The Prisoner of Zenda by Anthony Hope (nonfiction book recommendations .TXT) 📕
"Confound you!" said I; and rising, I left the hapless Bertram in George's hands and went home to bed.
The next day George Featherly went with me to the station, where I took a ticket for Dresden.
"Going to see the pictures?" asked George, with a grin.
George is an inveterate gossip, and had I told him that I was off to Ruritania, the news would have been in London in three days and in Park Lane in a week. I was, therefore, about to return an evasive answer, when he saved my conscience by leaving me suddenly and darting across the platform. Following him with my eyes, I saw him lift his hat and accost a graceful, fashion
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“Known!” cried Sapt. “If you stay here, the deuce a man in all Ruritania will doubt of it—or a woman either.”
I began to feel uncomfortable. Had I realized what a very plainly written pedigree I carried about with me, I should have thought long before I visited Ruritania. However, I was in for it now.
At this moment a ringing voice sounded from the wood behind us:
“Fritz, Fritz! where are you, man?”
Tarlenheim started, and said hastily:
“It’s the King!”
Old Sapt chuckled again.
Then a young man jumped out from behind the trunk of a tree and stood beside us. As I looked at him, I uttered an astonished cry; and he, seeing me, drew back in sudden wonder. Saving the hair on my face and a manner of conscious dignity which his position gave him, saving also that he lacked perhaps half an inch—nay, less than that, but still something—of my height, the King of Ruritania might have been Rudolf Rassendyll, and I, Rudolf, the King.
For an instant we stood motionless, looking at one another. Then I bared my head again and bowed respectfully. The King found his voice, and asked in bewilderment:
“Colonel—Fritz—who is this gentleman?”
I was about to answer, when Colonel Sapt stepped between the King and me, and began to talk to his Majesty in a low growl. The King towered over Sapt, and, as he listened, his eyes now and again sought mine. I looked at him long and carefully. The likeness was certainly astonishing, though I saw the points of difference also. The King’s face was slightly more fleshy than mine, the oval of its contour the least trifle more pronounced, and, as I fancied, his mouth lacking something of the firmness (or obstinacy) which was to be gathered from my close-shutting lips. But, for all that, and above all minor distinctions, the likeness rose striking, salient, wonderful.
Sapt ceased speaking, and the King still frowned. Then, gradually, the corners of his mouth began to twitch, his nose came down (as mine does when I laugh), his eyes twinkled, and, behold! he burst into the merriest fit of irrepressible laughter, which rang through the woods and proclaimed him a jovial soul.
“Well met, cousin!” he cried, stepping up to me, clapping me on the back, and laughing still. “You must forgive me if I was taken aback. A man doesn’t expect to see double at this time of day, eh, Fritz?”
“I must pray pardon, sire, for my presumption,” said I. “I trust it will not forfeit your Majesty’s favour.”
“By Heaven! you’ll always enjoy the King’s countenance,” he laughed, “whether I like it or not; and, sir, I shall very gladly add to it what services I can. Where are you travelling to?”
“To Strelsau, sire—to the coronation.”
The King looked at his friends: he still smiled, though his expression hinted some uneasiness. But the humorous side of the matter caught him again.
“Fritz, Fritz!” he cried, “a thousand crowns for a sight of brother Michael’s face when he sees a pair of us!” and the merry laugh rang out again.
“Seriously,” observed Fritz von Tarlenheim, “I question Mr. Rassendyll’s wisdom in visiting Strelsau just now.”
The King lit a cigarette.
“Well, Sapt?” said he, questioningly.
“He mustn’t go,” growled the old fellow.
“Come, colonel, you mean that I should be in Mr. Rassendyll’s debt, if—”
“Oh, ay! wrap it up in the right way,” said Sapt, hauling a great pipe out of his pocket.
“Enough, sire,” said I. “I’ll leave Ruritania today.”
“No, by thunder, you shan’t—and that’s sans phrase, as Sapt likes it. For you shall dine with me tonight, happen what will afterwards. Come, man, you don’t meet a new relation every day!”
“We dine sparingly tonight,” said Fritz von Tarlenheim.
“Not we—with our new cousin for a guest!” cried the King; and, as Fritz shrugged his shoulders, he added: “Oh! I’ll remember our early start, Fritz.”
“So will I—tomorrow morning,” said old Sapt, pulling at his pipe.
“O wise old Sapt!” cried the King. “Come, Mr. Rassendyll—by the way, what name did they give you?”
“Your Majesty’s,” I answered, bowing.
“Well, that shows they weren’t ashamed of us,” he laughed. “Come, then, cousin Rudolf; I’ve got no house of my own here, but my dear brother Michael lends us a place of his, and we’ll make shift to entertain you there;” and he put his arm through mine and, signing to the others to accompany us, walked me off, westerly, through the forest.
We walked for more than half an hour, and the King smoked cigarettes and chattered incessantly. He was full of interest in my family, laughed heartily when I told him of the portraits with Elphberg hair in our galleries, and yet more heartily when he heard that my expedition to Ruritania was a secret one.
“You have to visit your disreputable cousin on the sly, have you?” said he.
Suddenly emerging from the wood, we came on a small and rude hunting-lodge. It was a one-storey building, a sort of bungalow, built entirely of wood. As we approached it, a little man in a plain livery came out to meet us. The only other person I saw about the place was a fat elderly woman, whom I afterwards discovered to be the mother of Johann, the duke’s keeper.
“Well, is dinner ready, Josef?” asked the King.
