THE LAST STAND OF A BAD SERVANT
The cuirassiers stationed in the guardroom of the royal palace walked gently on the tiling, when occasion required them to walk, and when they entered or left the room, they were particularly careful to avoid the chink of the spur or the clank of the saber.
Although the royal bedchamber was many doors removed, the Captain had issued a warning against any unnecessary noise.Aloud laugh, or the falling of a saber carelessly rested, drew upon the unlucky offender the scowling eyes of the commander, who reclined in front of the medieval fireplace, in which a solitary log burned, and brooded over past and present.The high revels in the guardroom were no more, the cuirassiers were no longer made up of the young nobles of the kingdom; they were now merely watch dogs.
Twenty years ago the commander had come from Dresden as an instructor in arms, and after the first year had watched over the royal household, in the service of the late king and the king who lay dying.He had come of good family, but others had come oof better, and had carried of court honors, though his post in early days had been envied by many.He was above all else a soldier, the embodiment of patience and integrity, and he scorned to murmur because fortune had passed over his head.As he sucked at his pipe, he recalled the days of Albrecht and his opera singers, the court scandals, and his own constant employment as messenger in the king's love intrigues.
Albrecht had died a widower and childless, and with him had died the flower of court life.The courtiers and sycophants had flocked to the standard of the duke, and had remained there, primarily because Leopold of Osia promised a sedate and exemplary life.Sometimes the Captain shook his head, as if communing with some unpleasant thought.On each side of him sat a soldier, also smoking and ruminating.
At the mess table a dozen or so whiled away the time at cards.
The wavering lights of the candle and hearth cast warring shadows on the wall and floor, and the gun and saber racks twinkled.If the players spoke, it was in tones inaudible to the Captain's ears.
"Our bread and butter," said the Captain softly, "are likely to take unto themselves the proverbial wings and fly away."No one replied.The Captain was a man who frequently spoke his thoughts aloud, and required no one to reply to his disjointed utterances.
"A soldier of fortune," he went on, "pins his faith and zeal to standards which to-day rise and to-morrow fall.Unfortunately, he takes it at flood tide, which immediately begins to ebb."The men on either side of him nodded wisely.
"The king can no longer speak.That is why the archbishop has dismissed the cabinet.While he could speak, his Majesty refused to listen to the downfall of his enemies.Why? Look to heaven;heaven only can answer.How many men of the native troops are quartered in these buildings? Not one--which is bad.Formerly they were in the majority.Extraordinary.His Majesty would have made friends with them, but the archbishop, an estimable man in his robes, practically ostracized them.Bad, very bad.Had we been comrades, there might be a different end.
"Faugh! if one of us sticks his head into the city barracks a breath of ice is our reward.Kronau never attends the receptions.
A little flattery, which costs nothing, and they would have been willing to die for his Majesty.Now--" He knocked his pipe on the firedog."Now, they would not lift a finger.A soldier will forgive all things but premeditated neglect.
"As for me, when the time comes I shall return to Dresden and die of old age.Maybe, though, I shan't.When his Majesty dies there is like to be a clash.The duchess is a clever woman, but she would make a balky wife; a capillary affection which runs in the family.Red hair in a man is useful; in a woman it is unmanageable." He refilled his pipe and motioned toward the tongs.The soldier nearest caught up a brand and held it out.
The Captain laid his pipe against it and drew."It's a dreary watch I have from ten till daylight, in his Majesty's antechamber, but he will trust no other man at that post." And with this he fell into silence.
Some time passed.Twice the Captain pulled out his watch and looked at it.Shortly after nine o'clock the beat of hoofs came up the driveway, and the Captain turned his head toward the entrance and waited.A moment later the door opened and three men stood framed in the doorway.Two of them--one in civilian dress--were endeavoring to hold up a third between them.The central figure presented an alarming picture.His cuirass and white trousers were splashed with blood, and his head rolled from side to side, almost insensibly.
"A thousand devils!" exclaimed the Captain at the sight of this unexpected tableau.He sprang up, toppling over his chair.
"What's this? Von Mitter? Blood? Have those damned students--""A brush on the lake road," interrupted Sharfenstein, breathlessly."Help him over to a chair, Monsieur Carewe.That's it.""Have you a knife, Captain?" asked Maurice.
The Captain whipped out his knife, locked it, and gave it to Maurice."Riemer," he called to one of the cuirassiers, who were rising from the mess table, "bring out your box of instruments;and you, Scharfenstein, a basin of cold water.Quick!"Maurice knelt and deftly cut away the Lieutenant's boot.A pool of blood collected on the floor.
"God save us!" cried the Captain, "his boot is full of blood."He turned to Scharfenstein, who was approaching with the basin.
"What has happened, Max?"
Scharfenstein briefly explained.
"And Kopf?"
"Got away, curse him!"
"And the others?" with a lowering brow.
"They all got away," adding an oath under his breath.Max set the basin on the floor.
"Bad, very bad.Why didn't you shoot?"
"He was afraid of hitting Mademoiselle Bachelier," Maurice interposed.
Max threw him a grateful look.
"Humph!" The Captain called his men around him."Two of you--.
But wait.Who's back of Kopf?"
