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

/> "God bless your Highness!" whispered the girl, again pressing the cold hand to her lips. What had given rise to this new-born affection she herself could not say, but a sudden wave of pity rushed into her heart. Perhaps it was because she loved and was loved that caused this expansion of heart toward her mistress, who was likely never to love or beget love, who stood so lonely. Tears came into her eyes.

"You are hysterical!" said the princess.

"No; it is because-because-" She stopped and a blush suffused her face and temples.

The princess took the face between her hands and gazed long and earnestly into it. "Have you discovered a belated pity in your heart for me? Or is it because you thought him wounded unto death, and he was not?"

"It is both!" weeping.

The princess put her arms around the maid. "And you weep for happiness? Let us weep together, then; only-I can not weep for happiness."

To return to the flight of Kopf. As he dashed down the road he heard two reports. At the second he experienced a terrible burning blow under the right shoulder-blade, and immediately his arm became paralyzed. He coughed. With a supreme effort he managed to recover his balance. Already his collar-bone had been cracked by a bullet either from von Mitter or from Scharfenstein.

"God's curse on them all!" he sobbed, pushing his knees into his horse; "God's curse!" He bit his lips; and when he drew his breath the pain which followed almost robbed him of his senses. Behind him the sound of hoofs came no nearer; he had a chance. He could not look back to see if he gained, however, as his neck was stiffening.

"Curse him and his damned gold! He never warned me as he said he would." On he rode. The moon became obscured, and when it flashed again he could see it but indistinctly. . . . To reach the city, to reach Gertrude's, to give the horse a cut and send him adrift, this was his endeavor. But would he reach the city- alive? Was he dying? He could not see . . . Yet again he shut his jaws and drew on his entire strength. He was keeping in the saddle by will power alone. If the horse faltered he was lost. To Gertrude; she could use them. And after all he loved her. If he died she would be provided for.

The first of the city lamps. He sobbed. Into this street he turned, into that, expecting each moment to be challenged, for the white saddle blanket of the cuirassiers stood out conspicuously. At last he had but a corner to turn. He stopped, slid from the saddle and gave the animal a cut across the face. The horse reared, then plunged forward at a wild gallop. Johann staggered along the street, fumbling in his pockets for his keys.

Gertrude of the opera company was usually in the ballet. To- night she had left the stage after the first dance. She had complained of a severe headache, and as the manager knew her worth he had permitted her withdrawal from the corps. She lived off the Frohngarten, in an apartment on the second floor, over a cheap restaurant. She was bathing her temples in perfumed ammonia water, when she heard footsteps in the corridor, and later the rasp of a key in the lock. As the door opened she beheld a spectacle which caused her to scream.

"Hush! Gertrude, I am dying. . . . Brandy! I must talk to you! Silence!" Johann tottered to a lounge and dropped on his side.

The woman, still trembling with fright and terror, poured into her palm some of the pungent liquid with which she had been bathing her temples, and held it under his nose. It revived him. And in a few broken sentences he made known to her what had happened.

"Gertrude, I am lost!" He breathed with difficulty. "I have lived like a rascal, and I die like one. But I have always loved you; I have always been true to you; I have never beaten nor robbed you." His eyes closed.

"O God," she cried, "what shall I do? Johann, you must not die! We will leave the country together. Johann, you do not speak! Johann!" She kissed him, pressed him in her arms, regardless of the stains which these frantic fondlings gathered from his breast. "Johann!"

"Rich," he said dreamily; "rich . . . and to die like a dog!"

She left him and rushed to the sideboard, poured out a tumbler of brandy, and returned to his side. She raised his head, but he swallowed with effort.

"In the lungs," he said. "God! how it burns! Rich; we are rich, Gertrude; a hundred thousand crowns. . . . And I am dying! . . . What a failure! Curse them all; they never offered to lend a hand unless it led toward hell! Gertrude . . . I must tell you. Here; here, put your hand in this pocket; yes. Draw them out. . . A hundred thousand crowns!"

The woman shuddered. Her hand and what it held were wet with blood.

"Hide them!" And Johann fainted away for the second time. When he came to his senses, several minutes had passed. Quickly, with what remaining strength he had, he unfolded his plan.

And her one idea was to save him. She drenched her handkerchief with the ammonia, and bade him hold it to his nose, while she fetched a basin of water and a sponge. Tenderly she drew back his coat and washed the blood from his throat and lips, and moistened his hair.

"Listen!" he cried suddenly, rising on his elbow. "It is they! They have found me! Quick! to the roof!" He struggled to his feet, with that strength which imparts itself to dying men, super-human while it lasts. He threw one arm around her neck. "Help me!"

