George MacDonald - "Heather and Snow"

Eliza Lee Follen - "The Pedler of Dust Sticks"

Emile Souvestre - "An Attic Philosopher, v1"

Constant - "The Private Life of Napoleon Bonaparte, v1"

New Philadelphia Book Publisher Highlights Local Talent
Book and Publishing News from Publishers Newswire(tm)

Looking for Child to be on Cover of a New Book, 'The Model Child'
PHILADELPHIA, Pa. -- The Philadelphia literary world will celebrate the launch of two new players today, April 10th: Kay Square Press, a new publishing company focused on Philadelphia-area artists, their stories, and their art; and Kay Square's first release, 'With the Rich and Mighty: Emlen Etting of Philadelphia' (ISBN: 978-0-9815129-0-7), a critical biography by Kenneth C. Kaleta.

FlatSigned Press Alleges Don Imus Remarks Damage Legacy of President Gerald R. Ford
NEW YORK, N.Y. -- Nathan Yungerberg, an accomplished model scout and professional child photographer is launching a nation-wide casting call to find the cover model for his highly anticipated book release, 'The Model Child: A Parents Guide to the Child Modeling Industry' (ISBN: 978-0-9817018-0-6).

Books: The Puppet Crown

H >> Harold MacGrath >> The Puppet Crown




"A valiant army!" laughing; "five thousand men. Why, Madame the
duchess has six thousand and three batteries."

"Her army of six thousand is an expedient; you can raise
volunteers to the amount of ten thousand."

"To be sure I could; but supposing I did not want to?"

The minister dropped his gaze and began fingering the paper
cutter. The Colonel's real purpose was still an enigma to him.
"Come, you have the confidence of the king, the friendship of
her Royal Highness. What do you gain in serving us? The baton?"

"You embarrass me. Questions? I should not like to lie to you.
Batons were fine things when Louises and Napoleons conferred
them. I have thrown my dice into the common cup; let that be
sufficient."

"A man who comes from a noble house such as you come from--"

"Ah, count, that was never to be referred to. Be content with my
brain and sword. And then, there is the old saying, Give a man
an ell, and look to your rod. We are all either jackals or lions,
puppets or men behind the booth. I am a lion." He rose, drew
his saber half-way from the scabbard, and sent it slithering
back. "In a fortnight we put it to the touch to win or lose it
all, as the poet says. Every man for himself, and let the
strongest win, say I."

"You are playing two games," coldly.

"And you? Is it for pure love of Madame the duchess that you
risk your head? Come, as you say; admit that you wish to see my
hand without showing yours. A baton is not much for me, as you
have hinted, but it is all that was promised me. And you, if we
win, will still be minister of finances? What is that maggot I
see behind your eyes? Is it not spelled `chancellor'? But,
remember, Madame has friends to take care of in the event of our
success. We can not have all the spoils. To join the kingdom and
the duchy will create new offices, to be sure, but we can have
only part of them. As to games, I shall, out of the kindness in
my heart, tell you that I am not playing two, but three. Guess
them if you can. Next to the chancellorship is the embassy to
Vienna, and an embassy to Paris is to be created. Madame is a
superior woman. Who knows?" with a smile that caused the other
to pale.

"You are mad to dream of that."

"As you say, I come of a noble house," carelessly.

"You are mad."

"No, count," the soldier replied. "I have what Balzac calls a
thirst for a full life in a short space."

"I would give a deal to read what is going on in that head of
yours."

"Doubtless. But what is to become of our friends the Marshal and
Mollendorf? What will be left for them? Perhaps there will be a
chamber of war, a chamber of the navy. As a naval minister the
Marshal would be nicely placed. There would be no expense of
building ships or paying sailors, which would speak well for the
economy of the new government. The Marshal is old; we shall send
him to Servia. At least the office will pay both his vanity and
purse to an extent equal to that of his present office. By the
way, nothing has yet been heard from Prince Frederick. Ah, these
young men, these plump peasant girls!"

