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The Puppet Crown

by Harold MacGrath · English · Gutenberg #3239 · 606,853 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Puppet Crown

Author: Harold MacGrath


        
Release date: May 1, 2002 [eBook #3239]
                Most recently updated: March 16, 2018

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3239

Credits: Produced by Charles Franks, the Distributed Proofreading Team, and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PUPPET CROWN ***




Produced by Charles Franks and the Distributed Proofreading Team





THE PUPPET CROWN

by Harold MacGrath




     TO THE MEMORY OF THAT GOOD FRIEND
                    AND
            COMRADE OF MY YOUTH
                 MY FATHER



CONTENTS

     I. THE SCEPTER WHICH WAS A STICK
    II. THE COUP D'ETAT OF COUSIN JOSEF
   III. AN EPISODE TEN YEARS AFTER
    IV. AN ADVENTURE WITH ROYALTY
     V. BEHIND THE PUPPET BOOTH
    VI. MADEMOISELLE OF THE VEIL
   VII. SOME DIALOGUE, AN SPRAINED ANKLE, AND SOME SOLDIERS
  VIII. THE RED CHATEAU
    IX. NOTHING MORE SERIOUS THAN A HOUSE PARTY
     X. BEING OF LONG RIDES, MAIDS, KISSES AND MESSAGES
    XI. THE DENOUEMENT
   XII. WHOM THE GODS DESTROY AND A FEW OTHERS
  XIII. BEING OF COMPLICATIONS NOT RECKONED ON
   XIV. QUI M'AIME, AIME MON CHIEN
    XV. IN WHICH FORTUNE BECOMES CARELESS AND PRODIGAL
   XVI. WHAT HAPPENED AT THE ARCHBISHOP'S PLACE AND AFTER
  XVII. SOME PASSAGES AT ARMS
 XVIII. A MINOR CHORD AND A CHANGE OF MOVEMENT
   XIX. A CHANCE RIDE IN THE NIGHT
    XX. THE LAST STAND OF A BAD SERVANT
   XXI. A COURT FETE AT THE RED CHATEAU
  XXII. IN WHICH MAURICE RECURS TO OFFENBACH
 XXIII. A GAME OF POKER AND THE STAKES
  XXIV. THE PRISONER OF THE RED CHATEAU
   XXV. THE FORTUNES OF WAR
  XXVI. A PAGE FORM TASSO
 XXVII. WORMWOOD AND LEES
XXVIII. INTO THE HANDS OF AUSTRIA  XXIX. INTO STILL WATERS AND SILENCE



     Ah Love! Could you and I with Him conspire
     To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire
       Would not we shatter it to bits--and then
     Re-mold it nearer to the Heart's desire!

                    --Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam




CHAPTER I. THE SCEPTER WHICH WAS A STICK

The king sat in his private garden in the shade of a potted orange tree,
the leaves of which were splashed with brilliant yellow. It was high
noon of one of those last warm sighs of passing summer which now and
then lovingly steal in between the chill breaths of September. The
velvet hush of the mid-day hour had fallen.

There was an endless horizon of turquoise blue, a zenith pellucid as
glass. The trees stood motionless; not a shadow stirred, save that which
was cast by the tremulous wings of a black and purple butterfly, which,
near to his Majesty, fell, rose and sank again. From a drove of wild
bees, swimming hither and thither in quest of the final sweets of the
year, came a low murmurous hum, such as a man sometimes fancies he hears
while standing alone in the vast auditorium of a cathedral.

The king, from where he sat, could see the ivy-clad towers of the
archbishop's palace, where, in and about the narrow windows, gray and
white doves fluttered and plumed themselves. The garden sloped gently
downward till it merged into a beautiful lake called the Werter See,
which, stretching out several miles to the west, in the heart of the
thick-wooded hills, trembled like a thin sheet of silver.

Toward the south, far away, lay the dim, uneven blue line of the Thalian
Alps, which separated the kingdom that was from the duchy that is, and
the duke from his desires. More than once the king leveled his gaze
in that direction, as if to fathom what lay behind those lordly rugged
hills.

