Years and years ago the prince had had a son; but at the tender age of
three the boy had run away from the castle confines, and no one ever
heard of him again. The enemies of the prince whispered among
themselves that the boy had run away to escape compulsory military
service, but the boy's age precluded this accusation. The prince
advertised, after the fashion of those times, sent out detectives and
notified his various brothers; but his trouble went for nothing. Not
the slightest trace of the boy could be found. So he was mourned for a
season, regretted and then forgotten; the prince adopted the
grape-arbor.
I saw the prince once. I do not blame the Princess Hildegarde for her
rebellion. The prince was not only old; he was fat and ugly, with
little, elephant-like eyes that were always vein-shot, restless and
full of mischief. He might have made a good father, but I have nothing
to prove this. Those bottles of sparkling Moselle which he failed to
dispose of to the American trade he gave to his brother in Barscheit or
drank himself. He was sixty-eight years old.
A nephew, three times removed, was waiting for the day when he should
wabble around in the prince's shoes. He was a lieutenant in the duke's
body-guard, a quick-tempered, heady chap. Well, he never wabbled
around in his uncle's shoes, for he never got the chance.
I hadn't been in Barscheit a week before I heard a great deal about the
princess. She was a famous horsewoman. This made me extremely anxious
to meet her. Yet for nearly six months I never even got so much as a
glimpse of her. Half of the six months she was traveling through
Austria, and the other half she kept out of my way,--not intentionally;
she knew nothing of my existence; simply, fate moved us about blindly.
At court, she was invariably indisposed, and at the first court ball
she retired before I arrived. I got up at all times, galloped over all
roads, but never did I see her. She rode alone, too, part of the time.
The one picture of her which I was lucky enough to see had been taken
when she was six, and meant nothing to me in the way of identification.
For all I knew I might have passed her on the road. She became to me
the Princess in the Invisible Cloak, passing me often and doubtless
deriding my efforts to discern her. My curiosity became alarming. I
couldn't sleep for the thought of her. Finally we met, but the meeting
was a great surprise to us both. This meeting happened during the
great hubbub of which I have just written; and at the same time I met
another who had great weight in my future affairs.