Both laughed.

"Till this evening, then;" and the Colonel went from the room.

The minister of finance applied a match to the tapers. He held
the burning match aloft and contemplated the door through which
the soldier had gone. The sting of the incipient flame aroused
him.

"What," he mused aloud, as he arranged the papers on his desk,
"is his third game?"

"It appears to me," said a voice from the wall behind, "that the
same question arises in both our minds."

The minister wheeled his chair, his mouth and brows puckered in
dismay. From a secret panel in the wall there stepped forth a
tall, thin, sour-visaged old man of military presence. He calmly
sat down in the chair which Beauvais had vacated.

"I had forgotten all about you, Marshal!" exclaimed the count,
smiling uneasily.

"A statement which I am most ready to believe," replied old
Marshal Kampf, with a glance which caused the minister yet more
uneasiness. "What impressed me among other things was, `But what
is to become of our friends the Marshal and Mollendorf?' I am
Marshal; I am about to risk all for nothing. Why should I not
remain Marshal for the remainder of my days? It is a pleasant
thing to go to Vienna once the year and to witness the maneuvers,
with an honorary position on the emperor's staff. To be Marshal
here is to hold a sinecure, yet it has its compensations. The
uniforms, gray and gold, are handsome; it is an ostrich plume
that I wear in my chapeau de bras; the medals are of gold. My
friend, it is the vanity of old age which forgives not." And the
Marshal, the bitterest tongue in all Bleiberg, reached over and
picked up the cigar which lay by the inkwells. He lit it at one
of the tapers, and sank again into the chair. "Count, how many
games are you playing?"

"My dear Marshal, it was not I who spoke of games. I am playing
no game, save for the legitimate sovereign of this kingdom. I
ask for no reward."

"Disinterested man! The inference is, however, that, since you
have not asked for anything, you have been promised something.
Confess it, and have done."

"Marshal!"

"Well?"

"Is it possible that you suspect me?" The cold eyes grew colder,
and the thin lips almost disappeared.

"When three men watch each other as do Beauvais, Mollendorf and
you, it is because each suspects the other of treachery. You
haven't watched me because I am old, but because I am old I have
been watching you. Mollendorf aspires to greatness, you have
your gaze on the chancellorship, and curse me if the Colonel
isn't looking after my old shoes! Am I to give up my uniform, my
medals and my plume--for nothing? And who the devil is this man
Beauvais, since that is not his name? Is he a fine bird whose
feathers have been plucked?"

The minister did not respond to the question; he began instead
to fidget in his chair.

"When I gave my word to his Highness the duke, it was without
conditions. I asked no favors; I considered it my duty. Let us
come to an understanding. Material comfort is necessary to a man
of my age. Fine phrases and a medal or two more do not count. I
am, then, to go to Servia. You were very kind to hide me in your
cabinet."

"It was to show you that I had no secrets from you," quickly.

"Let us pass on. Mollendorf is to go to Paris, where he will be
a nonentity, while in his present office he is a power in the
land-- Devil take me, but it seems to me that we are all a pack
of asses! Our gains will not be commensurate with our losses.
The navy? Well, we'll let that pass; the Colonel, I see, loves a
joke."

"You forget our patriotism for the true house."

"Why not give it its true name--self-interest?"

"Marshal, in heaven's name, what has stirred your bile?" The
minister was losing his patience, a bad thing for him to do in
the presence of the old warrior.

"It is something I've been swallowing this past year." The
Marshal tipped the ash of his cigar into the waste basket.

"Marshal, will you take the word not of the minister, but of the
von Wallenstein, that whatever my reward shall be for my humble
services, yours shall not be less?"

"Thanks, but I have asked for no reward. If I accepted gain for
what I do, I should not be too old to blush."

"I do not understand."

