XX
MARCO GOES TO THE OPERA
Their next journey was to Munich, but the night before they left
Paris an unexpected thing happened.
To reach the narrow staircase which led to their bedroom it was
necessary to pass through the baker's shop itself.
The baker's wife was a friendly woman who liked the two boy
lodgers who were so quiet and gave no trouble. More than once
she had given them a hot roll or so or a freshly baked little
tartlet with fruit in the center. When Marco came in this
evening, she greeted him with a nod and handed him a small parcel
as he passed through.
``This was left for you this afternoon,'' she said. ``I see you
are making purchases for your journey. My man and I are very
sorry you are going.''
``Thank you, Madame. We also are sorry,'' Marco answered, taking
the parcel. ``They are not large purchases, you see.''
But neither he nor The Rat had bought anything at all, though the
ordinary-looking little package was plainly addressed to him and
bore the name of one of the big cheap shops. It felt as if it
contained something soft.
When he reached their bedroom, The Rat was gazing out of the
window watching every living thing which passed in the street
below. He who had never seen anything but London was absorbed by
the spell of Paris and was learning it by heart.
``Something has been sent to us. Look at this,'' said Marco.
The Rat was at his side at once. ``What is it? Where did it
come from?''
They opened the package and at first sight saw only several pairs
of quite common woolen socks. As Marco took up the sock in the
middle of the parcel, he felt that there was something inside
it-- something laid flat and carefully. He put his hand in and
drew out a number of five-franc notes--not new ones, because new
ones would have betrayed themselves by crackling. These were old
enough to be soft. But there were enough of them to amount to a
substantial sum.
``It is in small notes because poor boys would have only small
ones. No one will be surprised when we change these,'' The Rat
said.
Each of them believed the package had been sent by the great
lady, but it had been done so carefully that not the slightest
clue was furnished.
To The Rat, part of the deep excitement of ``the Game'' was the
working out of the plans and methods of each person concerned.
He could not have slept without working out some scheme which
might have been used in this case. It thrilled him to
contemplate the difficulties the great lady might have found
herself obliged to overcome.
``Perhaps,'' he said, after thinking it over for some time, ``she
went to a big common shop dressed as if she were an ordinary
woman and bought the socks and pretended she was going to carry
them home herself. She would do that so that she could take them
into some corner and slip the money in. Then, as she wanted to
have them sent from the shop, perhaps she bought some other
things and asked the people to deliver the packages to different
places. The socks were sent to us and the other things to some
one else. She would go to a shop where no one knew her and no
one would expect to see her and she would wear clothes which
looked neither rich nor too poor.''
He created the whole episode with all its details and explained
them to Marco. It fascinated him for the entire evening and he
felt relieved after it and slept well.
Even before they had left London, certain newspapers had swept
out of existence the story of the descendant of the Lost Prince.
This had been done by derision and light handling--by treating it
as a romantic legend.
At first, The Rat had resented this bitterly, but one day at a
meal, when he had been producing arguments to prove that the
story must be a true one, Loristan somehow checked him by his own
silence.
``If there is such a man,'' he said after a pause, ``it is well
for him that his existence should not be believed in--for some
time at least.''
The Rat came to a dead stop. He felt hot for a moment and then
felt cold. He saw a new idea all at once. He had been making a
mistake in tactics.
No more was said but, when they were alone afterwards, he poured
himself forth to Marco.
``I was a fool!'' he cried out. ``Why couldn't I see it for
myself! Shall I tell you what I believe has been done? There is
some one who has influence in England and who is a friend to
Samavia. They've got the newspapers to make fun of the story so
that it won't be believed. If it was believed, both the
Iarovitch and the Maranovitch would be on the lookout, and the
Secret Party would lose their chances. What a fool I was not to
think of it! There's some one watching and working here who is a
friend to Samavia.''
``But there is some one in Samavia who has begun to suspect that
it might be true,'' Marco answered. ``If there were not, I
should not have been shut in the cellar. Some one thought my
father knew something. The spies had orders to find out what it
was.''
``Yes. Yes. That's true, too!'' The Rat answered anxiously.
``We shall have to be very careful.''
In the lining of the sleeve of Marco's coat there was a slit into
which he could slip any small thing he wished to conceal and also
wished to be able to reach without trouble. In this he had
carried the sketch of the lady which he had torn up in Paris.
