Books: The Puppet Crown
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Harold MacGrath >> The Puppet Crown
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The Englishman unloaded the gun and tossed it on the bed.
"Thanks. In coming here I simply obeyed the orders of the
minister of police."
"And what in the world did you expect to find?"
"We are looking--that is, they are looking--O, Monsieur, it is
impossible for me to disclose to you my government's purposes."
"What and whom were you expecting?" demanded the Englishman.
"You shall not leave this room till you have fully explained
this remarkable intrusion."
"We were expecting the Lord and Baronet Fitzgerald."
"The lord!" laughing. "Does the lord visit Bleiberg often, then,
that you prepare this sort of a reception? And the Baronet
Fitzgerald?"
"They are the same and the one person."
"And who the deuce is he; a spy, a smuggler, a villain, or what?"
"As to that, Monsieur," with a wonder why this man laughed, "I
know no more than you. But I do know that for the past month
every Englishman has been subjected to this surveillance, and
has submitted with more grace than you," with an oblique glance.
"What! Examined his luggage at the hotel?"
"Yes, Monsieur. It is the order of the minister of police. I
know not why." The natural color was returning to his cheeks.
"This is a fine country, I must say. At least the king should
acquaint his visitors with the true cause of this treatment." In
his turn the Englishman resorted to oblique glances.
"The king?" The inspector raised a shoulder and spread his hands.
"The king is a paralytic, Monsieur, and has little to say these days."
"A paralytic? I thought he was called `the handsome monarch'?"
"That was years ago, Monsieur. For three years he has been
helpless and bedridden. The archbishop is the real king nowadays.
But he meddles not with the police."
"This is very sad. I suppose it would be impossible for
strangers to see him now."
"An audience?" a sparkle behind the spectacles. "Is your
business with the king, Monsieur?"
"My business is mine," shortly. "I am only a tourist, and should
have liked to see the king from mere curiosity. However, had you
explained all this to me, I should not have caused you so many
gray hairs."
"Monsieur did not give me the chance," simply.
"True," the Englishman replied soberly. He began to think that
he had been over hasty in asserting his privileges. "But all
this has nothing to do with me. My name is John Hamilton. See,
it is engraved on the stock of the gun," catching it up and
holding it under the spectacled eyes, which still observed it
with some trepidation. "That is the name in my passports, in the
book down stairs, in the lining of my hat. I am sorry, since you
were only obeying orders, that my rough play has caused you
alarm." He unbolted the door. "Good morning."
The inspector left the room as swiftly as his short legs could
carry him, ignoring the ethics of common politeness. As he
stumbled down the stairs he cursed the minister of police for
requiring this spy work of him, and not informing him why it was
done. Ah, these cursed Anglais from Angleterre! They were all
alike, and this one was the worst he had ever encountered. And
those ugly black orifices in the gun! Peste! He would resign!
Yes, certainly he would resign.
As to the Englishman, he stood in the center of the room and
scratched his head. "Hang it, I've made an ass of myself. That
blockhead will have the gendarmes about my ears. If they arrest
me there will be the devil to pay. The Lord and the Baronet
Fitzgerald!" he repeated. He sat down on the edge of the bed,
and fell to laughing again. "Confound these picture-book
kingdoms! They always take themselves so seriously. Well, if the
gendarmes call this afternoon I'll not be at home. No, thank you.
I shall be hunting pheasants."
And thereat he set to work cleaning the gun which had all but
prostrated the inspector. Soon the room smelled of oiled rags
and tobacco. Some-times the worker whistled softly. Sometimes he
let the gun fall against his knee, and stared dreamily through
the window at the flight of the ragged clouds. Again, he would
shake his head, as if there were something which he failed to
understand. Half an hour passed, when again some one knocked on
the door.
"Come in!" Under his breath he added: "The gendarmes, likely."
But it was only the proprietor of the hotel. "Asking Herr's
pardon," he said, "for this intrusion, but I have secured a man
for you. I have the honor to recommend Johann Kopf as a good
guide and hunter."
"Send him up. If he pleases me, I'll use him."
The proprietor withdrew.
Johann Kopf proved to be a young German with a round, ruddy face,
which was so innocent of guile as to be out of harmony with the
shrewd, piercing black eyes looking out of it. The Englishman
eyed him inquisitively, even suspiciously.
"Are you a good hunter?" he asked.
"There is none better hereabout," answered Johann, twirling his
cap with noticeably white fingers. It was only in after days
that the Englishman appreciated the full significance of this
answer.
