The Lost Prince by Frances Hodgson Burnett (first ebook reader TXT) 📕

“A Rock! A Rock!” the boy broke out. “Let me show you, sir. Send me with him for a servant. The crutches are nothing. You’ve seen that they’re as good as legs, haven’t you? I’ve trained myself.”

“I know, I know, dear lad.” Marco had told him all of it. He gave him a gracious smile which seemed as if it held a sort of fine secret. “You shall go as his aide-de-camp. It shall be part of the game.”

He had always encouraged “the game,” and during the last weeks had even found time to help them in their plannings for the mysterious journey of the Secret Two. He had been so interested that once or twice he had called on Lazarus as an old soldier and Samavian to give his opinions of certain routes—and of the customs and habits of people in towns and villages by the way. Here they would find simple pastoral folk who danced, sang after their day’s work, and who would tell all they knew; here they would find those who served or feared the Maranovitch and who would not talk at all. In one place they would meet with hospitality, in another with unfriendly suspicion of all strangers. Through talk and stories The Rat began to know the country almost as Marco knew it. That was part of the game too—because it was always “the game,” they called it. Another part was The Rat’s training of his memory, and bringing home his proofs of advance at night when he returned from his walk and could describe, or recite, or roughly sketch all he had seen in his passage from one place to another. Marco’s part was to recall and sketch faces. Loristan one night gave him a number of photographs of people to commit to memory. Under each face was written the name of a place.

“Learn these faces,” he said, “until you would know each one of them at once wheresoever you met it. Fix them upon your mind, so that it will be impossible for you to forget them. You must be able to sketch any one of them and recall the city or town or neighborhood connected with it.”

Even this was still called “the game,” but Marco began to know in his secret heart that it was so much more, that his hand sometimes trembled with excitement as he made his sketches over and over again. To make each one many times was the best way to imbed it in his memory. The Rat knew, too, though he had no reason for knowing, but mere instinct. He used to lie awake in the night and think it over and remember what Loristan had said of the time coming when Marco might need a comrade in his work. What was his work to be? It was to be something like “the game.” And they were being prepared for it. And though Marco often lay awake on his bed when The Rat lay awake on his sofa, neither boy spoke to the other of the thing his mind dwelt on. And Marco worked as he had never worked before. The game was very exciting when he could prove his prowess. The four gathered together at night in the back sitting-room. Lazarus was obliged to be with them because a second judge was needed. Loristan would mention the name of a place, perhaps a street in Paris or a hotel in Vienna, and Marco would at once make a rapid sketch of the face under whose photograph the name of the locality had been written. It was not long before he could begin his sketch without more than a moment’s hesitation. And yet even when this had become the case, they still played the game night after night. There was a great hotel near the Place de la Concorde in Paris, of which Marco felt he should never hear the name during all his life without there starting up before his mental vision a tall woman with fierce black eyes and a delicate high-bridged nose across which the strong eyebrows almost met. In Vienna there was a palace which would always bring back at once a pale cold-faced man with a heavy blonde lock which fell over his forehead. A certain street in Munich meant a stout genial old aristocrat with a sly smile; a village in Bavaria, a peasant with a vacant and simple countenance. A curled and smoothed man who looked like a hair-dresser brought up a place in an Austrian mountain town. He knew them all as he knew his own face and No. 7 Philibert Place.

But still night after night the game was played.

Then came a night when, out of a deep sleep, he was awakened by Lazarus touching him. He had so long been secretly ready to answer any call that he sat up straight in bed at the first touch.

“Dress quickly and come down stairs,” Lazarus said. “The Prince is here and wishes to speak with you.”

Marco made no answer but got out of bed and began to slip on his clothes.

Lazarus touched The Rat.

The Rat was as ready as Marco and sat upright as he had done.

“Come down with the young Master,” he commanded. “It is necessary that you should be seen and spoken to.” And having given the order he went away.

No one heard the shoeless feet of the two boys as they stole down the stairs.

An elderly man in ordinary clothes, but with an unmistakable face, was sitting quietly talking to Loristan who with a gesture called both forward.

“The Prince has been much interested in what I have told him of your game,” he said in his lowest voice. “He wishes to see you make your sketches, Marco.”

Marco looked very straight into the Prince’s eyes which were fixed intently on him as he made his bow.

“His Highness does me honor,” he said, as his father might have said it. He went to the table at once and took from a drawer his pencils and pieces of cardboard.

