Books: The Puppet Crown
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Harold MacGrath >> The Puppet Crown
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"It occurs to me," answered Maurice, rubbing the scratch the
late Colonel's sword had left on his chin, "it occurs to me that
the man played his hand a few days too late."
"Which is to say?"
"Well, I do not call it revenge," Maurice admitted, unwilling to
venture any theory.
"No more do I;" and the Captain began drumming on the mantel.
"What say, Max; how would the illustrious Colonel look with the
shadow of a crown on his head? He comes from Austria, who, to my
thinking, is cognizant of all he does and has done."
The answer was not spoken. The door, leading to the main palace
through the kitchens, opened, and the Marshal, the princess, and
the maid of honor came down the steps. The Captain, Max and the
surgeon stood at salute. Maurice, however, drew back into the
shadows at the side of the grate. The old soldier gazed down at
the pale face of the young Lieutenant, and smiled kindly.
"Even the best of soldiers make mistakes," he said; "even the
best. No," as von Mitter made an attempt to speak. "I've heard
all about it, and from a most reliable source," nodding toward
the anxious maid of honor. "Colonel," he addressed the Captain,
whose eyes started at this appellation, "Colonel, you will
report to me in the morning to assume your new duties. You have
been a faithful Captain and a good soldier. I know your value,
your name and your antecedents, which till now was more than I
knew of your late predecessor. Von Mitter will take upon himself
your duties as Captain of the household troop; and you,
Scharfenstein, will hereafter take charge of her Royal
Highness's carriage, and you may choose whom you will as your
comrade."
"I have always tried to do my duty," said von Mitter. He felt a
small hand secretly press his.
"And you have always succeeded, Captain," said a voice which
made Maurice's foolish heart leap. "See, I am the first to give
you your new rank. How you must suffer!"
"God bless your Royal Highness!" murmured the fellow, at once
racked with pain and happiness. "But I am not the one you must
thank for this night's work."
The Marshal peered at the silent figure beyond the fireplace.
Maurice was compelled to stand forth. "Ah!" said the Marshal.
"Yes," went on von Mitter, "but for him no one knows what the
end might have been. And I, thinking him one of the abducting
party coming up from the rear, shot at him."
The princess took a step forward, anxiety widening her dark eyes;
and the swift glance added to the fever in the recipient's
veins. . . . How beautiful she was, and how far away! He laid
his hand on the top of von Mitter's chair.
"Monsieur Carewe," said the Marshal, "seems to have plenty of
leisure time on his hands--fortunately for us. You were not hit?"
"O, no," said Maurice, blushing. He had discerned an
undercurrent of raillery in the Marshal's tones. "The ball came
close to my ear, that was all. It is strange how that fellow got
away. I am positive that I hit him."
"We shall find him," said the Marshal, with a look at the newly-
appointed Colonel which said: "Your straps hang in the balance."
He rubbed his nose. "Well, is your Royal Highness satisfied that
there is no danger?"
"Yes, Marshal; but think, if he should have been killed! Ah,
what does it all mean? What had this man against me, who have
always been kind to him?"
"We shall, with your Highness's permission," said the Marshal,
"leave all questions to the future. Let us return to the
archbishop, who is doubtless awaiting the news. Take good care
of yourself, Captain. To-morrow, Colonel; good evening to you,
Monsieur Carewe;" and the terse old soldier proceeded to the
door and held it open for the women.
"Good night, Messieurs," said her Highness. "I shall not forget.
Thanks to you, Captain." One more glance, and she was gone. But
this glance blossomed in one heart into a flower of hope.
The Marshal, having closed the door behind the women, returned
to the group before the fireplace. They watched him interestedly.
"Colonel," he said, "make no effort to seek Beauvais. As for
Kopf, that is different. But Beauvais--"
"To let him go?" exclaimed the Colonel in dismay.
"Aye, to let him go. We do not seek bears with birdshot, and
that is all we have. He will leave the country."
"And go to the duchy!"
"So much the better; when the time comes, our case against him
will be so much the stronger. Mind you, this is not from
sentiment. I have none," glaring around to see if any dared
refute this assertion. "It is policy, and Monseigneur concurs
with me."
"But I have sent men after him!" cried the Colonel, in keen
disappointment.
"Send men after them to rescind the order."
"And if they should catch him?"
"Let him go; that is my order. The servant will be sufficient
for our needs. Monsieur Carewe, I rely on your discretion;" and
the Marshal passed into the kitchens.
The men looked at each other in silence. A moment later the
Colonel dashed from the room, off to the stables.
