Books: The Puppet Crown

H >> Harold MacGrath >> The Puppet Crown

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Maurice passed under the town gates, the wild song on his lips,
his eyes bloodshot, his hair dank about his brow, conscious of
nothing but the mad, rollicking rhythm. Nobody molested him;
those he met gave him the full width of the road. A strange
picture they presented, the man and the troop horse. Some one
recognized the trappings of the horse; half an hour later it was
known throughout the city that the king's army had been defeated
and that Madame was approaching. Students began their
depredations. They built bonfires. They raided the office of the
official paper, and destroyed the presses and type. Later they
marched around the Hohenstaufenplatz, yelling and singing.

Once a gendarme tried to stop Maurice and inquire into his
business. The inquisition was abruptly ended by a cut from the
madman's sword. The gendarme took to his legs. Maurice continued,
and the Mecklenberg tramped on after him. Into the Konigstrasse
they turned. At this time, before the news was known, the street
was deserted. Up the center of it the man went, his saber
scraping along the asphalt, the horse always following.

Voici le sabre de mon pere! Tu vas le mettre a ton cote! Apres
la victoire, j'espere Te revoir en bonne sante. . . . .

The street lamps swayed; sometimes a dozen revolved on one post,
and Maurice would stop long enough to laugh. How easy it was to
walk! All he had to do was to lift a foot, and the pavement
would rise to meet it. The moon, standing high behind him, cast
a long, weird shadow, and he staggered after it and cut at it
with the saber. It was only when he saw the lights of the royal
palace and the great globes on the gate posts that sanity
returned. This sanity was of short duration.

"To the palace!" he cried; "to the palace! To warn her!" And he
stumbled against the gates, still calling, "To the palace! To
the palace!"

The cuirassiers who had been left behind to protect the inmates
of the palace, were first aroused by the yelling and singing of
the students. They rushed out of the guard room and came running
to the gates, which they opened. The body of a man rolled inside.
They stopped and examined him; the uniform was theirs. The face
they looked into was that of the handsome young foreigner who,
that day, had gone forth from the city, a gay and gallant figure,
who sat his horse so well that he earned their admiration. What
could this mean? And where were the others? Had there been a
desperate battle?

"Run back to the guard room, one of you, and fetch some brandy.
He lives." And Lieutenant Scharfenstein took his hand from the
insensible man's heart. Pulsation was there, but weak and
intermittent. "Sergeant, take ten men and clear the square. If
they refuse to leave, kill! Madame is not yet queen by any means."

The men scattered. One soon returned with the brandy.
Scharfenstein moistened the wounded man's lips and placed his
palm under the nose. Shortly Maurice opened his eyes, his half-
delirious eyes.

"To the palace!" he said, "to the palace--Ah!" He saw the faces
staring down at him. He struggled. Instinctively they all stood
back. What seemed incredible to them, he got to his knees, from
his knees to his feet, and propped himself against a gate post.
"Your life or mine!" he cried. "Come on; a man can die but once!"
He lunged, and again they retreated. He laughed. "It was a
good fight!" He reeled off toward the palace steps. They did not
hinder him, but they followed, expecting each moment to see him
fall. But, he fell not. One by one he mounted the steps,
steadying himself with the saber. He gained the landing, once
more steadied himself, and vanished into the palace.

"He is out of his head!" cried Scharfenstein, rushing up the
steps. "God knows what has happened!"

He was in time to see Maurice lurch into the arms of Captain von
Mitter, who had barred the way to the private apartments.

"Carewe! . . . What has happened? God's name, you are soaked in
blood!" Von Mitter held Maurice at arm's length. "A battle?"

"Aye, a battle; one man is dead and another soon will be!" A
transient lucidity beamed in Maurice's eyes. "We were betrayed
by the native troops; they ran to meet Madame. . . . Marshal
Kampf, Prince Frederick, and the cuirassiers are prisoners. . . .
I escaped. Beauvais, gave chase. . . . Wanted to kill me. . . .
He gave me this. I ran him through the throat. . . . Knew him
in South America. . . . He's dead! Inform the archbishop and her
Highness that Madame is nearing the city. The king--"

"Hush!" said von Mitter, with a finger on his lip; "hush! The
king died at six o'clock. God rest his soul!" He crossed himself.
"A disgraceful day! Curse the scheming woman, could she not let
us bury him in peace? Prince Frederick's father refused to send
us aid."