"Speak English?"
"No. Herr's German is excellent, however."
"Humph!" The Englishman gave a final glance into the shining
tubes of the gun, snapped the breach, and slipped it into the
case. "You'll do. Return to the office; I'll be down presently."
"Will Herr hunt this morning?"
"No; what I wish this morning is to see the city of Bleiberg."
"That is simple," said Johann. The fleeting, imperceptible smile
did not convict his eyes of false keenness.
He bowed out. When the door closed the Englishman waited until
the sound of retreating steps failed. Then he took the gun case
which he had not yet opened, and thrust it under the mattress of
the bed.
"Johann," he said, as he put on a soft hat and drew a cane from
the straps of the traveling bag, "you will certainly precede me
in our hunting expeditions. I do not like your eyes; they are
not at home in your boyish face. Humph! what a country. Every
one speaks a different tongue."
The city of Bleiberg lay on a hill and in the valleys which fell
away to the east and west. It was divided into two towns, the
upper and the lower. The upper town and that part which lay on
the shores of the Werter See was the modern and fashionable
district. It was here that the king and the archbishop had their
palaces and the wealthy their brick and stone. The public park
skirted the lake, and was patterned after those fine gardens
which add so much to the picturesqueness of Vienna and Berlin.
There were wide gravel paths and long avenues of lofty chestnuts
and lindens, iron benches, fountains and winding flower beds.
The park, the palaces, and the Continental Hotel enclosed a
public square, paved with asphalt, called the Hohenstaufenplatz,
in the center of which rose a large marble fountain of several
streams, guarded by huge bronze wolves. Here, too, were iron
benches which were, for the most part, the meeting-place of the
nursemaids. Carriages were allowed to make the circuit, but not
to obstruct the way.
The Konigstrasse began at the Platz, divided the city, and wound
away southward, merging into the highway which continued to the
Thalian Alps, some thirty miles distant. The palaces were at the
southeast corner of the Platz, first the king's, then the
archbishop's. The private gardens of each ran into the lake.
Directly across from the palaces stood the cathedral, a relic of
five centuries gone. On the northwest corner stood the
Continental Hotel, with terrace and parapet at the water's edge,
and a delightful open-air cafe facing the Platz. September and
October were prosperous months in Bleiberg. Fashionable people
who desired quiet made Bleiberg an objective point. The
pheasants were plump, there were boars, gray wolves, and not
infrequently Monsieur Fourpaws of the shaggy coat wandered
across from the Carpathians.
As to the lower town, it was given over to the shops and markets,
the barracks, the university, and the Rathhaus, which served as
the house of the Diet. It was full of narrow streets and quaint
dwellings.
Up the Konigstrasse the guide led the Englishman, who nodded
whenever the voluble chatter of the German pleased him. When
they began the descent of the hill, the vista which opened
before them drew from the Englishman an ejaculation of delight.
There lay the lake, like a bright new coin in a green purse; the
light of the sun broke on the white buildings and flashed from
the windows; and the lawns twinkled like emeralds.
"It makes Vienna look to her laurels, eh, Herr?" said Johann.
"But it must have cost a pretty penny."
"Aye, that it did; and the king is being impressed with that
fact every day. There are few such fine palaces outside of first-
class kingdoms. The cathedral there was erected at the desire of
a pope, born five hundred years ago. It is full of romance.
There is to be a grand wedding there on the twentieth of this
month. That is why there are so many fashionable people at the
hotels. The crown prince of Carnavia, which is the large kingdom
just east of us, is to wed the Princess Alexia, the daughter of
the king."
"On the twentieth? That is strange."
"Strange?"
"), I meant nothing," said the Englishman, jerking back his
shoulders; "I had in mind another affair."
There was a flash in Johann's eyes, but he subdued it before the
Englishman was aware of its presence. "However," said Johann,
"there is something strange. The prince was to have arrived a week
ago to complete the final arrangements for the wedding. His suite
has been here a week, but no sign of his Highness. He stopped
over a train at Ehrenstein to visit for a few hours a friend of
the king, his father. Since then nothing has been heard from him.
The king, it is said, fears that some accident has happened to him.
Carnavia is also disturbed over this disappearance. Some whisper
of a beautiful peasant girl. Who can say?"
"Any political significance in this marriage?"
"Leopold expects to strengthen his throne by the alliance. But--"
Johann's mouth closed and his tongue pushed out his cheek.