And thus they gained the hall, mounted the flight to the roof, he groaning and urging, she sobbing, hysterical, and frenzied. She climbed the ladder with him, threw back the trap, and helped him on the roof.

"Now leave me!" he said, kissing her hand.

She gave him her lips, and went down to her rooms, and waited and waited. This agony of suspense lasted a quarter of an hour, when again came the clatter of hoofs. Would this, too, prove a false alarm? She held her hand to her ear. If he were dying. . . They had stopped; they were mounting the stairs; O God, they were beating on the door!

"Open!" cried a voice without; "open in the king's name!"

She gasped, but words would not come. She clenched her hands until the nails sank into the flesh.

"Open, Madame, or down comes the door."

The actress in her came to the rescue. The calm of despair took possession of her.

"In a moment, Messieurs," she said. Her voice was without agitation. She opened the door and the cuirassiers pushed past her. "In heaven's name, Messieurs, what does this mean?"

"We want Johann Kopf," was the answer, "and we have it from good authority that he is here. Do not interfere with us; you are in no wise connected with the affair."

"He is not here," she replied. She wondered at herself, her tones were so even, her mind was so clear.

One of the cuirassiers caught up her gown. "What's this, Madame?" he demanded, pointing to the dark wet stains; "and this?" to her hands, "and this?" to the spots on the carpet, the basin and the sponge. "To the roof, men; he has gone by the roof! Up with you!"

The ballet dancer held forth her hands in supplication; life forsook her limbs; she sank.

The cuirassiers rushed to the roof. . . . When they came down it was slowly and carefully. What they had found on the roof was of no use to them. They laid the inanimate thing on the lounge, and frowned. One of the cuirassiers lifted the ballet dancer and carried her into her bed-room, and laid her on the bed. He had not the heart to revive her. Death softens all angers; even an enemy is no longer such when dead. And Johann Kopf was dead.


CHAPTER XXI


A COURT FETE AT THE RED CHATEAU

At eight o'clock of the following evening, that is to say, the nineteenth of September, Maurice mounted the Thalian pass and left the kingdom in the valley behind him. He was weary, dusty, lame and out of humor; besides, he had a new weight on his conscience. The night before he had taken the life of a man. True, this had happened before, but always in warfare. He had killed in a moment of rage and chagrin a poor devil who was at most only a puppet. There was small credit in the performance. However, the rascal would have suffered death in any event, his act being one of high treason.

In the long ride he had made up his mind to lock away forever the silly dream, the tender, futile, silly dream. All men die with secrets locked in their hearts; thus he, too, would die. His fancy leaped across the chasm of intervening years to the day of his death, and the thought was a happy one! He smiled sadly, as young men smile when they pity themselves. He knew that he would never get over it-in a day. But to-morrow, or to- morrow's to-morrow . .

He took the pass's decline; the duchy spread away toward the south. A quarter of a mile below him he saw the barrack and the customs office which belonged to Madame the duchess. The corporal inspected him and his papers, spoke lowly to the customs inspector, who returned to his office.

"It is all right, Monsieur Carewe," said the corporal; "I ought to recognize the horse a mile away. You will arrive just in time."

"Just in time for what?"

"Ah, true. Her Highness gives a grand ball at the chateau to- night. The court has arrived from Brunnstadt. Some will reside at the chateau, some at General Duckwitz's, others at the Countess Herzberg's."

"Has the duchess arrived at last, then?" was the cynical inquiry.

"She will arrive this evening," answered the corporal, grinning. "A pleasant journey to you."

Maurice proceeded. "And that blockhead of an Englishman has not tumbled yet! The court here? A grand ball? What else can it mean but that Madame is celebrating a victory to come? If the archbishop has those consols, she will wage war; and this is the prelude." He jogged along. He had accomplished a third of the remaining distance, when he was challenged. The sentry came forward and scrutinized the rider.

"O, it is Monsieur Carewe !" he cried in delighted tones. He touched his cap and fell back into the shadows.

A mile farther, and the great chateau, scintillating with lights, loomed up against the yellow sky. He felt a thrill of excitement. Doubtless there would be some bright passages before the night drew to a close. He would make furious love to the pretty countess; it would be something in the way of relaxation. How would they greet him? What would be Madame's future plans in regard to Fitzgerald? How would she get him out of the way, now that he had served her purpose? He laughed.

"The future promises much," he said, half aloud. "I am really glad that I came back."

"Halt!"

Maurice drew