“What thought have you in your mind?” she asked. “Is not all ruined?”
“Nay, my Princess, the same thought is in both our minds,” he said.
“Herr von Gondremark,” she replied, “by all that I hold sacred, I have none; I do not think at all; I am crushed.”
“You are looking at the passionate side of a rich nature, misunderstood and recently insulted,” said the Baron. “Look into your intellect, and tell me.”
“I find nothing, nothing but tumult,” she replied.
“You find one word branded, madam,” returned the Baron: “ ‘Abdication!’ ”
“Oh!” she cried. “The coward! He leaves me to bear all, and in the hour of trial he stabs me from behind. There is nothing in him, not respect, not love, not courage—his wife, his dignity, his throne, the honour of his father, he forgets them all!”
“Yes,” pursued the Baron, “the word Abdication. I perceive a glimmering there.”
“I read your fancy,” she returned. “It is mere madness, midsummer madness. Baron, I am more unpopular than he. You know it. They can excuse, they can love, his weakness; but me, they hate.”
“Such is the gratitude of peoples,” said the Baron. “But we trifle. Here, madam, are my plain thoughts. The man who in the hour of danger speaks of abdication is, for me, a venomous animal. I speak with the bluntness of gravity, madam; this is no hour for mincing. The coward, in a station of authority, is more dangerous than fire. We dwell on a volcano; if this man can have his way, Grünewald before a week will have been deluged with innocent blood. You know the truth of what I say; we have looked unblenching into this ever-possible catastrophe. To him it is nothing: he will abdicate! Abdicate, just God! and this unhappy country committed to his charge, and the lives of men and the honour of women …” His voice appeared to fail him; in an instant he had conquered his emotion and resumed: “But you, madam, conceive more worthily of your responsibilities. I am with you in the thought; and in the face of the horrors that I see impending, I say, and your heart repeats it—we have gone too far to pause. Honour, duty, ay, and the care of our own lives, demand we should proceed.”
She was looking at him, her brow thoughtfully knitted. “I feel it,” she said. “But how? He has the power.”
“The power, madam? The power is in the army,” he replied; and then hastily, ere she could intervene, “we have to save ourselves,” he went on; “I have to save my Princess, she has to save her minister; we have both of us to save this infatuated youth from his own madness. He in the outbreak would be the earliest victim; I see him,” he cried, “torn in pieces; and Grünewald, unhappy Grünewald! Nay, madam, you who have the power must use it; it lies hard upon your conscience.”
“Show me how!” she cried. “Suppose I were to place him under some constraint, the revolution would break upon us instantly.”
The Baron feigned defeat. “It is true,” he said. “You see more clearly than I do. Yet there should, there must be, some way.” And he waited for his chance.
“No,” she said; “I told you from the first there is no remedy. Our hopes are lost: lost by one miserable trifler, ignorant, fretful, fitful—who will have disappeared tomorrow, who knows? to his boorish pleasures!”
Any peg would do for Gondremark. “The thing!” he cried, striking his brow. “Fool, not to have thought of it! Madam, without perhaps knowing it, you have solved our problem.”
“What do you mean? Speak!” she said.
He appeared to collect himself; and then, with a smile, “The Prince,” he said, “must go once more a-hunting.”
“Ay, if he would!” cried she, “and stay there!”
“And stay there,” echoed the Baron. It was so significantly said, that her face changed; and the schemer, fearful of the sinister ambiguity of his expressions, hastened to explain. “This time he shall go hunting in a carriage, with a good escort of our foreign lancers. His destination shall be the Felsenburg; it is healthy, the rock is high, the windows are small and barred; it might have been built on purpose. We shall entrust the captaincy to the Scotsman Gordon; he at least will have no scruple. Who will miss the sovereign? He is gone hunting; he came home on Tuesday, on Thursday he returned; all is usual in that. Meanwhile the war proceeds; our Prince will soon weary of his solitude; and about the time of our triumph, or, if he prove very obstinate, a little later, he shall be released upon a proper understanding, and I see him once more directing his theatricals.”
Seraphina sat gloomy, plunged in thought. “Yes,” she said suddenly, “and the despatch? He is now writing it.”
“It cannot pass the council before Friday,” replied Gondremark; “and as for any private note, the messengers are all at my disposal. They are picked men, madam. I am a person of precaution.”
“It would appear so,” she said, with a flash of her occasional repugnance to the man; and then after a pause, “Herr von Gondremark,” she added, “I recoil from this extremity.”
“I share your Highness’s repugnance,” answered he. “But what would you have? We are defenceless, else.”
“I see it, but this is sudden. It is a public crime,” she said, nodding at him with a sort of horror.
“Look but a little deeper,” he returned, “and whose is the crime?”
“His!” she cried. “His, before God! And I hold him liable. But still—”
“It is not as if he would
