Books: The Puppet Crown
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Harold MacGrath >> The Puppet Crown
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Maurice thought: "Who wouldn't join the army with such
recruiting officers?"
While the pantomime took place, a man pushed by Maurice's chair
and crossed over to the table recently occupied by him. He sat
down, lit a short pipe, rested his feet on the lowest rung of
the ladder-like railing, and contemplated the western hills,
which by now were enveloped in moon mists. Neither Maurice nor
his mysterious vis-a-vis remarked him. Indeed, his broad back
afforded but small attraction. And if he puffed his pipe
fiercely, nobody cared, since the breeze carried the smoke
waterward.
After putting the card into her purse, Mademoiselle of the
Veil's gaze once more wandered toward the entrance, and this
time it grew fixed. Maurice naturally followed it, and he saw a
tall soldier in fatigue dress elbowing his way through the crush.
Many moved aside for him; those in uniform saluted.
"Monsieur," came from behind the veil, "you may go now. I
dismiss you. If I have need of you I promise to send for you."
He stood up. "I thank you for the entertainment and the promise
you extend. I shall be easily found," committing himself to
nothing. "I suppose you are a person of importance in affairs."
"It is not unlikely. I see that you love adventure for its own
sake, for you have not asked me if it be the duchy or the
kingdom. Adieu, Monsieur," with a careless wave of the gray-
gloved hand. "Adieu!"
He took his dismissal heroically and shot a final glance at the
approaching soldier. His brows came together.
"Where," he murmured, "have I seen that picturesque countenance
before? Not in Europe; but where?" He caught the arm of a
passing gendarme. "Who is that gentleman in fatigue uniform,
coming this way?"
"That, Monsieur," answered the gendarme in tones not unmixed
with awe, "is Colonel Beauvais of the royal cuirassiers."
"Thanks. . . . Beauvais; I do not remember the name. Truly I
have had experiences to-day. And for what house is Mademoiselle
of the Veil? Ravens? War? `Voici le sabre de mon pyre!'" and
with a gay laugh he went his way.
Meanwhile Colonel Beauvais arrived at the table, tipped his hat
to the Veil, who rose and laid a hand on his arm. He guided her
through the pressing crowds.
"Ah, Madame," he said, "you are very brave to choose such a
rendezvous."
"Danger is a tonic to the ill-spirited," was the reply.
"If aught should happen to you--"
"It was in accord with her wishes that I am here. She suffers
from impatience; and I would risk much to satisfy her whims."
"So would I, Madame; even life." There was a tremor of passion
in his voice, but she appeared not to notice it. "Here is a nook
out of the lights; we may talk here with safety."
"And what is the news?" she asked.
"This: The man remains still in obscurity. But he shall be found.
Listen," and his voice fell into a whisper.
"Austria?" Mademoiselle of the Veil pressed her hands together
in excitement. "Is it true?"
"Did I not promise you? It is so true that the end is in sight.
Conspiracy is talked openly in the streets, in the cafes,
everywhere. The Osians will be sand in the face of a tidal wave.
A word from me, and Kronau follows it. It all would be so easy
were it not for the archbishop."
"The archbishop?" contemptuously.
"Ay, Madame; he is a man so deep, with a mind so abyssmal, that
I would give ten years of my life for a flash of his thoughts.
He has some project; apparently he gives his whole time to the
king. He loves this weak man Leopold; he has sacrificed the red
hat for him, for the hat would have taken him to Italy, as we
who procured it intended it should."
"The archbishop? Trust me; one month from now he will be
recalled. That is the news I have for you."
"You have taken a weight from my mind. What do you think in
regard to the rumor of the prince and the peasant girl?"
"It afforded me much amusement. You are a man of fine inventions."
"Gaze toward the upper end of the pavilion, the end which we
have just left. Yes--there. I am having the owner of those broad
shoulders watched. That gendarme leaning against the pillar
follows him wherever he goes."
"Who is he?"
"That I am trying to ascertain. This much-- he is an Englishman."
Mademoiselle of the Veil laughed. "Pardon my irrelevancy, but
the remembrance of a recent adventure of mine was too strong."
Maurice could not regain his interest in the scene. He strolled
in and out of the moving groups, but no bright eyes or winning
smiles allured him. Impelled by curiosity, he began to draw near
the shadowed nook. Curiosity in a journalist is innate, and time
nor change can efface it. Curiosity in those things which do not
concern us is wrong. Ethics disavows the practice, though
philosophy sustains it. Perhaps in this instance Maurice was
philosophical, not ethical. Perhaps he wanted to hear the
woman's voice again, which was excusable. Perhaps it was neither
the one nor the other, but fate, which directed his footsteps.
