He sat in the Royal sun-parlour, reclining leisurely in a winged armchair with his coat of arms depicted on it in brocade. It was evening. A fire leapt in the hearth and a dog lay on the thick rug before it, slumbering peacefully. Across the room, which was not a large one, a girl played softly at a piano—some simple air that sounded like an old folk-tune and which she played reflectively and almost pensively.
It was very quiet and peaceful, but the young man in the chair sat with his head resting on two fingers and his eyebrows screwed together in troubled thought. His name was Stanislas Ruelmanov, and he was the king of an obscure country in Eastern Europe. He had only reigned for a short time and had not even been officially crowned as yet. His father had died the previous year and the new king’s coronation had been set for the very day on which our story opens, but for some reason of which he had not been informed, it had been postponed.
The country was not one of those where the monarch is merely a figurehead whose duties consist mainly of greeting foreign dignitaries and signing whatever documents his ministers tell him to. The king of this country constitutionally exercised a greater power than his Prime Minister and, though he was held in check by the Parliament, he in turn had veto power over that assembly. Unfortunately, with the new century had come changes to the old order and the king’s powers had gradually been relinquished to the Parliament until very little was now left him, saving some small civic duties.
The new king chafed under this restraint. He was not at all progressive and he remembered fondly the days when his ancestors ruled ministers and populace with firmness and dignity. Besides this, the party in power at the present time was incompetent and had fallen out of favour, not only with the general public, but also with the class of wealthy businessmen whose opinions carried far more weight. It had been supported by the old king, but now its practically lifeless remains were left defenceless against the rapacious attacks of the opposition.
The young King Stanislas thus brooded over the affairs of the little nation whose responsibilities he had taken upon his own shoulders, though whose fate he had scarcely any control over. It is a sad pass for a king indeed when his ministers will not tell him so much as when his coronation is to be held.
The girl at the piano ceased her playing and let her hands rest on either side of her on the bench. The king looked up with surprise and asked why she had stopped.
“Your majesty isn’t listening,” she said lightly. “Besides, it’s too dark to see the keys anymore.”
“What can I be about? I’ll have the lamps lit at once.”
The girl watched him silently as he crossed the room and rang a bell.
“I wondered you didn’t notice the dark,” she said, as they waited for a servant to appear. “You seemed very thoughtful.”
“I’m afraid I’ve been neglecting you sadly,” said the king.
“Would you mind very much if I didn’t play anymore?” asked the girl when the servants had come and gone away again and the room was a blaze of gaslight.
“No, don’t, if you’d rather not. We can talk, if you like, and I’ll try to make myself interesting, though I confess I’m not much in the mood for conversation tonight.”
She took a seat across from his chair and the dog came up and laid its head in her lap. The king strode over to the fireplace but remained standing, his elbow resting on the mantelpiece.
“Is anything the matter?” asked the girl.
“Just affairs of State,” he replied, his eyes on the dancing flames. “It’s hard to make head or tail of things, that’s all.”
“What things?”
He tore his gaze from the fire and shook his head slightly, as though to clear it. “Never mind,” he said. “I’m in one of my moods, but I’ll try to shake it off and be companionable. I didn’t mean to bother you with my troubles.”
The girl beside him sometimes thought that there was very little of a bonding nature between them. Not that there was any sort of misunderstanding, but the great absence of any sentiment stronger than mutual regard made itself keenly felt in light of the fact that they were to be married shortly after the coronation.
A third party was announced just then and the countenances of both the former cleared suddenly as they turned towards the door with undisguised anticipation. Clearly, the interruption was not an unwelcome one. The man who entered was young—about the king’s own age—very handsome with dark hair and eyes, what they call an intelligent forehead, and a keen, firm manner. He was Sandor Dukonivic, a name that had begun to appear with regularity in the political journals.
He was a member of the Parliament; one of the best speakers in the House. Inspired, determined, ambitious, aggressive at times; a young man whose meteoric rise in politics from an uncertain beginning elicited the attention and interest of his contemporaries and left them wondering at this unflappable zealot who was so suddenly the talk of the House.