There was in the air the delicate odor of the deciduous leaves which,
every little while, the king inhaled, his eyes half-closed and his
nostrils distended. Save for these brief moments, however, there rested
on his countenance an expression of disenchantment which came of
the knowledge of a part ill-played, an expression which described a
consciousness of his unfitness and inutility, of lethargy and weariness
and distaste.

To be weary is the lot of kings, it is a part of their royal
prerogative; but it is only a great king who can be weary gracefully.
And Leopold was not a great king; indeed, he was many inches short of
the ideal; but he was philosophical, and by the process of reason he
escaped the pitfalls which lurk in the path of peevishness.

To know the smallness of the human atom, the limit of desire, the
existence of other lives as precious as their own, is not the philosophy
which makes great kings. Philosophy engenders pity; and one who
possesses that can not ride roughshod over men, and that is the business
of kings.

As for Leopold, he would rather have wandered the byways of Kant than
studied royal etiquette. A crown had been thrust on his head and a
scepter into his hand, and, willy-nilly, he must wear the one and wield
the other. The confederation had determined the matter shortly before
the Franco-Prussian war.

The kingdom that was, an admixture of old France and newer Austria, was
a gateway which opened the road to the Orient, and a gateman must be
placed there who would be obedient to the will of the great travelers,
were they minded to pass that way. That is to say, the confederation
wanted a puppet, and in Leopold they found a dreamer, which served as
well. That glittering bait, a crown, had lured him from his peaceful
Osian hills and valleys, and now he found that his crown was of straw
and his scepter a stick.

He longed to turn back, for his heart lay in a tomb close to his castle
keep, but the way back was closed. He had sold his birthright. So he
permitted his ministers to rule his kingdom how they would, and gave
himself up to dreams. He had been but a cousin of the late king, whereas
the duke of the duchy that is had been a brother. But cousin Josef
was possessed of red hair and a temper which was redder still, and,
moreover, a superlative will, bending to none, and laughing at those who
tried to bend him.

He would have been a king to the tip of his fiery hair; and it was for
this very reason that his subsequent appeals for justice and his rights
fell on unheeding ears. The confederation feared Josef; therefore they
dispossessed him. Thus Leopold sat on the throne, while his Highness bit
his nails and swore, impotent to all appearances.

Leopold leaned forward from his seat. In his hand he held a riding stick
with which he drew shapeless pictures in the yellow gravel of the path.
His brows were drawn over contemplative eyes, and the hint of a sour
smile lifted the corners of his lips. Presently the brows relaxed, and
his gaze traveled to the opposite side of the path, where the British
minister sat in the full glare of the sun.

In the middle of the path, as rigid as a block of white marble, reposed
a young bulldog, his moist black nose quivering under the repeated
attacks of a persistent insect. It occurred to the king that there was
a resemblance between the dog and his master, the Englishman. The same
heavy jaws were there, the same fearless eyes, the same indomitable
courage for the prosecution of a purpose.

A momentary regret passed through him that he had not been turned from
a like mold. Next his gaze shifted to the end of the path, where a
young Lieutenant stood idly kicking pebbles, his cuirass flaming in the
dazzling sunshine. Soon the drawing in the gravel was resumed.

The British minister made little of the three-score years which were
closing in on him, after the manner of an army besieging a citadel. He
was full of animal exuberance, and his eyes, a trifle faded, it must
be admitted, were still keenly alive and observant. He was big of
bone, florid of skin, and his hair--what remained of it--was wiry and
bleached. His clothes, possibly cut from an old measure, hung loosely
about the girth--a sign that time had taken its tithe. For thirty-five
years he had served his country by cunning speeches and bursts of fine
oratory; he had wandered over the globe, lulling suspicions here and
arousing them there, a prince of the art of diplomacy.

He had not been sent here to watch this kingdom. He was touching a
deeper undercurrent, which began at St. Petersburg and moved toward
Central Asia, Turkey and India, sullenly and irresistibly. And now his
task was done, and another was to take his place, to be a puppet among
puppets. He feared no man save his valet, who knew his one weakness, the
love of a son on whom he had shut his door, which pride forbade him to
open. This son had chosen the army, when a fine diplomatic career had
been planned--a small thing, but it sufficed. Even now a word from an
humbled pride would have reunited father and son, but both refused to
speak this word.

