A hot summer’s night in Treysa. It was past midnight, yet before the gay, garish cafés people still lingered at the little tables, enjoying to the full the cool breeze after the heat and burden of the day, or strolled beneath the lime avenues in the Klosterstrasse, gossiping or smoking, all loth to retire.
In the great palace beyond the trees at the end of the vista the State dinner had ended, and the lonely King, glad to escape to the privacy of his own workroom in the farther wing of the palace, had cast himself into a long lounge-chair and selected a cigar. He was still in his military uniform, rendered the more striking by the many glittering orders across his breast—the Golden Fleece, the Black Eagle, the Saint Hubert, the Saint Andrew, and the rest. As he lit his cigar very slowly his face assumed a heavy, thoughtful look, entirely different from the mask of careless good-humour which he had worn at the brilliant function he had just left. The reception had not ended; it would continue for a couple of hours longer. But he was tired and bored to death of it all, and the responsibility as ruler already weighed very heavily upon him.
Though he made no mention of it to a single soul, he thought of his absent wife often—very often. Now and then a pang of remorse would cause him to knit his brows. Perhaps, after all, he had not treated her quite justly. And yet, he would reassure himself, she was surely not as innocent as she pretended. No, no; she was worthless. They were therefore better apart—far better.
Since his accession he had, on several occasions, been conscience-stricken. Once, in the empty nursery, he had noticed little Ignatia’s toys, her dolls and perambulator, lying where the child had left them, and tears had sprung to his eyes. Allen, the kindly Englishwoman, too, had been to him and resigned her appointment, as she had no further duties to perform.
The Crown Princess’s disappearance had at first been a nine-days’ wonder in Treysa, but now her continued absence was regarded with but little surprise. The greatest scandal in the world dies down like grass in autumn. Those who had conspired against her congratulated themselves that they had triumphed, and were now busy starting fresh intrigues against the young Queen’s partisans.
Since the hour that his sweet-faced wife had left the palace in secret, the King had received no word from her. He had learned from Vienna that she had been to Wartenstein, and that her father had cast her out; but after that she had disappeared—to Rome he had been told. As Crown Prince he had had his liberty, but now as King he lived apart, and was unapproachable. His was a lonely life. The duties of kingship had sobered him, and now he saw full well the lack of a clever consort as his wife was—a queen who could rule the Court.
Those about him believed him to be blind to their defects and their intrigues, because he was silent concerning them. Yet, if the truth were told, he was extremely wideawake, and saw with regret how, without the Queen’s aid, he must fall beneath the influence of those who were seeking place and power, to the distinct detriment of the nation.
Serious thoughts such as these were consuming him as he sat watching the smoke rings ascend to the dark-panelled ceiling.
“Where is she, I wonder?” he asked himself aloud, his voice sighing through the room. “She has never reproached me—never. I wonder if all they have told me concerning her is really true.” As he uttered these words of suspicion his jaws became firmly set, and a hardness showed at the corners of his mouth. “Ah, yes!” he added. “It is, alas! only too true—too true. Hinckeldeym would never dare to lie to me!”
And he sat with his serious eyes cast upon the floor, reflecting gloomily upon the past, as he now so very often reflected.