"I am dying," said Maurice with a sob. "Let me lie down
somewhere; if I fall I am a dead man." After a pause: "Take me
into the throne room. I shall last till Madame comes. Let her
find me there. . . . The brandy!"

Scharfenstein held the flask to the sufferer's lips.

"The throne room?" repeated von Mitter, surprised at this
strange request. "Well, why not? For what is a throne when there
is no king to sit on it? You will not die, my friend, though the
cut is a nasty one. What is an arm? Life is worth a thousand of
them! Quick! help me with him, Max!" for Maurice was reaching
blindly toward him.

The three troopers who had followed Scharfenstein came up, and
the five of them managed to carry Maurice into the throne room,
and deposit him on the cushions at the foot of the dais. There
they left him.

"Bad!" said von Mitter, as he came limping out into the corridor.
"And he made such a brave show when he left here this afternoon.
I have grown to love the fellow. A gallant man. I knew that the
native troops were up to something. So did the Colonel. Ach! I
would give a year of my life to have seen him and Beauvais. To
kill Beauvais, the best saber in the kingdom--it must have been
a fight worthy of the legends. A bad day! They will laugh at us.
But, patience, the archbishop has something to say before the
curtain falls. Poor young man! He will lose his arm, if not his
life."

"But how comes he into all this?" asked Scharfenstein,
perplexedly.

"It is not for me or you to question, Max," said von Mitter,
looking down. He had his own opinion, but he was not minded to
disclose it.

"What are you going to do?"

"Perform my duty until the end," sourly. "Go you and help
against the students, who have not manliness enough even to
respect the dead. The cowardly servants are all gone; save the
king's valet. There are only seven of us in all. I will seek the
king's physician; the dead are dead, so let us concern ourselves
with the living;" and he limped off toward the private
apartments.

Scharfenstein hurried away to the square.

In the royal bedchamber a girl murmured over a cold hand. "God
pity me; I am all, all alone!"

The archbishop was kneeling at the foot of the bed. In his heart
was the bitterness of loss and defeat. His dreams of greatness
for this clay! The worldly pomp which was to have attended it!
Life was but a warm breath on the mirror of eternity; for one
the mirror was clear again.

The square soon grew quiet; the students and the cuirassiers had
met for the last time. In the throne room shadows and silence
prevailed. Maurice lay upon the cushions, the hilt of the saber
still in his hand. Consciousness had returned, a clear,
penetrating consciousness. At the foot of the throne, he thought,
and, mayhap, close to one not visible to the human eye! What a
checkerboard he had moved upon, and now the checkmate! So long
as the pain did not diminish, he was content; a sudden ease was
what he dreaded. Life was struggling to retain its hold. He did
not wish to die; he was young; there were long years to come;
the world was beautiful, and to love was the glory over it all.
He wondered if Beauvais still lay in the road where he had left
him. Again he could see that red saber swinging high; and he
shivered.

Half an hour passed, then came the distant murmur of voices,
which expanded into tumult. The victorious army, the brave and
gallant army, had entered the city, and was streaming toward the
palaces. Huzzas rose amid the blaring of bugles. The timorous
came forth and added to the noise. The conquerors trooped into
the palace, and Madame the duchess looked with shining eyes at
the throne of her forefathers.

CHAPTER XXVII

WORMWOOD AND LEES

Madame, like a statue of expectancy, riveted her gaze on the
throne. Hers at last! Her dreams were realized. She was no
longer a duchess by patent; she was a queen by right of
inheritance; she was now to be a power among the great. The
kingdom of her forefathers was hers. She had reached the goal
without bloodshed; she had been patient, and this was her reward.
The blaze of her ambition dimmed all other stars. Her bosom
heaved, triumph flashed in her beautiful eyes, and a smile
parted her lips. Her first thought had been to establish
headquarters in the parlors of the Continental Hotel, and from
there to summon the archbishop, as a conqueror summons the chief
of the vanquished. But no; she could not wait; above all things
she desired the satisfaction of the eye. The throne of her
forefathers!

"Mine!" she murmured.

Over her shoulders peered eager faces, in which greed and
pleasure and impassibility were written. One face, however, had
on it the dull red of shame. Not until now did the full force of
his intended dishonesty come home to the Englishman; not until
now did he realize the complete degradation to which his uniform
had lowered him. His had been the hand to stay this misfortune,
and he had not lifted it. This king had been his father's friend;
and he had taken up arms against him. O, he had begun life
badly; he was making the end still more dismal. Would this woman
ever be his? Her promises were not worth the air that had
carried them to his ear. He, the consort of a queen? A cold
sweat dampened his forehead. How he loved her! And that kiss. . . .
Queen or not, he would not be her dupe, his would not be a
tame surrender.