Though popular, he was the leader of a small, insignificant, and extremely radical party, which was accused of being surreptitiously socialistic. His peers—or rather the other leaders in Parliament—said with great puffs on their cigars that he could never gain power: his party was too small and unpopular, and he was nothing but a young upstart who needed to be toned down.
For all this—and these were facts which the journalists did not in any way mitigate—he was welcome at the palace, for he had been in the cadet corps with the king when they were boys, and there had sprouted a deep friendship between them which had only grown stronger through the intervening years.
He entered, bowed alternately to his majesty and the princess, and, his ministerial duties thus fulfilled, affected a casual attitude on the other side of the fireplace from the king.
“Sandor!” said the king familiarly, extending his hand. “How are you?”
“Quite well,” replied the young enthusiast, and then said in a softer voice, “hello, Marya.”
“Hello, Mr. Dukonovic,” returned the girl with laughing eyes. “We haven’t seen anything of you for ages. What can possibly have been keeping you busy all this time? Not your horrid friends, I hope.” Her pensive mood had fallen from her on the young man’s appearance, as it usually did.
“My horrid friends?” asked Dukonivic, surprised.
“Oh, you know—those men with beards (I hate beards on men) who always come wanting to talk to you in private.They look like Russians or Poles or something awful. I suppose they must be members of that queer party you belong to.”
Dukonivic usually met her gay repartees with equal wit, but tonight he seemed mildly troubled by her words.
“They have kept me rather occupied of late,” was all he said.
“Preparing for elections, I suppose?” asked the king, delivering the idle question with an acute look at his friend’s face.
“So they are.”
“And what line do they intend to take up? It must be a novel one if they’re to stand a chance against the liberal party.”
“I do wish they would let you have some peace some times,” said Marya, as the statesman said nothing. Her eyes darted quickly to his but she immediately dropped them under his gaze with slightly heightened colour.
“Well,” said the king, breaking a pause, “I wish you luck. I suppose you’ll be Prime Minister if your party gets into power.”
“Possibly,” replied Dukonivic with a confused expression as if his thoughts were elsewhere.
The king regarded him thoughtfully. He was accustomed to his friend’s occasional bouts of inscrutability, but this detached evasion surprised him. The princess rose suddenly.
“You two must excuse me, but I’ve a letter to write,” she said.
“I’m driving you away, I’m afraid,” said Dukonivic penitently.
“What if you are?” she said with a laugh. “It’s not the first time you’ve come to discuss politics. Goodnight!”
The two men watched her trip airily out of the room, and the king sank down again into his chair. He motioned Dukonivic to take the one which the princess had vacated and, leaning back, closed his eyes.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to speak to you,” he said. “I’ve missed our talks.”
“You seem worried about something,” said Dukonivic to make conversation.
“So do you, since you mention it.”
“Never mind about me; what’s troubling you?”
“You’ll laugh, Sandor—say I’m an idealist. You always thought I was.”
“You are,” admitted Dukonivic obligingly, “but I like you for it.”
“Do you remember in our cadet days,” said the king, “how I used to tell you what I would do when I became king?”
“Yes; some of them were rather—shall I say—original?”
The king laughed shortly.
“They were rather childish, I admit, but I find over the intervening years that they haven’t really changed very much. I only find their fulfilment further from my grasp than ever. It’s been over a year since my father’s death, and I’ve done scarcely anything since coming into power. I’ve tried, certainly, to make changes, but it’s as if my hands were tied with official tape. My ministers don’t trust me—or they envy me. The only one I ever get news from is you.”
Dukonivic sat with his hands in his pockets, which is an uncomfortable position when reclining in an armchair, but his mind was elsewhere and he seemed unaware of bodily discomfort.
“You’ve quite a few political enemies,” he said. “The trouble is, you haven’t done anything to deserve them. I suppose it’s envy, like you say.”