Certain it is that the subsequent adventures would never have
happened had he gone about his business, as he should have done.
"Who is this who stares at us?" asked Beauvais, with a piercing
glance and a startled movement of his shoulders.
"A disciple of Pallas and a pupil of Mars," was the answer. "I
have been recruiting, Colonel. There is sharpness sometimes in
new blades. Do not draw him with your eyes."
The Colonel continued his scrutiny, however, and there was an
ugly droop at the corners of his mouth, though it was partly
hidden under his mustache.
Maurice, aware that he was not wanted, passed along, having in
mind to regain his former seat by the railing.
"Colonel," he mused, "your face grows more familiar every moment.
It was not associated with agreeable things. But, what were
they? Hang it! you shall have a place in my thoughts till I have
successfully labeled you. Humph! Some one seems to have
appropriated my seat."
He viewed with indecision the broad back of the interloper, who
at that moment turned his head. At the sight of that bronzed
profile Maurice gave an exclamation of surprise and delight. He
stepped forward and dropped his hand on the stranger's shoulder.
"John Fitzgerald, or henceforth garlic shall be my salad!" he
cried in loud, exultant tones.
CHAPTER VII
SOME DIALOGUE, A SPRAINED ANKLE, AND SOME SOLDIERS
The stranger returned Maurice's salute with open-mouthed dismay;
the monocle fell from his eye, he grasped the table with one
hand and pushed back the chair with the other, while Maurice
heard the name of an exceedingly warm place.
The gendarme, who was leaning against the pillar, straightened,
opened his jaws, snapped them, and hurried off.
"Maurice--Maurice Carewe?" said the bewildered Englishman.
"No one else, though I must say you do not seem very glad to see
me," Maurice answered, conscious that he was all things but
welcome.
"Hang you, I'm not!" incogitantly.
"Go to the devil, then!" cried Maurice, hotly.
"Gently," said Fitzgerald, catching Maurice by the coat and
pulling him down into a chair. "Confound you, could you not have
made yourself known to me without yelling my name at the top of
your voice?"
"Are you ashamed of it?" asked Maurice, loosing his coat from
Fitzgerald's grip.
"I'm afraid of it," the Englishman admitted, in a lowered voice.
"And your manly, resonant tones have cast it abroad. I am here
incognito."
"Who the deuce are you?"
"I am Don Jahpet of Armenia; that is to say that I am a marked
man. And now, as you would inelegantly express it, you have put
a tag on me. When I left you in Vienna the other day I lied to
you. I am sorry. I should have trusted you, only I did not wish
you to risk your life. You would have insisted on coming along."
"Risked my life?" echoed Maurice. "How many times have I not
risked it? By the way," impressed by a sudden thought, "are you
the Englishman every one seems to be expecting?"
"Yes." Fitzgerald knocked his pipe against the railing. "I am
the man. Worse luck! Was any one near when you called me by
name?"
"Only one of those wooden gendarmes."
"Only one of those wooden gendarmes!" ironically. "Only one of
those dogs who have been at my heels ever since I arrived. And
he, having heard, has gone back to his master. Well, since you
have started the ball rolling, it is no more than fair that you
should see the game to its end."
"What's it all about?" asked Maurice, his astonishment growing
and growing.
"Where are your rooms?"
"You have something important to tell me?"
"Perhaps you may think so. At the Continental? Come along."
They passed out of the pavilion, along the path to the square,
thence to the terrace of the Continental, which they mounted.
Not a word was said, but Maurice was visibly excited, and by
constant gnawing ruined his cigar. He conducted his friend to
the room on the second floor, the window of which opened on a
private balcony. Here he placed two chairs and a small table;
and with a bottle of tokayer between them they seated themselves.
"What's it all about?"
"O, only a crown and a few millions in money."
"Only a crown and a few millions in money," repeated Maurice
very slowly, for his mind could scarcely accept Fitzgerald and
these two greatest treasures on earth.
A gendarme had leisurely followed them from the park. He took
aside a porter and quietly plied him with questions. Evidently
the answers were satisfactory, for he at once departed.
Maurice stared at the Englishman.
"Knocks you up a bit, eh?" said Fitzgerald. "Well, I am rather
surprised myself; that is to say, I was."
"Fire away," said Maurice.
