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

had done. Sapt had a few faults to find and a few grumbles to utter. This was merely what I expected, for Sapt liked to be consulted beforehand, not informed afterwards; but on the whole he approved of my plans, and his spirits rose high as the hour of action drew nearer and nearer. Fritz, too, was ready; though he, poor fellow, risked more than Sapt did, for he was a lover, and his happiness hung in the scale. Yet how I envied him! For the triumphant issue which would crown him with happiness and unite him to his mistress, the success for which we were bound to hope and strive and struggle, meant to me sorrow more certain and greater than if I were doomed to fail. He understood something of this, for when we were alone (save for old Sapt, who was smoking at the other end of the room) he passed his arm through mine, saying:

“It’s hard for you. Don’t think I don’t trust you; I know you have nothing but true thoughts in your heart.”

But I turned away from him, thankful that he could not see what my heart held, but only be witness to the deeds that my hands were to do.

Yet even he did not understand, for he had not dared to lift his eyes to the Princess Flavia, as I had lifted mine.

Our plans were now all made, even as we proceeded to carry them out, and as they will hereafter appear. The next morning we were to start on the hunting excursion. I had made all arrangements for being absent, and now there was only one thing left to do⁠—the hardest, the most heartbreaking. As evening fell, I drove through the busy streets to Flavia’s residence. I was recognized as I went and heartily cheered. I played my part, and made shift to look the happy lover. In spite of my depression, I was almost amused at the coolness and delicate hauteur with which my sweet lover received me. She had heard that the king was leaving Strelsau on a hunting expedition.

“I regret that we cannot amuse your Majesty here in Strelsau,” she said, tapping her foot lightly on the floor. “I would have offered you more entertainment, but I was foolish enough to think⁠—”

“Well, what?” I asked, leaning over her.

“That just for a day or two after⁠—after last night⁠—you might be happy without much gaiety;” and she turned pettishly from me, as she added, “I hope the boars will be more engrossing.”

“I’m going after a very big boar,” said I; and, because I could not help it, I began to play with her hair, but she moved her head away.

“Are you offended with me?” I asked, in feigned surprise, for I could not resist tormenting her a little. I had never seen her angry, and every fresh aspect of her was a delight to me.

“What right have I to be offended? True, you said last night that every hour away from me was wasted. But a very big boar! that’s a different thing.”

“Perhaps the boar will hunt me,” I suggested. “Perhaps, Flavia, he’ll catch me.”

She made no answer.

“You are not touched even by that danger?”

Still she said nothing; and I, stealing round, found her eyes full of tears.

“You weep for my danger?”

Then she spoke very low:

“This is like what you used to be; but not like the king⁠—the king I⁠—I have come to love!”

With a sudden great groan, I caught her to my heart.

“My darling!” I cried, forgetting everything but her, “did you dream that I left you to go hunting?”

“What then, Rudolf? Ah! you’re not going⁠—?”

“Well, it is hunting. I go to seek Michael in his lair.”

She had turned very pale.

“So, you see, sweet, I was not so poor a lover as you thought me. I shall not be long gone.”

“You will write to me, Rudolf?”

I was weak, but I could not say a word to stir suspicion in her.

“I’ll send you all my heart every day,” said I.

“And you’ll run no danger?”

“None that I need not.”

“And when will you be back? Ah, how long will it be!”

“When shall I be back?” I repeated.

“Yes, yes! Don’t be long, dear, don’t be long. I shan’t sleep while you’re away.”

“I don’t know when I shall be back,” said I.

“Soon, Rudolf, soon?”

“God knows, my darling. But, if never⁠—”

“Hush, hush!” and she pressed her lips to mine.

“If never,” I whispered, “you must take my place; you’ll be the only one of the House then. You must reign, and not weep for me.”

For a moment she drew herself up like a very queen.

“Yes, I will!” she said. “I will reign. I will do my part though all my life will be empty and my heart dead; yet I’ll do it!”

She paused, and sinking against me again, wailed softly.

“Come soon! come soon!”

Carried away, I cried loudly:

“As God lives, I⁠—yes, I myself⁠—will see you once more before I die!”

“What do you mean?” she exclaimed, with wondering eyes; but I had no answer for her, and she gazed at me with her wondering eyes.

I dared not ask her to forget, she would have found it an insult. I could not tell her then who and what I was. She was weeping, and I had but to dry her tears.

“Shall a man not come back to the loveliest lady in all the wide world?” said I. “A thousand Michaels should not keep me from you!”

She clung to me, a little comforted.

“You won’t let Michael hurt you?”

“No, sweetheart.”

“Or keep you from me?”

“No, sweetheart.”

“Nor anyone else?”

And again I answered:

“No, sweetheart.”

Yet there was one⁠—not Michael⁠—who, if he lived, must keep me from her; and for whose life I was going forth to stake my own. And his figure⁠—the lithe, buoyant figure I had met in the woods of Zenda⁠—the dull, inert mass I had left in the cellar of the hunting lodge⁠—seemed to rise, double-shaped, before me, and to come between us, thrusting itself in even where she lay, pale, exhausted, fainting,