Читать книгу Nightcap and Plume - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 9

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Two days before his Coronation the King sent Toll to Scania; he gave him a hundred rix dollars and instructions he had to memorise—"Baron Jakob is insistent that we put nothing in writing," he said. "Any documents found on you would endanger others and not serve you."

"They are the usual terms on which a secret agent works sire." Toll sat by the window of the closet to which Beylon had privately admitted him; from the closed casement he could see the stone houses and towers with brass cupolas of the ancient "City within the Bridges," beyond, the granite rocks and the blue green woods; the King was opposite, rapidly drawing, then scribbling across, designs on a sheet of paper; the folio of many pages that contained the programme for his coronation ceremonial, was close to his quickly moving hand, he wore a loose chamber robe and his long bright hair was without powder, for this was the early light of day when he was supposed asleep in the bed with the silver brocade curtains.

"I shall sign an order for what you do," he said without looking up, "that might save you—from the rack, the wheel, if you were taken."

"Your Majesty would implicate yourself."

Gustaf turned aside his drawing and wrote on a clean sheet of paper, reading aloud what he wrote: "You will carry out the plan you yourself proposed, you will provoke a sham revolt at Kristianstad—in the other fortresses of the South, Landscrona, Malmo, in the Arsenal of Karlscrona. Captain Hellichus at Kristianstad is loyal, but knows nothing of my designs—you can rely on Major Kaulbars at Malmo—the rest you must win as you go. As soon as I have news of the revolt I shall send Prince Karl."

He signed "Gustaf" and gave the paper to Toll who returned it at once.

"Do you not even require credentials?" The King smiled, tore up the paper. "Well, I trust your wits. You guessed shrewdly about my brother's weakness—he must hint to his lady, that he will soon be a great man and worthy of her acceptance."

"Did he confess to your Majesty?"

"No, Mademoiselle Aurora confessed. I asked her in a whisper after supper, over the tric-trac board—if Karl had insinuated to her a secret. I saw by her frightened eyes that he had done precisely that—I added—the country's future rests on your discretion, Karl's life and that of many others, but I am not uneasy. She will not speak."

"A light-minded girl of eighteen years," remarked Toll. "Your Majesty is very subtle in your candour."

"You think it a trick?" asked Gustaf, resting his head on his hand. "But I really do trust people. Hornesca, the Dutch Bankers, advanced me half the next French subsidy, on my bare word—what security have I?—because I told them Dutchmen must support a people striving to be free. You think this artful, Toll?"

Here, thought Toll, is one who is very lonely and anxious to be respected—perhaps to be loved. How can he exist without affection? His life is a sham, frivolity masking intrigue, well, we shall soon know his quality. Looking up suddenly, Gustaf smiled.

"You do not think that I can do this—and yet you risk your life for me?"

"For Sweden, sire."

The King's easy flush stained his cheeks.

"It is the same, as you shall know," he added. "You discussed me with M. de Vergennes? All of you wondered—if I could play my part?"

Even Toll's tact was hardly proof against this revelation of the King's insight, that was delivered delicately, in a tone of light raillery, but Toll found, and at once, the right feint to this thrust.

"I also, am to be put to the proof, sire, had I thought of failure, I had not put my hand to this enterprise."

The King looked at the closed case of pistols lying on his desk.

"If I fall—I mean that—fall, I shall remain on my feet until I have my death wound—I do not wish my death avenged. No bloodshed for Sweden on my account. M. Beylon, who is so faithful, brought me there, a fine set of dainty English fire arms, but it is not my intention to carry them, no, nor yet the dagger provided by my mother. Nothing but my sword—and that more of a courtier's than a soldier's weapon. Neither shall I wear hidden mail."

"Why should your Majesty be so reckless?" asked M. Toll emphatically.

"Because precautions are not worth while," replied the King with sudden warmth—"all or nothing—total hazard."

Toll understood that attitude—if it were genuine; again he was startled by the King's sensitiveness, for Gustaf exclaimed: "You do not believe me? Take the weapons yourself, do what you will with them. There has been no large arsenal in the palace since I was King, a small armoury only." He opened a drawer in the handsome desk and brought out a dagger in a case of white shagreen, the golden hilt was set with small emeralds; it looked like a lady's toy and could easily be hidden in a waistcoat pocket.

"Carry them, you will need them," smiled the King, he held out his hand, the interview was over. Toll kissed the long fingers and took his leave, too wise to dispute the royal commands that had in no wise altered his doubt as to the King's character.