Books: The Puppet Crown
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Harold MacGrath >> The Puppet Crown
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"O, the urbanity of the young and the brave!" he murmured.
Maurice felt the old familiar exhilaration--the soldier's
exhilaration--quicken the beat of his pulse. He did not ask
himself why he was here; he knew why. A delightful flower had
sprung up in his heart, and fate had nipped it. Whither this new
adventure would lead him he cared not. From now on life for him
must be renewed by continual change and excitement. Since no one
depended on him, his life was his to dispose of as he willed.
Friends? He laughed. He knew the world too well. He himself was
his best friend, for he had always been true to himself.
He might be shot, but he had faced that possibility before.
Besides, to-day's experience would be new to him. He had never
witnessed a battle in the open, man to man, in bright,
resplendent uniforms. A ragged, dusty troop of brown-skinned men
in faded blue, with free and easy hats, irregular of formation,
no glory, no brilliancy, skirmishing with outlawed white men and
cunning Indians, that was the extent of his knowledge by
experience. True, these self-same men in dingy blue fought with
a daring such as few soldiers living possessed; but they lacked
the ideal picturesqueness which made this army so attractive.
The sharp edges of his recent fatigue were not yet dulled, but
his cuirass sat lightly upon him, the sound of the dangling
saber at his side smote pleasantly his ear, and the black
Mecklenberg under him was strong and active. To return to
Madame's chateau in the guise of a conqueror was a most engaging
thought. She had humbled his self-love, now to humble hers! He
no longer bothered himself about Beauvais, whose case he had
placed in the hands of the Austrian ambassador.
Gay and debonair he rode that late September afternoon. No man
around him had so clear an eye nor so constant a vivacity. Since
he had nothing but his life to lose, he had no fear. Let the
theater be full of light while the play lasted, and let the
curtain fall to a round of huzzas! For a few short hours ago he
had kissed a woman's hand and had looked into her sad brown eyes.
"Why you do this I do not know, nor shall I ask. Monsieur, my
prayers go with you." Was not that an amulet? His diplomatic
career! He fell to whistling.
"Ah! que j'aime les militaires!"
More than once the prince felt the sting of envy in his heart at
the sight of this embodiment of supreme nonchalance. It spoke of
a healthy salt in the veins, a salt such as kings themselves can
not always boast of. A foreigner, a republican? No matter; a
gallant man.
"Monsieur," he said impulsively, "you shall always possess my
friendship, once we are well out of this."
"Thanks, your Highness," replied Maurice, and laughing; "the
after-thought is timely!"
The sun lay close to the western rim of hills; an opal sky
encompassed the earth; the air was balmy.
"The French call this St. Martin's summer," said Maurice. "In my
country we call it Indian summer--ah!" lifting in his stirrups.
The army was approaching a hill, when suddenly a whirlwind of
dust rolled over the summit, and immediately a reconnoitering
patrol came dashing into view, waving their sabers aloft. . . .
The enemy was less than a mile away, and advancing rapidly.
To anticipate. Madame the duchess had indeed contemplated
striking the blow at night. That morning, like the brave Amazon
she was, she had pitched her tent in the midst of her army, to
marshal and direct its forces. It was her intention to be among
the first to enter Bleiberg; for she was a soldier's daughter,
and could master the inherent fears of her sex.
That same morning a woman entered the lines and demanded an
audience. What passed between her and Madame the duchess others
never knew. She had also been apprised of the prisoners' escape,
but, confident that they would not be able to make a crossing,
she disdained pursuit. The prince had missed his wedding day; he
was no longer of use to her. As to the American, he would become
lost, and that would be the end of him.
But the Englishman. . . . He was conscience eternally barking at
her heels. The memory of that kiss still rankled in her mind,
and not an hour went by in which she did not chide herself for
the folly. How to get rid of him perplexed her. Here he was, in
the uniform of a Lieutenant-Colonel, ready to go to any lengths
at a sign from her. There was something in her heart which she
had not yet analyzed. First of all, her crown; as to her heart,
there was plenty of time in which to study that peculiar and
unstable organ. The possibility of the prince's arriving in
Bleiberg before her in no way disturbed her. Whenever her attack
was made, failure would not attend it. She broke camp at two
o'clock and took the road leisurely toward Bleiberg.
Thus, the two armies faced each other comparatively in the open.
A battle hung in the air.
