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343
Tº A-T b k











THE
SECRET SPRING
BY
PIERRE BENOIT
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
1920


CoPYRIGHT, 1920,
BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, INo.





PROLOGUE
“ Unpile Arms!”
Of its own motion and by that force of habit which
makes the word of command superfluous, the dark mass
of the company rose and formed fours to the right.
The darkness was falling, cold and cruel, slashed
with long liquid streaks. It had been raining all day.
In the middle of the clearing a grey-green sky looked
up at us from shadowy pools.
An order rang out: “Quick March 1” The little
body moved off. I was at the head. At the edge of the
wood was a country-house, some eighteenth-century
fantasy; two or three shells had been enough to demolish
the wings. The chandeliers of the big ground-floor room,
multiplied in its mirrors and sparkling through its tall
windows, enhanced the sinister blackness of the falling
October night.
Five or six shadowy forms in long cloaks stood out
against this background of light.
“What Company?"
“The 24th of the 218th Regiment, sir.”
“Are you taking over the Blanc-Sablon trenches?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. When you’ve got your men installed, go for
your orders to battalion headquarters. Your C.O. has
them. Good luck! ”
“Thank you, sir.”
In the darkness, like a group of fantastic hunch-backs,
the men stood round, leaning on their sticks and arching
their backs under the amazing weight of their packs,
crammed with miscellaneous paraphernalia. For the
trenches were a desert island. How could you tell what
you might want there? So the men took down every-
thing they could carry.
l


2 THE SECRET SPRING
They maintained a grave, morose silence, the usual
silence that marked the occupation of a new sector. Be-
sides, Blanc-Sablon had a bad reputation. The enemy's
trenches were some way off — three or four hundred
yards—it is true, but the nature of the ground was
such that the only cover consisted of a few wretched
dug-outs which were always collapsing and indeed, only
kept in existence at all by great baulks of timber.
Further, the place was wooded and cut by ravines where
you could not see fifty yards ahead of you. And nothing
in war is so nerve-racking as the mystery of the invisible.
A voice — “Any chance of lights?”
“Lights '’ meant cards. Card-playing was permitted
when the dug-outs were deep enough and there was a
good thick tarpaulin to cover the entrance.
Another muttered: -
—“How long are we going for?’’
A question that remained unanswered. In October,
1914, the war had not yet become an affair of adminis-
tration, with a rota of reliefs, leave. . . . You never
knew how long you would stay in bad trenches which
you could not make up your mind to improve. It was
not worth while. You might have been there a month
already, but you would be certain to be moved off before
the end of the week.
I felt my way with my stick down the forest path,
helped by three feet of light from the puny lantern
which a soldier hid under his cloak. It is a trying ex-
perience to lead men by unfamiliar paths through a
forest at night. Behind you the men, and even the
officers, follow like sheep, their one concern being to
avoid knocking their noses against the pack of the man
in front — their sole horizon — at some sudden stop.
The others could think of reliefs, their cards, their homes,
anything. . . . But I was pre-occupied solely with the
necessity of keeping my sightless column on the right
track.
Nothing could be heard but the muffled tramping which


THE SECRET SERING 3
wound along indefinitely behind me. The trees made a
dark dome above our heads. Every now and then we
looked up as we came to a clearing, but the sky was as
dark as the vault of foliage.
“Where is Lieutenant Wignerte?”
“At the head, sir.”
A hand was placed on my shoulder. It was Vignerte's.
Since our Captain left us after Craonne to command
a battalion of another regiment, Raoul Vignerte, senior
to me in the service, had been in command of the com-
pany. He was a man of twenty-five, slight, with a
splendid dark head. Two months of war had done more
than ten years of peace could have done to draw us
together. We did now know each other before August,
1914, yet we had common memories of those bygone days.
I came from Béarn, he from Landes. I had taken Ger-
man at the Sorbonne. He, two years later, had taken
history. Alternately jovial and absorbed, he was always
a wonderful company commander. Occasionally the men
found him a trifle distant, irresponsible, perhaps, but
they liked his calm, soldierly bearing, his never-failing
interest in their welfare. Vignerte did not sleep with
the men, as I did. But they knew that if he kept his
dug-out to himself it was invariably the most dilapidated,
straw-less, and exposed he could find.
As far as I was concerned, he left nothing undone to
make me forget that, though he was two years younger
than myself, he was my superior officer. On my side,
glad though I was to have such a comrade to obey, I was
even more glad to escape all the responsibilities of a com-
pany commander. Strength-returns, discussions with
the sergeant-major and the quartermaster, company
accounts (though these are reduced to a minimum in
the field), would never have been much to my liking.
Vignerte, who had not slept one hour a night during
the retreat, who had been the last to leave Guise in flames
and the first to enter Ville-aux-Bois in ruins, this same
Vignerte dealt with the horrible mass of detail with
|


6 THE SECRET SPRING
My five small posts and twelve sentries were placed.
The company was established in its burrow. Those not
on watch were already snoring. With two trusty men
— you can always find some of that breed, wakeful and
inquisitive — I started on my rounds.
“Tell Lieutenant Wignerte I have gone to get into
touch with the 23rd. Ask him to wait for me in my
dug-out. I shall be back in a quarter of an hour.”
We crept along the hedges. At regular intervals lights
soared from the German trenches and fell back to earth
in a pale blue halo.
“Who goes there?”
“Masséna.”
‘‘ Melun.’’
“It is the officer of the 24th sent to get into touch
with you. Anything new on your side? ''
“No, sir, unless it's the scrap we’ve just had with a
German patrol. It was the shots you heard just now.
We’ve killed one.”
A corpse was lying in the grass. I bent over it. On
the shoulder strap was the number “ 182.”
“What about his papers?”
“The Captain has them.” -
“Our small post is two hundred yards away, there,
in the coppice. . . . Oh, yes! At two o'clock a patrol
will come round. Don’t forget it!”
“Very good, sir.”
“Good night.”
When I got back Vignerte was in my dug-out. He
was smoking a cigarette.
“Anything fresh?” I asked him.
“Nothing,” he replied, “at any rate for tonight.
But of course the 22nd may get a knock. In front of
them is a horn of the wood where we have reason to
think that the Boche is working on a sap. The 22nd
are to inspect and, if possible, upset their game. One
section goes over at 6 a.m., the rest follow to support it.
As soon as the explosions are heard the 23rd are to fire


THE SECRET SPRING 7
at the trenches opposite to hold down their occupants,
but we ourselves are not to move unless things go wrong.
In any case the 23rd attack before us. So we can count
on a quiet night. Have you anything fresh?” "
“The company has taken over all right,” I said.
“They’re so uncomfortable, in fact, that I don’t think
we need worry about them. Many of them can’t help
keeping awake. I have got into touch with our neigh-
bours; their is nothing to report in that quarter except
that they’ve had a scrap with a German patrol. They’ve
knocked out one.”
“Really,” said Vignerte. “Infantry or Jäger?”
“Infantry. 182nd Regiment of Prussian Infantry.”
“I should like to know,” said my friend, “where
those folk opposite come from.”
So saying he drew out his pocket Lavanzelle. “160th
— Posen, 180th — Altona, 181st — Lippe, 182nd — Lau-
tenburg . . . Lautenburg . . .”
& 4 Well? 2 x
He repeated, “Lautenburg.”
“Do you know Lautenburg! ” I said, struck by the
tone of his voice.
“Yes,” he replied gravely. “Are you sure of the
number? '’
“Of course,” I replied rather sharply. “But what
does it matter — Lautenburg or anywhere else!”
“Yes,’’ he murmured, “what does it matter! ”
I looked at him closely. It was quite easy, because,
absorbed as he was, he had no thought for me at all.
“Wignerte,” I said, “what’s the trouble; you don't
seem yourself — any bad news?”
But he had already recovered and shrugged his
shoulders.
“My dear chap! Bad news! From whom? I have
no one in the world and you know it.”
“That may be,” I answered, “but you are upset to-
night. I want you to stay with me and you can fix up
company headquarters where you like.”


8 THE SECRET SPRING
“I admit I’m a bit overwrought,” he broke in.
“What’s the time? '’
‘‘ Seven o’clock.”
“Let’s play cards.”
The suggestion was so unexpected coming from him
that the two men with me looked up in amazement. No
one in the company had ever seen Lieutenant Vignerte
touch a card.
“Here, Damestoy,” he said, “surely you or Hen-
riquez have got some cards.”
They nodded.
As if they would be without!
“What can you play?”
“ Ecarté, sir.”
“All right; Écarté.” For a full hour Wignerte lost
steadily. It was an odd game. The two penniless sol-
diers were looking at each other in amazement, unable
to determine which was the more remarkable feature of
this adventure, the honour Lieutenant Vignerte had done
them or the sum — 12 francs — they had won from him.
I looked at him in growing perplexity. Suddenly he
threw down the cards: “A silly game. It's eight
o'clock and I’m going out to see the first relief.”
“I’m going with you.”
I shall never forget that night. The sky had gradually
shed its fleece of clouds, and the moon, almost at the full,
shone in the cold blue dome. Below, the line of sand-
bags and trenches made long white tracks.
Starshells were now useless and none were seen.
Dead silence reigned. Occasionally a sharp buzz
marked the passage of a stray bullet close by and soon
after the crack of the rifle down in the valley was
heard.
In low tones we exchanged the password with our
sentries, some sprawling full length in a shell-hole, others
crouching behind bushes. The company was strung out
over a long front, five hundred yards at least, and our
round took us a good hour.


TEIE SECRET SPRING 9
When we got to the end of it Vignerte asked me:
“Where is the last post of the 23rd?”
We visited it. The four men were about to bury the
German who had just been killed as deeply as they could.
Vignerte quickly stepped down among them and lean-
ing over the grave searched in the soil they were throwing
back. The corpse appeared.
“ — 182nd. That’s it,” he murmured.
He shivered and turned to me: “Let’s go back. I'm
beginning to feel cold.” .
+ # # # * +
Damestoy and Henriquez were asleep in the dug-out
where the three runners had come for them. With the
natural deference of the private soldier they had ar-
ranged the best spots for us — two holes with plenty of
straw and a pile of dark blankets.
The silence was broken only by the gentle breathing
of these good fellows and, occasionally, the squeak of a
field-mouse hunting for the ears still left in the straw.
I could not see Vignerte, who was lying beside me, but
I was sure he was not asleep. The open door of the dug-
out showed a blue patch of sky with a silvery star hang-
ing like a tear in its depths.
An hour, perhaps, passed thus. Wignerte had not
moved. He ought to have been asleep, this mysterious
comrade whom the war had sent me. Why was he
so moved tonight? What memories had possessed a
mind which appeared to be fixed ruthlessly on the
thousand details of war as if to avoid straying aimlessly
through forbidden worlds? . . .
And suddenly I heard a deep sigh while a hand
clasped mine.
“Vignerte, what on earth's the trouble?”
An even more convulsive clasp of his hand was all
my reply.
Then I burnt my boats.
“Old man, dear old man. I think I’ve earned the


10 THE SECRET SPRING
right to call you that. Let me share the trouble that’s
weighing on you. You are unhappy tonight. Tell me
your sorrow. If we were in Paris, or anywhere else,
I should not be guilty of this indiscretion. But a con-
fidence which would be absurd elsewhere becomes sacred
here. Tomorrow, perhaps, we shall be in action, Vig-
nertel Tomorrow, perhaps, four men will be digging
our graves where that German sleeps now. Won’t you
speak to me, Wignerte, won’t you tell me? . . .”
I felt the pressure of his hand relax.
“It will be a long story, old fellow. And will you
understand?. I mean, won’t you think me a bit mad?’’
“I’m listening,” I said firmly.
“You shall hear then. For these memories almost
choke me, and indeed there are some which it would be
selfish for me to take away alone. So much the worse
for you. You will get no sleep tonight ! . . .”
This is the strange story which Lieutenant Vignerte
told me that night of October 30th, 1914, at the spot
which those who have known it call the “Crossroads of
Death.”


THE SECRET SPRING
I
OU are a University man, he began. You
must forgive me if the opening of my story
is not free from a suggestion of bitterness
against the University of which I was never a mem-
ber. No doubt my feelings are without justifica-
tion, since to the fact that I was never admitted I
owe memories which, after all, I would not ex-
change for a chair at the Sorbonne.
I took the course marked out for those with some
intelligence and no money, and went in for scholar-
ships. That means I undertook, somehow, to get
through examinations every year, to acquire a cer-
tain habit of mind and with it, as climax, a teacher's
diploma and a post in a provincial school.
At first I justified the hopes reposed in me by the
Council-General of my Department. My scholar-
ship at the Mont-de-Marsan school was succeeded
by another in advanced rhetoric at the Henry IV.
school. There it was that in 1912 I tried to get
into the Ecole Normale Supérieure. Thirty-five
candidates were accepted. I came out thirty-sev-
enth. By way of consolation prize I was offered a
scholarship at the Faculté des Lettres of Bordeaux
University.
11


12 THE SECRET SPRING
I then did something which met with disapproval
from the few friends who took any interest in me.
During my year as a boarder I had glimpsed Paris
as a convict sees green fields through the bars of
his cell. I remember myself as a penniless school-
boy walking in the Champs-Elysées one Grand-Prix
day in June. All the millionaires were returning
home from the races. Each of the cars that flashed
down the avenue in a brilliant stream cost ten times
more than my poor self had cost since I came into
the world. A wonderful lemon and mauve light
flooded the scene. I was dazzled. This vision of
extravagance inspired me with none of the senti-
ments that turns the underdog into a rebel.
If only I could have my share some day!
“Balzac is an excellent realist,” my professor of
rhetoric used to splutter out. And if that narrow-
minded but honest old fellow said so, it vouched
for the truth of those adventures of young provin-
cial heroes who, rather than accept insignificance
in an obscure corner of their native land, have come
to the Great City, tamed her and made her the
submissive hand-maid of their desires.
And now they were proposing to send me to the
end of the earth. I had been weighed in the bal-
ance and found wanting. Well, we should see!
Accordingly I resigned my scholarship and de-
cided to enrol myself at the Sorbonne with a view
to taking my licence és lettres. A voice within
said: “Do not enter the University, but do not


THE SECRET SPRING 13
despise its degrees. They are only useful when you
have not been there. Outside they are excellent
blinds.”
In a year I had taken my licence, living on the
lessons I managed to give here and there, and im-
bibing from these tasks an ever-keener longing for
freedom. But in the end I felt myself beaten, and
resigned myself to the fate I had despised. I en-
tered for a scholarship in history, asking for Bor-
deaux. And I bade farewell to Paris.
The Consultative Committee of Public Education,
whose duty it is to decide in these matters, usually
met at the beginning of October. I spent the inter-
vening two months at a fishing village in the
Landes, at the house of an old curé (it sounds dull,
but it's true), who opened his poor house to me in
memory of my parents, whom he had known.
It was there, my friend, that I passed the most
peaceful days of my life. I was free to roam at will
through the great woods of the district, with no
other appointments beyond meal-times. For the
first time my reading was confined to such things as
did not figure in an examination syllabus or the an-
nual competition, and my mind could take in undis-
tracted the glorious miracle of the dying season.
The curé's house was at one end of a small lake
which communicated with the sea through a narrow
channel choked with aquatic plants. In the morn-
ing the roar of the tide woke me in my open room.
From my window I would watch the irresistible


14 THE SECRET SPRING
advance of the great green ocean under a pink and
grey sky. Wild duck and curlew wheeled overhead
with their plaintive cries. What a temptation to
stay there for ever! To watch the calm passage of
the seasons. To be free from social ties, official
routine, or any link with life. To spend all day
and every day on the long straight dunes, where the
great waves roll up ceaselessly in the wind and the
jelly-fish thrown up high and dry on the silvery
sand look for all the world like amethyst pendants.
Then one October morning came two letters, one
from the Bordeaux Academy which announced that
the Consultative Committee “regretted they had
been unable to give favourable consideration to my
application for a post.” The other was signed by
Monsieur Thierry, Professor of Germanic Language
and Literature at the Sorbonne. This good man
and conscientious scholar had been my tutor for a
year, and he it was who had corrected the thesis I
submitted in July for my licence — on “Clausewitz
and France,” of all things. I had never had any-
thing but praise for him. I knew he cherished
friendly feelings for me and possibly reproached
himself somewhat. He was on the Committee and
his letter was an endeavour to justify the decision.
Personally he had done what he could, but some
of the members had expressed doubts as to my suit-
ability for the teaching profession, and on this point
even he himself had to confess he spoke without
much conviction. But in any case, it was better


THE SECRET SPRING 15
thus. He could not imagine me a provincial
student. “Return at once,” he ended up, “there is
perhaps a way out which will enable you to live in
Paris.”
I bade farewell to my good old curé, promising
him to return in the January vacation, and next
day I stepped out on the platform of the Gare
d'Orsay. -
It was already winter. You could easily count
the statues in the leafless Luxemburg. The fire was
crackling in M. Thierry's little room in the Rue
Royer-Collard.
“My dear boy,” he began — and lonely as I was,
I felt extremely grateful for this preface — “you
mustn't think hardly of the Committee. It is the
duty of my colleagues to keep a single eye on the
interests of the University, and you yourself won't
deny that in your work you have often displayed —
how shall I put it? — a spirit of fancy, yes, a spirit
of fancy likely to alarm folk so . . . serious-
minded. I, of course, know you, and it's another
matter. I know that that spirit under good guid-
ance will become nothing more than a pleasant orig-
inality. But first let me put a question. Do you
really feel a call to the teaching profession?”
What reply was to be expected from a man with
exactly one hundred and seven francs and a few
centimes in his pocket? I stoutly protested my
conviction.
“Well,” he went on, “I have the very thing for


16 THE SECRET SPRING
you. That post would have given you one thousand
two hundred francs at the most. I have recom-
mended you to an old friend of mine who is director
at the Ternes, a private institution. He is looking
out for a history teacher. Six hours a week for
one hundred and seventy-five francs a month, and
the chance of some private tuition. For example,
you may, if you wish, continue your own studies at
the Sorbonne at the same time. I know you and
will make myself responsible for you. It is now
Tuesday. If you like the prospect you can start on
Friday.”
I felt the harsh, cold grip of usherdom upon
my neck. Oh, those Champs-Elysées! The fur-
swathed women with their entrancing wake of per-
fume behind them | But how could I fail to “like
the prospect "2 One hundred and seven francs and
a few centimes. . . .
I overwhelmed him with my gratitude.
He rubbed his hands.
“I am seeing M. Berthomieu this evening. Come
back at ten tomorrow and I will give you place and
time.”
+ * * + *
Tuesday, October 21st, 1913.− Night was falling.
In the Rue August-Comte I ran into groups of
schoolboys coming out of the Lycée Montaigne.
Oh, schoolboys, scholars and otherwise, stick to
your mathematics, enter the Arts et Métiers, keep to
your counters, lest one day you, too, find yourselves


THE SECRET SPRING 17
this comic puppet which skirts the Luxemburg and
is lost in the Rue d’Assas.
Always that “spirit of fancy” of which my kind
tutor disapproved? Well, let's give the poor thing
a farewell treat and take it to dine on the right
bank.
Vignerte paused at this point of his story. Then he
resumed:
“A bullet whistled past a short time back — there,
just above our heads. Did it occur to you that if you
had happened to pop your head out at that precise
moment you’d have been laid out stiff? How far do
you think luck goes in life?”
“The other day,” I answered, “there was trouble in
the 11th Squad. No one wanted to go on water fatigue.
Each of them said it wasn’t his turn. As the squabble
grew fiercer I intervened. I sent the first man I came
across, the one who had been protesting loudest, as it
happened. He went off grumbling that it wasn’t fair.
He left his cap behind him. When he came back he
couldn’t find it. It had been pulverized by a shell and
his twelve comrades with it.”
“We seem to agree,” said Vignerte.
He resumed his story.
What impulse was urging me on that evening, I,
who confined myself to the tawdry delights of the
Latin Quarter and never crossed the bridges at
night? I remember I tried a one-man orgy at the
“Grand V.” Then I thought I’d like to take my
coffee on the terrace of the Weber. Pretending I
could refuse myself nothing, I passed before the
lamps of the Olympia with the fixed intention of
granting myself the joys of the promenade. Rather


18 THE SECRET SPRING
excited after my bottle of Barsac I walked very
straight, staring brazenly at the girls.
It was cold. I went back to Weber's and at once
the lights and the throng restored my natural timid-
ity. I sat down humbly in a corner with that lack
of ease characteristic of a man who is afraid that
people will notice he is not used to being there.
Opposite me a group of young people were mak-
ing a good deal of noise. Enviously I studied their
clothes and that air of easy assurance, the sure sign
of a happiness which, perhaps, I should never at-
tain. Truly I was not exactly made for the Uni-
versity, I whom learned expositions, bibliographies
and works of reference left sceptical, I whose
heart almost beat quicker at the sight of a well-cut
waistcoat, a well-tied tie and elegant socks visual-
ized under well-creased trousers!
They were a party of four, one a woman, pink
and pretty, in her furs. Painted a little, perhaps,
though I’ve never minded that. She was seated
next to one of the handsome young men, and facing
me. The other two had their backs to me, but in
the mirror I could see their faces, slightly flushed
by a good dinner, which was then approaching its
end.
That evening I realized the humiliation of those
who go for their coffee to a fashionable restaurant.
Said I to myself: “You’d far better have stayed at
home, dined anywhere, gone to bed and slept, yes,


THE SECRET SPRING 19
slept. Sleep is the poor man's haven. You
oughtn't to have come here.”
And yet. . . . It was gradually beginning to
dawn upon me that one of the men with his back to
me was studying me closely in the mirror, when he
got up and came over to me.
“Vignerte!”
“Ribeyre!”
I had come across this Ribeyre during my ad-
vanced rhetoric course. He had already obtained
his licence, and was, like me, a candidate for Nor-
male, though he displayed that indifference to
results which comes from a private income and am-
bitions in other directions.
“What are you up to?”
“You can see for yourself,” I said, somewhat
stung. Then I added quickly:
“What about you? Anything new since Henri
IV. 2 º'
“Don’t mention that awful hole, old boy. Talk
about instructing youth ! I should have made a
mess of things if I’d listened to them. . . .”
He, too, added:
“What about you?”
“I couldn’t help having to listen to them. I’m
still listening to them,” I replied bitterly. “But
what's your job now? You don't seem to be having
a bad time.”
“I’ve been extraordinarily lucky, my boy. I was


20 THE SECRET SPRING
appointed Private Secretary to a Deputy, and six
months later he became Minister for Foreign Af-
fairs. I followed him to the Foreign Office. There
we are! But come out of your corner and I’ll in-
troduce you to the friends of Ministers.”
Ribeyre did indeed introduce me.
“My friend Vignerte — a worker if there ever
was one. Got his diploma and Lord knows what
else — Agrégé, perhaps? No — so much the better
for you. Who knows it better than we three, not to
mention Clotilde.”
Clotilde nodded stiffly and gave me an ironical
glance.
I was on the rack. This panegyric was so suited
to my poor, baggy trousers! It was very charming
of them all the same, though perhaps this praise of
my brains was more a compliment to their own
tact and skill in dealing with any situation.
After a short time Ribeyre got up.
“Good-bye till tomorrow, you people. My
salaams, Clotilde. You must come with me, Vig-
nerte, and see me home.”
Outside he took my arm.
“I’m going to the office. There are some letters
of the old man's to send off. Come with me.”
The Rue Royale was a blaze of light. Women
swathed in long silk cloaks stepped from cars at
restaurant doors. The sight of this world of luxury
intoxicated me, urged me, drove me to try and ex-
tract some material advantage from my chance


TEIE SECRET SPRING 21
meeting with Ribeyre. I felt he was only too anx-
ious to dazzle me with his new glory. Who knows,
perhaps I should end by getting something out of
his desire to parade his power. What can’t be got
from human vanity!
What about my own vanity, when I ascended the
steps of the Foreign Office at his side? A tall
lackey took us up in the lift — another received us
On the first floor.
“Any telephone messages, Fabien?”
“Yes, sir, one from the Minister of Commerce.
He is dining with the Minister tomorrow, and says
they will meet at the Chamber. I took the message
down in writing.”
A minute later we were in a charming little grey
and gold room. Ribeyre tapped the desk.
“Vergennes' table,” he said casually. “Excuse
me,” he added, sitting down. He began to open
letters, marking them with a red pencil as he did so.
“Don’t mind about talking. This isn't a very ex-
acting job. Tell me what you are doing. How far
have you got with the University?”
I told him the whole story from my leaving Henri
IV. to my approaching appointment at M. Berth-
omieu's. He looked up.
“You’ve accepted it?”
“What else could I do?” I answered sharply.
“I can’t starve.”
Starve! The word sounded oddly among all the
Gobelins, Boule furniture and Sèvres.


22 THE SECRET SPRING
Ribeyre rose. I had an intuition that I was
saved.
“You needn't go to Berthomieu's, old chap.
You'll do for yourself at that game. I know you,
and I’m positive you’re not made for the University.
What you want is this.” -
With a sweep of his hand he indicated the pag-
eant of power about us.
What a psychologist Ribeyre was
“Listen,” he said, perching himself on the arm of
my chair. “Have you any objection to leaving the
country for a bit? I say for a bit, because it is only
in Paris that the game is really played and won.
At present you haven’t a sou. This is the sort of
place where a fellow like you with enough to live
on for a year and no material preoccupations could
have the future at his feet.”
“Well?” said I, breathless.
He went on, relishing the pleasure of appearing
such a great man. “All right, then. You will do
me a good turn in exchange for mine. I lunched
this morning with Marçais at the German Embassy.
Do you know Marçais? He is our Minister at Lau-
tenburg. Have you heard of Lautenburg?”
“It is one of the German States.”
“It is the Grand Duchy of Lautenburg-Detmold.
Reigning Sovereign, His Highness Frederick-
Augustus,” he said magisterially. “His Highness
is afflicted with an heir of about fifteen, for whom
he is seeking a tutor. You know that French is a


TEIE SECRET SPRING 23
sine qua non in every Court. Have you got your
licence?”
44 YeS.”
“Good. Do you know German?”
“Fairly well; enough for the Sorbonne.”
“Doesn’t matter. They all talk French over
there. Well, the Grand Duke instructed Marçais,
when he left for Paris, to find him a tutor. Marçais
is a charming fellow, a man of real distinction! . .
Charvet makes him his exclusive ties. Afterwards
he destroys the model. But this is no reproach.
He's not much good at getting out of a hole. Yes-
terday he casually told me of his mission. He is
going to the Ministry of Education tomorrow, and
as you can imagine, he will find tutors galore there,
especially in view of the salary the Grand Duke
offers — ten thousand marks a year.”
“Ten thousand marks!” I echoed in amazement.
“We must fix the thing up at once. I’ll write a
note to Marçais.”
He read it out to me. I could only blush at the
compliments he lavished on me.
“Marçais will get this tomorrow morning. He
is a punctilious old fellow, and if he's up at nine
o'clock it will be to summon you. By the way,
what's your address?”
“7, Rue Cugas.”
“Don’t forget to give your Rue Cugas a call or
you may miss his appointment.” º
“Give me the note,” I said. “I’ll post it myself.”


24 THE SECRET SPRING
My eagerness obviously flattered him. A vain
smile spread over his face.
“Lucky dog! Instead of old Berthomieu's fare
you’re going to sample life at a castle, or, rather, a
palace. Lautenburg is a marvellous place, I’m told.
Marçais preferred remaining there to two years'
promotion. The Grand Duke is a pleasant fellow.
The Grand Duchess hunts foxes better than a man.
Marçais told me he killed his best horse trying to
keep up with her. The only thing is, mind you
make a place for yourself.”
I saw him glance at my poor clothes.
“You need not be afraid of that,” I broke in, with
an assurance that surprised him. He looked at me
and smiled again.
“I do believe I’m revealing you to yourself.
Keep at it over there, old chap. Come back to us
with a few spare thousands. My chief is well es-
tablished here, but if he sinks I shall leave the ship
first. We shall come up smiling. If you really
want to get something useful out of people you
must have passed the stage of depending on them.
There's nothing better than a Minister's cabinet,
but you must be able to sit tight and have something
in reserve. Otherwise you may find yourself re-
duced to selling local offices for two thousand
francs. You won't find it hard to save six thousand
marks over there. You'll have no expenses, so fit
yourself out well. It is money invested at a hun-
dred per cent. You might copy Marçais in that.


