In spite of the fact that he had been prepared for it, when the sentence was actually delivered, it came as a shock. Something inside himself had continued to argue up to the very last moment, against the logic of his brain, that he would not be called on to pay the extreme penalty. Yet he knew that for them to have sentenced him to a long term of imprisonment in a fortress would have been to evade the issue; either they must find him innocent, and acquit him of all but the minor charge of having re-entered the country illegally, or guilty; and if the latter, guilty of crimes which could not possibly be paid for by less than death. The blood drained from his face for a moment, then he bowed to his judges, faced about, and with his chin held high walked between his guards back to his cell.
As they led him into it, he found that his Prisoner’s Friend had followed him. The young man had never seen a death sentence passed before, and his pink cheeks had gone quite pale. In a low voice he said: “I—I’m sorry I was of so little use to you.”
De Richleau managed a smile. “Please don’t worry. As you knew nothing of the facts of my case you could not possibly have done better for me than I did for myself.”
“Is there anything I can do to make things easier for you?” asked the Lieutenant.
“Perhaps. When will it be?”
“To-morrow morning. At the usual hour for—for these things. Soon after dawn.”
“I trust that I am to be shot?”
“Yes. As a soldier you are entitled to that. “‘
“Good! I should greatly resent the indignity of being hanged. Now, this is what you can do for me. See that the squad make a neat job of it by aiming for my heart. For God’s sake don’t have any youngsters or recruits among them. Detail some tough old sweats, and tell them beforehand that I have given you the money that was taken from me when I was searched, to distribute among them as a reward for ensuring me a quick, clean death.”
The Lieutenant’s eyes goggled and he looked as if he were about to be sick; but he stammered, “Yes. I—I promise to arrange it like that. Is there anything else?”
“Only that I should like to write some letters and make my will; and I would be grateful if you would take charge of them. If you can let me have some paper now, and come back at about eight o’clock, I’ll have them ready.”
When the Lieutenant had fetched the writing materials and gone, the Duke suppressed a tremor of excitement and sat down to write to Ilona.
His trial had introduced an entirely new element into his outlook and, he felt, provided him with legal grounds which entitled him to seek her help. It had disclosed the fact that the German police were unable to bring home against him the killings on the train, and that but for minor matters all the evidence against him was circumstantial. He was convinced that, had he been tried by a civil court, he would have been granted the right of appeal. Ilona might have no official status, but her prestige was immense, and it was a part of her functions as a royalty, to receive and consider petitions from people who felt that the authorities had dealt unjustly with them. Only the Emperor had the right to pardon, but a message from her to the Commandant would, the Duke felt sure, result in a postponement of his execution.
He was still greatly distressed at the thought of bringing such a worry on her, but considered that justified by the fact that where she could have done nothing for him before she could now do much. In his extremity he reasoned that, if she could get him a retrial in Vienna, there was a fair hope of his securing an acquittal on all major charges; and that if there appeared the least doubt about his guilt, many of his influential friends there would endeavour to save him, particularly Count Tisza. The Count would realize that it was his having delayed to the last moment the rescinding of the parole he had exacted that had resulted in the present situation. As Minister-President, even in the worst event, he could secure a remission of sentence to a term of imprisonment in a fortress. With all this in mind, De Richleau had swiftly reached the conclusion that only a quixotic fool would have refrained from appealing to Ilona now he could arm her with a legal pretext as the means of saving his life.
First he wrote the formal petition, giving full particulars of the trial, pointing out that he had been condemned on written evidence, and praying Her Imperial Highness’ gracious intervention. It was a carefully worded document that she could quote to the Commandant as her justification for intervening, and, later, forward to the proper authorities. Then he covered many sheets, in which he expressed all that he felt, in case she should be unable to do anything for him. He wrote glowingly of the hours they had spent together; of his undying love for her; and ended by saying that if he must die to-morrow his only regret would be that he had not first held her in his arms again.
By the time he had finished it was getting on for eight. As he stuck down the envelope of his letter he took considerable comfort from the thought that, if Ilona could do nothing, she had at least been spared the agony of awaiting his trial. All would be over within a few hours of her receiving it, and as she was so soon to die herself she might gain comfort from the thought that within a little time they would be together once more. But he knew that she would move heaven and earth to save him, and felt confident now that she would succeed.
On the Lieutenant’s arrival, De Richleau greeted him with a calm but serious air, and said: “I want you to have this letter sent by dispatch rider to Her Imperial Highness the Archduchess Ilona Theresa, at Hohenembs. I cannot too strongly impress upon you its urgency and importance. I was greatly averse to involving Her Imperial Highness in this affair as long as I expected an acquittal. But now my life depends upon it.”
The Lieutenant looked at him in blank surprise, then exclaimed, “I’m sorry! Terribly sorry. But what you ask is quite impossible. It is strictly against orders for prisoners to send letters to anyone.”
When the Duke had contemplated writing to Ilona soon after his arrest, he had thought it probable that he might come up against prison regulations, and have to think out some way of circumventing them. But now that he had been tried and condemned he could hardly credit that he was to be denied the small privilege of dispatching a letter. In swift consternation he began to plead and argue.