When they walked in the streets of Munich, the morning after
their arrival, he carried still another sketch. It was the one
picturing the genial- looking old aristocrat with the sly smile.
One of the things they had learned about this one was that his
chief characteristic was his passion for music. He was a patron
of musicians and he spent much time in Munich because he loved
its musical atmosphere and the earnestness of its opera-goers.
``The military band plays in the Feldherrn-halle at midday. When
something very good is being played, sometimes people stop their
carriages so that they can listen. We will go there,'' said
Marco.
``It's a chance,'' said The Rat. ``We mustn't lose anything like
a chance.''
The day was brilliant and sunny, the people passing through the
streets looked comfortable and homely, the mixture of old streets
and modern ones, of ancient corners and shops and houses of the
day was picturesque and cheerful. The Rat swinging through the
crowd on his crutches was full of interest and exhilaration. He
had begun to grow, and the change in his face and expression
which had begun in London had become more noticeable. He had
been given his ``place,'' and a work to do which entitled him to
hold it.
No one could have suspected them of carrying a strange and vital
secret with them as they strolled along together. They seemed
only two ordinary boys who looked in at shop windows and talked
over their contents, and who loitered with upturned faces in the
Marien- Platz before the ornate Gothic Rathaus to hear the eleven
o'clock chimes play and see the painted figures of the King and
Queen watch from their balcony the passing before them of the
automatic tournament procession with its trumpeters and tilting
knights. When the show was over and the automatic cock broke
forth into his lusty farewell crow, they laughed just as any
other boys would have laughed. Sometimes it would have been easy
for The Rat to forget that there was anything graver in the world
than the new places and new wonders he was seeing, as if he were
a wandering minstrel in a story.
But in Samavia bloody battles were being fought, and bloody plans
were being wrought out, and in anguished anxiety the Secret Party
and the Forgers of the Sword waited breathlessly for the Sign for
which they had waited so long. And inside the lining of Marco's
coat was hidden the sketched face, as the two unnoticed lads made
their way to the Feldherrn-halle to hear the band play and see
who might chance to be among the audience.
Because the day was sunny, and also because the band was playing
a specially fine programme, the crowd in the square was larger
than usual. Several vehicles had stopped, and among them were
one or two which were not merely hired cabs but were the
carriages of private persons.
One of them had evidently arrived early, as it was drawn up in a
good position when the boys reached the corner. It was a big
open carriage and a grand one, luxuriously upholstered in green.
The footman and coachman wore green and silver liveries and
seemed to know that people were looking at them and their master.
He was a stout, genial-looking old aristocrat with a sly smile,
though, as he listened to the music, it almost forgot to be sly.
In the carriage with him were a young officer and a little boy,
and they also listened attentively. Standing near the carriage
door were several people who were plainly friends or
acquaintances, as they occasionally spoke to him. Marco touched
The Rat's coat sleeve as the two boys approached.
``It would not be easy to get near him,'' he said. ``Let us go
and stand as close to the carriage as we can get without pushing.
Perhaps we may hear some one say something about where he is
going after the music is over.''
Yes, there was no mistaking him. He was the right man. Each of
them knew by heart the creases on his stout face and the sweep of
his gray moustache. But there was nothing noticeable in a boy
looking for a moment at a piece of paper, and Marco sauntered a
few steps to a bit of space left bare by the crowd and took a
last glance at his sketch. His rule was to make sure at the
final moment. The music was very good and the group about the
carriage was evidently enthusiastic. There was talk and praise
and comment, and the old aristocrat nodded his head repeatedly in
applause.
``The Chancellor is music mad,'' a looker-on near the boys said
to another. ``At the opera every night unless serious affairs
keep him away! There you may see him nodding his old head and
bursting his gloves with applauding when a good thing is done.
He ought to have led an orchestra or played a 'cello. He is too
big for first violin.''
There was a group about the carriage to the last, when the music
came to an end and it drove away. There had been no possible
opportunity of passing close to it even had the presence of the
young officer and the boy not presented an insurmountable
obstacle.
Marco and The Rat went on their way and passed by the Hof-
Theater and read the bills. ``Tristan and Isolde'' was to be
presented at night and a great singer would sing Isolde.
``He will go to hear that,'' both boys said at once. ``He will
be sure to go.''
It was decided between them that Marco should go on his quest
alone when night came. One boy who hung around the entrance of
the Opera would be observed less than two.
