“Damnation!” he exclaimed, as his eyes fell upon the box—“Locked!—the fool must have fallen on it.”
He stood looking at it, frowning in indecision. He had intended to take the Book with him, trusting to conceal it under his short cavalry cape—but the box was impossible; not only was it considerably larger than the Laws, but its weight was amazing for its size.... Then he saw the open vault, and what to do was plain—he would follow the valet’s plan. None now would look in the box, and, for a time, the Book would be safer there than with him; later, he could arrange to get it—he knew the combination.... He laughed cynically—it was a pretty game, and the pleasanter because it would be played directly under the American’s eye.
He carried the box into the vault, closed and locked the door, and, returning to the desk, put in place the papers disarranged by the valet’s fall. Among them lay the blotter that had been in the Book of Laws. He studied it a moment ... made as though to tear it ... then folded it and put it in the inside pocket of his jacket. A last glance around the room assured him that everything was as he had found it. With a satisfied smile, he turned toward the corridor door, and his eyes rested on the portrait of His late Majesty. He stopped, and the smile changed to a sneer, and doffing his cap he bowed mockingly.
“My thanks, Sire, for dying so opportunely,” he said; “may the devil keep you.”
VII
THE ARMISTICE OF MOURNING
And so Frederick the Fourth of Valeria slept with his fathers, and Dehra, his daughter, ruled, as Regent, in his stead.
In the great crypt of the Cathedral, among the other Dalbergs, they had laid him away, with all the pomp and circumstance that befit a king—within, the gorgeous uniforms and vestments, the chanting priests, the floating incense; without, the boom of cannon, the toll of bells, the solemn music of the bands, the click of hoofs, the rumble of the caissons, the tramp of many feet.
When it was all done, the visiting Princes hurried away, the governmental machinery sped on, the Capital took up its usual routine, and all that remained externally to remind the people of a ruler just and righteous, were the draped buildings and the crape upon the troops. And, at the dead’s own express behest, even these had vanished on the fifteenth day after his demise. “Let the period of mourning be limited strictly to a fortnight, both for the Nation and my House,” he had written, in his own hand, as a codicil to his Testament; and the Regent, with no shade of hesitation, had ordered it as he wished. She knew it was Frederick’s last kindness to his subjects. A Court in sackcloth buries the Capital in ashes, drives the tradesmen into insolvency, and bores the Nobility well nigh into insanity or revolt.
And as she ordered, so she did—though sadly and regretfully—and, with a blessing upon her, the Court resumed its accustomed life and garb, and Dornlitz its gayety and pleasures. Yet Valeria was sorry enough at Frederick’s demise—sorrier far than he would have believed it could be. At the best, a King is of use, these days, only as a head for the Government—and when the new head is capable and popular, the old one is not missed for long.
As it was, the people had scarcely realized that Frederick was dead when they were met with the amazing Proclamation of Dehra’s Regency; with the result that usually follows when sorrow and joy mingle, with joy mingling last.