Love affairs of the Courts of Europe by Thornton Hall

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Hornstein is not only converted; he becomes as ardent an admirer as his
master, the Duke. The Princess takes her place as the coming Duchess of
Limburg, much to the disgust of his subjects, who show their feelings by
hissing when she appears in public. Her hour of triumph has
arrived--when, like a bolt from the blue, an anonymous letter comes to
Hornstein revealing the story of her past doings in several capitals of
Europe, and branding her as an "impostor."

For a time the Duke treats these anonymous slanders with scorn. He
refuses to believe a word against his divinity, the beautiful, high-born
woman who is to crown his life's happiness and, incidentally, to save
him from bankruptcy. But gradually the poison begins to work,
supplemented as it is by the suspicions and discontent of his subjects.
At last he summons up courage to ask an explanation--to beg her to
assure him that the charges against her are as false as he believes
them.

She listens to him with quiet dignity until he has finished, and then
replies, with tears in her eyes, that she is not unprepared for
disloyalty from a man who is so obviously the slave of false friends and
of public opinion, but that she had hoped that he would at least have
some pity and consideration for a woman who was about to become the
mother of his child. This unexpected announcement, with its appeal to
his manhood, proves more eloquent than a world of proofs and
protestations. The Duke's suspicions vanish in face of the news that the
woman he loves is to become the mother of his child, and in a moment he
is at her knees imploring her pardon, and uttering abject apologies. He
is now more deeply than ever in her toils, ready to defy the world in
defence of the Princess he adores and can no longer doubt.

It is at this stage that a man who was to play such an important part in
the Princess's life first crosses her path--one Domanski, a handsome
young Pole, whose passionate and ill-fated patriotism had driven him
from his native land to find an asylum, like many another Polish
refugee, in the Limburg duchy. He had heard much of the romantic story
of the Princess Aly, and was drawn by sympathy, as by the rumour of her
remarkable beauty, to seek an interview with her, during her visit to
Mannheim. Such a meeting could have but one issue for the romantic Pole.
He lost both head and heart at sight of the lovely and gracious
Princess, and from that moment became the most devoted of all her
slaves.

When she returned to Oberstein he was swift to follow her and to install
himself under her castle walls, where he could catch an occasional
glimpse of her, or, by good-fortune, have a few blissful moments in her
company. Indeed, it was not long before stories began to be circulated
among the good folk of Oberstein of strange meetings between the
mysterious young stranger who had come to live in their midst and an
equally mysterious lady. "The postman," it was rumoured, "often sees him
on the road leading to the castle, talking in a shadow with someone
enveloped in a long, black, hooded cloak, whom he once thought he
recognised as the Princess."

No wonder tongues wagged in Oberstein. What could be the meaning of
these secret assignations between the Princess, who was the destined
bride of their Duke, and the obscure young refugee? It was a delicious
bit of scandal to add to the many which had already gathered round the
"adventuress."

But there was a greater surprise in store for the Obersteiners, as for
the world outside their walls. Soon it began to be rumoured that the
Duke's bride-to-be was no obscure Circassian Princess; this was merely
a convenient cloak to conceal her true identity, which was none less
than that of daughter of an Empress! She was, in fact, the child of
Elizabeth, Tsarina of Russia, and her peasant husband, Razoum; and in
proof of her exalted birth she actually had in her possession the will
in which the late Empress bequeathed to her the throne of Russia.

How these rumours originated none seemed to know. Was it Domanski who
set them circulating? We know, at least, that they soon became public
property, and that, strangely enough, they won credence everywhere. The
very people who had branded her "adventuress" and hissed her in the
streets, now raised cheers to the future Empress of Russia; while the
Duke, delighted at such a wonderful transformation in the woman he
loved, was more eager than ever to hasten the day when he could call her
his own. As for the Princess, she accepted her new dignities with the
complaisance to be expected from the daughter of a Tsarina. There was
now no need to refer the sceptics to Circassia for proof of her station
and her potential wealth. As heiress to one of the greatest thrones of
Europe, she could at last reveal herself in her true character, without
any need for dissimulation.

The curtain was now ready to rise on the crowning act of her life-drama,
an act more brilliant than any she had dared to imagine. Russia was
seething with discontent and rebellion; the throne of Catherine II. was
trembling; one revolt had followed another, until Pugatchef had led his
rabble of a hundred thousand serfs to the very gates of Moscow--only,
when success seemed assured, to meet disaster and death. If the
ex-bandit could come so near to victory, an uprising headed by
Elizabeth's own daughter and heiress could scarcely fail to hurl
Catherine from her throne.