"There will be some fine doings in the good city of Bleiberg
before the month is gone. The minister from the duchy has been
given his passports. Every one concedes that trouble is likely
to ensue. Baron von Rumpf--"
"Baron von Rumpf," repeated the Englishman thoughtfully.
"Yes; he is not a man to submit to accusations without making a
disagreeable defense."
"What does the duke say?"
"The duke?"
"Yes."
"His Highness has been dead these four years."
"Dead four years? So much for man and his futile dreams. Dead
four years," absently.
"What did you say, Herr?"
"I? Nothing. How did he die?"
"He was thrown from his horse and killed. But the duchess lives,
and she is worthy of her sire. Eh, Herr, there is a woman for
you! She should sit on this throne; it is hers by right. These
Osians are aliens and were forced on us."
"It seems to me, young man, that you are talking treason."
"That is my business, Herr." Johann laughed. "I am a socialist,
and occasionally harangue for the reds. And sometimes, when I am
in need of money, I find myself in the employ of the police."
The muscles of the Englishman's jaws hardened, then they relaxed.
The expression on the face of his guide was free from anything
but bonhomie.
"One must live," Johann added deprecatingly.
"Yes, one must live," replied the Englishman.
"O! but I could sell some fine secrets to the Osians had they
money to pay. Ach! but what is the use? The king has no money;
he is on the verge of bankruptcy, and this pretty bit of scenery
is the cause of it."
"So you are a socialist?" said the Englishman, passing over
Johann's declamatory confidences.
"Yes, Herr. All men are brothers."
"Go to!" laughed the Englishman, "you aren't even a second
cousin to me. But stay, what place is this we are passing?"
indicating with his cane a red-brick mansion which was fronted
by broad English lawns and protected from intrusion by a high
iron fence.
"That is the British legation, Herr."
The Englishman stopped and stared, unconscious of the close
scrutiny of the guide. His eyes traveled up the wide flags
leading to the veranda, and he drew a picture of a square-
shouldered old man tramping backward and forward, the wind
tangling his thin white hair, his hands behind his back, his
chin in his collar and at his heels a white bulldog. Rapidly
another picture came. It was an English scene. And the echo of a
voice fell on his ears. "My way and the freedom of the house and
the key to the purse; your way and a closed door while I live.
You can go, but you can not come back. You have decided? Yes?
Then good morning." Thirteen years, thirteen years! He had
sacrificed the freedom of the house and the key to the purse,
the kind eyes and the warm pressure of that old hand. And for
what? Starvation in the deserts, plenty of scars and little of
thanks, ingratitude and forgetfulness.
And now the kind eyes were closed and the warm hand cold. O, to
recall the vanished face, the silent voice, the misspent years,
the April days and their illusions! The Englishman took the
monocle from his eye and looked at it, wondering what had caused
the sudden blur.
"There was a fine old man there in the bygone days," said Johann.
"And who was he?"
"Lord Fitzgerald, the British minister. He and Leopold were
close friends." Johann's investigating gaze went unrewarded. The
Englishman's face had resumed its expression of mild curiosity.
"Ah; a compatriot of mine," he said. Inwardly he mused: "This
guide is watching me; let him catch me if he can. His duchess? I
know far too much of her!"
"He was a millionaire, too," went on Johann.
"Well, we can't all be rich. Come."
They crossed the Strasse and traversed the walk at the side of
the palace enclosures. The Englishman aimlessly trailed his cane
along the green pickets of the fence till they ended in a stone
arch which rose high over the driveway. The gates were open, and
coming toward the two wanderers as they stood at the curb rolled
the royal barouche, on each side of which rode a mounted
cuirassier, sashed and helmeted. The Englishman, however, had
observed nothing; he was lost in some dream.
"Look, Herr!" cried Johann, rousing the other by a pull at the
sleeve. "Look!" Socialist though he claimed to be, Johann
touched his cap.
In the barouche, leaning back among the black velvet cushions,
her face mellowed by the shade of a small parasol, was a young
woman of nineteen or twenty, as beautiful as a da Vinci freshly
conceived. The Englishman saw a pair of grave dark eyes which,
in the passing, met his and held them. He caught his breath.
"Who is that?" he asked.
"That is her Royal Highness the Crown Princess Alexia."
Afterward the Englishman remembered seeing a white dog lying on
the opposite seat.