The diplomat in turn watched the king as he engaged in the aimless
drawing. His meditation grew retrospective, and his thoughts ran back
to the days when he first befriended this lonely prince, who had come to
England to learn the language and manners of the chill islanders. He had
been handsome enough in those days, this Leopold of Osia, gay and eager,
possessing an indefinable charm which endeared him to women and made him
respected of men. To have known him then, the wildest stretch of
fancy would never have placed him on this puppet throne, surrounded
by enemies, menaced by his adopted people, rudderless and ignorant of
statecraft.

“Fate is the cup,” the diplomat mused, “and the human life the ball,
and it's toss, toss, toss, till the ball slips and falls into eternity.”
 Aloud he said, “Your Majesty seems to be well occupied.”

“Yes,” replied the king, smiling. “I am making crowns and scratching
them out again--usurping the gentle pastime of their most Christian
Majesties, the confederation. A pretty bauble is a crown, indeed--at a
distance. It is a fine thing to wear one--in a dream. But to possess one
in the real, and to wear it day by day with the eternal fear of laying
it down and forgetting where you put it, or that others plot to steal
it, or that you wear it dishonestly--Well, well, there are worse things
than a beggar's crust.”

“No one is honest in this world, save the brute,” said the diplomat,
touching the dog with his foot. “Honesty is instinctive with him, for
he knows no written laws. The gold we use is stamped with dishonesty,
notwithstanding the beautiful mottoes; and so long as we barter and
sell for it, just so long we remain dishonest. Yes, you wear your crown
dishonestly but lawfully, which is a nice distinction. But is any crown
worn honestly? If it is not bought with gold, it is bought with lies
and blood. Sire, your great fault, if I may speak, is that you haven't
continued to be dishonest. You should have filled your private coffers,
but you have not done so, which is a strange precedent to establish. You
should have increased taxation, but you have diminished it; you should
have forced your enemy's hand four years ago, when you ascended the
throne, but you did not; and now, for all you know, his hand may be
too strong. Poor, dishonest king! When you accepted this throne, which
belongs to another, you fell as far as possible from moral ethics.
And now you would be honest and be called dull, and dream, while your
ministers profit and smile behind your back. I beg your Majesty's
pardon, but you have always requested that I should speak plainly.”

The king laughed; he enjoyed this frank friend. There was an essence of
truth and sincerity in all he said that encouraged confidence.

“Indeed, I shall be sorry to have you go tomorrow,” he said, “for I
believe if you stayed here long enough you would truly make a king of
me. Be frank, my friend, be always frank; for it is only on the base of
frankness that true friendship can rear itself.”

“You are only forty-eight,” said the Englishman; “you are young.”

“Ah, my friend,” replied the king with a tinge of sadness, “it is not
the years that age us; it is how we live them. In the last four years I
have lived ten. To-day I feel so very old! I am weary of being a king.
I am weary of being weary, and for such there is no remedy. Truly I was
not cut from the pattern of kings; no, no. I am handier with a book than
with a scepter; I'd liever be a man than a puppet, and a puppet I am--a
figurehead on the prow of the ship, but I do not guide it. Who care for
me save those who have their ends to gain? None, save the archbishop,
who yet dreams of making a king of me. And these are not my people who
surround me; when I die, small care. I shall have left in the passing
scarce a finger mark in the dust of time.”

“Ah, Sire, if only you would be cold, unfriendly, avaricious. Be stone
and rule with a rod of iron. Make the people fear you, since they refuse
to love you; be stone.”

“You can mold lead, but you can not sculpture it; and I am lead.”

“Yes; not only the metal, but the verb intransitive. Ah, could the fires
of ambition light your soul!”

“My soul is a blackened grate of burnt-out fires, of which only a coal
remains.”

And the king turned in his seat and looked across the crisp green
lawns to the beds of flowers, where, followed by a maid at a respectful
distance, a slim young girl in white was cutting the hardy geraniums,
dahlias and seed poppies.

“God knows what her legacy will be!”

“It is for you to make it, Sire.”

