Clara Reeve - "The Old English Baron"

George Barr McCutcheon - "Her Weight in Gold"

Karl May - "Mein Leben und Streben"

John Lothrop Motley - "The Rise of the Dutch Republic, 1577"

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




He extinguished the candle and laid it on the floor, put the
quilt on the bed, then climbed through the window, which he
closed without mishap. He descended the ladder. As he reached
the bottom round his heart gave a great leap. From the alley
came the sound of approaching steps. Nearer and nearer they came;
a shadow entered the courtyard and made straight for the door,
which was but a few feet from the reclining ladder. The kitchen
door opened and the burst of light revealed a belated serving
maid. A moment passed, and all became dark again. But Johann
felt a strange weakness in his knees, and a peculiar thrill at
the roots of his hair. He dared not move for three or four
minutes. But he waited in vain for other steps. He cursed the
serving maid for the fright, disposed of the ladder, and sought
the street. He directed his steps toward Stuler's.

"The pig of an Englishman was deeper than I thought. In the gun
barrels, the gun barrels! If I had not wanted to play they would
have been there yet! A hundred thousand crowns!"

It had ceased to rain, and a frost was congealing the moisture
under foot. On the way back to Stuler's Johann slipped and fell
several times; but he was impervious to pain, bruises were
nothing. He was rich! He laughed; and from time to time thrust
his hand into his vest to convince himself that he was not
dreaming. To whom should he sell? To the Osians? To the duchess?
To the king that was to be? Who would pay quickest the hundred
thousand crowns? He knew. Aye, two hundred thousand would not be
too much. The Englishman would send for the certificates, but
his agent would not find them. The abduction? He would carry it
through as he had promised. It was five thousand crowns in
addition to his hundred thousand. He was rich! He shook his hand
toward the inky sky, toward the palace, toward all that
signified the past . . . . . A hundred thousand crowns!




CHAPTER XVI


WHAT HAPPENED AT THE ARCHBISHOP'S PALACE AND AFTER

Maurice, as he labored before his mirror, wondered why in the
world it took him so long to dress. An hour had passed since he
began his evening toilet; yet here he was, still tinkering, so
to speak, over the last of a dozen cravats. The eleven others
lay strewn about, hopelessly crumpled; mute witnesses of angry
fingers and impassioned mutterings. Usually he could slip into
his evening clothes in less than thirty minutes. Something was
wrong. But perhaps this occasion was not usual.

First, the hems of his trousers were insurgent; they persisted
in hitching on the tops of his button shoes. Laces were
substituted. Then came a desultory period, during which gold
buttons were exchanged for pearl and pearl for gold, and two-
button shirts for three-button. For Maurice was something of a
dandy. He could not imagine what was the matter with his neck,
all the collars seemed so small. For once his mishaps did not
appeal to his humor. The ascent from his shoes to his collar was
as tortuous as that of the alpine Jungfrau.

Ah, Madam, you may smile as much as you please, but it is a
terrible thing for a man to dress and at the same time think
kindly of his fellow-beings. You set aside three hours for your
toilet, and devote two hours to the little curl which droops
over the tip of your dainty ear; but with a man who has no curl,
who knows nothing of the practice of smiles and side glances,
the studied carelessness of a pose, it is a dismal, serious
business up to the last moment.

With a final glance into the mirror, and convinced that if he
touched himself it would be only to disarrange the perfection
which he had striven so hard to attain, Maurice went down stairs.
He had still an hour to while away before presenting himself at
the archbishop's palace. So he roamed about the verandas,
twirled his cane, and smoked like a captain who expects to see
his men in active engagement the very next moment. This,
together with the bad hour in his room, was an indication that
his nerves were finely strung.

He was nervous, not because he was to see strange faces, not
because his interest in the kingdom's affairs was both comic and
tragic, nor because he was to present himself at the
archbishop's in a peculiar capacity, that of a prisoner on
parole. No, it was due to none of these. His pulse did not stir
at the prospect of meeting the true king. Diplomatic functions
were every-day events with him. He had passed several years of
his life in the vicinity of emperors, kings, viceroys, and
presidents, and their greatness had long ago ceased to interest
or even to amuse him. He was conscious only of an agitation
which had already passed through the process of analysis. He
loved, he loved the impossible and the unattainable, and it was
the exhilaration of this thought that agitated him. He never
would be the same again-- he would be better. Neither did he
regret this love.

