Chapter VII The Story of the Sacrilege
The nimble lie
Is like the second hand upon a clock;
We see it fly; while the hour hand of truth
Seems to stand still, and yet it moves unseen,
And wins, at last, for the clock will not strike
Till it has reached the goal.
—Longfellow: Michael Angelo.
Nicholas and I were not good company for each other that evening. The General, we found, had not returned from Nischon and we ate our evening meal in silence. After dinner we repaired to the smoking room, there to follow out our musings each in his own way.
Nick, with his elbows on his armchair and his chin resting on his interlaced hands, watched the fire leaping and dancing among the burning chestnut logs until, moved by its magnetic influence, he drifted away on the wings of reverie, leaving “the world and all” far behind. Once he spoke aloud, oblivious of my presence.
“What a magnificent creature she has grown to be,” he said.
My thoughts also were of the Princess Solonika, but they did not dwell upon her remarkable beauty. They had a totally different trend. I carefully went over the events of the afternoon and the poison of suspicion, implanted in my mind by the vague words of the General, gave colour to everything I had noticed in the summer-house. Nick’s steady refusal to countenance the idea had lulled me into the belief that the General was visionary; but the incident of my leave-taking from Solonika brought me up with a sharp turn.
It seemed impossible to imagine that any such masquerade as the General implied could exist these twenty years undiscovered, and, for its successful fulfilment, go on existing thereafter for an indefinite period. I realized, of course, that this was an Anglo-Saxon point of view. In a civilized country with its freedom of intercourse, its newspapers and reporters in search of sensations, its international social life moving always in the limelight of publicity, such an extremely grotesque secret would soon be dragged from hiding and held up to public ridicule. But this was not America. This was barbaric Bharbazonia. Here, shut up in a well protected castle, cut off from the world, hidden from prying eyes by the might of power, anything were possible.
Just what did I suspect? I scarcely knew and I experienced difficulty in making my mind contemplate a proposition so absurd. Why should I not continue to believe that the Prince was the Prince and that Solonika was Solonika? But two other hypotheses forced themselves upon me. Suppose, I said to myself, that on that eventful night, when the bell of Dhalmatia announced the birth of twins, only a daughter had been born. What would the Duke, controlled by an overmastering desire to wrest the succession of the throne from his heirless brother, have done in his despair and excitement?
I had seen the Red Fox and knew that the keynote of his character was craftiness. On the spur of the moment, given no time to consider what suffering his action might entail upon the newborn babe, he would have dashed upon the rope in a frenzy and tolled the bell a second time declaring the advent of a son. Perhaps during the long months of waiting he had planned some such deception should the fates go against him. The truthful nurse, unaware of his desire, had complicated matters and had paid the penalty for her lack of wisdom.
After his rash act, as the Fox sat down to think, gloating over King Gregory’s chagrin when he heard the news, he would find two courses open to him. He must either adopt a boy to take the place of the Prince who was not, or he might bring up his daughter to assume the rôle of both Prince and Princess.
Well pleased with my theory I began to test it and found to my delight that it satisfactorily explained many things. If the girl and boy were one, the remarkable physical resemblance would be natural and the expression of pain on Solonika’s face when I shook her hand would be explained. What would be more natural than the Duke’s action in denying his castle to visitors? When Nick and I called that morning he could not let us in to see the Prince because Solonika was in the summer-house!
Then Doubt came knocking at my door. After all, the Red Fox might have been discourteous to us because we were the avowed friends of his enemy, General Palmora. Under the circumstances I could not blame him for what he did. And had he not explained everything when he declared the birth of twins? It is not unusual for twins to look alike.
“But,” whispered Suspicion in my ear, “how about Solonika’s half suppressed cry of pain?”
Here was I back to my starting point. It was too baffling a problem for one man to solve. I felt that I needed help; some one who might shed more light upon the subject, and I turned to Nick. He had never taken any stock in the General’s talk, and always ridiculed the efforts I made to point out that which I believed lent colour to Palmora’s suspicions. That he had some reason for his faith was evident, and I determined to risk his displeasure to learn it.
“Nick,” I said, startling him out of his dreams by sitting beside him on the arm of his chair and putting my elbow under his head, “have you ever been able to learn what the General suspects about the Red Fox and the succession?”
“Did you ever talk with a brighter woman in your life, Dale?” he replied.
“Solonika?”
He nodded. Here was the same old susceptible boy, who indiscriminately decorated our rooms at college with pictures of chorus girls, or leading women, who temporarily queened it over his fickle fancy and who faded away into the forgetful mist of passing years. Was he never going to grow up, I wondered.
“She’s pretty enough,” I replied, “but I wish you would answer my question.”
“Pretty enough,” he echoed. “Oh, you stone man. When a woman like Solonika cannot make your heart beat faster, I begin to despair for you.”
I did not tell him how much the Princess had interested me, and that it was the light of sadness deep down in her eyes, which had escaped him, that made me wish to clear up the mystery and help her if I could. If she were a masquerader what a terrible life she had before her. I pitied her.