"Well, I'm off," said Maurice. The desire to tell what he knew
was beginning to master him. It was too late now, he saw that.
Besides, they might take it into their heads to detain him. He
put on his hat. "Good night; and good luck to your leg, Captain."
"Till to-morrow," said von Mitter, who had taken a fancy to the
smooth-faced young American, who seemed at home in all places.
"I am going away to-morrow," said Maurice, pressing the
Lieutenant's hand. "I shall return in a day or so."
He led his horse to the hotel stables, lit a fresh cigar and
promenaded the terrace. "Some day," he mused, "perhaps I'll be
able to do something for myself. To-morrow we'll take a look at
Fitzgerald's affairs, like the good fairy we are. If the Colonel
is there, so much the worse for one or the other of us." He
laughed contentedly. "Beauvais took my warning and lit out, or
his henchman would never have made a botch of the abduction. It
is my opinion that Madame wanted a hostage, for it is impossible
to conceive that the man made the attempt on his own
responsibility. I shall return to the duchy in a semi-official
character as an envoy extraordinary to look into the whereabouts
of one Lord Fitzgerald. Devil take me, but I did make a mess of
it when I slapped him on the shoulder that night." The princess
had not addressed a word to him. Why?
When the princess and her maid of honor had passed through the
kitchens into the princess's boudoir, the maid suddenly caught
her mistress's hand and imprinted a hasty kiss on it, to the
latter's surprise and agitation. There was something in that
kiss which came nearer to sincere affection than Mademoiselle
Bachelier had ever shown before.
"Camille?"
"God bless your Highness!" whispered the girl, again pressing
the cold hand to her lips. What had given rise to this new-born
affection she herself could not say, but a sudden wave of pity
rushed into her heart. Perhaps it was because she loved and was
loved that caused this expansion of heart toward her mistress,
who was likely never to love or beget love, who stood so lonely.
Tears came into her eyes.
"You are hysterical!" said the princess.
"No; it is because--because--" She stopped and a blush suffused
her face and temples.
The princess took the face between her hands and gazed long and
earnestly into it. "Have you discovered a belated pity in your
heart for me? Or is it because you thought him wounded unto
death, and he was not?"
"It is both!" weeping.
The princess put her arms around the maid. "And you weep for
happiness? Let us weep together, then; only--I can not weep for
happiness."
To return to the flight of Kopf. As he dashed down the road he
heard two reports. At the second he experienced a terrible
burning blow under the right shoulder-blade, and immediately his
arm became paralyzed. He coughed. With a supreme effort he
managed to recover his balance. Already his collar-bone had been
cracked by a bullet either from von Mitter or from Scharfenstein.
"God's curse on them all!" he sobbed, pushing his knees into his
horse; "God's curse!" He bit his lips; and when he drew his
breath the pain which followed almost robbed him of his senses.
Behind him the sound of hoofs came no nearer; he had a chance.
He could not look back to see if he gained, however, as his neck
was stiffening.
"Curse him and his damned gold! He never warned me as he said he
would." On he rode. The moon became obscured, and when it
flashed again he could see it but indistinctly. . . . To reach
the city, to reach Gertrude's, to give the horse a cut and send
him adrift, this was his endeavor. But would he reach the city--
alive? Was he dying? He could not see . . . Yet again he shut
his jaws and drew on his entire strength. He was keeping in the
saddle by will power alone. If the horse faltered he was lost.
To Gertrude; she could use them. And after all he loved her. If
he died she would be provided for.
The first of the city lamps. He sobbed. Into this street he
turned, into that, expecting each moment to be challenged, for
the white saddle blanket of the cuirassiers stood out
conspicuously. At last he had but a corner to turn. He stopped,
slid from the saddle and gave the animal a cut across the face.
The horse reared, then plunged forward at a wild gallop. Johann
staggered along the street, fumbling in his pockets for his keys.
Gertrude of the opera company was usually in the ballet. To-
night she had left the stage after the first dance. She had
complained of a severe headache, and as the manager knew her
worth he had permitted her withdrawal from the corps. She lived
off the Frohngarten, in an apartment on the second floor, over a
cheap restaurant. She was bathing her temples in perfumed
ammonia water, when she heard footsteps in the corridor, and
later the rasp of a key in the lock. As the door opened she
beheld a spectacle which caused her to scream.
"Hush! Gertrude, I am dying. . . . Brandy! I must talk to you!
Silence!" Johann tottered to a lounge and dropped on his side.