The little servant informed us that it was, and we soon sat down to a plentiful meal. The fare was plain enough: the King ate heartily, Fritz von Tarlenheim delicately, old Sapt voraciously. I played a good knife and fork, as my custom is; the King noticed my performance with approval.
“We’re all good trenchermen, we Elphbergs,” said he. “But what?—we’re eating dry! Wine, Josef! wine, man! Are we beasts, to eat without drinking? Are we cattle, Josef?”
At this reproof Josef hastened to load the table with bottles.
“Remember tomorrow!” said Fritz.
“Ay—tomorrow!” said old Sapt.
The King drained a bumper to his “Cousin Rudolf,” as he was gracious—or merry—enough to call me; and I drank its fellow to the “Elphberg Red,” whereat he laughed loudly.
Now, be the meat what it might, the wine we drank was beyond all price or praise, and we did it justice. Fritz ventured once to stay the King’s hand.
“What?” cried the King. “Remember you start before I do, Master Fritz—you must be more sparing by two hours than I.”
Fritz saw that I did not understand.
“The colonel and I,” he explained, “leave here at six: we ride down to Zenda and return with the guard of honour to fetch the King at eight, and then we all ride together to the station.”
“Hang that same guard!” growled Sapt.
“Oh! it’s very civil of my brother to ask the honour for his regiment,” said the King. “Come, cousin, you need not start early. Another bottle, man!”
I had another bottle—or, rather, a part of one, for the larger half travelled quickly down his Majesty’s throat. Fritz gave up his attempts at persuasion: from persuading, he fell to being persuaded, and soon we were all of us as full of wine as we had any right to be. The King began talking of what he would do in the future, old Sapt of what he had done in the past, Fritz of some beautiful girl or other, and I of the wonderful merits of the Elphberg dynasty. We all talked at once, and followed to the letter Sapt’s exhortation to let the morrow take care of itself.
At last the King set down his glass and leant back in his chair.
“I have drunk enough,” said he.
“Far be it from me to contradict the King,” said I.
Indeed, his remark was most absolutely true—so far as it went.
While I yet spoke, Josef came and set before the King a marvellous old wicker-covered flagon. It had lain so long in some darkened cellar that it seemed to blink in the candlelight.
“His Highness the Duke of Strelsau bade me set this wine before the King, when the King was weary of all other wines, and pray the King to drink, for the love that he bears his brother.”
“Well done, Black Michael!” said the King. “Out with the cork, Josef. Hang him! Did he think I’d flinch from his bottle?”
The bottle was opened, and Josef filled the King’s glass. The King tasted it. Then, with a solemnity born of the hour and his own condition, he looked round on us:
“Gentlemen, my friends—Rudolf, my cousin (‘tis a scandalous story, Rudolf, on my honour!), everything is yours to the half of Ruritania. But ask me not for a single drop of this divine bottle, which I will drink to the health of that—that sly knave, my brother, Black Michael.”
And the King seized the bottle and turned it over his mouth, and drained it and flung it from him, and laid his head on his arms on the table.
And we drank pleasant dreams to his Majesty—and that is all I remember of the evening. Perhaps it is enough.
Whether I had slept a minute or a year I knew not. I awoke with a start and a shiver; my face, hair and clothes dripped water, and opposite me stood old Sapt, a sneering smile on his face and an empty bucket in his hand. On the table by him sat Fritz von Tarlenheim, pale as a ghost and black as a crow under the eyes.
I leapt to my feet in anger.
“Your joke goes too far, sir!” I cried.
“Tut, man, we’ve no time for quarrelling. Nothing else would rouse you. It’s five o’clock.”
“I’ll thank you, Colonel Sapt—” I began again, hot in spirit, though I was uncommonly cold in body.
“Rassendyll,” interrupted Fritz, getting down from the table and taking my arm, “look here.”
The King lay full length on the floor. His face was red as his hair, and he breathed heavily. Sapt, the disrespectful old dog, kicked him sharply. He did not stir, nor was there any break in his breathing. I saw that his face and head were wet with water, as were mine.
“We’ve spent half an hour on him,” said Fritz.
“He drank three times what either of you did,” growled Sapt.
I knelt down and felt his pulse. It was alarmingly languid and slow. We three looked at one another.
“Was it drugged—that last bottle?” I asked in a whisper.
“I don’t know,” said Sapt.
“We must get a doctor.”
“There’s none within ten miles, and a thousand doctors wouldn’t take him to Strelsau today. I know the look of it. He’ll not move for six or seven hours yet.”
“But the coronation!” I cried in horror.
Fritz shrugged his shoulders, as I began to see was his habit on most occasions.
“We must send word that he’s ill,” he said.
“I suppose so,” said I.
Old Sapt, who seemed as fresh as a daisy, had lit his pipe and was puffing hard at it.
“If he’s not crowned today,” said he, “I’ll lay a crown he’s never crowned.”
“But heavens, why?”
“The whole nation’s there to meet him; half the army—ay, and Black Michael at the head. Shall we send word that the King’s drunk?”
“That he’s ill,” said I, in correction.
“Ill!” echoed Sapt, with a scornful laugh. “They know his illnesses too well. He’s been ‘ill’ before!”
“Well, we must chance what they think,” said Fritz helplessly. “I’ll carry the news and make the best of it.”
Sapt raised his hand.
“Tell me,” said he. “Do you think the King was drugged?”
“I do,” said I.
“And who drugged him?”
“That damned hound, Black Michael,” said Fritz between his teeth.
“Ay,” said Sapt, “that he might not come
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