The king's forces came to an abrupt halt. Orderlies dashed to
and fro. The artillery came rumbling and creaking to the front,
wheeled, the guns unlimbered and ranged so as to enfilade the
road. The infantry deployed to right and left while the cavalry
swung into position on the flanks. All this was accomplished
with the equanimity of dress parade. Maurice could not control
his admiration. Madame, he thought, might win her crown, but at
a pretty cost.
The Marshal and the staff posted themselves on the right breast
of the hill, from whence, by the aid of binoculars, they could
see the enemy. From time to time General Kronau nervously
smoothed his beard, formed his lips into words, but did not
utter them, and glanced slyly from the corner of his eye at the
Marshal, who was intent on the enemy's approach. Maurice was
trying with naked eye to pierce the forest and the rolling
ground beyond, and waiting for the roar of the guns.
Orders had been issued for the gunners to get the range and
commence firing; but as the gunners seemed over long in getting
down to work, Maurice gazed around impatiently. The blood rushed
into his heart. For this is what he saw: the infantry leaning
indolently on their guns, their officers snipping the grasses
with their swords; the cuirassiers hidden in the bulk of the
native cavalry; artillerymen seated carelessly on the caissons,
and the gunners smoking and leaning against the guns. All action
was gone, as if by magic; nothing but a strange tableau remained!
Moreover, a troop of native cavalry, which, for no apparent
reason, had not joined the main body, had closed in on the
general staff. Appalled by a sudden thought, Maurice touched the
prince, who lowered his glasses and turned his head.
Bewilderment widened his eyes, and the flush on his cheeks died
away. He, too, saw.
"Devil's name!" the Marshal burst forth, "why don't the
blockheads shoot? The enemy--" He stopped, his chin fell, for,
as he turned, a single glance explained all to him. The red on
his face changed into a sickly purple, and the glasses slipped
from his hands and broke into pieces on the stony ground.
"Marshal," began General Kronau, "I respect your age and valiant
services. That is why we have come thirteen miles. You may keep
your sword, and also Monsieur the prince. For the present you
are prisoners."
For a moment the Marshal was stupefied. His secret fears had
been realized. Suddenly a hoarse oath issued from his lips, he
dragged his saber from the scabbard, raised it and made a
terrible sweep at the General. But the stroke fell on a dozen
intervening blades, and the Marshal's arms were held and forced
to his sides.
"Kronau . . . you?" he roared. "Betrayed! You despicable coward
and traitor! You--" But speech forsook him, and he would have
fallen from the horse but for those who held his arms.
"Traitor?" echoed Kronau, coolly. "To what and to whom? I am
serving my true and legitimate sovereign. I am also serving
humanity, since this battle is to be bloodless. It is you who
are the traitor. You swore allegiance to the duke, and that
allegiance is the inheritance of the daughter. How have you kept
your oath?"
But the Marshal was incapable of answer. One looking at him
would have said that he was suffering from a stroke of apoplexy.
"I admit," went on the General, not wholly unembarrassed, "that
the part I play is not an agreeable one to me, but it is
preferable to the needless loss of human life. The duchess was
to have entered Bleiberg at night, to save us this present
dishonor, if you persist in calling it such. But his Highness,
who is young, and Monseigneur the archbishop, who dreams of
Richelieu, made it impossible. No harm is intended to any one."
The prince, white and shivering as if with ague, broke his sword
on the pommel of the saddle and hurled the pieces at Kronau, who
permitted them to strike him.
"God's witness," the prince cried furiously, "but your victory
shall be short-lived. I have an army, trusty to the last sword,
and you shall feel the length of its arm within forty-eight
hours."
"Perhaps," said Kronau, shrugging.
"It is already on the way."
"Your Highness forgets that Carnavia belongs to the
confederation, and that the king, your father, dare not send you
troops without the consent of the emperor, which, believe me,
will never be given;" and he urged his horse down the slope.
The army of the duchess had now gained the open. The advance was
composed of cavalry, which came along the road with wings on
either side, and with great dash and splendor.
A noisy cheer arose, to be faintly echoed by the oncoming
avalanche of white horses and dazzling blue uniforms.
This was the incident upon which Madame the duchess relied.
With rage and chagrin in his heart, Maurice viewed the scene.
The knell of the Osians had been struck. He gazed forlornly at
the cuirassiers; they at least had come to sell their lives
honestly for their bread. Presently the two armies came together;
all was confusion and cheers. Kronau approached the leader of
the cavalry. . . . Maurice was greatly disturbed. He leaned
toward the prince.