CHAPTER IV
AN ADVENTURE WITH ROYALTY
Maurice Carewe, attached to the American legation in Vienna,
leaned against the stone parapet which separated the terraced
promenade of the Continental Hotel from the Werter See, and
wondered what had induced him to come to Bleiberg.
He had left behind him the glory of September in Vienna, a city
second only to Paris in fashion and gaiety; Vienna, with its
inimitable bands, its incomparable gardens, its military
maneuvers, its salons, its charming women; and all for a fool's
errand. His Excellency was to blame. He had casually dropped the
remark that the duchy's minister, Baron von Rumpf, had been
given his passports as a persona non grata by the chancellor of
the kingdom, and that a declaration of war was likely to follow.
Maurice's dormant love of journalistic inquiry had become
aroused, and he had asked permission to investigate the affair,
a favor readily granted to him.
But here he was, on the scene, and nobody knew anything, and
nobody could tell anything. The duchess had remained silent. Not
unnaturally he wished himself back in Vienna. There were no
court fetes in the city of Bleiberg. The king's condition was
too grave to permit them. And, besides, there had been no real
court in Bleiberg for the space of ten years, so he was told.
Those solemn affairs of the archbishop's, given once the week
for the benefit of the corps diplomatique, were dull and
spiritless. Her Royal Highness was seldom seen, save when she
drove through the streets. Persons who remembered the reign
before told what a mad, gay court it had been. Now it was
funereal. The youth and beauty of Bleiberg held a court of its
own. Royalty was not included, nor did it ask to be.
A strange capital, indeed, Maurice reflected, as he gazed down
into the cool, brown water. He regretted his caprice. There were
pretty women in Vienna. Some of them belonged to the American
colony. They danced well, they sang and played and rode. He had
taught some of them how to fence, and he could not remember the
times he had been "buttoned" while paying too much attention to
their lips and eyes. For Maurice loved a thing of beauty, were
it a woman, a horse or a Mediterranean sunset. What a difference
between these two years in Vienna and that year in Calcutta! He
never would forget the dingy office, with its tarnished sign, "U.
S. Consul," tacked insecurely on the door, and the utter
loneliness.
He cast a pebble into the lake, and watched the ripples roll
away and disappear, and ruminated on a life full of color and
vicissitude. He remembered the Arizona days, the endless burning
sand, the dull routine of a cavalry trooper, the lithe brown
bodies of the Apaches, the first skirmish and the last. From a
soldier he had turned journalist, tramped the streets of
Washington in rain and shine, living as a man lived who must.
One day his star had shot up from the nadir of obscurity, not
very far, but enough to bring his versatility under the notice
of the discerning Secretary of State, who, having been a friend
of the father, offered the son a berth in the diplomatic corps.
A consulate in a South American republic, during a revolutionary
crisis, where he had shown consummate skill in avoiding
political complications (and where, by a shrewd speculation in
gold, he had feathered his nest for his declining years), proved
that the continual incertitude of a journalistic career is a
fine basis for diplomatic work. From South America he had gone
to Calcutta, thence to Austria.
He was only twenty-nine, which age in some is youth. He
possessed an old man's wisdom and a boy's exuberance of spirits.
He laughed whenever he could; to him life was a panorama of
vivid pictures, the world a vast theater to which somehow he had
gained admission. His beardless countenance had deceived more
than one finished diplomat, for it was difficult to believe that
behind it lay an earnest purpose and a daring courage. If he
bragged a little, quizzed graybeards, sought strange places,
sported with convention, and eluded women, it was due to his
restlessness. Yet, he had the secretiveness of sand; he absorbed,
but he revealed nothing. He knew his friends; they thought they
knew him. It was his delight to have women think him a butterfly,
men write him down a fool; it covered up his real desires and
left him free.
What cynicism he had was mellowed by a fanciful humor. Whether
with steel or with words, he was a master of fence; and if at
times some one got under his guard, that some one knew it not.
To let your enemy see that he has hit you is to give him
confidence. He saw humor where no one else saw it, and tragedy
where it was not suspected. He was one of those rare individuals
who, when the opportunity of chance refuses to come, makes one.
"Germany and Austria are great countries," he mused, lighting a
cigar. "Every hundredth man is a king, one in fifty is a duke,
every tenth man is a prince, and one can not take a corner
without bumping into a count or a baron. Even the hotel waiters
are disquieting; there is that embarrassing atmosphere about
them which suggests nobility in durance vile. As for me, I
prefer Kentucky, where every man is a colonel, and you never
make a mistake. And these kingdoms!" He indulged in subdued
laughter. "They are always like comic operas. I find myself
looking around every moment for the merry villagers so happy and
so gay (at fifteen dollars the week), the eternal innkeeper and
the perennial soubrette his daughter, the low comedian and the
self-conscious tenor. Heigho! and not a soul in Bleiberg knows
me, nor cares.