"To begin with, if I do not see the king to-morrow, it is not
likely that I ever shall."
"The king?"
"My business here is with his Majesty."
Maurice filled the glasses and pushed one across the table.
"Here's!" said he, and gulped.
Fitzgerald drank slowly, however, as if arranging in his mind
the salient points in his forthcoming narrative.
"I have never been an extraordinarily communicative man; what I
shall tell you is known only to my former Colonel and myself. At
Calcutta, where you and I first met, I was but a Lieutenant in
her Majesty's. To-day I am burdened with riches such as I know
not how to use, and possessor of a title which sounds strange in
my ears."
The dim light from the gas-jet in the room flickered over his
face, and Maurice saw that it was slightly contorted, as if by pain.
"My father was Lord Fitzgerald."
"What!" cried Maurice, "the diplomat, the historian, the
millionaire?"
"The same. Thirteen years ago we parted--a misunderstanding. I
never saw him again. Six months ago he died and left me a
fortune, a title and a strange legacy; and it is this legacy
which brings me to Bleiberg. Do you know the history of Leopold?"
"I do. This throne belongs to the house of Auersperg, and the
Osian usurps. The fact that the minister of the duchess has been
discredited was what brought me here. Continue."
And Fitzgerald proceeded briefly to acquaint the other with the
strange caprice of his father; how, when he left Bleiberg, he
had been waylaid and the certificates demanded; how he had
entrusted them to his valet, who had gone by another route; how
the duke had sought him in Vienna and made offers, bribes and
threats; how he had laughed at all, and sworn that Duke Josef
should never be a king.
"My father wished to save Leopold in spite of himself; and then,
he had no love for Josef. At a dinner given at the legation,
there was among others a toast to her Majesty. The duke laughed
and tossed the wine to the floor. It lost him his crown, for my
father never forgave the insult. When the duke died, his
daughter took up the work with surprising vigor. It was all
useless; father was a rock, and would listen neither to bribes
nor threats. Now they are after me. They have hunted me in India,
London, and Vienna. I am an obscure soldier, with all my titles
and riches; they threaten me with death. But I am here, and my
father's wishes shall be carried out. That is all. I am glad
that we have come together; you have more invention than I have."
"But why did you come yourself? You could have sent an agent.
That would have been simple."
"An agent might be bought. It was necessary for me to come.
However, I might have waited till the twentieth. I should have
come openly and informed the British minister of my mission. As
to the pheasants, they could have waited. Perhaps my fears are
without foundation, unless you have been the unconscious cause
of my true name being known. Every one has heard the story. It
is known as 'Fitzgerald's folly,' and has gone the rounds of the
diplomatic circles for ten years. I shall ask for an audience to-
morrow morning."
"And these certificates fall due the same day that the princess
is to be married," mused his auditor. "What a yarn for the
papers!" his love of sensation being always close to the surface.
"Your father, you say, took four million crowns; what became of
the fifth?"
"The duke was permitted to secure that."
"A kind of court plaster for his wounds, eh? Why don't you get
that other million and run the kingdom yourself? It's a great
opportunity." Maurice laughed.
"Her Royal Highness must not be forgotten. My father thought
much of her."
"But really I do not see why you are putting yourself to all
this trouble. The king will pay off the indebtedness; the
kingdom is said to be rich, or Austria wouldn't meddle with it."
"The king, on the twentieth of this month, will be some three
millions short."
"And since he can not pay he is bankrupt. Ah, I see the plan.
The duke knew that he wouldn't be able to pay."
"You have hit it squarely."
"But Austria, having placed Leopold here, is his sponsor."
"Austria has too many debts of her own; she will have to disavow
her protege, which is a fact not unthought of by the house of
Auersperg. By constant machination and intrigue the king's
revenues have been so depleted that ordinary debts are
troublesome. The archbishop, to stave off the probable end,
brought about the alliance between the houses of Carnavia and
Osia. My business here is to arrange for a ten years' renewal of
the loan, and that is what the duchess wishes to prevent, mon
ami. What's to become of the king and his daughter if aught in
the way of mishap should befall me? I have not seen the king,
but I have seen her Royal Highness."
"What is she like?" Maurice asked, innocently. He saw no reason
why he should confide to the Englishman his own adventure.
"I'm not much of a judge," said Fitzgerald cautiously. "I have
lived most of my life in cantonments where women were old and
ran mostly to tongue. I should say that she is beautiful." A
short sigh followed this admission.
