Chapter XX. Marco Goes to the Opera

The Lost Prince

by Francis Hodgson Burnett

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.