Part 72 (1/2)
Still the King spoke not a word; nor did he lift his eyes from his brooding observation of the ground.
”To be a great King, as you are,” said Zouche; ”And yet to be unable to keep alive a love when you have won it, is a hard thing! She must have killed herself for your sake!”
No answer was vouchsafed to him. He began to feel a strange pity for that solemn, upright figure, sitting there inflexibly silent,--and he approached it a little nearer.
”Comrade!” he said softly; ”I have hated you as a King! Yes, I have always hated you!--even when I found you had played the part of 'Pasquin Leroy,' and had worked for our Cause, and had helped to make what is now called my 'fame'! I hated you,--because through it all, and whatever you did for me, or for others, it seemed to me you had never known hunger and cold and want!--never known what it was to have love s.n.a.t.c.hed away from you! I watched the growth of your pa.s.sion for Lotys--I knew she loved you!--and had you indeed been the poor writer and thinker you a.s.sumed to be, all might have been well for you both! But when you declared yourself to be King, what could there be for such a woman but death? She would never have chosen dishonour! She has taken the straight way out of trouble, but--but she has left _you_ alone! And I am sorry for you! I know what it is--to be left alone! You have a palace here, adorned with all the luxuries that wealth can buy, and yet you are alone in it! I too have a palace,--a palace of thought, furnished with ideals and dreams which no wealth can buy; and I am alone in it too! I killed the woman who loved me best; and you have done the same, in your way!
It is the usual trick of men,--to kill the women who love them best, and then to be sorry for ever afterwards!”
He drew still nearer--then very slowly, very hesitatingly, dropped on one knee, and ventured to kiss the monarch's pa.s.sive hand.
”My comrade! My King! I am sorry for you now!”
For answer, his own hand was suddenly caught in a fierce convulsive grip, and the King rose stiffly erect. His features were grey and drawn, his lips were bloodless, his eyes glittering, as with fever. Stricken to the heart as he was, he yet forced himself to find voice and utterance.
”Speak again, Zouche! Speak those horrible, horrible words again! Make me feel them to be true! Lotys is dead!”
Zouche, with something like fear for the visible, yet strongly suppressed anguish of the man before him, sighed drearily as he repeated----
”Lotys is dead! It is G.o.d's way--to kill all beautiful things, just as we have learned to love them! She,--Lotys,--used to talk of Justice and Order,--poor soul!--she never found either! Yet she believed in G.o.d!”
The King's stern face never relaxed in its frozen rigidity of woe. Only his lips moved mutteringly.
”Dead! Lotys! My G.o.d!--my G.o.d! To rise to such a height of hope and good--and then--to fall so low! Lotys gone from me!--and with her goes all!”
Then a sudden delirious hurry seemed to take possession of him.
”Go now, Zouche!” he said impatiently--”Go back to the place where she lies--and tell her I am coming! I must--I will see her again! And I will see you again, Zouche!--you too!” He forced a pale smile--”Yes, poor poet! I will see you and speak with you of this--you shall write for her a dirge!--a threnody of pa.s.sion and regret that shall make the whole world weep! Poor Zouche!--you have had a hard life--well may you wonder why G.o.d made us men! And Lotys is dead!”
He rang the bell on his desk violently. Sir Roger de Launay at once returned,--but started back at the sight of his Royal master's altered countenance.
”Have the kindness, De Launay”--said the King hurriedly, not heeding his dismayed looks--”to place a carriage at the disposal of our friend Zouche! He has much business to do;--sad news to bear to all the quarters of the city--he will tell you of it,--as he has just told me! Lotys,--you know her!--Lotys, who saved my life at the risk of her own,--Lotys is dead!”
Sir Roger recoiled with an e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n of horror and pity.
”It is sudden--and--and strange!” continued the King, still speaking in the same rapid manner, and beginning to push aside the various letters and doc.u.ments on his table--”It is a kind of darkness fallen without warning!--but--such tragedies always do happen thus--unpreparedly! Lotys was a grand creature,--a n.o.ble and self-sacrificing woman--the poor will miss her--yes--the poor will miss her greatly!----”
He broke off, and with a speechless gesture of agonised entreaty, intimated that he must be left alone. De Launay hustled Zouche out of the apartment in a kind of impotent fury.
