Books: The Puppet Crown
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Harold MacGrath >> The Puppet Crown
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A porter touched him on the shoulder.
"A letter for your Excellency."
It was from the American minister in Vienna.
"My dear Carewe: I have a service to ask of you. The British
minister is worried over the disappearance of a fellow-
countryman, Lord Fitzgerald. He set out for Bleiberg, leaving
instructions to look him up if nothing was heard of him within a
week. Two weeks have gone. Knowing you to be in Bleiberg, I
believed you might take the trouble to look into the affair. The
British ambassador hints at strange things, as if he feared foul
play. I shall have urgent need of you by the first of October;
our charge d'affaires is to return home on account of ill-health,
and your appointment to that office is a matter of a few days."
Maurice whistled. "That is good news; not Haine's illness, but
that I have an excuse to meddle here. I'll telegraph at once.
And I'll take the ride besides." He went to his room and buckled
on his spurs, and thoughtfully slipped his revolver into a
pocket. "I am not going to take any chances, even in the dark."
Once again in the office, he stepped up to the desk and ordered
his horse to be brought around to the cafe entrance.
"Certainly," said the clerk. Then in low tones "There has been a
curious exchange in saddles, Monsieur."
"Saddles?"
"Yes. The saddle in your stall is, curiously enough, stamped
with the arms of the house of Auersperg. How that military
saddle came into the stables is more than the grooms can solve."
"O," said Maurice, with an assumption of carelessness; "that is
all right. It's the saddle I arrived on. The horse and saddle
belong to Madame the duchess. I have been visiting at the Red
Chateau. I shall return in the morning."
"Ah," said the clerk, with a furtive smile which Maurice lost;
"that accounts for the mystery."
"Here are two letters that must get in to-night's mails,"
Maurice said; "and also this telegram should be sent at once."
"As Monsieur desires. Ah, I came near forgetting. There is a
note for Monsieur, which came this afternoon while Monsieur was
asleep."
The envelope was unstamped, and the scrawl was unfamiliar to
Maurice. On opening it he was surprised to find a hurriedly
written note from Fitzgerald. In all probability it had been
brought by the midnight courier on his return from the duchy.
"In God's name, Maurice, why do you linger?
To-morrow morning those consols must be here
or they will be useless. Hasten; you know what
it means to me.
Fitzgerald."
Maurice perused it twice, and pulled at his lips. "Madame
becomes impatient. Poor devil. Somebody is likely to become
suddenly rich and somebody correspondingly poor. What will they
say when I return empty-handed? Like as not Madame will accuse
me--and Fitzgerald will believe her! . . . The archbishop! That
accounts for this bold move. And how the deuce did he get hold
of them? I give up." And his shoulders settled in resignation.
He passed down into the cafe, from there to his horse, which a
groom was holding at the curb. He swung into the saddle and
tossed a coin to the man, who touched his cap.
The early moon lifted its silvery bulk above the ragged east,
and the patches of clouds which swarmed over the face of that
white world of silence resembled so many rooks. Far away, at the
farthermost shore of the lake, whenever the moon went free from
the clouds, Maurice could see the slim gray line of the road
which stretched toward Italy.
"It's a fine night," he mused, glancing heavenward. The horse
answered the touch of the spurs, and cantered away, glad enough
to exchange the close air of the stables for this fresh gift of
the night. Maurice guided him around the palaces into the avenue,
which derived its name from the founder of the opera, in which
most of the diplomatic families lived. Past the residence of
Beauvais he went, and, gazing up at the lightless windows, a
cold of short duration seized his spine. It bad been a hair's
breadth betwixt him and death. "Your room, Colonel, is better
than you company; and hereafter I shall endeavor to avoid both.
I shall feel that cursed blade of yours for weeks to come."
Carriages rolled past him. A gay throng in evening dress was
crowding into the opera. The huge placard announced, "Norma--
Mlle. Lenormand--Royal Opera Troupe." How he would have liked to
hear it, with Lenormand in the title role. He laughed as he
recalled the episodes in Vienna which were associated with this
queen of song. He waved his hand as the opera house sank in the
distance. "Au revoir, Celeste, ma charmante; adieu." By and by
he reached the deserted part of the city, and in less than a
quarter of an hour branched off into the broad road bordering
the lake. The horse quickened his gait as he felt the stone of
the streets no longer beneath his feet, which now fell with
muffled rhythm on the sound earth. Maurice shared with him the
delight of the open country, and began to talk to the animal.
