‘He’s one of those chaps with the trick of saying witty things as if he didn’t see the fun in them himself,’ The Rat summed him up. ‘Chaps like that are always cleverer than the other kind.’
‘He’s too high in favour and too rich not to be followed about,’ they heard a man in a shop say one day, ‘but he gets tired of it. Sometimes, when he’s too bored to stand it any longer, he gives it out that he’s gone into the mountains somewhere, and all the time he’s shut up alone with his pictures in his own palace.’
That very night The Rat came in to their attic looking pale and disappointed. He had been out to buy some food after a long and arduous day in which they had covered much ground, had seen their man three times, and each time under circumstances which made him more inaccessible than ever. They had come back to their poor quarters both tired and ravenously hungry.
The Rat threw his purchase on to the table and himself into a chair.
‘He’s gone to Budapest,’ he said. ‘Now how shall we find him?’
Marco was rather pale also, and for a moment he looked paler. The day had been a hard one, and in their haste to reach places at a long distance from each other they had forgotten their need of food.
They sat silent for a few moments because there seemed to be nothing to say. ‘We are too tired and hungry to be able to think well,’ Marco said at last. ‘Let us eat our supper and then go to sleep. Until we’ve had a rest, we must “let go”.’
‘Yes. There’s no good in talking when you’re tired,’ The Rat answered a trifle gloomily. ‘You don’t reason straight. We must “let go”.’
Their meal was simple but they ate well and without words.
Even when they had finished and undressed for the night, they said very little.
‘Where do our thoughts go when we are asleep?’ The Rat enquired casually after he was stretched out in the darkness. ‘They must go somewhere. Let’s send them to find out what to do next.’
‘It’s not as still as it was on the Gaisberg. You can hear the city roaring,’ said Marco drowsily from his dark corner. ‘We must make a ledge – for ourselves.’
Sleep made it for them – deep, restful, healthy sleep. If they had been more resentful of their ill luck and lost labour, it would have come less easily and have been less natural. In their talks of strange things they had learned that one great secret of strength and unflagging courage is to know how to ‘let go’ – to cease thinking over an anxiety until the right moment comes. It was their habit to ‘let go’ for hours sometimes, and wander about looking at places and things – galleries, museums, palaces, giving themselves up with boyish pleasure and eagerness to all they saw. Marco was too intimate with the things worth seeing, and The Rat too curious and feverishly wide-awake to allow of their missing much.
The Rat’s image of the world had grown until it seemed to know no boundaries which could hold its wealth of wonders. He wanted to go on and on and see them all.
When Marco opened his eyes in the morning, he found The Rat lying looking at him. Then they both sat up in bed at the same time.
‘I believe we are both thinking the same thing,’ Marco said.
They frequently discovered that they were thinking the same things.
‘So do I,’ answered The Rat. ‘It shows how tired we were that we didn’t think of it last night.’
‘Yes, we are thinking the same thing,’ said Marco. ‘We have both remembered what we heard about his shutting himself up alone with his pictures and making people believe he had gone away.’
‘He’s in his palace now,’ The Rat announced.
‘Do you feel sure of that, too?’ asked Marco. ‘Did you wake up and feel sure of it the first thing?’
‘Yes,’ answered The Rat. ‘As sure as if I’d heard him say it himself.’
‘So did I,’ said Marco.
‘That’s what our thoughts brought back to us,’ said The Rat, ‘when we “let go” and sent them off last night.’ He sat up hugging his knees and looking straight before him for some time after this, and Marco did not interrupt his meditations.
The day was a brilliant one, and, though their attic had only one window, the sun shone in through it as they ate their breakfast. After it, they leaned on the window’s ledge and talked about the Prince’s garden. They talked about it because it was a place open to the public and they had walked round it more than once. The palace, which was not a large one, stood in the midst of it. The Prince was good-natured enough to allow quiet and well-behaved people to saunter through. It was not a fashionable promenade but a pleasant retreat for people who sometimes took their work or books and sat on the seats placed here and there among the shrubs and flowers.
‘When we were there the first time, I noticed two things,’ Marco said. ‘There is a stone balcony which juts out from the side of the palace which looks on the Fountain Garden. That day there were chairs on it as if the Prince and his visitors sometimes sat there. Near it, there was a very large evergreen shrub and I saw that there was a hollow place inside it. If someone wanted to stay in the gardens all night to watch the windows when they were lighted and see if anyone came out alone upon the balcony, he could hide himself in the hollow place and stay there until the morning.’
‘Is there room for two inside the shrub?’ The Rat asked.
