T.S. Arthur - "Home Scenes, and Home Influence"

Caroline Clifford Newton - "Once Upon A Time In Connecticut"

Anthony Trollope - "The O'Conors of Castle Conor from Tales from all Countries"

E. Louise Smythe - "A Primary Reader"

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




"Ah, Maurice," he said, "you are growing over fond. But why not?
Who will know? To have loved is something."

He crept into bed; but sleep refused him its offices, and he
tossed about in troubled dreams. He fought all kinds of duels
with all sorts of weapons. He was killed a half dozen times, but
the archbishop always gave him something which rekindled the
vital spark. A thousand Beauvaises raged at him. A thousand
princesses were ever in the background, waiting to be saved. He
swore to kill these Beauvaises, and after many fruitless
endeavors, he succeeded in smothering them in their gray
pelisses. Then he woke, as dreamers always wake when they pass
some great dream-crisis, and found himself in a deadly struggle
with a pillow and a bed-post. He laughed and sprang out of bed.

"It's no use, I can't sleep. I am an old woman."

So he lit his pipe and sat dreaming with his eyes open, smoking
and smoking, until the sickly pallor of dawn appeared in the sky,
and he knew that day had come.




CHAPTER XVIII


A MINOR CHORD AND A CHANGE OF MOVEMENT

Marshal Kampf, wrapt in his military cloak, with the peak of his
cap drawn over his eyes, sat on one of the rustic benches in the
archbishop's gardens and reflected. The archbishop had announced
an informal levee, the first since the king's illness. He had
impressed the Marshal with the fact that his presence was both
urgent and necessary. Disturbed as he was by the unusual command,
the Marshal had arrived an hour too early. Since the prelate
would not rise until nine, the Marshal told the valet that he
would wait in the gardens.

An informal levee, he mused. What was the meaning of it? Had
that master of craft and silence found a breach in the enemy's
fortifications? He rubbed the chill from his nose, crossed and
re-crossed his legs and teetered till the spurs on his boots set
up a tuneful jingle.

So far as he himself was concerned, he was not worried. The
prelate knew his views and knew that he would stand or fall with
them. He had never looked for benefits, as did those around him.
He had offered what he had without hope of reward, because he
had considered it his duty. And, after all, what had the Osian
done that he should be driven to this ignominious end? His
motives never could be questioned; each act had been in some way
for the country's good. Every king is a usurper to those who
oppose him.

Would the kingdom be bettered in having a queen against whom the
confederation itself was opposed? Would it not be adding a
twofold burden to the one? The kingdom was at peace with those
countries from which it had most to fear. Was it wise to
antagonize them? Small independent states were independent only
by courtesy. Again, why had Austria contrived to place an alien
on the throne, in face of popular sentiment? Would Austria's
interests have been less safe in the advent of rightful
succession? Up to now, what had Austria gained by ignoring the
true house? Outwardly nothing, but below the surface? Who could
answer?

For eleven years he had tried to discover the secret purpose of
Austria, but, like others, he had failed; and the Austrian
minister was less decipherable than the "Chinese puzzle." He was
positive that none of the arch-conspirators knew; they were
blinded by self-interest. And the archbishop? The Marshal rubbed
his nose again, not, however, because it was cold. Did any one
know what was going on behind the smiling mask which the
reticent prelate showed to the world? The Marshal poked his chin
above his collar, and the wrinkles fell away from his gray eyes.

The sky was clear and brilliant, and a tonic from the forests
sweetened the rushing air. The lake was ruffled out of its usual
calm, and rolled and galloped along the distant shores and
flashed on the golden sands. Above the patches of red and brown
and yellow the hills and mountains stood out in bold, decided
lines.

Water fowl swept along the marshes. The doves in twos and threes
fluttered down to the path, strutted about in their peculiarly
awkward fashion, and doubtfully eyed the silent gray figure on
the bench, as if to question his right to be there this time of
the morning, their trysting hour. Presently the whole flock came
down, and began cooing and waltzing at the Marshal's feet. He
soon discovered the cause.

Her Royal Highness was coming through the opening in the
hedgerow which separated the two confines. She carried a basket
on her arm, and the bulldog followed at her heels, holding his
injured leg in the air, and limping on the remaining three. At
the sight of her the doves rose and circled above her head. She
smiled and threw into the air handful after handful of cake and
bread crumbs. In their eagerness the doves alighted on her
shoulders, on the rim of the basket, and even on the broad back
of the dog, who was too sober to give attention to this seeming
indignity. He kept his eye on his mistress's skirts, moved when
she moved, and stopped when she stopped. A gray-white cloud
enveloped them.

