar!" she cried; and her voice died away.
"And I shall tell his majesty what a scoundrel you are and then we'll see! Then we'll see, then we'll see!..."
The empress trembled as she leant out of the window. She saw ten or eleven little boys; they looked perplexed.
"Where is his highness?" she asked.
"His highness is over there, ma'am!" shyly answered a little count, pointing to the back-court, which the empress could not see.
"But what is happening? What a noise to make! Send his highness here at once! Berengar! Berengar!"
His highness, Berengar, was called and came. He passed through the little dukes and counts and looked up at the window through which his mother was leaning. He was a small, sturdily built, vigorous little chap; his face was crimson with indignation, his two small, furious eyes were like two black sparks.
"Berengar, come here!" cried the empress. "What is all this? Why can't you play without quarrelling?"
"I'm not quarrelling, mamma, but ... but I shall tell papa ... and ... and then we'll see! Then we'll ..."
"Berengar, come in here at once, through the palace, at once!" commanded the empress.
Othomar looked out from behind the empress at the group of boys. He saw Berengar speak a word of apology to the biggest little duke and disappear through the back-court.
A minute later, the boy entered the room.
"Berengar," said the empress, "it's very bad manners to make such a noise in the park ... and just behind the palace too."
The boy looked at her with his serious little crimson face:
"Yes, mamma," he assented, gently.
"What happened?"
Berengar's lips began to tremble.
"It was that beastly sentry ..." he began.
"What about the sentry?"
"He ... he didn't present arms to me!"
"Didn't the sentry present arms to you? Why not?"
"I don't know!" cried Berengar, indignantly.
"But surely he always does?"
"Yes, but this time he did not. He did the first time when we passed, but not the second time.... We were playing touch and, when we ran past him the second time, he didn't present arms!"
Othomar began to scream with laughter.
"There's nothing to laugh at!" cried Berengar, angrily. "And I shall tell papa and then you shall see."
"But, Berengar," said the empress, "did you expect the man to present arms to you every time you ran past him while you were playing touch?"
Berengar reflected:
"He might at least have done it the second time. If it had been three, or four, or five times, I could have understood.... But only the second time!... What can the boys have thought of me?"
"Listen, Berengar," said the empress, "whatever happens, it is not at all proper for you to call people names, whoever they may be, nor to make such a noise in the park, right behind the palace. An emperor's son never calls names, not even to a sentry. So now you must go straight to that sentry and tell him you are sorry you lost your temper so."
"Mamma!" cried the child, in consternation.
The empress' face was inflexible:
"I insist, Berengar."
The boy looked at her with the greatest astonishment:
"But am I to say that ... to the sentry, mamma?"
"Yes."
Evidently Berengar at this moment failed to understand the order of the universe; he suspected for an instant that the revolution had broken out:
"But, mamma, I can't do that!"
"You must, Berengar, and at once."
"But, mamma, will papa approve of it?"
"Certainly, Berengar," said Othomar. "Whatever mamma tells you to do papa of course approves of."
The boy looked up at Othomar helplessly; his little face grew long, his sturdy little fists quivered. Then he burst into a fit of desperate sobbing.
"Come, Berengar, go," the empress repeated.
The child was still more dismayed by her severity: that was how he always saw her stare at the crowd, but not at her children. And he threw himself with the small width of his helpless little arms into her skirts, embraced her and sobbed, with great, gulping sobs:
"I can't do it, mamma, I can't do it!"
"You must, Berengar...."
"And ... and ... and I shan't, I shan't!" the boy screamed, in a sudden fury, stamping his foot.
The empress did nothing but look at him, very long, very long. Her reproachful glance crushed the boy. He sobbed aloud and seemed to forget that his little friends outside would be sure to hear his highness sobbing. He saw that there was nothing to be done, that he must do it. He must! His imperial highness Berengar Marquis of Thracyna, knight of St. Ladislas, must say he was sorry to a sentry and one moreover who denied him, his highness, his rights.
His medieval little childish soul was all upset by it. He understood nothing more. He only saw that he must do as he was told, because his mother looked at him with such a sad expression:
"Othomar!" he sobbed, in his despair. "Othomar! Will ... you ... go with me ... then? But how am I to do it, how am I to do it?"
Othomar smiled to him compassionately and held out his hand to him. The empress nodded to the princes to go.
"How am I to do it? O God, how am I to do it?" she still heard Berengar's voice sobbing desperately in the lobby.
Elizabeth had turned deadly pale. As soon as she was alone, she sank into a chair, with her head flung back. Hélène of Thesbia entered at this moment:
"Madam!" cried the young countess. "What is it?"
The empress put out her hand; Hélène felt that it was icy cold.
"Nothing, Hélène," she replied. "But Berengar frightened me so terribly. I thought ... I thought they were murdering him!"
And in an hysterical fit of spasmodic sobbing she threw herself into the countess' arms.