"Ah!" said Maurice with a loud laugh to cover the sudden pang of
jealousy which seized him; "in gratitude for saving her father's
throne the daughter will fall in love with you. It is what the
dramatist calls logical sequence."
"Why don't you write novels? Your imagination has no bounds."
"Writing novels is too much like work. But I'm serious. Your
position in the world to-day is nearly equal to hers, and
certainly more secure. Ah, yes; I must not forget that prince.
He's a lucky dog--and so are you, for that matter. Millions and
titles! And I have slapped you cavalierly on the back, smoked
your cigars, drunk your whisky, and beaten you at poker!"
comically.
"Ah, Maurice, it is neither wealth nor titles; it is freedom. I
am like a boy out of school for good and all. Women, the society
of women, who are the salt of earth; that is what I want. I have
knocked out thirteen years of my life in furnace holes, and have
not met nor spoken to a dozen young women in all that time. How
I envy you! You know every one; you have seen the world;. you
are at home in Paris, or London, or Vienna; you have enjoyed all
I wish to enjoy."
"Why did you ever get into the army?"
"You ought to know."
"But it was bread and butter to me."
"Well, I was young; I saw fame and glory. If the matter under
hand is closed to-morrow, what do you say to the Carpathians and
bears? I shall not remain here; some one will be looking for
blood. What do you say?"
"I don't know," said Maurice, thoughtfully. He was thinking of
Mademoiselle of the Veil and her prophecy of ravens. "I don't
know that I shall be able. It is my opinion that your part in
the affair is only a curtain-raiser to graver things. Every one
of importance in town goes about with an air of expectancy. I
never saw anything like it. It is the king, the archbishop and
the chancellor against two hundred thousand. You're a soldier;
can't you smell powder?"
"Powder! You do not believe the duchess mad enough to wage war?"
"Trust a woman to do what no one dreams she will."
"But Austria would be about her ears in a minute!"
"Maybe. Have you seen this Colonel Beauvais of the royal
cuirassiers, the actual head of the army here?"
"A fine soldier," said the Englishman, heartily. "Rides like a
centaur and wields a saber as if it were a piece of straw."
"I can hold a pretty good blade myself; I've an idea that I can
lick him at both games."
Fitzgerald laughed good-naturedly. "There is the one flaw in
your make-up. I admit your horsemanship; but the saber! Believe
me, it is only the constant practice and a wrist of iron which
make the saber formidable. You are more familiar with the pen; I
dare say you could best him at that."
"What makes you think I can not lick him?"
"Since when have the saber and the civilian been on terms? And
these continental sabers are matchless, the finest in the world.
I trust you will steer clear of the Colonel; if you have any
challenge in mind, spring it on me, and I'll let you down easy."
Then: "Why the devil do you want to lick him, anyway?"
"I don't know," said Maurice. "I had a close range to-night, and
somehow the man went against the grain. Well, Jack, I'll stay
with you in this affair, though, as the county judge at home
would say, it's out of my circuit."
They shook hands across the table.
"Come," said Fitzgerald; "a toast, for I must be off."
"What do you say to her Royal Highness?"
"Let us make it general: to all women!"
They set down the glasses and shook hands again.
"It seemed good to run across you in Vienna, Maurice. You were
one of the bright spots in the old days."
"Do you want me to walk with you to the Grand? It's a fine night,"
said Maurice, waving his hand toward the moon. "By George,
what a beautiful place this end of Bleiberg is! I do not wonder
that the duchess covets it."
"No, I'll go alone. All I have to do is to march straight up the
Strasse."
"Well, good-night and good luck to you," said Maurice, as he led
the Englishman into the hallway. "Look me up when you have
settled the business. I say, but it gets me; it's the strangest
thing I ever heard." And he waited till the soldierly form
disappeared below the landing.
Then he went back to his chair on the balcony to think it over.
At four o'clock that afternoon he had grumbled of dullness. He
lit a pipe, and contemplated the soft and delicate blues of
earth and heaven, the silvery flashes on the lake, and the slim
violet threads of smoke which wavered about his head. It was
late. Now and then the sound of a galloping horse was borne up
by the breeze, and presently Maurice heard the midnight bell
boom forth from the sleepy spires of the cathedral--where the
princess was to be married.
