Sinclair Lewis - "Our Mr. Wrenn"

Pelham Grenville Wodehouse - "Piccadilly Jim"

Karl May - "Mein Leben und Streben"

William Rose Benet - "Perpetual Light"

New Philadelphia Book Publisher Highlights Local Talent
Book and Publishing News from Publishers Newswire(tm)

Looking for Child to be on Cover of a New Book, 'The Model Child'
PHILADELPHIA, Pa. -- The Philadelphia literary world will celebrate the launch of two new players today, April 10th: Kay Square Press, a new publishing company focused on Philadelphia-area artists, their stories, and their art; and Kay Square's first release, 'With the Rich and Mighty: Emlen Etting of Philadelphia' (ISBN: 978-0-9815129-0-7), a critical biography by Kenneth C. Kaleta.

FlatSigned Press Alleges Don Imus Remarks Damage Legacy of President Gerald R. Ford
NEW YORK, N.Y. -- Nathan Yungerberg, an accomplished model scout and professional child photographer is launching a nation-wide casting call to find the cover model for his highly anticipated book release, 'The Model Child: A Parents Guide to the Child Modeling Industry' (ISBN: 978-0-9817018-0-6).

Books: The Puppet Crown

H >> Harold MacGrath >> The Puppet Crown




"I dare say she won't," said Maurice.



Fitzgerald sat by a window in the music room. He had resurrected
from no one knew where a clay with a broken stem. There was a
thoughtful cast to his countenance, and he puffed away,
blissfully unconscious of, or indifferent to, the close
proximity of the velvet curtains. A thrifty housewife, could she
have seen the smoke rise and curl and lose itself in the folds
above, would have experienced the ecstasy of anxiety and
perturbation. But there was no thrifty housewife at the Red
Chateau, nothing but dreams of conquest and revenge.

Twilight was gathering about, soft-footed and shadowful. Long
reaches of violet and vermilion clouds pressed thickly on the
western line of hills. The mists began to rise, changing from
opal to sapphire. The fantastic melodies of wandering gypsy
songs went throbbing through the room; rollicking gavots,
Hungarian dances, low and slumbrous nocturnes. As the music grew
sadder and dreamier, the smoker moved uneasily.

Somehow, it gripped his heart; and the long years of loneliness
returned and overwhelmed him. They marshaled past, thirteen in
all; and there were glimpses of deserts, snowcapped mountains,
men moving in the blur of smoke, long watches in the night.
Thirteen years in God-forsaken outposts, with never a sight of a
woman's face, the sound of her voice, the swish of her gown, nor
a touch of the spell which radiates from her presence.

He had never made friends. Others had come up to him and passed
him, and had gone to the cities, leaving him to bear the brunt
of the cold, the heat, the watchfulness. He had made his bed; he
was too much his father's son to whine because it was hard.
Often he used to think how a few words, from a pride humbled,
would have removed the barrier. But the words never came, nor
was the pride ever humbled.

Out of all the thirteen years he could remember only six months
of pleasure. He had been transferred temporarily to Calcutta,
where his Colonel, who had received secret information
concerning him, had treated him like a gentleman, and had
employed him as regimental interpreter, for he spoke French and
German and a smattering of Indian tongues. During his lonely
hours he had studied, for he knew that some day he would be
called upon to administer a vast fortune. . . . He laid the pipe
on the sill, rested his elbows beside it, and dropped his chin
in his hands. What a fool he had been to waste the best years of
his life! His father would have opened to him a boundless career;
he would have seen the world under the guidance of a master
hand. And here he was to-day, the possessor of millions, a
beggar in friends, no niche to fill, a wanderer from place to
place.

The old pile in England, he never wished to see it again; the
memories which it would arouse would be too bitter. . . . The
shade of Beethoven touched him as it passed; Mozart, Mendelssohn,
Chopin. But he was thinking only of his loneliness, and the
marvelous touch of the hands which evoked the great spirits was
lost upon him.

Maurice was seated in one of the gloomy corners. He had still
much good humor to recover. He pulled at his lips, and wondered
from time to time what was going on in Fitzgerald's head. Poor
devil! he thought; could he resist this woman whose
accomplishments were so varied that at one moment she could
overthrow a throne and at the next play Phyllis to some
strolling Corydon? Since he himself, who knew her, could
entertain for her nothing but admiration, what hope was there
for the Englishman? What a woman! She savored of three hundred
years off. To plan by herself, to arrange the minutest detail,
and above all to wait patiently! Patience has never been the
attribute of a woman of power; Madame possessed both patience
and power.

