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 Five years ago, I broke Alexis Kelley’s heart by denying her a kiss
on her birthday. I broke it again the next morning when I accused
her of framing me for a crime I didn’t commit against her family.
When I run into Alexis the night before I’m set to start my new
job as a tenure-tracked professor at my alma mater, I expect her to
tell me off. Then her brown eyes meet mine with the same intensity
as before. Only, Alexis is all grown up now, with curves and a smile
to die for.
I was too old for her then. That hasn’t changed, but I can’t keep
my hands to myself. She’s everything my battered heart needs to be
whole again.
The problem? She’s taking my Natural History course.
If her family finds out, my career is over, but loving her is worth
the risk.
Alexis found her way back to me after all this time.
And I intend to keep her.
Author’s Note: Crack open your textbook and get ready to
study HARD for this hot-AF professor. As with all of my instalove
books, this one’s steamy, filthy, and dripping with age-gap goodness,
and features a guaranteed HEA.
 ©2021 Margot Scott

Edited by Kathleen Payne

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in
any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted
by U.S. copyright law.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living
or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental. All
characters are productions of the author’s imagination. This work is
intended for adults aged eighteen or older.
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Read Margot’s other titles
Daddy Loves You Series
Run Baby Run
Stay Baby Stay

Standalone novellas
Deep Wood
Pretty, Dark & Dirty
Blood & Wine
Sharing Noelle

Short story collections

Innocence Lost
Come Inside
Good Touch, Bad Touch
Bad Romance
Nothing But a Number
The Right Moves
Sweetest Sins Box Set
 Contents

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Epilogue
Other Margot Scott titles
About Margot Scott
 Chapter One

Alexis
The trick to choosing the right dinner option for every wedding,
retirement party, or anniversary gala, is to always select the
vegetarian dish. The chef knows he can’t rely on the presence of
meat to impress, so he’ll work harder to make the meatless meal
more flavorful.
It works every time, until it doesn’t, and you end up pushing
overcooked penne around your plate, wishing it would transform into
a strip steak.
“Have you been down to see the mansions?” asks the woman
seated to my left. I don’t recall her name, if she ever mentioned it,
but if she’s asking this crowd about the Newport Mansions, she’s
either a tourist or a transplant. “My husband and I toured The
Breakers last weekend. So much history in those walls.”
My older half-sister, Erica, dismisses the woman’s enthusiasm
with a flick of her wrist.
“Ugh, not those gaudy tourist traps,” Erica says. “Dad forced
Alexis and me to tour them one summer, just so we could say we’d
been. Don’t you remember, Alexis? Alexis.”
“Hmm?” I tip champagne into my mouth and nod, grateful to
finally be old enough to drink at social functions.
Erica frowns. “Nice to see the bubbly hasn’t affected your long-
term memory.”
My sister is more prickly than usual tonight, and she’s a cactus
with legs on a good day. I blame the hormones. She’s seven-months
pregnant and constantly sniping at everyone and everything. I feel
especially bad for the students who’ve registered for her courses this
fall. She was grudging with the A’s before; I doubt having to pee
every twenty minutes has made her more amenable.
 The hotel banquet hall is abuzz with conversation and the soft
clinking of cutlery. All of Providence’s intellectual elite have turned
out to welcome the new Chair of the History Department at
Brookstone University, Professor Carl Richardson, my dad’s former
colleague.
Glancing across the table, I’m pleased to see a genuine smile on
my father’s face. He’s back in his element, surrounded by scholars
and academics. I know he misses this world, these people—formerly
his people. Brookstonians, or so they awkwardly dub themselves.
The first day of my senior year at Brookstone starts tomorrow. I
guess that technically makes me a Brookstonian, too, not that I’d
ever claim the title.
Professor Richardson straightens his glasses. “Frank, I’m so glad
you and the girls decided to come out tonight. It truly means the
world to me.”
Dad pats the other man’s shoulder. “It’s nothing, Carl. We’re
happy to be here.”
“No, it’s not nothing. If you hadn’t talked me out of taking that
job at Stanford twenty years ago, I’d probably still be an adjunct.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Well, it’s true, and I want you to know how thankful I am for
every word of encouragement.”
“They couldn’t have chosen a better man for the job.” Dad
smooths a hand over his salt-and-pepper goatee to camouflage his
strained smile. Professor Richardson and my father were awarded
tenure around the same time. If Dad hadn’t retired last year at
Mom’s insistence, after his second heart attack, there’s a good
chance he’d be tonight’s guest of honor.
Sometimes I think he would happily trade his health and his
time with us for the chance to be Professor Frank Kelley again,
renowned scholar of US History and the American Revolution.
Put off by the regret in his gaze, I excuse myself from the table
and make my way over to where my mom is holding court by the
bar.
Brookstone’s most ravenous art enthusiasts have formed a halo
around my mom, the famed sculptor, Rachael Kelley. She could take
or leave the celebrity. For her, it’s all about the art, though she’s
admitted that she takes special pleasure in being recognized in front
of my father. Before she made a name for herself, he placated her
creative impulses, relegating them to a cute but not serious hobby.
Now she brings in more money from a single sculpture than he
ever made in a semester of teaching. They replaced all the flooring
in the house on her dime earlier this year.
Mom winks at me as I sidle up to the bar. She’s twisted her
shoulder-length hair—the same ash-brown color as mine—into a
carefully curated tangle at the back of her head. Aside from her hair,
and her defined cupid’s bow, I inherited most of my appearance
from Dad’s side. My heart-shaped face and coffee-colored eyes,
framed by dense brows that would kiss like fated lovers at the center
of my forehead if I let them grow wild.
“What can I get you,” the bartender asks me. I need something
stronger than champagne if I’m going to make it through another
second of this gathering.
“An old fashioned, please.” I hand the bartender my ID. She
confirms my birthdate and passes the card back. As I wait for my
drink, I smooth out the front of my black-lace dress with beige
backing. It’s a bit too formal, and probably way too short for an
event like this, which Erica readily pointed out, but it was clean and I
was in a hurry.
I pay for my drink and leave my mother to her adoring public.
Rather than return to watch my dad reminisce about the glory days,
I skirt a cluster of tables and head outside to the balcony.
The sky glows pale blue between the tall brick buildings, fading
to deep navy overhead. It’s a warm September evening, and I’m a
little resentful that this boring party has forced me to miss the
sunset.
Gazing out over Providence, I can see the Brookstone University
stadium, as well as the library’s signature spires.
You’d think after three years, I would feel something more than
exhaustion toward my college campus. But the truth is, my time
here has only ever felt like a sentence, a punishment to be endured.
 The path to my future was etched in stone from the moment I
was born. Nobody in my family ever asked me what I wanted
because there was only ever one acceptable response. I could be
clever or dull, cruel or kind, just as long as I was smart. My mom
was permitted to be the wallflower artist, but the Kelley children
were expected to follow in their father’s footsteps.
Undergrad at Brookstone University, then graduate school,
leading into a teaching or research position.
That was the script, and with the exception of majoring in
English instead of history, I’ve stuck to the path. But the time to
apply to grad schools for next fall is fast approaching, and I haven’t
filled out a single application.
My drink isn’t very strong, but it serves its purpose, smoothing
my jagged edges. I take another sip, vaguely aware of a man
leaning against the railing to my right.
I should go back inside before they serve dessert; I wouldn’t
want to miss Professor Richardson’s big thank-you speech.
“I thought that was you,” says the man beside me. His baritone
voice ripples throughout my body like a coin tossed into a fountain.
My throat tightens. I feel the floor shift beneath me as I turn to
meet the crystal-blue gaze belonging to a man I haven’t seen in
years.
“You...” I breathe the word like a wish. “What are you doing
here?”
And what right does Gavin Dunn have to strut into this party like
sex on legs, looking so damn delicious?
 Chapter Two

