Sophy of Kravonia: A Novel

V

A QUESTION OF MEMORY

King Alexis was minded that all proper recognition should be made of Sophy's service to his family. It had been her fortune to protect a life very precious in his eyes. Alien from his son in temperament and pursuits, he had, none the less, considerable affection for him. But there was more than this. With the Prince was bound up the one strong feeling of a nature otherwise easy and careless. The King might go fishing on most lawful days, but it was always a Stefanovitch who fished – a prince who had married a princess of a great house, and had felt able to offer Countess Ellenburg no more than a morganatic union. The work his marriage had begun his son's was to complete. The royal house of Kravonia was still on its promotion; it lay with the Prince to make its rank acknowledged and secure.

Thus Sophy's action loomed large in the King's eyes, and he was indolently indifferent to the view taken of it in the barrack-rooms and the drinking-shops of Slavna. Two days after Mistitch's attempt, he received Sophy at the Palace with every circumstance of compliment. The Prince was not present – he made military duty an excuse – but Countess Ellenburg and her little son were in the room, and General Stenovics, with Markart in attendance, stood beside the King's chair.

Sophy saw a tall, handsome, elderly man with thick, iron-gray hair, most artfully arranged. (The care of it was no small part of the duty of Lepage, the King's French body-servant.) His Majesty's manners were dignified, but not formal. The warmth of greeting which he had prepared for Sophy was evidently increased by the impression her appearance made on him. He thanked her in terms of almost overwhelming gratitude.

"You have preserved the future of my family and of our dynasty," he said.

Countess Ellenburg closed her long, narrow eyes. Everything about her was long and narrow, from her eyes to her views, taking in, on the way, her nose and her chin. Stenovics glanced at her with a smile of uneasy propitiation. It was so particularly important to be gracious just now – gracious both over the preservation of the dynasty and over its preserver.

"No gratitude can be too great for such a service, and no mark of gratitude too high." He glanced round to Markart, and called good-humoredly, "You, Markart there, a chair for this lady!"

Markart got a chair. Stenovics took it from him and himself prepared to offer it to Sophy. But the King rose, took it, and with a low bow presented it to the favored object of his gratitude. Sophy courtesied low, the King waited till she sat. Countess Ellenburg bestowed on her a smile of wintry congratulation.

"But for you, these fellows might – or rather would, I think – have killed my son in their blind drunkenness; it detracts in no way from your service that they did not know whom they were attacking."

There was a moment's silence. Sophy was still nervous in such company; she was also uneasily conscious of a most intense gaze directed at her by General Stenovics. But she spoke out.

"They knew perfectly well, sir," she said.

"They knew the Prince?" he asked sharply. "Why do you say that? It was dark."

"Not in the street, sir. The illuminations lit it up."

"But they were very drunk."

"They may have been drunk, but they knew the Prince. Captain Mistitch called him by his name."

"Stenovics!" The King's voice was full of surprise and question as he turned to his Minister. The General was surprised, too, but very suave.

"I can only say that I hear Mademoiselle de Gruche's words with astonishment. Our accounts are not consistent with what she says. We don't, of course, lay too much stress on the protestations of the two prisoners, but Lieutenant Rastatz is clear that the street was decidedly dark, and that they all three believed the man they encountered to be Colonel Stafnitz of the Hussars. That officer much resembles his Royal Highness in height and figure. In the dark the difference of uniform would not be noticed – especially by men in their condition." He addressed Sophy: "Mistitch had an old quarrel with Stafnitz; that's the true origin of the affair." He turned to the King again. "That is Rastatz's story, sir, as well as Mistitch's own – though Mistitch is, of course, quite aware that his most unseemly, and indeed criminal, talk at the Golden Lion seriously prejudices his case. But we have no reason to distrust Rastatz."

"Lieutenant Rastatz ran away only because he was afraid," Sophy remarked.