"Your Highness," he whispered, "I am going to make a dash for
the road."
"Yes, yes!" replied the prince, intuitively. "My God, yes! Warn
her to fly, so that she will not be compelled to witness this
cursed woman's triumph. Save her that humiliation. Go, and God
be with you, my friend! We are all dishonored. The Marshal looks
as if he were dying."
The native troopers, in their eagerness to witness the meeting
between Kronau and the former Colonel of the cuirassiers, had
pushed forward. A dozen, however, had hemmed in the Marshal, the
prince and Maurice. But these were standing in their stirrups.
Maurice gradually brought his horse about so that presently he
was facing north. Directly in front of him was an opening. He
grasped his saber firmly and pressed the spurs. Quick as he was,
two sabers barred his way, but he beat them aside, went
diagonally down the hill, over the stone wall and into the road.
While he was maneuvering for this dash, one man had been eying
him with satisfaction. As the black horse suddenly sank from
view behind the hill, Beauvais, to the astonishment of Kronau,
drew his revolver.
"There goes a man," he cried, "who must not escape. He is so
valuable that I shall permit no one but myself to bring him back!"
And the splendid white animal under him bounded up the hill
and down the other side.
Beauvais had a well-defined purpose in following alone. He was
determined that one Maurice Carewe should not bother anyone
hereafter; he knew too much.
The white horse and the black faded away in the blur of rising
dust.
CHAPTER XXVI
A PAGE FROM TASSO
For a long time Maurice rode with his head almost touching the
coal black mane of his gallant Mecklenberg. Twice he glanced
back to see who followed, but the volume of dust which rolled
after him obscured all behind. He could hear the far-off hammer
of hoofs, but this, mingling with the noise of his own horse,
confused him as to the number of pursuers. He reasoned that he
was well out of range, for there came no report of firearms. The
road presently described a semi-circle, passing through a meager
orchard. Once beyond this he turned again in the saddle.
"Only one; that is not so bad as it might be. It is one to one."
But a second glance told him who this solitary pursuer was. "The
devil!" he laughed--as one of Tasso's heroes might have laughed!-
-"The devil! how that man loves me!" He was confident that the
white horse would never overtake the black.
On they flew, pursued and pursuer. At length Maurice bit his lip
and frowned. The white horse was growing larger; the distance
between was lessening, slowly but certainly.
"Good boy!" he said encouragingly to the Mecklenberg. "Good boy!"
Deserted farm houses swept past; hills rose and vanished, but
still the white horse crept up, up, up. The distance ere another
half mile had gone had diminished to four hundred yards; from
four hundred it fell to three hundred, from three hundred to two
hundred. The Mecklenburg was doing glorious work, but the
marvelous stride of the animal in the rear was matchless.
Suddenly Maurice saw a tuft of the red plume on his helmet
spring out ahead of him and sail away, and a second later came
the report. One, he counted; four more were to follow. Next a
stream of fire gassed along his cheek, and something warm
trickled down the side of his neck. Two, he counted, his face
now pale and set. The third knocked his scabbard into the air.
Quickly he shifted his saber to the left, dropped the reins and
drew his own revolver. He understood. He was not to be taken
prisoner. Beauvais intended to kill him offhand. Only the dead
keep secrets. Maurice flung about and fired three consecutive
times. The white horse reared, and the shako of his master fell
into the dust, but there was no other result. As Maurice pressed
the trigger for the fourth time the revolver was violently
wrenched from his hand, and a thousand needles seemed to be
quivering in the flesh of his arm and hand.
"My God, what a shot!" he murmured. "I am lost!"
Simultaneous with the fifth and last shot came sensation
somewhat like that caused by a sound blow in the middle of the
back. Strange, but he felt no pain, neither was there an
accompanying numbness. Then he remembered his cuirass, which was
of steel an eighth of an inch thick. It had saved his life. The
needles began to leave his right hand and arm, and he knew that
he had received no injury other than a shock. He passed the
saber back to his right hand. He had no difficulty in holding it.
Gradually his grip grew strong and steady.
