The Puppet Crown Part 8

"Come, then, and I will show you the way to the gate."

"I am sorry to have troubled you," he said.

She did not reply, and together they walked up the path. The plants were dying, and the odor of decay hovered about them. Splashes of rich vermilion crowned the treetops, leaves of gold, russet and faded green rustled on the ground. The sun was gone behind the hills, the lake was tinted with salmon and dun, and Maurice (who honestly would have liked to run) was turning purple, not from atmospheric effect, but from the partly congealed state of his blood. Already he was thinking that his adventure had turned out rather well. It was but a simple task for a man of his imagination to construct a pretty romance, with a kingdom for a background. A maid of honor, perhaps; no matter, he would find means for future communication. A glamour had fallen upon him.

As to the girl, who had scarce spoken to a dozen young men in her life, she was comparing four faces; one of a visionary character of which she had dreamed for ten years, and three which had recently entered into the small circle of her affairs. It was little pleasure to her to talk to those bald diplomats, who were always saying what they did not mean, and meaning what they did not say. And the young officers in the palace never presumed to address her unless spoken to.

What a monotonous life it was! She was like a bird in a cage, ever longing for freedom, not of the air, but of impulse. To be permitted to yield to the impulses of the heart! What a delightful thought that was!

But she, she seemed apart from all which was desirable to youth. Women courtesied to her, men touched their hats; but homage was not what she wanted. To be free, that was all; to come and go at will; to laugh and to sing. But ever the specter of royal dignity walked beside her and held her captive.

She was to wed a man on whom she looked with indifference, but wed him she must; it was written. A toy of ambition, she was neither more nor less. Ah, to be as her maids, not royal, but free. Of the three new faces one belonged to the man whom she was to wed; another was a tall, light-haired man whom she had seen from her carriage; the last walked by her side. And somehow, the visionary face, the faces of the man whom she was to wed and the light-haired man suddenly grew indistinct. She glanced from the corner of her eyes at Maurice, but meeting his glance, in which lay something that caused her uneasiness, her gaze dropped to the path.

"I shall be pleased to tell her Highness that a stranger, who has not met her, who does not even suspect her rebel spirit, desires to be her friend."

"O, Mademoiselle," he cried in alarm, "that desire was expressed in confidence."

"I know it. It is for that very reason I wish her to know. Have no fear, Monsieur;" and she laughed without mirth. "Her Highness will not send you to prison."

Close at hand Maurice discovered a cuira.s.sier, who, on seeing them, saluted and stood attention. Maurice was puzzled.

"Lieutenant," said the girl, "Monsieur--Carewe?" turning to Maurice.

"Yes, that is the name."

"Well, then, Monsieur Carewe has met with an accident; please escort him to the gate. I trust you will not suffer any inconvenience from the cold. Good evening, Monsieur Carewe."

She retraced her steps down the path. The bulldog followed. Once he looked back at Maurice, and stopped as if undecided, then went on.

Maurice stared at the figure of the girl until it vanished behind a clump of rose bushes.

"Well, Monsieur Carewe!" said the Lieutenant, a broad smile under his mustache.

"I beg your pardon, Lieutenant. May I ask you who she is?"

"What! You do not know?"

Maurice suddenly saw light. "Her Royal Highness?" blankly.

"Her Royal Highness, G.o.d bless her!" cried the Lieutenant heartily.

"Amen to that," replied Maurice, his agitation visible even to the officer.

They arrived at the gate in silence. The cuira.s.sier raised the bar, touched his helmet, and said, with something like an amused twinkle in his eyes: "Would Monsieur like to borrow my helmet for a s.p.a.ce?"

Maurice put up a hand to his water-soaked hair, and gave an e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n of dismay. He had forgotten all about his hat, which was by now, in-all probabilities, at the bottom of the lake.

"Curse the luck!" he said, in English.

"Curse the want of it, I should say!" was the merry rejoinder, also in English.

Maurice threw back his head and laughed, and the cuira.s.sier caught the infection.

"However, there is some compensation for the hat," said the cuira.s.sier, straightening his helmet. "You are the first stranger who has spoken to her Highness this many a day. Did the dog take to your calves? Well, never mind; he has no teeth. It was only day before yesterday that the Marshal swore he'd have the dog shot. Poor dog! He is growing blind, too, or he'd never have risked his gums on the Marshal, who is all s.h.i.+ns. If you will wait I will fetch you one of the archbishop's skull caps."