THE SECRET SPRING 25
If he wasn’t so well-dressed he'd have been booted
out long ago.”
So spake Etienne Ribeyre. Among other valu-
able tips, he had just proved to me that in life it
may often happen that a casual acquaintance can
do more for you than a friend.
Oh, lovely October moon, gazing down on Paris!
The Seine flowed in a soft purple mist. I posted
my note in the Rue de Bourgogne at the corner by
the Chamber of Deputies. Then I felt I must have
a walk to be alone with my thoughts. Ten thou-
sand marks! Twelve thousand, five hundred
francs! Money does not mean happiness! Then
what on earth does? What had given me that con-
fident step, that self-assurance, that lightness of
heart?
The Rue de Varenne, the Rue Barbet-de-Jouy,
the Boulevard Montparnasse, in turn witnessed my
triumphal march. I took no notice of my fellow-
men, for I was in my hour. I do not know how my
gaze happened to fall, near the Observatory, on a
figure moving furtively under a lamp. It was a
slip of a girl, with a fleece of red-gold hair. My joy
was too great that evening for me to bear it alone.
But, standing by her, not for a moment did I think
that her body was really her own. The slight form
was that of the women of the Champs-Elysées, of
the beauties of Maxim's, nay, of those maidens, in-
comparably fairer, who were doubtless even then
awaiting me in a far away German Court, on the


26 THE SECRET SPRING
banks of a Wagnerian river, beguiling the weary
hours with the sweetest strains of the Intermezzo.
+ + * + +
Ten o'clock, and the appointment with M.
Thierry which I had almost forgotten. He was
reading in a corner by the fire, and when I entered
he came forward with a beatific smile.
“I have arranged everything with M. Berth-
omieu. You are to go to him.”
“My dear master,” I replied, “I’m afraid I have
given you all the trouble for nothing.”
And I told him all that had happened the previous
evening. In spite of my wish to appear unmoved,
I could not manage to conceal my pleasure. I was
disappointed that he did not seem to share it at
once. He looked at me with astonishment, even
with disapproval, I thought.
These university people are all the same, I re-
flected, no salvation outside the University. I
abandoned the pose I found so unnatural to pro-
claim far and wide my pride in my new glories.
“And, after all,” I wound up, “I ask myself
how many examinations I should have to pass,
how many years I should have to wait to reach the
position which is open to me at the start, ten thou-
sand marks a year.”
“That's true,” he murmured, musing. He looked
into the fire for a minute, then got up and went to
the book-case, from which he returned with a large
volume in one of those dull-coloured, gilded, but


THE SECRET SPRING 27
s
º
tasteless bindings which characterize many English
and German books.
“Are you certain that the proposal has been
made to you on behalf of the Grand Duke of Lauten-
burg-Detmold?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied, “on behalf of the Grand Duke
Frederick-Augustus.”
“That's the man. To be tutor to his only son,
Duke Joachim.”
It was thus that I learnt the name of my future
pupil. -
My old tutor thought a few seconds more, and
then, raising his glasses towards me:
“May I ask if you are already bound by any
formal contract?”
“Not yet, strictly speaking, but my mind is made
up, and I shall go unless some one else is preferred
to me.”
“In that case let us say no more,” said M.
Thierry, putting the book back.
I was intrigued and a little annoyed.
“My dear master,” I said, “will you be really
frank with me? I know you are too interested in
my welfare to suggest my refusing such an attrac-
tive offer unless you had very serious reasons for
doing so. Besides, I may confess that in coming to
you this morning I hoped to obtain some valuable
information about the Court of Lautenburg-Det-
mold for your unique knowledge of the men and
affairs of modern Germany. I am sure you are


28 THE SECRET SPRING
even more familiar with these details than I sus-
pected. I am to interview Count de Marçais, our
Minister at Lautenburg, very shortly, but it will not
be easy for me to question him. Besides, a diplo-
matist must doubtless observe a certain reticence,
which you have not the same reason to consider
with me. To put it shortly, may I ask you a ques-
tion which sums up all this? If you had a son,
Monsieur Thierry, would you let him do what I
propose to do? Would you let him go to Lauten-
burg?”
He looked straight at me, and replied firmly,
&&. NO.”
I confess that my astonishment began to give
place to a slight feeling of apprehension. I knew
perfectly well that it was not childish pique at my
not accepting the post he had found for me, that
influenced a man of his profound judgment.
“You must have very good reasons, sir,” I said,
my voice trembling a little, “to give me so cate-
gorical an answer.”
“I certainly have,” he replied.
“Would you mind telling me what it was you
looked up in that book?”
“My dear boy, don't start thinking that that
year book of Reigning Houses contains any details
of a kind to justify the apprehension I feel at your
going to Lautenburg. I have verified a name, con-
firmed certain recollections — that's all.
“It is true that I have certain private informa-


TEIE SECRET SERING 29
tion about the House of Lautenburg-Detmold of
which Count de Marçais himself might know noth-
ing, even assuming that he were a more gifted diplo-
matist than he is reported to be. Besides, he has
not been very long at Lautenburg, and never knew
the late Grand Duke Rudolph.”
“Who was the Grand Duke Rudolph?’”
“Haven’t you ever heard of him? He was the
elder brother of the present Grand Duke. He died
a few years ago, two, if I remember rightly.”
“So it was his death which gave the succession
to the Grand Duke Frederick Augustus?”
“Not directly. The constitution of Lautenburg-
Detmold is peculiar. The Salic Law does not ap-
ply, and the ducal crown, on the Grand Duke's
death, passed to his wife, the Grand Duchess
Aurora Anna Eleanor.”
“So she has married her brother-in-law?”
“Quite so, and thus it happens that in the absence
of children of the Grand Duke Rudolph, your future
pupil, Duke Joachim, son of the Grand Duke
Frederick and some German countess, is now the
heir presumptive to the State of Lautenburg-
Detmold. To alter the situation the marriage of
his father with the Grand Duchess Aurora would
have to be honoured with a bond, a thing which
seems most improbable.”
“I seem to remember something about it now,”
I said. “Wasn't there a German Grand Duke
who died in Africa — the Congo — while engaged


30 THE SECRET SPRING
in geographical research two or three years
ago?”
“Precisely,” replied M. Thierry. “That was
the Grand Duke Rudolph. He was always an
enthusiastic geographer. His travels could not, it
is true, be described as altogether unpolitical.
When I remember that a few months later we had
Agadir and the loss of the Congo, I can't help
thinking that the Grand Duke of Lautenburg had
been sent to accomplish some mission on behalf of
his august cousin, the Kaiser. It is true he hadn't
much time in which to effect his purpose as he died
in the Congo shortly after his arrival. It would be
interesting. . . .”
“But what is there in all this, sir,” I broke in,
“that in any way accounts for the solicitude you've
just shown on my behalf?”
He seemed put out.
“My dear boy,” he said, with an obvious effort.
“A historian's plain duty is to accept as fact only
what he has been able to verify. From that point
of view I confess that my knowledge is confined to
vague rumours barely susceptible of proof. Cer-
tain reports, an allusion or two, and last — but not
least — certain details communicated to me some
time back by a friend whose name I must withhold
— that's all. I should perhaps add the proverb
that there is no smoke without fire.”
“Couldn’t you be a little more precise as to the
purport of the rumours?”
|


THE SECRET SPRING 31
“Will you promise you will keep this entirely to
yourself?” he said.
“I give you my word.”
“I am told that violent deaths are not unknown
at the Court of Lautenburg-Detmold.”
My curiosity reached fever-heat.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“Unfortunately, or rather, fortunately, nothing
definite. Still, we can't ignore the fact that two
persons stood between Duke Frederick Augustus
and the crown.”
“But the Grand Duke Rudolph died of sunstroke
in the Congo,” I said. “It was reported in the
press.”
“Agreed. That was a natural death all right,
but apparently the same cannot be said of the death
of Countess von Tepwitz — the present Duke's first
wife and the mother of Duke Joachim.”
“Do you mean that the Grand Duke was respon-
sible for her death?’”
“The Grand Duke Frederick Augustus is a very
extraordinary man,” continued M. Thierry, “able,
well-educated, but a master of dissembling. Is he
playing for his own hand? Or for that of the King
of Würtemberg, his immediate suzerain? Or,
indeed, for the Kaiser? I have studied this ques-
tion from the point of view of German high politics.
It isn’t a simple one. Frederick Augustus is a man
of ambition, and I don’t think he would stop at
anything.”
-


32 TEHE SECRET SPRING
“Anyhow,” I said, “his calculations have had to
take account of the Grand Duchess Aurora. Her
consent to marry him was an essential factor.”
M. Thierry smiled.
“They might have been in collusion. I admit I
don’t know that side of the question. In fact, I
know nothing of the Grand Duchess except her
age,” he said, taking up the blue and gold book
‘again, “her Christian names — Aurora — Anna —
Eleanor; her Russian origin, and that she was a
Tumene princess. The Tumenes are the most
powerful family in the Government of Astrakhan.
Has she acted in collusion with the present Grand
Duke? It is possible. You know as well as I that
reasons of state sometimes dictate marriages, but,
as I said, I know nothing about her.”
“All this does not seem very enlightening, but in
any case, I can’t see why a humble tutor should
have to suffer for the intrigues of such high per-
sonages.”
“That sounds plausible, but how can you ever
say what may result from these sordid affairs.
You might find yourself drawn in without knowing
it. Do you know, in fact, exactly what your duties
are? I will tell you what is really in my mind.
Your salary is to be ten thousand marks, isn’t it?
I can’t help thinking that figure is unduly high.
Your friend Boubelet, with Normale and his agré-
gation behind him had only eight thousand from
the King of Saxony.”


34 THE SECRET SPRING
Ribeyre's words: “He’s not much good at getting
out of a hole.”
“Well,” he said, “I see your mind is absolutely
made up. After all, my apprehensions are possibly
exaggerated. You are young and without depend-
ents. You have resolution and strength of mind.
I don’t know whether I have any right to blame
your thirst for adventure. From that point of
view I’m possibly too much the slave to my aca-
demic outlook. Give me peace and a library. For
instance,” he concluded, “at Lautenburg you will
have one of the finest libraries in the world at your
disposal. The Grand Duke's collection is famous.
It contains the manuscripts of Erasmus and most
of Luther's. So go, my boy.
“One minute, though,” he added. “Come back
after you have seen Count Marçais. I may be able
to give you some practical hints on the best way of
performing your tutorial functions.”
A note, with a dainty purple seal, was waiting
for me at my lodgings. Count Marçais wrote that
he would be delighted to see me that day at three
o'clock. As I walked to the house of the French
Minister at Lautenburg in the Rue Alphonse de
Neuville, I reviewed the details of my conversation
with M. Thierry. He knows a good deal more than
he likes to say, I thought. Was I really being a
fool? Well, it remained to be seen. After all,
there is no greater folly than letting 12,000 a year


THE SECRET SPRING 35
go at twenty-five for the pleasure of leading a dull,
cul-de-sac existence.
In the light of after events my opinion remains
the same.
* + * º +
Count Mathieu de Marçais had much the same
appearance and presence as those with which tradi-
tion endows Melarclus, notably the reserved, know-
ing air of the diplomatist. With such a mask a
man can afford the luxury of an empty head. No
one can ever find anything to challenge there.
A pleasant-looking woman in her forties, sur-
rounded by elaborate implements, was engaged in
manicuring the nails of the Minister Plenipoten-
tiary when I was shown up.
“I cannot apologize enough, sir,” he said in his
very best style, “for the unceremonious manner in
which I have to receive you. But time, dear sir,
you know what a precious gift time is in Paris.
You can imagine how I, who only spend a fortnight
a year in this delightful city, have to economize it.”
He poured out half a dozen commonplaces of the
same species, looking at himself in the mirror, and
stealing sidelong glances at me. I guessed intui-
tively that this preliminary survey, so important
for a man of his stamp, was not altogether unfa-
vourable. But I also gathered that I should not
exactly shake his poor opinion of the way in which
University men dressed.
When one of his hands had been finished, and


36 THE SECRET SPRING
was dangling in a bowl of warm rosewater, he de-
cided to get to the point.
“Of course, dear sir, nothing was further from
my thoughts than to ask you here to put you
through a kind of entrance examination, a task for
which I am totally unfitted. I know that you
possess all the educational qualifications required.
As to the moral and intellectual qualifications, your
friend Ribeyre's recommendation guaranteed them
even before I was in a position to judge from my
own observations.”
I bowed. He bowed. He seemed overwhelmed
with his own eloquence.
“You will, no doubt, wish to know the nature
of your duties at Lautenburg. They will not be
exacting! Duke Joachim already has a science
tutor. Major von Kessel is responsible for his
military education. Your functions will be to teach
him French and History. General History, of
course. Oh, yes! There is one thing on which the
Grand Duke particularly insisted. . . .”
“Now we're coming to it,” I thought, remember-
ing M. Thierry's suspicions.
“Do you read poetry well?”
I was somewhat taken aback, though the question
was disarmingly simple.
“I really can’t say. It's a little difficult. . . .”
“It's essential. The Grand Duke told me to
insist upon it. The reason is that the Grand
Duchess is passionately fond of French poetry.


THE SECRET SPRING 37
Probably you will be lent to her occasionally. It is
a surprise that his Highness has in store for his
wife, who is always complaining that Lautenburg is
very lacking in this respect. “My dear Count,” he
said to me, ‘I know you are a man of culture and
good taste, I leave it to you.” So you will forgive
me, dear sir, if I ask for proof in this matter.
See,” he added, indicating a bookcase with his wet
hand. “There are some excellent poets there.
Pick and read what you like.”
To tell the truth, the collection in the bookcase
was very much out of date. I was obliged to select
a volume of Casimir Delavigne, and I did my best
with his splendid poem Les Limbes:
Ils volent, mais on n'entend pas
Battre leurs ailes.
“Excellent! Excellent!” quoth Count Marçais,
the connoisseur. “Isn’t it, Madame Mazerat?”
The manicuriste made a sharp, clucking noise to
demonstrate the pleasure my performance had
given her. I’ve seen many absurd scenes in my life
— but none more absurd than that.
“All is well, then,” said the Count. “I have no
need to tell you that you will be treated with the
deference due to your position. The Grand Duke
is a man of the greatest charm. The Grand
Duchess”— he raised his eyebrows—“is a Russian,
and that means everything as regards beauty.
Prince Joachim is very tractable, but perhaps a


38 THE SECRET SPRING
trifle slow-witted. After all, we don’t look for
French vivacity in Germans. Lastly, the Court is
full of charming men and lovely women. Do you
ride?”
I indicated that I did not.
“You must learn. You will ride with Kessel, a
marvellous horseman. Of course you must come to
lunch at the Legation. I have a weird little sketch
by Poiret, of which you must give me news. You
will see it when I get back in ten days' time. You
leave before me as you are expected as soon as
possible. If you catch the 10 p.m. the day after
tomorrow, you will be in Lautenburg about nine on
Sunday morning.”
“Very well,” I said.
“Very well. Remember me gratefully to the
Grand Duke, and convey my respectful homage to
Her Highness the Grand Duchess. Oh, Heavens!
What am I forgetting!”
He rose, and took a sealed envelope from his
Wallet.
“The Grand Chamberlain, Herr von Soldau,
asked me to give you this,” he said discreetly.
“Travelling expenses. Good-bye and good luck.
Excuse me, Madame Mazerat. I am now entirely
at your service.”
+ + + º +
I had never spent a penny on a cab in Paris,
except when luggage made one necessary going on
or returning from holidays. As soon as I came


THE SECRET SPRING 39
out, however, I took one straight to my lodgings, so
great was my haste to see what was inside that
envelope I dared not open in the street.
Indeed, I soon began to feel the benefits that
accrue from the society of the great. “The Herr
Tutor,” ran a document, with the heading of the
Ducal chancery, “will please find within the first
quarter's salary and a thousand marks for travel-
ling expenses.” Three thousand five hundred
marks accompanied this pleasant invitation.
Four thousand francs and more! I, who had
entered Paris only the day before without knowing
what I should have to live on in a week's time,
possessed four thousand francs and more!
My call on M. Thierry was on my mind, and I
decided to get it over at once, telling him I should
be leaving the next day.
I found him in his room.
“I can see by your face,” he said, “that every-
thing is going well with you. I am glad of it, as
perhaps I have alarmed you unnecessarily. When
do you start?”
“Tomorrow,” I said.
“So this is your last visit, dear boy. What can
I say to you? I am sure you will carry out your
pedagogic functions admirably. Don't forget the
great maxim of Pascal's father: “Try to keep your
pupil ever worthy of his task.” That principle
cannot be observed by the ordinary schoolmaster
who has to address himself to the average of a


40 THE SECRET SPRING
class. But when you are dealing with a single
pupil you can, and should, apply it.”
The splendid old man then gave me some sugges-
tions as to the choice of books in preparing my
courses of study. He insisted on my taking his
History of German Literature, which I was to
find extremely valuable on many occasions at Lau-
tenburg.
“You’ve no need to thank me,” he said, as I mur-
mured words of gratitude. “Probably it is I who
will be in your debt. I told you that at Lautenburg
you will have a magnificent library at your disposal.
The librarian, Professor Cyrus Beck — whom I
have met occasionally at various conferences — is
a jealous guardian, but he is also a man of learning.
I have no doubt that you will be allowed the use of
the books and manuscripts which do not bear
directly on the great work — the history of the
theories of the transmutation of metals — on which
he is engaged. You may know, perhaps, that I am
myself writing a book on manners and customs at
the Court of Hanover at the end of the seventeenth
century. I noticed at the Nationale in the cata-
logue of the Ducal library at Lautenburg, that it
contains material of the very highest importance.
When you left me this morning I went there to
make a list of the principal works I should like you
to consult for me if you would be so kind. I am
sure that you would find the task very absorbing.
Here is my list. I attach particular importance to


THE SECRET SPRING 41
this work, Stattmutter der Königlichen Häuser
Hannover und Preussen, by the Grand Duchess of
Ahlden, published at Leipzig in 1852. In Paris
we have only an incomplete reprint. I also recom-
mend the works of Cramer and Palmblad as well
as the Roman Octavia (Die Römische Octavia) of
Duke Ulrich Von Wolfenbüttel.
“Unfortunately,” he continued, as I carefully
folded his list, “I have only been able to note the
printed books. The manuscripts at Lautenburg
are not catalogued, but it is by examining them,
dear boy, that you can render me the greatest
service. There is not the slightest doubt that you
will discover there the most precious material on
German society of the seventeenth century, that
society superficially so refined to the outward eye,
but in reality more vicious and cruel than has ever
been imagined.”
He held out his hands. His emotion told me
that there was something still to come.
“I would not for anything hark back to our con-
versation of this morning,” he murmured at length;
“but you know, my boy, the interest I take in you.
I am more conscious of it than ever now you are
going. I beg of you never to yield to the desire,
even to the invitations you will doubtless get, to be
drawn from your academic functions. Lautenburg
is a rich mine of material for those like ourselves
whose mission it is to write history. Let us write it
and avoid the temptation to make it.”



42 THE SECRET SPRING
|
There was nothing but sincerity in my promise
to keep this parting advice ever present in my mind.
“Just one other thing. I know nothing of the
Lautenburg household except Prince Joachim, the
Grand Duke, the Grand Duchess and Count Mar-
gais. At one time there was a certain Baron von
Boose there. If he is still there don’t see more of
him than you can help. Be on your guard against
him; always be on your guard against him.”
I was curious to know the reason of this final
warning, but M. Thierry was once more the his-
torian, the discreet official.
“No, no,” he said, “these impressions are too
personal. Above all, if that man is no longer at
Lautenburg, never ask anything about him. Wait
till his name is mentioned or some allusion is made
to him. Come, dear boy, it is time to go.”
We shook hands. I have never seen him since.
* º + + +
The feeling of depression in which this visit left
me quickly vanished when I got to the money-
changers, where I converted half my German notes
into French money. I spent the rest of the after-
noon in visits to tailors, boot makers and hosiers.
For the first time in my life I knew the exquisite,
almost painful joy of spending money without
reckoning. As I was stock size I had no difficulty
at “Old England” in finding a suit, overcoat, and
boots to fit. My shabby clothes were wrapped up
and sent to my lodgings. Then, as my confidence


THE SECRET SPRING 43
;
rose, I tried my luck at a fashionable tailor's. On
the strength of my new appointment, I ordered
dress clothes, a frock coat and another lounge suit.
I paid the eight hundred francs required in advance
in return for the promise that they would be
delivered during the evening of the next day.
Seven o’clock.
Oh! the wondrous beauty of the Boulevard des
Capucines in October! Oh, the joy of finding
oneself well dressed and with money — lord of all,
absolutely lord of all!
The pale blue lamps of the Olympia presented
their barbaric curtain of light. Cabs rolled by.
Taxis tooted. The Madeleine, peering through the
evening mist, raised on high its huge, shadowy
entablature. On, on. All this would be behind me
the day after tomorrow. I meant to enjoy my
ephemeral royalty.
I experienced a curious sensation. I had money,
but I could not make it give me acquaintances on
the spot. I had money, but without a friend to
prove it, I might just as well have been without
it. -
A sudden recollection brought a bright idea to
my mind. I went into Weber's. Ribeyre and his
friends of the previous evening would be just on the
point of meeting. The thought of Clotilde pos-
sessed my mind. She had been wearing a long
black velvet cloak above which peeped her small
head with its coils of glossy fair hair.


44 THE SECRET SPRING
What a treat to appear before her in my new
glory!
Ribeyre had already arrived.
“Hullo, old boy! All's well. I've just seen
Marçais. He's delighted. You seem to have the
voice of the charmer all right. Good Lord, you
haven’t wasted much time,” he said, noticing my
transformation.
I thought I detected a touch of sarcasm in his
tone. I thought of Gautier's story of Baudelaire
rubbing his new suit with sandpaper to take off that
offensive map so dear to philistines and bourgeois.
My confidence was a little shaken. I almost ex-
pected to see my newly-won joys dissolve on the
spot. Then I thought, “What does it matter? I
know it's only ready-made, but I couldn’t come here
in my shabby boots and a suit two years old. Just
let them wait a day or two !”
And the knowledge that I had been fitted out at
one of the most expensive tailor's restored my
spirits entirely.
Clotilde arrived. She had on White fox furs
which seemed to me the last word in luxury and
good taste. When I had bought a poor flower-
seller's entire stock of violets for her, she conde-
scended to notice my existence and soon made me
feel I was much more to her liking.
will exchange Surville for my friend Vignerte this
“Clotilde,” said Ribeyre, “if you love me you
evening. He is in funds and he's leaving the day


THE SECRET SPRING 45
after tomorrow, two things which women seldom
fail to appreciate.”
A quarter of an hour earlier this extremely mas-
culine joke would have jarred on me very greatly,
but the terrible white port was already at work,
and besides Clotilde wore an amused smile and did
not say no.
Surville arrived with the other man, one Mouton-
Massé. They were both in the Ministry of the
Interior.
“We can’t stick in this hole,” said lanky Surville.
“Twice running is too much. Charmed to see you,
sir. You dine with us, of course?”
“My friend Vignerte wants you to give him the
pleasure of being your host,” said Ribeyre. “He
is leaving the day after tomorrow for the Court of
Lautenburg and wants us to share his travelling
expenses.”
Little Mouton-Massé indicated that my desire met
with his approval.
“Where shall we go?”
For a good ten minutes these gentlemen discussed
the point, tossing from mouth to mouth names
utterly unknown to me: “Wiel,” “Les Sergents,”
“La Tour,” and even stranger animal names, “Le
Coucou,” “L’Escargot,” “L’Ane Rouge.”
I was not listening. A third glass of port had
wafted me to Paradise itself. The warm restau-
rant atmosphere went to my head. I thought with
some disdain of my prospects of yesterday, with its


46 THE SECRET SPRING
poor man's education, its fellowships, the Heads of
the four Faculties and the Vice-Rector in his room
in the Rue des Ecoles. These fashionable women
and young men of the world who flittered round me
under the lights reminded me of the cold passages
of the Sorbonne and Henri Martin's fresco of
Anatole France, dressed as an explorer in a land-
scape dotted with flowers, explaining to a dozen
ill-dressed young graduates his personal conception
of human destiny.
There is the true conception of life, I thought,
gazing admiringly at Clotilde, who was pinning the
mauve and green bouquet to her white fur.
Ribeyre and his friends being at length of one
mind we took a taxi which put us down in the Place
Gaillon at the door of some restaurant, the name
of which I have forgotten. Within, heavy hangings
shut off the dining-room from the prying eyes of
passers-by. Surville knew the place and led us to
a small private room where five covers were soon
laid.
I sat next to Clotilde, or rather (a matter of more
concern to me) the woman who bore that name. I
may as well say I have completely forgotten what
we had at this famous meal. Everything was un-
questionably highly spiced, for we drank like fishes.
“You must give me carte blanche,” said Ribeyre,
with a mocking glance first at Clotilde, then at Sur-
ville. A diminutive black waiter took our orders
in the grand manner. I’m not certain but I think


THE SECRET SPRING 47
Ribeyre had met him before. “No champagne,” he
had said. I know no more. We began with a
little Pouilly, dry as frost, to accompany the oys-
ters. Then Mouton-Massé, who hailed from that
region, suggested some '92 Saint-Emilion, where-
upon Clotilde insisted upon Beaune, the wine of her
own country. I did not lose this opportunity of
winning her favour and ventured to ask the waiter
to bring the best. Then Ribeyre improved the
occasion by ordering Wolscheim in one of those
long-necked, narrow-mouthed bottles. I should
add that the greatest triumph was mine in winding
up with the suggestion of a wine from the sandy
Landes. None of the others had ever tried this
formidable juice of grapes which on our barren
dunes drink in the pale yellow rays of an ocean sun
— a drink which leaves your head clear and your
body active but plays the devil with your legs.
Surville and Mouton-Massé kept me in small talk.
Clotilde called me Raoul and made me promise to
send her postcards. Ribeyre, stronger in the head,
never stopped talking to the little black man except
to signal, “Don’t you worry,” with his eyes.
I felt a god, with the extra joy of being aware of
my rapid ascent. I saw again the miserable bone-
shaker which had borne me two days before to the
God-forsaken station in the Landes. One small
lamp in the darkness; and wind, real wind, wind
from the sea. Within me even blacker darkness.
The Sauterne, liquid gold, sparkled in the


48 TEIE SECRET SPRING
glasses. The shades of the lights were reflected
in it like little crimson tulips. I saw Clotilde's
teeth shine on the glass from which she sipped, with
little laughs that made her white throat shake.
Her hand on mine communicated to me the tremors
of that yielding, artless creature. Ribeyre was in
the highest spirits. Mouton-Massé was busy with
crêpes-au-Kirsch; Surville was drinking.
There was a scene when the liqueurs came and
Surville insisted on claret glasses.
Mouton-Massé vainly pointed out that liqueur
glasses would do if the bottles were left on the
table. He wouldn’t be satisfied, so they gave him
one. The staff had gone. The cigar smoke
dimmed the light. The flowers were dying on the
table. Surville snored. Mouton-Massé had pulled
out a note-book and was attempting some absurd
calculation in which he got tied up and swore volu-
bly. Ribeyre, who hadn’t abandoned his original
notion, slipped his right arm under my left, his left
under Clotilde's right, and drew us together. Then
he whispered in the ear of the girl, who laughed
gaily, her lips moist and a little shiver rippling
down her back.
* + * * *
By the evening of Friday, October 24th, 1913,
everything was ready for my departure.
My clothes were packed in a big, new trunk. A
smaller one held my books. I hadn’t the heart to
throw away any of the poor friendly things I had


THE SECRET SPRING 49
accumulated in my lodgings, the relics of three
years of joyless toil. I had it all properly packed
in the old box which had been my mother's, not
forgetting my uniform of an officer of the Reserve,
already shabby with two periods of training — poor
officers are never slow to avail themselves of these
extra trainings. I took it to the station myself and
dispatched it addressed to the old curé with whom
I stayed in my vacations,
At five o'clock I had finished a letter telling him
of my new start in life. I had settled up my affairs.
I had rather more than 2,300 francs left, allowing
for ten louis I had been glad to lend Ribeyre. I
decided to send the same amount to my old curé
for his crumbling church among the dunes.
When I had posted my letter in the Rue de Tour-
non, I made my way to Luxemburg. I passed the
white Medici Fountain, where I had so often waited
for the nymphs of my dreams. The sentry was
heltering out of sight in his box. The great Royal
garden had never been so deserted as on this evening
when autumn felt the first touch of winter. Be-
neath the bare trees, under a darkening golden sky,
the cold circle of queens on their marble pedestals
showed strangely white in the falling light.
The clock of the Senate struck half-past five.
The silence of death reigned in the heart of Paris.
The fountains had ceased to play and the great
octagonal basin spread its mirror, clearer — by
some miracle — than the sky itself. A man, the


50 THE SECRET SPRING
only man beside myself in the famous garden, was
standing at the edge in the curious attitude of a
man sowing seeds. He was throwing bread to the
birds. There were some three dozen sparrows, and
fat grey pigeons, gawky, restless birds. He was an
old man in a seedy black coat with the remains of a
fur collar. There was a bag at his feet. I went
up and the birds flew away. The old fellow cast me
a reproachful glance, threw his bag over his shoul-
der and shambled off. When I left the garden my-
self it was quite dark.
Four hours later I caught the Paris-Berlin ex-
press at the Gare de l’Est.


II
The clear, cold star which had been shining in the
steel blue sky had disappeared.
Vignerte started. “What time is it?”
I lit my electric torch. “Ten minutes to twelve,”
I said.
I awakened the two runners.
“Henriquez, go to the third section, tell the adjutant
to see to the relief of the second platoon and report to
Lieutenant Vignerte. Damestoy, go to the second section
and tell the section officer to do the same for the first
platoon. He mustn't forget the two o'clock patrol. It
will be supplied by the eleventh squad, Corporal Toulet.
Got that? Come, look sharp!”
The two men climbed out. For two seconds the patch
of blue sky was hidden.
A weird, soundless night. A stray rifle shot at long
intervals. The guns silent.
Vignerte resumed his story.
AVE you ever read Baron von Heiden-
stamm? Meyer Forster has borrowed
something for it from Tolstoy — the
whole chapter on the race for the Emperor's Cup is
taken from Anna Karenina — and a good deal, un-
fortunately, from our Octave Feuillet. Still, you
shouldn’t miss the description of Hanover,
life in a German garrison town, and the royal park
in snow. The impressions you get are very much
what I felt on my arrival at Lautenburg at ten \
51


TEIE SECRET SPRING 53
ous murmur of: “Professor Vignerte?” from a
man in a peaked cap who took my ticket.
Marçais had wired the time of my arrival. The
man in the cap signalled and two huge lackeys in
black and gold livery suddenly appeared before me.
One of them took my luggage while the other
assisted me to enter an enormous limousine which
started at once. In ten minutes we had passed
through Lautenburg and were entering at top speed
what I took to be the great courtyard of the Castle.
At all events a sentry presented arms.
“Will the Herr Professor kindly get out?” said
the lackey, opening the door while the chauffeur
sounded his horn.
A round, red-faced steward appeared on the steps
and bowed three or four times.
“Has the Herr Professor had a pleasant journey?
Will he be kind enough to follow me and I will take
him to his room.”
With all the fellowships rolled into one I
shouldn’t have been addressed as “Professor * as
many times in ten years in France as I was in
Lautenburg on the morning of my arrival alone.
My luggage was in my room. I admit that it
was not without a feeling of approval that I saw
a very enticing meal spread out on the table.
“If the Herr Professor wants anything, he has
only to ring. Ludwig, his valet. is at hand, entirely
at his service.”
As he was going out the stout functionary bowed


54 THE SECRET SPRING
even lower than before and handed me an envelope
studded with red seals.
“Will the Herr Professor kindly accept the letter
left for him by Major von Kessel.”
Major von Kessel, the tutor of his Highness Duke
Joachim, offered his apologies for his inability to
receive me on my arrival. Unfortunately the whole
Court of Lautenburg had gone hunting and he him-
self had to accompany his pupil. He therefore sug-
gested my spending the day in making myself at
home in the palace. He would have the honour to
receive me at a quarter to ten on the following
morning, Monday, with a view to presenting me to
the Grand Duke Frederick-Augustus.
Wishing to test my new powers at once, I rang.
Ludwig appeared.
“Good Lord!” I thought, “if M. Thierry could
only see you he’d feel reassured.”
The fellow, thirty years old or so, had the most
amazingly inexpressive face I had ever beheld before
I went to Germany. Subsequently I became quite
used to these good-natured, blue-eyed bran-bags.
His head was that of nine out of ten of Our
prisoners.
I only managed to extract from Ludwig one piece
of information, that I should take my meals on the
ground floor (my room was on the floor above) in
a room reserved for the civil and military establish-
ment of Duke Joachim, that is to say myself, Major
von Kessel and Professor Cyrus Beck, of Kiel Uni-


THE SECRET SPRING 55
versity. In addition we could all have meals served
in our own rooms if we wished.
Vignerte had hitherto spoken in the same level tone,
finding no difficulty in recalling the smallest detail of a
story with which he visibly lived night and day. But
at this point he paused.
I see, my friend, that my tale is not boring you,
but I begin to be conscious now of the difficulties
of my task. Hitherto chronological order has been
enough, but at this point I must change it for a
time or I shall risk confusing you and obscuring the
broad outline with a mass of petty detail. Let me
give you now a detailed description of Lautenburg
and its inhabitants. When I have done this we will
return to the course of events. They will group the
picture.
1. THE PALACE
I should say palaces, rather than palace, as the
residence of the Grand Dukes of Lautenburg-Det-
mold is a combination of a Renaissance castle, built
on one side of a Gothic keep, and a Louis Quatorze
palace shamelessly copied from Versailles. Taken
separately, each of these components is not without
architectural merit, but their combination presented
enormous difficulties to the architect of the Grand
Duke Ulrich, the present sovereign's grandfather,
who was instructed to make a symmetrical whole of
these incompatible edifices. He solved his problem


56 THE SECRET SPRING
by throwing out a wing on the left, erecting a
flanking tower on the right, and adding in the cen-
tre a kind of hall which is a cross between the Gare
d'Orsay and the Chapel at Versailles. I admit his
task was appalling, but why is it that these insolu-
ble architectural puzzles are always to be met with
in Germany?
Such as it is, this immense hall is used both as
council chamber and banqueting-hall, and I must
say that, communicating with the gallery of the
palace and the Great Hall of the castle, it serves its
double purpose well enough.
The palace meets the castle in the middle, so that
the combined edifice has the shape of a T. It crowns
a hill which towers over the town, and falls away
sheer at the foot of the castle, but in a gentle slope
behind the palace. The Melna passes through the
town and winds round the castle in a gorge, a
hundred feet deep or so, before glancing off to
bound the French garden, which stretches behind
the palace.
On the town side, leading up to the ducal resi-
dence, is a huge open space, again recalling Ver-
sailles. It is also the parade ground, where all
reviews are held. A gilded railing starts from the
left wing of the palace, encloses a triangular court,
and terminates at the right wing of the castle, leav-
ing the great central keep outside.
From this keep, the sole relic of the old Gothic
fortress of the burgraves of Lautenburg, flies the


THE SECRET SPRING 57
standard in black and white, with a golden leopard
and the Lautenburg motto: Summum decus, flectere.
This tower has been spoilt, of course, like the rest
of the castle, by an overload of decorative orna-
ment, in the Augsburg style. Thus the keep is
distinguished by battlements with a lining of zinc,
while the peristyle, the steps of which have a balus-
trade in excellent taste, is surmounted by a Corin-
thian pediment.
The side overlooking the Melna is less debased.
The uninviting ravine has been responsible for this,
I expect, as the plaster artists no doubt looked twice
before embarking upon their course of “improve-
ment.” Decorative detail has been replaced by ivy,
and exceptionally huge beeches, which overhang
the river and sway their dark heads under the high
lancet windows.
I need not describe the palace. It is a diminu-
tive Versailles, with twenty-five windows in the
façade instead of eighty-nine, but none the less an
imitation good enough to make a majestic copy of
majesty.
The French park, albeit under a Hanoverian sky,
made a direct appeal to one's heart. Obviously the -
owners had lavished every care upon it. German
orderliness had done wonders. Everything was
straight and smooth. A faultless green lawn led to
the Persephone fountain, a good example of Ernout,
himself a good pupil of Coysevox. You have only
to know that this garden was planned by La Quin-


58 THE SECRET SPRING
tinie, who sent his best workmen to carry it out,
to understand the secret of its spacious nobility.
If the Grand Duke George William, a pensioner
of the King of France, was a great admirer of Louis
XIV., his grandson Frederick was one of the finest
products of the age of enlightened despotism. He
entertained Voltaire on a visit, and met Rousseau
at Grimm's house. He was responsible for the
English garden, surrounding the French park laid
out by his grandfather, which slopes in picturesque
disorder down to the Melna. The clear, rapid tor-
rent is crossed by a wooden bridge, which still
keeps its name of “Pond de la Meilleraie,” and is
wide enough to admit the passage of the cavalcades
which start from the castle to hunt in the Herren-
wald, that magnificent forest whose leafy roof, as
seen from the terraces, stretches away to the
horizon.
* 2. MY QUARTERS
Two large panelled chambers on the first floor, in
the northern wing of the castle, opposite the great
court. The room in which I usually worked looked
out on the terrace. Through the open window I
could see the dark sea of foliage in a tawny Sun-
light. An overwhelming silence reigned.
The other, less melancholy, had two windows
looking out on the ravine where the Melna plunged
and roared, and beyond that the Königsplatz, the


THE SECRET SPRING 59
barracks of the 182nd Regiment and the Cathedral,
a garish eyesore. A white trail of smoke floated on
two shining bars — the Hanover express which had
brought me.
I blessed the decision which had deposited me
in this part of the building. It possessed an
enormous open grate, with curious ironwork, and
everything dated from the time when German taste
was not yet hopelessly debased.
I was at the extreme end of the castle, imme-
diately above the room known as the “Armoury.”
This was a very curious place, though it had been
almost entirely stripped of its contents. The
splendid suits of armour of the great burgraves had
been removed, notably that of Goetz von Werthei-
digen-Lautenburg, who was the right arm of Albert
the Bear, that of Miltiades Bussmann, who wounded
Henry the Lion, and that of Cadwalla, mentioned
by Hugo, whose helm still bears the mark of the
fearful blow dealt him at Bouvines by the mighty
Guillaume des Barres.
3. THEIR HIGHNESSES
The Grand Duke Frederick-Augustus had his
apartments on the first floor. His bedroom, like
that of Louis XIV., was in the centre of the main
building, and there was a study on the right, over-
looking the park.