“Surely,” I said, “the good General had some serious reason for bringing you back.”
“Serious he may think it,” said Nick, “but I see no reason for coupling my return with the General’s suspicions of Dhalmatia. I think, from what I saw this morning, that Duke Marbosa had more to do with it.”
“I suppose you would not entertain the thought for a moment that the Prince and the Princess were the same person?”
Nick looked at me as if I were suddenly become a madman. Then he threw back his head and laughed so loud and long that I, feeling uncomfortably small, shook him to make him stop. His answer I thought most curious.
“Great heavens, Dale, this is Bharbazonia.”
“All the more reason for believing it possible,” I retorted.
He laughed again.
“Oh, no,” he said, “you have reckoned without the Church.”
“Come now, Nick, answer me straight. Cease talking in riddles. What has the Church got to do with it?”
Nick suddenly became sober. He saw that I was serious, and addressed himself to the task of enlightening me.
“Listen, Dale,” he began, like one entering into a long argument, “I will tell you all about it and when I am through you must accept what I say as final and forget these romantic American notions of yours. The Greek church of Bharbazonia has everything to do with it. To begin with, for the sake of argument, we will admit that the General and you are right—the Prince and the Princess are one, and that one is a woman. I believe that is your theory?”
“Go on,” I said, nodding.
“Now, do you know what that would entail?”
“The woman’s life would be a hell on earth, I suppose.”
“It would mean death if she were ever detected,” said Nick, solemnly.
This was going farther than I expected. I looked at Nick, but his face was immovable. He was not joking.
“Yes, but how? Why?” I exclaimed.
“In the first place the clergy in this country, as in many other European lands, stand before the nobles in power. The king, the nobles and the peasantry are all subject to their will. Here, church and state are not divorced as they are in France and America.”
“But how would Solonika come within the power of the Church? Why should it wish to harm her?”
“Every coronation service, like marriage, is a deeply religious ceremony,” Nick continued steadily. “As you know, it takes place in the Cathedral at Nischon. It is conducted by the Patriarch, the front of the Greek Catholic Church of Bharbazonia. When this woman, who in your fancy is masquerading as the Prince, takes the oath of office, becoming at once the head of the Church and the ruler of the kingdom, she must ascend the altar and stand within the Holy of Holies, where it is a sacrilege for a woman to go!”
“Good heavens,” I exclaimed, rising to my feet in consternation. Nick smiled at the effect of his words and continued:
“Granting that the Red Fox of Dhalmatia would go to great lengths to procure the throne, do you think that any father would take such risks? Do you think that a woman like Solonika would affront her religion for the sake of being king? You may trifle with the superstitious beliefs of the highly civilized, if they have any, but you cannot play tricks with the primitive. The populace of Bharbazonia, if they ever found her out, though she be king, would rend her limb from limb, urged on by the religious frenzy of the outraged priesthood. Are you answered?”
“I am answered,” I replied.
But Nick was not satisfied that he had convinced me.
“I will tell you this, Dale,” he added, earnestly. “If Solonika committed such a sacrilege against my Church and her people, I, a Bharbazonian, might forget my Occidental cultivation, and, though I might love her, would strangle her to death with these two hands.”
He stretched his hands toward me and crushed his fingers together over an imaginary throat. I watched him fascinated; here was a new Nicholas and one that I did not like. I was not so sure that David knew the innermost secrets of Jonathan’s heart.
“So, that is Bharbazonia,” I said.
He detected the detraction in my voice, and came to the defence of his Fatherland.
“Yes, that is Bharbazonia,” he replied. “And can you expect more of a people who have suffered as we have from the persecution of the merciless Turks? There is nothing gentle, nothing refining in the traditions behind us. Do you know what it means to come home and find the body of your wife, nude and desecrated, lying in its blood in the doorway of your once happy, happy home? Do you know what it means to the stunted mental growth of a community to have its little earnings taken for taxes for the support of luxurious Mohammedan harems, when its children are without schools? And can the religion of a country be more enlightened than its followers? Do not blame Bharbazonia for what she is. She is crushed, she is broken, she is bleeding; but she lives.”
“With your education and training, Nick, why do you not take a leading part in helping your own country? You love your fellows, I know.”
“Oh, if I had the power; if I were only king in Bharbazonia; what would I not do? I would ask nothing better for my life work, but, as it is, I am doing the next best thing, not alone for my country but also for the entire Balkans, in furthering the work of the Order of the Cross against the power of the Crescent.”
The noise of the engine along the driveway announced the return of the General in the car. He came bounding into the room like a boy, full of his trip to the capital and the magnificent preparations for the coronation.
“I met a certain young woman who was much disappointed because you had not come, Nicholas,” said he.
“Who was she?” asked Nick.
“The Princess Teskla.”
“I trust you gave her my best regards.”
“I did. And further, I promised not to return to the Palace until I brought you.”