The countess was seated in another dark corner. Suddenly she
arose and said, in a voice blended with great trouble and
impatience: "For pity's sake, Madame, cease those dirges! Play
something lively; I am sad."

The music stopped, but presently began again. Maurice leaned
forward. Madame was playing Chopin's polonaise. He laughed
silently. He was in Madame's thoughts. It struck him, however,
that the notes had a defiant ring.

"Lights!" called Madame, rising from the stool.

Immediately a servant entered with candles and retired. Maurice,
when his eyes had grown accustomed to the lights, scanned the
three faces. Madame's was radiant. Fitzgerald's was a mixture--a
comical mixture--of content and enjoyment, but the countess's
was as colorless as the wax in the candlesticks. He asked
himself what other task she had to perform that she should take
so long to recover her roses. Had the knowledge of her recent
humiliation been too much for her?

She was speaking to him. "Monsieur, will you walk with me in the
park? I am faint."

"Are you ill, countess?" asked Madame, coming up and placing her
hand under the soft round chin of the other and striving to read
her eyes.

"Not so ill, Madame, that a breath of fresh air will not revive
me." When they had gained the park, the countess said to Maurice:
"Monsieur, I have brought you here to tell you something. I
fear that your friend is lost, for you can do nothing."

"Not even if I break my word?" he asked.

"It would do no good."

"Why?"

"It is too late," lowly. "I have been Madame's understudy too
long not to read. Forgive me. I was to keep you apart; I have
done so. The evil can not now be repaired. Your hope is that
Madame has not fully considered his pride."

"Has she any regard for him?"

"Sentiment?--love?" She uttered a short, incredulous laugh.
"Madame has brain, not heart. Could a woman with a heart plan as
she plans?"

"Well, let us not talk of plots and plans; let us talk of--"

"Monsieur, do not be unkind. I have asked your forgiveness. Let
us not talk; let us be silent and listen to the night;" and she
leaned over the terrace balustrade.

Maurice floated. As he leaned beside her a strand of perfumed
hair blew across his nostrils. . . . The princess was at best a
dream. It was not likely that he ever would speak to her again.
The princess was a poem, unlettered and unrhymed. But here,
close to him, was a bit of beautiful material prose. The hair
again blew out toward him and he moved his lips. She heard the
vague sound and lifted her head.

Far away came the call of the sentry; a horse whinneyed in the
stables. There was in the air the odor of an approaching storm.




CHAPTER XII


WHOM THE GODS DESTROY AND A FEW OTHERS

Some time passed before Fitzgerald became aware of Maurice's
departure. When he saw that he and Madame were alone, he said
nothing, but pulled all the quicker at his clay. He wondered at
the desire which suddenly manifested itself. Fly? Why should he
fly? The beat of his pulse answered him. . . . What a fine thing
it was to feel the presence of a woman--a woman like this! What
a fine thing always to experience the content derived from her
nearness!

He looked into his heart; there was no animosity; there was
nothing at all but a sense of gratefulness. In the dreary
picture of his life there was now an illumined corner. He had
ceased to blame her; she was doing for her country what he, did
necessity so will, would do for his. And after all, he could not
war against a woman--a woman like this. His innate chivalry was
too deep-rooted.

How soft her voice was! The color of her hair and eyes followed
him night and day. Once he had been on the verge of sounding
Maurice in regard to Madame, Maurice was so learned in
femininities; but this would have been an acknowledgment of his
ignorance, and pride closed his mouth. It was all impossible,
but then, why should he return to his loneliness without
attempting to find some one to share it with him? The king was
safe; his duty was as good as done; his conscience was at ease
in that direction. He needed not love, he thought, so much as
sympathy. . . . Sympathy. He turned over the word in his mind as
a gem merchant turns over in his hand a precious jewel. Sympathy;
it was the key to all he desired --woman's sympathy. There was
nothing but ash in the bowl of his pipe, but he continued to
puff.

Madame was seated at the piano again, idly thrumming soft minor
chords. She was waiting for him to speak; she wanted to test his
voice, to know and measure its emotion. At times she turned her
head and shot a sly glance at him as he sat there musing. There
was a wrinkle of contempt and amusement lurking at the corners
of her eyes. Had Maurice been there he would have seen it.
Fitzgerald might have gazed into those eyes until doomsday, and
never have seen else than their gray fathoms. Minute after
minute passed, still he did not speak; and Madame was forced to
break the monotony. She was not sure that the countess could
hold Maurice very long.

"Of what are you thinking, Monsieur?" she asked, in a soft key.

He started, looked up and laid the pipe on the sill. "Frankly, I
was thinking that nothing can be gained by keeping us prisoners
here." He told the lie rather diffidently.

