The Puppet Crown - Harlod MacGrath (nice books to read TXT) 📗

them to be in correspondence with the duchess, he can find nothing on the strength of which to accuse openly. It is a conspiracy which has no papers. One can not take out a man's brains and say, `Here is proof!' They talk, they walk on thin ice; but so fine is their craft that no incautious word ever falls, nor does any one go through the ice.

"I have watched the play for ten years. I should not speak to you about it, only it is one of those things known to all here. Those gentlemen talking to the chancellor's wife are the ministers from Austria, Prussia, France, and Servia. You will not find it as lively here as it is in Vienna. We meet merely to watch each other," with a short laugh. "Good. The Marshal is approaching."

They waited.

"Marshal," said the minister, "this is Monsieur Carewe, who rescued her Highness's dog from the students."

"Ah !" replied the Marshal, grimly. "Do not expect me to thank you, Monsieur; only day before yesterday the dog snapped at my legs. I am living out of pure spite, to see that dog die before I do. Peace to his ashes-the sooner the better."

The minister turned to Maurice and laughed.

"Eh!" said the Marshal.

"I prophesied that you would speak disparagingly of the dog."

"What a reputation!" cried the old soldier. "I dare say that you have been telling Monsieur Carewe that I am a wit. Monsieur, never attempt to be witty; they will put you down for a wit, and laugh at anything you say, even when you put yourself out to speak the truth. If I possess any wit it is like young grapes- sour. You are connected in Vienna?"

"With the American Legation."

"Happy is the country," said the Marshal, "which is so far away that Europe can find no excuse to meddle with it."

"And even then Europe would not dare," Maurice replied, with impertinence aforethought.

"That is not a diplomatic speech."

"It is true."

"I like your frankness."

"Let that go toward making amends for saving the dog."

"Are all American diplomats so frank?" inquired the Marshal, with an air of feigned wonder.

"Indeed, no," answered Maurice. "Just at present I am not in a diplomatic capacity; I need not look askance at truth. And there is no reason why we should not always be truthful."

"You are wrong. It's truth's infrequency which makes her so charming and refreshing. However, I thank you for your services to her Highness; your services to her dog I shall try to forget." And with this the Marshal moved away, shaking his head as if he had inadvertently stumbled on an intricate problem.

Not long after, Maurice was left to his own devices. He viewed the scene, silent and curious. Conversation was carried on in low tones, and laughter was infrequent and subdued. The women dressed without ostentation. There were no fair arms and necks. Indeed, these belong wholly to youth, and youth was not a factor at the archbishop's receptions. Most of the men were old and bald, and only the wives of the French and British ministers were pretty or young. How different from Vienna, where youth and beauty abound! There were no music, no long tables of refreshments, no sparkling wines, no smoking-room, good stories and better fellowship. There was an absence of the flash of jewels and color which make court life attractive.

There seemed to be hanging in the air some invisible power, the forecast of a tragedy, the beginning of an unknown end. And yet the prelate smiled on enemies and friends alike. As Maurice observed that smile he grew perplexed. It was a smile such as he had seen on the faces of men who, about to die, felt the grim satisfaction of having an enemy for company. The king lay on his death bed, in all probabilities the throne tottered; yet the archbishop smiled.

The princess did not know that her father was dying; this was a secret which had not yet been divulged to her. And this was the only society she knew. Small wonder that she was sad and lonely. To be young, and to find one's self surrounded by the relics of youth; what an existence! She had never known the beauty of a glittering ballroom, felt the music of a waltz mingle with the quick throbs of the heart, the pleasure of bestowing pleasure. She had never read the mute yet intelligent admiration in a young man's eyes. And what young woman does not yearn for the honest adoration of an honest man? Poor, lonely princess indeed. For, loving the world as he himself did, Maurice understood what was slipping past her. Every moment the roots of love were sinking deeper into his heart and twining firmly about, as a vine to a trellis.

Is there a mental telegraphy, an indefinable substance which is affected by the close proximity of a presence, which, while we do not see, we feel? Perhaps; at any rate, Maurice suddenly became aware of that peculiar yet now familiar agitation of his nerves. Instinctively he turned his head. In the doorway which separated the chamber from the conservatory stood her Royal Highness. She was dressed entirely in black, which accentuated the whiteness-the Carrara marble whiteness-of her exquisite skin. In the dark, shining coils swept back from her brow lay the subtle snare of a red rose. There was no other color except on the full lips. She saw Maurice, but she was so far away that the faint reflection of the rose on her cheeks was gone before he reached her side.

"I was afraid," she said, lowering her eyes as she uttered the fib, "that you would not come after all."

"It would have been impossible for me to stay away," he replied, his eyes ardent. The princess looked away. "And may I ask after the health of the dog?"