"A fine night, eh, old boy? I've ridden many backs, but none
easier than yours. This air is what gives the blood its color.
Too bad; you ought not to belong to Madame. She will never think
as much of you as I should."
The city was falling away behind, and a yellow vapor rose over
it. The lake tumbled in moonshine. Maurice took to dreaming
again--hope and a thousand stars, love and a thousand dreams.
"God knows I love her; but what's the use? We can not all have
what we want; let us make the best of what we have. Philosophy
is a comfort only to old age. Why should youth bother to reason
why? And I--I have not yet outgrown youth. I believed I had, but
I have not. I did not dream she existed, and now she is more to
me than anything else in the world. Why; I wonder why? I look
into a pair of brown eyes, and am seized with madness. I hope.
For what? O, Bucephalus! let us try to wake and leave the dream
behind. The gratitude of a princess and a dog . . . and for this
a rose. Well, it will prove the substance of many a pipe, many a
kindly pipe. You miss a good deal, Bucephalus; smoking is an
evil habit only to those who have not learned to smoke."
The animal replied with a low whinney, and Maurice, believing
that the horse had given an ear to his monologue, laughed. But
he flattered himself. The horse whinneyed because he inhaled the
faint odor of his kind. He drew down on the rein and settled
into a swinging trot, which to Maurice's surprise was faster and
easier than the canter. They covered a mile this way, when
Maurice's roving eye discovered moving shadows, perhaps half a
mile in advance.
"Hello! we're not the only ones jogging along. Eh, what's that?"
Something flashed brightly, like silver reflecting moonlight;
then came a spark of flame, which died immediately, and later
Maurice caught an echo which resembled the bursting of a leaf
against the lips. "Come; that looks like a pistol shot."
Again the flash of silver, broader and clearer this time; and
Maurice could now separate the shadow-shapes. A carriage of some
sort rolled from side to side, and two smaller shadows followed
its wild flight. One--two--three times Maurice saw the sparks and
heard the faint reports. He became excited. Something
extraordinary was taking place on the lonely road. Suddenly the
top of the carriage replied with spiteful flashes of red. Then
the moon came out from behind the clouds, and the picture was
vividly outlined. Two continuous flashes of silver. . . .
Cuirassiers! Maurice loosened the rein, and the horse went
forward as smoothly as a sail. The distance grew visibly less.
The carriage opened fire again, and Maurice heard the sinister
m-m-m of a bullet winging past him.
"The wrong man may get hit, Bucephalus," he said, bending to the
neck of the horse; "which is not unusual. You're pulling them
down, old boy; keep it up. There's trouble ahead, and since the
cuirassiers are for the king, we'll stand by the cuirassiers."
On they flew, nearer and nearer, until the pistol shots were no
longer echoes. Two other horsemen came into view, in advance of
the carriage. Five minutes more of this exciting chase, and the
faces took on lines and grew into features. Up, up crept the
gallant little horse, his hoofs rattling against the road like
snares on a drum. When within a dozen rods, Maurice saw one of
the cuirassiers turn and level a revolver at him. Fortunately
the horse swerved, and the ball went wide.
"Don't shoot!" Maurice yelled; "don't shoot!"
The face he saw was von Mitter's. His heart clogged in his
throat, not at the danger which threatened him, but at the
thought of what that carriage might contain.
A short time passed, during which nothing was heard but the
striking of galloping hoofs and the rumble of the carriage.
Maurice soon drew abreast of von Mitter. There was a gash on the
latter's cheek, and the blood from it dripped on his cuirass.
"Close for you, my friend," he gasped; when he recognized the
new arrival. "Have you--God! my leg that time," with a groan.
For the fire of the carriage had spoken again, and true.
Maurice shut his teeth, drew his revolver, cocked it and applied
the spurs. With a bound he shot past von Mitter, who was cursing
deeply and trying to reload. Maurice did not propose to waste
powder on the driver, but was determined to bring down one of
the carriage horses, which were marvelous brutes for speed.
Scharfenstein kept popping away at the driver, but without
apparent result. Finally Maurice secured the desired range. He
raised the revolver, rested the barrel between the left thumb
and forefinger and pressed the trigger. The nearest carriage
horse lurched to his knees, a bullet in his brain, dragging his
mate with him. The race had come to an end.
At once the two horsemen in front separated; one continued
toward the great forest, while the other took to the hills.
Scharfenstein started in pursuit of the latter. As for the
carriage, it came to an abrupt stand. The driver made a flying
leap toward the lake, but stumbled and fell, and before he could
regain his feet Maurice was off his horse and on his quarry. He
caught the fellow by the throat and pressed him to the earth,
kneeling on his chest.