Alexis
“I’m here to celebrate the man of the hour,” Gavin says.
“Right, of course,” I say. That’s why we’re all here, though
Gavin’s excuse is probably better than most. He was once a PhD
student in the American History program at Brookstone. I’m sure he
took plenty of seminars with Professor Richardson.
The smile that once consumed Gavin’s face so readily seems to
take effort to spread. “You look great, Alexis.”
My pulse trips over itself. Five years ago, I would’ve given
anything for him to look at me the way he’s looking at me now, his
blue eyes blazing with desire.
“So do you,” I tell him.
Maybe it’s the suit, or the tiny wrinkles at the corners of his
eyes that weren’t there before, but he looks more refined than he
did back when I knew him. Bigger, too, like he’s added weightlifting
to his old cardio regime, not that he ever had trouble filling out his
jeans and tee shirts before.
Gone are the sun-kissed locks that used to skim the corners of
his smooth jaw. Now he wears his dirty-blond hair short, the lower
half of his face coated with a uniform layer of scruff the same color.
“I take it you’re here with your family,” he says. “I saw Frank
and Erica inside.”
My grip tightens around the plastic cup in my hand. “Did my
dad say anything to you?”
“I don’t think he saw me. Probably for the best, considering...”
“Yeah, probably.” I offer up a sad smile, grateful to be on the
same page where my dad is concerned. Once upon a time, Gavin
was my father's advisee and research assistant. Now none of us can
so much as say his name without my dad seething.
 “I heard Frank retired last year,” Gavin says. “Hard to believe
he’d willingly step away from all this.” He gestures to the old
fashioned in my hand. “Don’t tell me you bought that yourself. It’ll
make me feel old.”
I chortle. Gavin’s a lot older than me, but I’d hardly consider
him old. He was twenty-nine the summer I turned sixteen. If I'm
twenty-one now, that puts him at thirty-four.
A criminally gorgeous thirty-four.
“I’ll have you know, I’ve been buying my own drinks since
August—”
“Eleventh,” he says. “I remember.”
My mouth goes dry. The only reason he remembers my birthday
is because I made a gigantic fool of myself with him on that date
five years ago.
I’d gone down with my parents to stay at our family's
Charlestown beach house that summer. I loved that house. It was
only twenty-seven steps from the sand, and yes, I counted. Never
one to grasp the concept behind the term vacation, my dad invited
his research assistant to stay with us so he wouldn’t have to
interrupt his very important work.
From the moment Gavin arrived at the house, I was obsessed
with him. It didn’t matter that he only saw me as a kid. To me, he
was the most interesting, funny, dedicated person I’d ever met. I
wanted to be around him all the time.
Mom was in a manic painting phase that summer, and Erica was
only around for a few weeks, preparing to head off on her first
archaeological dig in Jordan. With nine years between us, she and I
have never been close, but she was especially irritable that summer.
Every step I took seemed to piss her off.
Suffice it to say, no one really cared what I was up to, as long
as I kept out of trouble. Nobody noticed I was bored out of my skull,
until Gavin showed up. He saw that I was restless and asked me to
tag along on errands. I showed him all of my favorite snack bars and
swimming spots. We talked for hours about everything and nothing
at all.
 He spoke to me like an equal, and listened as though my words
meant something. I didn’t know what a healthy work-life balance
looked like until I saw it on Gavin. He could go from watching funny
cat videos with me to pouring over rare historical letters my dad had
purchased or borrowed from the university’s historical society.
I fell madly in love with him after just a few weeks.
Then I ruined everything.
The morning of my sixteenth birthday, my parents left a
birthday card and a stack of gift cards on the table, then scurried off
to work in their respective caves. I made myself my favorite
breakfast: waffles with butter and maple syrup. I offered one to
Gavin when he got back from his morning run. He wished me a
happy birthday and asked if I had anything special planned. I told
him most of my friends were off at camp or traveling with their
families.
I’m sure the fact that I was making my own birthday breakfast
spoke for itself.
That night, after dinner, Gavin brought me out to the beach
where he’d built a fire on the sand. He had even gone out and
picked up chocolate, marshmallows, and graham crackers that
afternoon.
We gorged ourselves on s’mores, then washed our hands and
faces with salt water, letting the waves roll around our legs. When I
lost my balance, he caught my hand and held it firmly so I wouldn’t
fall. I didn’t want to let go of him, so I didn’t.
“Thank you,” I said. “This has been the most perfect birthday.”
“I’m glad I could help make it special,” he said.
“You’re the only one who made it special.”
Another wave struck, and I nearly toppled over. Gavin pulled me
closer and then lifted me into his arms. It was like something out of
a fairytale. I got so caught up in the perfection of the moment that I
couldn’t stop the words from pouring out once we got back to shore.
“Kiss me, Gavin,” I said, still in his arms. “It’s my birthday, and
my only wish is for you to kiss me.”
I couldn’t make out the details of his face in the dark, but I
knew he was looking at me. Finally, he said, “I don’t think that’s a
good idea, Alexis.”
“Why not?” My hopes plummeted as he set me on my feet.
“Because I’m way too old for you, and you’re my adviser’s
daughter.”
“My dad’s almost twenty years older than my mom. I don’t think
he’s going to care.”
Gavin sighed heavily. I felt his hand on my cheek, and the pad
of his thumb at the corner of my mouth. “I like you, Alexis. We’ve
become good friends, haven’t we?”
“Right... Friends.” I’m sure he intended the word to invoke a
sense of familiarity, but all I felt was dejection.
He didn’t want to kiss me.
I ran back to the house, nearly crashing into Erica on my way
up the stairs. My reaction was so childish and melodramatic; I cringe
thinking about it now. I locked myself in my bedroom and cried for
hours until I fell asleep.

