The Princess Elopes Part 13

"Or a powder-puff."

"Even more likely."

"Or--"

"Go on."

"Or a love letter."

"I have my doubts," said I.

"Well, if you do not know who she is, I'll find out,"--undismayed.

Doubtless he would; he was a persistent old beggar, was Max.

"Do not let it get serious, my boy," I warned. "You could not marry any one in this country."

"Why not?"

"Have you been regularly baptized? Was your father? Was your grandfather? Unless you can answer these simplest of questions and prove them, you could not get a license; and no priest or preacher would dare marry you without a license."

"Hang you, who's talking about getting married? All I want to know is, who is Hildegarde von Heideloff, and how am I to return her purse? I shall ask the blacksmith."

"Do so,"--taking up my egg-spoon.

Max slipped the purse into his breast-pocket and sat down.

VII

"The one fault I have to find with European life is the poor quality of tobacco used."

It was eight o'clock, Thursday night, the night of the dinner at Muller's. I was dressing when Max entered, with a miserable cheroot between his teeth.

"They say," he went on, "that in Russia they drink the finest tea in the world, simply because it is brought overland and not by sea.

Unfortunately, tobacco--we Americans recognize no leaf as tobacco unless it comes from Cuba--has to cross the sea, and is, in some unaccountable manner, weakened in the transit. There are worse cigars in Germany than in France, and I wouldn't have believed it possible, if I had not gone to the trouble of proving it. Fine country! For a week I've been trying to smoke the German quality of the weed, as a preventive, but I see I must give it up on account of my throat. My boy, I have news for you,"--tossing the cheroot into the grate.

"Fire away," said I, struggling with a collar.

"I have a box of Havanas over at the custom house that I forgot to bail out."

"No!" said I joyfully. A Havana, and one of Scharfenstein's!

"I've an idea that they would go well with the dinner. So, if you don't mind, I'll trot over and get 'em."

"Be sure and get around to Muller, at half-past eight, then," said I.

"I'll be there." He knew where to find the place.

Muller's Rathskeller was the rendezvous of students, officers and all those persons of quality who liked music with their meat. The place was low-ceilinged, but roomy, and the ventilation was excellent, considering. The smoke never got so thick that one couldn't see the way to the door when the students started in to "clean up the place,"

to use the happy idiom of mine own country. There were marble tables and floors and arches and light, cane-bottomed chairs from Kohn's. It was at once Bohemian and cosmopolitan, and, once inside, it was easy to imagine oneself in Vienna. A Hungarian orchestra occupied an inclosed platform, and every night the wail of the violin and the pom-pom of the wool-tipped hammers on the Hungarian "piano" might be heard.

It was essentially a man's place of entertainment; few women ever had the courage or the inclination to enter. In America it would have been the fashion; but in the capital of Barscheit the women ate in the restaurant above, which was attached to the hotel, and depended upon the Volksgarten band for their evening's diversion.

You had to order your table hours ahead--that is, if you were a civilian. If you were lucky enough to be an officer, you were privileged to take any vacant chair you saw. But Heaven aid you if you attempted to do this not being an officer! In Barscheit there were also many unwritten laws, and you were obliged to observe these with all the fidelity and attention that you gave to the enameled signs.

Only the military had the right to request the orchestra to repeat a piece of music. Sometimes the lieutenants, seized with that gay humor known only to cubs, would force the orchestra in Muller's to play the Hungarian war-song till the ears cried out in pain. This was always the case when any Austrians happened to be present. But ordinarily the crowds were good-natured, boisterous, but orderly.

It was here, then, that I had arranged to give my little dinner. The orchestra had agreed--for a liberal tip--to play _The Star-Spangled Banner_, and there was a case of Doppelkinn's sparkling Moselle. I may as well state right here that we neither heard our national anthem nor drank the vintage. You will soon learn why. I can laugh now, I can treat the whole affair with becoming levity, but at the time I gained several extra grey hairs.

If the princess hadn't turned around, and if Max hadn't wanted that box of Havanas!

When I arrived at Muller's I found my boys in a merry mood. They were singing softly from _Robin Hood_ with fine college harmony, and as I entered they swarmed about me like so many young dogs. Truth to tell, none of them was under twenty, and two or three were older than myself.

But to them I represented official protection for whatever they might do. I a.s.sumed all the dignity I dared. I had kept Scharfenstein's name back as a surprise.

Ellis--for whom I had the pa.s.sports--immediately struck me as being so nearly like Max that they might easily have been brothers. Ellis was slighter; that was all the difference. I gave him his papers and examined his tickets. All was well; barring accidents, he would be in Dresden the next day.

"You go through Doppelkinn, then?" said I.

"Yes. I have friends in Dresden whom I wish to see before going home."

"Well, good luck to you!"

Then I announced that Max Scharfenstein, an old college comrade, would join us presently. This was greeted with hurrahs. At that time there wasn't an American student who did not recollect Max's great run from the ten-yard line. (But where the deuce _was_ Max?) I took a little flag from my pocket and stuck it into the vase of poppies, and the boys clapped their hands. You never realize how beautiful your flag is till you see it in a foreign land. I apologized for Max's absence, explaining the cause, and ordered dinner to be served. We hadn't much time, as Ellis's train departed at ten. It was now a quarter to nine.

We had come to the relishes when a party of four officers took the table nearest us. They hung up their sabers on the wall-pegs, and sat down, ordering a bottle of light wine. Usually there were five chairs to the table, but even if only two were being used no one had the right to withdraw one of the vacant chairs without the most elaborate apologies. This is the law of courtesy in Barscheit. In America it is different; if you see anything you want, take it.

Presently one of the officers--I knew none of them save by sight--rose and approached. He touched the flag insolently and inquired what right it had in a public restaurant in Barscheit. Ordinarily his question would not have been put without some justification. But he knew very well who I was and what my rights were in this instance.

"Herr Lieutenant," said I coldly, though my cheeks were warm enough, "I represent that flag in this country, and I am accredited with certain privileges, as doubtless you are aware. You will do me the courtesy of returning to your own table." I bowed.

He glared at me for a brief period, then turned on his heel. This was the first act in the play. At the fellow's table sat Lieutenant von Storer, Doppelkinn's nephew and heir-presumptive. He was, to speak plainly, a rake, a spendthrift and wholly untrustworthy. He was not ill-looking, however.

My spirits floated between anger and the fear that the officers might ruin the dinner--which they eventually did.

Things went on smoothly for a time. The orchestra was pom-pomming the popular airs from _Faust_. (Where the deuce was that tow-headed Dutchman?) Laughter rose and fell; the clinkle of gla.s.s was heard; voices called. And then Max came in, looking as cool as you please, though I could read by his heaving chest that he had been sprinting up back streets. The boys crowded around him, and there was much ado over the laggard.

Unfortunately the waiter had forgotten to bring a chair for his plate.

With a genial smile on his face, Max innocently stepped over to the officers' table and plucked forth the vacant chair. For a wonder the officers appeared to give this action no heed, and I was secretly gratified. It was something to be a consul, after all. But I counted my chickens too early.

"Where are the cigars?" I asked as Max sat down complacently.

"Cigars?"--blankly. "Hang me, I've clean forgotten them!" And then, oblivious of the probable storm that was at that moment gathering for a downpour over his luckless head, he told us the reason of his delay.

"There was a crowd around the palace," he began. "It seems that the Princess Hildegarde has run away, and they believe that she has ridden toward the Pa.s.s in a closed carriage. The police are at this very moment scouring the country in that direction. She has eloped."

"Eloped?" we all cried, being more or less familiar with the state of affairs at the palace.