"Not even forgiveness?" The lids of the gray eyes drooped and
the music ceased.

"Forgiveness? O, there is nothing to forgive you; it is only
your mistress I can not forgive. On the contrary, there is much
to thank you for."

"Still, whatever I do or have done is merely in accordance with
her Highness's wishes."

He moved uneasily. "It is her will, not yours."

"Yes; the heart of Madame Amerbach is supine to the brain of
Madame the duchess." She rose and moved silently to the window
and peered out. He thought her to be star-gazing; but she was not.
She was endeavoring to see where Maurice and the countess were.

"Madame, shall I tell you a secret?"

"A secret? Tell me," sitting in the chair next to his.

"This has been the pleasantest week I have known in thirteen
years."

"Then you forgive me!" Madame was not only mistress of music but
of tones.

"Yes."

And then, out of the fullness of his lonely heart, he told her
all about his life, its emptiness, its deserts, its longings.
Each sentence was a knife placed in her hands; and as she
contemplated his honest face which could conceal nothing, his
earnest eyes which could hide nothing, Madame was conscious of a
vague distrust of herself. If only he had offered to fight, she
thought. But he had not; instead, he was giving to her all his
weapons of defense.

"Ah, Monsieur, you do wrong to forgive me!" impulsively.

He smiled.

"Why should you be friendly to me when I represent all that is
antagonistic to you?"

"To me you represent only a beautiful woman."

"Ah; you have been taking lessons of your friend."

"He is a good teacher. He is one of those men whom I admire.
Women have never mastered him. He knows so much about them."

"Yes?" a flicker in her eyes.

"Beneath all his banter there is a brave heart. He is a rare man
who, having brain and heart to guide, follows the heart." He
picked up the pipe and began to play a tattoo on the sill. "As
for me, I know nothing of women, save what I have read in books,
and save that I have been too long without them."

"And you have gone all these years without knowing what it is to
love?" To a man less guileless, this question would not have
been in good taste.

Fitzgerald was silent; he dared not venture another lie.

"What! you are silent? Is there, after all, a woman somewhere in
your life?"

"Yes." He continued to tap the pipe. His gaze wandered to the
candles, strayed back to the window, then met hers steadfastly,
so steadfastly, that she could not resist. She was annoyed.

"Tell me about her."

"My vocabulary is too limited. You would laugh at me."

"I? No; love is sacred." She had boasted to Maurice that she was
without conscience; she had only smothered it. "Come; is she
beautiful?"

"Yes." These questions disturbed him.

"Certainly she must be worthy or you would not love her. She is
rich?"

"That does not matter; I am." He was wishing that Maurice would
hurry back; the desire to fly was returning.

"And she rejected you and sent you to the army?"

"She has not rejected me, though I dare say she would, had I the
presumption to ask her."

"A faint heart, they say--"

"My heart is not faint; it is my tongue." He rose and wandered
about the room. Her breath was like orris, and went to his head
like wine.

"Monsieur," she said, "is it possible that you have succumbed to
the charms of Madame the countess?"

He laughed. "One may admire exquisite bric-a-brac without loving
it."

"Bric-a-brac! Poor Elsa!" and Madame laughed. "If it were the
countess I could aid you."

"Love is not merchandise, to traffic with."

Madame's cheeks grew warm. Sometimes the trick of fence is
beaten down by a tyro's stroke.

"Eh, bien, since it is not the countess--"

He came toward her so swiftly that instinctively she rose and
moved to the opposite side of her chair. Something in his face
caused her to shiver. She had no time to analyze its meaning,
but she knew that the shiver was not unmixed with fear.

"Madame, in God's name, do not play with me!" he cried.

"Monsieur, you forget yourself," for the moment forgetting her part.

"Yes, there is no self in my thoughts since they are all of you!
You know that I love you. Who could resist you? Thirteen years?
They are well wasted, in the end to love a woman like you."

Before she could withdraw her hands from the top of the chair he
had seized them.

"Monsieur, release me." She struggled futilely.

"I love you." He began to draw her from behind the chair.

"Monsieur, Monsieur!" she, cried, genuinely alarmed; "do not
forget that you are a gentleman."

"I am not a gentleman now; I am a man who loves."

Madame was now aware that what she had aroused could not be
subdued by angry words.

"Monsieur, you say that you love me; do not degrade me by
forcing me into your arms. I am a woman, and weak, and you are
hurting me."