"Hold him!" cried von Mitter, coming up with a limp, "hold him
till I knock in his head, damn him!"
"No, no!" said Maurice, "you can't get information out of a dead
man."
"It's all up with me," groaned the Lieutenant. "I'll ask for my
discharge. I could hit nothing, my hand trembled. I was afraid
of shooting into the carriage."
Maurice turned his attention to the man beneath him. "Now, you
devil," he cried, "a clean breast of it, or off the board you go.
O!" suddenly peering down. "By the Lord, so it is you--you--you!"
savagely bumping the fellow's head against the earth. "Spy!"
"You are killing me!"
"Small matter. Who is this fellow?" asked Maurice.
"Johann Kopf, a spy, a police rat, and God knows what else,"
answered von Mitter, limping toward the carriage. "Curse the leg!"
He forced the door and peered inside. "Fainted! I thought as
much." He lifted the inanimate bundle which lay huddled in
between the seats and carried it to the side of the road, where
he tenderly laid it. He rubbed the girl's wrists, unmindful of
the blood which fell from his face and left dark stains on her
dress. "Thank God," heartily, "that her Royal Highness was
suffering from a headache. She would have died from fright."
Maurice felt the straining cords in the prisoner's neck grow
limp. The rascal had fainted.
"Not her Highness?" Maurice asked, the weight of dread lifting
from his heart.
"No. Her Royal Highness sent Camille, her maid of honor, veiled
and dressed like herself, to play an innocent jest on her old
nurse. Some one shall account for this; for they mistook Camille
for her Highness. I'm going to wade out into the water," von
Mitter added, staggering to his feet.
"You'll never get off your boot," said Maurice.
"I'll cut it off," was the reply, "I shall faint if I do not
cool off the leg. The ball is somewhere in the calf." And he
waded out into the water until it reached above his knees. Thus
he stood for a moment, then returned to the maid, who, on
opening her eyes, screamed. "It is all over, Camille," said the
Lieutenant, throwing an arm about her.
"Your face is bleeding!" she cried, and sank back with her head
against his broad breast.
As Maurice gazed at the pair he sighed. There were no obstacles
here.
Soon Scharfenstein came loping down the hill alone.
"I killed his horse," he said, in response to queries, "but he
fled into the woods where I could not follow. A bad night for us,
Carl, a bad night," swinging off his horse. "A boy would have
done better work. Whom have we here?"
"Kopf," said Maurice, "and he has a ball somewhere inside,"
holding up a bloody hand.
"Kopf?" Scharfenstein cocked his revolver.
The maid of honor placed her hands over her ears and screamed
again. Max gazed at her, and, with a short, Homeric laugh,
lowered the revolver.
"Any time will do," he said. "Ah, he opens his eyes."
The prisoner's eyes rolled wildly about. That frowning face
above him . . . was it a vision? Who was it? What was he doing
here?
"Who put you up to this?" demanded Maurice.
"You are choking me!"
"Who, I say?"
"Beauvais."
Scharfenstein and von Mitter looked at each other
comprehensively.
"Who is this Beauvais? Speak!"
"I am dying, Herr . . . Your knees--"
Maurice withdrew his knees. "Beauvais; who is he?"
"Prince . . . Walmoden, formerly of the emperor's staff."
Johann's eyes closed again, and his head fell to one side.
"He looks as if he were done for," said Maurice, standing up.
"Let us clear up the rubbish and hitch a horse to the carriage.
The mate's all right."
Von Mitter assisted the maid into the carriage and seated her.
"Go and stay with her," said Maurice, brusquely; "you're half
fainting."
"You are very handy, Carewe," said von Mitter gratefully, and he
climbed in beside the maid, who, her fright gone, gave way to
womanly instincts. She took her kerchief and wiped the
Lieutenant's cheek, pressing his hand in hers the while.
Maurice and Scharfenstein worked away at the traces, and dragged
the dead horse to the side of the road. Scharfenstein brought
around von Mitter's horse, took oft the furnishings, and backed
him into the pole.
Meanwhile the man lying by the water's edge showed signs of
returning life. He turned his head cautiously. His enemies were
a dozen yards away from him. Slowly he rolled over on his
stomach, thence to his knees. They were paying no attention to
him. . . .
"Ho, there! the prisoner!" cried von Mitter, tumbling out of the
carriage. He tried to stand up, but a numbness seized his legs,
and he sank to a sitting posture.
