Part 66 (1/2)

It was the morning of a white day. The princely banner flew from every tower in Castle Kernsberg, for that day it was to lose a d.u.c.h.ess and gain a duke. It was Joan's second wedding-day--the day of her first marriage.

Never had the little hill town seen so brave a gathering since the northern princes laid Henry the Lion in his grave. In the great vault where he slept there was a new tomb, a plain marble slab with the inscription--

”THERESA, WIFE OF HENRY, DUKE OF KERNSBERG AND HOHENSTEIN.”

And underneath, and in Latin, the words--

”AFTER THE TEMPEST, PEACE!”

For strangely enough, by the wonder of Providence or some freak of the exploding powder, they had found Theresa fallen where she had stood, blackened indeed but scarce marred in face or figure. So from that burnt-out h.e.l.l they had brought her here that at the last she might rest near the man whom her soul loved.

And as they moved away and left her, little Johannes Rode, the scholar, murmured the words, ”_Post tempestatem, tranquillitas!_”

Prince Conrad heard him, and he it was who had them engraven on her tomb.

But on this morning of gladness only Joan thought of the dead woman.

”To-day I will do the thing she wished,” the d.u.c.h.ess thought, as she looked from the window towards her father's tomb. ”She would take nothing for herself, yet shall her son sit in my place and rule where his father ruled. I am glad!”

Here she blushed.

”Yet, why should I vaunt? It is no sacrifice, for I shall be--what I would rather a thousand times be. Small thanks, then, that I give up freely what is worth nothing to me now!”

And with the arm that had wielded a sword so often and so valiantly, Joan the bride went on arraying her hair and making her beautiful for the eyes of her lord.

”My lord!” she said, and again with a different accent. ”_My_ lord!”

And when these her living eyes met those others in the Venice mirror, lo! either pair was smiling a new smile.

Meantime, beneath in her chamber, the Princess Margaret was making her husband's life a burden to him, or rather, first quarrelling with him and the next moment throwing her arms about his neck in a pa.s.sion of remorse. For that is the wont of dainty Princess Margarets who are sick and know not yet what aileth them.

”Maurice,” she was saying, ”is it not enough to make me throw me over the battlements that they should all forsake me, on this day of all others, when you are to be made a Duke in the presence of the Pope's Legate and the Emperor's _Alter_--what is it?--_Alter ego?_ What a silly word! And you might have told it to me prettily and without laughing at me. Yes, you did, and you also are in league against me. And I will not go to the wedding; no, not if Joan were to beg of me on my knees! I will not have any of these minxes in to do my hair. Nay, do not you touch it.

I am n.o.body, it seems, and Joan everything. Joan--Joan! It is Joan this and Joan that! Tush, I am sick of your Joans.

”She gives up the duchy to us--well, that is no great gift. She is getting Courtland for it, and my brother. Even he will not love me any more. Conrad is like the rest. He eats, drinks, sleeps, wakes, talks Joan. He is silent, and thinks Joan. So, I believe, do you. You are only sorry that she did not love you best!

”Well, if you _are_ her brother, I do not care. Who was speaking about marrying her? And, at any rate, you did not know she was your sister.

You might very well have loved her. And I believe you did. You do not love me, at all events. _That_ I do know!

”No, I will not 'hush,' nor will I come upon your knee and be petted. I am not a baby! '_What is the matter betwixt me and the maidens?_' If you had let me explain I would have told you long ago. But I never get speaking a word. I am not crying, and I shall cry if I choose. Oh yes, I will tell you, Duke Maurice, if you care to hear, why I am angry with the maids. Well, then, first it was that Anna Pappenheim. She tugged my hair out by the roots in handfuls, and when I scolded her I saw there were tears in her eyes. I asked her why, and for long she would not tell me. Then all at once she acknowledged that she had promised to marry that great overgrown chimney-pot, Captain Boris, and must hie her to Pla.s.senburg, if I pleased. I did not please, and when I said that surely Marthe was not so foolish thus to throw herself away, the wretched Marthe came bawling and wringing hands, and owned that she was in like case with Jorian.

”So I sent them out very quickly, being justly angry that they should thus desert me. And I called for Thora of Bornholm, and began easing my mind concerning their ingrat.i.tude, when the Swede said calmly, 'I fear me, madam, I am not able to find any fault with Anna and Martha. For I am even as they, or worse. I have been married for over six months.'

”'And to whom?' I cried; 'tell me, and he shall hang as surely as I am a Princess of Courtland.' For I was somewhat disturbed.

”'To-day your Highness is d.u.c.h.ess of Kernsberg,' said the minx, as calmly as if at sacrament. 'My husband's name is Johannes Rode!'

”And when I have told you, instead of being sorry for me, you do nothing but laugh. I will indeed fling me over the window!”