From the Platz and the Park, where the two armies had bivouacked,
came an intermittent cheering. The flames of bonfires were
reflected on the windows, throwing out in dull, yellow relief
the faces of Madame and her staff.

Between the private apartments of the king and the throne room
was a wide sliding door. Suddenly this opened and closed. With
his back against it, a pistol in one hand and a saber in the
other, stood Captain von Mitter, his face cold and resolute. All
eyes were instantly directed toward him.

"Captain," said Madame, imperiously, "summon to me Monseigneur
the archbishop!"

Her command fell on ears of stone. Von Mitter made no sign that
he heard her.

"Take care, Monsieur," she warned; "I am mistress here. If you
will not obey me, my officers will."

"Madame, I acknowledge no mistress save the daughter of the king.
No one shall pass this door to announce your presence to
Monseigneur."

This reply was greeted with sundry noises, such as sabers coming
from scabbards, clicking of pistol locks, and the moving of feet.
Madame put out her hand suggestively, and the noise ceased. Von
Mitter smiled disdainfully, but did not stir.

"I warn you, Madame," he said, "that this is war. I accept all
the responsibilities of my position. I know nothing of any
surrender or victory. To me you are simply an enemy. I will kill
any one who attempts to pass. I should be pleased if General
Kronau would make the first step to question my sincerity."

Kronau's fingers twitched around his revolver, but Madame
touched his arm. She could read faces. The young Captain was in
earnest. She would temporize.

"Captain, all here are prisoners of war," she said. "Do not
forget that soon there will be benefits for those who serve me."

He laughed rudely. "I ask no benefits from your hands, Madame. I
would rather stand on the corner and beg." He sent an insolent,
contemptuous glance at Kronau, who could not support it. "And
now that you have gratified your curiosity, I beg you to
withdraw to the street. To-night this palace is a tomb, and woe
to those who commit sacrilege."

"The king?" she said, struck by a thought which caused a red
spot to appear on each cheek.

"Is dead. Go and leave us in peace."

The wine which had tasted so sweet was full of lees, and the cup
wormwood. Madame looked down, while her officers moved uneasily
and glanced over their shoulders. Kronau brushed his forehead,
to find it wet. Madame regretted the surrendering to the impulse.
Her haste to triumph was lacking both in dignity and judgment.
She had given the king so little place in her thoughts that the
shock of his death confused her. And there was something in the
calm, fearless contempt of the young soldier which embarrassed her.

"In that case, Captain," she said, her voice uncertain and
constrained, "bid Monseigneur to wait on me at the Continental."

"Whenever that becomes convenient, Madame, Monseigneur will
certainly confer with you and your rascally pack of officers."
He longed for some one to spring at him; he longed to strike a
blow in earnest.

As he leaned against the door he felt it move. He stepped aside.
The door rolled back, and her Royal Highness, the archbishop and
the chancellor passed in. The princess's eyes were like dim
stars, but her fine nostrils palpitated, and her mouth was rigid
in disdain. The chancellor looked haggard and dispirited, and he
eyed all with the listlessness of a man who has given up hope.
The prelate's face was as finely drawn as an ancient cameo, and
as immobile. He gazed at Madame with one of those looks which
penetrate like acid; and, brave as she was, she found it
insupportable. There was a tableau of short duration.

"Madame," said her Royal Highness, with a noble scorn, "what
would you say if one desecrated your father's tomb while you
were kneeling beside it? What would you say? In yonder room my
father lies dead, and your presence here, in whatever role, is
an insult. Are you, indeed, a woman? Have you no respect for
death and sorrow? Was the bauble so precious to your sight that
you could not wait till the last rites were paid to the dead? Is
your heart of stone, your mind devoid of pity and of conscience?
Are you lacking in magnanimity, which is the disposition of
great souls? Ah, Madame, you will never be great, for you have
stooped to treachery and deceit. You, a princess! You have
purchased with glittering promises that which in time would have
been given to you. And you will not fulfill these promises, for
honesty has no part in your affair. Shame on you, Madame. By
dishonorable means you have gained this room. By dishonorable
means you destroyed all those props on which my father leaned.
You knew that he had not long to live. Had you come to me as a
woman; had you opened your heart to me and confided your desires--
Ah, Madame, how gladly would I have listened. Whatever it
signifies to you, this throne is nothing to me. Had you come
then--but, no! you must come to demand your rights when I am
defenseless. You must come with a sword when there is none to
defend. Is it possible that in our veins there runs a kindred
blood? And yet, Madame, I forgive you. Rule here, if you will;
but remember, between you and your crown there will always be
the shadow of disgrace. Monsieur," turning toward Fitzgerald,
whose shame was so great that it engulfed him, "your father and
mine were friends--I forgive you. Now, Madame, I pray you, go,
and leave me with my dead."

