THE PHANTOM COACH: Collected Ghost Stories (49 page)

A cover was laid for me at his right hand; but my supper hour was past, and what with the storm without, the heaviness in the air, and the excitement of the day, I was no longer hungry. So, having eaten a little soup and sipped some wine from Monsieur Maurice’s glass, I went and curled myself up in an easy chair close to the window, and watched the driving mists as they swept across the park, and the tossing of the tree tops against the sky.

It was a wild evening, lit by lurid gleams and openings in the clouds; and it seemed all the wilder by contrast with the quiet room and the dim radiance of the wax lights on the table. There was a soft halo round each little flame, and a dreamy haze in the atmosphere, from the midst of which Monsieur Maurice’s pale face stood out against the shadowy background, like a head in a Dutch painting.

We were both very silent; partly because Hartmann was waiting, and partly, perhaps, because we had been talking all the afternoon. Monsieur Maurice ate slowly, and there were long intervals between courses, during which he leaned his elbow on the table and his chin on his hand, looking across towards the window and the storm. Hartmann, meanwhile, seemed to be always listening. I could see that he was holding his breath, and trying to catch every faint echo from below.

It was a long, long dinner, and probably seemed all the longer to me because I did not partake of it. As for Monsieur Maurice, he tasted some dishes, and sent more away untouched.

‘I think it is getting lighter,’ he said by-and-by. ‘Does it still rain?’

‘Yes,’ I replied; ‘it is coming down steadily.’

‘We must open the window presently,’ he said. ‘I love the fresh smell that comes with the rain.’

Here the conversation dropped again, and Hartmann, having been gone for a moment, came back with a dish of stewed fruit.

Then, for the first time, I observed there was a second attendant in the room.

‘Will you not have some raspberries, Gretchen?’ said Monsieur Maurice.

I shook my head. I was too much startled by the sight of the strange man to answer him in words.

Who could he be? Where had he come from? He was standing behind Monsieur Maurice, far back in the gloom, near the door—a small dark man, apparently; but so placed with regard to the table and the lights, that it was impossible to make out his features with distinctness.

Monsieur Maurice just tasted the raspberries and sent his plate away.

‘How heavy the air of the room is!’ he said. ‘Give me some seltzer-water, and open that farthest window.’

Hartmann reversed the order. He opened the window first; and as he did so, I saw that his hand shook upon the hasp, and that his face was deadly pale. He then turned to the sideboard and opened a stone bottle that had been standing there since the beginning of dinner. He filled a tumbler with the sparkling water.

At the moment when he placed the tumbler on the salver—at the moment when he handed it to Monsieur Maurice—the other man glided quickly forward. I saw his bright eyes and his brown face in the full light. I saw
two hands
put out to take the glass; a brown hand and a white—his hand, and the hand of Monsieur Maurice. I saw—yes, before Heaven! as I live to remember and record it, I saw the brown hand grasp the tumbler and dash it to the ground!

‘Pshaw!’ said Monsieur Maurice, brushing the seltzer-water impatiently from his sleeve, ‘how came you to upset it?’

But Hartmann, livid and trembling, stood speechless, staring at the door.

‘It was the other man!’ said I, starting with a strange kind of breathless terror upon me. ‘He threw it on the ground—I saw him do it—where is he gone? What has become of him?’

‘The other man! What other man?’ said Monsieur Maurice. ‘My little Gretchen, you are dreaming.’

‘No, no, I am not dreaming. There was another man—a brown man! Hartmann saw him——’

‘A brown man!’ echoed Monsieur Maurice. Then catching sight of Hartmann’s face, he pushed his chair back, looked at him steadily and sternly; and said, with a sudden change of voice and manner:

‘There is something wrong here. What does it mean? You saw a man—both of you? What was he like?’

‘A brown man,’ I said again. ‘A brown man with bright eyes.’

‘And you?’ said Monsieur Maurice, turning to Hartmann.

‘I—I thought I saw something,’ stammered the attendant, with a violent effort at composure. ‘But it was nothing.’

Monsieur Maurice looked at him as if he would look him through; got up, still looking at him; went to the sideboard, and, still looking at him, filled another tumbler with seltzer-water.

‘Drink that,’ he said, very quietly.

The man’s lips moved, but he uttered never a word.

‘Drink that,’ said Monsieur Maurice for the second time, and more sternly.

But Hartmann, instead of drinking it, instead of answering, threw up his hands in a wild way, and rushed out of the room.

Monsieur Maurice stood for a moment absorbed in thought; then wrote some words upon a card, and gave the card into my hand.

‘For thy father, little one,’ he said. ‘Give it to no one but himself, and give it to him the first moment thou seest him. There’s matter of life and death in it.’

Chapter XI

The King’s Word For It!

How the king supped, how the king slept, and what he thought of his château of Augustenberg, which he now saw for the first time, are matters respecting which I have no information. I only know that I had fallen asleep on Monsieur Maurice’s sofa when Bertha came at ten o’clock that night to fetch me home; that I was very drowsy and unwilling to be moved; and that I woke in the morning dreaming of a brown man with bright eyes, and calling upon Monsieur Maurice to make haste and come before he should again have time to vanish away.