Beauvais was now within twenty yards of Maurice. Had he been
less eager and held his fire up to this point, Maurice had been
a dead man. The white horse gained every moment. A dull fury
grew into life in Maurice's heart. Instead of continuing the
race, he brought the Mecklenberg to his haunches and wheeled. He
made straight for Beauvais, who was surprised at this change of
tactics. In the rush they passed each other and the steel hummed
spitefully through space. Both wheeled again.
"Your life or mine!" snarled Maurice. His coolness, however, was
proportionate to his rage. For the first time in his life the
lust to kill seized him.
"It shall be yours, damn you!" replied Beauvais.
"The Austrian ambassador has your history; kill me or not, you
are lost." Maurice made a sweep at his enemy's head and missed.
Beauvais replied in kind, and it flashed viciously off the point
of Maurice's saber. He had only his life to lose, but it had
suddenly become precious to him; Beauvais had not only his life,
but all that made life worth living. His onslaught was terrible.
Besides, he was fighting against odds; he wore no steel
protector. Maurice wore his only a moment longer. A cut in the
side severed the lacings, and the sagging of the cuirass greatly
handicapped him. He pressed the spurs and dashed away, while
Beauvais cursed him for a cowardly cur. Maurice, by this
maneuver, gained sufficient time to rid himself of the
cumbersome steel. What he lost in protection, he gained in
lightness and freedom. Shortly Beauvais was at him again. The
time for banter had passed; they fought grimly and silently. The
end for one was death. Beauvais knew that if his antagonist
escaped this time the life he longed for, the power and honor it
promised, would never be his. On his side, Maurice was equally
determined to live.
The horses plunged and snorted, reared and swayed and bit.
Sometimes they carried their masters several yards apart, only
to come smashing together again.
The sun was going down, and a clear, white light prevailed. Afar
in the field a herd was grazing, but no one would call them to
the sheds. Master and mistress had long since taken flight.
The duel went on. Maurice was growing tired. By and by he began
to rely solely on the defense. When they were close, Beauvais
played for the point; the moment the space widened he took to
the edge. He saw what Maurice felt--the weakening, and he
indulged in a cruel smile. They came close; he made as though to
give the point. Maurice, thinking to anticipate, reached. Quick
as light Beauvais raised his blade and brought it down with
crushing force, standing the while in the stirrups. The blow
missed Maurice's head by an inch, but it sank so deeply in his
left shoulder that it splintered the collar bone and stopped
within a hair of the great artery that runs underneath.
The world turned red, then black. When it grew light again
Maurice beheld the dripping blade swinging aloft again. Suddenly
the black horse snapped at the white, which veered. The stroke
which would have split Maurice's skull in twain, fell on the
rear of the saddle, and the blade was so firmly imbedded in the
wooden molding that Beauvais could not withdraw it at once.
Blinded by pain as he was, and fainting, yet Maurice saw his
chance. He thrust with all his remaining strength at the brown
throat so near him. And the blade went true. The other's body
stiffened, his head flew back, his eyes started; he clutched
wildly at the steel, but his hands had not the power to reach it.
A bloody foam gushed between his lips; his mouth opened; he
swayed, and finally tumbled into the road--dead.
As Maurice gazed down at him, between the dead eyes and his own
there passed a vision of a dark-skinned girl, who, if still
living, dwelt in a lonely convent, thousands of miles away.
Maurice was sensible of but little pain; a pleasant numbness
began to steal over him. His sleeve was soaked, his left hand
was red, and the blood dripped from his fingers and made round
black spots in the dust of the road. A circle of this blackness
was widening about the head of the fallen man. Maurice watched
it, fascinated. . . He was dead, and the fact that he was a
prince did not matter.
It seemed to Maurice that his own body was transforming into
lead, and he vaguely wondered how the horse could bear up such a
weight. He was sleepy, too. Dimly it came to him that he also
must be dying. . . . No; he would not die there, beside this man.
He still gripped his saber. Indeed, his hand was as if soldered
to the wire and leather windings on the hilt. Mollendorf had
said that Beauvais was invincible. . . . Beauvais was dead. Was
he, too, dying? . . . No; he would not die there. The
Mecklenberg started forward at a walk; a spur had touched him.
"No!" Maurice cried, throwing off the drowsiness. "My God, I
will not die here! . . . Go, boy!" The Mecklenberg set off,
loping easily.
His recent enemy, the great white horse, stood motionless in the
center of the road, and followed him with large, inquiring eyes.
He turned and looked at the silent huddled mass in the dust at
his feet, and whinneyed. But he did not move; a foot still
remained in the stirrup.
