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

fall.

"And this is the beginning of the end," said Maurice, throwing aside the paper. "What will happen next? The old prelate is not a man to play to the gallery. Has he found out the double dealing of Beauvais? That takes a burden off my shoulders- unless he goes at once to the duchy. But why wasn't the cabinet dismissed ages ago? It is now too late. And where is Prince Frederick to the rescue? There is something going on, and what it is only the archbishop knows.

That smile of his! How will it end? I'd like to see von Mitter, who seems to be a good gossip. And that poor, friendless, paralytic king! I say, but it makes the blood grow warm."

He left the chair and paced the office confines. Only one thing went echoing through his brain, and that was he could do nothing. The sooner he settled down in the attitude of a spectator the better for him. Besides, he was an official in the employ of a foreign country, and it would be the height of indiscretion to meddle, even in a private capacity. It would be to jeopardize his diplomatic career, and that would be ridiculous.

A porter touched him on the shoulder.

"A letter for your Excellency."

It was from the American minister in Vienna.

"My dear Carewe: I have a service to ask of you. The British minister is worried over the disappearance of a fellow- countryman, Lord Fitzgerald. He set out for Bleiberg, leaving instructions to look him up if nothing was heard of him within a week. Two weeks have gone. Knowing you to be in Bleiberg, I believed you might take the trouble to look into the affair. The British ambassador hints at strange things, as if he feared foul play. I shall have urgent need of you by the first of October; our charge d'affaires is to return home on account of ill-health, and your appointment to that office is a matter of a few days."

Maurice whistled. "That is good news; not Haine's illness, but that I have an excuse to meddle here. I'll telegraph at once. And I'll take the ride besides." He went to his room and buckled on his spurs, and thoughtfully slipped his revolver into a pocket. "I am not going to take any chances, even in the dark." Once again in the office, he stepped up to the desk and ordered his horse to be brought around to the cafe entrance.

"Certainly," said the clerk. Then in low tones "There has been a curious exchange in saddles, Monsieur."

"Saddles?"

"Yes. The saddle in your stall is, curiously enough, stamped with the arms of the house of Auersperg. How that military saddle came into the stables is more than the grooms can solve."

"O," said Maurice, with an assumption of carelessness; "that is all right. It's the saddle I arrived on. The horse and saddle belong to Madame the duchess. I have been visiting at the Red Chateau. I shall return in the morning."

"Ah," said the clerk, with a furtive smile which Maurice lost; "that accounts for the mystery."

"Here are two letters that must get in to-night's mails," Maurice said; "and also this telegram should be sent at once."

"As Monsieur desires. Ah, I came near forgetting. There is a note for Monsieur, which came this afternoon while Monsieur was asleep."

The envelope was unstamped, and the scrawl was unfamiliar to Maurice. On opening it he was surprised to find a hurriedly written note from Fitzgerald. In all probability it had been brought by the midnight courier on his return from the duchy.

"In God's name, Maurice, why do you linger?
To-morrow morning those consols must be here
or they will be useless. Hasten; you know what
it means to me.
Fitzgerald."

Maurice perused it twice, and pulled at his lips. "Madame becomes impatient. Poor devil. Somebody is likely to become suddenly rich and somebody correspondingly poor. What will they say when I return empty-handed? Like as not Madame will accuse me-and Fitzgerald will believe her! . . . The archbishop! That accounts for this bold move. And how the deuce did he get hold of them? I give up." And his shoulders settled in resignation.

He passed down into the cafe, from there to his horse, which a groom was holding at the curb. He swung into the saddle and tossed a coin to the man, who touched his cap.

The early moon lifted its silvery bulk above the ragged east, and the patches of clouds which swarmed over the face of that white world of silence resembled so many rooks. Far away, at the farthermost shore of the lake, whenever the moon went free from the clouds, Maurice could see the slim gray line of the road which stretched toward Italy.

"It's a fine night," he mused, glancing heavenward. The horse answered the touch of the spurs, and cantered away, glad enough to exchange the close air of the stables for this fresh gift of the night. Maurice guided him around the palaces into the avenue, which derived its name from the founder of the opera, in which most of the diplomatic families lived. Past the residence of Beauvais he went, and, gazing up at the lightless windows, a cold of short duration seized his spine. It bad been a hair's breadth betwixt him and death. "Your room, Colonel, is better than you company; and hereafter I shall endeavor to avoid both. I shall feel that cursed blade of yours for weeks to come."