Both men continued to remark the girl. At length she came toward
them, her arms laden with flowers. She was at the age of ten, with a
beautiful, serious face, which some might have called prophetic.
Her hair was dark, shining like coal and purple, and gossamer in its
fineness; her skin had the blue-whiteness of milk; while from under long
black lashes two luminous brown eyes looked thoughtfully at the world.
She smiled at the king, who eyed her fondly, and gave her unengaged hand
to the Englishman, who kissed it.

“And how is your Royal Highness this fine day? he asked, patting the
hand before letting it go.

“Will you have a dahlia, Monsieur?” With a grave air she selected a
flower and slipped it through his button-hole.

“Does your Highness know the language of the flowers?” the Englishman
asked.

“Dahlias signify dignity and elegance; you are dignified, Monsieur, and
dignity is elegance.”

“Well!” cried the Englishman, smiling with pleasure; “that is turned as
adroitly as a woman of thirty.”

“And am I not to have one?” asked the king, his eyes full of paternal
love and pride.

“They are for your Majesty's table,” she answered.

“Your Majesty!” cried the king in mimic despair. “Was ever a father
treated thus? Your Majesty! Do you not know, my dear, that to me
'father' is the grandest title in the world?”

Suddenly she crossed over and kissed the king on the cheek, and he held
her to him for a moment.

The bulldog had risen, and was wagging his tail the best he knew how. If
there was any young woman who could claim his unreserved admiration,
it was the Princess Alexia. She never talked nonsense to him in their
rambles together, but treated him as he should be treated, as an animal
of enlightenment.

“And here is Bull,” said the princess, tickling the dog's nose with a
scarlet geranium.

“Your Highness thinks a deal of Bull?” said the dog's master.

“Yes, Monsieur, he doesn't bark, and he seems to understand all I say to
him.”

The dog looked up at his master as if to say: “There now, what do you
think of that?”

“To-morrow I am going away,” said the diplomat, “and as I can not very
well take Bull with me, I give him to you.”

The girl's eyes sparkled. “Thank you, Monsieur, shall I take him now?”

“No, but when I leave your father. You see, he was sent to me by my son
who is in India. I wish to keep him near me as long as possible. My son,
your Highness, was a bad fellow. He ran away and joined the army against
my wishes, and somehow we have never got together again. Still, I've
a sneaking regard for him, and I believe he hasn't lost all his filial
devotion. Bull is, in a way, a connecting link.”

The king turned again to the gravel pictures. These Englishmen were
beyond him in the matter of analysis. Her Royal Highness smiled vaguely,
and wondered what this son was like. Once more she smiled, then moved
away toward the palace. The dog, seeing that she did not beckon, lay
down again. An interval of silence followed her departure. The thought
of the Englishman had traveled to India, the thought of the king to
Osia, where the girl's mother slept. The former was first to rouse.

“Well, Sire, let us come to the business at hand, the subject of my last
informal audience. It is true, then, that the consols for the loan
of five millions of crowns are issued to-day, or have been, since the
morning is passed?”

“Yes, it is true. I am well pleased. Jacobi and Brother have agreed to
place them at face value. I intend to lay out a park for the public at
the foot of the lake. That will demolish two millions and a half. The
remainder is to be used in city improvements and the reconstruction of
the apartments in the palace, which are too small. If only you knew what
a pleasure this affords me! I wish to make my good city of Bleiberg a
thing of beauty--parks, fountains, broad and well paved streets.”

“The Diet was unanimous in regard to this loan?”

“In fact they suggested it, and I was much in favor.”

“You have many friends there, then?”

“Friends?” The king's face grew puzzled, and its animation faded away.
“None that I know. This is positively the first time we ever agreed
about anything.”

“And did not that strike you as rather singular?”

“Why, no.”

“Of course, the people are enthusiastic, considering the old rate of
taxation will be renewed?” The diplomat reached over and pulled the
dog's ears.

“So far as I can see,” answered the king, who could make nothing of this
interrogatory.

“Which, if your Majesty will pardon me, is not very far beyond your
books.”

“I have ministers.”

“Who can see farther than your Majesty has any idea.”

