Rupert of Hentzau: From The Memoirs of Fritz Von Tarlenheim<br />Sequel to The Prisoner of Zenda by Anthony Hope (100 books to read .TXT) 📕

He looked at me for a moment, and his face was crossed by conflicting feelings. I saw resolve there, obstinacy, and the scorn of danger; fun, too, and merriment; and, lastly, the same radiance I spoke of. He had been smoking a cigarette; now he threw the end of it into the grate and rose from the bed where he had been sitting.

“I’m going to Zenda,” said he.

“To Zenda!” I cried, amazed.

“Yes,” said Rudolf. “I’m going again to Zenda, Fritz, old fellow. By heaven, I knew it would come, and now it has come!”

“But to do what?”

“I shall overtake Rischenheim or be hot on his heels. If he gets there first, Sapt will keep him waiting till I come; and if I come, he shall never see the king. Yes, if I come in time—” He broke into a sudden laugh. “What!” he cried, “have I lost my likeness? Can’t I still play the king? Yes, if I come in time, Rischenheim shall have his audience of the king of Zenda, and the king will be very gracious to him, and the king will take his copy of the letter from him! Oh, Rischenheim shall have an audience of King Rudolf in the castle of Zenda, never fear!”

He stood, looking to see how I received his plan; but amazed at the boldness of it, I could only lie back and gasp.

Rudolf’s excitement left him as suddenly as it had come; he was again the cool, shrewd, nonchalant Englishman, as, lighting another cigarette, he proceeded:

“You see, there are two of them, Rupert and Rischenheim. Now you can’t move for a day or two, that’s certain. But there must be two of us there in Ruritania. Rischenheim is to try first; but if he fails, Rupert will risk everything and break through to the king’s presence. Give him five minutes with the king, and the mischief’s done! Very well, then; Sapt must keep Rupert at bay while I tackle Rischenheim. As soon as you can move, go to Strelsau, and let Sapt know where you are.”

“But if you’re seen, if you’re found out?”

“Better I than the queen’s letter,” said he. Then he laid his hand on my arm and said, quite quietly, “If the letter gets to the king, I and I only can do what must be done.”

I did not know what he meant; perhaps it was that he would carry off the queen sooner than leave her alone after her letter was known; but there was another possible meaning that I, a loyal subject, dared not inquire into. Yet I made no answer, for I was above all and first of all the queen’s servant. Still I cannot believe that he meant harm to the king.

“Come, Fritz,” he cried, “don’t look so glum. This is not so great an affair as the other, and we brought that through safe.” I suppose I still looked doubtful, for he added, with a sort of impatience, “Well, I’m going, anyhow. Heavens, man, am I to sit here while that letter is carried to the king?”

I understood his feeling, and knew that he held life a light thing compared with the recovery of Queen Flavia’s letter. I ceased to urge him. When I assented to his wishes, every shadow vanished from his face, and he began to discuss the details of the plan with business-like brevity.

“I shall leave James with you,” said Rudolf. “He’ll be very useful, and you can rely on him absolutely. Any message that you dare trust to no other conveyance, give to him; he’ll carry it. He can shoot, too.” He rose as he spoke. “I’ll look in before I start,” he added, “and hear what the doctor says about you.”

I lay there, thinking, as men sick and weary in body will, of the dangers and the desperate nature of the risk, rather than of the hope which its boldness would have inspired in a healthy, active brain. I distrusted the rapid inference that Rudolf had drawn from Sapt’s telegram, telling myself that it was based on too slender a foundation. Well, there I was wrong, and I am glad now to pay that tribute to his discernment. The first steps of Rupert’s scheme were laid as Rudolf had conjectured: Rischenheim had started, even while I lay there, for Zenda, carrying on his person a copy of the queen’s farewell letter and armed for his enterprise by his right of audience with the king. So far we were right, then; for the rest we were in darkness, not knowing or being able even to guess where Rupert would choose to await the result of the first cast, or what precautions he had taken against the failure of his envoy. But although in total obscurity as to his future plans, I traced his past actions, and subsequent knowledge has shown that I was right. Bauer was the tool; a couple of florins apiece had hired the fellows who, conceiving that they were playing a part in some practical joke, had taken all the cabs at the station. Rupert had reckoned that I should linger looking for my servant and luggage, and thus miss my last chance of a vehicle. If, however, I had obtained one, the attack would still have been made, although, of course, under much greater difficulties. Finally—and of this at the time I knew nothing—had I evaded them and got safe to port with my cargo, the plot would have been changed. Rupert’s attention would then have been diverted from me to Rudolf; counting on love overcoming prudence, he reckoned that Mr. Rassendyll would not at once destroy what the queen sent, and had arranged to track his steps from Wintenberg till an opportunity offered of robbing him of his treasure. The scheme, as I know it, was full of audacious cunning, and required large resources—the former Rupert himself supplied; for the second he was indebted to his cousin and slave, the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim.

My meditations were interrupted by the arrival of the doctor. He hummed and ha’d over me, but to my surprise asked me no questions as to the cause of my misfortune, and did not, as I had feared, suggest that his efforts should be seconded by those of the police. On the contrary, he appeared, from an unobtrusive hint or two, to be anxious that I should know that his discretion could be trusted.

“You must not think of moving for a couple of days,” he said; “but then, I think we can get you away without danger and quite quietly.”

I thanked him; he promised to look in again; I murmured something about his fee.

“Oh, thank you, that is all settled,” he said. “Your friend Herr Schmidt has seen to it, and, my dear sir, most liberally.”

He was hardly gone when ‘my friend Herr Schmidt’—alias Rudolf Rassendyll—was back. He laughed a little when I told him how discreet the doctor had been.

“You see,” he explained, “he thinks you’ve been very indiscreet. I was obliged, my dear Fritz, to take some liberties with your character. However, it’s odds against the matter coming to your wife’s ears.”

“But couldn’t we have laid the others by the heels?”

“With the letter on Rupert? My dear fellow, you’re very ill.”

I laughed at myself, and forgave Rudolf his trick, though I think that he might have made my fictitious inamorata something more than a baker’s wife. It would have cost no more to make her a countess, and