The Red Chancellor

by Sir William Magnay

Schönvalhof was an old grey stone house, standing not far from the foot of pine-covered hills. A substantial dwelling, its interior more comfortable and homelike than my first view of its somewhat rugged exterior led me to expect. It was, they told me, built on a part of the site of an old Baronial castle, some ruins of which still stood adjacent to the modern house. A couple of old family servants made us comfortable at the short notice, and we had decided that, for a time at least, Lindheim should continue his rôle of the sick man; Szalay that of his personal attendant. We felt it would be madness for either of them to venture out of doors just then, so the pretence of illness could be kept up without much deprivation.

For we were certain that we should be followed, and that attempts would be made to get quietly rid of the witnesses of that fatal marriage. How the next blow would be aimed, from what quarter it would come, we could not even conjecture. But that it was to be looked for we all were certain. If there was one quality which in Chancellor Rallenstein was distinguished above another, it was tenacity of purpose. To him a temporary baffling was but a provocative; the slightest hint of opposition at once banished all hesitation. So we had every reason to feel sure that he would draw the net round us. Still, life was strong in the two marked victims, and the longer we could put off the stroke the more chance there might be of fate coming to our rescue. Nothing but that, they felt. Help from outside it was vain to look for. For in that small independent State the supreme power, that is, of the Chancellor, was a law unto itself. His authority was boundless and answerable to no one, and if the deaths of two or three of the King’s subjects were necessary for motives of State policy, why, short of a revolution, Rallenstein had no reckoning to fear. My case, as a British subject, I felt was different; not that I could consider myself by any means outside the danger line. I was in the galère, or—what was more to the point—in the secret, and had little doubt that a “regrettable accident” was being prepared for me. Our one satisfaction was in the thought that the Jaguar would have to crawl warily and strike silently, knowing that a bungle would probably mean the publishing of the secret he was taking so much trouble to keep. And this was where I, vaguely enough, saw a ray of hope.

For two or three days we lived quietly without the smallest sign of molestation; no stranger, nothing abnormal was noticed about the place—and I kept a sharp look-out—till we almost began to fancy that we were to be let alone. A formal letter had been sent informing the authorities of Von Lindheim’s illness as an excuse for his absenting himself from his duties, and of this a mere acknowledgment had been received. That was all. Of Szalay we said nothing, and we hoped Rallenstein’s spies had no scent of his whereabouts. Certainly, it would not have been so easy to give a valid excuse for his absence.

So, as the days passed, we seemed to gain more confidence and hope from detecting no sign of danger; at least, we got to look at the bright side of the business, till suddenly a rude awakening came.

But first of all, to take the history of those anxious days in order. Von Lindheim received one morning an official letter, inquiring as to his health, and saying, further, that the King had heard with concern of the serious and regretted illness of such an esteemed member of his royal service, and had graciously commanded that the Herr Hof-Artzt Beckmeister should pay the patient a visit on behalf of his Majesty, who trusted to receive a more favourable report of Herr von Lindheim’s condition. This letter filled my friends with dismay. But the move was so obvious and natural that the only wonder was it had not been foreseen. I asked what manner of man the Court Physician was.

“He is a dandified old scoundrel; a humbug as a doctor, but no fool. And he has skill enough, acting upon a hint, to diagnose that I have nothing the matter with me. Of course it is obvious what he is sent down for. He is a creature of Rallenstein’s, who, however, does not employ him when he himself is ill.”

“We must do the best we can with him,” I said, turning over in my mind various tricks to that end. “We can’t keep him from seeing and examining you, and of course that means discovery that you are in more or less robust health.”

“But they must think I drank the poison.”

“Yes; that’s in our favour. And that is the idea we must work. The dose was too small, and consequently only partly operative. The physical effects have now passed off, but they have left brain trouble, and your nerves are shattered. Herr Hof-Artzt Beckmeister is presumably no brain specialist nor an authority on the after-effects of certain, or rather uncertain, poisons. His stethoscope and thermometer will tell him nothing to refute our story; he may have suspicions, but that is all.”

So we planned the conduct of the interview, and I, at any rate, awaited with a certain amused curiosity the arrival of Herr Beckmeister.