The woman, still trembling with fright and terror, poured into
her palm some of the pungent liquid with which she had been
bathing her temples, and held it under his nose. It revived him.
And in a few broken sentences he made known to her what had
happened.
"Gertrude, I am lost!" He breathed with difficulty. "I have
lived like a rascal, and I die like one. But I have always loved
you; I have always been true to you; I have never beaten nor
robbed you." His eyes closed.
"O God," she cried, "what shall I do? Johann, you must not die!
We will leave the country together. Johann, you do not speak!
Johann!" She kissed him, pressed him in her arms, regardless of
the stains which these frantic fondlings gathered from his
breast. "Johann!"
"Rich," he said dreamily; "rich . . . and to die like a dog!"
She left him and rushed to the sideboard, poured out a tumbler
of brandy, and returned to his side. She raised his head, but he
swallowed with effort.
"In the lungs," he said. "God! how it burns! Rich; we are rich,
Gertrude; a hundred thousand crowns. . . . And I am dying! . . .
What a failure! Curse them all; they never offered to lend a
hand unless it led toward hell! Gertrude . . . I must tell you.
Here; here, put your hand in this pocket; yes. Draw them out. . .
A hundred thousand crowns!"
The woman shuddered. Her hand and what it held were wet with
blood.
"Hide them!" And Johann fainted away for the second time. When
he came to his senses, several minutes had passed. Quickly, with
what remaining strength he had, he unfolded his plan.
And her one idea was to save him. She drenched her handkerchief
with the ammonia, and bade him hold it to his nose, while she
fetched a basin of water and a sponge. Tenderly she drew back
his coat and washed the blood from his throat and lips, and
moistened his hair.
"Listen!" he cried suddenly, rising on his elbow. "It is they!
They have found me! Quick! to the roof!" He struggled to his
feet, with that strength which imparts itself to dying men,
super-human while it lasts. He threw one arm around her neck.
"Help me!"
And thus they gained the hall, mounted the flight to the roof,
he groaning and urging, she sobbing, hysterical, and frenzied.
She climbed the ladder with him, threw back the trap, and helped
him on the roof.
"Now leave me!" he said, kissing her hand.
She gave him her lips, and went down to her rooms, and waited
and waited. This agony of suspense lasted a quarter of an hour,
when again came the clatter of hoofs. Would this, too, prove a
false alarm? She held her hand to her ear. If he were dying. . .
They had stopped; they were mounting the stairs; O God, they
were beating on the door!
"Open!" cried a voice without; "open in the king's name!"
She gasped, but words would not come. She clenched her hands
until the nails sank into the flesh.
"Open, Madame, or down comes the door."
The actress in her came to the rescue. The calm of despair took
possession of her.
"In a moment, Messieurs," she said. Her voice was without
agitation. She opened the door and the cuirassiers pushed past
her. "In heaven's name, Messieurs, what does this mean?"
"We want Johann Kopf," was the answer, "and we have it from good
authority that he is here. Do not interfere with us; you are in
no wise connected with the affair."
"He is not here," she replied. She wondered at herself, her
tones were so even, her mind was so clear.
One of the cuirassiers caught up her gown. "What's this,
Madame?" he demanded, pointing to the dark wet stains; "and
this?" to her hands, "and this?" to the spots on the carpet, the
basin and the sponge. "To the roof, men; he has gone by the roof!
Up with you!"
The ballet dancer held forth her hands in supplication; life
forsook her limbs; she sank.
The cuirassiers rushed to the roof. . . . When they came down it
was slowly and carefully. What they had found on the roof was of
no use to them. They laid the inanimate thing on the lounge, and
frowned. One of the cuirassiers lifted the ballet dancer and
carried her into her bed-room, and laid her on the bed. He had
not the heart to revive her. Death softens all angers; even an
enemy is no longer such when dead. And Johann Kopf was dead.
CHAPTER XXI
A COURT FETE AT THE RED CHATEAU
At eight o'clock of the following evening, that is to say, the
nineteenth of September, Maurice mounted the Thalian pass and
left the kingdom in the valley behind him. He was weary, dusty,
lame and out of humor; besides, he had a new weight on his
conscience. The night before he had taken the life of a man.
True, this had happened before, but always in warfare. He had
killed in a moment of rage and chagrin a poor devil who was at
most only a puppet. There was small credit in the performance.
However, the rascal would have suffered death in any event, his
act being one of high treason.
In the long ride he had made up his mind to lock away forever
the silly dream, the tender, futile, silly dream. All men die
with secrets locked in their hearts; thus he, too, would die.