From the General’s manner I judged that Nicholas and the king’s daughter were very good friends, and that the General was more than pleased. He became so enthusiastic in recounting the charms of the young lady that I began to suspect him of being a matchmaker. Nick had spent much of his time at the palace after his father died four years ago, but had not seen the Princess since. He corresponded with her in his desultory fashion, and I smiled as I recalled how letter writing languished with him. The General, in his rôle of Cupid, let fly dart after dart from his quiver.
“Do you know, my son,” he insinuated, “I think Teskla is in love with you?”
“Think so, Godfather?” said Nick, shrugging his shoulders.
“A splendid girl, sir; a splendid girl I believe.”
But Nick abruptly changed the subject.
“You promised to tell me why Grand Duke Marbosa was so interested in my return,” he said.
“You are referring to his messenger of this morning?” replied Palmora, becoming again the diplomat and statesman.
Nick nodded.
“The Duke is anxious to enroll you with the rest of the nobles under his leadership in opposition to the Red Fox’s son. He is planning something desperate, I feel sure. He will not be frank with me. But I know that he will strike before the coronation.”
“What have I to do with Marbosa and the nobles of Bharbazonia?” said Nick. “The Order is not interested, is it?”
“He has not gone as far as to make our Bharbazonian succession an international affair. He would not dare.”
The talk drifted aimlessly, I thought, upon the poverty of the people and their lack of education; Marbosa’s stern patriotism and his willingness to shed blood for the good of his country; the General’s opposition to Marbosa in favor of peace. I ceased to follow their discussion until I heard the General say:
“Nicholas, I desire to tell you a story.”
“But you cannot convince me, General,” said Nick. “I think Marbosa is right. He has the good of Bharbazonia at heart.”
“I believe he has,” said the General. “But listen. There once was a high minded man who was a descendant of a long line of kings. His ancestors, for centuries, had not lived in their Fatherland since it fell into the hands of a conquering host from another country. Many of them, leading ineffectual armies of restoration, were killed; and private assassins in the pay of the conquerors murdered any member of the royal family they could find even in exile. To prevent his enemies from killing him, this king, as his father and grandfather before him had done, assumed a fictitious name and went into a far country. There, like any other man, he worked, dreaming of the time when he should come into his own, hoping against hope.
“So completely did he hide himself, that he rarely received news of his home. But one day he learned that the land was free and that his countrymen, deeming the last of their kings dead, had placed a noble upon the throne and thus established another royal family.
“He came back to his Fatherland intent upon proclaiming himself. Through all the years he had carefully preserved the proofs of his identity, and he had no difficulty in convincing a few of the nobles whom he took into his confidence that he was the king. They were intent upon a revolution; but the fame of the present ruler was great; he had been a wonderful soldier in the battles for freedom and the people loved him. The fight which would follow must disrupt the Fatherland, still suffering under the poverty and vice of the years of bondage. An internal quarrel would have destroyed it.
“The king was a great man, greater than the world knew. He restrained his friends in their efforts to win the throne for him. He refused to take it, holding that what his beloved country needed most of all was peace—peace to bind up its wounds and win prosperity and happiness. His friends urged him, but he remained firm. He went away and never pressed his claim. Love of country with him was greater than love for a throne.
“Later he married and a son was born to him. Then his heart misgave him. Had he done well to rob the boy of his birthright? The thought troubled him. Yet he remained true to his better impulses, and still held that his country needed peace. He sought out the oldest friend he had in the county, a man of considerable influence who was in sympathy with the great sacrifice his liege lord was making.
“‘Although I have given up my throne,’ he said, ‘I want my boy some day to reign. The time may come after I am dead when you may see a way to give him his own again without injury to the Fatherland. When that time comes, old friend, will you do it?’
“‘I will,’ said the friend.
“‘The youth is impetuous. He may not be able to see the right as I have seen it. He may not be able to control his selfish motives as I have done. Therefore do you keep my secret from him. But, if the boy wax strong and is able to follow the right course, you may tell him the truth. Until that time shall come keep the secret from him, for the love you bear me and our Fatherland.’”
In this world, where one sees so much of sordidness, it was refreshing to hear the General tell of an action so high-minded as to be almost beyond belief. I liked to feel that such things still existed.
“I have told this story often to Duke Marbosa. But he is not impressed,” continued the General. “The Red Fox’s leanings toward the Turk are, to Marbosa, like the red flag before the eyes of a bull. He does not like Prince Raoul’s father and in that I cannot blame him. But I cannot make him see that Bharbazonia needs peace just now. What do you think, Nicholas?”
“I am rather in sympathy with Marbosa, Godfather,” said Nick.
The General was watching Nick closely, his eyes half concealed beneath his bushy eyebrows. A look of disappointment passed over his face at the answer. He said something half to himself, which I did not clearly catch. It sounded like “The time is not yet,” but I could not be sure.
“You are very young, my son,” he said aloud, “and the Duke of Marbosa is old enough to know better.”
Both of them relapsed into the Bharbazonian speech and I went off to bed alone. I do not know what time Nick came in, but I was aroused a little by hearing the General calling across the hallway from his own room:
“Now, remember, son, we meet at the Turk’s Head Inn. It is important that you be there, for I believe we will make history to-morrow. So, do not oversleep.”