The Marshal, with a curious sensation in his heart, observed
this exquisite, living picture. He was childless; and though he
was by nature undemonstrative, he was very fond of this youth.
Her cheeks were scarlet, her rosy lips were parted in excitement,
and her eyes glistened with pleasure. With all her twenty years,
she was but ten in fancy; a woman, yet a child, unlettered in
worldly wit, wise in her love of nature. Not until she had
thrown away the last of the crumbs did she notice the Marshal.
He rose and bowed.

"Good morning, your Highness. I am very much interested in your
court. And do you hold it every morning?"

"Even when it rains," she said, smiling. "I am so glad to see
you; I wanted to talk to you last night, but I could not find
the opportunity. Let me share the bench with you."

And youth and age sat down together. The bulldog planted himself
in the middle of the path and blinked at his sworn enemy. The
Marshal had no love for him, and he was well aware of it; at
present, an armistice.

The princess gazed at the rollicking waters, at her doves,
thence into the inquiring gray eyes of the old soldier.

"Do you remember," she said, "how I used to climb on your knees,
ever so long ago, and listen to your fairy stories?"

"Eh! And is it possible that your Highness remembers?" wrinkles
of delight gathering in his cheeks. "But why `ever so long ago'?
It was but yesterday. And your Highness remembers!"

"I am like my father; I never forget!" She looked toward the
waters again. "I can recall only one story. It was about a
princess who lost all her friends through the offices of a
wicked fairy. I remember it because it was the only story you
told me that had a sad ending. It was one of Andersen's. Her
father and mother died, and the moment she was left alone her
enemies set to work and toppled over her throne. She was cast
out into the world, having no friend but a dog; but the dog
always found something to eat, and protected her from giants and
robbers and wolves.

"Many a time I thought of her, and cried because she was so
unhappy. Well, she traveled from place to place, footsore and
weary, but in her own country no one dared aid her, for fear of
displeasing the wicked fairy, who at this time was all powerful.
So she entered a strange land, where some peasants took her in,
clothed and fed her, and gave her a staff and a flock of geese
to tend. And day after day she guarded the flock, telling her
sorrows to the dog, how she missed the dear ones and the home of
her childhood.

"One day the reigning prince of this strange land passed by
while hunting, and he saw the princess tending her geese. He
made inquiries, and when he found that the beautiful goose-girl
was a princess, he offered to marry her. She consented to become
his wife, because she was too delicate to drudge. So she and her
dog went to live at the palace. Once she was married the dog
behaved strangely, whining softly, and refusing to be consoled.
The prince was very kind to them both.

"Alas! It seems that when she left her own country the good
fairy had lost all track of her, to find her when it was too
late. The dog was a prince under a wicked spell, and when the
spell fell away the princess knew that she loved him, and not
her husband. She pined away and died. How many times I have
thought of her, poor, lonely, fairy-tale princess!"

The old soldier blinked at the doves, and there was a furrow
between his eyes. Yes; how well he remembered telling her that
story. But, as she repeated it, it was clothed with a strange
significance. Somehow, he found himself voiceless; he knew not
how to reply.

"Monsieur," she said suddenly, "tell me, what has my poor father
done that these people should hate him and desire his ruin?"

"He has been kind to them, my child," his gaze still riveted on
the doves; "that is all. He has given them beautiful parks, he
has made them a beautiful city. A king who thinks of his
people's welfare is never understood. And ignorant and
ungrateful people always hate those to whom they are under
obligations. It is the way of the world."

"And--and you, Marshal?" timidly.

"And I?"

"Yes. They whisper that--that--O, Marshal, is it you who will
forsake us in our need? I have heard many things of late which
were not intended for my ears. My father and I, we are so alone.
I have never known the comradeship of young people; I have never
had that which youth longs for--a confidant of my own age. The
young people I know serve me simply for their own ends, and not
because they love me.

"I have never spoken thus before to-day, save to this dog. He
has been my confidant; but he can not speak except with his kind
old eyes, and he can not understand as I would have him. And
they hate even him because they know that I love him. Poor dog!