"Self-interest blinds us. I have nothing but pity for this king
whose only crime is an archbishop; and I can not accept gain at
his expense; I should blush for shame. Had I my way, he should
die in peace. He has not long to live. The archbishop--well, we
can not make kings, they are born. But there is one thing more:
Over all your schemes is the shadow of Austria."

"Austria?"

"Yes. The Colonel speaks of a power behind him. Bismarck looks
hungrily toward Schleswig-Holstein. Austria casts amorous eyes
at us. A protectorate? We did not need it. It was forced on us.
When Austria assumed to dictate to us as to who should be king,
she also robbed us of our true independence. Twenty years ago
there was no duchy; it was all one kingdom. Who created this
duchy when Albrecht came on the throne? Austria. Why? If we
live we shall read." He rose, shook his lean legs. "I have been
for the most part neutral. I shall remain neutral. There is an
undercurrent on which you have failed to reckon. Austria,
mistress of the confederation. There are two men whom you must
watch. One is the archbishop."

"The archbishop?" The minister was surprised that the Marshal
should concur with the Colonel. "And the other?"

"Your friend the Colonel," starting for the door.

The minister smiled. "Will you not dine with me?" he asked.

"Thanks. But I have the Servian minister on my hands to-night. A
propos, tell the Colonel that I decline Belgrade. I prefer to
die at home." And he vanished.

Von Wallenstein reviewed the statements of both his visitors.

"I shall watch Monseigneur the archbishop." Then he added, with
a half-smile: "God save us if the Marshal's sword were half so
sharp as his tongue! It was careless of me to forget that I had
shut him up in the cabinet."

Meanwhile Beauvais walked slowly toward his quarters, with his
saber caught up under his arm. Once he turned and gazed at the
palace, whose windows began to flash with light.

"Yes, they are puppets and jackals, and I am the lion. For all
there shall serve my ends. I shall win, and when I do--" He
laughed silently. "Well, I am a comely man, and Madame the
duchess shall be my wife."




CHAPTER VI


MADEMOISELLE OF THE VEIL

The public park at night was a revelation to Maurice, who,
lonely and restless, strolled over from the hotel in quest of
innocent amusement. He was none the worse for his unintended
bath; indeed, if anything, he was much the better for it. His
imagination was excited. It was not every day that a man could,
at one and the same time, fall out of a boat and into the
presence of a princess of royal blood.

He tried to remember all he had said to her, but only two
utterances recurred to him; yet these caused him an exhilaration
like the bouquet of old wine. He had told her that she was
beautiful, indirectly, it was true; she had accepted his
friendship, also indirectly, it was true. Now the logical
sequence of all this was--but he broke into a light laugh. What
little vanity he possessed was without conceit. Princesses of
royal blood were beyond the reach of logical sequence; and
besides, she was to be married on the twentieth of the month.

He followed one of the paths which led to the pavilion. It was a
charming scene, radiant with gas lamps, the vivid kaleidoscope
of gowns and uniforms. Beautiful faces flashed past him. There
were in the air the vague essences of violet, rose and
heliotrope. Sometimes he caught the echo of low laughter or the
snatch of a gay song. The light of the lamps shot out on the
crinkled surface of the lake in tongues of quivering flame,
which danced a brave gavot with the phantom stars; and afar
twinkled the dipping oars. The brilliant pavilion, which rested
partly over land and partly over water, was thronged.

The band was playing airs from the operas of the day, and
Maurice yielded to the spell of the romantic music. He leaned
over the pavilion rail, and out of the blackness below he
endeavored to conjure up the face of Nell (or was it Kate?) who
had danced with him at the embassies in Vienna, fenced and
ridden with him, till--till-- with a gesture of impatience he
flung away the end of his cigar.

Memory was altogether too elusive. It was neither Nell nor Kate
he saw smiling up at him, nor anybody else in the world but the
Princess Alexia, whose eyes were like wine in a sunset, whose
lips were as red as the rose of Tours in France, and whose voice
was sweeter than that throbbing up from the 'cello. If he
thought much more of her, there would be a logical sequence on
his side. He laughed again--with an effort--and settled back in
his chair to renew his interest in the panorama revolving around
him.