Even now he could see himself back in his rooms in Vienna,
smoking before the fire, and building castles that tumbled down.
It was worth while, if only to have something to dream about. He
did not regret the love, he regretted its futility. How could he
serve her? What could he do against all these unseen forces
which were crumbling her father's throne? So she remembered what
he had said to her in the archbishop's garden? He looked at his
watch. It was nine.

"Let us be off," he said. He started for the Platz. "How
uncertain life is. It seems that I did not come to Bleiberg
carelessly in the way of amusement, but to work out a part of my
destiny." He arrested his steps at the fountain and listened to
the low, musical plash of the water, each drop of which fell
with the light of a dazzling jewel. The cold stars shone from
above. They were not farther away than she. A princess, a lonely
and forlorn princess, hemmed in by the fabric of royal laws; a
princess yet possessing less liberty than the meanest of her
peasants. Nothing belonged to her, not even her heart, which was
merchandise, a commodity of exchange, turned over to the highest
bidder. "Royalty," he mused, "is a political slave-dealer; the
slaves are those who wear the crowns."

Once inside the palace, he became a man of the world, polished,
nonchalant, handsome, and mildly curious. Immediately after the
usher announced his name, he crossed the chamber and presented
his respects to the prelate, who, he reasoned not unwisely,
expected him. The friendly greeting of the archbishop confirmed
this reasoning.

"I am delighted to see you, Monsieur," he said, showing his
remarkably well preserved teeth in the smile that followed his
words. "A service to her Royal Highness is a service to me.
Amuse yourself; you will find some fine paintings in the west
gallery."

"I trust her Royal Highness is none the worse for the fright,"
Maurice replied. He also remarked (mentally) that he did not see
her Highness anywhere. Several introductions followed, and he
found himself chatting with the British minister.

"Carewe?" the Englishman repeated thoughtfully. "Are you not
Maurice Carewe, of the American Legation in Vienna?"

"Yes."

"May I ask you a few questions?"

"A thousand."

"A fellow-countryman of mine has mysteriously disappeared. He
left Vienna for Bleiberg, saying that if nothing was heard of
him within a week's time, to make inquiries about him. This
request was left with the British ambassador, who has just
written me, adding that a personal friend of the gentleman in
question was in Bleiberg, and that this friend was Maurice
Carewe, attache to the American Legation. Are you acquainted
with Lord Fitzgerald, son of my late predecessor?"

"I am indeed. I saw him in Vienna," said Maurice; "but he said
nothing to me about coming here," which was true enough. "Is
there any cause for apprehension?"

"Only his request to be looked up within a certain time. The
truth is, he was to have come here on a peculiar errand," with
lowered voice. "Did you ever hear of what is called
'Fitzgerald's folly?'"

"Yes; few haven't heard of it." Maurice could never understand
why he resisted the impulse to tell the whole affair. A dozen
words to the man at his side, and the catastrophes, even
embryonic, would be averted. "You must tell me who most of these
people are," he said, in order to get around a disagreeable
subject. "I am a total stranger."

"With pleasure. That tall, angular old man, in the long, gray
frock, with decorations, is Marshal Kampf. You must meet him; he
is the wittiest man in Bleiberg. The gentleman with the red
beard is Mollendorf of the police. And beside him--yes, the
little man with glasses and a loose cravat--is Count von
Wallenstein, the minister of finance. That is the chancellor
talking to the archbishop. Ah, Mr. Carewe, these receptions are
fine comedies. The Marshal, the count and Mollendorf represent
what is called the Auersperg faction under the rose. It is a
continual battle of eyes and tongues. One smiles at his enemy,
knows him to be an enemy, yet dares not touch him.

"Confidentially, this play has never had the like. To convict
his enemies of treason has been for ten years the labor of the
chancellor; yet, though he knows them to be in correspondence
with the duchess, he can find nothing on the strength of which
to accuse openly. It is a conspiracy which has no papers. One
can not take out a man's brains and say, `Here is proof!' They
talk, they walk on thin ice; but so fine is their craft that no
incautious word ever falls, nor does any one go through the ice.

"I have watched the play for ten years. I should not speak to
you about it, only it is one of those things known to all here.
Those gentlemen talking to the chancellor's wife are the
ministers from Austria, Prussia, France, and Servia. You will
not find it as lively here as it is in Vienna. We meet merely to
watch each other," with a short laugh. "Good. The Marshal is
approaching."

They waited.