The girlhood of Princess Alexia was gone forever.

To Madame this rebuke was like hot iron on the flesh. It left
her without answer. Her proud spirit writhed. Before those
innocent eyes her soul lay bare, offering to the gaze an
ineffaceable scar. For the first time she saw her schemes in
their true light. Had any served her unselfishly? Aye, there was
one. And strangely enough, the first thought which formed in her
mind when chaos was passed, was of him.

How would this rebuke affect her in his eyes? What was he to her
that she cared for his respect, his opinion, good or bad? What
was the meaning of the secret dread? How she hated him for his
honesty to her; for now perforce she must look up to him. She
had stepped down from the pinnacle of her pride to which she
might never again ascend. He had kissed her. How she hated him!
And yet . . . Ah, the wine was flat, tinctured with the
bitterness of gall, and her own greed had forced the cup to her
lips. She could not remain silent before this girl; she must
reply; her shame was too deep to resolve itself into silence.

"Mademoiselle," she said, "I beg of you to accept my sympathies;
but the fortunes of war--"

"Ah, Madame," interrupted the prelate, lifting his white,
attenuated hand, "we will discuss the fortunes of war--later."

Madame choked back the sudden gust of rage. She glanced covertly
at the Englishman. But he, with wide-astonished eyes, was
staring at the foot of the throne, from which gradually rose a
terrible figure, covered with blood and caked with drying clay.
The figure leaned heavily on the hilt of a saber, and swayed
unsteadily. He drew all eyes.

"Ha!" he said, with a prolonged, sardonic intonation, "is that
you, Madame the duchess? You are talking of war? What! and you,
my lord the Englishman? Ha! and war? Look at me, Madame; I have
been in a battle, the only one fought to-day. Look at me! Here
is the mark of that friend who watched over your interests. But
where is he? Eh? Where? Did you pick him up on the way? . . . .
He is dead. For all that he was a rascal, he died like a man. . .
. . as presently I shall die! Princes and kings and thrones;
the one die and the other crumble, but truth lives on. And you,
Madame, have learned the truth. Shame on your mean and little
souls! There was only one honest man among you, and you
dishonored him. The Marshal . . . I do not see him. An honest
man dies but once, but a traitor dies a thousand deaths. Kronau .
. . . is that your name? It was an honest one once. And the
paltry ends you gain! . . . . The grand duchess of Gerolstein ! .
. . . What a comic opera! Not even music to go by! Eh, you,--
you Englishman, has Madame made you a Lieutenant?--a Captain?--a
General? What a farce! Nobles, you? I laugh at you all for a
pack of thieves, who are not content with the purse, but must
add honor to the bag. A man is what he makes himself. Medals and
clothes, medals and clothes; that is the sum of your nobility!"
He laughed, but the laughter choked in his throat, and he
staggered a few paces away from the throne.

"Seize him!" cried Madame.

When the men sprang forward to execute this command, Fitzgerald
barred the way.

"No," he said doggedly; "you shall not touch him."

"Stand aside, Monsieur," said Madame, determined to vent her
rage on some one.

"Madame," said von Mitter, "I will shoot down the first man who
lays a hand on Monsieur Carewe."

The princess, her heart beating wildly at the sudden knowledge
that lay written on the inner vision, a faintness stealing away
her sight, leaned back against the prelate.

"He is dying," she whispered; "he is dying for me!"

Maurice was now in the grasp of the final delirium. "Come on!"
he cried; "come on! I will show you how a brave man can die.
Come on, Messieurs Medals and Clothes! Aye, who will go out with
me?" He raised the saber, and it caught the flickering light as
it trailed a circle above his head. He stumbled toward them,
sweeping the air with the blade. Suddenly there came a change.
He stopped. The wild expression faded from his face; a surprised
look came instead. The saber slipped from his fingers and
clanged on the floor. He turned and looked at the princess, and
that glance conveyed to her the burden of his love.
"Mademoiselle . . . . " His knees doubled, he sank, rolled face
downward, and a dark stain appeared and widened on the marble
floor.