Bracing against the stone railing, Gavin pivots to face me, pulling
me back to the present with his closeness.
“I never got a chance to apologize for how things played out,”
he says.
Embarrassment burns my cheeks. “It’s fine, really. I’m the one
who should be apologizing. I shouldn’t have asked you to kiss me.”
Gavin squints and then smiles. “Oh, you don’t have to apologize
for that.” His expression turns somber. “I meant for what happened
after.”
My chest aches. I didn’t think I could feel worse than I felt that
night, but what happened the next morning made Gavin’s earlier
rejection feel like a pinprick—
“Alexis.”
I instinctively move away from Gavin at the sound of Erica’s
displeasure.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
Gertrude looked up, struggling hard to preserve an air of
indifference.
“This girl, I suppose you have seen her?” she said to the young
forester. “Is she so very beautiful?”
“She is, my lady, most beautiful. They call her the Fawn of the
Forest. Her hair shines like a sunbeam, and her skin is as soft and
pink as the leaf of a wild rose. Every one admires her.”
Hermengarde turned towards the jealous belle with a cruel smile—
“You see, Gertrude, if even this man is so carried away, what the
King must think of her. And she is young, too. Why, you are scarcely
twenty, but this girl is some years under you. How old is she, Karl?”
“Scarcely seventeen, Madam.”
“You hear. No wonder my nephew is so fascinated.”
Gertrude was unable to make any reply to these stabs. Karl seized
the opportunity of adding a fresh item to his report.
“His Majesty took her a present to-day,” he observed; “a brooch set
with jewels, which came from Paris this morning.”
“Did he?” The Princess turned again to her victim. “I think the King
once gave you a brooch?”
“No, Madam, it was a bracelet,” answered the girl sullenly, half stifled
with mingled shame and anger.
Hermengarde saw that she had gone far enough, and dismissed her
emissary.
“Thank you, Karl, that will do. Come to me again if you have
anything fresh to tell.”
The fellow took himself away, and Hermengarde proceeded to talk
seriously to the girl whose mind she had been working upon.
“Listen to me, my dear Gertrude; I brought that man in because I
wanted you to understand for yourself how serious this matter may
become. If any one else were concerned I should look upon it as a
mere intrigue, but I have the very gravest fears as to what
Maximilian may do. He is strange in many ways; you must have
noticed it. Speak freely, have you not sometimes feared of late that
he was becoming worse than formerly?”
This was a bolder hint than she had ventured on with the cautious
Chancellor. But Gertrude had not yet been wrought up to the pitch at
which she could receive such a suggestion complacently.
“No, surely not, Madam!” she exclaimed, in real dismay. “Surely
there is no fear of that kind for the King.”
Hermengarde sighed, and assumed a resigned expression.
“We must always be prepared for the worst,” she replied. “I confess
I have been a little alarmed for some time. I only hope nothing will
happen till my son is older and better fitted to take a public part. By-
the-by”—she spoke as if desirous to turn the conversation—“have
you noticed the Prince lately? He is growing fast, and will soon begin
to make a stir among you young ladies. I cannot help thinking he is
handsome.”
“I have not noticed,” answered Gertrude, absently. “At least, yes—I
beg your pardon, Madam—yes, his Highness is certainly much
improved.”
“I should like you to be friends,” said the Princess, sweetly. “Be so
good as to ring the bell for me, and if Ernest is in the Castle, I will
send for him.”
Gertrude obeyed wonderingly, and the page was dismissed in search
of the young Prince.
“There is no more refining education for a young man than the
society of polished women,” observed the Princess, with the air of a
philosopher. “I wish I could persuade you to give some of your time
occasionally to my bantling, and teach him a little of your own
grace.”
Gertrude blushed and bowed low, overwhelmed by such unexpected
familiarity on the part of the proud Hermengarde.
“Your condescension overpowers me, Madam,” she said. “There is
nothing I should think more delightful than to enjoy the society of
his Royal Highness.”
“I know the risk I run,” returned the Princess, smiling, and shaking
her head in an almost playful manner. “I know how difficult it is for a
young man to pass much time in your society and come off heart-
whole.” She watched the flush of vanity animate the girl before her,
and added thoughtfully, as if speaking to herself: “After all, the age
when royal alliances were of importance to the welfare of kingdoms
has passed. Why should we attach so much importance to marriages
with foreign royalty? Too often such affairs turn out disastrously for
those concerned, while a marriage within the circle of the national
nobility would have brought happiness and content.”
Gertrude listened greedily, hardly venturing to believe her ears. Was
it possible that the royal Hermengarde, the haughtiest princess in all
Germany, in whose eyes the Hohenzollerns were parvenus, and who
was accustomed to speak of the Guelphs as bourgeois, was now
actually contemplating with indifference the possibility of her son
marrying a mere private noblewoman, and was even hinting that she
should feel no great displeasure if she, Gertrude von Sigismark,
turned out to be the lucky bride!
Before she could reduce her thoughts to clearness, the door was
opened by a tall, slim lad of fifteen or sixteen, who stood awkwardly
on the threshold, looking into the room, his figure slightly stooped,
and his dark eyes fixed with an inscrutable expression, from which
dread was not entirely absent, upon the Princess Hermengarde.
The Princess caught sight of him, and a smile of fondness softened
the asperity of her features.
“Well, Ernest, come in and pay your respects to this young lady,” she
exclaimed encouragingly. “You surely know the Lady Gertrude von
Sigismark well enough?”
The lad moved forward, shuffling his feet rather nervously as he
walked. Gertrude went half-way to meet him, and made as if she
would have carried the young Prince’s extended hand to her lips. But
this Hermengarde would not permit.
“For shame, Ernest! Where is your gallantry? If any hand is to be
kissed, it should be the Lady Gertrude’s. Come, my boy, look into her
face. You are old enough to say whether it is worth looking at.”
The Prince lifted his eyes reluctantly as high as the girl’s chin, and
responded ungraciously—
“I don’t know—yes, I suppose so.”
“Fie!” exclaimed Hermengarde, laughing at the boy’s seriousness. “Is
that the way you pay compliments to ladies? It is time we took him
in hand, Gertrude, and trained him to be more polite.”
But if Gertrude had experienced any momentary chagrin, she was
quick to cover it.
“I think you are unjust to the Prince, Madam,” she responded. “A
compliment paid after some consideration is all the more valuable.”
“Mother,” broke in the boy, “can I go for my ride in the park now?”
“I dare say you can; but why are you in such a hurry to leave us?
Perhaps Lady Gertrude is interested in horses. Ask her.”
Ernest turned to the girl as if his own interest in her had been
quickened by the suggestion, and put the question in his own words
—
“Are you? Do you ever ride?”
“I am very fond of horses,” answered Gertrude, with her most
ingratiating smile; “and I ride whenever I can get a cavalier to escort
me.”
“There is a chance for you!” cried Hermengarde to her son, pleased
to see how quickly Gertrude had fallen into her new part. “You are in
luck this afternoon. Quick, ask her if she will share your ride.”
Thus prompted, the Prince had no option but to comply, though he
did not throw much heartiness into his invitation. But Gertrude
showed enough alacrity for both.
“I shall be delighted with the honour, Prince, if you do not mind
waiting while I put on my habit.”
“Don’t be long, then,” was the boy’s response.
Gertrude, with a swift reverence to the Princess, darted away to get
ready, and surprised and annoyed Von Stahlen, who had returned to
the ante-room to wait for her, by sweeping past him with the bare
announcement that she was going to ride with Prince Ernest.
The Count sat silent and motionless in his chair for fully twenty
minutes after this snub, and then turned to the patiently expectant
Von Hardenburg and launched this withering remark—
“I thought it was time for the Princess Hermengarde to engage a
nurse for her baby.”
In the mean time, as soon as the door closed upon Gertrude, the
Princess Hermengarde had called Ernest to her side, and lovingly laid
her hand upon his forehead.
“When shall I live to see that curly head wearing a crown?” she
murmured fondly.
The boy drew back and frowned.
“I do not want to be king,” he said in a decided voice. “Besides, I
love Cousin Maximilian, and I do not want him to die. Don’t you love
him?”
“Of course I do,” responded Hermengarde, soothingly, regarding her
son nevertheless with an anxious look. “But you should not say that