"He ran to bring help, mademoiselle," Stenovics corrected her, with a look of gentle reproach. "You were naturally excited," he went on. "Isn't it possible that your memory has played you a trick? Think carefully. Two men's lives may depend on it."

"I heard Captain Mistitch call the Prince 'Sergius Stefanovitch,'" said Sophy.

"This lady will be a most important witness," observed the King.

"Very, sir," Stenovics assented dryly.

Sophy had grown eager. "Doesn't the Prince say they knew him?"

"His Royal Highness hasn't been asked for any account at present," Stenovics answered.

"If they knew who it was, they must die," said the King in evident concern and excitement.

Stenovics contented himself with a bow of obedience. The King rose and gave Sophy his hand.

"We shall hope to see you again soon," he said, very graciously. "Meanwhile, General Stenovics has something to say to you in my name which will, I trust, prove agreeable to you." His eyes dwelt on her face for a moment as she took her leave.

Stenovics made his communication later in the day, paying Sophy the high compliment of a personal call at the sign of the Silver Cock for that purpose. His manner was most cordial. Sophy was to receive an honorary appointment in the Royal Household at an annual salary of ten thousand paras, or some four hundred pounds.

"It isn't riches – we aren't very rich in Kravonia – but it will, I hope, make you comfortable and relieve you from the tiresome lessons which Markart tells me you're now burdened with."

Sophy was duly grateful, and asked what her appointment was.

"It's purely honorary," he smiled. "You are to be Keeper of the Tapestries."

"I know nothing about tapestries," said Sophy, "but I dare say I can learn; it'll be very interesting."

Stenovics leaned back in his chair with an amused smile.

"There aren't any tapestries," he said. "They were sold a good many years ago."

"Then why do you keep a – "

"When you're older in the royal service, you'll see that it's convenient to have a few sinecures," he told her, with a good-humored laugh. "See how handy this one is now!"

"But I shall feel rather an impostor."

"Merely the novelty of it," he assured her consolingly.

Sophy began to laugh, and the General joined in heartily. "Well, that's settled," said he. "You make three or four appearances at Court, and nothing more will be necessary. I hope you like your appointment?"

Sophy laughed delightedly. "It's charming – and very amusing," she said. "I'm getting very much interested in your country, General."

"My country is returning your kind compliment, I can assure you," he replied. His tone had grown dry, and he seemed to be watching her now. She waved her hands towards the Virgin with the lamp: the massive figure stood in its old place by the window.

"What a lot I owe to her!" she cried.

"We all owe much," said Stenovics.

"The Prince thought some people might be angry with me – because Captain Mistitch is a favorite."

"Very possible, I'm afraid, very possible. But in this world we must do our duty, and – "

"Risk the consequences? Yes!"

"If we can't control them, Mademoiselle de Gruche." He paused a moment, and then went on: "The court-martial on Mistitch is convened for Saturday. Sterkoff won't be well enough to be tried for another two or three weeks."

"I'm glad he's not dead, though if he recovers only to be shot – ! Still, I'm glad I didn't kill him."

"Not by your hand," said Stenovics.

"But you mean in effect? Well, I'm not ashamed. Surely they deserve death."

"Undoubtedly – if Rastatz is wrong – and your memory right."

"The Prince's own story?"

"He isn't committed to any story yet."

Sophy rested her chin on her hand, and regarded her companion closely. He did not avoid her glance.

"You're wondering what I mean? – what I'm after?" he asked her, smiling quietly. "Oh yes, I see you are. Go on wondering, thinking, watching things about you for a day or two – there are three days between now and Saturday. You'll see me again before Saturday – and I've no doubt you'll see the Prince."

"If Rastatz were right – and my memory wrong – ?"

He smiled still. "The offence against discipline would be so much less serious. The Prince is a disciplinarian. To speak with all respect, he forgets sometimes that discipline is, in the last analysis, only a part of policy – a means, not an end. The end is always the safety and tranquillity of the State." He spoke with weighty emphasis.