"What my father has done has always been wrong in his own eyes,
but he sinned for my sake, and God will forgive him. He gave up
the home he loved for my sake. O, that I had known and
understood! I was only six. We are so alone; we have no place to
go, no friends save two, and they are helpless. And now I am to
make a sacrifice for him to repay him for all he has done for me.
I have promised my hand to one I do not love; even he forsakes
me. But love is not the portion of princesses. Love to them is a
fairy story. To secure my father's throne I have sacrificed my
girlhood dreams. Ah! and they were so sweet and dear."

She put a hand to her throat as if something had tightened there.
"Marshal, I beg of you to tell me the truth, the truth! Is my
father dying? Is he? He--they will not tell me the truth. And I .
. . never to hear his voice again! The truth, for pity's sake!"
She caught at his hands and strove to read his eyes. "For pity's
sake!"

He drew his breath deeply. He dared not look into her eyes for
fear she might see the tears in his; so he bent hastily and
pressed her hands to his lips. But in his heart he knew that his
promise to the dead was gone with the winds, and that he would
shed the last drop of blood in his withered veins for the sake
of this sad, lonely child.

"Your father, my child, will never stand up straight again," he
said. "As for the rest, that is in the hands of God. But I swear
to you that this dried-up old heart beats only for you. I will
stand or fall with you, in good times or bad." And he rubbed his
nose more fiercely than ever. "Had I a daughter-- But there! I
have none."

"My heart is breaking," she said, with a little sob. She sank
back, her head drooped to the arm of the bench, and she made no
effort to stem the flood of tears. "I have no mother, and now my
father is to leave me. And I love him so, I love him so! He has
sacrificed all his happiness to secure mine--in vain. I laugh
and smile because he asks me to, and all the while my heart is
breaking, breaking."

At this juncture the doves rose hurriedly. The Marshal
discovered the archbishop's valet making toward him.

"Monsieur the Marshal, Monseigneur breakfasts and requests you
to join him."

"Immediately;" and the Marshal rose. He placed his hand on the
dark head. "Keep up your heart, my child," he said, "and we
shall see if I have grown too old for service." He squared his
shoulders and followed the valet, who viewed the scene with a
valet's usual nonchalance. When the Marshal reached the steps to
the side entrance, he looked back. The dog had taken his place,
and the girl had buried her face in his neck. A moment later the
old soldier was ushered into the archbishop's presence, but
neither with fear nor uneasiness in his heart.

"Ah ! Good morning, Marshal," said the prelate. "Be seated. Did
you not find it chilly in the gardens?"

"Not the least. It is a fine day. I have just left her Royal
Highness."

The prelate arched his eyebrows, and an interrogation shot out
from under them.

"Yes," answered the observant soldier. "My heart has ever been
hers; this time it is my hand and brain."

The prelate's egg spoon remained poised in mid-air; then it
dropped with a clatter into the cup! But a moment gone he had
held a sword in his hand; he was disarmed.

"I have promised to stand and fall with her."

"Stand and fall? Why not 'or'?" with a long, steadfast gaze.

"Did I say 'and'? Well, then," stolidly, "perhaps that is the
word I meant to use. If I do the one I shall certainly do the
other."

The archbishop absently stirred his eggs.

"God is witness," said the Marshal, "I have always been honest."

"Yes."

"And neutral."

"Yes; honest and neutral."

"But a man, a lonely man like myself, can not always master the
impulses of the heart; and I have surrendered to mine."

The listener turned to some documents which lay beside the cup,
and idly fingered them. "I am glad; I am very glad. I have
always secretly admired you; and to tell the truth, I have
feared you most of all--because you are honest."

The Marshal shifted his saber around and drew his knees together.
"I return the compliment," frankly. "I have never feared you; I
have distrusted you."

"And why distrusted?"

"Because Leopold of Osia would never have forsaken his
birthright, nor looked toward a throne, had you not pointed the
way and coveted the archbishopric."

"I wished only to make him great;" but the prelate lowered his eyes.

"And share his greatness," was the shrewd rejoinder. "I am an
old man, and frankness in old age is pardonable. There are
numbers of disinterested men in the world, but unfortunately
they happen to be dead. O, I do not blame you; there is human
nature in most of us. But the days of Richelieus and Mazarins
are past. The Church is simply the church, and is no longer the
power behind the throne. I have served the house of Auersperg
for fifty years, that is to say, since I was sixteen; I had
hoped to die in the service. Perhaps my own reason for
distrusting you has not been disinterested."

"Perhaps not."