Carriages rolled past him. A gay throng in evening dress was crowding into the opera. The huge placard announced, "Norma- Mlle. Lenormand-Royal Opera Troupe." How he would have liked to hear it, with Lenormand in the title role. He laughed as he recalled the episodes in Vienna which were associated with this queen of song. He waved his hand as the opera house sank in the distance. "Au revoir, Celeste, ma charmante; adieu." By and by he reached the deserted part of the city, and in less than a quarter of an hour branched off into the broad road bordering the lake. The horse quickened his gait as he felt the stone of the streets no longer beneath his feet, which now fell with muffled rhythm on the sound earth. Maurice shared with him the delight of the open country, and began to talk to the animal.

"A fine night, eh, old boy? I've ridden many backs, but none easier than yours. This air is what gives the blood its color. Too bad; you ought not to belong to Madame. She will never think as much of you as I should."

The city was falling away behind, and a yellow vapor rose over it. The lake tumbled in moonshine. Maurice took to dreaming again-hope and a thousand stars, love and a thousand dreams.

"God knows I love her; but what's the use? We can not all have what we want; let us make the best of what we have. Philosophy is a comfort only to old age. Why should youth bother to reason why? And I-I have not yet outgrown youth. I believed I had, but I have not. I did not dream she existed, and now she is more to me than anything else in the world. Why; I wonder why? I look into a pair of brown eyes, and am seized with madness. I hope. For what? O, Bucephalus! let us try to wake and leave the dream behind. The gratitude of a princess and a dog . . . and for this a rose. Well, it will prove the substance of many a pipe, many a kindly pipe. You miss a good deal, Bucephalus; smoking is an evil habit only to those who have not learned to smoke."

The animal replied with a low whinney, and Maurice, believing that the horse had given an ear to his monologue, laughed. But he flattered himself. The horse whinneyed because he inhaled the faint odor of his kind. He drew down on the rein and settled into a swinging trot, which to Maurice's surprise was faster and easier than the canter. They covered a mile this way, when Maurice's roving eye discovered moving shadows, perhaps half a mile in advance.

"Hello! we're not the only ones jogging along. Eh, what's that?" Something flashed brightly, like silver reflecting moonlight; then came a spark of flame, which died immediately, and later Maurice caught an echo which resembled the bursting of a leaf against the lips. "Come; that looks like a pistol shot."

Again the flash of silver, broader and clearer this time; and Maurice could now separate the shadow-shapes. A carriage of some sort rolled from side to side, and two smaller shadows followed its wild flight. One-two-three times Maurice saw the sparks and heard the faint reports. He became excited. Something extraordinary was taking place on the lonely road. Suddenly the top of the carriage replied with spiteful flashes of red. Then the moon came out from behind the clouds, and the picture was vividly outlined. Two continuous flashes of silver. . . . Cuirassiers! Maurice loosened the rein, and the horse went forward as smoothly as a sail. The distance grew visibly less. The carriage opened fire again, and Maurice heard the sinister m-m-m of a bullet winging past him.

"The wrong man may get hit, Bucephalus," he said, bending to the neck of the horse; "which is not unusual. You're pulling them down, old boy; keep it up. There's trouble ahead, and since the cuirassiers are for the king, we'll stand by the cuirassiers."

On they flew, nearer and nearer, until the pistol shots were no longer echoes. Two other horsemen came into view, in advance of the carriage. Five minutes more of this exciting chase, and the faces took on lines and grew into features. Up, up crept the gallant little horse, his hoofs rattling against the road like snares on a drum. When within a dozen rods, Maurice saw one of the cuirassiers turn and level a revolver at him. Fortunately the horse swerved, and the ball went wide.

"Don't shoot!" Maurice yelled; "don't shoot!"

The face he saw was von Mitter's. His heart clogged in his throat, not at the danger which threatened him, but at the thought of what that carriage might contain.

A short time passed, during which nothing was heard but the striking of galloping hoofs and the rumble of the carriage. Maurice soon drew abreast of von Mitter. There was a gash on the latter's cheek, and the blood from it dripped on his cuirass.

"Close for you, my friend," he gasped; when he recognized the new arrival. "Have you-God! my leg that time," with a groan.

For the fire of the carriage had spoken again, and true.

Maurice shut his teeth, drew his revolver, cocked it and applied the spurs. With a bound he shot past von Mitter, who was cursing deeply and trying to reload. Maurice did not propose to waste powder on the driver, but was determined to bring down one of the carriage horses, which were marvelous brutes for speed. Scharfenstein kept popping away at the driver, but without apparent result. Finally Maurice secured the desired range. He raised the revolver, rested the barrel between the left thumb and forefinger and pressed