His fancy leaped across the chasm of intervening years to the
day of his death, and the thought was a happy one! He smiled
sadly, as young men smile when they pity themselves. He knew
that he would never get over it--in a day. But to-morrow, or to-
morrow's to-morrow . .
He took the pass's decline; the duchy spread away toward the
south. A quarter of a mile below him he saw the barrack and the
customs office which belonged to Madame the duchess. The
corporal inspected him and his papers, spoke lowly to the
customs inspector, who returned to his office.
"It is all right, Monsieur Carewe," said the corporal; "I ought
to recognize the horse a mile away. You will arrive just in time."
"Just in time for what?"
"Ah, true. Her Highness gives a grand ball at the chateau to-
night. The court has arrived from Brunnstadt. Some will reside
at the chateau, some at General Duckwitz's, others at the
Countess Herzberg's."
"Has the duchess arrived at last, then?" was the cynical inquiry.
"She will arrive this evening," answered the corporal, grinning.
"A pleasant journey to you."
Maurice proceeded. "And that blockhead of an Englishman has not
tumbled yet! The court here? A grand ball? What else can it mean
but that Madame is celebrating a victory to come? If the
archbishop has those consols, she will wage war; and this is the
prelude." He jogged along. He had accomplished a third of the
remaining distance, when he was challenged. The sentry came
forward and scrutinized the rider.
"O, it is Monsieur Carewe !" he cried in delighted tones. He
touched his cap and fell back into the shadows.
A mile farther, and the great chateau, scintillating with lights,
loomed up against the yellow sky. He felt a thrill of excitement.
Doubtless there would be some bright passages before the night
drew to a close. He would make furious love to the pretty
countess; it would be something in the way of relaxation. How
would they greet him? What would be Madame's future plans in
regard to Fitzgerald? How would she get him out of the way, now
that he had served her purpose? He laughed.
"The future promises much," he said, half aloud. "I am really
glad that I came back."
"Halt!"
Maurice drew up. A sentry stepped out into the road.
"O, it is Monsieur Carewe!" he cried. With a short laugh he
disappeared.
"Hang me," grumbled Maurice as he went on, "these fellows have
remarkable memories. I can't recollect any of them." He was
mystified.
Shortly he came upon the patrol. The leader ordered him to
dismount, an order be obeyed willingly, for he was longing to
stand again. He shook his legs, while the leader struck a match.
"Why, it is Monsieur Carewe!" he cried. "Good! We are coming out
to meet you. This is a pleasure indeed."
Maurice gazed keenly into the speaker's face, and to his
surprise beheld the baron whose arm he had broken a fortnight
since. He climbed on his horse again.
"I am glad you deem it a pleasure, baron," he said dryly. "From
what you imply, I should judge that you were expecting me."
"Nothing less! Your departure from Bleiberg was known to us as
early as two o'clock this after-noon," answered the baron.
"Permit us to escort you to the chateau before the ladies see
you. 'Tis a gala night; we are all in our best bib and tucker,
as the English say. We believed at one time that you were not
going to honor us with a second visit. Now to dress, both of us;
at ten Madame the duchess arrives with General Duckwitz and
Colonel Mollendorf, who is no relation to the late minister of
police in Bleiberg."
Underneath all this Maurice discerned a shade of mockery, and it
disturbed him.
"First, I should like to know--" he began.
"Later, later!" cried the baron. "The gates are but a dozen rods
away. To your room first; the rest will follow."
"The only clothes I have with me are on my back," said Maurice.
"We shall arrange that. Your guard-hussar uniform has been
reserved for you, at the suggestion of the Colonel."
And Maurice grew more and more disturbed.
"Were they courteous to you on the road?"
"Yes. But--"
"Patience! Here we are at the rear gates."
Maurice found it impossible to draw back; three troopers blocked
the rear, the baron and another rode at his sides, and four more
were in advance. The rear gates swung open, and the little troop
passed into the chateau confines. Maurice snatched a glimpse of
the front lawns and terraces. The trees and walls were hung with
Chinese lanterns; gay uniforms and shimmering gowns flitted
across his vision. Somewhere within the chateau an orchestra was
playing the overture from "Linda di Chamounix." Indeed, with all
these brave officers, old men in black bedecked with ribbons,
handsome women in a brilliant sparkle of jewels, it had the
semblance of a gay court. It was altogether a different scene
from that which was called the court of Bleiberg. There was no
restraint here; all was laughter, music, dancing, and wines. The
women were young, the men were young; old age stood at one side
and looked on. And the charming Voiture-verse of a countess,
Maurice was determined to seek her first of all. He vaguely
wondered how Fitzgerald would carry himself throughout the ordeal.