"They certainly know how to live in these countries," he thought,
"for all their comic operas. All I need, to have this fairy
scene made complete, is a woman to talk to. By George, what's to
hinder me from finding one?" he added, seized by the spirit of
mischief. He turned his head this way and that. "Ah! doubtless
there is the one I'm looking for."

Seated alone at a table behind him was a woman dressed in gray.
Her back was toward him, but he lost none of the beautiful
contours of her figure. She wore a gray alpine hat, below the
rim of which rebellious little curls escaped, curls of a fine
red-brown, which, as they trailed to the nape of the firm white
neck, lightened into a ruddy gold. Her delicate head was turned
aside, and to all appearances her gaze was directed to the
entrance to the pavilion. A heavy blue veil completely obscured
her features; though Maurice could see a rose-tinted ear and the
shadow of a curving chin and throat, which promised much. To a
man there is always a mystery lurking behind a veil. So he rose,
walked past her, returned and deliberately sat down in the chair
opposite to hers. The fact that gendarmes moved among the crowd
did not disturb him.

"Good evening, Mademoiselle," he said, politely lifting his hat.

She straightened haughtily. "Monsieur," she said, resentment,
consternation and indignation struggling to predominate in her
tones, "I did not give you permission to sit down. You are
impertinent!"

"O, no," Maurice declared. "I am not impertinent. I am lonesome.
In all Bleiberg I haven't a soul to talk to, excepting the hotel
waiters, and they are uninteresting. Grant me the privilege of
conversing with you for a moment. We shall never meet again; and
I should not know you if we did. Whether you are old or young,
plain or beautiful, it matters not. My only wish is to talk to a
woman, to hear a woman's voice"

"Shall I call a gendarme, Monsieur, and have him search for your
nurse?" The attitude which accompanied these words was anything
but assuring.

He, however, evinced no alarm. He even laughed. "That was good!
We shall get along finely, I am sure."

"Monsieur," she said, rising, "I repeat that I do not desire
your company, nor to remain in the presence of your unspeakable
effrontery."

"I beseech you!" implored Maurice, also rising. "I am a
foreigner, lonesome, unhappy, thousands of miles from home--"

"You are English?" suddenly. She stood with the knuckle of her
forefinger on her lips as if meditating. She sat down.

Maurice, greatly surprised, also sat down.

"English?" he repeated. His thought was: "What the deuce! This
is the third time I have been asked that. Who is this gay
Lothario the women seem to be expecting?" To her he continued:
"And why do you ask me that?"

"Perhaps it is your accent. And what do you wish to say to me,
Monsieur?" It was a voice of quality; all the anger had gone
from it. She leaned on her elbows, her chin in her palms, and
through the veil he caught the sparkle of a pair of wonderful
eyes. "Let us converse in English," she added. "It is so long
since I have had occasion to speak in that tongue." She repeated
her question.

"O, I had no definite plan outlined," he answered; "just
generalities, with the salt of repartee to season." He pondered
over this sudden transition from wrath to mildness. An
Englishman? Very well; it might grow interesting.

"Is it customary among the English to request to speak to
strangers without the usual formalities of an introduction?"

"I can not say that it is," he answered truthfully enough; "but
the procedure is never without a certain charm and excitement."

"Ah; then you were led to address me merely by the love of
adventure?"

"That is it; the love of adventure. I should not have spoken to
you had you not worn the veil." He remarked that her English was
excellent.

"You differ from the average Englishman, who is usually wrapt up
in himself and has no desire to talk to strangers. You have been
a soldier."

The evolutions of his cane ceased. "How in the world did you
guess that?" surprised beyond measure.

"Perhaps there is something suggestive in your shoulders."

He tried to peer behind the veil, but in vain. "Am I speaking to
one I have met before?"

"I believe not; indeed, sir, I am positive."