"And as I now stand I shall die neither in the service of the
house of Auersperg nor of Osia. It is not the princess; it is
the lonely girl."

"I need not tell you," said the prelate quietly, "that I am in
Bleiberg only for that purpose. And since we are together, I
will tell you this: Madame the duchess will never sit upon this
throne. To-day I am practically regent, with full powers from
his Majesty. I have summoned von Wallenstein and Mollendorf for
a purpose which I shall make known to you." He held up two
documents, and gently waving them: "These contain the dismissal
of both gentlemen, together with my reasons. There were three;
one I shall now destroy because it has suddenly become void." He
tore it up, turned, and flung the pieces into the grate.

The Marshal glanced instinctively at his shoulder straps, and
saw that they had come very near to oblivion.

"There is nothing more, Marshal," went on the prelate. "What I
had to say to you has slipped my mind. Under the change of
circumstances, it might embarrass you to meet von Wallenstein
and Mollendorf. You have spoken frankly, and in justice to you I
will return in kind. Yes, in the old days I was ambitious; but
God has punished me through those I love. I shall leave to you
the selection of a new Colonel of the cuirassiers."

"What! and Beauvais, too?" exclaimed the Marshal.

"Yes. My plans require it. I have formed a new cabinet, which
will meet to-night at eight. I shall expect you to be present."

The two old men rose. Suddenly, a kindly smile broke through the
austereness of the prelate's countenance, and he thrust out his
hand; the old soldier met it.

"Providence always watches over the innocent," said the prelate,
"else we would have been still at war. Good morning."

The Marshal returned home, thoughtful and taciturn. What would
be the end?

Ten minutes after the Marshal's departure, von Wallenstein and
Mollendorf entered the prelate's breakfast room.

"Good morning, Messieurs," said the churchman, the expression on
his face losing its softness, and the glint of triumph stealing
into his keen eyes. "I am acting on behalf of his Majesty this
morning," presenting a document to each. "Observe them carefully."
He turned and left the room. The archbishop had not only eaten
a breakfast, he had devoured a cabinet.

Count von Wallenstein watched the retreating figure of the
prelate till the door closed behind it; then he smiled at
Mollendorf, who had not the courage to return it, and who stared
at the parchment in his hand as if it were possessed of basilisk
eyes.

"Monseigneur," said the count, as he glanced through the
contents of the document, "has forestalled me. Well, well; I do
not begrudge him his last card. He has played it; let us go."

"Perhaps," faltered Mollendorf, "he has played his first card.
What are you going to do?"

"Remain at home and wait. And I shall not have long to wait. The
end is near."

"Count, I tell you that the archbishop is not a man to play thus
unless something strong were behind him. You do wrong not to
fear him."

Von Wallenstein recalled the warning of the Colonel of the
cuirassiers. "Nevertheless, we are too strong to fear him."

"Monseigneur is in correspondence with Austria," said the
minister of police, quietly.

"You said nothing of this before," was the surprised reply.

"It was only this morning that I learned it."

The count's gaze roamed about the room, and finally rested on
the charred slips of paper in the grate. He shrugged.

"If he corresponds with Austria it is too late," he said. "Come,
let us go." He snapped his fingers in the air, and Mollendorf
followed him from the room.


* * * * * *


The princess still remained on the rustic bench; her head was
bowed, but her tears were dried.

"O, Bull," she whispered, "and you and I shall soon be all alone!"

A few doves fluttered about her; the hills flamed beneath the
chill September sky, the waters sang and laughed, but she saw
not nor heard.




CHAPTER XIX


A CHANCE RIDE IN THE NIGHT

Maurice, who had wisely slept the larger part of the day, and
amused himself at solitary billiards until dinner, came out on
the terrace to smoke his after-dinner cigar. He watched the sun
as, like a ball of rusted brass, it slid down behind the hills,
leaving the glowing embers of a smoldering day on the hilltops.
The vermilion deepened into charred umber, and soon the west was
a blackened grate; another day vanished in ashes. The filmy
golden pallor of twilight now blurred the landscape; the wind
increased with a gayer, madder, keener touch; the lake went
billowing in shadows of gray and black, and one by one the lamps
of the city sprang up, vivid as sparks from an anvil. Now and
again the thin, clear music of the band drifted across from the
park. The fountain glimmered in the Platz, the cafes began to
glitter, carriages rolled hither and thither. The city had taken
on its colorful night.