"Thanks to you, Monsieur; he is getting along finely. Poor dog; he will always limp. What is it that makes men inflict injuries on dumb creatures?"

"It is the beast that is envious of the brute."

"And your hand?" with a glance sympathetic and inquiring.

"My hand?"

"Yes; did you not injure it?"

"O!" He laughed and held out two gloved hands for her inspection. "That was only a scratch. In fact, I do not remember which hand it was."

"You are very modest. I should have made much of it."

He could not translate this; so he said: "There was nothing injured but my hat. I seem unfortunate in that direction."

She smiled, recalling the incident in the archbishop's garden.

"I shall keep the hat, however," he said, "as a souvenir."

"Souvenirs, Monsieur," she replied carelessly, "and old age are synonymous. You and I ought not to have any souvenirs. Have you seen the picture gallery? No? Then I shall have the pleasure of showing it to you. Monseigneur is very proud of his gallery. He has a Leonardo, a Botticelli, a Murillo, and a Rembrandt. And they really show better in artificial light, which softens the effect of time."

Half an hour was passed in the gallery. It was very pleasant to listen to her voice as she described this and that painting, and the archbishop's adventures in securing them. It did not seem possible to him that she was a princess, perhaps destined to become a queen, so free was she from the attributes of royalty, so natural and ingenuous. He caught each movement of her delicate head, each gesture of her hand, the countless inflections of her voice, the lights which burned or died away in the dark wine of her eyes.

Poor devil! he mused, himself in mind; poor fool! He forgot the world, he forgot that he was a prisoner on parole, he forgot the strife between the kingdom and the duchy, he forgot everything but the wild impossible love which filled his senses. He forgot even Prince Frederick of Carnavia.

In truth, the world was "a sorry scheme of things." It was grotesque with inequalities. He had no right to love her; it was wrong to give in to the impulses of the heart, the natural, human impulses. A man can beat down the stone walls of a fort, scale the impregnable heights of a citadel, master the earth and the seas, but he can not surmount the invisible barriers which he himself erected in the past ages-the quality of birth. Ah! if only she had been a peasant, unlettered and unknown, and free to be won! The tasks of Hercules were then but play to him!

Next she led him through the aisles of potted plants in the conservatory. She was very learned. She explained the origin of each flower, its native soil, the time and manner of its transportation. Perhaps she was surprised at his lack of botanical knowledge, he asked so many questions. But it was not the flowers, it was her voice, which urged him to these interrogations.

They were on the point of re-entering the reception chamber, when the jingle of a spur on the mosaic floor caused them to turn. Maurice could not control the start; he had forgotten all about Beauvais. The soldier wore the regulation full dress of the cuirassiers, white trousers, tucked into patent leather half- boots, a gray jacket with gold lace and decorations, red saber straps and a gray pelisse hanging from the left shoulder. A splendid soldier, Maurice grudgingly admitted. What would the Colonel say? The situation was humorous rather than otherwise, and Maurice smiled.

"I was looking for your Highness," said Beauvais, as he came up, "to pay my respects. I am leaving." His glance at Maurice was one of polite curiosity.

"Colonel Beauvais," said the princess, coldly, "Monsieur Carewe, of the American Legation in Vienna."

She was not looking at the Colonel, but Maurice was, and the Colonel's total lack of surprise astonished him. The gaze of the two men plunged into each other's eyes like flashes of lightning, but that was all.

"I am charmed," said the Colonel, a half-ironical smile under his mustache. "Your name is not unfamiliar to me."

"No?" said Maurice, with studied politeness.

"No. It is connected with an exploit. Was it not you who faced the students this afternoon and rescued her Highness's dog?"

"Ah!" said Maurice, in a tone which implied that exploits were every day events with him; "it was but a simple thing to do. The students were like so many sheep."

The princess elevated her brows; she felt an undercurrent of something which she did not understand. Indeed, she did not like the manner in which the two men eyed each other. Her glance passed from the stalwart soldier to the slim, athletic form of the civilian.

Conversation drifted aimlessly. Maurice had the malice to cast the brunt of it on the Colonel's shoulders. The princess, like a rose coming in contact with a chill air, drew within herself. She was cold, brief, and serenely indifferent. It was evident to Maurice that she had resumed her royal mantle, and that she had shown him unusual consideration.

Presently she raised her hand to her head, as sometimes one will do unconsciously, and the rose slipped from her hair and dropped to the floor. Both men stooped. Maurice was quickest. With a bow he offered to return it.

"You may keep it, Monsieur;" and she laughed.

They joined her. Maurice knew why the Colonel laughed, and the Colonel knew why Maurice laughed; but neither could account