William Le Queux - The Great Court Scandal

“And what, pray, does your Imperial Highness care for this idle Court gossip?” asked the well-dressed, athletic-looking man, at the same time placing a chair for her and bowing her to it. “There has been enough of it already, and you have always expressed the utmost disregard of anything that might be said, or any stories that might be invented.”

“I know,” she answered. “But this injudicious action of yours in following me here is utter madness. It places me in peril. You are known in Vienna, remember.”

“Then if that is your view, your Highness, I can only apologise,” he said most humbly. “I will admit that I came here in order to be able to get a few minutes’ conversation with you to-night. At our Court at home you know how very difficult it is for me to speak with you, for the sharp eye of the Trauttenberg is ever upon you.”

The Princess’s arched brows contracted slightly. She recollected what Steinbach had revealed to her regarding her lady-in-waiting.

“And it is surely best that you should have difficulty in approaching me,” she said. “I have not forgotten your foolish journey to Paris, where I had gone incognito to see my old nurse, and how you compelled me to go out and see the sights in your company. We were recognised. Do you know that?” she exclaimed in a hard voice. “A man who knew us both sent word to Court that we were in Paris together.”

“Recognised!” he gasped, the colour fading instantly from his face. “Who saw us?”

“Of his identity I’m not aware,” she answered, for she was a clever diplomatist, and could keep a secret well. She did not reveal Scheel’s name. “I only know that our meeting in Paris is no secret. They suspect me, and I have you to thank for whatever scandal may now be invented concerning us.”

The lithe, clean-limbed man was silent, his head bent before her. What could he reply? He knew, alas! too well, that in following her from Germany to Paris he had acted very injudiciously. She was believed to be taking the baths at Aix, but a sudden caprice had seized her to run up to Paris and see her old French nurse, to whom she was much attached. He had learnt her intention in confidence, and had met her in Paris and shown her the city. It had been an indiscretion, he admitted.

Yet the recollection of those few delightful days of freedom remained like a pleasant dream. He recollected her childish delight of it all. It was out of the season, and they believed that they could go hither and thither, like the crowds of tourists do, without fear of recognition. Yet Fate, it seemed, had been against them, and their secret meeting was actually known!

“Cannot you see the foolishness of it all?” she asked in a low, serious voice. “Cannot you see, Carl, that your presence here lends colour to their suspicions? I have enemies – fierce, bitter enemies – as you must know too well, and yet you imperil me like this!” she cried reproachfully.

“I can make no defence, Princess,” he said lamely. “I can only regret deeply having caused you any annoyance.”

“Annoyance!” she echoed in anger. “Your injudicious actions have placed me in the greatest peril. The people have coupled our names, and you are known to have followed me on here.”

Her companion was silent, his eyes downcast, as though not daring to meet her reproachful gaze.

“I have been foolish – very foolish, I know,” she cried. “In the old days, when we knew each other at Wartenstein, a boy-and-girl affection sprang up between us; and then, when you left the University, they sent you as attaché to the Embassy in London, and we gradually forgot each other. You grew tired of diplomacy, and returned to find me the wife of the Crown Prince; and in a thoughtless moment I promised, at your request, to recommend you to a post in the private cabinet of the King. Since that day I have always regretted. I ought never to have allowed you to return. I am as much to blame as you are, for it was an entirely false step. Yet how was I to know?”

“True, my Princess!” said the man in a low, choking voice. “How were you to know that I still loved you in silence, that I was aware of the secret of your domestic unhappiness, that I – ”

“Enough!” she cried, drawing herself up. “The word love surely need not be spoken between us. I know it all, alas! Yet I beg of you to remember that I am the wife of another, and a woman of honour.”

“Ah yes,” he exclaimed, his trembling hand resting on the back of the chair upon which she sat. “Honour – yes. I love you, Claire – you surely know that well. But we do not speak of it; it is a subject not to be discussed by us. Day after day, unable to speak to you, I watch you in silence. I know your bitterness in that gilded prison they call the Court, and long always to help you and rescue you from that – that man to whom you are, alas! wedded. It is all so horrible, so loathsome, that I recoil when I see him smiling upon you while at heart he hates you. For weeks, since last we spoke together, how I have lived I scarcely know – utter despair, insane hopes alternately possess me – but at last the day came, and I followed you here to speak with you, my Princess.”

She remained silent, somewhat embarrassed, as he took her gloved hand and again kissed it.

She was nervous, but next instant determined.

“Alas! I have not failed to notice your strong affection for me, Carl,” she said with a heavy sigh, her beautiful face slightly flushed. “You must therefore control this passion that seems to have been rekindled within your heart. For my sake go, and forget me,” she implored. “Resign your appointment, and re-enter the diplomatic service of the Emperor. I will speak to Lindenau, who will give you an appointment, say, in Rome or Paris. But you must not remain at Treysa. I – I will not allow it.”

“But, Princess,” he cried in dismay, “I cannot go and leave you there alone among your enemies. You – ”

“You must; for, unintentionally, because you have my interests at heart, you are my worst enemy. You are indiscreet, just as every man is who loves a woman truly.”

“Then you really believe I love you still, Claire,” he cried, bending towards her. “You remember those delightfully happy days at Wartenstein long ago, when – ”

She held up her hand to stop the flow of his words.

He looked at her. For an instant her glance wavered and shrank.

She was his idol, the beautiful idol with eyes like heaven.

Yes, she was very beautiful – beautiful with all the beauty of woman now, not with the beauty of the girl.

And she, with her sad gaze fixed upon him, remembered all the past – the great old castle in the far-off Tyrol, her laughter at his awkwardness; their chats in English when both were learning that language; the quarrel over the lilac blossom. At Arcachon – the shore and the pine forest; the boyish kiss stolen under the mistletoe; the declaration of their young love on that lonely mountain-side with the world lying at their feet; the long, sweet, silent kisses exchanged on their homeward walk; the roses she had given him as farewell pledge when he had left for London.

All had gone – gone for ever.

Nevertheless, though everything was past, she could not resist an impulse to recall it – oh, very briefly – in a few feeling words, as one may recall some sweet and rapturous dream.

“We were very foolish,” she said.

He was silent. His heart was too full for words. He knew that a woman who can look back on the past – on rapture, delight, the first thrilling kiss, the first fervent vow – and say, “We were very foolish,” is a woman changed beyond recall.

In other days, had he heard such sacrilegious words a cry of horror would have sprung from his lips. But now, though he shuddered with anguish, he simply said, —