"Marshal," said the minister, "this is Monsieur Carewe, who
rescued her Highness's dog from the students."

"Ah !" replied the Marshal, grimly. "Do not expect me to thank
you, Monsieur; only day before yesterday the dog snapped at my
legs. I am living out of pure spite, to see that dog die before
I do. Peace to his ashes--the sooner the better."

The minister turned to Maurice and laughed.

"Eh!" said the Marshal.

"I prophesied that you would speak disparagingly of the dog."

"What a reputation!" cried the old soldier. "I dare say that you
have been telling Monsieur Carewe that I am a wit. Monsieur,
never attempt to be witty; they will put you down for a wit, and
laugh at anything you say, even when you put yourself out to
speak the truth. If I possess any wit it is like young grapes--
sour. You are connected in Vienna?"

"With the American Legation."

"Happy is the country," said the Marshal, "which is so far away
that Europe can find no excuse to meddle with it."

"And even then Europe would not dare," Maurice replied, with
impertinence aforethought.

"That is not a diplomatic speech."

"It is true."

"I like your frankness."

"Let that go toward making amends for saving the dog."

"Are all American diplomats so frank?" inquired the Marshal,
with an air of feigned wonder.

"Indeed, no," answered Maurice. "Just at present I am not in a
diplomatic capacity; I need not look askance at truth. And there
is no reason why we should not always be truthful."

"You are wrong. It's truth's infrequency which makes her so
charming and refreshing. However, I thank you for your services
to her Highness; your services to her dog I shall try to forget."
And with this the Marshal moved away, shaking his head as if
he had inadvertently stumbled on an intricate problem.

Not long after, Maurice was left to his own devices. He viewed
the scene, silent and curious. Conversation was carried on in
low tones, and laughter was infrequent and subdued. The women
dressed without ostentation. There were no fair arms and necks.
Indeed, these belong wholly to youth, and youth was not a factor
at the archbishop's receptions. Most of the men were old and
bald, and only the wives of the French and British ministers
were pretty or young. How different from Vienna, where youth and
beauty abound! There were no music, no long tables of
refreshments, no sparkling wines, no smoking-room, good stories
and better fellowship. There was an absence of the flash of
jewels and color which make court life attractive.

There seemed to be hanging in the air some invisible power, the
forecast of a tragedy, the beginning of an unknown end. And yet
the prelate smiled on enemies and friends alike. As Maurice
observed that smile he grew perplexed. It was a smile such as he
had seen on the faces of men who, about to die, felt the grim
satisfaction of having an enemy for company. The king lay on his
death bed, in all probabilities the throne tottered; yet the
archbishop smiled.

The princess did not know that her father was dying; this was a
secret which had not yet been divulged to her. And this was the
only society she knew. Small wonder that she was sad and lonely.
To be young, and to find one's self surrounded by the relics of
youth; what an existence! She had never known the beauty of a
glittering ballroom, felt the music of a waltz mingle with the
quick throbs of the heart, the pleasure of bestowing pleasure.
She had never read the mute yet intelligent admiration in a
young man's eyes. And what young woman does not yearn for the
honest adoration of an honest man? Poor, lonely princess indeed.
For, loving the world as he himself did, Maurice understood what
was slipping past her. Every moment the roots of love were
sinking deeper into his heart and twining firmly about, as a
vine to a trellis.

Is there a mental telegraphy, an indefinable substance which is
affected by the close proximity of a presence, which, while we
do not see, we feel? Perhaps; at any rate, Maurice suddenly
became aware of that peculiar yet now familiar agitation of his
nerves. Instinctively he turned his head. In the doorway which
separated the chamber from the conservatory stood her Royal
Highness. She was dressed entirely in black, which accentuated
the whiteness--the Carrara marble whiteness--of her exquisite
skin. In the dark, shining coils swept back from her brow lay
the subtle snare of a red rose. There was no other color except
on the full lips. She saw Maurice, but she was so far away that
the faint reflection of the rose on her cheeks was gone before
he reached her side.

"I was afraid," she said, lowering her eyes as she uttered the
fib, "that you would not come after all."

"It would have been impossible for me to stay away," he replied,
his eyes ardent. The princess looked away. "And may I ask after
the health of the dog?"

"Thanks to you, Monsieur; he is getting along finely. Poor dog;
he will always limp. What is it that makes men inflict injuries
on dumb creatures?"

"It is the beast that is envious of the brute."

"And your hand?" with a glance sympathetic and inquiring.