Soon Maurice remembered an episode of his school days, when, in
the spirit of precocious research, he had applied carbolic acid
to his arm. It occurred to him that he was now being bathed in
that burning fluid. He was recovering from the shock. With
returning sense came the increase of pain, pain so tormenting
and exquisite that sobs rose in his throat and choked him.
Perspiration matted his hair; every breath he took was a knife
thrust, and the rise and fall of the horse, gentle as it was,
caused the earth to reel and careen heavenward.
Bleiberg; he was to reach Bleiberg. He repeated this thought
over and over. Bleiberg, to warn her. Why should he go to
Bleiberg to warn her? What was he doing here, he who loved life
so well? What had led him into this? . . . There had been a
battle, but neither army had been cognizant of it. He endeavored
to move his injured arm, and found it bereft of locomotion. The
tendons had been cut. And he could not loosen his grip on the
saber which he held in his right hand. The bridle rein swung
from side to side.
Rivulets of fire began to run up and down his side; the cords in
his neck were stiffening. Still the blood went drip, drip, drip,
into the dust. Would he reach Bleiberg, or would he die on the
way? God! for a drink of water, cold water. He set his teeth in
his lips to neutralize the pain in his arm and shoulder. His
lips were numb, and the pressure of his teeth was as nothing.
From one moment to the next he expected to drop from the saddle,
but somehow he hung on; the spark of life was tenacious. The
saber dangled on one side, the scabbard on the other. The blood,
drying in places, drew the skin as tight as a drumhead.
On, on, on; up long inclines, down the steeps; he lost all track
of time, and the darkness thickened and the stars stood out more
clearly. . . . He could look back on a clean life; true, there
were some small stains, but these were human. Strange fancies
jostled one another; faces long forgot reappeared; scenes from
boyhood rose before him. Home! He had none, save that which was
the length and breadth of his native land. On, on, on; the low
snuffle of the horse sometimes aroused him from the stupor.
"Why you do this I do not know, nor shall I ask. Monsieur, my
prayers go with you!" . . . She had said that to him, and had
given him her hand to kiss; a princess, one of the chosen and
the few. To live long enough to see her again; a final service--
and adieu! . . . Ah, but it had been a good fight, a good fight.
No fine phrases; nothing but the lust for blood; a life for a
life; a game in which the winner was also like to lose. A gray
patch in the white of the road attracted his attention--a bridge.
"Water!" he murmured.
Mottled with the silver of the stars, it ran along through the
fields; a brook, shallow and narrow, but water. The perfume of
the grasses was sweet; the horse sniffed joyously. He stopped of
his own accord. Maurice had strength enough to dismount. The
saber slid from his grasp. He staggered down to the water. In
kneeling a faintness passed over him; he rolled into the brook
and lay there until the water, almost clogging his throat and
nostrils, revived him. He crawled to his knees, coughing and
choking. The contact of the cold with the burning wound caused a
delightful sensation.
"Water!" he said, and splashed it in his face.
The horse had come down from the road. He had not waited for an
invitation. He drank thirstily at the side of his master. The
water gurgled in his long, black throat.
"Good boy!" Maurice called, and dashed water against his
shoulder. "Good boy!" he remembered that the horse in biting the
white one had saved his life.
Each handful of the cold liquid caused him to gasp; but soon the
fever and fire died out, leaving only the duller pain. When he
rose from his knees, however, he found that the world had not
yet ceased its wild reeling. He stooped to regain his saber, and
fell into the dust; though to him it was not he who fell, but
the earth which rose. He struggled to his feet, leaned panting
on his saber, and tried to steady himself. He laughed
hysterically. He had dismounted, but he knew that he could never
climb to the back of the horse; and Bleiberg might yet be miles
away. To walk the distance; was it possible? To reach Bleiberg
before Madame. . . . Madame the duchess and her army! He laughed
again, but there was a wild strain in his laughter. Ah, God!
what a farce it was! One man dead and another dying; the
beginning and the end of the war. The comic opera! La Grande
Duchesse! And the fool of an Englishman was playing Fritz! He
started down the road, his body slouched forward, the saber
trailing in the dust. . . .
"Voici le sabre de mon pere!"
The hand of madness had touched him. The Mecklenberg followed at
his heels as a dog would have followed his master.
Less than a mile away a yellow haze wavered in the sky. It was
the reflection of the city lights.
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