“I should know he was your son and a Samavian,” the Prince remarked.

Then his keen and deep-set eyes turned themselves on the boy with the crutches.

“This,” said Loristan, “is the one who calls himself The Rat. He is one of us.”

The Rat saluted.

“Please tell him, sir,” he whispered, “that the crutches don’t matter.”

“He has trained himself to an extraordinary activity,” Loristan said. “He can do anything.”

The keen eyes were still taking The Rat in.

“They are an advantage,” said the Prince at last.

Lazarus had nailed together a light, rough easel which Marco used in making his sketches when the game was played. Lazarus was standing in state at the door, and he came forward, brought the easel from its corner, and arranged the necessary drawing materials upon it.

Marco stood near it and waited the pleasure of his father and his visitor. They were speaking together in low tones and he waited several minutes. What The Rat noticed was what he had noticed before—that the big boy could stand still in perfect ease and silence. It was not necessary for him to say things or to ask questions— to look at people as if he felt restless if they did not speak to or notice him. He did not seem to require notice, and The Rat felt vaguely that, young as he was, this very freedom from any anxiety to be looked at or addressed made him somehow look like a great gentleman.

Loristan and the Prince advanced to where he stood.

“L’Hotel de Marigny,” Loristan said.

Marco began to sketch rapidly. He began the portrait of the handsome woman with the delicate high-bridged nose and the black brows which almost met. As he did it, the Prince drew nearer and watched the work over his shoulder. It did not take very long and, when it was finished, the inspector turned, and after giving Loristan a long and strange look, nodded twice.

“It is a remarkable thing,” he said. “In that rough sketch she is not to be mistaken.”

Loristan bent his head.

Then he mentioned the name of another street in another place —and Marco sketched again. This time it was the peasant with the simple face. The Prince bowed again. Then Loristan gave another name, and after that another and another; and Marco did his work until it was at an end, and Lazarus stood near with a handful of sketches which he had silently taken charge of as each was laid aside.

“You would know these faces wheresoever you saw them?” said the Prince. “If you passed one in Bond Street or in the Marylebone Road, you would recognize it at once?”

“As I know yours, sir,” Marco answered.

Then followed a number of questions. Loristan asked them as he had often asked them before. They were questions as to the height and build of the originals of the pictures, of the color of their hair and eyes, and the order of their complexions. Marco answered them all. He knew all but the names of these people, and it was plainly not necessary that he should know them, as his father had never uttered them.

After this questioning was at an end the Prince pointed to The Rat who had leaned on his crutches against the wall, his eyes fiercely eager like a ferret’s.

“And he?” the Prince said. “What can he do?”

“Let me try,” said The Rat. “Marco knows.”

Marco looked at his father.

“May I help him to show you?” he asked.

“Yes,” Loristan answered, and then, as he turned to the Prince, he said again in his low voice: “HE IS ONE OF US.”

Then Marco began a new form of the game. He held up one of the pictured faces before The Rat, and The Rat named at once the city and place connected with it, he detailed the color of eyes and hair, the height, the build, all the personal details as Marco himself had detailed them. To these he added descriptions of the cities, and points concerning the police system, the palaces, the people. His face twisted itself, his eyes burned, his voice shook, but he was amazing in his readiness of reply and his exactness of memory.

“I can’t draw,” he said at the end. “But I can remember. I didn’t want any one to be bothered with thinking I was trying to learn it. So only Marco knew.”

This he said to Loristan with appeal in his voice.

“It was he who invented `the game,’ ” said Loristan. “I showed you his strange maps and plans.”

“It is a good game,” the Prince answered in the manner of a man extraordinarily interested and impressed. “They know it well. They can be trusted.”

“No such thing has ever been done before,” Loristan said. “It is as new as it is daring and simple.”

“Therein lies its safety,” the Prince answered.

“Perhaps only boyhood,” said Loristan, “could have dared to imagine it.”

“The Prince thanks you,” he said after a few more words spoken aside to his visitor. “We both thank you. You may go back to your beds.”

And the boys went.

“THAT IS ONE!”

A week had not passed before Marco brought to The Rat in their bedroom an envelope containing a number of slips of paper on each of which was written something.

“This is another part of the game,” he said gravely. “Let us sit down together by the table and study it.”

They sat down and examined what was written on the slips. At the head of each was the name of one of the places with which Marco had connected a face he had sketched. Below were clear and concise directions as to how it was