The Prisoner of Zenda by Anthony Hope (famous ebook reader .TXT) 📕

I sat down; I saw Sapt smiling over his wine, and Fritz frowning. The rest of the meal passed in silence; neither Flavia nor I could speak. Fritz touched me on the shoulder, and I rose, gave her my arm, and walked down the hall into a little room, where coffee was served to us. The gentlemen and ladies in attendance withdrew, and we were alone.

The little room had French windows opening on the gardens. The night was fine, cool, and fragrant. Flavia sat down, and I stood opposite her. I was struggling with myself; if she had not looked at me, I believe that even then I should have won my fight. But suddenly, involuntarily, she gave me one brief glance⁠—a glance of question, hurriedly turned aside; a blush that the question had ever come spread over her cheek, and she caught her breath. Ah, if you had seen her! I forgot the king in Zenda. I forgot the king in Strelsau. She was a princess⁠—and I an impostor. Do you think I remembered that? I threw myself on my knee and seized her hands in mine. I said nothing. Why should I? The soft sounds of the night set my wooing to a wordless melody, as I pressed my kisses on her lips.

She pushed me from her, crying suddenly:

“Ah! is it true? or is it only because you must?”

“It’s true!” I said, in low smothered tones⁠—“true that I love you more than life⁠—or truth⁠—or honour!”

She set no meaning to my words, treating them as one of love’s sweet extravagances. She came close to me, and whispered:

“Oh, if you were not the king! Then I could show you how I love you! How is it that I love you now, Rudolf?”

“Now?”

“Yes⁠—just lately. I⁠—I never did before.”

Pure triumph filled me. It was I⁠—Rudolf Rassendyll⁠—who had won her! I caught her round the waist.

“You didn’t love me before?” I asked.

She looked up into my face, smiling, as she whispered:

“It must have been your Crown. I felt it first on the Coronation Day.”

“Never before?” I asked eagerly.

She laughed low.

“You speak as if you would be pleased to hear me say ‘Yes’ to that,” she said.

“Would ‘Yes’ be true?”

“Yes,” I just heard her breathe, and she went on in an instant: “Be careful, Rudolf; be careful, dear. He will be mad now.”

“What, Michael? If Michael were the worst⁠—”

“What worse is there?”

There was yet a chance for me. Controlling myself with a mighty effort, I took my hands off her and stood a yard or two away. I remember now the note of the wind in the elm trees outside.

“If I were not the king,” I began, “if I were only a private gentleman⁠—”

Before I could finish, her hand was in mine.

“If you were a convict in the prison of Strelsau, you would be my king,” she said.

And under my breath I groaned, “God forgive me!” and, holding her hand in mine, I said again:

“If I were not the king⁠—”

“Hush, hush!” she whispered. “I don’t deserve it⁠—I don’t deserve to be doubted. Ah, Rudolf! does a woman who marries without love look on the man as I look on you?”

And she hid her face from me.

For more than a minute we stood there together; and I, even with my arm about her, summoned up what honour and conscience her beauty and the toils that I was in had left me.

“Flavia,” I said, in a strange dry voice that seemed not my own, “I am not⁠—”

As I spoke⁠—as she raised her eyes to me⁠—there was a heavy step on the gravel outside, and a man appeared at the window. A little cry burst from Flavia, as she sprang back from me. My half-finished sentence died on my lips. Sapt stood there, bowing low, but with a stern frown on his face.

“A thousand pardons, sire,” said he, “but his Eminence the Cardinal has waited this quarter of an hour to offer his respectful adieu to your Majesty.”

I met his eye full and square; and I read in it an angry warning. How long he had been a listener I knew not, but he had come in upon us in the nick of time.

“We must not keep his Eminence waiting,” said I.

But Flavia, in whose love there lay no shame, with radiant eyes and blushing face, held out her hand to Sapt. She said nothing, but no man could have missed her meaning, who had ever seen a woman in the exultation of love. A sour, yet sad, smile passed over the old soldier’s face, and there was tenderness in his voice, as bending to kiss her hand, he said:

“In joy and sorrow, in good times and bad, God save your Royal Highness!”

He paused and added, glancing at me and drawing himself up to military erectness:

“But, before all comes the king⁠—God save the king!”

And Flavia caught at my hand and kissed it, murmuring:

“Amen! Good God, Amen!”

We went into the ballroom again. Forced to receive adieus, I was separated from Flavia; everyone, when they left me, went to her. Sapt was out and in of the throng, and where he had been, glances, smiles, and whispers were rife. I doubted not that, true to his relentless purpose, he was spreading the news that he had learnt. To uphold the Crown and beat Black Michael⁠—that was his one resolve. Flavia, myself⁠—aye, and the real king in Zenda, were pieces in his game; and pawns have no business with passions. Not even at the walls of the palace did he stop; for when at last I handed Flavia down the broad marble steps and into her carriage, there was a great crowd awaiting us, and we were welcomed with deafening cheers. What could I do? Had I spoken then, they would have refused to believe that I was not the king; they might have believed that the king had run mad. By Sapt’s devices and my own ungoverned passion I had been forced on, and the way back had closed