The three men gave glances at each other, as though inquiring which of them could answer. My friend Von Lindheim broke the pause, replying with a shrug—
“He is a Captain of Cavalry, Master of the Horse; a gentleman, noble, no doubt, by birth, but a simple, if magnificent, Rittmeister. The lady”—he glanced round towards the dark shadows of the trees, gave another shrug of caution and lowered his voice,—“is what we all know. To couple their names is high treason; and, a fortiori, it is treason in a higher degree for the Bursche to aspire.”
“We have not forgotten,” another said, “the case of poor Steiner.”
I saw they were not inclined to run risks by discussing State secrets under the very walls of the palace, so postponed the gratification of my curiosity until I should get Von Lindheim alone in my rooms or his house. We four had slipped out into the gardens, to snatch ten minutes for a cigarette from the rather dreary formality of a State ball at the palace of Buyda. My three companions were guests in their official capacities, being attached to the bureau of the world-known Chancellor Rallenstein; I, Jasper Tyrrell, a mere traveller, through the friendly offices of Von Lindheim, to whom I had an introduction. I had gone abroad in a restless, roving frame of mind, ready for any adventure, and heartily sick of the monotony of inaction, forced inaction, very slightly relieved by the problematical fun of entertaining big shooting parties at my place in Norfolk. That seemed all I had to look forward to in the year, and the more I thought of my autumn programme the more restless and discontented had I grown. Even the temporary diversion of marriage, strenuously commended to me by certain not altogether disinterested friends, had failed to take hold on my fancy; amusements of that sort can be arranged at any time and at comparatively short notice. So one night at dinner, during which several friends and relations were good enough to map out a very pretty six months’ programme for me—and themselves—my resolution was taken, and before I had got into bed that night my kit for an extended solitary ramble was packed. Next day I made a bolt of it, leaving to an astute aunt full authority, by letter, to carry on Sharnston in my absence, and after a month’s desultory progress found myself at Buyda.
A generation ago there were, as every student of European diplomacy knows, some very curious political intrigues (we know more about them now) in several of the Courts of Europe. More or less secret acts of aggressive statesmanship were perpetrated which, had they not been diplomatically covered up or explained away, would have seemed to set the forces of civilization to right-about-face. But the press, like speech, often serves, in some countries at any rate, to withhold rather than to give out information, while special correspondents are mostly acclimatized and often merely human.
Still, there was somewhere, in east central Europe for choice, a chance of seeing something of life a little more adventurous than the cricket field or the covert at home had to offer, and with young blood in one’s veins, a perfect digestion, a muscular system second to none at Angelo’s, the idea of a possible running into adventures is not displeasing. The dull smoothness and security of a well-policed community is monotonous to a man of spirit.
Such were the vague anticipations with which I set forth, but my imagination certainly never suggested such a series of adventures as that which I was to pass through before I got back.
I had purposely left my destination uncertain, even to my own mind. In the true spirit of adventure I would be bound by no fixed route, but let my fancy and the circumstances of the moment carry me whither they would. Only one indication of any sort of purpose did I take with me. That was a letter of introduction from an F. O. friend to an old school-fellow of his, Gustav von Lindheim, a rich young fellow who had been educated in England, and who now held a post in the Chancellory of his native State. It was in that corner of Europe that something of an adventure seemed most likely to be had, and it was there, to pass over my earlier wanderings, that I eventually found myself.
Through the half-open windows of the great ball-room came “Amorettentänze,” thundered out with military swing and insistence by the resplendent Court band. In company with my three acquaintances I had strolled away from the illuminated portion of the gardens, and we were now pacing a dark and comparatively secluded walk. Encouraged perhaps by the lessened probability of eavesdropping (for methods under Rallenstein, the dread Chancellor’s rule, were mediæval, more or less), one of my companions remarked:
“Our Princess looks bewitchingly pretty to-night. The bold Rittmeister has indeed an excuse.”