"My hand?"

"Yes; did you not injure it?"

"O!" He laughed and held out two gloved hands for her inspection.
"That was only a scratch. In fact, I do not remember which hand
it was."

"You are very modest. I should have made much of it."

He could not translate this; so he said: "There was nothing
injured but my hat. I seem unfortunate in that direction."

She smiled, recalling the incident in the archbishop's garden.

"I shall keep the hat, however," he said, "as a souvenir."

"Souvenirs, Monsieur," she replied carelessly, "and old age are
synonymous. You and I ought not to have any souvenirs. Have you
seen the picture gallery? No? Then I shall have the pleasure of
showing it to you. Monseigneur is very proud of his gallery. He
has a Leonardo, a Botticelli, a Murillo, and a Rembrandt. And
they really show better in artificial light, which softens the
effect of time."

Half an hour was passed in the gallery. It was very pleasant to
listen to her voice as she described this and that painting, and
the archbishop's adventures in securing them. It did not seem
possible to him that she was a princess, perhaps destined to
become a queen, so free was she from the attributes of royalty,
so natural and ingenuous. He caught each movement of her
delicate head, each gesture of her hand, the countless
inflections of her voice, the lights which burned or died away
in the dark wine of her eyes.

Poor devil! he mused, himself in mind; poor fool! He forgot the
world, he forgot that he was a prisoner on parole, he forgot the
strife between the kingdom and the duchy, he forgot everything
but the wild impossible love which filled his senses. He forgot
even Prince Frederick of Carnavia.

In truth, the world was "a sorry scheme of things." It was
grotesque with inequalities. He had no right to love her; it was
wrong to give in to the impulses of the heart, the natural,
human impulses. A man can beat down the stone walls of a fort,
scale the impregnable heights of a citadel, master the earth and
the seas, but he can not surmount the invisible barriers which
he himself erected in the past ages--the quality of birth. Ah!
if only she had been a peasant, unlettered and unknown, and free
to be won! The tasks of Hercules were then but play to him!

Next she led him through the aisles of potted plants in the
conservatory. She was very learned. She explained the origin of
each flower, its native soil, the time and manner of its
transportation. Perhaps she was surprised at his lack of
botanical knowledge, he asked so many questions. But it was not
the flowers, it was her voice, which urged him to these
interrogations.

They were on the point of re-entering the reception chamber,
when the jingle of a spur on the mosaic floor caused them to
turn. Maurice could not control the start; he had forgotten all
about Beauvais. The soldier wore the regulation full dress of
the cuirassiers, white trousers, tucked into patent leather half-
boots, a gray jacket with gold lace and decorations, red saber
straps and a gray pelisse hanging from the left shoulder. A
splendid soldier, Maurice grudgingly admitted. What would the
Colonel say? The situation was humorous rather than otherwise,
and Maurice smiled.

"I was looking for your Highness," said Beauvais, as he came up,
"to pay my respects. I am leaving." His glance at Maurice was
one of polite curiosity.

"Colonel Beauvais," said the princess, coldly, "Monsieur Carewe,
of the American Legation in Vienna."

She was not looking at the Colonel, but Maurice was, and the
Colonel's total lack of surprise astonished him. The gaze of the
two men plunged into each other's eyes like flashes of lightning,
but that was all.

"I am charmed," said the Colonel, a half-ironical smile under
his mustache. "Your name is not unfamiliar to me."

"No?" said Maurice, with studied politeness.

"No. It is connected with an exploit. Was it not you who faced
the students this afternoon and rescued her Highness's dog?"

"Ah!" said Maurice, in a tone which implied that exploits were
every day events with him; "it was but a simple thing to do. The
students were like so many sheep."

The princess elevated her brows; she felt an undercurrent of
something which she did not understand. Indeed, she did not like
the manner in which the two men eyed each other. Her glance
passed from the stalwart soldier to the slim, athletic form of
the civilian.

Conversation drifted aimlessly. Maurice had the malice to cast
the brunt of it on the Colonel's shoulders. The princess, like a
rose coming in contact with a chill air, drew within herself.
She was cold, brief, and serenely indifferent. It was evident to
Maurice that she had resumed her royal mantle, and that she had
shown him unusual consideration.

Presently she raised her hand to her head, as sometimes one will
do unconsciously, and the rose slipped from her hair and dropped
to the floor. Both men stooped. Maurice was quickest. With a bow
he offered to return it.