One by one the lamps of the park went out, but the moon shone on,
lustrous and splendid. First he reviewed his odd adventure in
the archbishop's gardens. He had spoken to princesses before,
but they were women of the world, hothouse roses that bloom and
wither in a short space. The atmosphere which surrounded this
princess was idyllic, pastoral. She had seen nothing of the
world, its sports and pastimes, and the art of playing at love
was unknown to her. Again he could see her serious eyes, the
delicate chin and mouth, the oval cheeks, and the dog that
followed in her steps. Here was an indelible picture which time
could never efface. Something stirred in his heart, and he
sighed.
And ah, the woman in the veil! Who could she be? The more he
thought of her the more convinced he was that she stood high in
the service of any one but Leopold of Osia. And Fitzgerald! That
sober old soldier concerned with crowns and millions! It was
incredible; it was almost laughable. They had met up-country in
India, and had hunted, and Maurice had saved the Englishman's
life. Occasionally they had corresponded.
"Well, to bed," said the young diplomat. "This has been a full
day." And, like the true newspaper man he was, for all his
diplomacy, he emptied the bottle and entered the room. He was
about to disrobe, when some one rapped on the door. He opened it,
and beheld a man in the livery of the Grand Hotel. He was
breathing hard.
"Herr Carewe?"
"Yes. What's wanted?"
"Herr Hamilton--"
"Hamilton? O, yes. Go on."
"Herr Hamilton bade me to tell your Excellency that in returning
to the hotel he sprained his ankle, and wishes to know if Herr
would not be so kind as to spend the night with him."
"Certainly. Run down to the office, and I shall be with you
shortly." Again alone, Maurice opened his trunk. He brought
forth a pint flask of brandy, some old handkerchiefs to be used
as bandages, and a box of salve he used for bruises when on
hunting expeditions. In turning over his clothes his hand came
into contact with his old army revolver. He scratched his head.
"No, it's too much like a cannon, and there's no room for it in
my pockets." He pushed it aside, rose and slammed the lid of the
trunk. "Sprained his ankle? He wasn't gone more than an hour.
How the deuce is he to see the king to-morrow? Probably wishes
to appoint me his agent. That's it. Very well." He proceeded to
the office, where he found the messenger waiting for him. "Come
on, and put life into your steps."
Together they traversed the moonlit thoroughfare. Few persons
were astir. Once the night patrol clattered by. They passed
through the markets, and not far ahead they could see the
university. It looked like a city prison.
"This is the hotel, Herr," said the messenger.
They entered. Maurice approached the proprietor, who was pale
and flurried; but as Maurice had never seen the natural repose
of his countenance, he thought nothing of it.
"My friend, Herr Hamilton, has met with an accident. Where is
his room?"
"Number nine; Johann will show you." He acted as if he had
something more to say, but a glance from the round-faced porter
silenced him. Maurice lost much by not seeing this glance. He
followed the messenger up the stairs.
There were no transoms. The corridor was devoid of illumination.
The porter struck a match and held it close to the panel of a
door under which a thread of light streamed.
"This is it, Herr," he bawled, so loudly that Maurice started.
"There was no need of waking the dead to tell me," he growled.
The door opened, and before Maurice could brace himself--for the
interior of the room made all plain to him--he was violently
pushed over the threshold on to his knees. He was up in an
instant. The room was filled with soldiers, foot soldiers of the
king, so it seemed.
"What the devil is this?" he demanded, brushing his knees and
cursing himself because he had not brought his Colt when fate
had put it almost in his hand.
"It is a banquet, young man. We were waiting for the guest of
honor."
Maurice turned to the speaker, and saw a medium-sized man with
gray hair and a frosty stubble of a mustache. He wore no
insignia of office. Indeed, as Maurice gazed from one man to the
next he saw that there were no officers; and it came to him that
these were not soldiers of the king. He was in a trap. He
thought quickly. Fitzgerald was in trouble, perhaps on his
account. Where was he?
"I do not see my friend who sprained his ankle," he said coolly.
This declaration was greeted with laughter.
"Evidently I have entered the wrong room," he continued
imperturbably. He stepped toward the door, but a burly
individual placed his back to it.
"Am I a prisoner, or the victim of a practical joke?"
"Either way," said the man with the frosty mustache.
"Why?"
"You have recently formed a dangerous acquaintance, and we
desire to aid you in breaking it."
"Are you aware, gentlemen--no, I don't mean gentlemen--that I am
attached to the American legation in Vienna, and that my person
is inviolable?"
Everybody laughed again--everybody but Maurice.
"Allow me to correct you," put in the elderly man, who evidently
was the leader in the affair. "You are not attached; you are
detached. Gentlemen, permit me, M. Carewe, detache of the
American legation in Vienna, who wishes he had stayed there."
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