He let go her hands, and they stood there, breathing deeply and
quickly. But for her it was a respite. She had been too
precipitate. She brought together the subtle forces of her mind.
She could gain nothing by force; she must use cunning. To hold
him at arm's length, and yet to hold him, was her desire. She
had reckoned on wax; a man stood before her. All at once the
flutter of admiration stirred in her heart. She was a soldier's
daughter, the daughter of a man who loved strong men. And this
man was doubly strong because he was fearless and honest. She
read in his eyes that a moment more and he had kissed her, a
thing no man save her father had ever done.

"O, Monsieur," she said lightly, "you soldiers are such forward
lovers! You have not even asked me if I love you." He made a
move to regain her hands. "No, no!" darting behind the chair.
"You must not take my hands; you do not realize how strong you
are. I am not sure that my heart responds to yours."

"Tell me, what must I do?" leaning across the chair.

"You must have patience. A woman must be wooed her own way, or
not at all. What a whirlwind you are!"

"I would to heaven," with a gesture indicative of despair, "that
you had kept me behind bars and closed doors." He dropped his
hands from the chair and sought the window, leaning his arms
against the central frame.

Madame had fully recovered her composure. She saw her way to the
end.

"It is true," she said, "that I do not love you, but it is also
true that I am not indifferent to you. What proof have I that
you really love me? None, save your declaration; and that is not
sufficient for a woman such as I am. Shall I place my life in
your hands for better or for worse, simply because you say you
love me?"

"My love does not reason, Madame."

She passed over this stroke. "I do not know you; it is not less
than natural for me to doubt you. What proof have I that your
declaration of love is not a scheme to while away your captivity
at my expense? My heart is not one to be taken by storm. There
is only one road to my affections; it is narrow. Other men have
made love to me, but they have hesitated to enter upon this self-
same road."

"Love that demands conditions? I have asked none."

Madame blushed. "A man offers love; a woman confers it."

"And what is this narrow road called which leads to your
affections? Is your heart a citadel?"

"It is called sacrifice. Those who dwell in my heart, which you
call a citadel, enter by that road."

"Sacrifice?" Fervor lighted his face again. "Do you wish my
fortune? It is yours. My life? It is yours. Do you wish me to
lead the army of the duchess into Bleiberg? It shall be done.
Sacrifice? I have sacrificed the best years of youth for nothing;
my life has been made up of sacrifices."

"Monsieur, if I promised to listen to you here-after, if I
promised a heart that has never known the love of man, if I
promised lips that have never known the lips of any man save my
father--" She moved away from the chair, within an arm's length
of him. "If I promised all these without reservation, would you
aid me to give back to the duchess her own?"

Instantly her arms were pinioned to her sides, and he had drawn
her so close that she could feel his heart beat against her own.

"Have no fear," he said. The voice was unfamiliar to her ears.
"I shall not kiss you. Let me look into your eyes, Madame, your
eyes, and read the lie which is written there. My fortune and my
life are not enough. Keep your love, Madame; I have no wish to
purchase it. What! if I surrender my honor it is agreed that you
surrender yours? A love such as mine requires a wife. You would
have me break my word to the dead and to the living, and you
expect me to believe in your promises! Faugh!" He pushed her
from him, and resumed his stand by the window.

The hate of a thousand ancestors surged into her heart, and she
would have liked to kill him. Mistress! He had dared. He had
dared to speak to her as no other man living or dead had dared.
And he lived. All that was tigerish in her soul rose to the
surface; only the thought of the glittering goal stayed the
outburst. She had yet one weapon. A minute went by, still
another; silence. A hand was laid tremblingly on his arm.

"Forgive me! I was wrong. Love me, love me, if you must. Keep
your honor; love me without conditions. I--" She stumbled into
the chair, covered her eyes and fell to weeping.

Fitzgerald, dumfounded and dismayed, looked. down at the
beautiful head. He could fight angry words, tempests of wrath--
but tears, a woman's tears, the tears of the woman he loved!

"Madame," he said gently, "do you love me?"

No answer.

"Madame, for God's sake, do not weep! Do you love me? If you
love me--if you love me--"

She sprang to her feet. Once again she experienced that shiver;
again her conscience stirred.

"I do not know," she said. "But this I may say: your honor,
which you hold above the price of a woman's love, will be the
cause of bloodshed. Mothers and wives and sisters will execrate
your name, brave men will be sacrificed needlessly. What are the
Osians to you? They are strangers. You will do for them, and
uselessly, what you refuse to do for the woman you profess to
love. I abhor bloodshed. Your honor is the offspring of pride
and egotism. Can you not see the inevitable? War will be
declared. You can not help Leopold; but you can save him the
degradation of being expelled from his throne by force of arms.
The army of the duchess is true to its humblest sword. Can you
say that for the army of the king? Would you witness the
devastation of a beautiful city, by flame and sword?