"The offence against discipline! An attempt to assassinate – !"

"I see you cling to your own memory – you won't have anything to say to Rastatz!" He rose and bowed over her hand. "Much may happen between now and Saturday. Look about you, watch, and think!"

The General's final injunction, at least, Sophy lost no time in obeying; and on the slightest thought three things were obvious: the King was very grateful to her; Stenovics wished at any rate to appear very grateful to her; and, for some reason or another, Stenovics wished her memory to be wrong, to the end that the life of Mistitch and his companion (the greater included the less) might be spared. Why did he wish that?

Presumably – his words about the relation of discipline to policy supported the conclusion – to avoid that disturbance which the Prince had forecasted as the result of Mistitch's being put to death. But the Prince was not afraid of the disturbance – why should Stenovics be? The Commandant was all confidence – was the Minister afraid? In some sense he was afraid. That she accepted. But she hesitated to believe that he was afraid in the common sense that he was either lacking in nerve or overburdened with humanity, that he either feared fighting or would shrink from a salutary severity in repressing tumult. If he feared, he feared neither for his own skin nor for the skin of others; he feared for his policy or his ambition.

These things were nothing to her; she was for the Prince, for his policy and his ambition. Were they the same as Stenovics's? Even a novice at the game could see that this by no means followed of necessity. The King was elderly, and went a-fishing. The Prince was young, and a martinet. In age, Stenovics was between the two – nearly twenty years younger than the King, a dozen or so older than the Prince. Under the present régime he had matters almost entirely his own way. At first sight there was, of a certainty, no reason why his ambitions should coincide precisely with those of the Prince. Fifty-nine, forty-one, twenty-eight – the ages of the three men in themselves illuminated the situation – that is, if forty-one could manage fifty-nine, but had no such power over twenty-eight.

New to such meditations, yet with a native pleasure in them, taking to the troubled waters as though born a swimmer, Sophy thought, and watched, and looked about. As to her own part she was clear. Whether Rastatz was right – whether that most vivid and indelible memory of hers was wrong – were questions which awaited the sole determination of the Prince of Slavna.

Her attitude would have been unchanged, but her knowledge much increased, could she have been present at a certain meeting on the terrace of the Hôtel de Paris that same evening. Markart was there – and little Rastatz, whose timely flight and accommodating memory rendered him to-day not only a free man but a personage of value. But neither did more than wait on the words of the third member of the party – that Colonel Stafnitz of the Hussars who had an old feud with Mistitch, for whom Mistitch had mistaken the Prince of Slavna. A most magnanimous, forgiving gentleman, apparently, this spare, slim-built man with thoughtful eyes; his whole concern was to get Mistitch out of the mess! The feud he seemed to remember not at all; it was a feud of convenience, a feud to swear to at the court-martial. He was as ready to accommodate Stenovics with the use of his name as Rastatz was to offer the requisite modifications of his memory. But there – with that supply of a convenient fiction – his pliability stopped. He spoke to Markart, using him as a conduit-pipe – the words would flow through to General Stenovics.

"If the General doesn't want to see me now – and I can understand that he mustn't be caught confabbing with any supposed parties to the affair – you must make it plain to him how matters stand. Somehow and by some means our dear Hercules must be saved. Hercules is an ass; but so are most of the men – and all the rowdies of Slavna. They love their Hercules, and they won't let him die without a fight – and a very big fight. In that fight what might happen to his Royal Highness the Commandant? And if anything did happen to him, what might happen to General Stenovics? I don't know that either, but it seems to me that he'd be in an awkward place. The King wouldn't be pleased with him; and we here in Slavna – are we going to trouble ourselves about the man who couldn't save our Hercules?"

Round-faced Markart nodded in a perplexed fashion. Stafnitz clapped him on the shoulder with a laugh.

"For Heaven's sake don't think about it or you'll get it all mixed! Just try to remember it. Your only business is to report what I say to the General."

