The Princess Dehra — Themes and Context

hat no one knew was whether Lotzen had hereby been displaced as Heir Presumptive. How far did the Great Henry’s decree of restoration extend? How far had Frederick made it effective? In short, would the next King be Ferdinand, Duke of Lotzen, or Armand, Archduke of Valeria?

And to Madeline Spencer the answer was of deep concern; and she had been manœuvering to draw it from the Duke ever since she had come to the Castle. But every time she had led up to it, he had led away, and with evident deliberation. Plainly there was something in the Laws that made it well for him to drive the King no further; and what could it be but the power to remove him as Heir Presumptive.

And as Lotzen knew the answer, she would know it, too. If he were not to be king, she had no notion to entangle herself further with him; he was then too small game for her bow; and there would be a very chill welcome for her in Dornlitz from Queen Dehra. But should he get the Crown—well, there are worse positions than a king’s favorite—for a few months—the open-handed months.

So she slipped an arm about his shoulders and let a whisp of perfumed hair flirt across his face.

“Tell me, dear,” she said, “why won’t you go to Paris?”

He laughed and lightly pinched her cheek. “Because I’m surer of you here. Paris breeds too many rivals.”

“Yet I left them all to come here,” she answered.

“But now you would go back.”

She smiled up at him. “Yes, but with you, dear—not alone.” Her hand stole into his. “Tell me, sweetheart, why you will not go—might it cause Frederick to deprive you of the succession?”

For a space the Duke made no answer, gazing the while steadily into the distance, with eyebrows slightly drawn. And she, having dared so far, dared further.

“Surely, dear, he would not wrong you by making Armand king!” she exclaimed, as though the thought had but that moment come.

He turned to her with quick sympathy, a look of warm appreciation in his eyes. The answer she had played for trembled on his lips—then died unspoken.

He bent down and kissed her forehead.

“We of the Dalbergs still believe, my dear, that the King can do no wrong,” he said, and swung her to the floor. “Come, let us walk on the wall, and forget everything except that we are together, and that I love you.”

She closed her eyes to hide the flash of angry disappointment, though her voice was calm and easy.

“Love!” she laughed; “love! what is it? The infatuation of the moment—the pleasure of an hour.”

“And hence this eagerness for Paris?”

She gave him a quick glance. “May be, my lord, to prolong our moment; to extend our hour.” He paused, his hand upon the door.

“And otherwise are they ended?” he asked quietly.

She let her eyes seek the door. “No—not yet.” He slowly closed the door and leaned against it.

“My dear Madeline,” he said, “let us deal frankly with each other. I am not so silly as to think you love me, though I’m willing to admit I wish you did. You have fascinated me—ever since that evening in the Hanging Garden when you made the play of being the Archduke Armand’s wife. Love may be what you style it: ‘the infatuation of the moment; the pleasure of an hour.’ If so, for you, my moment and my hour still linger. But with you, I know, there is a different motive; you may like me passing well—I believe you do—yet it was not that which brought you here, away from Paris—‘the boulevards and the music.’ You came because—well, what matters the because: you came; and for that I am very grateful; they have been pleasant days for me——“

She had been gazing through the window; now she looked him in the eyes.

“And for me as well,” she said.

“I am glad,” he answered gravely—”and it shall not be I that ends them. You wish to know if I am still the Heir Presumptive. You shall have your answer: I do not know. It rests with the King. He has the power to displace me in favor of Armand.”

She smiled comprehendingly. It was as she had feared.

“And the Princess Royal is betrothed to Armand,” she commented.

Lotzen shrugged his shoulders. “Just so,” he said. “Do you wonder I may not go to Paris?”