you do not want to be king, my boy. Above all, be careful not to talk
like that with any one but me; you cannot tell what harm it might
do. Your cousin Maximilian is not strong, and a thousand things
might happen to bring you to the throne.”
The boy pouted sullenly.
“Why doesn’t Maximilian marry?” he grumbled. “Am I the only heir?”
“You are the only near one. You have a distant cousin, Count von
Eisenheim, but he is hardly to be reckoned among the Franconian
royal family. Do not speak as if you shrank from your destiny, Ernest.
Maximilian will never marry—I tell you as a secret—never. It is for
you to marry, and one of these days, when you are a little older, I
will talk to you about your beautiful cousin, Louisa of Schwerin-
Strelitz. In the mean time, the less you speak about these things the
better. Only be careful to show yourself gracious to Lady Gertrude,
and also to her father, the Chancellor.”
“But I do not like him,” remonstrated Prince Ernest. “He is
disagreeable; he stares at me when he meets me, in a way I do not
like.”
“Nonsense, child, that is your fancy. Besides, if it were true, that
would be all the more reason you should be civil and pleasant to
him. Mark my words, before long you will find him very friendly. Now
run away, and see that the horses are ready for your ride.”
The boy needed no second bidding. He sprang to the door, and
Hermengarde, left to her own thoughts, settled down into her
favourite attitude beside the window, with a pondering look upon
her brow.
While these shadowy intrigues were taking shape in one corner of
the palace, in another quarter of the same building a very different
plot was making headway.
The connecting link between the two was Karl. When the young
forester returned to his room in the royal corridor, to his
astonishment, he found a visitor awaiting him. A tall, dark man, a
few years older than himself, was seated on a chair, with his arms
folded, in an attitude of quiet resolution.
He looked up at Karl’s entrance, but made no other movement.
“Who are you?” demanded the favourite. “How did you come here?”
“I came here easily enough,” replied the stranger, coolly. “I told the
people below that I was your brother. Perhaps you have forgotten
the brotherhood between us.”
Karl’s face fell, and he gazed uneasily at the bronzed features of his
visitor, who returned his stare with calm unconcern.
“I do not recognise you,” he faltered. “What is your name, and what
do you want here?”
“My name is Johann Mark!” Karl uttered a sharp cry. “And I want
your aid to gain me a private interview with King Maximilian.”
The young courtier began to change colour, and his limbs trembled.
Dropping all further question as to his visitor’s right to be there, he
asked anxiously—
“What is it you want with the King?”
Johann gave him a warning look.
“Everything. Be wise, ask no more questions.”
“I dare not do what you ask. You have no right to expect it of me. I
am a loyal servant of the King.”
“Loyal?” He pronounced the word with an intense scorn. “Karl Fink
loyal! Come, speak out; how much must I give you to conceal me in
some place where Maximilian will be likely to pass alone?”
“Nothing. It is no use to tempt me. I will not. I dare not,” he
protested, with a tremor in his voice.
Johann’s look became threatening.
“Sit down,” he said. “I see that I must talk to you. I must remind you
of some things that you have forgotten—things that happened
before you turned a courtier. You lie under the misfortune of having
had a moment of courage in your past, Karl—a fit of manly
independence. You were whipped into it, I think, by old King
Leopold; and in that fit you fled to Stuttgart.”
Karl interrupted. He had grown very pale, and his teeth were almost
chattering.
“Don’t speak of that,” he implored. “Don’t remind me of that.”
“I must remind you,” was the deliberate answer. “I must remind you
of a certain meeting-place behind the Arsenal.”
“Hush! Not so loud, for God’s sake!”
Johann returned a contemptuous smile, and continued in the same
tone—
“I must remind you of a certain brotherhood composed of other
Franconians who had felt the weight of Leopold’s hand, and of a
night when a certain youth was initiated and swore—do you recollect
the oath?”
“I recollect too much. In mercy do not keep dwelling on that.”
“Well, since you recollect it, I will pass on. Your comrades have been
dispersed since then, Karl, but they have not forgotten you. We have
watched your career with interest. We have seen you return to your
old pursuits, and escape this time without a whipping. We have even
watched you entering the palace, and becoming the favourite—valet,
is it, or groom?—of the young King. We gave you credit for good
motives. We said to ourselves—‘He has gone in there to be in a
position to serve us when the time comes.’ For that reason we
spared you, Karl. We have left you alone all this time because we
had no need of your services. Now we have need of them. What do
you say? Are you prepared to serve us?”
The unfortunate forester had listened to this biting speech in stony
silence. But at its close he roused himself for a last effort, and
angrily replied—
“By what right do you make these demands on me? Oh, I know; I
have felt this coming all along. All these years the remembrance of
that wretched act of folly has overhung me like a storm-cloud, and I
have never risen in the morning without wondering whether it would
burst before night. You call yourselves the friends of freedom, you
extol the name of liberty, and all the time you are coercing others,
using the hasty words extorted from a boy to bind the grown man
and compel him to commit crimes at your dictation. I tell you that
you are worse tyrants yourselves than any of those you conspire
against. Look at me. I am happy here; King Maximilian has done me
no harm, he has shown me every favour; I have lost all the
inclinations that made me join you ten years ago, I have forgotten
you, and only desire to be left in peace. And yet you track me down
like bloodhounds, and order me to risk my neck at your bidding.
What could be worse tyranny than that?”
Johann had listened perfectly unmoved to the other’s passionate
protests. He hardly deigned to answer them.
“It is a case of tyranny against tyranny. There is no such thing as
free will in this world, Karl. Kings use their weapons, and we use
ours. They have their troops, their judges, their spies. We have our
oaths and our daggers. If we are dealing with men of ignoble minds
that can only be swayed by selfish considerations we have to employ
the arguments that appeal to them. If kings use bribes, we must use
threats.”
He paused, and for some moments nothing more was said. Then
Johann spoke again—
“After all, we do not really ask very much of you. In enterprises of
this kind a faint-hearted ally is more dangerous than an enemy. All I
want of you is to place me somewhere where I may meet the King.
You can go where you like, and no one need know that you were
concerned in the affair.”
“What is it that you mean to do?” demanded Karl sullenly.
For answer Johann thrust his hand into an inner pocket of his coat,
and produced a pistol, at the sight of which the other man recoiled,
with a fresh cry.
“I think you know this pistol. I think the last time it was loaded you
held it in your hand. You had been chosen by the lot to fire it then: I
have been chosen now.”
“But then it was loaded for Leopold, and he is dead,” urged the
trembling Karl.
“True, and therefore this time it has been loaded for Maximilian.
What is there in that to surprise you?”
“But what has he done? His fancies are harmless; he is not bad and
cruel; if he does no good he does no evil; he goes on his own way
and leaves the people alone.”
“The fancies of kings are never harmless,” replied Johann sternly.
And rising to his feet, to give more emphasis to his language, he
went on in the tone of a man who feels deeply every word he says:
“Not to do good is in itself a crime on the part of the ruler. How
many men in Maximilian’s position, with his power to bless mankind,
would make a paradise of Franconia! It is not only the active ill-doer
that we have to war against; we must cut down the barren fig-tree
as well. No; let a king be kingly, let him be a father to his people, let
him comfort them in their sorrows, teach them in their ignorance; let
him protect the poor from the spoliations of the rich, provide
openings for labour in public works for the benefit of the whole
nation, feed the hungry, build hospitals for the infirm, give homes to
the aged; let him come down into the arena and fight his people’s
battle; let him be our example, and our guide to lead us on, or let
him cease to reign!”
Another silence followed, broken only by the uneasy fidgeting of Karl
upon his seat, as he tried to think of some way of escape from his
position. At last Johann put a stop to his hesitation.
“Come,” he said sternly, “no more delay. It is your life or his. Take
me to the place where I can carry out my errand or—”
The wretched minion rose up shuddering, and led the way out of the
room.
 CHAPTER V
JOHANN’S MISSION