It would have been difficult to find a more powerful ally in this daring
project than Prince Charles Radziwill, chief of Polish patriots, who was
then, as luck would have it, living in exile at Mannheim, and who hated
Russia as only a Pole ever hated her. To Radziwill, then, Domanski went
to offer the help of his Princess for the liberation of Poland and the
capture of Catherine's throne.

Here indeed was a valuable pawn to play in Radziwill's game of vengeance
and ambition. But the Prince was by no means disposed to snatch the bait
hurriedly. Experience had taught him caution. He must count the cost
carefully before taking the step, and while writing to the Princess, "I
consider it a miracle of Providence that it has provided so great a
heroine for my unhappy country," he took his departure to Venice,
suggesting that the Princess should meet him there, where matters could
be more safely and successfully discussed. Thus it was that the Princess
said her last good-bye to her ducal lover, full of promises for the
future when she should have won her throne, and as "Countess of
Pinneberg" set forth with a retinue of followers to Venice, where she
was regally received at the French embassy.

Here she tasted the first sweets of her coming Queendom--holding her
Courts, to which distinguished Poles and Frenchmen flocked to pay homage
to the Empress-to-be, and having daily conferences with Radziwill, who
treated her as already a Queen. That her purse was empty and the bankers
declined to honour her drafts was a matter to smile at, since the way
now seemed clear to a crown, with all it meant of wealth and power. When
the Venetian Government grew uneasy at the plotting within its borders,
she went to Ragusa, where she blossomed into the "Princess of all the
Russias," assumed the sceptre that was soon to be hers, issued
proclamations as a sovereign, and crowned these regal acts by sending a
ukase to Alexis Orloff, the Russian Commander-in-Chief, "signed
Elizabeth II., and instructing him to communicate its contents to the
army and fleet under his command."

Once more, however, fortune played the Princess a scurvy trick, just
when her favour seemed most assured. One night a man was seen scaling
the garden-wall of the palace she was occupying. The guard fired at him,
and the following morning Domanski was found, lying wounded and
unconscious in the garden. The tongues of scandal were set wagging
again, old suspicions were revived, and once again the word
"adventuress"--and worse--passed from mouth to mouth. The men who had
fawned on her now avoided her; worse still, Radziwill, his latent
suspicions thoroughly awakened, and confirmed by a hundred stories and
rumours that came to his ears, declined to have anything more to do
with her, and returned in disgust to Germany.

But even this crushing rebuff was powerless to damp the spirits and
ambition of the "adventuress," who shook the dust of Ragusa off her
dainty feet, and went off to Rome, where she soon cast her spell over
Sir William Hamilton, our Ambassador there, who gave her the warmest
hospitality. "For several days," we learn, "she reigns like a Queen in
the _salon_ of the Ambassador, out of whose penchant for beautiful women
she has no difficulty in wiling a passport that enables her to enter the
most exclusive circles of Roman society."

In Rome she lays aside her regal trappings, and wins the respect of all
by her unostentatious living and her prodigal charities. She becomes a
favourite at the Vatican; Cardinals do homage to her goodness, with
perhaps a pardonable eye to her beauty. But behind the brave and pious
front she thus shows to the world her heart is growing more heavy day by
day. Poverty is at her door in the guise of importunate creditors, her
servants are clamouring for overdue wages, and consumption, which for
long has threatened her, now shows its presence in hectic cheeks and a
hacking cough. Fortune seems at last to have abandoned her; and it
requires all her courage to sustain her in this hour of darkness.

In her extremity she appeals to Sir William Hamilton for a loan, much as
a Queen might confer a favour on a subject, and Hamilton, pleased to be
of service to so fair and pious a lady, sends her letter to his Leghorn
banker, Mr John Dick, with instructions to arrange the matter.

* * * * *

While the Princess Aly was practising piety and cultivating Cardinals in
Rome, with an empty purse and a pain-racked body to make a mockery of
her claim to a crown, away in distant Russia Catherine II. was nursing a
terrible revenge on the woman who had dared to usurp her position and
threaten her throne. The succession of revolutions, at which she had at
first smiled scornfully, had now roused the tigress in her. She would
show the world that she was no woman to be trifled with, and the first
victim of her vengeance should be that brazen Princess who dared to
masquerade as "Elizabeth II."