"Don't trouble yourself," laughed Maurice. "What I need is not a hat, but a towel, and I'll get that at the hotel. George! I feel so like an a.s.s. What is your name, Lieutenant?"

"Von Mitter, Carl von Mitter, at your service. And you are Monsieur Carewe."

"Of the American legation in Vienna. Thanks for your trouble."

"None at all. You had better hurry along; your nails are growing black."

Maurice pa.s.sed into the street. "Her Royal Highness!" he muttered.

"The crown princess, and I never suspected. Her name is Alexia, and she serves the princess whenever she can! Maurice, you are an a.s.s!"

Having arrived at this conclusion, and brus.h.i.+ng the dank hair from his eyes, he thrust his hands into his oozing pockets, and proceeded across the square toward the Continental, wondering if there was a rear entrance. Happily the adventure absorbed all his thoughts. He was quite un.o.bservant of the marked attention bestowed on him. Carriages filled the Stra.s.se, and many persons moved along the walks. It was the promenade hour. The water, which still dripped from his clothes and trickled from his shoes, left a conspicuous trail behind; and this alone, without the absence of a hat, would have made him the object of amused and wondering smiles.

A gendarme stared at him, but seeing that he walked straight, said nothing. Maurice, however, was serenely unaware of what was pa.s.sing around him. He did not notice even the tall, broad-shouldered man who, with a gun under his arm, brushed past him, followed by a round-faced German over whose back was slung a game-bag. The man with the gun was also oblivious of his surroundings. He b.u.mped into several persons, who scowled at him, but offered no remonstrance after having taken his measure. The German put his pipe into his pocket and advanced a step.

"The other gun, Herr," he said, "would have meant the boar."

"So it would, perhaps," was the reply.

"We've done pretty good work these two days," went on the German; but as the other appeared not to have heard he fell to the rear again, a sardonic smile flitting over his oily face.

When Maurice reached the hotel cafe he left an order for a cognac to be sent to his room, whither he repaired at once. As he got into dry clothes he mused.

"I wonder what sort of a man that crown prince is? Now, if I were he, an army could not keep me away from Bleiberg. Either he is no judge of beauty, or the peasant girls hereabout are something extraordinary.

Pshaw! a man always makes an a.s.s of himself on his wedding eve; the crown prince is simply starting in early. I believe I'll hang on here till the wedding day; a royal marriage is one of those things which I have yet to see. I have a fortnight or more to knock around in. I should like to know what the d.u.c.h.ess will eventually do."

He sipped the last drop of the cognac and went down the stairs.

CHAPTER V. BEHIND THE PUPPET BOOTH

While the absent-minded hunter strode down toward the lower town, and Maurice sipped his cognac, the king lay in his bed in the palace and aimlessly fingered the counterpane. There was now no beauty in his face.

It was furrowed and pale, and an endless fever burned in the sunken eyes--eyes like coals, which suddenly flare before they turn to ash.

The archbishop nor the chancellor could see anything in the dim corners of the royal bed chamber, but he could. It was the mocking finger of death, and it was leveled at him. Spring had come, and summer and autumn and winter, and spring again, but he had not wandered through the green fields, except in dreams, and the byways he loved knew him no more. Ah, to sit still like a spectator and to see the world pa.s.s by! To be a part of it, and yet not of it! To see the glory of strength and vigor just beyond one's grasp, the staffs to lean on crumble to the touch, and the stars of hope fade away one by one from the firmament of one's dreams!

Here was weariness for which there was no remedy.

Day by day time pressed him on toward the inevitable. No human hand could stay him. He could think, but he could not act. He could move, but he could not stand nor walk. And that philosophy which had in other days sustained him was shattered and threadbare. He was dead, yet he lived.

Fate has so many delicate ironies.

He had tried to make his people love him, only to acquire their hate.

He had reduced taxation, only to be scorned. He had made the city beautiful, only to be cursed. A paralytic, the theme of ribald verse, the b.u.t.t of wineroom wits, the object of contumely to his people, his beneficiaries!

The ingrat.i.tude of kings bites not half so deep as the ingrat.i.tude of the people. Tears filled his eyes, and he fumbled his lips. There were only two bright spots in his futile life. The first was his daughter, who read to him, who was the first in the morning to greet him and last at night to leave him. The second was the evening hour when the archbishop and the chancellor came in to discuss the affairs of state.