“Come, come, my friend,” cried the king good-naturedly; “but a moment
gone you were chiding me because I did nothing. I may not fill my
coffers as you suggested, but I shall please my eye, which is something.
Come; you have something to tell me.”

“Will your Majesty listen?”

“I promise.”

“And to hear?”

“I promise not only to listen, but to hear,” laughing; “not only to
hear, but to think. Is that sufficient?”

“For three years,” began the Englishman, “I have been England's
representative here. As a representative I could not meddle with
your affairs, though it was possible to observe them. To-day I am an
unfettered agent of self, and with your permission I shall talk to you
as I have never talked before and never shall again.”

The diplomat rose from his seat and walked up and down the path, his
hands clasped behind his back, his chin in his collar. The bulldog
yawned, stretched himself, and followed his master, soberly and
thoughtfully. After a while the Englishman returned to his chair and sat
down. The dog gravely imitated him. He understood, perhaps better than
the king, his master's mood. This pacing backward and forward was always
the forerunner of something of great importance.

During the past year he had been the repository of many a secret. Well,
he knew how to keep one. Did not he carry a secret which his master
would have given much to know? Some one in far away India, after putting
him into the ship steward's care, had whispered: “You tell the governor
that I think just as much of him as ever.” He had made a desperate
effort to tell it the moment he was liberated from the box, but he
had not yet mastered that particular language which characterized his
master's race.

“To begin with,” said the diplomat, “what would your Majesty say if I
should ask permission to purchase the entire loan?”




CHAPTER II. THE COUP D'ETAT OF COUSIN JOSEF

The king, who had been leaning forward, fell back heavily in his seat,
his eyes full wide and his mouth agape. Then, to express his utter
bewilderment, he raised his hands above his head and limply dropped
them.

“Five millions of crowns?” he gasped.

“Yes; what would your Majesty say to such a proposition?” complacently.

“I should say,” answered the king, with a nervous laugh, “that my friend
had lost his senses, completely and totally.”

“The fact is,” the Englishman declared, “they were never keener nor more
lucid than at this present moment.”

“But five millions!”

“Five millions; a bagatelle,” smiling.

“Certainly you can not be serious, and if you were, it is out of the
question. Death of my life! The kingdom would be at my ears. The people
would shout that I was selling out to the English, that I was putting
them into the mill to grind for English sacks.”

“Your Majesty will recollect that the measure authorizing this loan
was rather a peculiar one. Five millions were to be borrowed
indiscriminately, of any man or body of men willing to advance the money
on the securities offered. First come, first served, was not written,
but it was implied. It was this which roused my curiosity, or cupidity,
if you will.”

“I can not recollect that the bill was as you say,” said the king,
frowning.

“I believe you. When the bill came to you, you were not expected to
recollect anything but the royal signature. Have you read half of what
you have signed and made law? No. I am serious. What is it to you or to
the people, who secures this public mortgage, so long as the money
is forthcoming? I desire to purchase at face value the twenty
certificates.”

“As a representative of England?”

The diplomat smiled. The king's political ignorance was well known. “As
a representative of England, Sire, I could not purchase the stubs from
which these certificates are cut. And then, as I remarked, I am an
unfettered agent of self. The interest at two per cent. will be a
fine income on a lump of stagnant money. Even in my own country, where
millionaires are so numerous as to be termed common, I am considered a
rich man. My personal property, aside from my estates, is five times the
amount of the loan. A mere bagatelle, if I may use that pleasantry.”

“Impossible, impossible!” cried the king, starting to his feet, while
a line of worry ran across his forehead. He strode about impatiently
slapping his boots with the riding stick. “It is impossible.”

“Why do you say impossible, Sire?”

“I can not permit you to put in jeopardy a quarter of a million pounds,”
 forgetting for the moment that he was powerless.

“Aha!” the diplomat cried briskly. “There is, then, beneath your
weariness and philosophy, a fear?”

“A fear?” With an effort the king smoothed the line from his forehead.
“Why should there be fear?”

“Why indeed, when our cousin Josef--” He stopped and looked toward the
mountains.

“Well?” abruptly.

“I was thinking what a fine coup de maitre it would be for his Highness
to gather in all these pretty slips of parchment given under the hand of
Leopold.”

