“True,” I replied, “but I have a
small sum in the hands of a merchant at Vienna that
will support us for a time. When it is spent,
we must make our bread or starve. That will be
the best part of our experience. A struggle for
existence sweetens it; and if we starve, we shall deserve
the fate.”
After three days Max gave me his answer.
“I will go with you, Karl,” he said; “you
have never led me wrong. If we starve, I shall
not be much worse off than I am here in Styria.
It hurts me to say that the love of my father and
mother is my greatest danger; but it is true.
They have lived here so long, feeding on the poor
adulation of a poor people, that they do not see life
truly. I have had none of the joys and pleasures
which, my heart tells me, life holds. I have
known nothing but this existence—hard and
barren as the rocks that surround me. I must,
in time, return to Styria and take up my burden, but,
Karl, I will first live.”
After this great stand, Max and I attacked first the
father fortress and then the mother stronghold.
The latter required a long siege; but at last it surrendered
unconditionally, and the day was appointed when Max
and I should ride out in quest of fortune, and, perhaps,
a-bride-hunting. Neither of us mentioned Burgundy.
I confess to telling—at least, to acting—a
lie. We said that we wished to go to my people
in Italy, and to visit Rome, Venice, and other cities.
I said that I had a small sum of gold that I should
be glad to use; but I did not say how small it was,
and no hint was dropped that the heir to Styria might
be compelled to soil his hands by earning his daily
bread. We easily agreed among ourselves that
Max and I, lacking funds to travel in state befitting
a prince of the House of Hapsburg, should go incognito.
I should keep my own name, it being little known.
Max should take the name of his mother’s house,
and should be known as Sir Maximilian du Guelph.
At last came the momentous day of our departure.
The battlements of the gate were crowded with retainers,
many of them in tears at losing “My young Lord,
the Count.” Public opinion in Castle Hapsburg
unanimously condemned the expedition, and I was roundly
abused for what was held to be my part in the terrible
mistake. Such an untoward thing had never before
happened in the House of Hapsburg. Its annals
nowhere revealed a journey of an heir into the contaminating
world. The dignity of the house was impaired
beyond remedy, and all by the advice of a foreigner.
There was no lack of grumbling; but of course the duke’s
will was law. If he wished to hang the count,
he might do so; therefore the grumbling reached the
duke’s ears only from a distance.