"Well, here's another day gone," he mused, rubbing his elbow,
which was yet stiff. "I am anxious to know what that sinner is
doing. Has he pulled up stakes or has he stayed to get a whack
at me? I hope he's gone; he's a bad Indian, and if anything,
he'll want my scalp in his belt before he goes. Hang it! It
seems that I have poked my head into every bear trap in the
kingdom. I may not get out of the next one. How clever I was, to
be sure! It all comes from loving the dramatic. I am a diplomat,
but nobody would guess it at first sight. To talk to a man as I
talked to him, and to threaten! He said I was young; I was, but
I grow older every day. And the wise word now is, don't imitate
the bull of the trestle," as he recalled an American cartoon
which at that day was having vogue in the American colony in
Vienna.

"I like adventure, I know, but I'm going to give the Colonel a
wide berth. If he sees me first, off the board I go. Where will
he go--to the duchy? I trust not; we both can not settle in that
territory; it's too small. And yet I am bound to go back; it is
not my promise so much as it is my cursed curiosity. By George!"
rubbing his elbow gently. "And to think, Maurice, that you might
not have witnessed this sunset but for a bit of fencing trickery.
What a turn that picture of Inez gave me! I knew him in a
second--and like the ass I was, I told him so. And to meet him
here, almost a left-handed king; no wonder I did not recognize
him.

"I should like to come in on Fitzgerald to-night. His father
must have had a crazy streak in him somewhere. Four millions to
throw away; humph! And who the deuce has those certificates?" He
lolled against the parapet. "If I had four millions, and if
Prince Frederick had disappeared for good. . . . Why are things
so jumbled up, at sixes and sevens? We are all human beings; why
should some be placed higher than others? A prince is no better
than I am, and may be not half so good.

"Sometimes I like to get up high somewhere and look down on
every one else; every one else looks so small that it's
comforting. The true philosopher has no desire; he sits down and
views the world as if he were not a part of it. Perhaps it is
best so. Yes, I would like four millions and a principality. . . .
Heigho! how bracing the air is, and what a night for a ride!
I've a mind to exercise Madame's horse. A long lone ride on the
opposite side of the lake, on the road to Italy; come, let's try
it. Better that than mope."

He mounted to the veranda, and for the first time he noticed the
suppressed excitement which lit the faces of those around him.
Groups were gathered here and there, talking, gesticulating, and
flourishing the evening papers. He moved toward the nearest
group.

"The archbishop has dismissed the cabinet . . . crisis imminent."

"The Austrian minister has recalled his invitations to the
embassy ball."

"The archbishop will not be able to form another cabinet."

"Count von Wallenstein . . . "

"Mollendorf and Beauvais, too--"

"The king is dying . . . The archbishop has been given full
powers."

"The army will revolt unless Beauvais is recalled."

"And the Marshal says here . . ."

Maurice waited to hear no more, but climbed through the window
into the office.

"By George, something has happened since last night. I must have
an evening paper." He found one, and read an elaborate account
of what had taken place during the day. Von Wallenstein had been
relieved of the finance. Mollendorf of the police, Erzberg of
foreign affairs, and Beauvais of his epaulettes. There remained
only the archbishop, the chancellor and the Marshal. The
editorial was virulent in its attack on the archbishop,
blustered and threatened, and predicted that the fall of the
dynasty was but a matter of a few hours. For it asserted that
the prelate could not form another cabinet, and without a
cabinet there could be no government. It was not possible for
the archbishop to shoulder the burden alone; he must reinstate
the ministry or fall.

"And this is the beginning of the end," said Maurice, throwing
aside the paper. "What will happen next? The old prelate is not
a man to play to the gallery. Has he found out the double
dealing of Beauvais? That takes a burden off my shoulders--
unless he goes at once to the duchy. But why wasn't the cabinet
dismissed ages ago? It is now too late. And where is Prince
Frederick to the rescue? There is something going on, and what
it is only the archbishop knows.

That smile of his! How will it end? I'd like to see von Mitter,
who seems to be a good gossip. And that poor, friendless,
paralytic king! I say, but it makes the blood grow warm."

He left the chair and paced the office confines. Only one thing
went echoing through his brain, and that was he could do nothing.
The sooner he settled down in the attitude of a spectator the
better for him. Besides, he was an official in the employ of a
foreign country, and it would be the height of indiscretion to
meddle, even in a private capacity. It would be to jeopardize
his diplomatic career, and that would be ridiculous.