60 THE SECRET SPRING
Thither Kessel led me at ten o'clock in the morn-
ing of the day after my arrival.
The Grand Duke was working at a plain Louis
Quinze bureau. He rose and held out his hand.
“Monsieur Vignerte, I have no need to tell you
all the compliments Count Marçais pays you in his
letter. I know that you represent the personal
choice of the French Minister for Foreign Affairs.
It would be absurd of me to conceal from you that
I am absolutely satisfied with such references. My
only wish is that you may find at Lautenburg some-
thing of the welcome we hope to give you.”
The Grand Duke, only a year younger than his
elder brother, the late Grand Duke Rudolph, is
fairly tall. Born in 1868, he is now forty-five.
Fair, rather bald and clean-shaven, he has blue eyes,
which at first seem to fasten on you and then wander
away. Except on ceremonial occasions I have
never seen him in anything but the undress uniform
of a Divisional General, dark blue with the red
collar and no decorations.
He had fine hands, which he appeared to contem-
plate with some satisfaction.
“Major von Kessel,” he continued, “has proba-
bly explained to you the nature of your duties. I
need hardly say that I wish you to have the utmost
liberty as to the way in which you perform them.
My son is entered for Kiel University, and I wish
him to take his degree there. You must therefore
keep your eye on a syllabus. But beyond that,


62 THE SECRET SPRING
might occasionally be required to display your
gifts as a reader to the Archduchess? Oh,” he
added, “I ought perhaps to give you a warning,
though it may be excessive caution on my part.
It is quite possible that my wife won't call upon
you at all. At the moment she has returned to her
old passion for horses. But, in any case, it does
no harm to be forewarned, and you may be quite
sure,” he concluded, with a smile which he well
knew how to make irresistible, “that I shall see that
no unreasonable demands are made upon your
leisure.”
“I shall be happy to put myself entirely at the
Grand Duchess's disposal whenever she so desires.”
“Thank you,” he said, and turned to his work.
In the corridor Kessel said:
“If the Grand Duchess takes it into her head
to see you, she will send a message immediately
through me. I shall communicate with your valet,
so don’t fail to call at your rooms.”
Thus it was that from the day after my arrival
at the castle to the day of the fête of the Lauten-
burg Hussars, where I saw her for the first time,
I called at my rooms five or six times a day, more
disappointed than I cared to admit that the sum-
mons which would manifest the good pleasure of
the Grand Duchess Aurora-Anna-Eleanor towards
me was not forthcoming.


THE SECRET SPRING 63
4. THE COURT
I doubt whether I should say “Court” in speak-
ing of the entourage of the Dukes of Lautenburg.
The word is somewhat too heavy, but it fits in well
enough with the rigid etiquette which reigned at
the castle.
I have already spoken of Major Count Albert von
Kessel, of the 11th Prussian Artillery Regiment,
stationed at Königsberg. He passed out top of the
Kriegs Academie at Berlin, and is undoubtedly one
of the best officers in the German Army. He's an
officer to his finger-tips, and although devoted body
and soul to his profession, displays only the inevi-
table minimum of that impossible Prussian arro-
gance. He always treated me with the most perfect
courtesy, and I have nothing but praise for the
advice he gave me and the influence he had over
Duke Joachim.
Portly Colonel von Wendel, of Hanau Cuiras-
siers, combines the functions of governor of the
palace and head of the military household of the
Grand Duke. In the second capacity he has under
his orders Captain Müller, of the Würtemberg
Chasseurs, and Lieutenants Bernhardt and von
Choisly, Uhlans and officers of the Grand Duke's
Staff.
He is a good sort, who spends his time shouting
when the Grand Duke isn’t there, and trembling


64 THE SECRET SPRING
like an aspen leaf when he is. I suspect Kessel has
a profound contempt for him. He, on the other
hand, treats Kessel, who is on the Great General
Staff, with the greatest deference. It would never
enter his head that his double functions authorize
him to give orders to the taciturn artilleryman.
His béte-noire, however, is little Lieutenant von
Hagen, of the Lautenburg Hussars, the Grand
Duchess's orderly officer. Rows between the
Colonel and the Lieutenant are of frequent occur-
rence, but the junior is backed by the Grand
Duchess, who cannot do without him. The Grand
Duke won't hear a word against him. Wendel has
to give way. In the first few days I became con-
scious of the mutual hatred of these two men. With-
out ever getting as far as confidences, the Governor
of the castle made two or three bitter remarks
about the difficulties of his task. I felt that with a
little encouragement . . .
But I’d promised to keep to my own job and
never mix myself up in their affairs.
All the same, little Hagen irritated me beyond
words, with his monocle, his way of looking you
up and down, and the self-satisfaction of the man
who feels secure against anything. He had been
attached as orderly to the Grand Duchess for two
years, and I understand that at the time she took
him from the Lautenburg Hussars he was on the
point of blowing his brains out as a result of some
gaming scandal.


THE SECRET SPRING 65
The rest, on the whole, are pleasant enough.
They became a good deal more agreeable when they
learned I “was an officer of the Reserve.” That
day Colonel von Wendel asked me to dinner. Frau
von Wendel, a motherly, red-haired woman of forty,
called me “Monsieur le lieutenant.” At dessert
she asked me in a tender voice if I had read the
“Fiancée de Messine.” After all this was a better
way of spending my time than at the Sorbonne
attending the lectures of M. Seignobos. I only men-
tion his name because it will do as well as any other.
5. THE LIBRARY AND THE LIBRARIAN
The former plays so considerable a part in my
story, that I must devote a little space to a descrip-
tion of it. As for the latter, Professor Cyrus Beck,
of Kiel University, it seems only just that I should
say a few words in praise of the man of whose death
I have been the innocent cause.
The library had been fitted up in the dismantled
chapel of the castle, a chapel somewhat in the
Jesuitical style having been built in the palace.
The beautiful ogival chamber which cuts the
great hall and the armoury at right angles has thus
been laid open. The door on the left leads to the
armoury, and the way into the library is by the
door at the far end of the great hall.
Though three or four times larger, it bears a
strong resemblance to the library of the Château de


66 THE SECRET SPRING
Montesquieu at La Brède, except that, if I remember
rightly, the vaulting at La Brède is romanesque.
Otherwise the general plan is the same. In the
centre there is a huge case containing a remarkable
collection of coins, among them a gold medallion
of Conradin, which is a masterpiece. Five or six
lecterns have been transformed into portable desks,
the very thing for working. A splendid system
of electric light makes research an easy matter, for
the room is, indeed, so dark that it is impossible to
read or write without artificial light.
Don’t expect me to give you even the most sum-
mary description of the riches amassed here since
the time of Gutenberg.
I don’t believe it possible to write any kind of
book on Germany without having recourse to the
library of Lautenburg. The visitors' book contains
the most famous signatures. Amongst others I
noticed those of Leibnitz, Humboldt, Otfried
Müller, Curtius, Schleiermacher and Renan. Even
more precious are the treasures contained in the
sacristy. There, in old wooden chests, formerly re-
served for vestments and chalices, are housed the
priceless manuscripts which comprise the public
and private archives of the Dukes of Lautenburg,
or purchases made by several of those dukes who
were interested in such matters. They have to
thank the Grand Duke Rudolf, brother of the pres-
ent Grand Duke, for several of the most important


THE SECRET SPRING 67
items of the collection. The librarian, Herr Cyrus
Beck, who is engaged in classifying them, kept them
jealously under lock and key.
This Professor Cyrus Beck, of Kiel University,
was lent to the Grand Duke Rudolf ten years ago
by the Rector Etlicher, for the special purpose of
cataloguing his manuscripts.
The present Grand Duke retained him in the
same post in exchange for an undertaking to give
four hours a week to teach Duke Joachim the exact
sciences.
The old man spent half his remaining time
among the manuscripts in the sacristy, the rest in
his laboratory, surrounded by furnaces and retorts.
This laboratory is situated in the triangle formed
by the armoury, the chapel and the walls of the
castle. Like my room, it looks out on the ravine
of the Melna, or rather on the trees which almost
entirely shut out the view. The first time I ever
entered the laboratory, accompanied by Kessel,
who was to introduce me to our colleague, I was
received much as Gulliver was among the spiders'
webs of the magician of Laputa. A harsh voice
screamed out an order to shut the door, declaring
that the draught was putting out the burners. Then
a furious little fellow emerged from amid pungent
fumes. Dr. Cyrus Beck had a bald pate, as polished
as if it had been subjected to the most powerful
acids. A long yellowish overall, covered with


68 THE SECRET SPRING
chemical stains, enveloped him from head to foot.
Among all his paraphernalia he looked exactly as
if he had stepped out of Hoffmann's tales.
He calmed down at the sight of Kessel, proffered
his apologies, and told us that he had just reached
the psychological moment in his experiments on the
insulation of . . . (something the name of which I
have forgotten). He had almost become pleasant
when my companion told him that I myself in-
tended to do some research work in the manuscript
section. He bowed as Kessel told him that the
Grand Duke hoped he would give me every facility
for this purpose, but I could see that he would not
do more than he could help.
“We'll see,” I reflected philosophically. “This
old chap is full of fads. Sooner or later I’ll find
out the one to play up to.”
I was in no hurry, having given myself a fort-
night before starting on what was then Professor
Thierry's work, but eventually to be my own.
6. THE STATE OF LAUTENBURG-DETMOLD
The Grand Duchy of Lautenburg-Detmold, one
of the twenty-seven States of the German Con-
federation, is about sixty miles long from north to
south. Its breadth varies between twelve and
twenty-five miles. It has a population of two hun-
dred and eighty thousand. The Schwarzhugel, a


THE SECRET SPRING 69
last buttress of the Harz, is the only orographical
system which breaks the monotony of the Hano-
verian plain.
As regards its river system, the Grand Duchy is
bounded by the Weser, and crossed by the Aller.
The Melna is the most important river, judging
by the length of its course in Lautenburg territory.
The Herrenwald, a forest of beech and fir, which
starts to the north of Lautenburg, covers a good
third of its area. The rest consists of a sandy tract,
very difficult for agriculture, but particularly
suited to brick-making, the principal resource of the
State.
There are two towns: Sandau, exclusively indus-
trial, in the northern plain, with twenty thousand
inhabitants; Lautenburg, the capital, forty thou-
sand inhabitants, seat of a bishopric and the central
assizes. A cavalry brigade formed of the 11th
Dragoons and the 7th Hussars, a regiment of in-
fantry, the 182nd, a half-regiment of artillery, and
a detachment of the 3rd Engineers are stationed
there.
The constitution is monarchical, the Grand Dukes
succeeding each other in order of primogeniture,
and women are not excluded. The Grand Duchess
Charlotte-Augusta reigned alone at the end of the
eighteenth century, and today the Grand Duke
Frederick-Augustus owes his title to his marriage
with the Grand Duchess Aurora.
The Grand Duke of Lautenburg is the immediate
* ~
º
*


70 THE SECRET SPRING
vassal of the King of Würtemberg, and mediate
vassal of the German Emperor.
The State of Lautenburg sends three deputies
to the Reichstag. Two of them are agrarians; the
third, representing Sandau, is a Socialist. All three
sit of right in the Ducal Diet, which meets twice a
year at the Castle of Lautenburg. The President
of the Municipal Council of Lautenburg and two
councillors elected by their colleagues are also ea-
officio members of the Diet. The other members
are elected, on a narrow franchise, by the general
population of the Grand Duchy. The Grand Duke
is President. A permanent committee of six mem-
bers, somewhat similar to our departmental com-
missions, dispatches current business when the Diet
is not in session.
7. SUMMARY OF LIFE AT LAUTENBURG
Four times a week I gave Duke Joachim his
lessons, two of history, one of philosophy and one of
literature. For this purpose I went to his room in
the right wing of the palace. You will remember
that his father occupied the middle portion, while
the left wing was reserved exclusively for the Grand
Duchess Aurora. The walls of Duke Joachim’s
study are hung with the best German maps made
by Kiepert himself. There are two portraits, one
of the Grand Duke, and the other of his first wife,
née Countess von Tepwitz, a worthy Barvarian with


TEIE SECRET SPRING 71
a Luther's cross, who died three years ago. Duke
Joachim is her living image.
You couldn’t have a more tractable pupil than
this young German duke. He knows a good deal
already, but unfortunately it's all in the same
class. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if the State
of Lautenburg-Detmold lapses to the imperial
crown on the death of the Grand Duke Frederick-
Augustus.
Those who have always had all they want will
probably bridle at the suggestion that a life with
every material comfort is enough for happiness.
Nevertheless, I was thoroughly happy. I had
nothing but my professional duties to worry about.
Two or three books, unknown over here, practically
performed them for me.
I was very happy, I repeat. Lunch with the
Grand Duke was still a treat in store, but I had
already dined three times with Colonel von Wendel.
His wife took a great fancy to me. I lent her
several books I had really intended for the Grand
Duchess. She was a kindly soul, and, besides, it
was just as well to be on good terms with the
Colonel.
I generally lunched with Cyrus Beck, Kessel, and
the staff. Little Hagen came every now and then.
When he did, the others chuckled maliciously, and
said that the Grand Duchess must have let him out
for the day. In the evening every one vanished.
Most of them had friends in the town. I usually
.
|



72 THE SECRET SPRING
stayed behind with the professor, and sometimes,
not always, the taciturn Kessel. Cyrus Beck then
monopolized the conversation with a recital of his
woes. His pupil made no progress. Besides, tutor.
ing wasn't his job! The Grand Duke Rudolph, now,
did know how to treat a professor. He was a
scholar!
I was given to understand that as a geographer
he had scarcely a rival.
Kessel, finishing his liqueur, broke in calmly:
“A geographer who didn’t understand the han-
dling of a field gun.”
Cyrus retorted in scorn:
“Then you prefer the present Grand Duke?”
“I never knew His Highness the Grand Duke
Rudolph,” replied Kessel, unruffled. “I only know
that the first duty of a Grand Duke is to be a Grand
Duke, which means perfect familiarity with artil-
lery, heavy and light, so that geographers can work
in peace and safety.”
The odd thing is that the professor poured out
his complaints to Kessel, of whom he stood in visible
awe, rather than to me, a Frenchman. I tell you
the loyalty of these folk is beyond belief. We in
France are never happy except when at logger-
heads. But their habit of mind, backed by the
Imperial Police, who are admirably organized,
makes them sheep, compared to which Panurge's
flock was imaginative and refractory.
In the daytime my principal amusement was


THE SECRET SPRING 73
strolling in Lautenburg. The splendid German
uniforms delighted me, though I had moments of
dismay over that prodigious display of discipline.
Twice a week the band of the 182nd played in the
Königsplatz, opposite the theatre. I liked the
charming gaucherie of the group of girls I passed.
They recalled and exemplified the truth of the old
cavalry General von Dewitz's remarks to his aide-
de-camp:
“These girls are thoroughbreds, my boy, a real
treat to watch! None of your faked demi-women,
but mothers, real mothers. I’d answer for whole
generations of them. Just look at that buxom
wench down there! There's red cheeks for you, and
what a stride! A yard if it's an inch! What a
treat for an old soldier like me. I like looking at
'em " 33 1
I, too, liked “ looking at 'em.” The spectacle
never failed to please, and that utter docility, that
abject acceptance of their destiny, recalled the
words of the French officers who passed through
here into captivity after the disaster at Sedan:
“Priez ume Allemande à &’ asseoir. Elle se
couchera.”
Night falls, a haze of purple and gold. Lights
and noise herald the hour of café and tavern. A
flower-seller passes. I am to dine tonight at the
Colonel's. I must take Frau von Wendel a bunch
of Vergiss-mein-nicht! . . .
1 W. Meyer-Forster: Baron von Heidenstamm. Part I. 1.


III
NE morning in December I was snugly
O ensconced by my big log fire, preparing a
lesson for the afternoon. There was a
dry, cold snap in the air, and the pale winter sun
was dissolving the night's mist in opal drops on
my windows.
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in.”
Outside stood Otto, an ex-non-commissioned
officer and head-butler, in fact, the connecting link
between the palace officials and the horde of valets,
workmen and supers whom he had under his orders.
His white shirt-front and round red face stood out
sharply against the dark background of the corri-
dor. Behind him loomed two men bearing some
strange bundles.
“Excuse me, Herr Professor. I hope I am not
disturbing you?”
“No, Otto. What is it?”
He came in, followed by the two men, who had
their arms full of bunches of flags.
“Tomorrow is the fête-day of the 7th Lauten-
burg Hussars, Herr Professor. The town takes a
holiday. We decorate the whole palace, and I have
come to arrange your three windows.”
I looked out. The Königsplatz was, indeed,
74


THE SECRET SPRING 75
dotted with tiny figures bustling about with the
multifarious paraphernalia of public rejoicings,
tall poles, bunches of flags and streamers.
“Go ahead, by all means.”
Very deliberately they set to work. Three huge
shields, with the German imperial standard between
the white and red flag of Würtemberg and the
Lautenburg-Detmold banner (a golden leopard on
a black and white ground) were duly erected.
The Whole was then linked to the other Windows
by festoons of enormous green garlands like laurel
wreaths at prize-givings.
Standing there supervising, Otto described to me
the next day's ceremony.
“It is always a very big affair, Herr Professor.
Tonight the palace will be lit up, and there will
be a torchlight procession on the arrival of His
Majesty the King of Würtemberg and His Excel-
lency General von Eichhorn, who is representing
His Majesty the Kaiser.”
“Is the Kaiser represented at every regimental
fête?”
“Not all, Herr Professor, but the 7th Hussars is
not a regiment like others. Its flag is decorated.
Prince Eitel is a captain in it, and most impor-
tant of all, its colonel is Her Highness our Grand
Duchess, the Emperor's cousin. So you will real-
ize . . .”
“I realize, Otto, that it is going to be a very fine
affair, and you must have plenty to do.”


76 THE SECRET SPRING
“You are right, Herr Professor. We have
finished now. Come on, you two. We are very
grateful for your kindness, Herr Professor.”
I appreciated the turn of events which was to
enable me to witness one of these magnificent Ger-
man ceremonies, even more when, about eleven
o'clock, a note came up from Major von Kessel.
The Prince's tutor informed me that his pupil was
to accompany the Grand Duke at the preliminary
review of the garrison in the afternoon. He there-
fore requested me to be good enough to postpone
my lesson for a couple of days.
At lunch, Doctor Cyrus Beck, more hoffmann-
esque than ever, came down late in a state of great
excitement. I wanted to get some further informa-
tion out of him.
“Here's a disgraceful thing,” he burst out, en-
raged. “Have you read this libelous stuff, sir?”
He held out La Peau de Chagrin.
“Libelous stuff?” I said in amazement.
“Yes, silly, libelous nonsense. It takes a
frivolous Frenchman to treat certain subjects with
such levity. It is science itself that is ridiculed
here, sir. Just consider. You spend your life in
the study of two or three questions, break retorts,
burn your face over crucibles, run innumerable
risks of being blown up and your laboratory with
you — and all that for a tomfool novelist to come


THE SECRET SPRING 77
along, and, in a few contemptuous words, which
he takes for eternal verities, tell you your business
and make you a public laughing-stock.”
“I don’t know what particular passage of La
Peau de Chagrin is responsible for your recrimina-
tions,” I said, “and I'm afraid, in any case, I'm
not competent to defend Balzac on this point. You
should know, however, that, generally speaking, he
was extremely accurate. The historical parts of
his work are an important authority. I once heard
a good commercial lawyer say that his descriptions
of César Birotteau's bankruptcy and the sale of the
Roguin property are masterpieces from the legal
point of view. Besides . . .”
“Sir” he broke in with rising anger, “neither
Law nor History has ever claimed to be an
exact science. A superficial intelligence like your
Balzac's can easily excel in them. But science,
Sir . . .” -
“My dear Herr Beck,” I said, a little nettled,
“if La Peau de Chagrin can produce such an
effect upon you, I wonder what you'll say when
you've read La Recherche de l'Absoluž It refers
to a certain Balthazar Claés, who, like you studies
high matters and with the same wealth of expe-
rience as yourself. It is possible that you might
discover many valuable suggestions there.”
He was not quite certain whether to take me
seriously or not; but prudently wrote the title of


78 THE SECRET SPRING
the book on his cuff. Then his lips went to his
spoon, which, in the German fashion, never left
the surface of his soup.
“Are you going to the review tomorrow?” I
asked.
I expected a formal negative, and my surprise
was great when he told me he would not fail to
attend the ceremony.
“We have seats reserved in the Royal Stand,”
he said unctuously, “next to the Corps Diplomat-
ique.”
I was very much tickled at the child-like delight
of this barrack-room savant at having an official
place at a military ceremony. “What a world of
difference from our anti-militarist intellectuals,”
I thought, without knowing for certain which of
the two attitudes was the better.
The entire palace was in a state of extreme con-
fusion. Officers in full-dress uniform swarmed like
ants. I met Kessel up to the eyes in it.
“The King arrives at nine o'clock,” he said.
“You should go to the station. It will interest
you. Meanwhile, if you like, you can watch the
review which the Grand Duke is holding at three
o'clock on the parade-ground.”
I thanked him, but not wishing to take the gilt
off the next day's spectacle, and, if the truth must
be told, feeling rather small and absurd among all
these folk in brilliant uniforms, I hid myself in the


TELE SECRET SPRING 79
library. There I began to jot down a few notes
bearing on the young Duke's next lesson on the
history of Alexandrine Philosophy.
When I came out darkness had fallen, and I
decided to go for a stroll in the town. It was
already illuminated. When I reached the middle
of the parade-ground I looked back, and the whole
castle appeared before me in a blaze of light. My
childish pleasure in the coloured lights and fairy
lamps prevented me from noticing that the exhibi-
tion did not err on the side of good taste. But in
Germany there is always too much of everything
except that.
In the centre there was an enormous imperial
eagle, ten yards high, carried out in yellow lights.
On the left the Würtemberg lion in red, and on the
right the Lautenburg lion in green. The difficulty
of distinguishing these animals with electric lamps
had been a very serious problem for the artist in
charge, but in the end a fair measure of success
had been achieved. .
A confused murmur of admiration rose from the
shadowy groups about me. At the far end of the
parade-ground the Royal Stand was all ready for
the next day's review. The Hanover Strasse, the
finest street in Lautenburg, was thronged with peo-
ple, who were walking up and down on the pave-
ments, as if impelled by some mechanical device.
At a given moment the barracks poured out a
stream of uniforms. The red tunics of the Lauten-


80 THE SECRET SPRING
burg Hussars blended with the blue of the Detmold
Dragoons and the dark jackets of the infantrymen.
Students who had come specially from Hanover,
flaunted their various caps and duelling scars with
an arrogance which vanished quickly whenever
they passed an officer. Thanks to the approach
of Christmas, the brilliantly-lighted shop-fronts
were crammed with a mass of weird and fantastic
wares, the childishness of which was enough
to make you weep. The provision stores were
crammed with geese absurdly decorated with the
colours of the twenty-seven German States. A
goose adorned with the Rudolstadt blue was cheek
by jowl with a goose in Würtemberg red. The pork
butchers exhibited pyramids of sausages made in
the shape of the most famous public buildings in
the Empire — the Reichstag, the Central Station
at Berlin, Cologne Cathedral, etc. But the master-
piece was a triumphal arch of lard, with bas-reliefs
in red jelly and an entablature of foie gras.
Girls strolled along in parties of three or four,
arm in arm, modestly lowering their eyes under the
insolent stares of the officers.
I dined at the Lohengrin tavern, the largest and
most ornate in Lautenburg. You remember the
roundabouts of our childhood. The part reserved
for the band and the old blear-eyed, tinsel-covered
nag bears a very striking resemblance to a fash-
ionable German tavern. They are the only places,


THE SECRET SPRING 81
I think, where people can smoke without inconven-
ience. The clouds of tobacco smoke which rise to
the ceiling suggest nothing so much as a rabelaisian
Walhalla. It was striking eight when yells of
“ Hoch! hoch! ” in the street brought the diners en
masse to the door. Amid a forest of sabres a squad-
ron of dragoons was on its way to the station to
act as guard of honour to the King of Würtemberg
and General von Eichhorn.
There was such a mob around the station that I
gave up any idea of trying to get in. It was from
a corner of the Roon Strasse that I managed to get
a glimpse, through the hedge of dragoons, of the
car in which the Grand Duke Frederick-Augustus
and the King of Würtemberg were sitting opposite
my pupil and General von Eichhorn.
I was absolutely deafened by the noise. From
one café I had to flee in terror of immediate asphyx-
iation. Students standing on the table declaimed,
sang and bawled out their slogans while tossing off
the contents of colossal pewter mugs. Under blind-
ing electric standards in the streets women, dressed
in the fashion of 1900, with hats slanting skywards
and hopelessly drunk, mingled the eternal pan-
German “ Hoch!” with suggestive invitations.
As I turned the corner of the Königsplatz, on my
way back to the castle, I passed by the officers' mess.
For one second the bright window revealed to me
the pandemonium within. Through the thick cur-


82 THE SECRET SPRING
tain of smoke I caught a glimpse of some thirty men,
and, stretched on the table among the flowers and
pools of wine, two naked women.
+ + * + +
At eight o'clock Pastor Silbermann, at the Tem-
pel in the Siegstrasse, and Monsignor Kreppel in
the Cathedral, celebrated the offices of the respec-
tive cults, to which the soldiers of the Catholic and
Reformed confessions were conducted in detach-
ments. Then at ten o'clock came the review.
The weather favoured the 7th Lautenburg Hus-
sars. The sun shone bright and cold. From the
square you could see the black leaves, gripped by
the gentle westerly breeze, fall slowly from the
castle trees into the Melna. I have said before
that from my room I could not see the parade-
ground where the review was to be held. But rising
at daybreak I was in time to watch the 182nd Prus.
sian Infantry Regiment, of which two companies
had been told off for general police duties, cross-
ing the Königsplatz en route to its post. The im-
mense throng filled my heart with the joy of those
who know that their seats are reserved. .
At seven o’clock I was ready, although I had
quite decided not to turn out until much later,
certainly not before the stands were half full. I
picked up some book and tried to read it, not
stopping to analyse the reasons for my growing
excitement.