Rastatz sniggered shrilly. When the wine was not in him, he was a cunning little rogue – a useful tool in any matter which did not ask for courage.

"If I'd been here, Mistitch wouldn't have done the thing at all – or done it better. But what's done is done. And we expect the General to stand by us. If he won't, we must act for ourselves – for there'll be no bearing our dear Commandant if we sit down under the death of Mistitch. In short, the men won't stand it." He tapped Markart's arm. "The General must release unto us Barabbas!"

The man's easy self-confidence, his air of authority, surprised neither of his companions. If there were a good soldier besides the Commandant in Slavna, Stafnitz was the man; if there were a head in Kravonia cooler than Stenovics's, it was on the shoulders of Stafnitz. He was the brain to Mistitch's body – the mind behind Captain Hercules's loud voice and brawny fist.

"Tell him not to play his big stake on a bad hand. Mind you tell him that."

"His big stake, Colonel?" asked Markart. "What do I understand by that?"

"Nothing; and you weren't meant to. But tell Stenovics – he'll understand."

Rastatz laughed his rickety giggle again.

"Rastatz does that to make you think he understands better than you do. Be comforted – he doesn't." Rastatz's laugh broke out again, but now forced and uneasy. "And the girl who knocked Sterkoff out of time – I wish she'd killed the stupid brute – what about her, Markart?"

"She's – er – a very remarkable person, Colonel."

"Er – is she? I must make her acquaintance. Good-bye, Markart."

Markart had meant to stay for half an hour, but he went.

"Good-bye, Rastatz."

Rastatz had just ordered another liqueur; but, without waiting to drink it, he too went. Stafnitz sat on alone, smoking his cigar. There were no signs of care on his face. Though not gay, it was calm and smooth; no wrinkles witnessed to worry, nor marred the comely remains of youth which had survived his five and thirty years.

He finished his cigar, drank his coffee, and rose to go. Then he looked carefully round the terrace, distinguished the prettiest woman with a momentarily lingering look, made his salute to a brother officer, and strolled away along the boulevard.

Before he reached the barracks in St. Michael's Square he met a woman whose figure pleased him; she was tall and lithe, moving with a free grace. But over her face she wore a thick veil. The veil no doubt annoyed him; but he was to have other opportunities of seeing Sophy's face.

VI

"IMPOSSIBLE" OR "IMMEDIATE"?

Stenovics was indeed in a quandary. Mistitch had precipitated an unwelcome and premature crisis. The Minister's deliberate, slow-moving game was brought to a sudden issue which he was not ready to face. It had been an essential feature – a governing rule – of his campaign to avoid any open conflict with the Prince of Slavna until an occasion arose on which both the army and the King would be on his side. The King was a power not merely by reason of his cheaply won popularity, but also because he was, while he lived, the only man who could crown Stenovics's operations with the consummation to which the Minister and his ally, Countess Ellenburg, looked forward with distant yet sanguine hope. The army was with him now, but the other factor was lacking. The King's pride, as well as his affection, was enlisted in his son's interest. Moreover, this occasion was very bad.

Mistitch was no better than an assassin; to take up arms on his behalf was to fight in a cause plainly disgraceful – one which would make success very difficult and smirch it forever and beyond remedy, even if it came. It was no cause in which to fight both Prince and King. That would be playing the big stake on a bad hand – as Stafnitz put it.

Yet the alternative? Stafnitz, again, had put that clearly. The army would have no more to do with the man who could not help it at the pinch, who could not save its favorite, who could not release Barabbas.

The Prince seemed to be in his most unyielding mood – the Bourbon in him was peeping out. For the honor of the Royal House, and for the sake of discipline, Mistitch must die. He had packed his court-martial with the few trustworthy friends he had among the officers, using the justification which jury-packers always use – and sometimes have. He had no fear of the verdict – and no heed for its unpopularity. He knew the danger – Stenovics made no secret about that – but said plainly that he would sooner be beaten by a mutiny than yield to the threat of one. The first meant for him defeat, perhaps death, but not dishonor, nor ignominy. The more Stenovics prophesied – or threatened – a revolt of the troops, the more the Commandant stiffened his neck.