Treading cautiously for fear of being overheard by any chance

passer-by, Karl led his master’s enemy down the corridor giving on
to the royal apartments, and out into a spacious gallery which ran
across the whole southern side of the Castle, and connected its two
wings. This gallery was almost turned into a conservatory, by the
whole of one side being given up to a row of windows so large and
near together as to make the wall appear one expanse of glass.
Along the floor, in front of these windows, ran a series of blossoming
shrubs, bright-hued azaleas, or sweetly scented lemon and myrtle,
giving the whole place a fresh and romantic air. As soon as they had
reached this gallery Karl turned to his companion:—
“This is where the King generally walks about this hour. He may be
alone, or he may be with his friend.”
Johann glanced round. The place seemed suited for his purpose.
The foliage of the plants would afford him a hiding-place, where he
could lurk until the opportunity came for him to carry out his
purpose.
“That will do,” he said briefly.
Karl glanced at his face as if meditating another appeal for mercy,
but found no encouragement to speak. He turned and hurried away,
sick at heart, while Johann selected a nook in which to conceal
himself.
It is hardly necessary to add much to the reasons given by Johann
for his presence in the Castle. He had come there as the emissary of
the society to which he referred in his conversation with Karl, a
society founded ten years before, in the reign of Leopold IX.
Originally the society had consisted of five persons. Of these one
was dead. Another had long since made a home in the United States
of America. The third was he who had taken advantage of the old
King’s death to abandon the paths of conspiracy, and who had
become the servant and confidant of Leopold’s successor. Two of the
original members still remained: one, a man remarkable for his size
and for his thick red beard, had succeeded to the post of president;
the other was Johann himself.
For some years after Maximilian’s accession the work of the society
had seemed at a standstill. But it is a truth often illustrated in history
that the spirit of revolt engendered by the oppressions of a strong
bad king breaks out under the rule of a mild but weak successor.
Maximilian’s offence towards his subjects had been simple
indifference. A dreamer and a poet, he had shown himself utterly
averse to the practical business of kingship, and, absorbed in his
æsthetic pursuits, he had left the cares of government to his
Chancellor. While the Minister was engaged in levying taxes, and
keeping a tight rein on public opinion, the young King was
withdrawing himself from the sight of his subjects, and spending his
time in some distant hunting-lodge with a few favourite companions,
or perhaps assisting at the production, on a lavish scale, of one of
those operas which were beginning to make his intimate friend
Bernal celebrated throughout Europe.
It was not long before these caprices began to take an extravagant
turn, which gave an opening for the public discontent. Once a fancy
seized Maximilian, he never stopped to count the cost, and his
Ministers found that the best way to preserve their power was to
furnish him ungrudgingly with the funds required to satisfy his
whims. It was natural that the revolutionary party should seize on
this ground of attack, and hold up the thoughtless young King as a
vampire, draining the life-blood of the people to supply his selfish
luxuries.
Matters had just been brought to a head by Maximilian’s last
crowning extravagance, the celebrated palace of Seidlingen.
Seidlingen had been over three years in preparation. Riding one day
in the mountains which border the northwest of Franconia, the King
had come upon a beautiful little valley shut in on all sides by lofty
hills. In the middle of the valley lay a deep blue lake, several miles in
extent, overshadowed by the mountains, and bordered by dark pine
forests. Charmed with the romantic situation, Maximilian had
conceived the idea of erecting a palace on the very edge of the lake,
and transforming the valley into a veritable fairy kingdom, in which
he might roam undisturbed. How many millions had actually been
spent in realising this splendid dream were not accurately known. It
was supposed that the Ministers, afraid to disclose the truth, had
distributed a large part of the cost among various heads of civil and
military expenditure. All that public opinion could do was to take
note of the colossal works involved, and from them to arrive at some
estimate of the appalling cost.
It was known that thousands of men had been at work in the lovely
valley. Part of the mountain had been levelled to obtain a site for the
palace and the extensive gardens which spread away from the
border of the lake. Another part had been cut away to make room
for a magnificent road, broad and smooth as the boulevards of a
capital, and bordered with trees and waterfalls and vistas of
artificially embellished landscape. In one place an immense stretch
of forest had to be cleared; in another, huge trees, selected for their
size and beauty, had to be transplanted from distant regions. The
whole of the lake, some ten or twelve square miles of water, had
first to be drained away that its bed might be deepened and
cleansed from weeds, and then to be refilled, and kept at a constant
high level by means of immense dams of masonry, and by the
construction of artificial water-courses, and the laying of miles of
underground pipes. Its waters had to be stocked with rare fish from
all the rivers of Europe and America, and its banks to be lined here
and there with costly marble quays, to facilitate landing from the
sumptuous pleasure craft, built of priceless woods, which were
transported thither across the mountains. A net-work of canals lined
with marble, ran through the gardens, and on their smooth waters
exquisite boats inlaid with ivory, and shaped like swans and dolphins,
glided past Chinese towers, and kiosks, and crystal caves from which
concealed musicians were to pour out melodies upon the voyager’s
ear. At one time it had actually been in contemplation to connect
these canals with a larger one extending the whole way to the river
Rhine, but another kingdom had to be crossed, and the
compensation demanded by its government was so enormous that
even Maximilian stopped short, and the dream of making a seaport
in the heart of the German highlands was abandoned.
All that art could desire or science execute had been done to render
the palace itself one of the wonders of the world. In mere size it was
inferior to the state palace in Mannhausen, far inferior to such huge
piles as Versailles and the Roman Vatican. A poet does not build like
a conqueror. Maximilian’s object had not been to stupefy mankind,
but to delight himself. Almost more wealth had been lavished on the
wonderful accessories than on the main edifice—that is to say, on
the aviaries, the hothouses, and above all on the unique and
gorgeous theatre destined for the production of the grandest works
of Mozart and Beethoven and Bernal. But it was in the beauty of its
design, and the perfection of its finish, that Seidlingen rose superior
to every other palace on the globe. The barrack-like stateliness of
Potsdam, the homely majesty of Windsor, were alike put out of the
comparison. It was the complete and final fusion of the mediæval
and the classic, a Gothic castle breathed upon by the spirit of the
Renaissance, and transformed into a dazzling temple of art. Beneath
stretched broad terraces and solemn colonnades, above soared fairy-
like turrets and thin spires of delicate tracery. It was the beauty and
glory of the South, brooded over by the deep immortal spirit of the
North.
And now the rumour ran that Seidlingen was finished, and that the
King was about to go and take possession. This was the signal for
the discontent, which had long been gathering head, to break into a
ferment. The revolutionary societies redoubled their activity, recruits
came flocking to them in shoals, and already the more daring minds
spoke of open insurrection against the royal Government. It only
remained for some one man, more daring than the rest, to give the
signal of revolt.
This was the crisis for which Johann had long been waiting. He
called together the members of his own brotherhood, which had
renewed its numbers, and producing the very weapon which had
been provided ten years before for the assassination of Leopold,
boldly demanded that it should be loaded once more. His comrades
consented, and by his own desire he was entrusted with the carrying
out of the society’s sentence. The dawn of the following day saw him
set forth from Mannhausen, carrying in his breast the sealed pistol,
and bound for the place where the Court was then in residence.
Stopping on his way at Franz Gitten’s cottage, what he had learned