"I have been a soldier, but my shoulders did not tell you that."

"Perhaps I have the gift of clairvoyance," gazing again toward
the entrance.

"Or perhaps you have been to Vienna."

"Who knows? Most Englishmen are, or have been, soldiers."

"That is true." Inwardly, "There's my friend the Englishman
again. She's guessing closer than she knows. Curious; she has
mistaken me for some one she does not know, if that is possible."
He was somewhat in a haze. "Well, you have remarkable eyes.
However, let us talk of a more interesting subject; for instance,
yourself. You, too, love adventure, that is, if I interpret the
veil rightly."

"Yes; I like to see without being seen. But, of course, behind
this love of adventure which you possess, there is an important
mission."

"Ah!" he thought; "you are not quite sure of me." Aloud, "Yes, I
came here to witness the comic opera."

"The comic opera? I do not understand?"

"I believed there was going to be trouble between the duchy and
the kingdom, but unfortunately the prima donna has refused the
part."

"The prima donna!" in a muffled voice. "Whom do you mean?"

"Son Altesse la Grande Duchesse! 'Voici le sabre de mon pere!'"
And he whistled a bar from Offenbach, his eyes dancing.

"Sir!--I!--you do wrong to laugh at us!" a flash from the half-
hidden eyes.

"Forgive me if I have offended you, but I--"

"Ah, sir, but you who live in a powerful country think we little
folk have no hearts, that we have no wrongs to redress, no
dreams of conquest and of power. You are wrong."

"And whose side do you defend?"

"I am a woman," was the equivocal answer.

"Which means that you are uncertain."

"I have long ago made up my mind."

"Wonderful! I always thought a woman's mind was like a time-
table, subject to change without notice. So you have made up
your mind?"

"I was born with its purpose defined," coldly.

"Ah, now I begin to doubt."

"What?" with a still lower degree of warmth.

"That you are a woman. Only goddesses do not change their minds--
sometimes. Well, then you are on the weaker side."

"Or the stronger, since there are two sides."

"And the stronger?" persistently.

"The side which is not the weaker. But the subject is what you
English call 'taboo.' It is treading on delicate ground to talk
politics in the open--especially in Bleiberg."

"What a diplomat you would make!" he cried with enthusiasm.
Certainly this was a red-letter day in his calendar. This
adventure almost equalled the other, and, besides, in this
instance, his skin was dry; he could enjoy it more thoroughly.
Who could this unknown be? "If only you understood the mystery
with which you have enshrouded yourself!"

"I do." She drew the veil more firmly about her chin.

"Grant me a favor."

"I am talking to you, sir."

This candor did not disturb him. "The favor I ask is that you
will lift the corner of your veil; otherwise you will haunt me."

"I am doomed to haunt you, then. If I should lift the corner of
my veil something terrible would happen."

"What! Are you as beautiful as that?"

There was a flash of teeth behind the veil, followed by the
ripple of soft laughter. "It is difficult to believe you to be
English. You are more like one of those absurd Americans."

Maurice did not like the adjective. "I am one of them,"
wondering what the effect of this admission would be. "I am not
English, but of the brother race. Forgive me if I have imposed
on you, but it was your fault. You said that I was English, and
I was too lonesome to enlighten you."

"You are an American?" She began to tap her gloved fingers
against the table.

"Yes."

Then, to his astonishment, she gave way to laughter, honest and
hearty. "How dense of me not to have known the moment you
addressed me! Who but the American holds in scorn custom's
formalities and usages? Your grammar is good, so good that my
mistake is pardonable. The American is always like the terrible
infant; and you are a choice example."

Maurice was not so pleased as he might have been. His ears
burned. Still, he went forward bravely. "A man never pretends to
be an Englishman without getting into trouble."

"I did not ask to speak to you. No one ever pretends to be an
American. Why is it you are always ashamed of your country?"
with malice aforethought.