She sent imperative orders to her trusted and beloved Orloff, fresh from
his crushing defeat of the Turkish fleet, to seize her at any cost, even
if he had to raze Ragusa to the ground; and these orders she knew would
be executed to the letter. For was not Orloff the man whose strong hands
had strangled her husband and placed the crown on her head; also her
most devoted slave? He was, it is true, the biggest scoundrel (as he was
also one of the handsomest men) in Europe, a man ready to stoop to any
infamy, and thus the best possible tool for such an infamous purpose;
but he was also her greatest admirer, eager to step into the place of
"chief favourite" from which his brother Gregory had just been
dismissed.

When, however, Orloff went to Ragusa, with his soldiers at his back, he
found that the Princess had already flown, leaving no trace behind her.
He ransacked Sicily in vain, and it was only when Sir William
Hamilton's letter to his Leghorn banker came to his hands that he
discovered that she was in Rome, a much safer asylum than Ragusa. It was
hopeless now to capture her by force; he must try diplomacy, and, by the
hands of an aide-de-camp, he sent her a letter in which he informed her
that he had received her ukase and was anxious to pay due homage to the
future Empress of Russia.

Such was the "Judas" message Kristenef, Orloff's emissary, carried to
the Princess, whom he found in a pitiful condition, wasted to a shadow
by disease and starvation--"in a room cold and bare, whose only
furniture was a leather sofa, on which she lay in a high fever, coughing
convulsively." To such pathetic straits was "Elizabeth II." reduced when
Kristenef came with his fawning airs and lying tongue to tell her that
Alexis Orloff, the greatest man in Russia, had instructed him to offer
her the throne of the Tsars, and, as an earnest of his loyalty, to beg
her acceptance of a loan of eleven thousand ducats.

In vain did Domanski, who was still by her side, warn her against the
smooth-tongued envoy. She was flattered by such unexpected homage, her
eyes were dazzled by the near prospect of the coveted crown which was to
be hers, at last, just when hope seemed dead. She would accept Orloff's
invitation to go to Pisa to meet him. "As for you," she said, "if you
are afraid, you can stay behind. I am going where Destiny calls me."

This revolution in her fortunes acted like magic. New life coursed
through her veins, colour returned to her cheeks, and brightness to her
eyes, as one February day in 1775 she left Rome, with the devoted
Domanski for companion and a brilliant escort, for Pisa, where Orloff
greeted her as an Empress. He gave regal fetes in her honour and filled
her ears with honeyed and flattering words.

Affecting to be dazzled by her beauty, he even dared to make passionate
love to her, which no man of his day could do more effectively than this
handsomest of the Orloffs; and so infatuated was the poor Princess by
the adoration of her handsome lover and the assurance of the throne he
was to give her, that she at last consented to share that throne with
him, and by his side went through a marriage ceremony, at which two of
his officers masqueraded as officiating priests.

Nothing remained now between her and the goal of her desires, except to
make the journey to Russia as speedily as possible, and a few hours
after the wedding banquet we see her in the Admiral's launch, with
Orloff and Domanski and a brilliant suite of officers, leaving Leghorn
for the Russian flagship, where she was received with the blare of bands
and the booming of artillery. The crowning moment arrived when, as she
was being hoisted to the deck in a gorgeous chair suspended from the
yard-arm, her future sailors greeted her with thunders of shouts, "Long
live the Empress!"

The moment she set foot on deck she was seized, handcuffs were snapped
on her wrists, and she was carried a helpless captive to a cabin. At the
same moment Domanski was overpowered before he had time to use his
sword, and made a prisoner.

The Princess's cries for Orloff, her husband and saviour, are met with
derision. Orloff she is told is himself a prisoner. He has, in fact,
vanished, his dastardly mission executed; and she never saw him again.
Two months later the victim of a man's treachery and a woman's vengeance
is looking with tear-dimmed eyes on "her capital" through a barred
window of a cell in the fortress of Saints Peter and Paul.

Over the tragic closing of her days we may not dwell long. The scene is
too pitiful, too harrowing. In vain she implores an interview with
Catherine, who blazes into anger at the request. "The impudence of the
wretch," she exclaims, "is beyond all bounds! She must be mad. Tell her
if she wishes any improvement in her lot to cease the comedy she is
playing." Prince Galitzin, Grand Chancellor, exerts all his skill in
vain to force a confession of imposture from her. To his wiles and
threats alike she opposes a dignified and calm front. She persists in
the story of her birth; refuses to admit that she is an impostor.