"I'd rather talk five minutes to a pretty woman than eat stuffed
pheasants the year around, and the stuffed pheasant is about all
Bleiberg can boast of. Well, here goes for a voyage of discovery;"
and he passed down the stone steps to the pier, quite unconscious
of the admiring glances of the women who fluttered back and forth
on the wide balconies above.
It was four o'clock in the afternoon; a fresh wind redolent of
pine and resin blew across the lake. Maurice climbed into a boat
and pulled away with a strong, swift stroke, enjoying the
liberation of his muscles. A quarter of a mile out he let the
oars drift and took his bearings. He saw the private gardens of
the king and the archbishop, and, convinced that a closer view
would afford him entertainment, he caught up the oars again and
moved inland.
The royal gardens ran directly into the water, while those of
the archbishop were protected by a wall of brick five or six
feet in height, in the center of which was a gate opening on the
water. Behind the gate was a small boat dock. Maurice plied the
oars vigorously. He skirted the royal gardens, and the smell of
newly mown lawns filled the air. Soon he was gliding along the
sides of the moss-grown walls. A bird chirped in the overhanging
boughs. He was about to cast loose the oars again, when the boat
was brought to a violent stop. A few yards waterward from the
gate there lay, hidden in the shadowed water, a sunken pier. On
one of the iron piles the boat had become impaled.
Maurice was tumbled into the bow of the boat, which began
rapidly to fill. First he swore, then he laughed, for he was
possessed of infinite good humor. The only thing left for him to
do was to swim for the gate. With a rueful glance at his thin
clothes, he dropped himself over the side of the wreck and
struck out toward the gate. The water, having its source from
the snowclad mountains, was icy. He was glad enough to grasp the
lower bars of the gate and draw himself up. He was on the point
of climbing over, when a picture presented itself to his
streaming eyes.
Seated on a bench made of twisted vine was a young girl. She
held in her hand a book, but she was not reading it. She was
scanning the unwritten pages of some reverie; her eyes, dark,
large and wistful, were holding communion with the god of dreams.
A wisp of hair, glossy as coal, trembled against a cheek white
as the gown she wore.
At her side, blinking in the last rays of the warm sun, sat a
bulldog, toothless and old. Now and then a sear leaf, falling in
a zig-zag course, rustled past his ears, and he would shake his
head as if he, too, were dreaming and the leaves disturbed him.
All at once he sniffed, his ears stood forward, and a low growl
broke the enchantment. The girl, on discovering Maurice, closed
the book and rose. The dog, still growling, jumped down and
trotted to the gate. Maurice thought that it was time to speak.
"Mademoiselle," he said, "pardon this intrusion, but my boat has
met with an accident."
The girl came to the gate. "Why, Monsieur," she exclaimed, "you
are wet!"
"That is true," replied Maurice, his teeth beginning to knock
together. "I was forced to swim. If you will kindly open the
gate and guide me to the street, I shall be much obliged to you."
The gate swung outward, and in a moment Maurice was on dry land,
or the next thing to it, which was the boat-dock.
"Thank you," he said.
"O! And you might have been drowned," compassion lighting her
beautiful eyes. "Sit down on the bench, Monsieur, for you must
be weak. And it was that sunken pier? I shall speak to
Monseigneur; he must have it removed. Bull, stop growling; you
are very impolite; the gentleman is in distress."
Maurice sat down, not because he was weak, but because the
desire to gain the street had suddenly subsided. Who was this
girl who could say "must" to the formidable prelate? His quick
eye noticed that she showed no sign of embarrassment. Indeed,
she impressed him as one who was superior to that petty
disturbance of collected thought. Somehow it seemed to him, as
she stood there looking down at him, that he, too, should be
standing. But she put forth a hand with gentle insistence when
he made as though to rise. What an exquisite face, he thought.
Against the whiteness of her skin her lips burned like poppy
petals. Innocent, inquisitive eyes smiled gently, eyes in whose
tranquil depths lay the glory of the world, asleep. Presently a
color, faint and fugitive, dimmed the whiteness of her cheeks.
Maurice, conscious of his rudeness and of a warmth in his own
cheeks, instinctively lowered his gaze.
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