The troopers dismounted in the courtyard.
"I'm a trifle too stiff to dance," Maurice innocently
acknowledged.
The baron laughed. "You will have to take luck with me in the
stable-barrack; the chateau is filled. The armory has been
turned into a ballroom, and the guard out of it."
"Lead on!" said Maurice.
At the entrance to the guardroom, which occupied the left wing
of the stables, stood a Lieutenant of the hussars.
"This is Monsieur Carewe," said the baron, "who will occupy a
corner in the guardroom."
"Ah! Monsieur Carewe," waving his hand cavalierly; "happy to see
you again."
Maurice was growing weary of his name.
"Enter," said the baron, opening the door.
Maurice entered, but not without suspicion. However, he was in a
hurry to mingle with the gay assembly in the chateau. But that
body was doomed to proceed without the honor or the knowledge of
his distinguished presence. Several troopers were lounging about.
At the sight of the baron they rose.
"Messieurs," he said, "this is Monsieur Carewe, who was expected."
"Glad to see you!" they sang out in chorus. They bowed
ironically.
Maurice gazed toward the door. As he did so four pairs of arms
enveloped him, and before he could offer the slightest
resistance, he was bound hand and foot, a scarf was tied over
his mouth, and he was pushed most disrespectfully into a chair.
The baron's mouth was twisted out of shape, and the troopers
were smiling.
"My faith! but this is the drollest affair I ever was in;" and
the baron sat on the edge of the table and held his sides.
"Monsieur Carewe! Ha! ha! You are a little too stiff to dance,
eh? Shall I tender your excuses to the ladies? Ass! did you
dream for a moment that such canaille as you, might show your
countenance to any save the scullery maids? Too stiff to dance!
Ye gods, but that was rich! And you had the audacity to return
here! I must go; the thing is killing me." He slipped off the
table, red in the face and choking. "The telegraph has its uses;
it came ahead of you. We trembled for fear you would not come!
Men, guard him as your lives, while I report to Madame, I dare
say she will make it droller in the telling."
He stepped to the door, turned, looking into the prisoner's
glaring eyes; he doubled up again. "We are quits; I forgive you
the broken arm; this laugh will repay me. How Madame the
countess will laugh! And Duckwitz--the General will die of
apoplexy! O, but you are a sorry ass; and how neatly we have
clipped your ears!" And into the corridor he went, still
laughing, heartily and joyously, as if what had taken place was
one of the finest jests in the world.
Maurice, white and furious, was positive that he never would
laugh again. And the most painful thought was that his honesty
had brought him to this pass--or, was it his curiosity?
* * * * *
Fitzgerald stood alone in the library. The music of a Strauss
waltz came indistinctly to him. He was troubled, and the speech
of it lay in his eyes. From time to time he drummed on the
window sill, and followed with his gaze the shadowy forms on the
lawns. He was not a part of this fairy scene. He was out of
place. So many young and beautiful women eyeing him curiously
confused him. In every glance he innocently read his disgrace.
At Madame's request he had dressed himself in the uniform of a
Lieutenant-Colonel, which showed how deeply he was in the toils.
Though it emphasized the elegant proportions of his figure, it
sat uncomfortably upon him. His vanity was not equal to his
sense of guilt. The uniform was a livery of dishonor. He could
not distort it into a virtue, try as he would. He lacked that
cunning artifice which a man of the world possesses, that of
winning over to the right a misdeed.
And Carewe, on whose honesty he would have staked his life,
Carewe had betrayed him. Why, he could not conceive. He saw how
frail his house of love was. A breath and it was gone. What he
had until to-day deemed special favors were favors common to all
these military dandies. They, too, could kiss Madame's hand, and
he could do no more. And yet she held him. Did she love him? He
could not tell. All he knew was that it was impossible not to
love her. And to-night he witnessed the culmination of the woman
beautiful, and it dazzled him, filled him with fears and
oppressions. . . . To bind her hand and foot, to carry her by
force to the altar, if need; to call her his in spite of all.
If she were playing with him, making a ball of his heart and her
fancy a cup, she knew not of the slumbering lion within. He
himself was but dimly conscious of it. Princess? That did not
matter. Since that morning the veil had fallen from his eyes,
but he had said nothing; he was waiting for her to speak. Would
she laugh at him? No, no! The knowledge that had come to him had
transformed wax into iron. Princess? She was the woman who had
promised to be his wife.
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