Even when she is flung into a loathsome cell, with bread and water for
diet, she does not waver a jot in her demeanour of dignity or in her
Royal claims. Only when she is charged with being the daughter of a
Prague innkeeper does she allow indignation to master her, as she
retorts, "I have never been in Prague in my life, and if I knew who had
thus slandered me I would scratch his eyes out." Domanski, too, proves
equally intractable; even the promise of marriage to her will not wring
from him a word that might discredit his beloved Princess.

But although the Princess keeps such a brave heart under conditions that
might well have broken it, her spirit is powerless against the insidious
disease that is working such havoc with her body. In her damp, noisome
cell consumption makes rapid headway. Her strength ebbs daily; the end
is coming swiftly near. She makes a last dying appeal to Catherine to
see her if but for a few moments, but the appeal falls on deaf ears.
When she sends for a priest to minister to her last hours, and, by
Catherine's orders, he makes a final attempt to wrest her secret from
her, she moans with her failing breath, "Say the prayers for the dead.
That is all there is for you to do here."

Four days later death came to her release. Catherine's throne was safe
from this danger at least, and she was left to dalliance with her legion
of lovers, while the woman on whom she had wreaked such terrible
vengeance lay deeply buried in the courtyard of her prison, the very
soldiers who dug her grave being sworn to secrecy. Thus in mystery her
life opened, and in secrecy it closed.

CHAPTER VIII

THE KING AND THE "LITTLE DOVE"

A savage murmur ran through the market-place of Bergen, one summer
morning in the year 1507, as Chancellor Valkendorf made his pompous way
along the avenues of stalls laden with their country produce, his
passage followed by scowling eyes and low-spoken maledictions.

There could not have been a more unwelcome visitor than this cold-eyed,
supercilious Chancellor, unless it were his master, Christian, the
Danish Prince who had come to rule Norway with the iron hand, and to
stamp out the fires of rebellion against the alien rule that were always
smouldering, when not leaping into flame. Bergen itself had been the
scene of the latest revolt against oppressive and unjust taxes, and the
insolent Valkendorf, who was now taking his morning stroll in the
market-place, was fresh from suppressing it with a rough hand which had
left many a smart and longing for vengeance behind it.

But the Chancellor could afford to smile at such evidences of
unpopularity. He knew that he was the most hated man in Norway--after
his master--but he had executed his mission well and was ready to do it
again. And thus it was with an air, half-amused, half-contemptuous, that
he made his progress this July morning among the booths and stalls of
the market, with eyes scornfully blind to frowns, but very wide open for
any pretty face he might chance to see.

He had not strolled far before his eyes were arrested by as strangely
contrasted a picture as any he had ever seen. Behind one of the stalls,
heaped high with luscious, many-coloured fruits and mountains of
vegetables, were two women, each so remarkable in her different way
that, almost involuntarily, he stood rooted to the spot, gazing
open-eyed at them. The elder of the two was of gigantic stature,
towering head and shoulders over her companion, with harsh, masculine
face, massive jaw, coarse protruding lips, and black eyes which were
fixed on him in a magnetic stare, defiant and scornful--for none knew
better than she who the stranger was, and few hated him more.

But it was not to this grim, hard-visaged Amazon that Valkendorf's eyes
were drawn, compelling as were her stature and her basilisk stare. They
quickly turned from her, with a motion of contempt, to feast on the
vision by her side--that of a girl on the threshold of young womanhood
and of a beauty that dazzled the eyes of the old voluptuary. How had she
come there and in such company, this ravishing girl on whom Nature had
lavished the last touch of virginal loveliness, this maiden with her
figure of such supple grace, the proud little oval face with its
complexion of cream and roses, the dainty head from which twin plaits
of golden hair fell almost to her knees, and the eyes blue as violets,
now veiled demurely, now opening wide to reveal their glories, enhanced
by a look of appeal, almost of fear.

The Chancellor, who was the last man to pass by a flower so seductively
beautiful, approached the stall, undaunted by the forbidding eyes of the
giantess, Frau Sigbrit, by name, and, after making a small purchase,
sought to draw her into amiable conversation. "No," she said in answer
to his inquiries, "we are not Norwegian. We come from Holland, my
daughter and I, and we are trying to earn a little money before
returning there. But why do you ask?" she demanded almost fiercely,
putting a protecting arm around the girl, as if she would shield her
from an enemy. "You are in such a different world from ours!"