‘No. I must go alone,’ said Marco.
chapter twenty-five
a voice in the night
Late that afternoon there wandered about the gardens two quiet, inconspicuous, rather poorly dressed boys. They looked at the palace, the shrubs, and the flowerbeds, as strangers usually did, and they sat on the seats and talked as people were accustomed to seeing boys talk together. It was a sunny day and exceptionally warm, and there were more saunterers and sitters than usual, which was perhaps the reason why the portier at the entrance gates gave such slight notice to the pair that he did not observe that, though two boys came in, only one went out. He did not, in fact, remember, when he saw The Rat swing by on his crutches at closing-time, that he had entered in company with a dark-haired lad who walked without any aid. It happened that, when The Rat passed out, the portier at the entrance was much interested in the aspect of the sky, which was curiously threatening. There had been heavy clouds hanging about all day and now and then blotting out the sunshine entirely, but the sun had refused to retire altogether. Just now, however, the clouds had piled themselves in thunderous, purplish mountains, and the sun had been forced to set behind them.
‘It’s been a sort of battle since morning,’ the portier said. ‘There will be some crashes and cataracts tonight.’ That was what The Rat had thought when they had sat in the Fountain Garden on a seat which gave them a good view of the balcony and the big evergreen shrub, which they knew had the hollow in the middle, though its circumference was so imposing. ‘If there should be a big storm, the evergreen will not save you much, though it may keep off the worst,’ The Rat said. ‘I wish there was room for two.’
He would have wished there was room for two if he had seen Marco marching to the stake. As the gardens emptied, the boys rose and walked round once more, as if on their way out. By the time they had sauntered toward the big evergreen, nobody was in the Fountain Garden, and the last loiterers were moving toward the arched stone entrance to the streets.
When they drew near one side of the evergreen, the two were together. When The Rat swung out on the other side of it, he was alone! No one noticed that anything had happened; no one looked back. So The Rat swung down the walks and round the flowerbeds and passed into the street. And the portier looked at the sky and made his remark about the ‘crashes’ and ‘cataracts’.
As the darkness came on, the hollow in the shrub seemed a very safe place. It was not in the least likely that anyone would enter the closed gardens; and if by rare chance some servant passed through, he would not be in search of people who wished to watch all night in the middle of an evergreen instead of going to bed and to sleep. The hollow was wel
l inclosed with greenery, and there was room to sit down when one was tired of standing.
Marco stood for a long time because, by doing so, he could see plainly the windows opening on the balcony if he gently pushed aside some flexible young boughs. He had managed to discover in his first visit to the gardens that the windows overlooking the Fountain Garden were those which belonged to the Prince’s own suite of rooms. Those which opened on to the balcony lighted his favourite apartment, which contained his best-loved books and pictures and in which he spent most of his secluded leisure hours.
Marco watched these windows anxiously. If the Prince had not gone to Budapest – if he were really only in retreat, and hiding from his gay world among his treasures – he would be living in his favourite rooms and lights would show themselves. And if there were lights, he might pass before a window because, since he was inclosed in his garden, he need not fear being seen. The twilight deepened into darkness and, because of the heavy clouds, it was very dense. Faint gleams showed themselves in the lower part of the palace, but none was lighted in the windows Marco watched. He waited so long that it became evident that none was to be lighted at all. At last he loosed his hold on the young boughs and, after standing a few moments in thought, sat down upon the earth in the midst of his embowered tent. The Prince was not in his retreat; he was probably not in Vienna, and the rumour of his journey to Budapest had no doubt been true. So much time lost through making a mistake – but it was best to have made the venture. Not to have made it would have been to lose a chance. The entrance was closed for the night and there was no getting out of the gardens until they were opened for the next day. He must stay in his hiding-place until the time when people began to come and bring their books and knitting and sit on the seats. Then he could stroll out without attracting attention. But he had the night before him to spend as best he could. That would not matter at all. He could tuck his cap under his head and go to sleep on the ground. He could command himself to waken once every half-hour and look for the lights. He would not go to sleep until it was long past midnight – so long past that there would not be one chance in a hundred that anything could happen. But the clouds which made the night so dark were giving forth low rumbling growls. At intervals a threatening gleam of light shot across them and a sudden swish of wind rushed through the trees in the garden. This happened several times, and then Marco began to hear the patter of raindrops. They were heavy and big drops, but few at first, and then there was a new and more powerful rush of wind, a jagged dart of light in the sky, and a tremendous crash. After that the clouds tore themselves open and poured forth their contents in floods. After the protracted struggle of the day it all seemed to happen at once, as if a horde of huge lions had at one moment been let loose: flame after flame of lightning, roar and crash and sharp reports of thunder, shrieks of hurricane wind, torrents of rain, as if some tidal wave of the skies had gathered and rushed and burst upon the earth. It was such a storm as people remember for a lifetime and which in few lifetimes is seen at all.
Marco stood still in the midst of the rage and flooding, blinding roar of it. After the first few minutes he knew he could do nothing to shield himself. Down the garden paths he heard cataracts rushing. He held his cap pressed against his eyes because he seemed to stand in the midst of darting flames. The crashes, cannon reports and thunderings, and the jagged streams of light came so close to one another that he seemed deafened as well as blinded. He wondered if he should ever be able to hear human voices again when it was over. That he was drenched to the skin and that the water poured from his clothes as if he were himself a cataract was so small a detail that he was scarcely aware of it. He stood still, bracing his body, and waited. If he had been a Samavian soldier in the trenches and such a storm had broken upon him and his comrades, they could only have braced themselves and waited. This was what he found himself thinking when the tumult and downpour were at their worst. There were men who had waited in the midst of a rain of bullets.