there confirmed his resolution, and he had come away armed, as he
believed, with a fresh justification for the deed he was going to
commit.
He had hardly settled himself in what seemed to be a secure hiding-
place, when a door opened at the far end of the gallery, and
Maximilian and Bernal entered arm-in-arm.
The King had discarded the dress he had worn for his walk through
the forest, and was now clad in a plain suit of black velvet, trimmed
with deep lace ruffles at the throat and wrists. The only mark of his
rank was a small cap of the same stuff which he wore, while his
companion was bare-headed.
As if he had changed his mood with his clothes, the young man
came in laughing and rallying his friend.
“Why, Auguste, what nonsense you talk! Did you hear Von Stahlen’s
latest? He declares that the Steinketel has jilted me! He thinks I
have been cut out by Von Hardenburg. It is lucky that Seidlingen will
be ready for me to retire to, to hide my despair.”
Auguste did not seem quite to share his friend’s cheerfulness. His
face wore a troubled expression.
“I suppose you have no idea what your fairyland has actually cost,”
he observed. “I cannot help fearing it will make you unpopular with
the nation.”
Maximilian laughed.
“I see what it is,” he retorted lightly; “you have been reading the
newspapers. I never do, not even the Cologne Gazette. My dear
Auguste, if you are going to take life seriously, all confidence
between us must be at an end. Remember that I am the King of the
Fairies, and my politics are those of A Midsummer Night’s Dream!”
Auguste smiled rather half-heartedly.
“That is all very well, Max, but you know the inhabitants of
Franconia are not fairies, and the taxes they have to pay are not
fairy gold.”
“My dear friend, I really believe that you have turned Republican. I
shall hear next that you are a candidate for the Chamber on the
Opposition side. What are the Franconians to you, or to me either?
Philistines all, my friend, Philistines all. I look upon myself as a
divinely appointed instrument of retribution. I am the avenger of the
poets they have imprisoned, and the musicians they have insulted,
and the painters they have starved. Let them pay their taxes. It is
the only homage to genius they have ever rendered. I am the only
prophet who has ever been honoured in his own country, and they
honour me because they have to. Make your mind easy; and when
we get to the Happy Valley we will lock the gates and give orders
that no newspapers are to be admitted except that one at Athens
which is published in verse!”
Auguste shook his head.
“It is lucky for you that the Chancellor takes the business of
government a little more seriously. What would you do if a
revolutionary mob invaded your Happy Valley?”
“Offer them refreshments, of course, and then make them listen to
one of your operas. If that did not subdue their fierceness, nothing
would,” added Maximilian, unable to resist the temptation to banter
his friend. “But tell me, Auguste, do you seriously suppose that any
one wants to deprive me of the throne in favour of poor Ernest?”
Bernal did not at once reply to this question. While the two had been
talking they had continued to stroll up and down the gallery, and in
letting his eyes wander from side to side, the musician had caught
sight through the gathering dusk of something which he fancied to
be unusual in the appearance of one of the shrubs before the
windows.
Restraining his curiosity for the moment, he walked on, and as
Maximilian was waiting, he forced himself to return some answer.
“I am afraid that is not the question. You may have enemies whose
designs go farther than a mere change of masters. Be serious for
one moment, Max. Other kings have to take precautions to guard
themselves, and why should not you do the same?”
“Oh, that will be all right You will find that Seidlingen is well
guarded, though it has been more with the idea of keeping out
impertinent admirers than the mysterious enemies you talk about. I
have had a palisade put up all round the mountains, and at every
mile or so I shall have small pickets of troops, whose duty it will be
to patrol the boundary, and see that no one attempts to cross. There
is only one road leading into the valley, the one I have had made,
and that will be guarded at the entrance by a small fort pierced by
an iron gate, which will be kept locked, and only opened by a written
order from me or the Chancellor. So you see the Anarchists won’t
have much chance to disturb us.”
While he was speaking, they had strolled back till they again came
opposite the spot which had attracted the musician’s attention. He
contrived to gradually bring himself to a halt, Maximilian following
his example without perceiving that his companion’s movements
were governed by any special purpose. Bernal fixed his gaze upon a
dark shadow under the foliage, while Maximilian continued to speak.
“The real difficulty I shall have,” he said, “is to avoid the visits of
persons who cannot very well be turned back by a sentry. I am
afraid from what I hear that my preparations have roused the
curiosity of the Kaiser, and that his Imperial Majesty is likely to inflict
his formidable presence on me, unless I can think of some pretext
for keeping him away.”
Bernal still listened, but the King’s words fell dully on his ear. His
whole attention was absorbed by a frightful discovery. Gazing
steadfastly into the shadow, he had all at once become aware that
his look was returned. There, at a distance of a few feet from him,
was a pair of dark eyes fixed deliberately upon his own. By a
tremendous effort of will he suppressed all outward signs of
agitation, lest he should alarm the man before him, and continued to
gaze calmly back, as if unconscious of what he saw. His thoughts,
travelling with terrific rapidity, went over the dangers of the
situation. The King and himself were totally unarmed, they were
alone in the gallery, and, thanks to Maximilian’s morbid love of
privacy, there were no attendants likely to be within hail. Who could
the concealed watcher be? Only a desperate man would have dared
to risk the danger of thus invading the royal apartments in a way
which sufficiently proclaimed the threatening character of his errand.
If this man were armed, the King’s life, both their lives, were at his
mercy.
The only chance of escape that presented itself to Bernal’s mind,
was to feign unconsciousness, and draw the King gradually away to
the end of the gallery. Then, by a sudden movement, he could urge
him through the doorway, and fasten it against the enemy. With a
strange feeling of dizziness creeping over him, he contrived to say a
few words in answer to his companion.
“That is what I was afraid you would say. If the Kaiser is really
anxious to come, in your own interest you ought to make him
welcome, and show him every attention. He may be a useful friend
or a dangerous foe.”
He was quite unconscious whether he was talking sense or
nonsense; as long as he could maintain the appearance of
composure it was all he cared for. Maximilian, wholly unsuspicious,
launched out into a reply.
“My dear Auguste, you are talking like old Von Sigismark. Of course,
all that is very true; but it is no reason why I should submit to the
penalty of that barbarian’s presence, if there is any reasonable way
of avoiding it. I come to you for sympathy, not for good advice.”
As the King finished speaking, Bernal felt a sudden shock. Still
gazing into the depths of those flaming eyes, he had become aware
by some subtle instinct that the man lurking in the shadow knew
that he was detected. There was only one moment’s more
breathing-time, till the assassin should learn that this knowledge in
turn had been discovered by his observer.
Trembling under the imminence of the peril, Bernal felt irritated at
having to reply to the King, as a man racked by some torturing pain
resents having to respond to the commonplace observations of those
around him.
“I never talk like Von Sigismark. I simply meant that if there were no
way of avoiding it, you should submit with as much grace as
possible.”
Maximilian smiled at the peevishness of his friend’s tone.
“You are a Job’s comforter, Auguste. If you say much more I shall
make you my Chancellor; so be careful.”
“Ah!”
The crisis had come. A flash of the eyes which he had been watching
with such feverish anxiety, convinced Bernal that the last stage had
been arrived at. The enemy had already learned that Bernal had
detected him. He now knew that Bernal was aware of this.
The fence of eyes was over. The two were as much face to face as if
both were out in the middle of the apartment. Bernal set his teeth
together and drew back a step, while Johann sprang to his feet,
throwing down the shrub which had protected him, and levelled his
pistol, at the distance of four paces, at the King’s breast.
“If either of you moves or makes the least cry, I fire.”
 CHAPTER VI
KING AND REGICIDE