“I’m sorry,” repeated the Lieutenant. “It is more than my commission is worth to go against orders in a case like this. Of course, I will take charge of any letters you care to leave with me, and do my best to see that they reach their destination. But I cannot possibly send this letter off now without the Commandant’s permission.”
“Then ask it at once,” replied the Duke tersely. “And should he refuse this simple request, I demand to be brought before him.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that either,” said the Lieutenant unhappily. “You see, he has gone out to dinner somewhere in the town with Major Ronge; but where, I don’t know.”
Seeing that nothing could be done for the moment, De Richleau restrained his anger and fresh anxiety as well as he could. “All right,” he nodded. “But be good enough to ask him to see me the moment he returns. I can rely on you to do that, can’t I?”
“Certainly! I’ve no idea when he will be back; but I promise you I’ll hang about for him and let him know of your request immediately he comes in.” With an apologetic glance the Lieutenant withdrew, and the cell door was locked behind him.
More agitated now than at any time since he had been in prison, the Duke began to pace up and down the few feet of floor that lay between the door and the wall opposite it, which was blank except for a small barred window set high up near the ceiling. A few minutes earlier he had been next to positive that, now no really damning evidence had been brought against him at his trial, Ilona could save him. But, unless he could get his letter to her, he would die with her still in ignorance of the facts.
Even if the Commandant did not return until the early hours of the morning, there would still be time to get the letter to Hohenembs and for her to telephone the barracks. But would the Commandant agree to send the letter
? That was the awful doubt that now haunted the Duke.
At one moment he felt that no human being could be so stonyhearted as to refuse a condemned man a request that might secure his reprieve: at the next he recalled that Count Zelltin was Lanzi’s nephew, and had good cause to wish to see his prisoner shot.
In an agony of anxiety De Richleau strode to and fro for what seemed an interminable time. His hands were sweating and his dark hair was damp on his forehead. Now, more than ever before, he realized how good life could be, and how desperately he wanted to live. And for him life or death now hung upon the decision of a man who had every reason to be bitterly antagonistic to him.
At length, with a great effort, he pulled himself together and sat down again at the small table. In case—just in case—the worst happened, there were still things that he ought to do. Forcing himself to concentrate, he wrote his last will and testament; then started on letters to numerous friends. In each he said that he had had the misfortune to be caught in Austria, tried and condemned to death for espionage. He no longer felt any shame at admitting that he had acted as a spy. On the contrary, he now derived a curious pride in doing so. He added that he was much consoled by the thought that he had been of some service to the Allied cause; then sent all good wishes, and endeavoured to end his letters on as light a note as possible.
It was nearly eleven o’clock when Count Zelltin entered the cell, accompanied by Major Ronge. The Duke was still writing. He at once stood up and produced his letter for Ilona, with the request that it should be sent off by hand immediately.
The Commandant replied with a shrug: “I see no particular hurry about this. It will be taken care of with those others you are writing, and duly forwarded to-morrow morning.”
De Richleau’s mouth was dry. He swallowed, and said: “Herr Graf, I have a particular reason for wishing it to go to-night. As you are aware, I am an honorary Colonel in Her Imperial Highness’s regiment. She has always been extremely gracious to me, and has even honoured me with her personal friendship. Even if she is in no position to alleviate my case, I feel certain that, if informed of it, she will give me the benefit of her prayers at the hour of my execution.”
For a moment Count Zelltin played with one tip of his fluffed-out ginger moustache, then he said: “It is against regulations in such a case as yours for any letters to be sent till after execution. But I find it hard to refuse a last request from a man who has been condemned to death. All right; give it—”
“One moment, Herr Graf!” Ronge intervened swiftly, catching the Commandant’s arm as he extended his hand for the letter. “If you take my advice, you’ll think again before you allow this fellow to communicate with Her Imperial Highness. He is a special protégé of hers. If she learns that he is to be shot, she will create a fine to-do. She will demand that his execution shall be postponed until further inquiries have been made. And you will be faced with the choice of letting her have her way or risking the trouble she can make for you in Vienna.”
Still the Commandant seemed to hesitate, and for several seconds the three of them stood there in so tense a silence that one could have heard the ticking of a watch. Then De Richleau began to plead; but Ronge cut him short, and exclaimed to the Commandant:
“You must not send it! I tell you it would be a crazy thing to do! This man has earned death a dozen times over! He is one of the most dangerous devils I have ever had to deal with. You can’t possibly wish to give him this chance to prolong his life!”
Count Zelltin turned to the Secret Service Chief with a sigh, and muttered: “Well, you know more about these things than I do. Perhaps you’re right.” Then he glanced at De Richleau, made him a formal bow, and said, “I regret, but I cannot see my way to send your letter.”
