Ronsard looked up at the tranquil skies, and was for a moment silent. Then he answered.
“Gloria is—just Gloria! There is no woman like her,—there never will be any woman like her! She said nothing at all while I raged and swore;—she stood before me white and silent,—grand and calm, like some great angel. Then when I cursed him,—she raised her hand, and like a queen she said: ‘I forbid you to utter one word against him!’ I stood before her mute and foolish. ‘I forbid you!’ She,—the child I reared and nurtured—menaced me with her ‘command’ as though I were her slave and servant! You see I have lost her!—she is not mine any more—she is his—to be treated as he wills, and made the toy of his pleasure! She does not know the world, but I know it! I know the misery that is in store for her! But there is yet time—and I will live to avenge her wrong!”
“Possibly there will be no wrong to avenge,” said Von Glauben composedly; “But if there is, I have no doubt you would kill another king!” Ronsard turned pale and shuddered. “It is stupid work, killing kings,” went on the Professor; “It never does any good; and often increases the evil it was intended to cure. Your studies in philosophy must have taught you that much at least! As for your losing Gloria,—you lost her in a sense when you gave her to her husband. It is no use complaining now, because you find he is not the man you took him for. The mischief is done. At any rate you are bound to admit that Gloria has, so far, been perfectly happy; she will be happy still, I truly believe, for she has the secret of happiness in her own beautiful nature. And you, Ronsard, must make the best of things, and meet fate with calmness. To-day, for instance, I am here by the King’s command,—I bear his orders,—and I have come for Gloria. They want her at the Palace.”
Ronsard stepped out of his flower-border, and stood on the greensward amazed, and indignantly suspicious.
“They want her at the Palace!” he repeated; “Why? What for? To do her harm? To make her miserable? To insult and threaten her? No, she shall not go!”
“Look here, my friend,” said the Professor with mild patience; “You have—for a philosopher—a most unpleasant habit of jumping to wrong conclusions! Please endeavour to compose the tumult in your soul, and listen to me! The King has sent for Gloria, and I am instructed to take charge of her, and escort her to the presence of their Majesties. No insult, no threat, no wrong is intended. I will bring her back again safe to you immediately the audience is concluded. Be satisfied, Ronsard! For once ‘put your trust in princes,’ for her husband will be there,—and do you think he would suffer her to be insulted or wronged?”
Ronsard’s sunken eyes looked wild,—his aged frame trembled violently, and he gave a hopeless gesture.
“I do not know—I do not know!” he said incoherently; “I am an old man, and I have always found it a wicked world! But—if you give me your word that she shall come to no harm, I will trust you!”
Silently Von Glauben took his hand and pressed it. Two or three minutes passed, weighted with unuttered and unutterable thoughts in the minds of both men; and then, in a somewhat hushed voice, the Professor said:
“Ronsard, I am just now reminded of the tragic story of Rudolf of Austria, who killed himself through the maddening sorrow of an ill-fated love! We, in our different lines of life should remember that,—and let no young innocent heart suffer through our follies—our rages against fate—our conventions—our more or less idiotic laws of restraint and hypocrisy. The tragedy of Prince Rudolf and the unhappy Marie Vetsera whom he worshipped, was caused by the sin and the falsehood of others,—not by the victims of the cruel catastrophe. Therefore, I say to you, my friend, be wise in time!—and control the natural stormy tendency of your passions in this present affair. I assure you, on my faith and honour as a man, that the King has a kindly heart and a brave one,—together with a strong sense of justice. He is not truly known to his people;—they only see him through the pens of press reporters, or the slavish descriptions of toadies and parasites. Then again, the Crown Prince is an honourable lad; and from what I know of him, he is not likely to submit to conventional usages in matters which are close to his life and heart. Gloria herself is of such an exceptional character and disposition, that I think she may be safely left to arbitrate her own destiny——”