THE SECRET spring 83
At nine o'clock the noise below became so marked
and insistent that I thought I could go down with-
out looking absurd. How small and insignificant
I felt crossing the great square, the emptiness of
which was emphasized by the enormous crowd
gathered round it, only kept within bounds by a
cordon of infantry with fixed bayonets. The stands
were three-quarters full when I arrived, and I
should have had considerable difficulty in finding
my place if I hadn’t seen a hat frantically waved
to attract my attention. It was Count de Marçais.
“You’re next to me,” said the obliging diplomat.
“All the better. We can chat while we're waiting.”
Glad of an opportunity of impressing me, he told
me the names of the distinguished individuals
around us: Count Bela, the Austro-Hungarian
Minister, almost swallowed up in furs and an
astrakhan cap with a silver aigrette; M. Nekludoff,
the Russian Minister, in a very unassuming frock-
coat; Monsignor Kreppel, with his heavy gold cross
on a purple sash, and Rector Etlicher, of Kiel
Academy.
Suddenly I pressed his arm. A most attractive
young woman had just taken her place in the first
row of the stand immediately in front of us. She
might have been twenty or twenty-five. Dark, ex-
tremely smooth-skinned and languid in her move-
ments, she was wearing a long blue coat and skirt
edged with skunk. One of her arms hanging
loosely by her side, ended in one of those huge


86 THE SECRET SPRING
of the castle. There was immediately a volley of
sharp commands. Cavalry and infantry stiffened
to attention. With a noise like sheets of metal
tearing, bayonets were fixed to the muzzles of rifles.
Three thousand swords flashed out, three thousand
tongues of lightning.
Trumpets and fifes began a slow march, a kind
of summons to arms, very sharp and strident, but
quite in keeping with the keen December morning.
When it stopped, there burst out one wild universal
cheer, solid, raucous and prolonged, like the roll of
a wave which never breaks.
The little group of horsemen advanced at the trot
in the huge empty square. The King of Würtem-
berg, in field-marshal's uniform, was in front on a
black horse. On his right was the Grand Duke
Frederick-Augustus, in general's uniform, very
plain. On his left General von Eichhorn displayed
all the glories of the Great General Staff. Close
by was young Duke Joachim, looking very well in
the blue tunic of a lieutenant in the Detmold
Dragoons.
Behind them came a display of the finest uni-
forms in the German Army: a colossal officer of
the White Cuirassiers; an officer of the Guard Ar-
tillery in black and gold with crimson facings;
grey Hussars, a green Uhlan.
“Where's the Grand Duchess?” I murmured to
Marçais.
“What! You call yourself an officer of the Re-


THE SECRET SPRING 87
serve! Where do you expect to find the colonel at
a review? At the head of his regiment, of course.
Look, there's Colonel von Mudra of the 182nd. The
review begins with his regiment. He's the man
just in front of the Staff. He will drop back into
line when his unit has been inspected.”
At a gallop the Royal group passed between the
companies of the regiment, which smartly opened
out for the manoeuvre. The white and black stand-
ards were lowered at their passage. Then came
a sharp order and the ranks closed up. It was the
turn of the Detmold Dragoons.
Colonel von Becker, slim and straight, a fine
figure in his blue tunic, white gauntlets and black-
spiked helmet with its silver eagle, rode up to the
King, whom he saluted with a broad sweep of his
sabre, presenting to him his superb regiment, a
host of giants on motionless giant steeds. This
solid mass gave me such an impression of over-
whelming force that I involuntarily pressed
Marçais' hand.
“H’m ' " he murmured. “Our Cuirassiers and
Spahis will have their work cut out if it ever
comes.”
An order, passed down by the commanding
officers, captains and lieutenants, and the earth
trembled beneath the hoofs of the 11th Detmold
Dragoons moving off by the right, behind the
182nd Infantry, to take its place for the march
past.


THE SECRET SPRING 89
“Taras-Bulba | Is that her horse?” I asked.
“Yes, a fearful little brute, hairy as a mat, you
can see. She brought him from the marshes of the
Volga. He's ugly, vicious and obstinate. She's
absolutely the only person who can ride him. He
tries to bite the groom's face off, but she can do
what she likes with him.”
** Sh!” Said Melusine. “Look!”
The Hussars were advancing at full trot to take
their places behind the Dragoons, who were drawn
up behind the infantry.
With their backs to the stand and ourselves, the
King of Würtemberg and General von Eichhorn
faced the Grand Duke Frederick-Augustus and
Duke Joachim, who, at the other end of the parade-
ground, presented the troops marching past. I
have no bias in favour of the Prussian goose-step,
but I assure you that though we may mock at it in
France, it is remarkably appropriate to German
military atmosphere.
The 182nd marched past in line of columns of
companies. You could have heard a pin drop. The
six field artillery batteries followed at a gallop, the
copper bobs on their black helmets sparkling in the
sun. Then, by squads and keeping faultless align-
ment, the Detmold Dragoons advanced, followed at
a distance of two hundred yards or so by the
Lautenburg Hussars.
The Grand Duchess was between the two regi-
ments. Little Hagen, stiffer than ever, looked in


90 THE SECRET SPRING
the seventh heaven. A feeling of mute hatred of
the man rose within me.
The march past was over. Whilst the Grand
Duke Frederick-Augustus and Duke Joachim came
over to join the King of Würtemberg and General
von Eichhorn in front of the stand, the two calvary
regiments massed for the final charge at the place
the princes had just left.
“Look!” said Marçais to me. “You are going
to see the Cossack style.”
On the right was the blue mass, on the left the
red, smaller. Twenty paces in front of them two
riders, almost side by side. Colonel von Becker's
great bay snorted. Taras-Bulba, quivering with
suppressed excitement, did not move.
Leaning forward, Melusine looked on, her gaze
at once roving and rapt.
Two sabres flashed and immediately, with a
deafening roar, the great wave broke.
And now one horse was ahead — Taras-Bulba.
How long would it last? Possibly ten seconds, and
then the wave, three thousand horses and three
thousand riders, stopped dead before the stands
amid a rattle of oaths and the jingling of stirrups.
The earth seemed to open.
I shall never forget the sight. On the right
Becker, leaning back in his saddle, his horse rear-
ing, saluted the sovereigns with his sword. On the
left was Taras-Bulba pawing the air.
Five or six yards away from me the Grand


THE SECRET SPRING 91
Duchess sat her prancing horse. No pink glow on
her pale face spoke of that breathless rush. Her
huge black kolbach entirely hid her hair. Her
green eyes shone gloriously. A Murat among
Amazons, she held her sword raised above her head.
She smiled to us.
At that same moment a cry of admiring wonder
broke from three throats. Melusine von Graffen-
fried, Marçais and I had the glory of leading a
frantic burst of cheering.
Then Taras-Bulba fell back on his fore feet.
With one hand Aurora von Lautenburg patted his
shaggy mane, while she extended the other to King
Albert, who kissed it again.
º º + + *
An invitation card, handed to me by Ludwig
when I returned to my rooms, intimated that my
presence was requested at the dinner to take place
at eight o'clock in the Great Gallery, in honour of
His Majesty the King of Würtemberg and His
Excellency General von Eichhorn. Third table;
place 23.
I spent the afternoon in my room, playing with
some manuscript or other, turning over pages, but
not reading. At seven o'clock I went out into the
park. Two hours earlier I had heard the last
strains of the hunting horns, distant at first, die
out in the ravine of the Melna. It was there that
the hunt, led by the King and the Grand Duchess,
had concluded. -
|


92 THE SECRET SPRING
|
The palace was a blaze of light, and through its
lofty windows I could see the great tables groaning
beneath their load of flowers and glass.
Most of the high officials and all the Lautenburg
officers had been invited, and three hundred covers
were laid at twelve tables.
I went in between a major of the Dragoons and
the wife of a Court Councillor, and neither of them
said a single word to me during the meal. The
band of the 182nd played in the Council Chamber
in the intervals between the courses.
I could not see the Grand Duchess, the King, or
the Dukes, as the top table was completely hidden
from me by a forest of flowers.
In the hubbub of toasts and champagne I slipped
out, and went through the Council Chamber to the
Great Hall, hoping to get a good view of the en-
trance of the royalties. A charming voice drew me
from the well of my reflections:
“Well, Monsieur Vignerte, why so solitary?”
I was alone in the great room with Fräulein von
Graffenfried.
“What about yourself, Fräulein?”
“I? Oh, that's a different matter. The Grand
Duchess has asked me to have a look round before
the others come in. The waiters are so stupid.
She is most anxious that the flowers should be well
arranged.”
I looked around at the tasteful floral display
about us. Purple iris alternated with yellow roses,
*


94 THE SECRET SPRING
“And she?”
“Monsieur Vignerte,” said Melusine, smiling
again. “You go from one extreme to the other, the
depths of modesty to the heights of indiscretion.
Don't you realize that, to say the least, your ques-
tions are not very flattering to me?”
She leaned forward, almost touching me. Her
black hair brushed my cheek.
“I think you found me much better-looking this
morning before seeing her, didn't you?” she
whispered.
She took my arm with an imperious gesture.
“Well, you can look at her now.”
With a clatter of swords and spurs the procession
entered the Great Hall just as a thousand lights
were turned on at once.
* + + + +
German Court functions have all the incompa-
rable splendour that the magnificent imperial uni-
forms give them. I was almost blinded by the
amazing display of blue, red and black tunics, be-
decked with fur and sparkling with gold.
The hedge of Lautenburg Hussars presented
swords.
The Grand Duchess Aurora came first on the arm
of the King of Würtemberg.
A draped gown of dark green velvet, amazingly
décolleté, left one shoulder absolutely bare. Be-
hind her trailed her long train, with a wonderful
design in silver embroidery.


THE SECRET SPRING 95
On her right hand she had a single diamond set
in platinum, on the left an emerald set in a circle of
brilliants.
I had not seen her hair in the morning, but now
I beheld that cloud of tawny gold, fashioned in
great coils round her head, beneath a gold-lace cap
surmounted by a strange barbaric tiara of emeralds.
For one second her eyes met mine. I had an in-
tuition that what she read there did not displease
her. I was probably the only human being in that
etiquette-ridden concourse who dared gaze thus
frankly at that woman.
Do you remember Gustave Moreau's Fée aua,
Griffons? You will recall the fantastic creature
in a vivid blue landscape — that colour is less in-
tense than the green of Aurora of Lautenburg's
eyes. The picture will give you a dim idea of the
Grand Duchess.
There was the same ethereal atmosphere, the
same haunting mystery of outline. Melusine, ex-
Quisite, even unnerving as she was, seemed almost
commonplace beside that Titania.
What Moreau's picture does not explain is the
blending of ingenuousness and resolution which is
the whole charm of this princess. She has some-
thing of the northern Creole, at once listless and
impulsive, and again something of snow in sun-
shine, sparkling and hard on the surface, soft in
substance.
Her waist, perhaps a little too slender, is rather


96 THE SECRET SPRING
high. You knew how delicately lovely her waist
would have been if she had cared to lace it in, for the
velvet gown moulded the form in a way that is only
possible when there is direct contact with the flesh
beneath. The thought that that form could emerge
from its sheath like a cold, pure lily sent the blood
surging to one's brain.
Among all those faces, on which wine had already
begun to leave its purple traces, that pale statue,
half unrobed, was miraculously white and pure.
Her lips were rouged, her eyes darkened, and, to tell
the truth, her nails were unnaturally pink. But
you felt she made light of these adventitious aids on
which others rely for beauty. You could imagine
her smiling at resorting to them. She only uses
them to show that she can just as well dispense
with them.
The smile which hovered on her pale face was set,
artificial. A slave to etiquette, she wore the appro-
priate official mien. Any one who watched her
closely could the better observe an occasional emo-
tion, dead at birth, which for a brief moment
disturbed the grave, self-imposed mask. I knew
that such an emotion must focus as many impulses
as the colours in a prism. I felt that if I ever came
to know Her Highness better, I should perhaps
succeed in analysing them; but in the meantime
that glimpse revealed two elements with unfailing
certainty — irony and ennui.
Was this gentle, listless creature, indeed, the


THE SECRET SPRING 97
Amazon of the morning? I preferred her then.
The bare, white shoulder hurt me, and I wanted a
heavy ermine cloak to throw over it. There were
a dozen around her. Oh! I knew that she was
their sovereign, and that their glances, in her pres-
ence, were little more than mechanical. But if they
had not thought themselves observed what reserve
would they have shown?
And who, in Heaven's name, is that little red
Hussar, lurking down there behind the flowers and
casting covetous glances at that fair shoulder? . . .
Hence, clown! Go back to your tame, fat German
women, with their bulging arms and diabolo figures.
She is not of your race. She is not for you, lout!
I hate you, yet I envy you. I envy your scarlet
tunic, your yellow facings, your gold tinsel, your
lieutenant's rank in the 7th Hussars, which, when
all else fails, is a bond between you and your soul-
stirring Colonel. I could then approach her and
proffer, as you do now, my compliments on the dis-
play of the morning.
With her face almost buried in the bouquet of
irises she held to her nostrils, she thanked, in a low
voice, the officers who congratulated her.
“Oh, no! You exaggerate. Taras-Bulba de-
serves all the praise. I’m always amazed at the
way you keep up with him on your chargers. Com-
pared with him the animals here are like brewers'
horses.”
Was I wrong, or could she really if she had


THE SECRET SPRING 99
“Fräulein von Graffenfried! Monsieur Vig-
nerte!” The voice of Marçais.
The last word in elegance, he was sitting near the
Grand Duchess. Great Heavens ! He beckoned
to me to go up.
“Can't we ever get hold of you?” he said,
laughing. “Here, monsieur.”
He presented me to the Grand Duchess.
“It was partly for your sake, Madame, that I
brought Monsieur Vignerte here. But you seem in
no hurry to use the gifts we offer.”
She replied casually:
“I? My wish is nothing better than to know
Monsieur Vignerte. I am told he is charming.
You must forgive me, monsieur, if I say “I am told.”
I have hitherto had no chance of judging for myself.
You work very hard, I understand.”
The same words as Melusine had used. Oh, the
shame of it! Was I always to wear the pedant's
gown? Was I always to be the man who “ worked
very hard,” I, whose nights were passed in dreams
of a voluptuousness that none suspected?
I was going to reply. I think I was going to tell
that haughty creature the plain truth. But she
TOSe.
“Excuse me! I must dance — at any rate, once!
Herr von Hagen,” she called.
The little red Hussar was there. He came for-
ward, humble but radiant. I knew a day would.
come when I should box his ears!



100 THE SECRET SPRING
A space had been cleared on the floor. The
Grand Duchess Aurora's dance seemed to be a
maëlstrom from which the dancers turned aside lest
they be drawn in. They waltzed at first the slow
German waltz in three time. Then the measure
quickened, changing to two beats in the bar. It
was no longer even the boston, but a wild, harmon-
ious whirling.
A murmur of admiration went up. The Grand
Duke Frederick-Augustus looked on with a smile
which was almost a smile of triumph.
It was not Hagen, elegant and accomplished
though he was, who set the pace, but the tall green
and white form. Round and round she went, list-
less as ever. Hagen let himself be carried along.
An ecstatic flush suffused his fair, boyish face. He
was as clay in the hands of his Sovereign. Red,
green, red, green, then a blur. The complementary
colours appeared. They turned, turned, turned . . .
In France we should have clapped.
She went back to her place a drooping lily. As
she adjusted her right shoulder-strap, she let fall
the lovely bouquet of purple iris which she had been
carrying. I rushed forward and picked it up.
“Thank you, monsieur,” she said casually.
Then, this time voluntarily, she dropped them
again.
Good Lord! they were already faded.
. * º + º *
: I went back to my room, opened the window,


THE SECRET SPRING 101
and, gazing out at the cold stars, drank the dregs of
humiliation. I understood. She felt a hopeless
antipathy to me. What was it? What had I done?
I didn’t know.
The outcast's motto came back to me: “To
WOrk!”
I could still hear the distant strains of the band.
Limousines crossed the Königsplatz with their glar-
ing headlights. Their occupants were happier
than I, for they had seen her since I had.
To Work!


IV
ELL, Raoul Vignerte! What are you
after now? What's this new craze
of yours? Why! only a few weeks
ago you didn't know in the morning where
your dinner was coming from. Your acme of hap-
piness was to be certain of the next day's meals.
Here you are certain not only of tomorrow's, but
next month's, and even for years to come. You
have only to devote yourself to your work — work,
the only thing that brings no regret. And with all
this you are unhappy, not merely unhappy, but actu-
ally miserable. You are more miserable than on
the day when you arrived at the Gare d'Orsay, turn-
ing out your pockets to see if you could find a proper
tip for the porter without changing your one gold
piece, which, once broken into, would vanish all too
quickly. What is the cause of your suffering?
Your cursed imagination. Isn’t it because you
know that henceforth all the beauties of Paris, all
the treasures of France, could not satiate the long-
ings within you? Shel a beauty, a Grand Duchess!
Poor fool! You called yourself an anti-romanticist
and used to make fun of the Romantic Drama. Yet
here you are, when it suits your purpose, repeating
all unconsciously the adventure of Ruy Blas, lackey
to Monseigneur the Marquis de Finlas. Is this
102


THE SECRET SPRING 103
what your gods, Le Play and Auguste Comte, have
brought you to? You are a funny creature! Why,
the queen of your dreams is even further from you
than from that little red Hussar with his elegant
indolence, rank, and a coat-of-arms to back
him. . . .
I got to work and gradually found that the dust
of the library chased away my envy, hatred and
regret. I accustomed myself to the idea that I
should never set foot in the left wing of the palace.
I liked to think that she dawdled out life there with
her Melusine, and that I was never made for such
a place. I deliberately intended to take away from
my visit to Lautenburg everything I thought could
help or amuseme. In two years' time I should have
saved five or six thousand francs and collected ma-
terial for three or four books. I would return to
Paris, and with my methodical industry and the
memory of what I had missed, would make her
mine. After all, Paris was better than this scorn-
ful, barbaric beauty!
Professor Thierry had drawn up an excellent plan
of campaign, and the further I explored the library,
the more I appreciated his wisdom. The history of
the German dynasties contemporary with Louis
XIV. sheds a wonderful light on his reign, throwing
its natural attraction into greater relief. The
single preoccupation of German princelings towards
the close of the seventeenth century was to imitate
the King of France, the usual method being to


104 THE SECRET SPRING
secure the services of artists, or pupils of artists,
who had worked for him. But while every French
seigneur made a point of having a particular artist
to work exclusively for him, it is amusing to see
how the Germans usually clubbed together to share
the expense of commissioning some particular
painter, sculptor, or gardener. It reminds one of
the way in which poor Parisian families club to-
gether to buy a sack of vegetables or a whole lamb
at the Halles.
I discovered among the archives most of the esti-
mates of the French painters and sculptors who
worked not merely for the Dukes of Lautenburg and
Detmold, but also for the Dukes of Lüneburg-Celle
and the Electors of Hanover. Ernout executed
most of the statuary groups in the gardens. Gour-
vil, a pupil at La Quintinie, laid them out.
Lesigne, a pupil of Lebrun, was commissioned to do
the frescoes. A Catalan, Giroud, was in charge of
the iron and locksmith's work. Zeyer, a painter in
lacquer and instructor to Princess Sophie-Dorothea,
has left some charming work on the doors of the
Herrenhausen Palace at Hanover and of the Palace
of Lautenburg.
Their accounts were hotly disputed by the
stewards of these Sovereigns, and in many cases the
princes themselves did not hesitate to suggest re-
ductions in their own hands. I examined with
great interest a long bill of Giroud's, exhibited by
that artist before a Hanover tribunal in 1690, to


THE SECRET SPRING 105
justify his charges for the installation of a number
of secret springs at the Herrenhausen. Duke
Ernest-Augustus, the future Elector, failed to es-
tablish his case for reduction. At that date, at any
rate, Hanover had judges who judged.
I had decided in principle to confine my re-
searches to the influence of France on the Courts
of Germany in the seventeenth century. I had at
my disposal a mass of documents, more than enough
for Professor Thierry's purpose and comprising
material for a book of my own. It is to that Zeyer,
lacquer artist and instructor to Princess Sophie-
Dorothea, that I owe the extension of my original
plan. I found among his accounts a transcript
of his evidence before the Commission of Enquiry
which tried the unhappy Hanoverian sovereign.
He is thus responsible for the events which were to
follow.
Wignerte stopped, thought a moment and then put
an unexpected question.
“Do you know the dramatic story of Count Philip
Christopher of Königsmark?”
For answer I repeated the following lines:
The Count of Königsmark once loved a queen,
Became the queen's own lover, so folk say,
In her own room, censed with fresh-burnt verbene
When nights were young as when they died to-day.
What idle thoughts she poured into thy mind
Who could declare, what idle tales she told
As beaded bluebells all the while she twined
With hearts' ease in her locks of russet gold.


106 THE SECRET SPRING
“The author of those lines,” said Wignerte, “had
read Blaze de Bury's book. It is the only useful work
in French on the tragedy. Do you remember it?”
“I’m afraid I’ve forgotten most of it,” I confessed.
“I shall have to give you the story in some detail.
It will not explain my own adventure. It makes it
even more extraordinary.”
You will certainly remember what was the gen-
eral situation in the State of Hanover in 1680. Its
sovereign was Ernest-Augustus, a profligate versed
in all the arts of statesmanship, who had been suc-
cessively Bishop of Osnabrück, and Duke and
Elector of Hanover. His brother, George-William,
was Duke of Brunswick-Lüneburg. Ernest-Augus-
tus had a son, George: George-William a daughter,
Sophie-Dorothea.
The ambitions of Ernest-Augustus had a double
goal. His primary aim was to recover his brother's
estates for his family. There was only one method
— to marry George to Sophie-Dorothea. The mar-
riage took place in 1682 when the Duchess of Bruns-
wick-Lüneburg was only sixteen.
The other ambition of Ernest-Augustus soared
higher. It was the crown of England. Fortune
favoured him. One after another the twelve chil-
dren of Queen Anne were gathered by death.
Ernest-Augustus was not to see the fulfilment of his
work — he died in 1698 — but his son George
reaped its fruits. On the death of Queen Anne in
1714 he mounted the throne of Great Britain as
George I. He mounted it alone. Eighteen years


THE SECRET SPRING 107
before he had separated from his wife as the result
of an infamous intrigue, and when her husband
assumed the crown of England the wretched Sophie-
Dorothea was dragging out her weary days in the
Castle of Ahlden, more prison than palace.
You must forgive me for this dry summary of
facts. It is essential I should be clear.
The story of Sophie-Dorothea's divorce is the
story of the assassination of Count Philip-
Christopher von Königsmark.
A member of one of the highest and most ancient
Swedish families, friend of the Prince-Elector of
Saxony, as dark and handsome as Sophie-Dorothea
was fair and lovely, Count Philip and the Duchess
of Brunswick-Lüneburg had known each other at
Celle in their childhood when they were affianced in
the ingenuous manner of the times. Their ways
had parted, however, and Philip had led the adven-
turous life of a gallant Swedish free-lance at the
Courts of James II. and Louis XIV., at Dresden
and Venice.
Was Sophie-Dorothea's marriage a spur to his old
love or a blow to his vanity? Whatever the reason,
the fact remains that one fine morning Hanover
witnessed the arrival of Count Philip von
Königsmark.
The Court of the Elector was a den of debauch,
a garbage-heap on which Sophie-Dorothea, fair lily,
was slowly fading. Betrayed by a husband whom
she had ever despised, compelled to tolerate, as


108 THE SECRET SPRING /
gracefully as she could, the virago Countess von
Platen, the abject favourite of Ernest-Augustus, she
spent her weary life in solitude, :solely
with the education of her two children — a son who
was destined for the throne of England, and a
daughter who was one day to be Queen of Prussia.
Then Königsmark arrived at Hanover and the
drama opened.
Count Philip had come to take his revenge by
winning back the heart of Sophie-Dorothea. But
before he had even set eyes on her Countess von
Platen had her eye on him. He deemed it wise not
to flout the all-powerful favourite, but he was
obliged to go to great lengths in order to soothe the
susceptibilities of that woman — a Messalina and
Lady Macbeth in one. He went, in fact, to the fur-
thest limit. Once compromised, she would be in
his power — but it was he who found himself in
her clutches.
Then began the idyll of Philip von Königsmark
and Sophie-Dorothea. The gloomy Herrenhausen
Palace witnessed their ephemeral loves. Sophie-
Dorothea's first notion was that the gallant Count
had come to Hanover only to see for himself the
misery and desertion of her who had been compelled
by her father's wishes to marry another. His prac-
tically open liaison with Countess von Platen added
fresh torture to her lot. But one morning, going
with her lady-in-waiting to the little wood in the
Herrenhausen park where she sat out every day,


THE SECRET SPRING 109
she spied the Count just moving off. A note was
left on the seat, with these lines, in the style of
Benserade:
In other days a fickle swain was I;
Upon the green from lass to lass
At any hour I’d lightly pass;
Only a change, this pleased my eye
But since I’ve seen my fairest Sylvia's face,
From her my love no more can range,
I'll make one last supreme exchange,
From her I'll never change my place.
Was Sophie-Dorothea Königsmark's mistress?
I still doubt it, even after reading their correspond-
ence in the archives of La Gardie. But I must
freely confess that it must have been quite impossi-
ble to doubt it in so corrupt a Court as Hanover,
where it was common knowledge that Duke
George's wife received the handsome Swedish ad-
venturer every evening in her apartments.
The vindictive Countess von Platen was the last
to know that she was the laughing-stock of the
whole palace, but that day the doom of both Count
and Duchess was sealed.
On the evening of Saturday, July 1st, 1694,
Königsmark, returning to his room, found on his
table a note with a few words scribbled in pencil:
Princess Sophie-Dorothea will expect Count Königsmark
this evening, after ten.
This note, a forgery imitating Sophie-Dorothea's


110 THE SECRET SPRING
handwriting, was the work of Countess von Platen.
Königsmark, unsuspecting and brave as a lion, kept
the appointment. He left the Princess at two in
the morning.
Next morning Sophie-Dorothea saw from her
balcony two men furtively wandering in the park
as if they had lost something. They were Count
Philip's servants searching for their master. He
was never to be seen again, by them or any one else.
There you have the tragedy, my friend. There
remains the dénouement, the divorce of Sophie-
Dorothea. That unhappy young woman of twenty-
eight lived in a world of enemies. She wished to
leave her husband, who was a nightmare to her, but
was prevented by the wishes of her father, who had
forced a marriage on her for political reasons. A
love-sick girl could not be allowed to upset the
pretty scheme which had the throne of England as
its possible goal. The unhappy creature refused to
lend herself to it. She was dangerous for other
reasons. The Swedish Count had relations. And
so she was duly divorced after a trial in which she
suffered every outrage and humiliation. Her chil-
dren were taken out of her care, and ultimately the
wife of the King of England, once more plain
Duchess, died a prisoner in her Castle at Ahlden in
1726. Then only did the parental fury relent. The
Vaults of the castle in which she was born were
opened to her corpse. There, in the obscurest cor-
ner of the crypt of the keep of Celle, is a humble


THE SECRET SPRING 111
coffin, bearing no inscription. It contains the
mortal remains of Sophie-Dorothea, wife of the
Elector George-Louis of Hanover, King of England
under the name of George I.
I have outlined, as briefly as I could, the story
of Philip von Königsmark and Sophie-Dorothea.
I need hardly say that many points in the tragedy
have never yet been cleared up. The assassination
of the Count is undoubtedly the most obscure inci-
dent in the whole affair. Witnesses agree that it
was Countess von Platen who set the trap in which
he perished. Ten hired assassins pierced him with
their swords and the horrible Countess herself dealt
him the final blow. But what was done with the
corpse? This is where the mystery begins.
Opinions are divided. Was the Count, as some
say, buried in a grave in the park? Or, according
to another version which I have reasons to believe
the true one, was his corpse covered with quick-lime
and thrown under the stone floor of the room known
as the “ Knights' Hall”? Or was it simply cast
into the latrines which communicated with the
Lüne flowing at the foot of the castle, as the author
of the “Secret History” would have us believe?
1 Secret History of the Duchess of Hanover, published in London
in 1732, without the author's name but attributed to Baron von
Bielefeld, chargé d'affaires of the Court of Prussia at Hanover.
For this and later references I have amplified Vignerte's partic-
ulars with the aid of Blaze de Bury's articles, which appeared
first in the Revue des Deua Mondes and were collected into one
volume, the “Episode de l’Histoire du Hanovre, Les Königsmark,”
in 1855.


112 TEIE SECRET SPRING
Was his the corpse, as Horace Walpole asserts,
which was discovered twenty years later under the
floor of a retiring-room in the Herrenhausen? I
only put these problems to explain to you, though
to me it still remains inexplicable, my feverish reso-
lution to solve them. You may well imagine that
the mystery was more vivid and intriguing to me
than to any other man, partly because of the situa-
tion at the palace, with its many points of
resemblance to that in which the tragedy took place,
and partly because of the priceless material at my
disposal in the ducal library.
The most valuable authority till then available
was the correspondence of Königsmark and Sophie-
Dorothea, to be found in the archives of the La
Gardie Library at Loeberod in Sweden. This cor-
respondence was discovered by Professor Palmblad,
who published extracts from it at Upsala in 1851.
When Professor Thierry in taking leave of me had
referred me to Palmblad's work, he hoped that at
Lautenburg I should be able to discover a portion
of the correspondence, which wandered all over
Germany before finding a definite home at Loeberod.
I was, however, unable to find anything, though I
had compensation for my disappointment in an-
other and most fruitful discovery.
You remember I spoke of Sophie-Dorothea's
daughter a short time ago. She married the Crown
Prince of Prussia, the future “Drill-Sergeant
King,” Frederick I. “A harsh and tyrannical


THE SECRET SPRING 113
husband,” as Blaze de Bury writes, “his first act,
on mounting the throne, was to forbid his wife for-
mally to hold any sort of communication with the
prisoner of Ahlden. It was only when Sophie-
Dorothea had inherited from her mother a revenue
of twenty thousand crowns, a very considerable sum
in those days, that the royal miser began to soften
towards her, though his sudden concern was purely
mercenary, being based solely on his wife's possible
interest in the inheritance, an interest which the
celebrated jurisconsult, Thomasius, had laboured
to establish.” "
The Queen of Prussia was the meekest of women,
but, urged on secretly by her confessor, she had
never ceased to reproach herself for not having
boldly taken her captive mother's part, convinced
as she was of her innocence. She began to take
advantage of her forbidding husband's better mo-
ments to collect the material on which to base
proceedings to clear her character. Unfortunately
Sophie-Dorothea died in 1726. This did not deter
her royal daughter from pursuing her labour of
love. Thanks to her resolution and the learned
assistance of the jurisconsult Thomasius already
mentioned, an enormous dossier, comprising some
twelve hundred documents, was prepared. It es-
tablished beyond doubt Sophie-Dorothea's inno-
cence and Countess von Platen's ignominy. This
1 Blaze de Bury: “Episode de l’Histoire du Hanovre.” Notes
and evidence, p. 378.


114 THE SECRET SPRING
|
monument of filial devotion was never to serve any
practical purpose. An anonymous note at the top
of the file records that on the representations of
George II., King of England, communicated to his
brother-in-law, Frederick I. of Prussia through the
British Minister, the rehabilitation suit was never
begun. The English King observed to his sister,
not without truth, that every piece of evidence dis-
proving their mother's guilt only established their
father's.
The submissive Prussian Queen yielded to the
force of this political argument. The file, a monu-
ment of futile industry, after various wanderings
recorded in the note I have mentioned, ended by
falling in 1783 into the hands of the Grand Duchess
Charlotte-Augusta of Lautenburg, niece of the
reigning sovereign. It was this very file that I had
the good fortune to discover among the uncata-
logued manuscripts in the ducal library at the end
of January, 1914. From the original notes of the
cross-examination of Fräulein von Knesebeck,
Sophie-Dorothea's confidante, to the record of
Countess von Platen's confession, " I had before me
everything required to reconstruct the story of the
mysterious Herrenhausen drama. In the casual
manner of historians in dealing with uncatalogued
manuscripts I carried off to the privacy of my room
1 A duplicate in manuscript of this confession, entitled
“Funeral Oration of Countess C. E. von Platen,” may be seen in
the archives of Vienna.