Maurice experienced the sting of many bees. "I see that your
experience is limited to impostors. I, Mademoiselle, am proud of
my country, the great, free land which stands aside from the
turmoil and laughs at your petty squabbles, your kings, your
princes. Laugh at me; I deserve it for not minding my own
business, but do not laugh at my country." His face was flushed;
he was almost angry. It was not her words; it was the contempt
with which she had invested them. But immediately he was ashamed
of his outburst. "Ah, Mademoiselle, you have tricked me; you
have found the vulnerable part in my armor. I have spoken like a
child. Permit me to apologize for my apparent lack of breeding."
He rose, bowed, and made as though to depart.

"Sit down, Monsieur," she said, picking up her French again. "I
forgive you. I do more; I admire. I see that your freak had
nothing behind it but mischief. No woman need fear a man who
colors when his country is made the subject of a jest."

All his anger evaporated. This was an invitation, and he
accepted it. He resumed his seat.

"The truth is, as I remarked, I was lonesome. I know that I have
committed a transgression, but the veil tempted me."

"It is of no matter. A few moments, and you will be gone. I am
waiting for some one. You may talk till that person comes." Her
voice was now in its natural tone; and he was convinced that if
her face were half as sweet, she must possess rare beauty. "Hush!"
as the band began to breathe forth Chopin's polonaise. They
listened until the music ceased.

"Ah !" said he rapturously, "the polonaise! When you hear it,
does there not recur to you some dream of bygone happy hours,
the sibilant murmur of fragrant night winds through the crisp
foliage, the faint call of Diana's horn from the woodlands, moon-
fairies dancing on the spider-webs, the glint of the dew on the
roses, the far-off music of the surges tossing impotently on the
sands, the forgetfulness of time and place and care, and not a
cloud 'twixt you and the heavens? Ah, the polonaise!"

"Surely you must be a poet!" declared the Veil, when this
panegyric was done.

"No," said he modestly, "I never was quite poor enough for that
exalted position." He had recovered his good humor.

"Indeed, you begin to interest me. What is your occupation when
not in search of--comic operas?"

"I serve Ananias."

"Ananias?" A pause. "Ah, you are a diplomat?"

"How clever of you to guess."

"Yours is a careless country," observed the Veil.

"Careless?" mystified.

"Yes, to send forth her green and salad youth. Eh, bien! There
are hopes for you. If you live you will grow old; you will
become bald and reserved; you will not speak to strangers, to
while away an idle hour; for permit me, Monsieur, who am wise,
to tell you that it is a dangerous practice."

"And do I look so very young?"

"Your beard is that of a boy."

"David slew Goliath."

"At least you have a ready tongue," laughing.

"And you told me that I had been a soldier."

But to this she had nothing to say.

"I am older than you think, Mademoiselle of the Veil. I have
been a soldier; I have seen hard service, too. Mine is no
cushion sword. Youth? 'Tis a virtue, not a crime; and, besides,
it is an excellent disguise."

For some time she remained pensive.

"You are thinking of something, Mademoiselle."

"Do you like adventure?"

"I subsist on it."

"You have been a soldier; you are, then, familiar with the use
of arms?"

"They tell me so," modestly. What was coming?

"I have some influence. May I trust you?"

"On my honor," puzzled, yet eager.

"There may be a comic opera, as you call it. War is not so
impossible as to be laughed at. The dove may fly away and the
ravens come."

"Who in thunder might this woman be?" he thought.

"And," went on the Veil, "an extra saber might be used. Give me
your address, in case I should find it necessary to send for you."

Now Maurice was a wary youth. Under ordinary circumstances he
would have given a fictitious address to this strange sybil with
the prophecy of war; for he had accosted her only in the spirit
of fun. But here was the key which he had been seeking, the key
to all that had brought him to Bleiberg. Intrigue, adventure, or
whatever it was, and to whatever end, he plunged into it. He
drew out a card case, selected a card on which he wrote "Room 12,
Continental," and passed it over the table. She read it, and
slipped it into her purse.