“But I have done something to deserve them. I’ve taken steps to revoke the emigration law; I objected to the new income tax proposed by the Chancellor of Exchequer; I’ve appeared in the House twice already during session,whereas my father stayed out of it as much as possible during his reign; and I did my best to keep the Prime Minister from passing that industry bill. I’ve done quite a bit to make a nuisance of myself, but I haven’t actually accomplished anything.”
The king got up, as if wishing for an outlet in which to expend his energy, and began to turn down the lamps. There was no longer any particular need for them and it was one of his old-fashioned eccentricities that he disliked gaslight. Dukonivic got up as well (for, despite their familiarity, it is poor etiquette to sit while the king is standing) and walking round behind his chair, leaned on the back of it and gazed meditatively into nothingness.
“It’s a pity that that industry bill was passed,” he said. “It will ruin the small farmers.”
“I know,” came the king’s voice over his shoulder as he came back into the firelight. “—And I feel as if it were my fault. Perhaps I might have done more to stop it. What a curse it is to be a king with limited power! I’d rather have none at all.”
“Absolute power is worse.”
“I know. I almost wish I weren’t king. There isn’t a privilege I wouldn’t forgo to be free from the burden of it all.”
“Marya?” said Dukonivic shortly.
“Oh, I’d forgotten Marya.”
“Had you indeed?”
“Don’t say it like that. Those other things drove her out of my mind for a moment. Of course, Marya’s different,and I’ve got to marry her whether I like it or not.”
“Whether you like it or not! You’re going to marry her, after all. Doesn’t she mean anything to you?”
“I like Marya very much,” said the king dispassionately. “I suppose you could say I love her, but it’s how I should feel towards a sister. She was chosen for me, you know: I had no say in the matter. –Neither had she, poor girl.”
“Poor girl,” echoed Dukonivic.
The king regarded his friend. He had ample opportunity to do so, for Dukonivic had his face full to the firelight and his usually unintelligible features had written on them quite plainly what turn his thoughts were taking.
“Why,” said the king, a light dawning on him, “Sandor, you—I had no idea...”
“Idea of what?” said Dukonivic, pretending he didn’t know what he meant.
“That you’re in love with Marya.”
“What if I am?”
“I feel as if I’d betrayed you,” said the king repentantly. “I can’t help but feel it, though it was none of my doing. There isn’t a thing in the world I wouldn’t do for you, and yet I’ve somehow managed to ruin your life.”
“If you didn’t exist, I’d be no nearer her,” returned the other. “She’s a princess and I’m a commoner.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” said the king, certain instances suddenly coming to his mind. “She loves you, I think.”
Dukonivic was silent so long that the king knew he thought so too.
“If you were king—” Stanislas went on, “Or if there were no king, you could—”
“Stanislas, don’t!” said Dukonivic, gripping the back of the chair as if in sudden agony, and using the name he had called the king in their boyhood.
Neither could speak for a moment. The king gazed on Dukonivic remorsefully.
“Odd the way life works, isn’t it?” he said at last. “You with so much ambition and I with so little. Yet I’m king and you are—”
“—a statesman on the wrong side of the aisle,” replied Dukonivic with a dry smile.
“But you don’t have to be, after all. Why don’t you join the liberal party? They’re almost certain to get into power,and they’d be glad to have your oratorical skills.”
“If I weren’t a fool I would, but I’ve always had a sneaking sympathy with the dark horse.”
“Still, you must have some scheme for success. I don’t think you’d choose obscurity out of sentiment, and I know you pretty well, Sandor.”
“Perhaps you don’t know me so well after all,” said Dukonivic quietly.
The king glanced at his friend in surprise but Dukonivic had turned away and stood with his hands in his pockets and his face shaded from the firelight.
“What do you mean?” asked the king.
In the dim light it seemed to the king that his friend’s shoulders shifted, as if settling a weight on them.
“I might as well tell you what line my party has taken,” he said after a moment’s pause. “They mean to make you abdicate.”
