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, —
“I shall always remember it, Princess;” adding, with a glance at her, “and you.”
Her wonderful eyes shrank once more and her lips quivered, as though for one second touched again by the light wing of love – as if, indeed, she felt she had done something unworthy of her, something which might bring her regret hereafter.
In the midst of his confusion, the man remained victorious. She would never be his, and yet she would be his for ever. No matter how she might strive, she would never entirely forget.
She sighed, and rising, walked unsteadily to the window, where, below, the street lamps were just being lit. Daylight had faded, and in the room it was almost dark.
“To-night, Carl, we meet for the last time,” she said with an effort, in a hard, strained voice. “Both for you and for me it is best that we should part and forget. I did wrong to recommend you to the post at Court, and I ought to have foreseen the grave peril of the situation. Fortunately, I have realised it in time, even though our enemies already believe ill and invent lies concerning us. You must not return to Court. Remember, I forbid you. To-night, at the State dinner, I will speak to Lindenau and ask him to send you as attaché to Rome or to Petersburg. It is the wisest course.”
“Then your Highness really intends to banish me?” he said hoarsely, in a low, broken voice of reproach.
“Yes,” she faltered. “I – I must – Carl – to – to save myself.”
“But you are cruel – very cruel – Princess,” he cried, his voice trembling with emotion.
“You must realise my peril,” she said seriously. “Your presence at Court increases my danger hourly, because” – and she hesitated – “because, Carl, I confess to you that I do not forget – I never shall forget,” she added as the tears sprang to her blue eyes. “Therefore, go! Let me bear my own burden as best I can alone, and let me remember you as what you have always been – chivalrous to an unhappy woman; a man of honour.”
Slowly she moved across the room towards the door, but he arrested her progress, and took her small hand quickly in his grasp.
For some moments, in the falling gloom, he looked into her sweet, tearful face without speaking; then crushing down the lump that arose in his throat, he raised to his hot, passionate lips the hand of the woman he loved, and, imprinting upon it a tender, lingering kiss, murmured, —
“Adieu, Claire – my Princess – my first, my only love!” She drew her hand away as his passionate words fell upon her ear, sighed heavily, and in silence opened the door and passed out from his presence.
And thus were two brave hearts torn asunder.
Chapter Five
Some Suspicions
State dinners, those long, tedious affairs at which the conversation is always stilted and the bearing of everybody is stiff and unnatural, always bored the Crown Princess Claire to death.
Whenever she could she escaped them; but as a Crown Princess she was compelled by Court etiquette to undergo ordeals which, to a woman not educated as an Imperial Archduchess, would have been impossible. She had trained herself to sit for hours smiling and good-humoured, although at heart she hated all that glittering formality and rich display. There were times when at her own Court at Treysa, at the military anniversary dinners that were so often held, she had been compelled to sit at table with her husband and the guests for four and five hours on end, without showing any sign of fatigue beyond taking her smelling-salts from the hand of her lady-in-waiting. Yet she never complained, though the eating, and more especially the drinking, disgusted her. It was a duty – one of the many wearisome, soul-killing duties which devolve upon a Crown Princess – of which the world at large is in utter ignorance. Therefore she accepted it in silence, yet bored always by meeting and speaking with the same circle of people day after day – a small circle which was ever intriguing, ever consumed by its own jealousies, ever striving for the favour of the aged king; the narrow-minded little world within the Palace who treated those outside as though of different flesh and blood to themselves.
Whether at a marriage, at a funeral, at the opera, at a review, or at a charity fête– everywhere where her Court duties called her – she met the same people, she heard the same interminable chatter and the same shameful scandals, until, unhappy in her own domestic life, she had grown to loathe it all, and to long for that liberty of which she had dreamed when a girl at her father’s castle at Wartenstein, or at the great old Residenz-Schloss, or palace, at Pressburg.
Yet what liberty could she, heiress to a throne, obtain; what, indeed, within her husband’s Court, a circle who dined at five o’clock and were iron-bound by etiquette?
The State dinner at the Imperial palace that night differed but little from any other State dinner – long, dull, and extremely uninteresting. Given in honour of a Swedish Prince who was at the moment the guest of the Emperor, there were present the usual circle of Imperial Archdukes and Archduchesses, who after dinner were joined in the great reception-room by the Ministers of State, the British, French, and Italian Ambassadors, the Swedish Minister and the whole staff of the Swedish Embassy in the Schwindgasse. Every one was in uniform and wore his orders, the Emperor himself standing at the end of the room, chatting with his young guest in French.
The Crown Princess Claire, a striking figure in turquoise chiffon, was standing near, discussing Leoncavallo’s new opera with her cousin, the Princess Marie of Bourbon, who had arrived only a few days before from Madrid. Suddenly her eye caught the figure she had all the evening been in Search of.
Count de Lindenau, Privy Councillor, Chamberlain, Minister of the Imperial Household, and Minister for Foreign Affairs of the Austrian Empire – a short, rather stout, bald-headed man, with heavy white moustache, with the crimson ribbon of the Order of Saint Stephen of Hungary across his shirt-front and the Grand Cross in brilliants upon his coat – stopped to bow low before the Crown Princess, who in an instant seized the opportunity to leave her cousin and speak with him.
“It is really quite a long time since we met, Count,” she exclaimed pleasantly. “I met the Countess at Cannes in January, and was delighted to see her so much better. Is she quite well again?”
“I thank your Imperial Highness,” responded the Minister. “The Countess has completely recovered. At present she is at Como. And you? Here for a long stay in Vienna, I hope. We always regret that you have