THE SECRET SPRING 115
the six packets containing the whole melancholy
story.
What a pageant of love and chivalry, crime and
passion, grandeur, life and death, was unrolled for
me in its musty pages and clerkly script in divers
tongues! At night, when the castle was asleep, I
pulled my table up to my glowing log fire and
worked in a kind of burning frenzy. Here I
touched history, live history, not the poor second or
third hand imitation which was doled out to us,
according to syllabus, from the Sorbonne Library.
I will admit, I maust admit, that the fumes of ro-
mance mingled with the soulless passion for
knowledge that seized my very being. The Court
of Hanover danced before my eyes, fantastic and
brutal — Ernest-Augustus, the Silenus of politics;
George-Louis, the narrow-minded profligate; Coun-
tess von Platen, the fearsome Messalina, beautiful
and winning notwithstanding; Königsmark, the
swarthy adventurer in his blood-stained doublet of
pink and gold; pure-souled Sophie-Dorothea, fair
and slender in her wedding gown of silver brocade.
Silver, did I say? There spoke the historian, the
maker of books. But oh! how much fairer, how
much nearer, I imagined her in another gown, a
gown fresh in my mind! A gown of green velvet!
Winter was almost over, already yielding to the
spring. I had opened my window to help my fire
to draw, and through it the air wafted in with the
magic touch of living breath. Through the dark-


116 THE SECRET SPRING
ness I felt the presence of the black trees, their bare
branches quivering with the promise of life.
Several times, my friend, my dear friend — when
death hovers overhead why should I not confess
those follies which are the price and glory of life
for men like ourselves? — under the spell of that
old story of a gallant, murdered lover and a fair
dead Queen, and impelled by an instinct the sure-
ness of which Fate was in due course to reveal, I
pushed open the door of my room with a beating
heart. The corridor was dark. The old staircase
creaked beneath my steps. Often in the great hall
I had seen the lantern of the sleeping watchman.
What on earth should I have said, had I been
challenged?
The open postern exposed a great steel blue vault
in the middle of which mysterious Cassiopeia
seemed to shiver. I went out, crossing the moon-
bathed lawns, hiding in the shadows of the yews. A
light shone in the centre wing of the palace. The
Grand Duke Frederick-Augustus must be a late
worker! All was dark in the left wing, but when
I reached the end of the building and pressed myself
against the wall I knew that here, too, there were
some who kept late hours.
Spring was not yet with us, but one felt that the
song of the nightingale would soon be heard.
Bright and spearlike, a ray of light spanned the
gravel path, emanating from another window dark
with heavy hangings and curtains.


THE SECRET SPRING 117
The nightingale was not yet singing in the French
park, embedded in the heart of that Germany
whither Fate had led me. But behind that window
a poignant long-drawn wail, interrupted at inter-
vals by maddening silences that made my nerves
quiver with apprehension, came slowly and softly
from the silent palace straight to my heart. For
Fräulein von Graffenfried was playing Schumann's
most plaintive berceuses to her mistress on her
violin.


*
V
most exhaustive. And also it must be con-
fessed the best, geographical work in the
world. Our Annales de Géographie is only a
feeble reflection of it. The Russians have an
excellent geographer, Wołkow. We have Vidal de
la Blache, whose preface to Lavisse's Histoire de
France is a masterpiece. But these are only frag-
ments and do not cover the whole ground. The
astonishing feature of Petermann’s Mittheilungen
is its universality. My tutors at the Sorbonne — I
won't mention names as it would hardly be kind to .
them at the present moment — have told me hun-
dreds of times that no serious geographical work
could be attempted without the assistance of this
powerful machine.
I will not exaggerate either the scope or value
of the lessons I gave my pupil by having you
imagine that I never prepared one without consult-
ing the Mittheilungen. But I can assure you that
whenever it was necessary to emphasize some par-
ticular point I never failed to fortify myself by
reference to the great work.
Accordingly I had recourse to it when occasion
arose to instruct Duke Joachim on a question which
P: MITTHEILUNGEN is the
118


THE SECRET SPRING 119
was indeed a topic of the hour — the question of the
Cameroons and the recent German acquisitions in
the Congo. It was just two years since the Cam-
bon-Kiderlen-Wächter conversations had resulted
in an agreement which gave Germany the famous
“Duck's bill’” and Togoland. It, therefore, seemed
to me a natural proceeding to dwell at some length
on the region which had been the cause of the
Kaiser's famous bang on the diplomatic table.
I shall never forget that day — Monday, March
2nd — nearly eight months ago now.
I first ran through the Table of Contents of the
Mittheilungen in order to look up the references
and authorship of the six articles on the Cameroons
and the Congo. The second I came across was the
work of Professor Heidschütz, of Berlin University,
describing the means of access (natural and arti-
ficial) to this territory.
I carried the appropriate volume to the library
table and began to make some notes. As I was
opening the book at the page of the article I wanted,
a piece of paper fell out. It was a sheet, folded in
four and already yellow with age, and the writing
on it was large, thick and free. It was German in
Latin characters. No signature. Even without
that writing to help me I had immediately guessed
what was its subject and who had written it.
It contained the complete plan of a journey in
one of the remotest parts of the Congo, along the
famous, or, rather, notorious, river Sangha. The
)


120 THE SECRET SPRING
routes were carefully drawn up, with the assistance
of the information given in Professor Heidschütz's
article, which, as I expected, was the very last word
on these regions. All practicable tracks, fords, and
resources available to the explorer of the country
— from the moment he left Libreville to the time
of his return there — were noted. Each halt was
marked: Ouesso, two days— French post, water,
porters: Manna, one day — porters: Gléglé, on the
N'Sagha, canoes, etc.
A fierce joy possessed me. Fate had delivered
up to me the Grand Duke Rudolph's own plan, in
his own hand, for his scientific journey in the very
region where he was to meet with his death. Mine
was not, I realized, the triumph of the historian at
the discovery of a document throwing interesting
light on German designs in the Congo, a document
in itself proof positive, in view of the rank and per-
sonality of the explorer, that the Agadir coup was
premeditated. What cared I for dryasdust History
at that moment? In a flash I realized that pique
had been the motive for all my labours since that
famous occasion when the Grand Duchess had in-
sulted me before the whole world!
If you would know the nature of the emotions
that convulsed me as I scrutinized the precious
document I must tell you how my imagination had
been at work since that date. I had tried in vain
| to hate the Grand Duchess. I could not do so.
The effort only had the effect of sharpening my de-
w


THE SECRET SPRING 121
sire to approach her, claim her notice, convince her
that my end in life was to devote myself to her
Service.
Devote myself! Good God, what on earth could
have led me to think that this dazzling, distant god-
dess might need my humble devotion? . .
It was here, my friend, that my imagination led
me on. To tell the truth it certainly had some-
thing to build upon. You don’t suppose that dur-
ing my long, lonely nights I had forgotten the con-
fidences of a man of Professor Thierry's standing?
Quite the reverse. What wealth of meaning had I
not read into them? In a vague way I felt myself
in an atmosphere of mystery. I felt, just as I feel
you now at my side in the dark, that some tragedy
was at the bottom of the presentiments of evil that
flooded my mind from time to time. My work and
the nights devoted to the tragic story of Königs-
mark had only aggravated my apprehension. All
moonshine, you will say; the diseased imaginings of
a brain excited by work in solitude, and, perhaps, a
stronger emotion. You might have some reason
for thinking so if events had not abundantly justi-
fied my excitement.
Whatever the cause, my friend, even before I
discovered the Grand Duke's plan I had pieced to-
gether a story which satisfied my notions. I imag-
ined the Grand Duke Frederick-Augustus, correct
and kind as he always was towards me, as the
executioner of his wife, that adorable Grand


122 THE SECRET SPRING
Duchess. You see beauty made me fundamentally
unjust. It made me attribute imaginary wicked-
ness to the man who, obviously, had many virtues
and was, in any case, the author of my present
prosperity, while I raised a monument in my mind
to the woman who had once held me up to public
scorn and subsequently seemed to ignore my exist-
ence whenever I had been thrown in her way. In
my lucid moments I would reflect that there was
little of the martyr about the cold, haughty creature
who spent her nights listening to her Melusine's
violin and her days on horseback, hunting with her
miserable red Hussar! That Hagen. . . . Wasn't
it plain as a pikestaff that it was the Grand Duke
who deserved pity and affection . . . . I should
never have had his patience!
Useless sedatives. Vain strivings to forget. A
moment later, back among my fantastic imaginings
I pictured Aurora of Lautenburg turning to her
fiery mount, hunting, music — anything to assuage
her grief at the loss of her first husband, that hand-
some, gallant husband who had loved her, whom she
still loved, no doubt. . . . And the jealousy born of
these reveries made me cherish them all the more.
A Many conversations had failed to convince me of
heir lack of substance. It was useless for Frau
von Wendel, with her sullen hatred of the Grand
Duchess, to sigh out tales of poor, dear Grand Duke
Rudolph, who had been so unhappy. I ruthlessly
cleared everything from my path that seemed to


THE SECRET SPRING 123
threaten the integrity of my fantastic fabrications.
You can call me a lunatic. But assuming I was
one, you can imagine the frenzy with which I put
back the volume of the Mittheilungen, thrust my
precious sheet into my case and went up to my
I’OOIn.
Open, Sesame! I had now in my possession the
mysterious key which would open the way to the
Grand Duchess's presence, and enable me to compel
her regard. “When she sees these lines,” I
thought, “in the handwriting of a beloved husband,
she will know that he who brings them to light and
gives them to her does not deserve the unworthy
indifference she shows him. Perhaps she will ask
my pardon. Then I shall have compelling words to
stay the flow of regrets on those fair lips. She will
only wonder the more at her own past behaviour.”
Twice I attempted to write a letter to accompany
the document, and twice I threw it into the fire.
The first did not seem respectful enough. The
second was too full of the importance of my dis-
covery. Eventually I hit upon the simplest possi-
ble form of words:
MADAM,
By pure chance I have discovered a document which
cannot fail to concern your Highness. Permit me to enclose
it with this note, in witness of your humble servant's respect-
ful devotion.
I had thought of entrusting my missive, with a
)


THE SECRET SPRING 125
Melna, flushed with the ruddy glow of dying day.
A shot rang out from a clump of chestnut trees,
and I thought I heard a rustle in the branches as if
a bird were falling.
“Will the Herr Professor please step this way?”
I was now in a kind of arbour. The Grand
Duchess was standing with her gun still smoking in
her hand.
“Excuse me, monsieur. I am having a little
thrush shooting,” was all she said.
And she nodded to her lackey to leave us.
+ + * * +
I was alone with the queen of my dreams. I
had known that this moment would come, but never
imagined that it would find us in this leafy tunnel,
which I had passed many a time in my walks, with-
out suspecting its existence.
For a few seconds she gazed at me in silence. My
embarrassment was absolutely indescribable. It
was only later, much later, that I learned how well
it had served my cause. So nervous a visitor could
hardly be an enemy.
At length she spoke, and her voice was soft, so
soft that I did not recognize it.
“I am grateful, Monsieur Vignerte, for your
communication. You were right in thinking that
any relic of the late Grand Duke Rudolph could not
be a matter of indifference to me. Will you tell
me,” she added, “how this paper came into your
possession?”


126 THE SECRET SPRING
s
I told her the whole story of my discovery.
There must have been a wealth of emotion and
candour in my words, for I felt she was touched.
“Monsieur,” she said, and her words were gentle-
ness itself, “if, as I hope, we are to know each other
better, you will, I feel sure, cease to bear me any
ill-will for what may have seemed unmannerly in
my behaviour towards you. No, don’t protest.
That behaviour was deliberate, monsieur. Indiffer-
ence in a woman is always feigned. You must be-
lieve that, to understand me, certain factors are
required which are far from being in your posses-
sion.”
Where was the pretty speech I had promised
myself in reply to these words, long foreseen?
“Are you always working, Monsieur Vignerte?”
asked Aurora, with a smile tinged with delicate
irony.
“Madam ' " I murmured, overcome.
“Oh! I have no intention of taking you from
your exalted pupil, but I cannot help remembering
that when the Grand Duke brought you here, it
was with a kindly idea of lending you to me occa-
sionally. I have only myself to blame for not
taking advantage of his forethought before.”
My doubts as to whether she was serious or not
nailed me, dumb, to the spot.
“Do you play bridge?” she asked.
“Yes — a little,” I stammered, blessing Kessel


THE SECRET SPEING 127
and old Colonel von Wendel, to whom I owed this
latest accomplishment.
“We — that is, Fräulein von Graffenfried,
Lieutenant von Hagen and I — play bridge every
evening. You shall make a fourth. You will do us
a much greater service than you imagine,” she
added, smiling. “I need hardly add that you must
come when you like.
“I understand, too,” she continued, “that you
have some most interesting French books. I do a
certain amount of reading, and should be very glad
to become acquainted with them, providing I’m not
robbing that good Frau von Wendel.”
I blushed atrociously.
“Very well, then,” she said, noticing nothing.
“You will come when you like, Monsieur Vignerte;
but if you will let me give you further proof of my
gratitude by making a request, may I say that I
shall be happy to see you in my boudoir this even-
ing, about half-past nine.”
I bowed and was about to withdraw when she
beckoned me back.
“Monsieur,” she said in low, grave tones, “ of
course, it is understood that everything touching
this is strictly between ourselves.”
She indicated my letter, which she had just
drawn from one pocket of her black, full-skirted
jacket.
I bowed again.


128 THE SECRET SPRING
“This evening, then, Monsieur Vignerte, and if
you would do me a last kindness, please go out as
quietly as you possibly can, so as not to scare away
the thrushes.”
I returned to the palace by a circuitous route,
along the Melna. A kingfisher skimmed backwards
and forwards over the darkening water. It was of
the same colour as the emerald I had just noticed
on the white finger of Aurora of Lautenburg-
Detmold.
* * + + º
The Grand Duchess's bridge-table was set in a
curious little Louis Quinze salon on the first floor.
Two Bouchers, a Largillière and an excellent Wat-
teau were its best features. Flowers, masses of
flowers, everywhere.
Remembering that Hagen would be there, I had
made a special point of not arriving first. Indeed,
it was a quarter to ten when I knocked at the door
of Aurora of Lautenburg.
It was Melusine who opened it.
“I’m very pleased to see you!” the charming
creature murmured as she took my hand. The
Grand Duchess gave me a smile of welcome and
beckoned me to the table, at which she was already
sitting with Hagen. I had an impression that the
red Hussar was in a thoroughly bad temper, and
this pleased me so much, that I lavished the most
delicate attentions upon him all the evening.


130 THE SECRET SPRING
sieur Vignerte, don't forget the books you have
brought me.”
+ * º + *
In accordance with the principles set forth in
Edgar Allan Poe's “Psychology of Furnishing,”
the Grand Duchess's room was elliptical. A large
mauve globe, set in the ceiling, shed a misty,
shadowless light.
On the walls were prints of Burne-Jones, Con-
stable and Gustave Moreau.
The room was full of the three things I love most
— flowers, rugs and precious stones. Flowers in-
vaded every corner, and it was quite five minutes
before I got used to their overpowering scent.
Then the soothing fragrance possessed me, and I
was almost able to distinguish between them.
Roses and lilies, of course, predominated, though
merely as a glorious framework in which the riches
of the Tcherna and the Caucasus were exhibited in
bewildering profusion. Against the walls were
massed the mullein of Mongolia, with their great
spikes of flowers nearly a yard long. The musky
pink centaury swarmed on every table. Purple
passion-flowers, the spring marvel of Aral's desolate
shores, tuberoses from Erivan, crimson scabious,
monster carnations of every hue, linaria and love-
lies-bleeding, balsam and nigella, primroses of Kas-
beck, huge red moonflowers from the defiles of
Daried, the everlasting-flower of Colchis, once the
refuge of the mythical green bird — all these


THE SECRET SPRING 131
flowers, known or unknown among us, turned that
cool room into the haunt of eternal spring.
The sweet-smelling irises, of a deep violet hue
approaching black, almost held me spellbound.
The Grand Duchess noticed this and smiled.
“Those are what I love best. They are brothers
to those I used to gather in my childhood by the
banks of the Volga.”
She sat down on the great, low bed, with its two
polar-bear skins for a cover, and took off the net
which confined her hair. Her tawny mane fell out
over the white rugs. At her feet Melusine,
stretched on a tiger-skin, with her arm on the great
beast's head, toyed with a kind of guzla from which
she drew wavering, plaintive sounds.
The Grand Duchess took off her jewels, one by
one, and put them on little side-tables about the
bed. On a chest, with a top of green onyx and
painted like a Persian cabinet, I noticed the bar-
baric tiara she had worn at the fête of the 7th
Hussars. By it was another, even heavier one, in
Sapphires.
The floor was strewn with rugs on which little
red and green roses from Armenia swarmed like
scarabs and ladybirds. A long necklace of amber
and turquoise, strung chaplet-wise, hung from the
head of the bed, and above it was a dark little niche
where a burning lamp showed up a blue and gold
ikon. -
Two large silver bowls, gloriously chased, stood


THE SECRET SPRING 133
in Russian, not knowing that I had a smattering of
her native tongue.
“It's no good relying on him for my admission to
the Kirchhaus.”
Fräulein von Graffenfried replied with a shake of
the head, which might be interpreted as “Didn't
I say so?”
“Melusine,” said the Grand Duchess, “light the
samovar.”
While the girl arranged the teacups round the
heavy, humming tower of burnished copper, Aurora
rose from the bed and opened a small secretaire.
She beckoned me to her.
“Do you know that writing?” she asked, holding
out a letter.
I examined the paper. I had never seen the
writing in question.
“It is the hand of the late Grand Duke Rudolph,”
she said simply.
My surprise grew to amazement. She could not
restrain a smile.
“But, excuse me, madame. I don't understand.
Then whose is the document I sent you, to which I
owe . . .”
“Don’t get excited; keep calm, Monsieur
Vignerte. The paper to which you owe my regard
— nay, my friendship — was not written by my
husband, the late Grand Duke. But it is not with-
out its value for me. It may even have a greater
value.”


134 THE SECRET SPRING
As she spoke she unfolded the document. “I see
there a name,” she said. “Sangha. Do you know
Where it is?”
“Yes,” I answered. “I found out this morning.
It is a miserable village in the Cameroons — the
last German post, ten leagues from Fort Flatters,
the first French post.”
“That's the place,” she added, “and you don’t
seem to know that it was in that very village that
the Grand Duke Rudolph died of sunstroke on the
10th of May, 1911. He is buried there. Now you
will realize my feelings on seeing in the list of pro-
jected stages of his journey the name of the place
where he was to stay for ever.”
“But whose is this list, then? Who drew it
up? »
“A friend,” replied the Grand Duchess, “the
Grand Duke's faithful companion. The same man
who saved his life.twice in the Congo. The same
who stayed with him to the end, and rendered him
the last services, though he was unable to save him
from the fell malady.”
“What was his name?” I asked.
“Baron Ulrich von Boose.”
“Boose!” I cried. “So it was Boose!”
The Grand Duchess turned rather pale and drew
herself up to her full height. Melusine, at her feet,
had stopped playing the guitar, which was lying on
the floor.


THE SECRET SPRING 135
“What do you mean, monsieur?” said Aurora
of Lautenburg. “Please explain yourself.”
I had already recovered myself somewhat, and
was vaguely conscious of my stupidity. I wanted
to turn the conversation, but the Grand Duchess
was not to be put off.
“Do you know Baron von Boose?”
“Excuse me, madame,” I stammered. “I don’t
really know whether I ought, whether I can . . .”
“What oughtn't you to say? What can't you
say?”
I cursed my clumsy and premature exclamation,
which looked like compromising in one second two
months of patient approach. Thoroughly alarmed,
and grasping at a straw, my eyes fastened on
Melusine.
The Grand Duchess seemed to doubt the meaning
of that look.
“Monsieur,” she said, “Fräulein von Graffen-
fried is my friend, and you must know that I have
no secrets from those I have once called by that
name. You can speak freely before her. Indeed, I
ask you to.”
There was only one way out of the impasse.
Stammering in the approved manner of those with
nothing definite to say, I told her as well as I could
about my conversation with Professor Thierry in
the course of which I had first heard the name of
Baron von Boose.


136 THE SECRET SPRING
Aurora of Lautenburg's forehead showed a
Wrinkle.
“I understand,” she murmured at length, “or,
rather, I think I understand, in spite of the inten-
tional reservations in your story.”
She reflected a moment, then recovered her
wonted calm and said:
“This proves, monsieur, how much one should
distrust hasty conclusions. I do not know where
your Professor Thierry went for the story with
which he has stuffed your head. If, as you say, he
is a conscientious historian, I think he would have
acted less precipitately if he had been in possession
of this — and this.”
She handed me the letter I had just seen and
with it another.
“These,” she explained, “are two of the last
letters written to me from the Congo by the Grand
Duke Rudolph. In the first he tells me how he
was saved by Ulrich von Boose from a buffalo which
had killed his horse; in the second, how this same
Boose rescued him from five or six natives who
would have given him a bad time.”
She looked at me with a smile while I read the
passages she indicated.
I bowed, feeling somewhat sheepish.
Melusine had just filled the cups and we drank
some very strong tea, in which pieces of citron-peel
floated. Then I kissed the Grand Duchess's hand
and clasped Melusine's.


THE SECRET SPRING 137
“Au revoir till tomorrow, ami,” said Aurora.
I went back through the park to my room, not
without noticing, as I went out, a shadow which had
more than a suggestion of Lieutenant von Hagen
about it.
A shot, then another, rang out through the clear,
empty night. We listened. Nothing followed.
Vignerte shrugged his shoulders.
“Some sentry with the creeps.”
“Lend me your torch,” he said.
He turned on the light and held out two pieces of
paper.
“What are they?” I asked.
“The first,” he replied, “is a letter addressed to
Aurora of Lautenburg by the Grand Duke Rudolph.
This other is the document drawn up by Boose, which,
as I have told you, secured my restoration to the Grand
Duchess's favour. It is as well,” he added, “that you
should not think you are dreaming as you listen to my
story. Try a little contact with reality.”
I scanned the two documents eagerly, one covered with
Boose's strong, vigorous writing, the other adorned with
those long feminine characters which indicate a tempera-
ment more prone to reflection than action. I was deeply
moved by this letter of the German Grand Duke, who
now rested beyond the seas in the hot clay of the Congo,
between the glowing boundaries of the tropics. Mere
contact with it conjured up a startlingly clear vision of
her to whom it was written. Aurora of Lautenburg
stood before us. I felt as if I had known her for ages.
Vignerte turned off the light and the rectangle of night
sky reappeared. I handed back the papers. He con-
tined.
Brunetière, speaking of the Lettres de Dupuis et


138 THE SECRET SPRING
de Colonet, says that they show less actual wit than
a striving after wit. And that is more or less true
of all Musset's work. Reverse that saying, and
you have the best possible description of the Grand
Duchess's conversation. That proud woman was
always aptness itself. She was an exceptional be-
ing, and consequently what she said had always a
quality of its own. Her judgments were severe,
perhaps, but never pretentious or bookish.
She avoided the commonplace as the cat avoids
Water.
I had no idea how much she knew or what she
liked, so the three books I took her that evening
were Le Voyage du Condottière, Les Eblouisse-
ments, Les Evocations.
Next morning she gave me them back.
“I’ve read them all,” she said, “but your selec-
tion was not a bad one. I see you like poetry.”
Several books lay on a sofa. She picked one up
and handed it to me.
“It is the Caucasian Review, which is published
at Tiflis, and there is more beauty in these rude
pages and simple tales of travel in unforgettable
lands than in most of your modern poets. This is
the rare spring to which the poets of tomorrow will
come to drink.”
She continued:
“Shakespeare has been dead three centuries, and
the haunts of Macbeth are now treeless and a waste
of factories. In Spain Don Quixote has been suc-


140 THE SECRET SPRING
I was almost drunk with joy to hear the woman
whom I admired to the point of idolatry speak of
things dearest to my heart in a setting which satis-
fied my exotic tastes. I told her so in a few simple
words — as one always should.
I think she was touched, for she laid her hand on
my shoulder and murmured, I have forgotten in
what language:
“Thou art kind and I love thee well, my com-
rade.”
Turning to Melusine, she repeated the Russian
phrase of the previous evening:
“No, indeed, it's no good my relying on him for
my admission to the Kirchhaus.”
Then, resuming her old sprightly tone:
“I believe I called you ‘thou’ just now, ami.
You mustn't mind that. I mix all my dialects
occasionally, and in my country we use “thou’ to
practically every one, from our cattle up to the Czar
himself.”
A long silence followed, broken only at rhythmic
intervals by the weird strains Melusine drew from
her guzla.
Incense was burning in a bowl.
I began to turn over, without reading, the pages
of a book which lay open on a small table beside me.
“Do you like that?” Aurora asked.
“That ” was the Reisebilder.
I told her I was a great lover of Heine.
“Now what I value most in a poet,” she said, “is


THE SECRET SPRING 141
a certain quality of soul. That is why I love
Shelley and Lamartine, and dislike this Heine.
Oh, I know what you’ll say, the Nordsee and the
rest. No one knows my debt to him better than I;
but he's like Deutz, who sold your Duchesse de
Berry, and I always feel I want to offer him the
tribute of my admiration with a pair of tongs.”
She took the book from me and looked through it.
I had no idea what time it was. Suddenly a
whiff of air, with that sharp nip in it that heralds
the dawn, was wafted in through the open window
behind the curtains. The smoke of the incense
trembled like a tottering pillar.
Buried in the Reisebilder, the Grand Duchess
had forgotten my presence. Melusine put a finger
on her smiling lips and took me out without her
mistress noticing that we had gone.
It was very cold outside. To the east the blue
sky was undergoing a magic change, slowly turning
to violet, then green, then orange. I sat down on a
seat by the door beneath the Grand Duchess's win-
dow, indulging in a kind of mournful ecstasy. For
it was the very spot whither I had come so many
evenings solely in order to be near her.
Then, languid and monotonous, but pure as the
icy waters of a mountain stream, came the sound
of a voice. The Grand Duchess was singing to the
accompaniment of Melusine's guzla. She was the
very incarnation of harmony, and her voice was,
indeed, the voice of my dreams.


142 THE SECRET SPRING
She was singing Ilse's romance, the best of the
Reisebilder. And because we had just been speak-
ing of it together I seemed to be still with her in her
I’OOIn
ILSA
The Princess Ilsa am I named, my home dark Ilsen's rock;
Oh come within my castle gate; there we shall happy be.
My sunlit waves shall bring a balm to soothe thine aching
brow,
Thy deep-set griefs thou shalt forget, poor youth all sick with
care.
I'll kiss thee and I'll hold thee fast, as once I held and kissed
The Emperor Henry, my heart's love; ah me! He is no more.
The dead are dead; they only live who are alive today;
I still am fair and full of grace; my heart still smiles and
throbs.
My heart still smiles and throbs. . . . Come see within my
crystal halls
My maids and knights together dance, my squires right glad
at play.
There's rustling of their silken trains, the clink of golden
spurs,
My merry dwarfs their cymbals clash, their lutes and trumpets
sound,
But thee my foam-white arms shall clasp, as once they clasped
the King,
• When with my hands I stopped his ears against the clarion's
call.
+ + + + +


THE SECRET SPRING 143
I was in the middle of an ancient history lesson
with my pupil when the Grand Duke came in. He
beckoned to us to sit down and told me not to stop.
I had been speaking to Duke Joachim of Alex-
ander's successors, from the fighting of the Epigones
in the streets of Babylon to the victory of Cyro-
pedeon, which established the dynasties of the
Lagides and Seleucides after the downfall of Lysi-
machus. I had been trying to bring before the eyes
of my young German prince the grand and tragic
figures of Eumenes, chief of the Argyraspides,
Polysperschon, Antipates, Antigone Gonates, and
Demetrius Poliorcetes. He listened attentively,
taking notes with a docility which I should have
preferred less abject. . . .
The Grand Duke had sat down, and was also
listening. Hypnotized by his grave, intellectual
face, it was really to Frederick-Augustus, not the
dull-witted Joachim, that my words were addressed.
He was my audience as I closed with an attempt to
show how the crumbling empires of the Epigones
were to facilitate the victory of centralizing Rome.
As at this point I began to show signs of embar-
rassment, Frederick-Augustus broke in, with a
Smile:
“Don’t let my presence embarrass you if you
want to establish a parallel between Rome and
Prussia.”
It was obviously difficult for me to emphasize, in
front of him, the dependence of the princes of the
*


144 THE SECRET SPRING
German Confederation on the King of Prussia. I
did so, however, and he approved.
“God grant that this dependence,” he said, “like
the dependence of the powers allied to Rome, may
mean the greatness of Germany and the peace of
the World.”
I ended by giving my pupil a list of the books
bearing on my lesson, and mentioned that indis-
pensable work, Droysen’s “History of Hellenism.”
“But excuse me, monsieur,” said the Grand
Duke, “is there no French work which can be used
instead of Droysen?”
Even at the Sorbonne I had never felt so ashamed
to say that there was not.
Eleven o'clock struck.
“Joachim,” said the Grand Duke, “you can go.
Please stay, Monsieur Vignerte.”
We were alone.
“Monsieur,” he said in his fine but grave, indeed
rather melancholy voice, “you have hitherto had
reason to think me sparing of compliments which
you must have considered your due. I have al-
ways had the bad habit of waiting a long time
before expressing opinions. The right moment has
now arrived, monsieur. Yesterday, unknown to
you, your pupil was examined by a Professor of
Kiel University with little predilection for French
methods. This professor has had to confess him-
self astonished at the results you have obtained.”


THE SECRET SPRING 145
He added, in a tone in which I detected a certain
trace of bitterness:
“I know that the harvester deserves all the more
praise when he has obtained his harvest from poor
soil. Allow me to address my thanks to you today,
and express the wish that the hospitality of Lauten-
burg may be sufficiently attractive to keep you here
until you have completed a task so well begun.”
“Your Highness's kindness overwhelms me, sir,”
I replied, deeply moved.
“No,” he broke in emphatically, “it is I who
am your debtor. I have just heard, Monsieur
Vignerte, that you devote part of the little leisure
that the education of my son leaves you to a task
which is perhaps even more dear to me. This must,
of course, be entirely between ourselves. I know
the difficulties you must have met with before
winning the confidence which I believe the Grand
Duchess now extends to you. At first I did not
know you well enough to speak more openly of my
desire that you should be at her disposal, and try
to interest her and save her from the fits of depres-
sion and that kind of spiritual disorder which are
so fatal to her physical health. You understood,
and have succeeded better than I could have hoped.
You will thus realize that I am indeed in your
debt.”
There was so much sorrowful dignity in his voice
that I was utterly overcome.