"You may keep it, Monsieur;" and she laughed.

They joined her. Maurice knew why the Colonel laughed, and the
Colonel knew why Maurice laughed; but neither could account for
the laughter of the princess. That was her secret.

All things come to an end, even diplomatic receptions. Soon the
guests began to leave.

Said the princess to Maurice: "Your invitation is a standing one,
Monsieur. To our friends there are no formalities. Good night;
ah, yes, the English fashion," extending her hand, which Maurice
barely touched. "Good night, Monsieur," to Beauvais, with one of
those nods which wither as effectually as frost.

The Colonel bent gracefully.

"Decidedly the Colonel is not in high favor tonight," thought
Maurice; "a fact which is eminently satisfactory to me. Ah; he
looks as if he had something to say to me. Let us wait."

"Monsieur, have you any other engagement this evening?" asked
Beauvais, swinging his pelisse over both shoulders. "If not, my
rooms are quite handy. I have capital cigars and cognacs. Will
you do me the honor? I should like to have you regale me with
some Vienna gossip; it is so long since I was there."

"Thanks," said Maurice. "I shall be happy to smoke your cigars
and drink your cognacs." He was in the mood for any adventure,
comic or serious. He had an idea what the Colonel wanted to say
to him, and he was not unwilling to listen. Besides, he had no
fear; he now wore an amulet close to his heart.

"Come, then," said Beauvais, gaily; and the two made off. "It is
a wonderful game of chess, this world of ours."

"Yes," said Maurice, "we do keep moving."

"And every now and then one or the other of us steps out into
the dark."

"So we do." Maurice glanced from the corner of his eye and
calculated his chances in a physical contest with the Colonel.
The soldier was taller and broader, but it was possible for him
to make good this deficiency with quickness. But, above all,
where and under what circumstances had he met this man before?

"Here we are!" cried the Colonel, presently.

He led Maurice into one of the handsome dwellings which faced
the palace confines from the east. They passed up the stairs
into a large room, Oriental in its appointments, and evidently
the living room. The walls were hung with the paraphernalia of a
soldier, together with portraits of opera singers, horses and
celebrities of all classes. On the mantel Maurice saw, among
other things, the glint of a revolver barrel. He thought nothing
of it then. It occurred to him as singular, however, that the
room was free from central obstruction. Had the Colonel expected
to meet him at the archbishop's and anticipated his acceptance
of a possible invitation?

Two chairs stood on either side of the grate. Between them was
an octagon on which were cigars, glasses and two cognac bottles.
The Colonel's valet came in and lit the tapers in the chandelier
and woke up the fire. . . . Maurice was convinced that the
Colonel had arranged the room thus for his especial benefit, and
he regretted his eagerness for adventure.

"Francois," said Beauvais, throwing his shako and pelisse on the
lounge and motioning to Maurice to do likewise, "let no one
disturb us."

The valet bowed and noiselessly retired. The two men sat down
without speaking. Beauvais passed the cigars. Maurice selected
one, lit it, and blew rings at the Chinese mandarin which leered
down at him from the mantel.

Several minutes marched into the past.

"Maurice Carewe," said the Colonel, as one who mused.

"It is very droll," said Maurice.

"I can not say that it strikes me as droll, though I am not
deficient in the sense of humor."

"'Twould be a pity if you were; you would miss so much. Through
humor philosophy reaches its culmination; humor is the
foundation upon which the palace of reason erects itself. The
two are inseparable."

"How came you to be mixed up in this affair, which is no concern
of yours?"

"That question is respectfully referred to Madame the duchess. I
was thrown into it, head foremost, bound hand and foot. It was a
clever stroke, though eventually it will embarrass her."

"You may give me the certificates," said Beauvais.

Maurice contemplated him serenely. "Impossible," with a fillip
at the end of his cigar.

"You refuse?" coldly.

"I do not refuse. Simply, I haven't got them."

"What!" The Colonel half sprang from his chair.

His astonishment was genuine; Maurice saw that it was, and he
reflected. Madame nor Fitzgerald had been dishonest with him.

"No. Some one has forestalled me."

"Are you lying to me?" menacingly.

"And if I were?" coolly.

Beauvais measured his antagonist, his eyes hard and contemptuous.

"I repeat," said Maurice, "the situation is exceedingly droll. I
am not afraid of you, not a bit. I am not a man to be
intimidated. You might have inferred as much by my willingness
to accompany you here. I am alone with you."