Maurice and Scharfenstein turned too late. Johann had mounted on
Scharfenstein's horse, and was flying away down the road.
Maurice coolly leveled his revolver and sent two bullets after
him. The second one caused Johann to straighten stiffly, then to
sink; but he hung on to the horse.
"Hurry!" cried Maurice; "I've hit him and we'll find him along
the road somewhere."
They lifted von Mitter into the carriage, wheeled it about, and
Scharfenstein mounted the box. Maurice sprang into his saddle,
and they clattered off toward the city.
CHAPTER XX
THE LAST STAND OF A BAD SERVANT
The cuirassiers stationed in the guardroom of the royal palace
walked gently on the tiling, when occasion required them to walk,
and when they entered or left the room, they were particularly
careful to avoid the chink of the spur or the clank of the saber.
Although the royal bedchamber was many doors removed, the
Captain had issued a warning against any unnecessary noise. A
loud laugh, or the falling of a saber carelessly rested, drew
upon the unlucky offender the scowling eyes of the commander,
who reclined in front of the medieval fireplace, in which a
solitary log burned, and brooded over past and present. The high
revels in the guardroom were no more, the cuirassiers were no
longer made up of the young nobles of the kingdom; they were now
merely watch dogs.
Twenty years ago the commander had come from Dresden as an
instructor in arms, and after the first year had watched over
the royal household, in the service of the late king and the
king who lay dying. He had come of good family, but others had
come oof better, and had carried of court honors, though his
post in early days had been envied by many. He was above all
else a soldier, the embodiment of patience and integrity, and he
scorned to murmur because fortune had passed over his head. As
he sucked at his pipe, he recalled the days of Albrecht and his
opera singers, the court scandals, and his own constant
employment as messenger in the king's love intrigues.
Albrecht had died a widower and childless, and with him had died
the flower of court life. The courtiers and sycophants had
flocked to the standard of the duke, and had remained there,
primarily because Leopold of Osia promised a sedate and
exemplary life. Sometimes the Captain shook his head, as if
communing with some unpleasant thought. On each side of him sat
a soldier, also smoking and ruminating.
At the mess table a dozen or so whiled away the time at cards.
The wavering lights of the candle and hearth cast warring
shadows on the wall and floor, and the gun and saber racks
twinkled. If the players spoke, it was in tones inaudible to the
Captain's ears.
"Our bread and butter," said the Captain softly, "are likely to
take unto themselves the proverbial wings and fly away."
No one replied. The Captain was a man who frequently spoke his
thoughts aloud, and required no one to reply to his disjointed
utterances.
"A soldier of fortune," he went on, "pins his faith and zeal to
standards which to-day rise and to-morrow fall. Unfortunately,
he takes it at flood tide, which immediately begins to ebb."
The men on either side of him nodded wisely.
"The king can no longer speak. That is why the archbishop has
dismissed the cabinet. While he could speak, his Majesty refused
to listen to the downfall of his enemies. Why? Look to heaven;
heaven only can answer. How many men of the native troops are
quartered in these buildings? Not one--which is bad. Formerly
they were in the majority. Extraordinary. His Majesty would have
made friends with them, but the archbishop, an estimable man in
his robes, practically ostracized them. Bad, very bad. Had we
been comrades, there might be a different end.
"Faugh! if one of us sticks his head into the city barracks a
breath of ice is our reward. Kronau never attends the receptions.
A little flattery, which costs nothing, and they would have
been willing to die for his Majesty. Now--" He knocked his pipe
on the firedog. "Now, they would not lift a finger. A soldier
will forgive all things but premeditated neglect.
"As for me, when the time comes I shall return to Dresden and
die of old age. Maybe, though, I shan't. When his Majesty dies
there is like to be a clash. The duchess is a clever woman, but
she would make a balky wife; a capillary affection which runs in
the family. Red hair in a man is useful; in a woman it is
unmanageable." He refilled his pipe and motioned toward the
tongs. The soldier nearest caught up a brand and held it out.
The Captain laid his pipe against it and drew. "It's a dreary
watch I have from ten till daylight, in his Majesty's
antechamber, but he will trust no other man at that post." And
with this he fell into silence.
Some time passed. Twice the Captain pulled out his watch and
looked at it. Shortly after nine o'clock the beat of hoofs came
up the driveway, and the Captain turned his head toward the
entrance and waited. A moment later the door opened and three
men stood framed in the doorway. Two of them--one in civilian
dress--were endeavoring to hold up a third between them. The
central figure presented an alarming picture. His cuirass and
white trousers were splashed with blood, and his head rolled
from side to side, almost insensibly.