It was a lovely morning; bright and fresh, and sunshiny after the night’s storm. My first thought was of Monsieur Maurice, and the card he had entrusted to my keeping. I had it still. My father was not at home when I came back last night. He was in attendance on the king, and did not return till long after I was asleep in my own little bed. This morning, early as I awoke, he was gone again on the same duty. I jumped up. I bade Bertha dress me quickly. ‘I must go to papa,’ I said. ‘I have a card for him from Monsieur Maurice.’

‘Nay,
liebe
Gretchen,’ said Bertha, ‘he is with the king.’

But I told myself that I would find him, and see him, and give the card into his own hands, though a dozen kings were in the way. I could not read what was written on the card. I could read print easily and rapidly, but handwriting not at all. I knew, however, that it was urgent. Had he not said that it was matter of life or death?

I hurried to dress; I hurried to get out. I could not rest, I could not eat till I had given up the card. As good fortune would have it, the first person I met was Corporal Fritz. I asked him where I could find my father.

‘Dear little
Fräulein
,’ said Corporal Fritz, ‘you cannot see him just yet. He is with the king.’

‘But I must see him,’ I said. ‘I must—indeed I must. Go to him for me—please go to him, dear, good Corporal Fritz, and tell him his little Gretchen must speak to him, if only for one moment!’

‘But, dear little
Fräulein
——’

‘Is the king at breakfast?’ I interrupted.

‘At breakfast! Eh, then, our gallant king hath a soldier’s habits. His Majesty breakfasted at six this morning, and is gone out betimes to visit this hunting-lodge at Falkenlust.’

‘And my father?’

‘His Excellency the Governor is in attendance upon the king.’

‘Then I will go to Falkenlust.’

Corporal Fritz shook his head; shrugged his shoulders; took a pinch of snuff.

‘’Tis a long road to Falkenlust, dear little
Fräulein
,’ said he; ‘and his excellency, methinks, would be better pleased——’

I stayed to hear no more, but ran off at full speed down the terraces, straight to the Round Point and the fountain, and along the great avenue that led to Falkenlust. I ran till I was out of breath—then rested—then ran again, on, and on, and on, till the road lengthened and narrowed behind me, and the Château of Augustenburg looked almost as small in the distance at one end as the Falkenlust Lodge at the other.

Then all at once, far, far away, I saw a moving group of figures. They grew larger and more distinct—they were coming towards me! I had run till I could run no further. Panting and breathless, I leaned against a tree and waited.

And now, as they drew nearer, I saw that the group consisted of some eight or ten officers, two of whom were walking somewhat in advance of the rest. One of the two wore a plain clocked hat and an undress military frock; the other was in full uniform, and wore two or three glittering medals on his breast. This other was my father. I scarcely looked at the first. I never even asked myself whether he was, or was not the king. I had no eyes, no thought for anybody my father.

So I stood, eager and breathless, on the verge of the gravel. So they every moment drew nearer the spot where I was standing. As they came close, my father’s eyes met mine. He shook his head, and frowned. He thought I had come there to stare at the king.

Nothing daunted, I took two steps forward. I had Monsieur Maurice’s card in my hand. I held it out to him.

‘Read it,’ I said. ‘It is from Monsieur Maurice.’

But he crushed it in his hand without looking at it, and waved me back authoritatively.

‘At once!’ I cried; ‘at once!’

The gentleman in the blue frock stopped and smiled.

‘Is this your little girl, Colonel Bernhard?’ he asked.

My father replied by a low bow.

The strange gentleman beckoned me to draw nearer.

‘A golden-haired little
Mädchen!
’ said he. ‘Come hither, pretty one, and tell me your name.’

I knew then that he was the king. I trembled and blushed.

‘My name is Gretchen,’ I said.

‘And you have brought a letter for your father?’

‘It is not a letter,’ I said. ‘It is a card. It is from Monsieur Maurice.’

‘And who is Monsieur Maurice?’ asked the king.

‘So please Your Majesty,’ said my father, answering the question for me, ‘Monsieur Maurice is the prisoner I hold in charge.’

The smile went out of the king’s face.

‘The prisoner!’ he repeated, inquiringly. ‘What prisoner?’

‘The state-prisoner whom I received, according to Your Majesty’s command, eight months ago—Monsieur Maurice.’

‘Monsieur Maurice!’ echoed the king.

‘I know the gentleman by no other name, please Your Majesty,’ said my father.

The king looked grave. ‘I never heard of Monsieur Maurice,’ he said, ‘I know of no state-prisoner here.’

‘The prisoner was consigned to my keeping by Your Majesty’s Minister of War,’ said my father.

‘By Von Bulow?’

My father bowed.

‘Upon whose authority?’

‘In Your Majesty’s name.’

The king frowned.

‘What papers did you receive with your prisoner, Colonel Bernhard?’ he said.