It was not long after this thought had come to him that there occurred the first temporary lull in the storm. Its fury perhaps reached its height and broke at that moment. A yellow flame had torn its jagged way across the heavens, and an earth-rending crash had thundered itself into rumblings which actually died away before breaking forth again. Marco took his cap from his eyes and drew a long breath. He drew two long breaths. It was as he began drawing a third and realising the strange feeling of the almost stillness about him that he heard a new kind of sound at the side of the garden nearest his hiding-place. It sounded like the creak of a door opening somewhere in the wall behind the laurel hedge. Someone was coming into the garden by a private entrance. He pushed aside the young boughs again and tried to see, but the darkness was too dense. Yet he could hear if the thunder would not break again. There was the sound of feet on the wet gravel, the footsteps of more than one person coming towards where he stood, but not as if afraid of being heard; merely as if they were at liberty to come in by what entrance they chose. Marco remained very still. A sudden hope gave him a shock of joy. If the man with the tired face chose to hide himself from his acquaintances, he might choose to go in and out by a private entrance. The footsteps drew near, crushing the wet gravel, passed by, and seemed to pause somewhere near the balcony; and then flame lit up the sky again and the thunder burst forth once more.
But this was its last great peal. The storm was at an end. Only fainter and fainter rumblings and mutterings and paler and paler darts followed. Even they were soon over, and the cataracts in the paths had rushed themselves silent. But the darkness was still deep.
It was deep to blackness in the hollow of the evergreen. Marco stood in it, streaming with rain, but feeling nothing because he was full of thought. He pushed aside his greenery and kept his eyes on the place in the blackness where the windows must be, though he could not see them. It seemed that he waited a long time, but he knew it only seemed so really. He began to breathe quickly because he was waiting for something.
Suddenly he saw exactly where the windows were – because they were all lighted!
His feeling of relief was great, but it did not last very long. It was true that something had been gained in the certainty that his man had not left Vienna. But what next? It would not be so easy to follow him if he chose only to go out secretly at night. What next? To spend the rest of the night watching a lighted window was not enough. Tomorrow night it might not be lighted. But he kept his gaze fixed upon it. He tried to fix all his will and thought-power on the person inside the room. Perhaps he could reach him and make him listen, even though he would not know that any one was speaking to him. He knew that thoughts were strong things. If angry thoughts in one man’s mind will create anger in the mind of another, why should not sane messages cross the line?
‘I must speak to you. I must speak to you!’ he found himself saying in a low intense voice. ‘I am outside here waiting. Listen! I must speak to you!’
He said it many times and kept his eyes fixed upon the window which opened on to the balcony. Once he saw a man’s figure cross the room, but he could not be sure who it was. The last distant rumblings of thunder had died away and the clouds were breaking. It was not long before the dark mountainous billows broke apart, and a brilliant full moon showed herself sailing in the rift, suddenly flooding everything with light. Parts of the garden were silver white, and the tree shadows were like black velvet. A silvery lance pierced even into the hollow of Marco’s evergreen and struck across his face.
Perhaps it was this sudden change which attracted the attention of those inside the balconied room. A man’s figure appeared at the long windows. Marco saw now that it was the Prince. He opened the windows and stepped out on to the balcony.
‘It is all over,’ he said quietly. And he stood with his face lifted, looking at the great white sailing moon.
He stood very still and seemed for the moment to forget the world and himself. It was a wonderful, triumphant queen of a moon. But someth
ing brought him back to earth. A low, but strong and clear, boy-voice came up to him from the garden path below.
‘The Lamp is lighted. The Lamp is lighted,’ it said, and the words sounded almost as if someone were uttering a prayer. They seemed to call to him, to arrest him, to draw him.
He stood still a few seconds in dead silence. Then he bent over the balustrade. The moonlight had not broken the darkness below.
‘That is a boy’s voice,’ he said in a low tone, ‘but I cannot see who is speaking.’
‘Yes, it is a boy’s voice,’ it answered, in a way which somehow moved him, because it was so ardent. ‘It is the son of Stefan Loristan. The Lamp is lighted.’
‘Wait. I am coming down to you,’ the Prince said.
In a few minutes Marco heard a door open gently not far from where he stood. Then the man he had been following so many days appeared at his side.
‘How long have you been here?’ he asked.
‘Before the gates closed. I hid myself in the hollow of the big shrub there, Highness,’ Marco answered.
‘Then you were out in the storm?’
‘Yes, Highness.’
The Prince put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘I cannot see you – but it is best to stand in the shadow. You are drenched to the skin.’
‘I have been able to give your Highness – the Sign,’ Marco whispered. ‘A storm is nothing.’
There was a silence. Marco knew that his companion was pausing to turn something over in his mind.
‘So-o?’ he said slowly, at length. ‘The Lamp is lighted, and you are sent to bear the Sign.’ Something in his voice made Marco feel that he was smiling.
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