None of us know beforehand how we shall act in moments of stress

and fear. Bernal, when he saw embodied before him the danger to
which he had looked forward, lost his self-control, and turned round
to the King with a nervous movement, as if he would catch hold of
him to restrain him from hasty action. But Maximilian, after the first
natural start of astonishment, stood perfectly still, his eyes fixed
steadily on this man who had suddenly come forward to threaten his
life, gazing at him with more of curiosity than dread.
The intruder stepped a pace nearer, keeping his weapon pointed at
the King, while his finger rested against the trigger. Nevertheless, he
did not at once fire. To kill in cold blood is hard. And the republican,
on his part, was not free from some natural feeling of curiosity as he
looked for the first time on this scion of a race against which he had
sworn vows of hatred.
“Have you anything to say before I fire?” he asked, unconsciously
seeking to gain time to strengthen his resolve.
Maximilian drew himself up with a proud gesture. The softer side of
his character seemed to have suddenly died out. In the presence of
this enemy he was every inch a king.
“Why have you come here?” he demanded, as haughtily as if he had
been surrounded by his guards, and the man before him had been a
defenceless prisoner. “What is it that you want?”
“You see plainly enough. I am here to kill you.”
Bernal could not restrain a stifled cry. Maximilian lifted his hand
rebukingly to enjoin silence, without removing his eyes from the
enemy’s face.
“Why do you wish to take my life?” he asked, in a firm voice.
Johann had to pause and collect his thoughts before he could
answer. He felt ever so slightly disconcerted. The situation was
altogether unlike what he had anticipated. He had come there
breathing wrath against one whom he pictured as a Heliogabalus,
dissolved in vice and luxury, and he had steeled himself beforehand
against threats or bribes or prayers for mercy; and now, here he was
face to face with a pale, thoughtful-eyed young man, whose
principal feeling seemed to be wonder, tempered with indignation, at
his presence.
“Because you are a king,” he said at length, speaking slowly, and
trying to rouse his dormant anger as he went along. “You hold the
supreme power in the country. For ten years you have reigned over
Franconia; and how have you used your power? For the gratification
of your own selfish pleasures. While the poor starve in your capital,
you waste millions in luxury. You build new palaces; you lavish
favours on artists and musicians”—he glanced involuntarily at Bernal
as he spoke—“your whole time is given up to enjoyment, and you
have never given a moment’s thought to the welfare of the millions
whom you call your subjects. You value operas more than the lives
of men.”
He stopped, feeling slightly dissatisfied with the weakness of his
language. He would have liked to crush this calm, self-possessed
questioner with a few scathing words—but somehow the words had
refused to come.
During this harangue a slightly contemptuous look came on
Maximilian’s face. He answered with spirit.
“I do not believe that any one need starve in Franconia. You are
speaking unfairly. If I spend money in the ways you talk of, does it
not all come back into the pockets of the people? I never heard that
it was considered a crime to encourage art, or that a king was
forbidden to have his private friends. And when you accuse me of
not valuing the lives of men, you forget that during my reign
Franconia has been kept from war. None of my subjects have been
made to shed one drop of blood for me. I have never even signed a
death-warrant.”
“What does that matter? I am not speaking of foreign war. The
deadliest war is that which goes on from day to day between rich
and poor; and that war you have never lifted a finger to check. The
millions you have wasted on palaces—which are of no use to any
one but yourself—might have been used for great public works for
the benefit of mankind—hospitals, almshouses, bridges, aqueducts
to bring the pure water of the hills into the Mannhausen slums. A
king has higher duties than encouraging art. It is his duty to be the
shepherd of the nation he rules.”
Maximilian listened, this time with an air of interest. He replied in
milder and more friendly tones than he had yet used.
“I think I understand you. I see that there is something in what you
say. I have been too much in the habit of thinking that the best king
was the one who interfered with his subjects least. You will admit, at
all events, that I have never tried to play the tyrant. But I see that I
might have done something more—such things as you point out. Yet
the people have a constitution. Why have their elected
representatives not undertaken some of these works?”
Johann found it more and more difficult to reply harshly to this
gentle reasoning on the part of the man whom he had come to take
vengeance upon. He tried to convince himself that this was mere
acting—a mere ruse to gain time, and he spoke again more rudely
than before.
“That is right; lay the blame on others. Where is the money for such
things to come from, when every penny that can be wrung out of
the people is being squandered by you? Besides, these
representatives, as you call them, represent only the richer classes.
They are as much out of touch with the poor, they have as little
sympathy with them, as you. Their turn will come before long; in the
mean time we must begin at the head. These excuses come too late.
You have had ten years in which to show your good intentions, and
now we can wait no longer.”
Maximilian resumed his haughty air.
“I did not mean to make excuses, sir. I thought you were speaking
sincerely, and I meant to do the same. But, since you have made up
your mind already, this conversation is useless. You had better fire
that pistol.”
Johann felt a sensation of shame, coupled with an unsatisfactory
doubt as to whether he had rightly judged the young man whose life
he was about to take. Without removing his finger from the trigger,
he slightly lowered the pistol, and responded.
“I can fire as soon as there is the least danger of interruption. But I
have not come here to insult you. You asked me why I wished to
take your life, and I have told you. I do not accuse you of wilfully
injuring the people, but of neglecting your duties towards them for
the sake of your own pleasures. You say that the best king is the
one who leaves his people alone. In that case we do not need a king
at all. Why should we spend millions of money on a useless
ornament? No, we are sick of the whole system. We have made up
our minds to teach rulers their duty, whether they be kings or
presidents or prime ministers. So long as there is one wretched man
in this country whose wretchedness you have the power to cure, and
you do not use that power, you are guilty in the sight of God and
man. I have lived among the people all these years, while you have
been dreaming of art and palaces. I have seen their misery, I have
heard their prayers, which there has been no one to answer. There
must be an end to all this. If motives of compassion have no force, if
appeals to justice are useless, we must appeal to fear. We must
terrify governments into doing their duty; we must teach them that
neglect may make the wretched dangerous, that misery breeds
assassins.”
His eyes flashed, and his form grew more erect under the inspiration
of his own fierce language. For the first time the young King
drooped his head.
“I do not blame you,” he answered mildly; “you have made me
realise your point of view better than I have ever done before. Only
you talk as if the task of grappling with these evils were an easy
one, while to me it seems very hard. Suppose we could change
places, and you were King for the next six months, how would you
set to work to remedy it?”
This unexpected suggestion fairly took the republican aback. He had
to consider before he replied.
“To me the idea of kingship is repugnant. I could not rule except by
the consent of the people. My first step would be to lay down the
crown, and organise a Republican government.”
“And Prussia?” suggested Maximilian. “Suppose half a million troops
were marched across the border to suppress your Republic and set
up a new king?”
Johann bit his lip. For the moment he could think of no answer.
Maximilian pursued his advantage. The shock of peril seemed to
have stimulated his mind and given him unwonted energy. He went
on, speaking clearly and earnestly—
“See here, sir. If I thought you believed in my sincerity I would make
a proposition to you. I would ask you to release me on parole for six
months, and during that time you should take my place, and run the
government on your own lines. At the end of the six months we
would come back here, to this gallery, exactly as we are now. I
would put that pistol into your hand, still loaded, and you should
then decide whether to fire it or not, as you pleased.”
The revolutionist heard this proposal with feelings of almost
ludicrous dismay. He realised that the ground was being cut from
under him.
“But it would be impossible,” he objected weakly. “Such an
arrangement could never be carried out. Your Court, your Ministers,
would all refuse to recognise me. I could accomplish nothing.”
“Not by yourself, I admit. But I did not mean that you should take
my place quite literally. What I meant was that you should in effect
use my authority, such as it is. You have condemned me, no doubt
justly, for not making a good use of my power. I want to see what
you can do with it, and I also want you to see for yourself the nature
of the obstacles that lie in the way of realising your ideals. If you
accept my offer I will provide rooms in the Castle for you; you shall
stay here in some nominal capacity—as my private secretary, for
instance—or, if you prefer it, simply as my guest. You shall then put
your ideas into shape; every suggestion which you make I will lay
before my Ministers as if it came from myself; and you shall be
present at our consultations, and judge for yourself what are the
powers of a king, and how far they can be exercised for the good of
the people. At the end of that time, as I have said, we shall return
exactly to our former positions, and perhaps you will then
understand me better than you do now. What do you say? Will you
accept my offer?”
Bernal, who had been a silent but deeply interested listener to this
debate, hardly knew whether to regard Maximilian’s scheme as a
serious outcome of his idealistic nature, or as a bold and skilful
manœuvre to outwit the revolutionist. He looked anxiously at Johann
to see what impression had been produced on him by the King’s
proposal.
But Johann was himself too much of a Quixote to suspect that he
stood in the presence of a Machiavelli. Completely vanquished by the
King’s magnanimity, he was about to throw down his weapon, when
all at once a fresh thought struck him. He had just remembered the
forester’s daughter.
“Wait,” he said sternly, bending an angry look upon Maximilian. “I
have another account to settle with you. This time it is not a
question of neglecting your subjects, but of taking too much interest
in them. We have met once to-day already. I saw you leave Franz
Gitten’s lodge.”
Maximilian drew back, mortified at his rebuff. At Johann’s last words
an exclamation of annoyance burst from him. So his secret had been
discovered, and by this violent man.
Misinterpreting the exclamation as a sign of guilt, the other
proceeded to a denunciation.
“Yes; not satisfied with all that your boasted art can do for you, you
must stoop to prey on the virtue of an innocent young girl, whose
only crime is the poverty which leaves her defenceless to your guilty
passions.”
He stopped, astonished at the effect produced by his words.
Maximilian, his whole face flushed with righteous anger, silenced him
with an imperious gesture, and replied warmly—
“Not another word! You insult that noble young girl as much as me
by your suspicions. I swear to you that I have never said one evil
word, nor harboured one impure thought towards her. I love her as
sincerely as you have ever loved—if you ever did love any one. Ask
the Herr Bernal there, and he will tell you that this very evening on
our way home, I informed him that I contemplated making Dorothea
my wife.”
Johann stared at him like one transfixed.
“Dorothea! My cousin!” was all he could utter.
“Your cousin!” came as a simultaneous exclamation from the lips of
both the others.
A profound silence succeeded. Maximilian was the first to speak.
Turning to his friend, he said mournfully—
“You see, Auguste, my foreboding was true. Now she will know I am
the King, and perhaps she will never learn to love me after all.”
Johann hung his head, and let the pistol drop from his passive
fingers on to the floor.
Then all at once there was a loud noise, the door of the gallery was
thrown open, and a great throng of guards and attendants and
members of the Court flocked in, with the Chancellor and Princess
Hermengarde among them, and rushed towards the group.
“That must be the man! Seize him!” cried the Chancellor, pointing to
Johann.
Johann made a quick movement as if to pick up his fallen weapon,
when Maximilian bent forward and whispered to him—
“I give you my parole.”
The next instant a dozen eager hands were clutching at the
conspirator on all sides, and Von Sigismark’s voice rang out—
“Take him away, and chain him in the strongest room in the Castle.”
Before the soldiers had time to do anything, a counter-order came
sternly and proudly from the lips of the King.
“Stop! Release your prisoner. He has our pardon.”
The Chancellor made a step forward, dismay and incredulity written
on his face.
“Pardon me, Sire,” he ventured to remonstrate, “but this man came
here with the intention of assassinating you. See, there is his pistol
on the floor.”
Hearing the Chancellor’s words, one or two of the soldiers thought
fit to retain their hold of the prisoner, till they saw what would come
of it. The young King noticed this partial disobedience, and turned
upon them pale with anger.
“Fellows, did you hear me?” he demanded, in such threatening
tones, that they fairly cowered. “Release this man, I say!”
The men saw their mistake; they forthwith let go their hold, and
Johann stood erect.
Then Maximilian condescended to reply to his Minister.
“Whatever purpose this man came here with, he has abandoned it of
his own accord. He had dropped his weapon before you entered. I
have had an opportunity of talking with him, and I do not regret his
having come here. For the present he will remain in the Castle, and I
desire that he may be well treated. Karl!”
The favourite stepped forward, trembling with the expectation that
his treachery had been discovered and that he was about to receive
its reward.
“Take this gentleman to the Chamberlain’s office,” said the King.
“See that an apartment is provided for him in my own quarter of the
palace, and that he has all he wants.” And turning to Johann, who
had remained silent and unmoved through this scene, he added, “I
shall send for you later on.”
And after a few words of thanks to the throng who had accompanied
Von Sigismark, for their coming to his assistance, the King linked his
arm in Bernal’s, and withdrew from the gallery.
 CHAPTER VII
HERMENGARDE’S NEXT MOVE