Meanwhile, Slavna waited in ominous, sullen quiet, and the atmosphere was so stormy that King Alexis had no heart for fishing.

On Friday morning – the day before that appointed for Mistitch's trial – the names of the members of the Court were published; the list met with the reception which was, no doubt, anticipated even by the Prince himself. The streets began to fill with loiterers, talkers, and watchers; barrack-rooms were vociferous with grumbling and with speculation. Stafnitz, with Rastatz always at his heels, was busy with many interviews; Stenovics sat in his room, moodily staring before him, seeking a road out of his blind alley; and a carriage drew up before the sign of the Silver Cock as the Cathedral bells chimed noon. It was empty inside, but by the driver sat Peter Vassip, the Prince's personal attendant, wearing the sheepskin coat, leather breeches, and high boots that the men of the hills wore. His business was to summon Sophy to Suleiman's Tower.

The Square of St. Michael was full of life and bustle, the Golden Lion did a fine trade. But the centre of interest was on the north wall and the adjacent quays, under the shadow of Suleiman's Tower. Within those walls were the two protagonists. Thence the Prince issued his orders; thither Mistitch had been secretly conveyed the night before by a party of the Prince's own guard, trustworthy Volsenians.

A crowd of citizens and soldiers was chattering and staring at the Tower when Sophy's carriage drew up at the entrance of the bridge which, crossing the North River, gave access to the fort. The mouth of the bridge was guarded by fifty of those same Volsenians. They had but to retreat and raise the bridge behind them, and Mistitch was safe in the trap. Only – and the crowd was quick enough to understand the situation – the prisoner's trap could be made a snare for his jailer, too. Unless provisions could be obtained from the country round, it would be impossible to hold the Tower for long against an enemy controlling the butchers' and bakers' shops of Slavna. Yet it could be held long enough to settle the business of Captain Hercules.

The shadow of the weeping woman had passed from Sophy's spirit; the sad impression was never the lasting one with her. An hour of crisis always found her gay. She entered the time-worn walls of Suleiman's Tower with a thrill of pleasure, and followed Peter Vassip up the narrow stair with a delighted curiosity. The Prince received her in the large round room, which constituted the first floor of the central tower. Its furniture was simple, almost rude, its massive walls quite bare save for some pieces of ancient armor. Narrow slits, deep-set in the masonry, served for windows and gave a view of the city and of the country round on every side; they showed the seething throng on the north wall and on the quays; the distant sound of a thousand voices struck the ear.

Zerkovitch and his wife were with the Prince, seated over a simple meal, at which Sophy joined them. Marie had watched Sophy's entrance and the Prince's greeting closely; she marked Sophy's excitement betrayed in the familiar signal on her cheek. But the journalist was too excited on his own account to notice other people. He was talking feverishly, throwing his lean body about, and dashing his hands up and down; he hardly paused to welcome the newcomer. He had a thousand plans by which the Prince was to overcome and hold down Slavna. One and all, they had the same defect; they supposed the absence of the danger which they were contrived to meet. They assumed that the soldiers would obey the Commandant, even with the sound of the rifles which had shot Mistitch fresh in their ears.

The Prince listened good-humoredly to his enthusiastic but highly unpractical adherent; but his mind did not follow the talk. Sophy hearkened with the eagerness of a novice – and he watched her face. Marie watched his, remembering how she had prayed Sophy not to come to Slavna. Sophy was here – and Fate had thrown her across the Prince's path. With a woman's preference for the personal, Marie was more occupied with this situation than with the temper of the capital or the measures of the Prince.

At last their host roused himself, and patted Zerkovitch's shoulder indulgently.