Little by little, however, the grim face began to relax under the adroit
flatteries and courtly deference of the Chancellor--for none knew better
than he the arts of charming, when he pleased; and it was not long
before the Amazon, completely thawed, was confiding to him the most
intimate details of her history and her hopes.

"Yes, my daughter is beautiful," she said, with a look of pride at the
girl which transfigured her face. "Many a great man has told me
so--dukes, princes, and lords. She is as fair a flower as ever grew in
Holland; and she is as sweet as she is fair. She is Dyveke, my "little
dove," the pride of my heart, my soul, my life. She is to be a Queen one
day. It has been revealed to me in my dreams. But when the day dawns it
will be the saddest in my life." And with further amiable words and a
final courtly salute, Valkendorf continued his stroll, secretly
promising himself a further acquaintance with the dragon and her "little
dove."

This was the first of many morning strolls in the Bergen market, in
which the Chancellor spent delightful moments at Frau Sigbrit's stall,
each leaving him more and more a slave to her daughter's charms; for he
quickly found that to her physical perfections were allied a low, sweet
voice, every note of which was musical as that of a nightingale, a quiet
dignity and refinement as far removed from her station as her simple
print frock with the bunch of roses nestling in the white purity of her
bosom, and a sprightliness of wit which even her modesty could not
always repress.

Thus it was that, when Valkendorf at last returned to Upsala and the
Court of his master, Christian, his tongue was full of the praises of
the "market-beauty" of Bergen, whose charms he pictured so glowingly
that the Prince's heart became as inflamed by a sympathetic passion as
his mind by curiosity to see such a siren. "I shall not rest," he said
to his Chancellor, "until I have seen your 'little dove' with my own
eyes; and who knows," he added with a laugh, "perhaps I shall steal her
from you!"

It was in vain that Valkendorf, now alarmed by his indiscretion, began
to pour cold water on the flames he had lit. Christian had quite lost
his susceptible heart to the rustic and unknown beauty, and vowed that
he could not rest until he had seen her with his own eyes. And within a
month he was riding into Bergen, with Valkendorf by his side, at the
head of a brilliant retinue.

As the Prince made his way through the crowded avenues of the Bergen
streets to an accompaniment of scowls punctuated by feeble, forced
cheers, he cut a goodly enough figure to win many an admiring, if
reluctant, glance from bright eyes. With his broad shoulders, his erect,
well-knit figure clothed in purple velvet, his stern, swarthy face
crowned by a white-plumed hat, Christian looked every inch a Prince.

To-day, too, he was in his most amiable mood, with a smile ready to leap
to his lips, and many a gracious wave of the hand and sweep of plumed
hat to acknowledge the grudged salutes of his subjects. He could be
charming enough when he pleased, and this was a day of high good-humour;
for his mind was full of the pleasure that awaited him. Even Frau
Sigbrit's scowl was chased away when his eyes were drawn to her towering
figure, and with a swift smile he singled her out for the honour of a
special salute.

When the Prince at last arrived in the market-square, he was greeted by
a procession of the prettiest maidens in Bergen who, in white frocks and
with flower-wreathed hair, advanced to pay him the homage of demure
eyes. But among them all, the loveliest girls of the city, Christian saw
but one--a girl younger than almost any other, but so radiantly lovely
that his eyes fixed themselves on her as if entranced, until her cheeks
flamed a vivid crimson under the ardour of his gaze. "No need to point
her out," he whispered delightedly to Valkendorf, "I see your 'little
dove,' and she is all you have told me and more."

Before many hours had passed, a Court official appeared at Frau
Sigbrit's cottage door with a command from the Prince to her and her
daughter to attend a State ball the following evening. If the poor
market-woman had had a crown laid at her feet, her surprise and
consternation could scarcely have been greater. But she would make a
bigger sacrifice of inclination than this for the "little dove" who
filled her heart, and who, she remembered, was destined to be a Queen;
and decking her in all the finery her modest purse could command and
with a taste of which few would have suspected she was capable, the
market stall-keeper stalked majestically through the avenue of gorgeous
flunkeys, her little Princess with downcast eyes following demurely in
her wake.

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