"Go, Madame," said the prelate. "This palace is indeed a tomb."
He felt the princess grow limp on his arm. "Go."

"Maurice!" cried Fitzgerald, springing to the side of the fallen
man. "My God! Maurice!"

CHAPTER XXVIII

INTO THE HANDS OF AUSTRIA

Madame, surrounded by her staff and courtiers, sat in the main
salon of the Continental Hotel, waiting for the archbishop. The
false, self-seeking ministers of Leopold's reign crowded around
her to pay their respects, to compliment and to flatter her.
Already they saw a brilliant court; already they were
speculating on their appointments. Offices were plenty; new
embassies were to be created, old embassies to be filled anew.

Madame listened to all coldly. There was a canker in her heart,
and no one who saw that calm, beautiful face of hers dreamed how
deeply the canker was eating. There were two men who held aloof
from compliments and flattery. On the face of one rested a moody
scowl; on the other, agony and remorse. These two men were
Colonel Mollendorf and Lord Fitzgerald. The same thought
occupied each mind; the scene in the throne room.

Presently an orderly announced: "Monseigneur the archbishop."

Madame arose, and all looked expectantly, toward the door.

The old prelate entered, his head high and his step firm. He
appeared to see no one but Madame. But this time she met his
glance without a tremor.

"Monseigneur," she began, "I have come into my own at last. But
for you and your ambitious schemes, all this would not have come
to pass. You robbed my father of his throne and set your puppet
there instead. By trickery my father was robbed of his lawful
inheritance. By trickery I was compelled to regain it. However,
I do not wish to make an enemy of you, Monseigneur. I have here
two letters. They come from Rome. In one is your recall, in the
other a cardinal's hat. Which do you prefer?"

"Surely not the cardinal's hat," said the prelate. "Listen to me,
Madame, for I have something to say to you which will cause you
some reflection. If I had any ambitions, they are gone; if I had
any dreams, they have vanished. Madame, some twenty years ago
your duchy was created. It was not done to please Albrecht's
younger brother, the duke, your father. Albrecht was childless.
When your father was given the duchy it was done to exclude
forever the house of Auersperg from reigning on this throne. You
say that you were tricked; well, and so was I. Unhappily I
touched the deeper current too late.

"This poor king, who lies silent in the palace, was not my
puppet. I wished to make him great, and bask in his greatness.
But in that I failed; because Leopold was a poet and a
philosopher, and the greatness of earthly things did not concern
him. Leopold and I were dupes of Austria, as you are at this
moment, Madame. So long as Leopold reigned peacefully he was not
to be disturbed. Had you shown patience and resignation,
doubtless to-day you would be a queen. You will never be more
than a duchess.

"Madame, you have done exactly as Austria intended you should.
There is no longer any kingdom." There was a subdued triumph in
his eyes. "To you," with a gesture toward the courtiers and
office-seekers, "to you I shall say, your own blind self-
interest has destroyed you. Madame, you are bearing arms not
against this kingdom, but against Austria, since from to-day
this land becomes the property of the imperial crown. If you
struggle, it will be futilely. For, by this move of yours,
Austria will declare that this kingdom is a menace to the
tranquility of the confederation. Madame, there is no corner-
stone to your edifice. This is what I wished to say to you. I
have done. Permit me to withdraw."

For a moment his auditors were spellbound; then all the emotions
of the mind and heart portrayed themselves on the circle of
faces. Madame's face alone was inscrutable.

"His Excellency, the Austrian ambassador!" announced the orderly.

The archbishop bowed and left the apartment.

"Your Highness," began the Austrian, "his Imperial Majesty
commands your immediate evacuation of Bleiberg, and that you
delay not your departure to the frontier. This kingdom is a
crown land. It shall remain so by the consent of the
confederation. If you refuse to obey this injunction, an army
will enforce the order. Believe me, Madame, this office is
distasteful to me, but it was not avoidable. What disposition am
I to submit to his Majesty?"

"Monsieur," she said, "I am without choice in the matter. To pit
my forces against the emperor's would be neither politic nor
sensible. I submit." There was not a sign of any emotion, no
hint of the terrible wrath which lay below the surface of those
politely modulated tones. But it seemed to her as she stood
there, the object of all eyes, that some part of her soul had
died. Her pride surmounted the humiliation, the pride of a woman
and a princess. She would show no weakness to the world.

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