“Nothing tonight,” said a voice.
“Bring a lantern,” said the Prince.
“Dear heart a’ mercy!” cried the groom. “Who’s that?”
“It is I, the Prince,” replied Otto. “Bring a lantern, take in the mare, and let me through into the garden.”
The man remained silent for a while, his head still projecting through the wicket.
“His Highness!” he said at last. “And why did your Highness knock so strange?”
“It is a superstition in Mittwalden,” answered Otto, “that it cheapens corn.”
With a sound like a sob the groom fled. He was very white when he returned, even by the light of the lantern; and his hand trembled as he undid the fastenings and took the mare.
“Your Highness,” he began at last, “for God’s sake …” And there he paused, oppressed with guilt.
“For God’s sake, what?” asked Otto cheerfully. “For God’s sake let us have cheaper corn, say I. Good night!” And he strode off into the garden, leaving the groom petrified once more.
The garden descended by a succession of stone terraces to the level of the fishpond. On the far side the ground rose again, and was crowned by the confused roofs and gables of the palace. The modern pillared front, the ballroom, the great library, the princely apartments, the busy and illuminated quarters of that great house, all faced the town. The garden side was much older; and here it was almost dark; only a few windows quietly lighted at various elevations. The great square tower rose, thinning by stages like a telescope; and on the top of all the flag hung motionless.
The garden, as it now lay in the dusk and glimmer of the starshine, breathed of April violets. Under night’s cavern arch the shrubs obscurely bustled. Through the plotted terraces and down the marble stairs the Prince rapidly descended, fleeing before uncomfortable thoughts. But, alas! from these there is no city of refuge. And now, when he was about midway of the descent, distant strains of music began to fall upon his ear from the ballroom, where the court was dancing. They reached him faint and broken, but they touched the keys of memory; and through and above them Otto heard the ranting melody of the wood-merchants’ song. Mere blackness seized upon his mind. Here he was, coming home; the wife was dancing, the husband had been playing a trick upon a lackey; and meanwhile, all about them, they were a byword to their subjects. Such a prince, such a husband, such a man, as this Otto had become! And he sped the faster onward.
Some way below he came unexpectedly upon a sentry; yet a little farther, and he was challenged by a second; and as he crossed the bridge over the fishpond, an officer making the rounds stopped him once more. The parade of watch was more than usual; but curiosity was dead in Otto’s mind, and he only chafed at the interruption. The porter of the back postern admitted him, and started to behold him so disordered. Thence, hasting by private stairs and passages, he came at length unseen to his own chamber, tore off his clothes, and threw himself upon his bed in the dark. The music of the ballroom still continued to a very lively measure; and still, behind that, he heard in spirit the chorus of the merchants clanking down the hill.
Book II
Of Love and Politics
I
What Happened in the Library
At a quarter before six on the following morning Doctor Gotthold was already at his desk in the library; and with a small cup of black coffee at his elbow, and an eye occasionally wandering to the busts and the long array of many-coloured books, was quietly reviewing the labours of the day before. He was a man of about forty, flaxen-haired, with refined features a little worn, and bright eyes somewhat faded. Early to bed and early to rise, his life was devoted to two things: erudition and Rhine wine. An ancient friendship existed latent between him and Otto; they rarely met, but when they did it was to take up at once the thread of their suspended intimacy. Gotthold, the virgin priest of knowledge, had envied his cousin, for half a day, when he was married; he had never envied him his throne.
Reading was not a popular diversion at the court of Grünewald; and that great, pleasant, sunshiny gallery of books and statues was, in practice, Gotthold’s private cabinet. On this particular Wednesday morning, however, he had not been long about his manuscript when a door opened and the Prince stepped into the apartment. The doctor watched him as he drew near, receiving, from each of the embayed windows in succession, a flush of morning sun; and Otto looked so gay, and walked so airily, he was so well dressed and brushed and frizzled, so point-device, and