146 THE SECRET SPRING
“Sir,” I murmured, “I promise you . . .”
He held out his hand.
“I don't need promises, monsieur. I know you
now, and am certain that you will do everything you
can to help the Grand Duchess. There is no better
way of justifying my confidence in you. The task
will not be always easy, I fear. A woman, espec-
ially when she has been stricken by the death of a
man she loves, does not preserve that balance of
mind of which we men are so proud. Do your best,
monsieur.” There was silence for a moment; then
he continued: “I should add another form of
thanks if it were not that any further mark of
esteem is superfluous after the one I have given
you in speaking as I have done. You must, how-
ever, allow me to offer you some recompense for the
additional demands I am making upon you. I
have just given orders that your salary is to be
raised to fifteen thousand marks.”
He met my protests with an exclamation.
“Nonsense!” he said, with his most charming
smile. “Don’t you play bridge every night at five
pfennigs a point?”
+ + + + +
I was rather late for lunch, and found Professor
Cyrus Beck in the thick of a dispute with Kessel.
The latter obviously enjoyed teasing the old savant,
who had a poor sense of humour and was purple
with indignation.
My mind was far too full to pay any attention to


148 THE SECRET SPRING
f
how furious he was? And to think that he had
hoped you’d back him up!”
“But what's upset him?” I asked, and my aston-
ishment was so genuine that it was Kessel's turn
to be surprised.
“You mean to say you didn’t do it on purpose?”
“What?”
“Didn't you ask him what the Kirchhaus was
on purpose?”
“I asked him because I didn’t know and wanted
to,” I said, rather nettled.
He looked at me and began to laugh even more
hilariously than before.
“Well, if that isn’t the best thing I’ve ever
heard ' Don’t you know what the Lautenburg
Kirchhaus is, my friend?”
“Well?”
“Well, good God, it's the asylum !”
+ + + + +
The Grand Duchess loved sport in season and out
of season. Every now and then she would conde-
scend to hunt foxes or deer by way of entertaining
the officers of the 7th Hussars. But her private and
peculiar delight was sport in solitude, preferably
on a wet and windy day without grooms, attendants
or beaters. All she required was a dog and the
off-chance. Many an evening have I seen her in her
little room making up her own cartridges. The
pretty little cylinders, blue, violet, green, yellow, or


THE SECRET SPRING 149
red, white and blue, were spread out before her on
a table, into which the ramrod was screwed. Care-
fully packing the copper loaders, she gave to each
its dose of powder, wad, charge of shot and little
piece of white cardboard. When she had rammed
all this home, she wrote the number of the charge
on each. Hagen was always present on those occa-
sions, and as it was part of his duties, it would have
been very difficult to get rid of him. Melusine von
Graffenfried, indolent and a poor walker, preferred
to stay behind, lying on rugs and smoking her eter-
nal cigarettes. Count Marçais, on the other hand,
always came with us. These excursions gave him
a chance of showing off his sensational sporting
clothes, on which Aurora never failed to compli-
ment him. I must admit he was excellent com-
pany, with his high spirits and charming manner.
We used to ride out of the castle about two o'clock
in the afternoon. The first stage was the Herren-
wald. Squirrels swarmed in the trees. Pheasants
rose heavily from the ground as we passed. At the
bottom of some wooded ravine we could hear the
fussy but invisible flight of a woodcock.
Marçais would have preferred to stay there. He
liked woodland sport, pheasant shooting in the open
with some one beside him to load his gun and point
out the game: “A cock on the left, Herr Count,”
“A hen on your right!”
But this kind of thing was not to the liking of


150 THE SECRET SPRING
the Grand Duchess Aurora, who detested everything
official on such occasions and in any case showed a
marked preference for water-fowl.
Soon the stunted trees grew rarer, great wastes
of marsh appeared, under a sheen of grey and pale
green. The sun above was already a glowing ball,
low down on the horizon.
Two servants were waiting for us at a little rustic
hut. They took our horses. Marçais had his dog,
Dick, a big Auvergne pointer, hard of mouth and
apt to range rather far, though it came to heel well.
The Grand Duchess's ugly black and red spaniel
seemed a kind of dog brother to Taras-Bulba.
In sheer joy Aurora dropped the reins and sprang
from her horse. I can still see her opening her
“Hammerless” and slipping in the two mauve
cartridges. I can still hear the sharp click of the
brass rim against the steel of the barrel. . . .
At fifteen, armed with an old fowling-piece, I had
already tasted the extraordinary delights of shoot-
ing over marsh. When, later, I was in the army,
firing at disappearing targets had seemed to me
mere child's play compared to the fine right and left
at diverging snipe I managed to pull off more than
once in those early days.
To the north of Dax there is an immense marsh
bounded by the wretched hamlets of Herm and
Gourbera. You reach it through a gorge known as
“La Cible” because the Emperor's gamekeepers
used to shoot there in bygone days.


THE SECRET SPRING 151
Here was the same misty waste. How well I
remember the soft squish of the wet ground, as if
the earth itself were dissolving, and the tall yellow
grasses, which are sharp as a knife and cut your
hands if you’re foolish enough to touch them.
I knew all the birds and beasts, all the varied
life of those stretches of mud, treacherous beds of
green moss, reed-fringed ponds — the whole great
expanse that looks so flat and monotonous.
Like the fair sportswoman of the Volga marshes,
I knew all the birds that haunt these wan regions:
the black, or water-rail, which hops about in leafless
trees; the red-rail, or corn-crake, which runs at
lightning speed through the high grass, throws the
best dogs off the scent, reduces the sportsman to
breathlessness and makes you think you are after
a hare, until it suddenly decides to take wing, from
which moment it becomes an easy prey, poor, silly
thing.
There were many species of duck, which sweep
dizzily overhead in their curious oblique and rigid
flight; shovellers, pochards, sheldrake, with their
pretty red heads; shrill-voiced teal, which fly in
couples and have a trefoil of three black feathers on
their ruddy breasts.
There were lapwings, black and white, like mag-
pies, which rise up swiftly with their croaking cry
and then swoop wildly to earth to dodge your shot.
There were plovers, handsomest of birds, in their
golden spring raiment.


152 THE SECRET SPRING
And, last and best, there was snipe, queen of the
marshes, and the finest and hardest of shots; the
jack snipe, smaller than a lark, which has blue and
green stripes; the common snipe, which is about the
size of a quail, and amazingly timid, and the great
snipe, rarest of all, which is as big as a partridge.
With their plaintive, hoarse cry they fly in dis-
concerting zig-zags at an incredible speed. You
aim to the right and when the wind has blown
away the smoke you see the little grey bird vanish-
ing in the dim distance on the left.
In the midst of these Hanoverian marshes, so
like our marshes of the Landes, Aurora of Lauten-
burg was even more beautiful than in all her finery
at the palace. Wearing a feather toque and huge
but shapely top-boots, she jumped as lightly as a
bird over the sodden turf. The yellow mist of that
water-laden atmosphere seemed to cast a pale
mauve halo about her. Marçais shot calmly and
well. Little Hagen was fussy and always fired too
soon. I was a much better shot than either of these
two, but what a poor figure I cut beside the Grand
Duchess!
Leaving us the rail and duck, she devoted her
attention exclusively to the snipe. Gradually night
came down on the watery waste. The sky turned
to burnished copper in a last conflagration. The
great pools were sheets of green which grew darker
and darker. A thin tongue of flame began to leap
from the barrel of our guns every time we fired, a


THE SECRET SPRING 155
the carpet, resting her drooping head on the bare
feet of her mistress, which she clasped in her arms
from time to time.
From the chair where I was sitting I could see
the voluptuous curves of the girl's smooth throat
in the opening of her Valenciennes fichu. The win-
dow was open behind the drawn curtains, and the
night breeze, wafting them apart from time to time,
mingled the balmy scents of the Herrenwald with
the heady odours of amber, roses and cigarettes.
With her utter indifference to effect or style,
Aurora spoke, mixing up three languages and inter-
changing the French “you,” the German third
person, and the Russian “thou.”
“I expect you know,” she began, “that I did not
exactly go up in the world when I married. Once a
princess, I am now no more than grand-duchess,
and though I am allied to the Hohenzollerns my
husband's family is not nearly as old as my own.
“I am a Tumene princess. I know, of course,
that your western histories say practically nothing
about us. But if you went to Samarkand or Kara-
Roroum, or indeed no further than Tiflis, you would
find in our ancient Mongolian chronicles things that
would amaze you as to the antiquity of our origin,
and you would realize that your Broglies and Cum-
berlands are mere parvenus compared with us.
“One Tumene prince was beheaded for his hos-
tility to Yaroslav the Great, and I will go back no


156 THE SECRET SPRING
further, least I weary you with jaw-breaking names.
Another, much later, gave Ivan the Terrible so much
trouble that that sovereign preferred to treat with
him and sent him magnificent presents, notably an
enormous clock with the signs of the zodiac in saph-
phires. This was not enough, however, to prevent
that Tumene's son from assisting the Khan of the
Crimea with forty thousand horsemen when he
started out to besiege Moscow, in 1571, if I remem-
ber rightly.
“You must not think that we were no better
than savages because at first we fought against the
Czars. Boris Godounov was glad enough of our
help against the Tartars, Circassians and Chere-
misses. I admit we always preferred fighting
against European enemies. It was Alexis Tumene,
son-in-law of Peter the Great, who led the great
charge at Pultawa. As a reward the Czar ordained
that his reforming edicts should not run in Tumene
territories. We have at home a portrait in the style
of your Mignard representing Alexis in a feathered
cap, a golden lambskin, embroidered like a chasuble,
and wearing his moustaches long, a fashion which
the Czar had forbidden every one else.
“The first Tumene to shave was my great-grand-
father, Vladimir. He it was who was nearly shot
by the orders of Barclay de Tolly. I don’t remem-
ber the reason. He was in command of the Astra-
khan Cossack Corps who bivouacked in the Champs-


THE SECRET SPRING 157
Elysées and apparently played the devil there. My
great-grandfather did a good deal of looting, but
converted his booty into cash which he soon lost at
the Palais-Royal. You see he banked on red, and
black came up fourteen times running.
“Vladimir's father was at first on excellent terms
with Catherine II. When she had had enough of
him she made him marry a lady from Anhalt. This
was the first time my family had contracted an alli-
ance in this country. I hope I shall close the list.
I don’t say that to hurt your feelings, Melusine,
but really that particular German was stupid and
miserly. For instance, of the seven children she
gave her husband not one was in her own image.
They were all little Cossacks.
“My grandmother came from Erivan. I am told
I’m like her, but she was better-looking than I.
She was madly in love with my grandfather, and
abjured her faith in order to marry him. But be-
fore this she adored shooting, which is a long way
the finest faith on earth.
“Papa, who will come into my story again, is the
second, member of the family to marry a German,
and once more a Hohenzollern. But you must hear
how it happened. Like his grandfather Vladimir,
he was an inveterate gambler. He took an oath to
win back everything his grandfather had lost in
France. Indeed, he would have utterly ruined
himself there, if you ever could ruin yourself with


158 THE SECRET SPRING
lands as big as six of your departments, Cossacks
too numerous to count and flocks and herds which
doubled every year.
“He always spent ten months of the year in Paris
— he was a member of the Jockey Club — Aix, Nice
and every other place to which men of his type
resort. It was at Aix that he met my mother. The
year was 1882. One evening he was at the Villa
des Fleurs with King George of Greece and the
Grand Duke Vassily. They had been drinking a
good deal and should not have been alone. Then
Papa began to pour out scandal about women,
swearing that they were all alike and that he, a
Tumene prince and obliged to marry to perpetuate
his name, had decided to marry any one Fate threw
in his way.
“‘All right,” said the Grand Duke, ‘marry the
first woman who comes in here.”
“‘Certainly, provided, of course, that she's not
married already,’ added my father, who was re-
ligious.
“‘I bet you won't.”
“‘ HOW much?’
“‘A hundred thousand roubles.”
“‘DOne.”
“I believe King George of Greece had never had
such an amusing time before. Poor man, I was
genuinely grieved when he was assassinated six
months ago. Just imagine, you two, what a scene
it must have been, with those three men waiting


THE SECRET SPRING 159
for the door to open on her who was to be a Tumene
princess, for they knew my father's obstinacy, and
that he would marry Queen Pomaré or Madame
Dieulafoy rather than lose his bet.
“The first-comer was my mother, the Duchess
Eleanor of Hesse-Darmstadt, then aged sixteen,
and behind her was her English governess. I still
shiver at the thought that, if the Englishwoman
had preceded her, Papa would certainly have
married her and I should have been much less
pretty.
“As it happened Mamma was beauty itself, a
blonde Melusine. Perhaps not quite as lovely as
you, dear Melusine. I never knew her well, as I
was only five when she died. She never managed
to make herself at home in our Tartary. I remem-
ber how she would shiver in the early autumn
evenings at the cry of the curlew in the Volga
marshes. Papa was terribly unfaithful to her.
She could only weep, and I’m afraid that's just
the thing that annoys men most.
“I still cannot understand how any one could fail
to be happy in our palace. Please don’t think it
was a barbarian lair. In 1850 we were visited by a
Frenchwoman, and you can read the book she wrote,
‘Voyages dans les Steppes de la Caspienne.’ It was
published in Paris. Her name was Madame Hom-
maire de Hell, and her husband was an engineer
employed on some geodetical mission. You can
verify all this in your books. She was received by
t


160 THE SECRET SPRING
my grandfather and has given a very full descrip-
tion of the palace.
“This palace is built on an island in the Volga.
My ancestors selected the site on account of marau-
ders. The marauders are no more, but the place is
as picturesque as ever.
“My earliest memory is the noise of the hooter
of the paddle-steamer which plied between us and
Astrakhan three times a week. It was an agreeable
sound because it meant visitors — the governor, the
French Minister, a pleasant individual like Marçais,
who brought me dolls and, later on, books. Like
a true aristocrat, Papa was never happier than
when entertaining company.
“The window of my room looked over the river.
I used to watch the wild duck, just like so many
little mechanical toys, floating solemnly down the
brown waters — especially when my governess,
Mlle. Jauffre, droned out the rules about partici-
ples: when the complement precedes, it agrees;
when it follows. . . . I would get up quietly, take
my long fowling-piece and some ‘Number four'
and let fly, bang! bang! among the ducks. The
servants went out in boats to bring them in. Papa
never minded as long as I had killed at least half a
dozen. Having told you this, you mustn't be sur-
prised if I make slips in my grammar.
“For the piano I had an Italian professor. He
was a republican. He was always trying to explain
to us, with a meaning smile, that he was a natural


THE SECRET SPRING 161
son of Garibaldi. I can only remember his Chris-
tian name, Teobaldo. One day, when I was fifteen,
he was behind me turning over the pages of some
music I was reading, and kissed the back of my
neck. I must confess I had encouraged him a little,
just to see what he’d do. I burst out laughing. He
took that for a responsive thrill and kissed me again.
I laughed as if I should never stop. Suddenly
Papa came in. I thought I was in for trouble, but
the room was dark. He picked up his ramrod,
which he had left on the table, and went out. For
small game Papa always made his own cartridges,
to get a proper spread.
“Next day I was walking with Mlle. Jauffre in
a very thick fir copse at the western horn of the
island. We almost ran into a long, flabby form,
hanging from a cedar. It was poor Teobaldo.
Mlle. Jauffre screamed and fled. I turned him
round by the feet to have a good look. Then I
fled also, as fast as I could. His black, swollen
tongue was hanging out over his tie. His eyes were
dead white and fat flies were already as busy on
him as on a rotten apple. Perhaps the most hor-
rible thing was that he had the same expression
as when he was kissing me. Since then I have
always loathed men.
“It was about this time that I became melan-
choly through reading the “Demon’ of Lermontoff,
who is a much greater poet than your Vigny, or
even Byron. I was very pale and there were scarlet


THE SECRET SPRING 163
lent me “Resurrection.’ I never knew such a world
existed. I had Tolstoy's social creed expounded to
me, to tease Mlle. Jauffre. The old man was jubi-
lant. ‘Oh, mademoiselle! If only you would, what
a chance!”
“The result was that when we left Piatigorsk I
took old Barbessoul (for that was his name) back
with me. Papa was certainly somewhat astonished
to see the patriarch in our train, but, as I looked
so well, said nothing. To tell the truth, he was
used to my caprices.
“He did more. Quite close to the island in the
Volga on which the palace stood was another small
island, perhaps a square half-verst in area. Papa
gave it to me, and with it fifty moujiks, men, women
and children. There, under the old man's direction,
I set up a socialist community, half Saint-Simon,
half Tolstoy: no private property, division of the
instruments of labour according to needs and
capacities, etc., etc.
“At first all went well. I spent four hours a
day in my socialist paradise. Old Barbessoul was
triumphant. His part in the organization was
something between priest and foreman. Papa
thought I was mad.
“You won’t be surprised to hear I had soon had
enough of it, if only because things began to go
wrong. Feeling safe under my protection, the mem-
bers of the community used to go out in boats at
night to rob the hen-roosts of the riverside farmers.


164 THE SECRET SPRING
f
Papa had very kindly consented to relieve them of
taxation and compulsory labour. It was perfectly
alarming the amount of kwass they drank. Old
Barbessoul was the only one who couldn't perceive
how strongly they smelt of drink, even the women.
Why, after two months, one of them found himself
the possessor of all the agricultural implements.
All the others had pawned them to get kwass. Then,
as they could not work, they loafed about all day
and spent the night robbing the neighbouring peas-
ants. One night there was a regular battle. Two
moujiks were killed. Papa was wild with rage,
called me a silly fool, and wanted to hang old
Barbessoul. On my entreaties he refrained, but
the community was broken up.
“That was my last experiment with Socialism.
It is certain that if it had not been for Papa's
Cossacks all those folk would have cut each other's
throats.
+ + * + +
“One day in February, 1909, when I was just
on twenty, I was shooting duck from a boat in a
branch of the Volga when I saw on the bank Papa's
favourite Cossack signalling wildly with his cap
on the end of his sabre.
“He was shouting as well, though I couldn’t
hear him. I gathered that something must have
happened at home, but I wanted to appear indiffer-
ent in spite of my burning curiosity to know what
all the fuss was about. I only put in to the bank


THE SECRET SPRING 165
an hour later, when the poor man was almost dead
with waving his arms and shouting so much. He
told me the Prince wanted me in his study. I took
as long as I could getting there, anticipating a good
lecture.
“I got nothing of the kind. Papa seemed radiant
about something. He kissed me, then, showing me
a large envelope with red seals on his bureau, he
told me what it was about.
“It was a letter to Papa from the Czar. It in-
formed him that in May the Emperor William was
to visit St. Petersburg and that there would be
great celebrations, ending up with a review at Tsar-
skoie-Selo; that he therefore wished the Astrakhan
and Aral Cossacks to be represented, and begged
the Tumene Prince to bring a brigade with him.
“The Czarina,” he added, “will be glad to make her
little niece's acquaintance on this occasion.' I had
forgotten to tell you that I was her niece, owing to
Papa's marriage with a Grand-Duchess of Hesse-
Darmstadt.
“I can assure you that I had never found the
days long in our Volga palace, yet, as I listened to
my father, I must confess to a feeling of joyous
excitement, and from that moment I had only one
idea — to astonish the Czar, the Czarina, the Ger-
man Emperor and, indeed, the whole world. I
spent days on end looking into my glass, and admit
that I was not altogether displeased with what I
saw there.


166 THE SECRET SPRING
“Hitherto I had had my clothes made at Astra-
khan by Menjuzan Soeurs, excellent French dress-
makers who visited Paris once a year for their
models and did good business with fashionable
Circassian society. Papa gave me unlimited credit
and two days later I left with Mlle. Jauffre. But
I must tell you I had a scheme of my own.
“I came back from Astrakhan and told him I
could find nothing at all. I wept all over him and
vowed I would never appear at Court dressed like
a savage. You can imagine that I had no intention
of missing such a splendid opportunity of seeing
Paris. Papa took a good deal of persuading, but
I soon realized he wouldn’t be sorry to see his old
friends there again.
“We left early in March. My one fear when we
arrived in Paris, of which my head was full, was
to betray any sort of astonishment, and that is no
doubt why my manner was somewhat affected.
“Papa lost no time in finding out that he had
a whole mass of visits and engagements. He only
put in an appearance at the ‘Ritz’ for meals and
not always for them.
“He wanted me to go to Redfern, but I chose
Doucet, out of perversity. I have never seen any-
thing more absurd than Mlle. Jauffre, in her pince-
nez and black satin gown, smothered in jet, standing
among the lovely girls who bowed to me and
walked up and down to help me to choose.


THE SECRET SPRING 167
“I was asked: “What does your Highness
require?’
“‘Everything,' I replied coldly.
“In a twinkling I had ordered six evening gowns,
twelve tailor-mades, two riding-habits, and every-
thing else on the same scale.
“Nothing was décolleté enough for my taste.
Mlle. Jauffre was green in the face. The head sales-
woman took it upon herself to tell me it was rather
risqué for a young lady. I told her to get on with
the fitting. Besides, Papa appeared on one occa-
sion and approved my choice. He gave me a proud
look that made me altogether happy, for I knew
what a good judge he was.
“That evening he must have had a twinge of
conscience at leaving me so much to myself, for he
told me we were to dine together and instructed
Mlle. Jauffre to bring me to Laurent's in the Avenue
Gabriel at eight o'clock to the minute. I need
hardly say that at eight o'clock no one was there.
I sat down on a form and waited. To while away
the time I drew out the little inlaid dagger I car-
ried in my belt and cut my initials on the bench.
I expect they're still there.
“At ten minutes past eight, seeing an old gentle-
man hovering round us and feeling the need of a
little dissipation, I told Mlle. Jauffre to go out to
the tobacco kiosk in the Avenue Matignon and buy
me a box of Mercédès. She demurred at first, but


168 THE SECRET SPRING
ultimately went. The old man then came up to me.
He had check trousers and a grey felt hat. He be-
gan a very entertaining conversation and mentioned
a little flat in the Rue d'Offémont and a lift hung
with tapestry curtains. I turned my head to hide
my uncontrollable laughter and was all the more
astonished to hear a resounding smack. When I
turned round I saw Papa. The old gentleman beat
a dignified retreat, murmuring something about
having a little joke. In the moonlight I noticed
that his grey hat had been badly battered.
“Mlle. Jauffre came back with the Mercédès.
Papa told her frigidly to return to the ‘Ritz’ for
dinner, and go to bed.
“Laurent's is a place where you dine outside at
little lamp-lit tables under the beautiful trees. The
place was crowded. Papa was far more at home
there than in our Volga palace. He introduced
me to lots of celebrities: Bunau-Varilla, Charles
Derennes, Monsieur de Bonnefon, Princess Lucien
Murat, Maurice Rostand. I took a great fancy
to Rostand, with his choir-boy's face and manner.
We still write to each other, and he's coming to
see me at Lautenburg.
“At eleven o’clock Papa took me back to the
‘Ritz’ and told me he had to call at the Embassy
in the Rue de Grenelle. You don't suppose I felt
like going to bed! Mlle. Jauffre was snoring like
a Nüremberg top, and I thought I should never
wake her. You should have seen her look of amaze-


THE SECRET SPRING 169
ment when I told her that she must get up as Papa
had arranged to meet us at midnight.
“We took a taxi in the Rue de la Paix. Le
Grelot I told the driver. I had heard the name at
Laurent's. -
“Le Grelot is in the Place Blanche. I don't
suppose, dear friend, that a serious student like
you has ever been there. When we went in I was
a little jealous of the chorus of approval that
greeted Mlle. Jauffre's spangled gown. A little
roué, hopelessly drunk, called out that it was
Madame Fallières. Then the whole assembly rose
as one man and sang the chorus of a well-known
Song:
‘La tante Julie,
La tante Octavie,
La tante Sophie,
Le cousin Léon,
L'oncle Théodule,
L'oncle Thrasybule,
Les cousins Tibulle,
Et Timoleon.”
“I laughed as if I should never stop, and
my high spirits infected everybody — they had
looked bored to extinction when we first en-
tered.
“We drank champagne — unlimited champagne.
Then we danced. I just showed those Frenchmen
what a Russian princess could do. The only man
who could waltz properly with me was a member


** * * * *
-
THE SECRET SPRING 171
in making preparations to go, but it proved a ter-
rible business getting Mlle. Jauffre away. She was
exceedingly loth to leave her negro. In the taxi she
sang at the top of her voice:
‘Caroline, Caroline,
Put on your shiny black shoes.”
“Then, without warning, she leaned out of the
window and began to weep vigorously, complaining
that I had not shown her sufficient respect.
“Papa had a bill from Doucet for thirty-eight
thousand six hundred francs. He did not demur,
and I gathered that his daughter's requirements
had as a matter of fact been less formidable than
those of other ladies — a thought which disgusted
me not a little.
+ * * º +
“When we got back to Russia, we found another
letter from the Czar, telling Papa that the Kaiser's
arrival at St. Petersburg was fixed for May 15th,
so that we ought to make our arrangements at once.
“I could give you no idea of the gorgeous way
in which he fitted out his brigade. The Astrakhan
Cossacks wear the Armenian high black cap, some-
thing like a sugar-loaf, red coats edged with fur,
and yellow bandoliers. The Aral Cossacks have
sky-blue coats, white bandoliers, and wear the
round Kalmuck busby, two feet in diameter, from
which they derive their nickname of “Bigheads.”


172 THE SECRET SPRING
They carry the curved sabre, on which the Aral
Cossacks, who are Mohammedans, engrave verses
of the Khoran, a whip with lead balls, and a long
lance.
“Papa had all the woollen facings replaced by
others of gold and silver. He reviewed his squad-
rons one day towards the end of April when the
early crocus was peeping shyly forth. There was
only a pale yellow sun, but it was quite enough to
make those superb warriors look so magnificent that
we could easily imagine what they would be like
in the brilliant May sunshine at Tzarskole-Selo.
“There was nearly a catastrophe the day they
left for Petersburg. You must remember that
these simple folk, who fear neither man nor whirl-
wind, spirits of marsh nor spirits of flood, stand in
mortal terror of railways. Their horses share that
emotion. Half of them had been bundled in when
they suddenly caught sight of the squat little en-
gine, puffing and blowing, in the middle of the
steppe. Not one of them would have moved if the
priest had not turned up and blessed this strange
animal.
“We got them off at last in twelve trains, which
took twelve days to cross Great Russia. We our-
selves were travelling by the express, so we only had
to leave the palace a week later. The Czar had a
special Pullman car put at our disposal. We in-
vited the two colonels and the six majors to join
us. The priest was with Mlle. Jauffre and Kunin,


THE SECRET SPRING 173
Papa's favourite Cossack. I had put them in charge
of my wardrobe.
“Petersburg is a splendid city, with barracks,
churches and fine gardens. You can see that the
man who laid it out had a definite scheme in mind.
We were housed royally at the Winter Palace and
had a private audience of the Czar the night we
arrived. “Hello! so this is the little niece,” he said,
and I could see he thought me pretty. The Czarina
kissed me and called the Grand Duchesses, my
cousins, in order to introduce us. I gave Olga and
Tatiana each a necklace of Caucasian rubies,
which seemed to have a diamond tear inside, and
for the little girls there were necklaces of pink
pearls. Papa had brought the Czarevitch an
aigrette buckle, made out of one huge diamond,
for his kolbach, and a little Cossack sword with
the hilt set in sapphires and brilliants.
“Two days later all the bells of the capital an-
nounced the arrival of the Kaiser. The Czar, the
Czarevitch and the Grand Dukes went to Kronstadt
to meet him.
“Since then I have seen so many royal entries
into various cities that the memory of this particu-
lar occasion has gradually faded entirely from my
mind. But that doesn’t matter. It was a magnifi-
cent spectacle.
“I witnessed the arrival at the palace from my
balcony. The White Cuirassiers, with the Grand
Dukes, rode up to the gates. The honours were


174 THE SECRET SPRING
rendered by the Preobrajensky guards. All this
time Papa's Cossacks were installed in two bar-
racks and forbidden to leave them. This annoyed
me at first until I learned, as I soon did, that it was
because they were the finest in all the Russias and
the Czar was reserving them jealously for the grand
finale.
“Under the soft, fleecy sky of Bothnia the breast-
plates and sabres sparkled with blue and gold.
“The Kaiser was with the Czar, the Czarevitch
and the Crown Prince in the first carriage. He was
wearing the uniform of a colonel of the Russian
Cuirassiers, with the golden eagle on his silver hel-
met. He saluted frequently and wore a happy
smile. Frederick William was wearing the uni-
form of the Black Hussars.
“The Empress and the Czarina came next, with
a host of German princes and generals.
“The introductions seemed as if they would never
come to an end. I had my little success. “So this
is the little niece,” said the Kaiser, taking my hand
and leading me to the Empress. The motherly old
hen kissed me from beneath her lace and ostrich
plumes, and told me how much she loved my poor
Mamma. I was still the ‘little niece” to them all.
Meanwhile Frederick William and Adalbert did
stare, I can tell you! Adalbert is a fine young man,
but he looks pig-headed and sly. I prefer the Crown
Prince, who looks full of mischief. I can tell you
Germany won't be dull when he succeeds his father.


THE SECRET SPRING 175
“I spent the whole afternoon getting ready for
the banquet in the evening. I was so afraid I
shouldn’t make an impression that I got quite irri-
table and would have quarrelled with Mlle. Jauffre
for two pins. It was almost as if I had a presenti-
ment of all the evils that were to come upon me
as a result of that cursed evening.
“You can have no idea what a gorgeous affair
a fête at the Peterhof is. The Kaiser had donned
another uniform, even more striking than the first.
But you should have seen his face when he saw
Papa's'
“His uniform was not to be compared to that of
the Tumene Prince. The Empress's diamonds
looked like the tawdy gewgaws of a suburban house-
wife by the side of the brilliants on the chain
which secured his scarlet cloak at the left shoulder.
“When I went in I saw the Czar repress his as-
tonishment. For one moment I thought I must be
too décolleté. Then this fear vanished as I realized
the impression I was making. You must remember
I had secured Doucet's admitted chef d'oeuvre, a
gown of sapphire velvet, made very simply, but
closely moulded to the form, and my jewellery con-
sisted of nothing but sapphires. Child as I was, I
was already anticipating my next day's success.
“But what will they say,' I said to myself, “when
they see my Number 2, the red gown with nothing
but rubies!”
“We danced. I was amused to see the Germans,


THE SECRET SPRING 177
“The red Hussar danced atrociously, though he
made the most superhuman efforts. He thought he
ought to apologize, but I gave him no reply and
not even a word of thanks when the dance ended.
He resumed his place behind the Empress and
wiped his eyeglass from time to time, looking mis-
erable enough to melt a stone.
“The next day I was delighted to hear that there
was to be some fox-hunting two days later. How
thankful I was to have brought Taras-Bulba, my
wicked little Barbary horse, with me! I went to
see him at the barracks where our Cossacks were.
He had behaved so outrageously that he had been
shut up by himself in a stable — the door of which
he'd nearly smashed to pieces on his way in.
“When he saw me he whinnied rapturously and
soon bolted the sugar I had brought him.
“‘You’ve just got to show what you can do,”
I said, running my hand through his long, thick
mane. “We’ll leave them all behind, won’t we?’
“He nodded amiably to show he'd understood,
and I went out to try on my riding-habit.
“When I reached my room I found Papa there,
looking calm but radiant. I always loathe sur-
prises. They are sure to be unpleasant.
“I saw that Papa didn’t know how to begin,
and that in itself made me suspicious.
“‘You must hurry,' I said. “I have to dress.”
“‘My daughter,’ he said, ‘I have something im-
portant to say to you.’