There was a short silence.
“What?” said the king.
“They’ll ask the Parliament to vote and if they get a majority, they’ll ask you to step down.”
“They can’t—”
“Perhaps they can. Parliament has the power and the support. If enough MPs are in favour, there’s not much you can do.”
“Because I have no power or support,” said the king, looking at his friend’s back, which Dukonivic had kept studiously towards him.
“Look here,” said Dukonivic, swinging suddenly round, “don’t think this is my idea. I did everything I could to change their minds and I never helped them once. But it’s been done, all the same. That’s why the coronation was postponed, you know.”
The king said nothing.
“After all,” said Dukonivic desperately, “what have you got to lose? You said you didn’t want to be king.”
“Do you think I ought not to be?”
“I think you are in every way suited to rule this country, but king—that’s different. You can’t stand in the way of progress. The people are ready for a different form of government—the common people, that is, not the rich businessmen who try to run everything. Our party stands for the people, and some of the members feel it their duty to get rid of you. They have nothing against you personally, of course.”
“I know what the people think,” said the king abruptly. He put his hand in his breast pocket and brought out a scrap of paper, ragged on two edges, as if it had been torn from a larger piece, and covered with a large and menacing scrawl.
“Read that,” he said.
It was very brief. “Abdicate or else,” read Dukonivic aloud.
“It’s from a secret anarchic organisation that has sprung up of late,” said the king. “I don’t like threats. They make me want to ignore them and see what happens.”
“I doubt you’d want to ignore this one,” said Dukonivic. “I know somewhat of this organisation and they mean what they say. Have you taken any precautions?”
“I’m not afraid of them, Sandor,” said the king. “And I’m not going to abdicate unless the Parliament forces me to. It’s my duty to rule this country to the best of my ability for as long as I’m permitted.”
“It’s not only your career that’s in danger, but your life is as well,” said Dukonivic earnestly. “You must be cautious.”
“Why?” asked the king pettishly. “You as much as said earlier that you’d prefer the monarchy to be abolished. Why do you care what happens?”
A softened look came into the statesman’s habitually guarded countenance and his reserve fell away.
“Stanislas, you’re my friend. In many ways you’ve been more than a brother to me. You befriended me when I was nobody, defended me against everyone else, and always trusted me without question. I’ve never been able to repay you—never shall. Believe me that I do care what happens to you.”
“Thank you, Sandor,” said the king quietly. “You have repaid me. You’ve been the only true friend I’ve ever had.”
“I wish I deserved your good opinion,” said Dukonivic.
“But of course you do. I’ve always depended on your judgement.”
“Then let me advise you now. You must not throw your life away on a lofty impulse.”
“Then you think I should abdicate.”
“You can’t fight them forever,” Dukonivic said quietly.
“You wouldn’t have said that a year ago,” said the king. “You always supported me in everything. Something’s come between us. I’ve lost your confidence.”
“What makes you think so?”
“I’m sure of it, Sandor. There’s been a difference in you. I’ve done something you disapprove of—tell me what it is.”
“Why did you dismiss Borislav?” Dukonivic asked at last. “—Not that it’s of such great importance, but I’ve wondered all this time. The old man was high in your father’s esteem, and you sacked him without any satisfactory explanation. It looked bad, I thought.”
“Oh,” said the king, after a pause. “He’s a friend of yours, isn’t he?”
“He was a friend of my father’s,” corrected Dukonivic. “And yes, he’s been kind to me many times.”
The minister’s kindnesses had consisted chiefly in aiding the young man politically, but to do him justice, Dukonivic was fond of the old man more out of gratitude for his goodwill than for any worldly interests.
“I thought,” said Dukonivic suggestively, “that you might be able to explain to me something you couldn’t tell the public.”
“He wasn’t suited for the position, in my opinion,” replied the king shortly.
“And you think the minister you appointed in his place is?”
“In some ways, yes—more so, at least.”
