Chapter XIV Getting Even with the War Lord
The Hungarian Nero—The Episode of the Mouse
Emperor of the Slavs, King of Rome, Avenging Angel of the Schism and its Grand Lord Destroyer—Pope even—though he had misgivings as to the propriety of the latter title—what prospects for the son of the degenerate Karl Ludwig—and the War Lord footing the bill! A Protestant, true enough, but his friends, the Jesuits, held that the purpose sanctifies means, whatever their character.
How they would rejoice at the news!
But his word as an officer! Pshaw! The War Lord calling himself “all-wise,” “all-seeing,” etc., had been fooled for once by the simple-minded Bohemian, for Franz’s left hand was on his back when parole d’honneur was demanded, and he lost no time gripping his thumb with the other fingers and pressing it hard.
Mental reservation! That little matter was settled, and in most approved style. Honi soit qui mal y pense.
A while later Franz asked to be confessed.
“Not while your soul is in the state of disgrace,” pronounced Father Bauer with impressive solemnity.
Franz’s bold front melted away like butter before a blast furnace. “Pray confess me, your reverence!” he cried, terror all over his face.
“After due reflection,” was Bauer’s niggardly consent. “Your Highness will retire to the oratory now.”
And like a schoolboy ordered to bare his skin for a birching, the Emperor of the Slavs—so proud, so adamant, so haughty before the War-Lord—went into his bedroom, where his prie-Dieu stood in front of the miniature travelling altar that accompanied His Highness wherever he went.
In respect to absolute submission to the clergy, Franz rivalled Charles and Ferdinand of Spain; he retained, too, the utmost respect for the persons of the reverend gentlemen who dominated him by virtue of their priestly office.
On his part, Franz came from the oratory a much chastened Prince. Bauer was waiting to hear Franz’s report of his interview with the War Lord—or as much of it as the heir thought well to divulge at the time being, for the breach of faith he had been absolved beforehand. After all, while Bauer had full charge of Franz’s personal conscience, so to speak, the real powers behind the proposed Slav throne was the Cardinal Archbishop of Vienna, the Papal Legate and the Czech black aristocracy.
The latter, indissolubly wedded to Franz’s interest by his marriage with the Chotek, was his chief support in the Dual Monarchy. Hungary had labelled him Nero, the Germans regarded him as a renegade, while Trieste and the Trentino suspected him of harbouring treachery against the Motherland.
That he was wedded to the idea of the restoration of the States of the Church was a foregone conclusion, and the re-establishment of the Austrian Archdukes—who forfeited their Italian thronelets under Victor Emmanuel II.—would be the logical sequence.
“Of course, there is the Triple Alliance,” faltered Franz.
“Not at all binding,” decided Bauer, “since one of the signatories is under the ban of the Church, and the other” (with a mock bow before a painting of the War Lord) “a heretic.”
Franz reverently kissed the Jesuit’s hand. “A relief, a priceless relief of grave conscientious scruples,” he said warmly. “Thank you, Father Bauer.” Then, giving his voice quite an Olympian intonation: “We have no further commands for you to-night.”
Franz Este swore lustily when he discovered a red silk nightgown under his pillow. After a Vienna haberdasher had told him that Alexander of Servia had worn a night garment of this colour, he had banished them from his wardrobe, intending to use the supply on hand for presents.
Franz tugged viciously at the crystal knobs of the rococo chest of drawers, pulling one to the ground and dislocating the handles of others. “Confound it! All red, Alexander-red—red as blood!”
An ill omen? A thorough fanatic, Franz was the most superstitious of men. However, as subsequent events showed, in this case superstition was the mother of horrors unparalleled. Alexander’s fate had been sealed eight months before, when the red-nightgowned King and his Queen were slaughtered in their bedchamber; but somewhere among the Balkan principalities the plot that eventually did away with Franz and his Duchess might have been hatching even then—who knows?
The taciturn, soured, cruel Franz forgot about the Alexander-hued nightgown when he prepared to report the day’s events to his wife, for he loved Sophie. He used a small table at the foot of the big rococo couch for a writing-desk, and as he sat there, facing the silvered canopy with China silk curtains falling from a crown held aloft by cupids, his face recalled the features of a French soldier who had been condemned to death for a series of crimes, and who, to his judges and fellow-men, had boasted of his utter lack of feelings.
The soldier had never loved anyone, neither parents nor friends, neither woman nor man, neither animal, nor money, nor precious things. He hated them all, and his only aim in life was destruction. But when he lay in the sands, bleeding from a dozen wounds, as ordered by the court martial, a little mouse was seen to emerge from the sleeve of his tunic, went capering up the prostrate form, and glued his nozzle to the man’s mouth. And with his last breath the apostle of hate kissed the tiny rodent.
Like the trooper, so Franz, the man who spurned a nation’s love, was not entirely barren of sentiment. He had a tender spot in his heart for Sophie, even as Sophie, mouse-like, loved the man who made a point of being hated. Human nature: even Nero loved Poppæa once.