178 THE SECRET SPRING
“‘That is no reason why you shouldn't hurry
up.”
“‘My daughter, how would you like to be a
Queen?’
“‘Queen of what?”
“‘Würtemberg.’
“We may have been brought up among savages,
but I know my Gotha. So I asked Papa if he
wanted me to marry the King of Würtemberg, who
was then sixty-two.
“‘It is not His Majesty the King of Würtem-
berg who has done me the honour to ask your hand.
It is His Highness the Grand Duke of Lautenburg-
Detmold.”
“Papa is a prince himself, and to hear him mouth-
ing ‘Majesties’ and ‘Highnesses' drove me crazy.
“‘What!” I cried. “The boiled lobster? Never! ”
“‘Let's be serious,” said my father.
“‘Never, I repeated, stamping my foot. “Be-
sides, I don't see the connection between this short-
sighted red-beard and the crown of Würtemberg.”
“‘It’s this,” said my father magisterially. ‘King
Albert of Würtemberg has no children. He is sixty-
two, as you correctly observed, and a martyr to
diabetes. The Grand Duke of Lautenburg is his
heir.”
“‘I don't care,' I replied. ‘I’d rather marry
Kunin, and, besides, I don’t want to marry at all.”
“Papa began to lose his temper. He came out
with the whole story. Rudolph of Lautenburg was


THE SECRET spring 179
madly in love with me. He had spoken to the Em-
press, his godmother, who had spoken to the Kaiser,
who had spoken to the Czar, who had just spoken
to him. Hints of this kind, flattering though they
are, are virtually orders, and . . .
“‘You consented, without waiting to ask me?’
I broke in.
“‘Not exactly,” he replied in some confusion,
“but, after all, what could I do but thank him and
consent . . .”
“‘Consent to what!”
“‘Consent to — oh, something which commits
you to nothing. I agreed that the Grand Duke
should be your companion at the meet the day after
tomorrow.”
“‘If that's all,” I said, “you can rely on me to
make this German sorry he ever came to Russia
for an heiress.”
“‘Promise me to be nice,’ begged my father in
alarm. “You make me regret I have given you so
much liberty. Remember it's a question of a royal
crown. Neither more nor less.”
“A crown! To see his daughter a queen! That
was all the old Kalmuck thought about.
“That evening as I was entering the car to go
to the gala performance I was made to realize that
Papa had committed me much further than he had
dared admit.
“‘Here's out little fiancée,” said the Kaiser, tak-
ing my hand.


180 THE SECRET spriNG
“The Empress, more the brood hen than ever,
kissed me on the forehead. It appears that this is
a family mania.
“And so it went on up to the Czar, who re-
marked to the Kaiser, with one of his sad smiles:
““So you're not satisfied with flooding me with
your subjects, but must needs come to take away
mine!”
“I put on my frankest smile, but cast many a
sidelong glance at my red Hussar, who didn't know
what to do. I said to myself:
“‘You wait a bit, my fine fellow! You'll be paid
out for this the day after tomorrow!”
+ + + + +
“The day came. My only fear was that the
country we hunted would be too flat, too easy. I
was quickly reassured. It is true that there were
a good many paths in the woods, quite suitable for
ladies, but there were also patches of thick scrub,
several streams, and here and there some tricky
ditches.
“Before we started I gave Taras-Bulba half a
pound of sugar soaked in whisky, and he was very
lively though full of dignity.
“I won’t pretend that there was not a chorus
of exclamation when he appeared. The Crown
Prince asked me why I didn’t have him clipped.
“‘Don’t listen to them, old friend,' I murmured
in my little steed's ear. He understood and know-
ingly tossed his head.


THE SECRET SPRING 181
“The Grand Duke Rudolph rode up beside me.
I made myself so agreeable that the poor man evi-
dently felt encouraged and said in a low voice:
“‘Then you don’t regret having me for your
companion, mademoiselle?”
“‘How could you think so, sir?” I answered.
‘This Court half suffocates me. We never have a
moment to ourselves. There's room to breathe out
here. We can talk.”
“‘So you love Nature!’ he murmured, radiant.
‘How happy I am!”
“I was happy, too. I was certain that he
wouldn’t leave me for a second.
“The first fox was started. Nothing remarkable
happened except, perhaps, when Taras-Bulba, fired
by the sound of the horn, performed a polka and
came down with his forelegs on the back of Adal-
bert's mare, almost unseating her rider. After that
they all kept away from my little horse as if he'd
been the plague.
“The Grand Duke of Lautenburg was riding one
of those horses so beloved of the Germans, a great
dark bay with hocks as big as a ham, and a back
like a billiard-table. Moreover, it didn’t take me
long to notice that the ugly brute had a hard
mouth and galloped with his head between his
legs.
“My poor friend, I thought, you'll have some fun
soon when you come to the ditches.
“A second and a third fox were killed easily


182 THE SECRET SPRING
enough. Suddenly a fourth started up between me
and the Grand Duke. I caught sight of him, a long,
lean animal with hardly any tail. I knew at once
he was what I was after.
“‘Ours!' I cried to Rudolph.
“He spurred his great brute into a gallop.
“The fox was a hundred yards ahead. Good
little beast! He made straight for the thickest
COWer.
“Every now and then the Grand Duke turned
round:
“‘I’m not going too fast, am I? Can you keep
up?’ he asked, panting.
“‘Go on! Go on!' I replied.
“And Taras-Bulba snorted as if to echo:
“‘Go on | Go On!’
“Soon we were in the depths of the woods. Then
I just touched my little nag's neck and gave him
his head. In a moment the Grand Duke was left
behind.
“I caught a glimpse of him, all red and breath-
less. . . . He was now a quarter of a verst behind
IIle.
“I told Taras-Bulba to slow down and he did
SO,
“‘You did give me a fright,” said the poor man
as he came up. “I thought your horse had bolted.’
“‘Look out!” I cried.
“There was a stream at our feet. He got over
it by the skin of his teeth. The fox, with three


THE SECRET SPRING 187
up with the congratulations of the whole Court.
“The Kaiser, who magnifies and distorts every-
thing, cried out:
“‘What a splendid girl she is — to save her
fiancé's life the very first day!”
“The Empress kissed me. It's a family mania.
My father was radiant.
“‘My compliments to Your Majesty,’ he whis-
pered in my ear.
“I was angry, though amused, and vented my
rage on Taras-Bulba, who had more whip as we
went back to the palace than he's ever had since.
“I have one good quality. I like to know exactly
where I stand. I realized that, largely by my own
fault, I had put myself in a position from which
there was no escape without one of those scandals
which any princess, worthy of the name, hates more
than the certainty of her own unhappiness. So I
decided to acquaint my ‘fiancé,” as the Court al-
ready styled him, with my conditions that very
evening.
“I asked him to receive me, and he complied
at once, after sending out the attendant who was
arranging the cage over his leg.
“When we were alone, this is more or less what
I said:
“‘My action in coming here will possibly aston-
ish you, sir. But I am, and always shall be, in the
habit of doing what I think advisable without
undue concern for mere decorum. Now I think it


THE SECRET SPRING 189
that my marriage will not be absolutely a political
affair — a thought which is very pleasing to a girl
like me.”
“‘I’d rather have the other leg broken, and both
arms, too,” he said in his gentle, melancholy way,
‘than hear you use that terrible expression, “politi-
cal affair.””
“‘I’m sure you would,” I replied, unmoved. ‘I
agree to be your wife. But you will not misunder-
stand me if I make one or two trifling stipulations.”
“‘Tell me, tell me,’ he said with some emphasis.
‘You know that everything you may ask is granted
beforehand.”
“‘Oh! Oh!” I laughed. “You may find in a
minute that you’ve been just a little hasty. Well,
dear friend’ (I laid some stress on that word),
‘ from my childhood I have always enjoyed the most
perfect liberty, and I don’t intend to be deprived of
it when I marry. It must be clearly understood
that nothing is to be changed, nothing, you under-
stand.”
“‘How could you think it of me!’
“‘Don’t let us have any misunderstanding as to
the meaning of words,” I said. “Please realize that
it is not a child, nor yet a woman, who is speaking,
and understand that my stipulation, the expression
of an unshakable resolve, is that our union is to
be a relation of friendship, excluding everything
else.”
“I don’t know if I should ever have dared to con-


190 THE SECRET SPRING
tinue my shocking little speech if his masculine
stupidity had not shown me how.
“‘You’re in love with some one else!” he said in
a hoarse voice.
“‘You forget yourself, and please don’t be fool-
ish,' I replied gently. “I will condescend to tell you
that I love no one, unless, perhaps — for the word
“love * is a jack-of all-trades — my native land,
hunting, flowers, to be left alone and two or three
other things, which really should not arouse a
jealousy only to be regretted in a man of intelli-
gence. Are you satisfied?”
“He smiled wanly.
“‘This,' I went on, “is our little private com-
pact. The chanceries will no doubt attend to the
public formalities — and everything else. I attach
no importance to them. Nor do you, I hope. I
need not say that you will always find in me a con-
sort worthy of yourself, equal to any situation that
may arise, and capable, if God so wills it, of bear-
ing worthily that famous crown of Würtemberg.
Here's my hand on it.”
“He took it and kissed it fervently. A great joy
had banished the trouble in his eyes. I had never
expected him to accept his fate so quietly. Then I
suddenly grasped his reasoning: “I shall be so
good, so tender and thoughtful to her that she must
be won over in the end, though I cannot now tell
how far off that end may be.”
“There was so much unaffected pathos in the


THE SECRET SPRING 191
poor man's delusions that I couldn’t help being
rather touched. We parted the best friends in the
World.
“As I went back to my room I heard a terrible
uproar in the Great Court. It was Taras-Bulba,
who had got bored with his stall, kicked open the
stable-door, knocked down an ostler and two sen-
tries, and was neighing fiercely to me from below.
It was a much more difficult matter to get him
quiet than to deal with the Grand Duke Rudolph.
+ + + + *
“After I became the Grand Duchess of Lauten-
burg-Detmold in the autumn of 1909, my first
concern was to set about the improvements re-
Quired to make this place reasonably comfortable.
The gardens had been allowed to run riot, and as
for the palace, it was crammed with horrors that
even a negro chief would not have tolerated.
“I soon revolutionized all that. Melusine, who
came in the summer of 1910, would tell you that I
spent my time then very much as I do now, except
that when I felt particularly low-spirited I used to
escape to Russia to relieve my feelings.
“The person who did change was the Grand
Duke Rudolph. Not that he ever ceased to treat
me with the most unwearying attention, poor man!
But after a year, when he had quite realized that
his innocent little scheme was not working, and
never would work, and that I should never be any-


THE SECRET SPRING 193
he assaulted a major who had asserted that there
were rocks of quaternary origin in the Harz.
Rudolph admired his work and went before the
court-martial to give evidence on his behalf.
Thanks largely to his intervention, Boose got off
with sixty days' solitary confinement in a fortress.
When his time was up my husband secured his ap-
pointment to the 3rd Battalion of Engineers at
Lautenburg.
“In the spring of 1911 I went to Russia, to spend
Easter with Papa. It was while I was there that I
received a letter, which I ought to have shown you,
from the Grand Duke. He told me that the Kaiser
had summoned him to Berlin, and asked him
whether he was prepared to use his scientific
knowledge in the service of the Empire. Explora-
tion had just proved the existence of immense
mineral wealth in the Cameroons. It was neces-
sary to confirm this discovery, and also ascertain as
discreetly as possible the mineral resources of the
neighbouring territories, so that the question of
Germany’s interest in annexing them might be
considered. I’m sorry to say, my friend, that the
territories in question form that part of the Congo
which France ceded to Germany by the treaty of
1912. -
“So Rudolph was going off to Africa with Boose.
With a sorry pretence of indifference he made his
excuses for leaving Europe without waiting for my
return, pleading the urgency of the imperial orders.


THE SECRET SPRING 199
but firmly he told me his wishes. ‘Marry Fred-
erick-Augustus, or . . .”
“I didn’t read on but tore up the letter into
little pieces. Then and there I wrote out a tele-
gram — some thirty words of passionate pleading
and threats — to the Tumene Prince.
“You remember, Melusine, how we suspected
postal censorship at Berlin, and how you took the
train and sent off the telegram from Köpenick.
“When you had gone my feelings overcame me,
and I burst into tears — tears of rage and hatred.
I can still see myself in that awful Berlin room.
Hagen was sobbing at my feet. He had taken my
hands, and even my arms — this is absolutely true
— and was covering them with tears and kisses.
“I will go with you, I shall follow you, where and
when you will,’ he murmured. When all's said
and done I am proud to think that it only wanted
a word from me to make a Prussian officer throw
up his profession and abjure his native land.
“But the touch of that moustache on my arm
quickly brought me back to a sense of reality. I
remembered Louisa of Saxony and all the low
lackeys who have made money out of their notoriety
as the lovers of queens. I pushed the innocent
Hagen away and recovered my self-possession.
“I didn't go out at all during the two days while
I was waiting for the reply to my telegram. Then
it came, the little blue slip. You were looking hard


200 THE SECRET SPRING
at me, Melusine, so I smiled as I opened it. It
contained these simple words:
“‘I will never see my daughter until she has done her duty.’
“What a heart of flint the old Kalmuck had 1
“I read it and fell to the floor like a stone.
* + 44 + *
“I’m afraid I must stop to explain matters at
this point, ami, or you may find the rest incompre-
hensible. No doubt you are asking yourself: “How
it could ever have come about that a will like
Aurora's could have yielded? What could this in-
visible and powerful Frederick-Augustus have done
to get the Empress, Rudolph's godmother, and the
Kaiser on his side?’
“I expect you read your foreign news carefully
enough in 1909 to know that about that time the
Eulenburg affair and a Moltke-Harden case were
causing a considerable stir in German Court circles.
Personally, the way these folk took their pleasures
was a matter of indifference to me. What strikes
me as monstrous is the fact that these scandals had
a considerable effect on my fortunes.
“Frederick-Augustus seldom stayed at Lauten-
burg in his brother's lifetime. I only saw him three
or four times, the first occasion being my wedding,
and the second, six months later, the funeral of his
wife, a worthy but stupid woman with wrists like a


202 THE SECRET SPRING
wnile I was studying in my mirror the pathetic
figure I looked with the little fair curls clustering
on my head, Hagen, who was on orderly duty,
came in and announced Duke Frederick-Augustus.
“I was still really too ill to receive him, but I
was longing for the encounter. I must confess, to
my shame, that I didn’t come out on top that day.
“He came in and bowed ceremoniously. His
blue eyes, in his pale, smooth face, were bright and
dim by turns.
“‘My dear sister, what a pleasure to find you
up at last, and looking so well.”
“His perfect ease of manner froze me. He went
OIl :
“‘There is no point in not telling you at once
the pleasant object of my visit. Tomorrow it will
be nine months since the death of my regretted
brother, the Grand Duke Rudolph. As the legal
period of your widowhood then expires their Majes-
ties the Emperor and Empress would be glad if you
could see your way to fix a convenient date for the
celebration of our marriage. They have expressed
their intention of being present.’
“‘Tell their Majesties, my dear brother,' I re-
plied, “that I will fix any date that suits their
pleasure, and kindly add that I hope it will be the
last time I shall give them this trouble.”
“He bowed gravely.
“‘That is also my heart-felt desire, dear sister,’
he said.


THE SECRET SPRING 203
“And he went out.
“We were married one day in March, 1912, a
dull, threatening day. The Emperor and Empress,
true to their promise, were present at the religious
ceremony and left for Berlin in the evening. About
five o'clock, first at the Rathaus and then at the
castle, the State authorities and magistrates
took the oath of fealty to the new Grand Duke.
At eight the superior officers and higher digni-
taries of the Grand Duchy, some thirty guests,
were present at a dinner, informal on account of
our recent mourning, in the banqueting-hall on the
ground floor.
“The second course had hardly begun when the
sound of tapping, now loud, now soft, was heard
coming from the first floor, immediately above our
heads.
“At first no notice was taken. But the noise
continued, tap, tap, tap, with exasperating regu-
larity.
“The Grand Duke, frowning slightly, beckoned
to the lackey standing behind him.
“‘What's that noise?” he asked in a low tone.
“Go and stop it.”
“The man had not returned in a quarter of an
hour, but the noise did not cease.
“‘Here, Kessel, cried the Grand Duke, half an-
noyed, half amused, ‘try and find out what's going
on above our heads. Excuse me, gentlemen, he
said, turning to our guests.


THE SECRET SPRING 205
Aurora had stopped. For a few minutes silence
reigned. Then Melusine went to the window and
swiftly drew back the curtains. We saw it was
already light.
I looked at the Grand Duchess, lost in reverie,
elbow on knee and chin in hand. Her beautiful
features and clear skin betrayed not the slightest
sign of her night-long vigil.
The chilly dawn found Aurora even more beau-
tiful than the glowing dusk had left her.


VII
CCASIONALLY, perhaps once or twice a
O week, the Grand Duchess preferred to be
alone, and on these evenings I used to re-
sign myself to work.
My study of the Königsmark had been virtually
abandoned. I no longer found much pleasure in
disturbing that ancient dust now that fate had
summoned me to witness another drama, the actors
in which lived and moved around me, and spoke to
me every day.
There had been a great storm on a certain July
evening which Aurora's pleasure doomed me to
spend alone. Through the window, open to the
lowering night sky, I heard the trees dripping. I
was working in an extremely half-hearted manner,
my mind straying from the tragedy of the Herren-
hausen to the lands whither the Tumene princess's
story had wafted me. Indeed, it was a piece of
pure luck that thrust before my eyes the supremely
important document of which I must now speak.
I told you some time back, with details which
must have seemed tedious, of the dossier compiled
by the Queen of Prussia with a view to the rehabili-
tation of her mother Sophie-Dorothea. That eve-
ning, after analysing two or three documents of
206


208 THE SECRET SPRING
admits that he held him down while Countess von
Platen, with her foot on his head, tried to extort
a confession from him that he had been Sophie-
Dorothea's lover.
I was familiar with most of these details. They
can also be found in Blaze de Bury's book. But
the statements following definitely settled the
famous controversy as to what happened to the
Count's corpse.
When Count Königsmark was quite dead, said Bauer,
Countess von Platen ordered us to carry him to the great fire-
place at the back of which is a bronze plaque six feet wide.
Countess von Platen touched a spring. The plaque divided
in two, revealing a little chamber. I just caught a glimpse,
for I was very much perturbed in mind, of a whitish heap
which looked like lime. We laid the corpse down there.
Countess von Platen then sent us away, after telling us to
wash off the blood which had stained the clothes of some of
the men. She remained in the Baron's Hall with her attend-
ant, a certain Festmann. . .
You see now that I had my reasons when I told
you, casually, that Königsmark's corpse is con-
cealed behind the fire-back in the Knight's Hall of
the Herrenhausen. Moreover, Bauer's document
had, in my eyes, a further importance beyond
settling the spot once and for all. To me it was
also a proof of the complicity either of Ernest-
Augustus or his son. Remember that Countess von
Platen had worked a secret spring, and also bear in
mind that German princes in the seventeenth and
eighteenth centuries were exceedingly jealous of


210 THE SECRET SPRING
be able to find something about the system of secret
springs installed by Giroud at the Herrenhausen.
I decided to clear the matter up then and there.
It was just after midnight. I put an electric
torch in my pocket and quietly left my room. At
that moment I thought I heard a faint noise in the
deserted corridor.
“Come,” I thought, “I can’t let myself be scared
like this by old papers!”
When I got to the library I was disagreeably
surprised to find the lights on. Professor Cyrus
Beck was hard at work covering a black board with
his formulae and only stopping to consult five or six
treatises open in front of him.
There was, of course, nothing unusual about my
appearance there. I had often gone down late at
night to the library to clear up some point in my
next day's lesson. All the same he looked at me
with that suspicious air of the savant who always
thinks you're going to rob him of something.
Two or three pleasant words quickly reassured
him. He condescended to confide to me that he was
at a decisive moment in his experiments and that
the next day, without doubt, perhaps that very
night. . . . Through the open door came the noise
of his furnaces, roaring like chimneys on fire.
I thought it unwise to tell him that I, too, had
reached the same stage as himself in another affair.
Besides, almost at once he put away his books,


THE SECRET SPRING 211
folded up his notes, rubbed out his formulae, wished
me good-night and went.
I was eager for his departure as I had already
found what I wanted.
With a Sureness of method which astonished me
I had put my hand straight off on the vital docu-
ment, a bill of Giroud's, dated 1682, and addressed
to Ernest-Augustus.
It was a long bill, but I found the following item
at Once :
For the chimney-place of the Baron's Hall, six springs, in
my name, at one hundred and fifty livres the spring.— Total
900 livres.
I did not need to have a very profound knowledge
of secret springs and locks to know what it meant.
The system is still used in safes, Fichet's and others.
It meant that on the fire-back of the chimney-place
in the Baron’s Hall of the Herrenhausen there were
six lettered locks. You made the spring act by
taking for each lock in turn one of the six letters
forming the name of the inventor, Giroud.
When you remember that this Giroud was the
master-locksmith of the Grand Duke of Lautenburg
you won’t have much difficulty in realizing that my
first thought was to use the fire-back in the armoury
of the castle of Lautenburg as a test of the ac-
curacy of my reasoning with regard to the fire-
place of the Baron's Hall in the Castle of Hanover.


THE SECRET SPRING 213
Then I wrote Giroud's name and obtained the fol-
lowing combination: 7, 9, 18, 15, 21, 4.
791815214. It will be a long time before I forget
that number.
I examined the whole face of the metal rectangle
with my lamp. A terrible disappointment was in
store for me. Instead of the six knobs that I had
eapected I could only find two.
When a single factor throws out the kind of cal-
culations I had just made it can only mean that
one's theory is radically false. I might have
known. That would have been much too
simple. . . .
Solely to prove myself wrong, I tried the first
knob and turning the pointer on the dial I set it on
the figure 7 — g.
I crossed to the other side and repeated the oper-
ation on the other knob, putting the pointer on the
figure 9 — i.
All at once I could hear my heart beat. A black
vertical line appeared in the centre of the plaque.
That line got wider and wider. The two panels
thus formed slid back to each side, leaving a gap
Some two feet six inches wide.
I was on the right track. The mystery of the
Herrenhausen was to be solved at last!
I had recovered control of myself, perfect control.
I remember saying: “What a delightful way of
studying history! I wonder what Monsieur Seig.
nobos would think of it?”


THE SECRET SPRING 217
appearance, and with difficulty suppressed an ex-
clamation.
“I’ll go and fetch her,” she said simply.
I seemed to have been walking in my sleep,
pushed on by the force of the night's events. Left
to myself my decision seemed utterly crazy. Why,
in a minute's time I should certainly be taken for
the madman I had brought myself to believe I was.
How would Aurora take the story of my extraordi-
nary adventure? “Save her from the fits of depres-
sion and that kind of spiritual disorder which are
so fatal to her physical health.” The words came
back to me. It was the request made to me by the
Grand Duke Frederick-Augustus. This was an odd
way of carrying out his wishes. I wanted to bolt.
But the Grand Duchess was already there. She
was in such high spirits that morning that I thought
I should never have the strength of mind to break
my news to her.
“Well, my friend,” she said. “To what do I
owe the pleasure of this visit? Have you changed
your time-table? Have you decided to give me
your mornings in future?”
My tell-tale face produced the same effect on her
as on Melusine.
She took my arm and made me sit down on a
sofa beside her.
“You nearly fell as you sat down,” she said
gravely. “Melusine, bring me the blue casket.”


THE SECRET spring 219
“But it isn’t the presence of the skeleton which
has been such a shock, madame,” I answered.
“What is it, then?” she said, in that slightly
scornful tone she immediately assumed when she
thought you were trying to mystify her.
“It is,” I said simply, but picking my words care-
fully, “that I had in my hands the right tibia of the
corpse which was concealed there, and that in the
middle of that tibia, on its outer surface, was the
join of an old fracture.”
Aurora was standing now. She was pressing her
hands to her temples. She had turned deadly pale.
Her staring eyes grew bigger and bigger.
“You’re mad! You're mad!” she screamed.
“Melusine, tell him he's mad!” -
Fräulein von Graffenfried rushed to the Grand
Duchess, who had fallen back, rigid, on the sofa.
Her eyelids were half closed. I read inexpressible
terror in the look she gave me.
“Mad! Mad!” she screamed again. “He’s at
Sangha. I have his letters. Sangha!”
“At Sangha! At Sangha!” the heartrending
voice rang out again.
“I’ve only done what I thought was my duty,”
I murmured to Melusine, helping her to get her
mistress to inhale the little blue casket.
The kind creature gave me a look charged with
meaning, as much as to say: “I know it, you’ve no
need to apologize.”
“Don’t be alarmed,” she said in an undertone.


THE SECRET SPRING 221
other things the whole time. I admired her self-
possession all the more, because my secret was
enough to have destroyed it altogether. In that
hour, big with the burden of coming events, I knew
the joy of realizing how indispensable I had become
to the haughty princess, who had seemed to ignore
my very existence only five short months before.
When the coffee came Melusine rose.
“Where are you going?” the Grand Duchess
inquired.
“To say that you won't be going calling this aft-
ernoon,” she replied.
“Shan't I?” said Aurora, smiling. “I’m not
so overcome as all that. Just go and say that the
car is to be ready at four instead of five.”
“Four?”
“Yes. I want a few hours' rest before coming
to fetch you at midnight,” she said, turning to me.
Melusine and I stared at her.
“Does that surprise you?” she continued. “Do
you call what you have just told me important or
not? Now this is what I think. One person can
suffer from a delusion. It's highly improbable that
two will. At midnight, my friend, I shall knock at
your door. Then you will have an opportunity of
proving your knowledge of secret springs. You
understand, now? Now, Melusine, go and order
the car for four o'clock. I’ve twice postponed my
call on the good Burgomaster's wife, and I mustn't
break my word a third time.”


THE SECRET SPRING 223
“You’re right, dear friend,” she said gravely.
“Then I'll expect you at half-past ten.”
+ + * + +
When I went back to my room after dinner I
really thought the time to go and fetch the Grand
Duchess would never come.
At length ten o’clock struck, then quarter past.
I went out quietly and peeped through the library
door. Good. There was no light. If Cyrus Beck
had unfortunately taken it into his head to work
there that night we should have had to begin all
over again.
Half-past struck, but it took me barely two min-
utes to cut across the garden. I wasn’t late.
Very quietly I opened the door leading into the
park. A puff of fresh air braced me up.
As I was closing it again I started. A hand had
just been placed on my shoulder. At that moment
I heard a voice:
“Professor Vignerte, I'm delighted to meet
you!”
It was Lieutenant von Hagen.
The night was pitch-black, and we could not see
each other. But I thought I detected that the hand
he had put on my shoulder was a little unsteady.
In an instant I recovered all my self-control.
“I thought you were at your mess,” I said.
“I’m supposed to be,” he replied. “But we all
change our minds sometimes. What about your-
self? No doubt you intended to spend the eve-


226 THE SECRET SPRING
ran the risk of being wounded, and, besides, there
would be a commotion, a scene. That must at all
costs be avoided.
“Herr von Hagen,” I said in low tones, “listen
to me. I know you wouldn't be talking like this or
trying to pick a quarrel, if you didn't love the Grand
Duchess yourself.”
“Sir,” he replied, furious, “I forbid you . . .”
“Just listen to me,” I said, and there was a ring
of impatient authority in my voice which impressed
him. “You love her, I repeat. I’m going now to
appeal as much to your love as to your loyalty as a
soldier. The Grand Duchess Aurora, that glorious
woman, is in terrible danger tonight. You must
understand that. Every minute, every second,
that you make me lose increases that danger. On
that I can give you my word of honour here and
now.”
I saw that I had hit home.
“What do you mean, sir?” he murmured in
alarm. “Danger?”
“Yes, Herr von Hagen. Go back to your rooms
at once. Don't go to bed. Perhaps Aurora of
Lautenburg will need your help tonight.”
He hesitated, then resigned himself to his lot.
“Very well, sir. I accept. I’ll go back. But
remember that if you’ve deceived me . . .”
“You need have no fear of that,” I replied.
“You must understand that the little meeting you
suggested just now must be postponed till to-


THE SECRET SPRING 227
morrow morning if you like. I’m just as anxious
for it as yourself.”
“Until tomorrow, then,” he said, smiling.
“What time?”
“Six o'clock. At the Meilleraie bridge. It's a
secluded spot and the Melna is handy.”
“What about weapons?”
“You can choose,” I said. “I leave it entirely
to you.”
“By ourselves, of course,” we said in the same
breath.
He stood to attention, gave me a military salute,
and vanished in the darkness.
“At last!” I murmured, with a sigh of relief.
Eleven o'clock was striking as I entered the Grand
Duchess's apartments.
+ + + + *
She was alone in her boudoir, standing, rather
pale.
As I entered, my expression must have told her
that something unusual had happened, for she asked
no questions as to why I was late.
“Anything serious?” she asked simply.
“Nothing, madame. But we must be quick.
We’ve only just time.”
As we reached the door leading to the staircase
the door of Melusine's room opened and Fräulein
von Graffenfried appeared.
“What!” She said. “So soon?”
“Yes,” said Aurora. “I forgot to tell you we


228 THE SECRET SPRING
decided to make it an hour earlier. Don't be
alarmed, dear. Stay here and don’t let any one in.
We shall be back before midnight.”
She kissed her on the forehead.
Torn with apprehension, and her beautiful eyes
full of tears, Melusine von Graffenfried had seized
my hands.
“Swear to me no harm shall come to her,” she
begged. “I commit her to your care.”
“Come, come,” said Aurora. “We’ve no time to
lose. Turn out the light on the staircase.”
We went down into the darkness.
When we got to the landing, I felt the pressure
of the Grand Duchess's hand on my arm. She
wasn’t trembling, I can assure you.
“Are you armed?” she said.
44 NO.”
“Child!” she murmured, and even as she spoke
I could feel her hand slipping something into the
pocket of my jacket. -
“It’s a Browning, a good one. Don't hesitate to
use it if the occasion arises, against any one. I'll
set you the example myself.”
We were now at the bottom of the staircase. She
was leading, and it was she who opened the door.
“Well?” I said.
She had stopped, blocking the doorway. A dull
cry escaped her.
“Didn't I tell you so! Oh, didn’t I tell you so!
He's a strong man, a very strong man!”


THE SECRET SPEING 229
* What is it?” I asked in terror.
To our right a huge red glare lit up the night
sky. Half the castle was on fire.
Against that background of flame the yews of the
park stood out like black cones. The water in the
Persephone fountain gleamed black and red.
“But who could have told him that we should
come tonight?” said the Grand Duchess. “Only
three of us knew: I, you and . . . she.”
For a few seconds we gazed at the tragic scene.
Then noises began to be heard in the palace, startled
from its first sleep.
“Come,” said Aurora, “let’s go and see.”
As we approached we ran into Hagen. He was
flying down the steps of the right wing like a
maniac.
“You! You!” he almost screamed with joy on
recognizing the Grand Duchess. “I was terrified'
I am So thankful.”
He kissed her hands frantically.
“Forgive me, forgive me!” he stammered, turn-
ing to me.
“Stay here with her,” I said, and, running off, I
made for the banqueting-hall at top speed.
“Where's he going?” cried Aurora. “Stop
him I ?”
But I was already too far. Crossing the banquet-
ing-hall, I got into the right wing of the castle. It
was the left which was on fire, with the library, and,
of course, the armoury.