"Monsieur, Austria is with us, and she will abide with us
whichever way we move. Austria, Monsieur, which is Leopold's
sponsor. And this Leopold, is he a man to sit upon a throne? Is
he a king in any sense of the word? Would a king submit to such
ignominy as he submits to without striking a blow? Would he
permit his ministers to override him? Would he permit his army
to murmur, his agents to plunder, his people to laugh at him, if
he possessed one kingly attribute? No, no! If you were king,
would you allow these things? No! You would silence all murmurs,
you would disgorge your agents, you would throttle those who
dared to laugh.

"Put yourself in the duchess's place. All these beautiful lands
are hers by right of succession; is she wrong to desire them?
What does she wish to accomplish? She wishes to join the kingdom
and the duchy, and to make a great kingdom, as it formerly was.
Do you know why Leopold was seated upon the throne?

"Some day the confederation will decide to divide all these
lands into tidbits, and there will be no one to oppose them.
Madame the duchess wishes to be strong enough to prevent it. And
you, Monsieur, are the grain of sand which stops all this, you
and your pride. Not even a woman's love-- There, I have said it!-
-not even a woman's love-- will move your sense of justice. Go!
leave me. Since my love is nothing, since the sacrifice I make
is useless, go; you are free!" The tears which came into her
eyes this time were genuine; tears of chagrin, vexation, and of
a third sensation which still remained a mystery to her.

To him, as she spoke, with her wonderful eyes flashing, a rich
color suffusing her cheeks and throat and temples, the dim
candle light breaking against the ruddy hair; honor or pride,
whichever it was, was well worth the losing. He was a man; it is
only the pope who is said to be infallible. His honor could not
save the king. All she had said was true. If he held to his word
there would be war and bloodshed.

On the other hand, if he surrendered, less harm would befall the
king, and the loss of his honor --was it honor?--would be well
recompensed for the remainder of his days by the love of this
woman. His long years of loneliness came back; he wavered. He
glanced first at her, then at the door; one represented all that
was desirable in the world, the other more loneliness, coupled
with unutterable regret. Still he wavered, and finally he fell.

"Madame, will you be my wife?"

"Yes." And it seemed to her that the word, came to her lips by
no volition of hers. As she had grown red but a moment gone, she
now grew correspondingly pale, and her limbs shook. She had
irrevocably committed herself. "No, no!" as she saw him start
forward with outstretched arms,. "not my lips till I am your
wife! Not my lips; only my hands!"

He covered them with kisses.

"Hush!" as she stepped back.

It was time. Maurice and the countess entered the room. Maurice
glanced from Madame to Fitzgerald and back to Madame; he frowned.
The Englishman, who had never before had cause to dissemble,
caught up his pipe and fumbled it. This act merely discovered
his embarrassment to the keen eyes of his friend. He had
forgotten all about Maurice. What would he say? Maurice was
something like a conscience to him, and his heart grew troubled.

"Madame," Maurice whispered to the countess, "I have lost all
faith in you; you have kept me too long under the stars."

"Confidences?" said Madame, with a swift inquiring glance at the
countess.

"O, no," said Maurice. "I simply complained that Madame the
countess had kept me too long under the stars. But here is
Colonel Mollendorf, freshly returned from Brunnstadt to inform
you that the army is fully prepared for any emergency. Is not
that true, Colonel?" as he beheld that individual standing in
the doorway.

"Yes; but how the deuce--your pardon, ladies! --did you find
that out?" demanded the Colonel.

"I guessed it," was the answer. "But there will be no need of an
army now. Come, John, the Colonel, who is no relative of the
king's minister of police, has not the trick of concealing his
impatience. He has something important to say to Madame, and we
are in the way. Come along, AEneas, follow your faithful Achates;
Thalia has a rehearsal."

Fitzgerald thrust his pipe into a pocket. "Good night, Madame,"
he said diffidently; "and you, countess."

"Good night, Colonel," sang out Maurice over his shoulder, and
together the pair climbed the stairs.

Fitzgerald was at a loss how to begin, for something told him
that Maurice would demand an explanation, though the affair was
none of his concern. He filled his pipe, fired it and tramped
about the room. Sometimes he picked up the end of a window
curtain and felt of it; sometimes he posed before one of the
landscape oils.

"You have something on your mind," said Maurice, pulling off his
hussar jacket and kicking it across the room.

"Madame has promised to be my wife."

"And the conditions?" curtly.

Fitzgerald pondered over the other's lack of surprise. "What
would you do if you loved a woman and she promised to be your
wife?"

"I'd marry her," sitting down at the table.

"What would you do in my place, and Madame had promised to marry
you?" puffing quickly.