The unexpected interruption to the scene between Maximilian and

the intended assassin was due to the tardy repentance of Karl Fink.
On leaving Johann in the gallery he had retired at first to his own
room, where he flung himself on the bed, and lay writhing in misery,
straining his ears for the sound of the pistol’s fire. At one moment he
pictured to himself the arrest of the murderer, followed perhaps by a
denunciation of himself as the accomplice; at another his thoughts
reverted to the many acts of kindness shown him by his young
master, and he groaned aloud in remorse for his betrayal.
As the minutes slipped by and he heard nothing, a gleam of fresh
hope stole into his mind. It might not be too late even now to
interfere and save the King’s life. In that case he thought he knew
Maximilian well enough to be secure of forgiveness for his previous
treachery. Inspired with sudden courage, he sprang to his feet and
rushed out of the room.
As he approached the entrance to the gallery a fresh idea struck
him. His solitary interference might not be sufficient to avert the
danger which threatened the King, while it would certainly expose
him to the vengeance of Johann and his fellow-conspirators. He
made up his mind as he ran along to go round to the apartments of
the King’s aunt, and inform her of the situation, leaving it to her to
summon assistance for her nephew.
It did not take long for him to burst, all pale and trembling, into the
presence of the Princess.
She was not alone. With her was the Count von Sigismark, who had
come to tender her his thanks for her graciousness in inviting his