230 THE SECRET SPRING
What was I thinking of? I had no very clear
idea myself. Some force, with which argument
was useless, was urging me on. Some time later I
tried to reason out my action. In my room was my
money, papers, a few letters from my mother — my
whole life, so to speak. Yet I’m certain that not
for one moment did I think that I was running such
risks for things like these.
Dense clouds of smoke shot with sparks were
pouring out of the first-floor corridor, at the end
of which was the door of my room.
I met Kessel coming down. I heard him shout:
“Where are you going? The stairs are in flames.
The corridor's burning!”
But I’d already left him far behind. I took off
my jacket and wrapped it round my head. I don’t
know how I managed to get to the door of my room.
I only remember that when I touched the handle I
burnt my fingers. -
Try as I might, I couldn’t get the door open.
The key turned in the lock as usual, but the door
resisted.
It was then that I noticed a stout iron bolt,
screwed into the door at one end and clamped to
the wall at the other.
“So that's it!” I said, “and my window looks
on to the ravine of the Melna! ”
I didn’t even start. I understood. I knew what
I wanted.


TEIE SECRET SPRING 231
“So you thought, sire, that I should be still in
my room | Didn't you, now?”
To come and go was but the work of a minute.
When I was at the bottom of the staircase a fearful
crash was heard. The upper half of the whole cor-
ridor had just collapsed.
When, wild-eyed and scorched, I got back to the
Grand Duchess, several groups had already col-
lected in the park. A tall man was standing with
her and Hagen. It was the Grand Duke.
“Monsieur Vignerte,” he cried rapturously, when
he saw me. “Oh, what a weight you’ve taken off
my mind! Have you come from far?”
“Yes, indeed, sir, very far!” I replied, and
nearly fell.
“Hold him!” cried Aurora to Hagen.
The little red Hussar obeyed.
“Look out!” the Grand Duke broke in suddenly.
“That's exactly what I feared.”
Catching hold of his wife, he had suddenly
jumped back a dozen yards or so. We all followed
suit, stupefied.
An enormous flame, purple and gold, shot up into
the glowing sky, followed by an appalling explo-
sion. We saw the walls of the castle part asunder,
totter and then collapse with a crash. A shower of
fragments of every kind, wood and plaster, tiles and
sparks fell on and around us. Beside us Captain
Muller, who had gone forward, was hit by some-


232 TEIE SECRET SPRING
thing. We saw him fall to the ground, with his
head bleeding.
Professor Cyrus Beck's laboratory had just
blown up.
The firemen turned up almost immediately and
set to work to localize the fire. In the Great Court
behind we could hear the measured, muffled sound
of the garrison troops coming up at the double.
By one o'clock the fire had been got under. At
half-past they were bringing out the first corpses.
About two the first streaks of gold appeared in
the sky and a serene dawn shone forth.
Just then a stretcher, borne by four soldiers, came
past us. We recognized the body of the professor,
terribly mangled.
The Grand Duke bent over it and took a long look.
Then, throwing back the cloth over the horrid
vision, he murmured:
“This was bound to happen sooner or later, with
an old fool like that.”
Such was the funeral oration of Herr Professor
Cyrus Beck, of Kiel University.
* + + + +
The Grand Duchess, Melusine and I went back to
the left wing of the palace. It was about six
o'clock. The day already promised to be very hot,
for the summer sun rose red over the awful scene of
desolation.
Melusine had joined us when the fire first began.


234 THE SECRET SPRING
yours to Vignerte. He's left his own behind, under
the ruins of the castle.”
The girl still insisted on going with us.
“Go!” said Aurora sternly.
Melusine left us. She seemed almost dead with
fatigue and the strain.
To avoid disturbing the thrushes we took a wind-
ing path to the bower, where I had had my first
interview with the Grand Duchess of Lautenburg.
Every now and then we saw a thrush rise above
the clumps of sorbs, take a good look round and
then drop down, satisfied.
When we were in the leafy tunnel I thought we
should have to make some kind of loophole, for the
foliage was amazingly thick, and shut us in with
its green, almost opaque wall. -
The Grand Duchess didn’t seem to mind. She
had not spoken a word as we walked. Her face
wore an expression of firm resolution. I hadn't
broken the silence either. What could I have said?
I'm sure our thoughts were the same at that tragic
moment. What was the good of exchanging them?
Suddenly the set expression of her features re-
laxed a little. She began to talk in low tones. I
was astounded by her extraordinary conversation,
and the not less extraordinary notion of going there
at such a moment to shoot the birds, whose habits
she was describing.
Her loaded gun lay across her knees, and she had


236 THE SECRET SPRING
writhing in her death agony, her face literally blown
to bits by the charge which she had received almost
at point-blank range.
“What a ghastly accident!” I cried in a horror-
stricken voice.
The Grand Duchess had come out of her bower.
One of Melusine's eyes was blown out, but the
other was fixed on Aurora with a mad look of terror
and torture.
Aurora gazed at her coldly, and murmured the
words of Hamlet after he had killed Polonius:
“I took thee for thy better!”
With a horrible gasp Melusine expired.
For one moment the Grand Duchess stood motion-
less. The rigid lines in her face almost terrified
me. Not a tremor shook her at the contemplation
of the dead girl's glassy eye.
“Let’s go back,” she said at length, “we must
let them know about this fresh calamity.”
From my trembling fingers she took the light,
engraved gun which had been Melusine's, and laid
it down beside the corpse.
She signed to me to stay behind, and went off
quickly.
Left alone with the corpse, at first I couldn't
bring myself to look at it.
My God! where was now that lovely smooth skin,
that perfect oval face, those melting eyes. Loath-
some, bloody pulp of flesh, earth and hair.
Disgusting green insects were already buzzing


238 THE SECRET SPRING
mourning the terrible loss you have suffered in
Fräulein von Graffenfried's death.”
“Terrible it is, sir,” replied Aurora, “and that
is why I hasten to express my gratitude to you,
since I have you to thank for the fact that it is not
utterly irreparable. Perhaps you had some fore-
bodings of what was to come when you decided to
give me a second confidante in the person of Mon-
sieur Vignerte?”
Frederick-Augustus bit his lips. But his reply
was terrible.
“I know, Madame, that you value M. Vignerte's
services highly, and I am delighted. And if Fräu-
lein von Graffenfried's dreadful end moves me so
much, in its effect on yourself, it is because I know
that there are some things for which a woman is
irreplaceable.”
Such an exchange of envenomed condolences
seemed to me almost terrifying. Kessel, Colonel
von Wendel, and the others who were standing
round, had no idea of the full meaning of the
tragedy. I was at once proud and dismayed to
share such confidences. Memories of Professor
Thierry shot through my mind. I had promised
him never to mix myself up in the private affairs of
the Lautenburg sovereigns! . . .
I did not know which to admire more, the porten-
tous courtesy of the Grand Duke, or the icy dignity
of the Grand Duchess. I thought for a moment
that she would flinch and lose her self-possession


240 THE SECRET SPRING
Dressed in a black Armenian tunic, she recited
the beautiful prayers of her faith in low tones.
I had not closed my eyes for two days, and about
midnight I sank into a chair worn out, and on the
verge of collapse.
When I opened my eyes again the Grand Duchess
was standing by me. In the light of the tall candles
soft flickering shadows passed over her face. She
put her hand on my forehead and murmured with
a sweet, sad smile:
“You are tired out. Go to bed, dear friend, poor
friend, whom I once doubted.”
Oh, human frailty! Sleep swept me off that
night, a night I could have spent entirely alone with
her amidst the suggestive scent of funeral wreaths
in the very presence of death, from which anything
can be expected. I slept in Melusine von Graffen-
fried's room. The old, half-witted waiting-woman
came grumbling to change the sheets.
+ + + + +
It was on Tuesday, the 28th, that Melusine’s
obsequies were celebrated. The Grand Duke, the
Grand Duchess and Duke Joachim walked behind
the hearse, its white pall hidden under the fragrant
glories of Daghestan.
I was lost in the crowd of officers, palace officials
and leaders of Lautenburg society. The Grand
Duchess had ordered a squad of the 7th Hussars to
render the honours. By the Grand Duke's orders
the great bell of the cathedral beat time to the


THE SECRET SPRING 241
procession with its heavy measured toll. A tall old
man, with the ascetic face of a Moltke, in an ancient,
shiny black frock coat, came first, with a haughty
and sullen lieutenant in the blue uniform of the
Brunswick Hussars. They were Richard and
Albrecht von Graffenfried, the dead girl's father
and brother.
When the coffin entered the Temple of the Sieg-
strasse my very marrow seemed to freeze. It made
me shiver to think that Melusine, whose voluptuous
form seemed to cry aloud for the luxurious pomp
of the Catholic ritual, should have belonged to the
reformed faith.
I had never been in a Protestant temple before.
They are awful places. Your very tears seem
afraid to rise, lest they should freeze on your
eyelids. -
Pastor Silbermann delivered a sermon, his thin
form, in its uncouth gown, reminiscent of the mas-
ter of some masonic lodge emerging from a kind of
revolving pulpit. For some reason I could not
fathom he had selected from the Scriptures the in-
cident of Jephthah's daughter. Nothing could
have been less appropriate to the frail departed than
this reference to the sacrifice of that dismal, austere
Jewess.
For a whole half-hour the pastor expounded, with
the indefatigable enthusiasm of a mathematics’
master the three conditions for the equality of
triangles.


THE SECRET SPRING 245
before, in the Ossau stream, between Laruns and
Pont de Béon.
Where was this river going? To join the Aller,
which meets the Weser, which flows into the North
Sea, which joins the Channel, which is an arm of
the Atlantic, which receives the waters of the
Adour, into which the river of Pau, swollen by the
Ossau stream, runs close by the blue hamlet of
Peyrehorade. Little German trout, little French
trout. Foolish, childish thoughts which carry the
mind of a man facing death back through the course
of his life, and bridge the gulf between distant
epochs.
“I am sorry to have kept you waiting, Herr Pro-
fessor. But it's not yet quite six o'clock.”
Hagen! I hadn’t seen him come. I’d almost
forgotten him, in fact.
We both bowed.
“I’ve brought with me,” he explained, “every-
thing required for a meeting without seconds.”
He produced a fountain-pen and some paper.
“Revolvers being the weapon selected,” he said,
“I’ve brought mine. We can draw lots if you like,
but I think it's hardly necessary. The model is the
same. Now will you be good enough to sign this?”
He had taken the precaution of drawing up a
statement, in my name and his, wherein the two ad-
versaries testified in advance that everything had
been quite fair and regular.


248 THE SECRET SPRING
assail my ears, I may tell you that I have a very
poor opinion of it. You're a foreigner, Monsieur
Vignerte, and cannot be expected, perhaps, to know
our duelling regulations. But they are well known
to you, lieutenant.”
Hagen hung his head.
“In particular, you know that an officer of the
7th Hussars may not fight without first obtaining
his colonel's permission. Only a year ago Lieuten-
ant Techner was given thirty days' close confine-
ment in a fortress for breaking this rule. Have
you forgotten?”
Hagen didn't answer.
“Go back and put on your uniform, Herr von
Hagen. Then go to the orderly-room and place
yourself at the disposal of Major von Hougwitz
until you receive official notification of the fifteen
days' confinement to which I reduce your punish-
ment in view of your services. You can go, sir.
Don't forget your clock.”
Lieutenant von Hagen saluted his colonel, faced
about and disappeared.


VIII
A dark form appeared at the entrance of our dug-
out, through which the chilly morning air was now
stealing.
“It’s five o’clock, sir.”
It was the soldier of the party whom I had told off
to wake us without fail.
“We’ve half an hour before the attack,” said Wig-
nerte. “Let’s go out. I’ll finish my story outside.
I’m very near the end.”
The stars had all vanished. One alone still twinkled
low down in the Eastern sky, waiting for daybreak
to blot it out.
We sat down on a ledge projecting from the side of
a ravine. It commanded an excellent view of the line
held by our Company, and we couldn’t have had a bet-
ter position to follow the course of the coming raid.
Close by us a soldier's lowly grave, a shadowy rec-
tangle of dead branches. On the little wooden cross I
could read these words, already almost obliterated by
Italin. :
“Mohammed Beggi ben Smaël, Private, 2nd Tirail-
leurs. He died for France, September 23rd, 1914.
Pray for him.”
I have seldom seen anything more moving than that
little cross pleading for a Christian prayer for the hum-
ble Mussulman soldier.
Vignerte, looking straight in front of him, was wait-
ing for the moment when the growing light would reveal
the lie of the land. But that hour was not yet come.
Only the dark line of the heights occupied by the enemy
could be distinguished on the horizon.
249


THE SECRET SPRING 251
Highness so soon, but I have to go back this eve-
ning.”
“What have you got for me this year?”
Mlle. Marthe opened her boxes and revealed
dainty jewellery, tulle fans, vanity bags in velvet
and moiré, diminutive stamp boxes, powder boxes,
patch-boxes — those Parisian fallals which make
all others look cheap.
“Leave me these,” said Aurora. “Tell Duvelle-
roy it will be all right. In November I shall want
a Watteau fan, or at any rate a Lancret. It must
be ready when I arrive in Paris.”
“Your Highness shall have it,” replied the girl
confidently.
“Good. You had better take the five o'clock ex-
press this evening. You will stay to lunch with me
and tell me what the Rue de la Paix will be doing
this winter.” -
During the meal I admired the unaffected ease
with which the little Parisian girl replied to the
Grand Duchess's questions. It made me proud of
my pretty fellow-countrywoman to see Aurora, who
had so little love for the women of Lautenburg,
treat her as an equal. But how much greater was
my admiration for the self-possession of this prin-
cess, who, after three days and nights such as
would have broken a strong man, was able to carry
on light conversation about the thousand and one
little trifles of Paris fashions.


THE SECRET SPRING 255
;
attention, his right hand to his Kolbach, the burn-
ished chin-strap of which encircled his clenched
jaw.
“Lieutenant von Hagen!” said Aurora when she
had recovered from her surprise. “Since when
have officers under arrest acquired the habit of leav-
ing the citadel?”
Hagen stood like a rock and said nothing.
“Will you be kind enough to explain? . . .
Your sentence has not been remitted, so far as I
know.”
“It has, Your Highness!” murmured Hagen.
“It has 1” cried the Grand Duchess. “Herr von
Hagen, are you mad?”
“No, Your Highness,” replied the little officer,
in a low, insistent voice. “My detention ceased
this evening.”
“Ceased: ” exclaimed Aurora, beside herself.
“Do you realize, Lieutenant, how far this jesting
may carry you? Do you know that one thing, and
one thing only, can remit a sentence of detention
ordered by me?”
“I know it, Your Highness,” said Hagen.
“And that one thing is . . .”
“—WAR.” The officer completed her sentence.
It may strike you as highly improbable, but the
fact is that in the midst of the series of tragedies
which had just taken place at the Court of Lauten-
burg the great events of the last week of July had
passed almost unnoticed. We knew all about the


258 THE SECRET SPRING
didn't suggest this particular order yourself?”
Hagen didn't answer, but the look of hatred he
gave me was eloquent enough.
The Grand Duchess turned to me sharply and
said:
“Go and get dressed!”
She herself put on a long dark cloak. Then she
went to her bureau. I saw her rummage in it and
bring out several objects which she slipped into the
roomy pockets of the cloak.
“Herr von Hagen,” she said, coming back, “are
you to take Monsieur Vignerte to the citadel? At
what time?”
“He must be there at ten o'clock, Your High-
ness.”
With a smile of infinite scorn she put her hand
on his shoulder.
“And so you actually thought,” she said, “that
I would let you lock him up?”
There was overwhelming majesty in her look, her
pose, her words. I saw the officer hang his head.
He trembled in every limb.
“Ludwig von Hagen,” she continued, “a certain
day, four years ago, I learned that an officer of the
7th Hussars had cheated at cards. It meant death
and dishonour to him. The next day that officer's
debts were paid, the affair was hushed up and he
himself, selected by me for my orderly officer, as-
tonished the whole garrison by his strange and
rapid change of fortune. Remarks were passed


THE SECRET SPRING 259
to which I paid no attention. You know yourself
that the sole motive of my action was my wish to
rescue from infamy a brave young man, who bore
a great name and in whom I believed.
“He, on the other hand,” she said, pointing to
me, “not only owes me nothing, but indeed
suffered at first from my indifference, nay, scorn,
the result of unworthy suspicions. He never
showed any resentment. Quietly, secretly he has
been working for me. Perhaps he himself does not
know the full meaning of what he has done. But
he certainly knew he was risking his life. And now
the man who owes me everything has come to arrest
the man to whom I owe everything!”
Tears ran down the face of the little hussar.
“What do you wish me to do?” he murmured
in a tremulous, hoarse voice.
“I want you to pay the debt you owe me,” re-
plied Aurora. “The time has come and you can-
not complain, for you have brought it on yourself.”
“Give your orders,” he said. “I will obey.”
“Go downstairs and begin by sending your men
away. Find some pretex which won’t be awkward
for you later on.
“Now go to the garage,” she said, when he came
back. “There are still some chauffeurs about.
Make them get out the big grey Benz with a full
supply of petrol. Don’t light the lamps. Bring it
down below yourself. It is now twenty minutes to
nine. Be there at ten to.”


THE SECRET SPRING 261
“Oh, thank you! thank you!” said the young
II.18.11.
“You had better wait a bit before thanking me,”
she said. “I presume, Herr von Hagen, that you
have your identity card and mobilization orders on
you?”
He rose, quivering with horror.
“My mobilization orders?” he repeated, deadly
pale.
“Yes,” she said calmly. “Oblige me by handing
them over to Monsieur Vignerte. We might be
stopped between here and the frontier. Of course
I know that in all probability I shall only have to
mention my name to get through. But we might
come across some stupid sentry. We must not lose
any time. Lieutenant von Hagen will be able to
get anywhere. Come. Quick!”
The officer was white as death. A terrible con-
flict was raging within him.
“You are now taking my honour from me,
Madam ' " he blurted out at length.
“I should only be taking back what I gave you
myself, Herr von Hagen,” said Aurora, pitilessly.
“But you mustn't exaggerate. It will be your own
fault if you are compromised. I ask but two things
of you. First that you wait until ten o’clock to give
the alarm that we have gone. Secondly, that you
arrange matters so that they shall think we have
taken the Aix-la-Chapelle route. If the Grand


264 THE SECRET SPRING
me that she had passed that way many a time when
going to take the waters.
She knew exactly at what point to make a detour
round the towns whose red halo emerged from the
darkness to right and left, grew before our eyes, was
overtaken and disappeared in the night. Three or
four times she muttered: Cassel, Giessen, Wetzlar!
Cassel, Giessen, Wetzlar! What did I care?
The light from the lamp lit up a clock near the
speedometer. But I could not see the time.
Thought had deserted me. . . .
Without slowing down we went through a hilly
town with houses hidden among dark clumps of
trees.
“Wiesbaden,” murmured Aurora. “My villa,”
she remarked as we passed one of these houses.
“It's not yet one o'clock. We have come very well.”
She turned to the right where the road forked.
Far away on the left the lights of a big city glowed
in the night sky.
“That's Mainz,” she said, “and here's the
Rhine.”
At top speed we crossed the sacred river by a
suspension bridge. A dull roar came up from below.
Here and there, where the darkness was less intense,
we could see its green waters.
At the far end of the bridge we thought we heard
an order. A hoarse, “Who goes there!” Then,
unmistakably, the sharp sound of a shot.
“They fired at us,” said Aurora. “We must be


266 THE SECRET SPRING
“Lieutenant,” said the Grand Duchess dryly,
“I must first ask you to stop your men from break-
ing up my car with their rifle butts. Then perhaps
you will be good enough to look at this.”
So saying she flashed the lamp upon the Lauten-
burg arms painted on the door.
The officer started.
“Have I the honour of addressing Her Highness
the Grand Duchess of Lautenburg?” he said, stif-
fening to attention.
“You have, lieutenant,” replied Aurora.
“I must ask Your Highness to excuse me,” the
man said in dismay. “Back there!” he bawled to
his men, thrusting back the foremost. “How can
I serve Your Highness?”
“Very easily,” said the Grand Duchess. “I
presume General von Offenburg is still commanding
at Thionville? I suspect His Excellency is not
asleep on a night like this. Be so good as to take
me to him. Lend me one of your men to come with
us and show us the way.”
The officer at once did what was required. He
bowed very low, expressing his regret that his
duties did not permit him to conduct us himself.
The General in command of the fortress was not
at headquarters, but in the end we found him at
the station with his staff. He was watching the de-
training of the troops at the platforms, which were
literally black with them. In the great square an
enormous mass of guns projected their antedilu-


268 THE SECRET SPRING
“That's true,” said Aurora. “But the Belgian
frontier doesn’t interest me. I should never have
forgiven myself if I had not seen the French fron-
tier at the very outbreak of war.”
“I greet you as the intrepid colonel of the brave
7th Hussars,” said Von Offenburg, kissing her
hand. “Can I assist you in any way?”
“Most certainly you can,” said Aurora. “Do
you realize your sentries arrested me off-hand just
now? I ought really to ask you for an escort, but
I'm afraid my Benz would be hard put to it to
keep up with your dragoons. May they take me
as far as the outposts, and please give me some kind
of permit to save me from any more little accidents
when I come back. We must hurry on. It will
soon be dawn, and I want to see the first rays of
sunlight on the frontier-posts.”
The General had a permit brought. “There,” he
said, initialling it with a flourish. “You’ve just
got time. Villerupt, in France, is a mile and a quar-
ter from the frontier, and barely thirteen from here.
You will be there in less than half an hour. But
don’t expect to see any French soldiers. Their Gov-
ernment has ordered them to withdraw two leagues
from the frontier, to avoid any accident likely to
precipitate war,” he concluded with a coarse laugh.
Escorted by a half-troop of dragoons we made an
impressive exit from Thionville. When we had
covered rather more than a mile on the Audun-le-


TEIE SECRET SPRING 269
Roman road the Grand Duchess whispered in my
ear’:
“They are very kind, but I'm afraid we would
find them a nuisance in the long run.”
And she let the car out to its top speed. Behind
us, in the first faint light of day, the dragoons were
soon strung out, and, a moment later, out of sight
on the dark road.
The chilly breeze of dawn fanned my temples.
My emotions now began to overwhelm me. Indeed,
at that moment I had not even a thought for her for
whom I would have sacrificed everything, the woman
I was about to leave for ever. I gazed before me at
the little hills, which now began to emerge, one by
one, out of the yielding darkness. The amazing
originality of the manner of my return was for-
gotten, and I was possessed by another sentiment,
far stronger and more poignant.
I was wholly under its influence when the car
stopped so suddenly as almost to throw me on to the
wind-screen. Without a word the Grand Duchess
pointed to a frontier post ten paces away on the
right of the road.
The spectacle of that six-foot post, one side white
and black, the other blue, white and red, was ex-
traordinarily moving.
I looked at the Grand Duchess and a great joy
filled me as I saw the emotion in her set face.
It was not yet quite light. The car was now going


THE SECRET SPRING 271
some things it would take too long to explain from
a car to a horse in the middle of the road. These
are the facts. I am the Grand Duchess of Lauten-
burg-Detmold. Monsieur Vignerte, my companion,
is a French officer, a lieutenant like yourself. I
don’t know whether in France you have already
taken the precaution of arresting Germans. But
in Germany we have been arresting Frenchmen
since yesterday. This gentleman was about to
be arrested; I have brought him to you. That
is all.”
And, moved apparently by the look of amaze-
ment which had spread over the dragoon’s face, she
added:
“I should, perhaps, say, monsieur, that I am
Russian by birth, so you need no longer doubt either
myself or my immediate purpose.”
The officer had dismounted. He bowed respect-
fully to Aurora, who had, like myself, just stepped
out of the car.
“Lieutenant de Coigny, 11th Dragoons, of
Longwy,” he said.
I introduced myself. We shook hands.
“You have come a long way, comrade. What
shall we do with you?”
“You have a spare horse to lend him?” said the
Grand Duchess. “Now, if I may offer a little
advice, take him at once to your civil or military
authorities. He has come straight from Germany,
and knows much that may be valuable to this coun-


THE SECRET SPRING 273
sakes one, everything, indeed, which could make a
woman like myself regret I am not a man.
“It will be terrible, very terrible. But over there,
beyond the frontiers, other horsemen are springing
into the saddle, horsemen called ‘Big Heads, with
astrakhan caps, curving sabres and leaden whips,
who charge with their terrible cry of “Huà! huà'
huà!’ so that the stoutest hearts fail and the strong-
est arms fling away their weapons the better to flee
the Cossacks of Tumene.
“Remember you have no cause for grief. And
if you would have proof, think of the fate in store
for her who is returning to Lautenburg without
you.”
“Alas!” I murmured through my tears. “Stay
with us. Don’t go back. Think of what may hap-
pen to you there!”
I heard her voice and it was almost a hiss.
“Child, child, I thought that after knowing me
so well you would have learned a little of what hate
can mean. Boose has come back. Have you really
forgotten the fireplace in the armoury, the letters
from the Congo, the whole treacherous mystery?
Do you really think that just at the moment when
I am about to unravel the secret of the crime I
shall let the criminal go?”
My tears fell uncontrolled. Then suddenly a
sensation of extreme relief exalted my despair, as
for one second I felt the touch of her lips upon
my forehead. . . .


TEIE SECRET SPRING 279
Now the whole hostile line replied with nervous bursts
which augured well for us. Their shooting was bad and
their bullets flew high above our heads. Now and then
a snapped twig fell beside us, like a leaf fluttering to
earth. Any one who has done any fighting in wooded
country knows what I mean.
The din had lasted about five minutes when, on our
right, an enormous flame shot up into the sky, illuminat-
ing all the heights opposite, and then dying out in a
shower of debris. At the same moment there was the
deafening roar of a terrific explosion.
“That’s what we wanted,” I murmured to Wignerte.
“There was a mine there, and they’ve fired it.”
On our own bit of front the firing had begun again
with redoubled vigour. Then there was a sudden silence.
A rocket went up from our lines.
That rocket told our artillery that the 22nd had just
got safely back to its trenches and that its turn had now
arrived. The barrage opened immediately.
We could now hear the invisible monsters coming
from behind, describing their deadly curves above our
heads. That roar gets louder and louder and yet seems
so slow, so terribly slow, that you can never explain
how it is you cannot see one of these birds that make
such a tremendous noise. -
And then comes the end of the journey in the enemy's
trenches, the blue and red flame, the earth and debris
flying heavenwards in a sulphur column, the ear-split-
ting crash of the explosion.
Vignerte and I watched the effects of the bombardment
through our glasses.
All at once I heard some one calling me.
It was the runner between us and battalion head-
quarters. He came up, out of breath with running.
** Sirl Sir! ”
“What is it!';
“The Commandant wants you at once at his head-
quarters.”


280 THE SECRET SPRING
“I’m off,” I said to Wignerte. “What news have
you at your end?” I asked the man. “Do you know
if the raid of the 22nd succeeded? '’
“Splendidly, sir. They only lost two men. They
have blown up a mine, destroyed the trench and brought
back nearly forty prisoners. Very good work, sir. But
please come quickly. The Commandant is in a hurry.”
I started at a run. There was a very decent communi-
cation trench leading to battalion headquarters, situated
some few hundred yards back. There was only one
place, a kind of open slope, which offered no cover. I
crossed it without quickening my pace, for at that
moment the German lines were silent under our bom-
bardment, and I ran no risk.
The Commandant was standing at the door of his
dug-out.
“Oh, there you are. I’m sorry to have made you
run. But it is all owing to the success of the 22nd.”
“What can I do, sir? '’
“Look here. You're an expert in German, while I
have hardly touched the beastly language since I left
Saint-Cyr. We have here a prisoner of rank. I’ve had
a shot at questioning him, but can’t get a word out of
him. Yet he could give us some mighty useful infor-
mation. He's a major in the Engineers, and it was he
who was organizing the sap we’ve just played Old Harry
with. Coste got him, and he’ll certainly get his captaincy
for it.”
“A senior officer who can't speak French That's
an extraordinary thing!” I said. “You know many
of them pretend not to speak it.”
“I do know, otherwise I shouldn’t have sent for you.
He won’t be able to pretend he doesn’t understand the
excellent German in which you’ll address him. There
is the fellow.”
I went into my Commanding Officer's dug-out, where
I found the German major, guarded by the two men of
the 22nd who had brought him across from the German


282 THE SECRET SPRING
His face turned deadly pale. His hands contracted
convulsively. But he had enough presence of mind to
say to my chief in a quivering voice:
“I protest against this treatment, sir! Please be good
enough to stop your lieutenant from insulting an enemy
prisoner. It's infamous! ”
“Oh, don't you bother me!” shouted my chief.
“But really, lieutenant, what's all this about? What's
in that paper?”
I had the greatest difficulty in controlling my feelings.
“Excuse me sir,” I murmured. “I don’t feel able
to explain myself. . . . But would you be kind enough
to send for Lieutenant Vignerte at once? He knows
all about this man, and can tell you everything.”
“All right,” grumbled my chief. “What a busi-
ness!”
He gave the order.
At the sound of Wignerte's name the German had
turned even paler. There was rage and hatred in the
look he gave me. If the two soldiers had not held him
tight he would certainly have flung himself upon me and
tried to snatch away the paper I was about to re-read
with rather more composure.
Once more, for the last time, I tell you this: I have seen too
much of your methods with others not to know what your inten-
tions are as regards myself. I agreed to go to the war. But the
war is dragging on. Every day I run the risk of never returning
at all. No doubt that is exactly what you want: after the Grand
Duke, after the Grand Duchess, my turn, I suppose! And then
there’ll be nothing to trouble your sleep. . . . I am not such a
fool as that. If, within fifteen days, I am not withdrawn from the
front and appointed to a staff post, with the rank to which I
think my services have entitled me, I can promise you this - a
detailed description of the whole affair will be published by friends
of mine, in a large number of neutral or enemy papers, addressed
to all those whose enlightenment you have most reason to fear.
And I can assure you that it will be all the more credible because
the documents will contain a specimen of a handwriting which
you know well.


284 THE SECRET SPRING
We saw the men skip into their holes like so many
frogs.
Surprised in the very middle of the bare slope, Wig-
nerte had stopped. Should he go on, or go back? We
felt his fatal hesitation. - -
The shriek was now a roar of thunder.
“Vignerte! ” I screamed frantically. “Lie down!
For God’s sake, lie down!”
I saw him for one second more. He had not moved.
Drawn to his full height, and facing the approaching
storm with a gentle smile of acquiescence and ecstasy,
he was gazing in rapt attention towards the dawn.
Then came the crash.
A shower of stones and steel fragments fell on the
roof of the dug-out into which my chief had hastily
pulled me at the last moment. When the dreadful rain
had ceased, we looked out, our eyes starting from our
heads with horror.
At the edge of the slope an enormous black crater now
yawned with some pathetic red and blue fragments on the
far side.
Thus died Lieutenant Wignerte on October 31st, 1914,
for love of the Grand Duchess Aurora of Lautenburg-
Detmold.
THE END


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UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
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