”Why have you brought the King such news?” he demanded--”It will kill him!”
”He has killed _her_!” returned Zouche, grimly--”If he had never crossed her path, she would have been alive now! Why should not a King suffer like other men? He does the same foolish things,--he has his private loves and hatreds in the same foolish manner,--why should he escape punishment for his follies? It is only in suffering that he grows human,--stripped by grief and pain of his outward pomp and temporal power, he even becomes lovable! G.o.d save us from this bauble of 'power'!
It is what Sergius Thord has worked for all his life!--it is what this King claims over his subjects--and yet--both monarch and reformer would give it all for the life of one woman back again! Look you, the King has had a dozen or more mistresses, and Heaven knows how many b.a.s.t.a.r.ds--but he has only loved once! And it is well that he should learn what real love means,--Sorrow always, and Death often!”
That afternoon the whole city knew of the tragic end of Lotys. Nothing else was thought of, nothing else talked of. Thousands gathered to look up at the house where her body lay, stiffening in the cold grasp of death, and a strong body of police were summoned to guard all the approaches to the premises, in order to prevent a threatening 'crush'
and disaster among the increasing crowd, every member of which sought to look for the last time on the face of her who had unselfishly served them and loved them in their hours of bitterest need. The sight of Sergius Thord pa.s.sing through their midst, with bent head, and ashy, distraught countenance, had not pacified the clamorous grief of the people, nor had it elicited such an outburst of sympathy for him as one might have thought would have been forthcoming. An idea had gotten abroad that since his election as Deputy for the city, he had either neglected or set aside the woman who had a.s.sisted him to gain his position. It was a wrong idea, of course,--but the trifling fact of his having taken up his abode in a more 'aristocratic' part of the metropolis, while Lotys had still remained in the 'quarter of the poor,'
was sufficient to give it ground in the minds of the ignorant, who are always more or less suspicious of even their best friends. Had they made a more ominous guess,--had they imagined that Sergius Thord was the actual murderer of the woman they had idolised, there would have been no remembrance whatever of the work he had done to aid them in the various reforms now being made for their benefit;--they would have torn him to pieces without a moment's mercy. The rough justice of the mob is a terrible thing! It knows nothing of legal phraseology or courtesy--it merely sees an evil deed done, and straightway proceeds to punish the evil-doer, regardless of consequences. Happily for the sake of peace and order, however, no thought of the truth, no suspicion of the real cause of the tragedy occurred to any one person among the sorrow-stricken mult.i.tude. A faint, half-sobbing cheer went up for the King, as his private brougham was recognised, making its way slowly through the press of people,--and it was with a kind of silent awe, that they watched his tall figure alight and pa.s.s into the house where lay the dead. Sergius Thord had already entered there,--the King and his new Deputy would meet! And with uneasy movements, rambling up and down, talking of Lotys, of her gentleness, patience and never-wearying sympathy for all the suffering and the lonely, the crowds collected, dispersed, and collected again,--every soul among them heavily weighted and depressed by the grief and the mystery of death, which though occurring every day, still seems the strangest of fates to every mortal born into the world.
Meantime, the King with slow reluctant tread, ascended into the room of death. Sergius Thord stood there,--but his brooding face and bulky form might have been but a mote of dust in a sunbeam for the little heed the stricken monarch took of him. His whole sight, his whole soul were concentrated on the white rec.u.mbent statue with the autumn-gold hair, which was couched in front of him, strewn with flowers. That was Lotys--or rather, that had been Lotys! It was now a very beautiful, still, smiling Thing,--its eyes were shut, but the eyelashes lay delicately on the pallid cheeks like little fringes of dark gold, tenderly slumbrous. Those eyelashes matched the hair--the soft, silken hair--so fine--so l.u.s.trous, so warm and bright!--the hair was surely yet living! With a shuddering sigh, the King bent over the piteous sight,--and stooping lower and lower still, touched with trembling lips the small, crossed hands.