"A thousand devils!" exclaimed the Captain at the sight of this
unexpected tableau. He sprang up, toppling over his chair.
"What's this? Von Mitter? Blood? Have those damned students--"
"A brush on the lake road," interrupted Sharfenstein,
breathlessly. "Help him over to a chair, Monsieur Carewe. That's
it."
"Have you a knife, Captain?" asked Maurice.
The Captain whipped out his knife, locked it, and gave it to
Maurice. "Riemer," he called to one of the cuirassiers, who were
rising from the mess table, "bring out your box of instruments;
and you, Scharfenstein, a basin of cold water. Quick!"
Maurice knelt and deftly cut away the Lieutenant's boot. A pool
of blood collected on the floor.
"God save us!" cried the Captain, "his boot is full of blood."
He turned to Scharfenstein, who was approaching with the basin.
"What has happened, Max?"
Scharfenstein briefly explained.
"And Kopf?"
"Got away, curse him!"
"And the others?" with a lowering brow.
"They all got away," adding an oath under his breath. Max set
the basin on the floor.
"Bad, very bad. Why didn't you shoot?"
"He was afraid of hitting Mademoiselle Bachelier," Maurice
interposed.
Max threw him a grateful look.
"Humph!" The Captain called his men around him. "Two of you--.
But wait. Who's back of Kopf?"
"Our distinguished Colonel," snapped Max, "who was this day
relieved of his straps. A case of revenge, probably."
"Beauvais! Ah, ah!" The Captain smiled grimly. He had always
hated Beauvais, who had, for no obvious reason, passed him and
grasped the coveted colonelcy, and because, curiously enough,
the native troops had made an idol of him. "Beauvais? I am not
surprised. An adventurer, with neither kith nor country."
"He is Prince Walmoden," said Maurice, "and for some reason not
known, the emperor has promised to recall him."
This information caused the Captain to step back, and he
muttered the name several times. "Austria. . . ." A gloom
settled on his face. "No matter. Prince or no prince, or had he
one thousand emperors behind him, no matter. Four of you seek
him and arrest him. If he offers resistance, knock him on the
head, but arrest him. A traitor is without name, country or
respect. His purpose . . . Never mind.
"Four of you seek for Kopf. Look into Stuler's, in at the opera,
and follow Kopf's woman home. I'll take it upon myself to
telegraph the frontier to allow no one to cross on the pain of
being shot. Pass the word to the officers in the stables. Hurry
away before the archbishop hears of the matter. Away with you,
and quietly. And one of you seek that blockhead of a coachman,
who did not know enough to come back here and inform us.
Beauvais, make him a prisoner, you are not to know why. As for
Kopf, dead or alive--alive will be less convenient for all
concerned. Off with you!"
The guardroom was at once emptied, and the cuirassiers turned
off toward the stables, where the main body of the troops was
stationed.
Riemer, who was both surgeon and soldier, probed the wound in
von Miner's leg and extracted the bullet, which had lodged in
the fleshy part of the calf. He applied cold water, lints and
bandages. All the while von Mitter sat in the chair, his eyes
shut and his lips closed tightly.
"There!" said the surgeon, standing up, "that's better. The loss
of blood is the worst part of it." Next he took a few stitches
in the cut on the cheek and threw his cloak over the wounded
man's knee. "He'll be all right in a day or so, though he'll
limp. Carl?"
"O, I'm sound enough," answered von Mitter, opening his eyes. "A
little weak in the knees, that's all. I shouldn't have given in,
only Kopf got away when we had him fair and fast. We found his
horse wandering about the Frohngarten, but no sign of Johann.
He's got it, though, square in the back."
"I'm sure of it," said Maurice, who leaned over the back of the
speaker's chair.
The Captain eyed him inquiringly.
"Pardon me," said Scharfenstein. "Captain, Monsieur Carewe, an
American tourist, formerly of the United States cavalry. And a
pretty shot, too, by the book! It would have gone badly with us
but for him."
"My thanks," said the Captain, with a jerky nod. "Max, come,
give me the whole story."
And Scharfenstein dropped into a chair and recounted in
picturesque diction the adventure; how they had remained by the
royal carriage till the nurse, recovering from her faint, had
rushed out and told them of the abduction; and the long race on
the south shore. While he listened the Captain smoked
thoughtfully; and when the story was done, he rose and wagged
his head.
"Call it revenge," he said, "if it strikes you in that light.
Monsieur Carewe, what is your opinion?"
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