De Richleau felt a sudden shiver start to run through him, but he suppressed it. Drawing himself up like a French aristocrat about to be taken to the guillotine, he shrugged, made an airy gesture with his hand, and replied:
“Very well, then. In that case I will get a few hours’ sleep. At three o’clock be good enough to send me a priest.”
* * * * *
It was six o’clock in the morning. Dawn had already come an hour ago, and Ilona had woken with it. Since she had been at Hohenembs the doctors had made her spend a great deal of her time in bed; and even during the periods when her temperature remained normal they made her lie down for a nap in the afternoons; so she had acquired the habit of waking early.
During those early morning hours she rarely read. She allowed her thoughts to drift, and they ranged over many things. Down there on the Swiss frontier she was far removed from all the battle fronts; but she thought a lot about them and the misery they were bringing to the women of her country.
To begin with, like nearly every young person, she had felt a certain glamour and excitement at the coming of war. Her conviction that the Serbs were a barbarous race of murderers, who deserved severe chastisement, was still unshaken. She had not a shadow of doubt that the Dual Monarchy’s cause was just, and that but for the unscrupulous ambitions of other countries the war would never have spread. Yet she had soon been given cause to rue it, for it had robbed her of her lover— the only lover she had ever had in her life. And she realized now that she was only one of millions of women to whom the war had brought the agony of separation.
Only the day before she had had a letter from her cousin, the Archduke Charles, who had become the Heir Apparent on Franz Ferdinand’s death. He was a young man of mild and kindly disposition; and he wrote from his headquarters on the Russian front that every day the war filled him with greater horror. He said that the troops who had started out so gaily were now gaunt with fatigue and terror; that often they had to be driven to the attack by their officers threatening to shoot them from behind; and that even regiments which had fought with great bravery to begin with now broke and fled at the dread cry ‘The Cossacks are coming!’ But that they could not be blamed for that, as of the great host that had marched against the Czar one man out of every three would never return to his wife or sweetheart.
Ilona would have given her life to stop it, but she realized the futility of such a thought. She could only be thankful that, temporarily at least, she had saved one couple from the fate that had already overtaken so many. At the end of August, although Dr. Bruckner had not actually told her that her case was hopeless, she had known that he considered it so, and she had used that as a lever to make Adam Grünne abandon his intention of leaving for the front. He and Sárolta had then been on their honeymoon, and, now that they were married, were qualified to become the Master and Mistress of her Household. With great tact she had persuaded the Aulendorfs to return to Vienna, so that she could appoint the Count and Countess Grünne in their place, and thus protect Sárolta for a while from premature widowhood.
They had taken over their new duties on the previous Saturday, and she had awaited their arrival with hardly bearable impatience; not only because she was naturally eager to see these dear friends again, but because in her letter to Adam she had asked him to see Major Ronge on his way through Vienna, and find out anything that was known about De Richleau since his disappearance.
The K.S. Chief had a grim tale to tell and had shown Adam all the data on the case that he had received from Colonel Nicolai. Adam had been greatly worried, and at first considered suppressing the worst accusations in the account he gave Ilona. But Sárolta had said it was better that she should be told the whole truth by a friend, as she might otherwise learn it bluntly and brutally from someone else later; so together they had given her as gently as they could the story of her lover’s desperate acts after leaving Vienna.
Ilona had taken it much better than Adam expected. She had been quick to seize upon the fact that De Richleau had committed no crime against Austria, and to point out that, even if he wore guilty of all the charges laid against him, whatever he had done had been done in the service of his country. She glowed with pride at the thought of his daring and
resource, and the way that he had fooled the Germans, whom they all detested. Above all, she was overjoyed to know that he had succeeded in getting away.
Over the week-end they had talked of little else; and privately Adam admitted to Sárolta that she had been right in urging him to conceal nothing. It was clear that Ilona did not care if the Duke had committed every crime in the calendar: she thought of him only as her man, and was animated by a new gaiety and happiness from the knowledge that he was safe and free.
Now, as she lay in bed, she was thinking of him, and wondering what he was doing. Had he become an officer of the British Army? Even if he had, he might be able to get leave and come to Switzerland. If so, she could easily cross the frontier and meet him there. Her doctor was urging her to move there as it was. How marvellous it would be if they could be together again—even for a few days.
A room on the ground floor had been turned into a bedroom for her, so that she could go straight out to sit in the sunshine on the small terrace, without the fatigue of going up and down stairs. Her curtains had not yet been drawn back and the room was still in semi-darkness; but outside it was full daylight.
Suddenly the shrilling of the front door bell cut across her thoughts. She wondered who it could possibly be at such an early hour in the morning. It shrilled again, and again—impatiently, urgently. Then there came footsteps in the hall, followed by the faint sound of voices in hurried argument.
After a few minutes there was a knock on her door, and at her call to enter, one of the housemaids looked in. The girl was not yet fully dressed, and said with a flustered air:
“I am sorry to disturb Your Highness, but there is a priest here. He insists on seeing you, and won’t take no for an answer.”
“A priest!” exclaimed Ilona. “What does he want?”
Dennis Wheatley - Duke de Richleau 07 Page 64