“What do you mean? What has Borislav done?”
“Never mind Borislav; he’s done with, I tell you!” cried the king impatiently. “I had my reasons—now, are you quite happy?”
“Yes, quite,” said Dukonivic, his open countenance shutting like a steel trap and his usual guarded demeanour taking its place. “Thank you, your Majesty. I’ve taken up a good deal of your time, I’m afraid, and if you’ll be so good as to permit me, I’ll bid you goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” echoed the king, and the friends parted.
The king stood for several minutes, regarding the door through which Dukonivic had disappeared. Then suddenly,with a sort of penitent recklessness, he crossed the room, turned up the gas in a bracket on the wall, sat down before a desk that stood beneath it, and commenced writing feverishly. The paper, when he had finished it six minutes later, was blotted, blown upon, and carefully read over as the king leaned pensively back in his chair.
Dear Sandor,
I shan’t keep anything from you. The truth about Borislav is this: for a great part of his life, my father had a dreadful secret that he kept hidden. Somehow this man discovered it and, for years, tormented my father with the fear of exposure. That secret was the key which Borislav used to unlock every door in the corridors of power. Through his influence with my father, he made his way into the Ministry of the Interior and was quite successful in amassing a personal fortune. I learned of all this—never mind how. On my father’s death one of my first duties was to remove this black-mailer. My respect for my father (whether or not he merits it) has kept me from exposing Borislav, and a yet deeper consideration prevented me from telling you the whole story this evening—that he is a friend of yours, that is.
His impetus suddenly gone, the king laid the paper down and leaned his head on the high back of his chair. He shut his eyes, but the last line of the letter seemed written across the insides of his eyelids in white ink. He sat upright at last, with a little shake of his head, and knew that he could not do it. Crossing to the fireplace, he consigned the paper to the leaping flames and watched meditatively its demise. For a moment the fire sprang up, throwing a strong light on his face as he stood there, solitary, silent, and inflexible, and all his royal progenitors from ten centuries seemed for one moment embodied in his resolute figure.
* * *
A low murmur pervaded the House along with a heavy sense of expectancy, rising occasionally as a member would enter from one of the outer offices, lay a slip of paper on a table in the central aisle, and take his seat. MPs conferred in low tones and leaned over the benches to whisper private communications to other party members. Secretaries scurried in and out with briefcases and brandy. The speaker sat solemnly in his chair at the head of the hall, while his secretary sat in the aisle at a small table, painstakingly counting votes and jotting tallies in a notebook. The House was going to vote on a very significant matter—whether or not their country would continue as a monarchy.
Although it was the king’s constitutional right to be present in the House while it was in session, he had chosen to stay away today and be informed of the decision by his aide de camp, who sat to the right of the speaker watching all that went on with interest.
At length, the murmurs died down, and the MPs began to look towards the speaker in expectancy. The secretary glanced up, saw the full benches and the closed doors, took up a paper before him, and handed it to the speaker who cleared his throat and looked over it.
“Gentlemen,” he declared at last, “it is a tie. The votes for both sides are equal.”
There was a silence; for most of the members, a disappointed one. Suddenly someone spoke.
“It cannot be a tie,” he said in a small, dry voice. “There are an odd number of members, and the House is full today.”
A murmur spread through the room, acknowledging the statement. The members looked at each other, searching for someone missing.
A small group of men who sat together in one corner began to grow agitated.
“Dukonivic!” said someone. “He isn’t here.”
At that moment the double doors leading to the outer chambers opened, and the dark-haired man entered. His features were flushed, his temples were wet with perspiration, and he breathed heavily as if in the throes of some supreme effort. For a moment he stood there as if recovering his poise. Then, with a sudden firmness, he strode forward. All eyes in the room were upon him and an unnatural hush hung over the assembly. Dukonivic reached the little table at which the secretary sat and paused, running his eyes over the company. Suddenly, he threw his head back as with a great resolution and taking a paper from his pocket, laid it on the table.
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