``People notice crutches more than they notice legs,'' The Rat
said. ``I'd better keep out of the way unless you need me. My
time hasn't come yet. Even if it doesn't come at all I've--I've
been on duty. I've gone with you and I've been ready- that's what
an aide-de- camp does.''
He stayed at home and read such English papers as he could lay
hands on and he drew plans and re-fought battles on paper.
Marco went to the opera. Even if he had not known his way to the
square near the place where the Hof-Theater stood, he could
easily have found it by following the groups of people in the
streets who all seemed walking in one direction. There were
students in their odd caps walking three or four abreast, there
were young couples and older ones, and here and there whole
families; there were soldiers of all ages, officers and privates;
and, when talk was to be heard in passing, it was always talk
about music.
For some time Marco waited in the square and watched the
carriages roll up and pass under the huge pillared portico to
deposit their contents at the entrance and at once drive away in
orderly sequence. He must make sure that the grand carriage with
the green and silver liveries rolled up with the rest. If it
came, he would buy a cheap ticket and go inside.
It was rather late when it arrived. People in Munich are not
late for the opera if it can be helped, and the coachman drove up
hurriedly. The green and silver footman leaped to the ground and
opened the carriage door almost before it stopped. The
Chancellor got out looking less genial than usual because he was
afraid that he might lose some of the overture. A rosy-cheeked
girl in a white frock was with him and she was evidently trying
to soothe him.
``I do not think we are really late, Father,'' she said. ``Don't
feel cross, dear. It will spoil the music for you.''
This was not a time in which a man's attention could be attracted
quietly. Marco ran to get the ticket which would give him a
place among the rows of young soldiers, artists, male and female
students, and musicians who were willing to stand four or five
deep throughout the performance of even the longest opera. He
knew that, unless they were in one of the few boxes which
belonged only to the court, the Chancellor and his rosy-cheeked
daughter would be in the best seats in the front curve of the
balcony which were the most desirable of the house. He soon saw
them. They had secured the central places directly below the
large royal box where two quiet princesses and their attendants
were already seated.
When he found he was not too late to hear the overture, the
Chancellor's face become more genial than ever. He settled
himself down to an evening of enjoyment and evidently forgot
everything else in the world. Marco did not lose sight of him.
When the audience went out between acts to promenade in the
corridors, he might go also and there might be a chance to pass
near to him in the crowd. He watched him closely. Sometimes his
fine old face saddened at the beautiful woe of the music,
sometimes it looked enraptured, and it was always evident that
every note reached his soul.
The pretty daughter who sat beside him was attentive but not so
enthralled. After the first act two glittering young officers
appeared and made elegant and low bows, drawing their heels
together as they kissed her hand. They looked sorry when they
were obliged to return to their seats again.
After the second act the Chancellor sat for a few minutes as if
he were in a dream. The people in the seats near him began to
rise from their seats and file out into the corridors. The young
officers were to be seen rising also. The rosy daughter leaned
forward and touched her father's arm gently.
``She wants him to take her out,'' Marco thought. ``He will take
her because he is good-natured.''
He saw him recall himself from his dream with a smile and then he
rose and, after helping to arrange a silvery blue scarf round the
girl's shoulders, gave her his arm just as Marco skipped out of
his fourth-row standing-place.
It was a rather warm night and the corridors were full. By the
time Marco had reached the balcony floor, the pair had issued
from the little door and were temporarily lost in the moving
numbers.
Marco quietly made his way among the crowd trying to look as if
he belonged to somebody. Once or twice his strong body and his
dense black eyes and lashes made people glance at him, but he
was not the only boy who had been brought to the opera so he felt
safe enough to stop at the foot of the stairs and watch those who
went up and those who passed by. Such a miscellaneous crowd as
it was made up of--good unfashionable music-lovers mixed here and
there with grand people of the court and the gay world.
Suddenly he heard a low laugh and a moment later a hand lightly
touched him.
``You DID get out, then?'' a soft voice said.
When he turned he felt his muscles stiffen. He ceased to slouch
and did not smile as he looked at the speaker. What he felt was
a wave of fierce and haughty anger. It swept over him before he
had time to control it.
A lovely person who seemed swathed in several shades of soft
violet drapery was smiling at him with long, lovely eyes.
It was the woman who had trapped him into No. 10 Brandon Terrace.