“Small matter if he should. I should pay him.” The king sat down. “And
it is news to me that Josef can get together five millions.”

“He has friends, rich and powerful friends.”

“No matter, I should pay him.”

“Are you quite sure?”

“What do you mean?”

“The face of the world changes in the course of ten years. Will there be
five millions in your treasury ten years hence?”

“The wealth of my kingdom is not to be questioned,” proudly, “nor its
resources.”

“But in ten years, with the ministers you have?” The Englishman shrugged
doubtfully. “Why have you not formed a new cabinet of younger men?
Why have you retained those of your predecessor, who are your natural
enemies? You have tried and failed.”

The expression of weariness returned to the king's face. He knew that
all this was but a preamble to something of deeper significance. He
anticipated what was forming in the other's mind, but he wished to
avoid a verbal declaration. O, he knew that there was a net of intrigue
enmeshing him, but it was so very fine that he could not pick up the
smallest thread whereby to unravel it. Down in his soul he felt the
shame of the knowledge that he dared not. A dreamer, rushing toward the
precipice, would rather fall dreaming than waken and struggle futilely.

“My friend,” he said, finally, sighing, “proceed. I am all attention.”

“I never doubted your Majesty's perspicacity. You do not know, but you
suspect, what I am about to disclose to you. My hope is that, when I am
done, your Majesty will throw Kant and the rest of your philosophers out
of the window. The people are sullen at the mention of your name,
while they cheer another. There is an astonishing looseness about
your revenues. The reds and the socialists plot for revolution and
a republic, which is a thin disguise for a certain restoration. Your
cousin the duke visits you publicly twice each year. He has been in the
city a week at a time incognito, yet your minister of police seems
to know nothing.” The speaker ceased, and fondled the dahlia in his
button-hole.

The king, noting the action, construed it as the subtle old diplomat
intended he should. “Yes, yes! I am a king only for her sake. Go on.
Tell me all.”

“The archbishop and the chancellor are the only friends you possess.
The Marshal, from personal considerations merely, remains neutral. Your
army, excepting the cuirassiers, are traitors to your house. The wisest
thing you have done was to surround yourself with this mercenary body,
whom you call the royal cuirassiers, only, instead of three hundred, you
should have two thousand. Self-interest will make them true to you.
You might find some means to pay them, for they would be a good buffer
between you and your enemies. The president of the Diet and the members
are passing bills which will eventually undermine you. How long it will
take I can not say. But this last folly, the loan, which you could have
got on without, caps the climax. The duke was in the city last week
unknown to you. Your minister of finance is his intimate. This loan
was a connivance of them all. Why ten years, when it could easily be
liquidated in five? I shall tell you. The duke expects to force you into
bankruptcy within that time, and when the creditor demands and you can
not pay, you will be driven from here in disgrace.

“And where will you go? Certainly not to Osia, since you traded it for
this throne. It was understood, when you assumed the reign, that the
finances of the kingdom would remain unimpeachable. Bankrupt, the
confederation will be forced to disavow you. They will be compelled to
restore the throne to your enemy, who, believe me, is most anxious to
become your creditor.

“This is an independent state,--conditionally. The confederation have
formed themselves into a protectorate. Why? I can only guess. One or
more of them covet these beautiful lands. What are ten years to Josef,
when a crown is the goal? Your revenues are slowly to decline, there
will be internal troubles to eat up what money you have in the treasury.
O, it is a plot so fine, so swiftly conceived, so cunningly devised that
I would I were twenty years younger, to fight it with you! But I am
old. My days for acting are past. I can only advise. He was sure of his
quarry, this Josef whose hair is of many colors. Had you applied to the
money syndicates of Europe, the banks of England, France, Germany, or
Austria, your true sponsor, the result would always be the same: your
ruin. Covertly I warned you not to sign; you laughed and signed. A trap
was there, your own hand opened it. How they must have laughed at
you! If you attempt to repudiate your signature the Diet has power to
overrule you.

“Truly, the shade of Macchiavelli masks in the garb of your cousin. I
admire the man's genius. This is his throne by right of inheritance. I
do not blame him. Only, I wish to save you. If you were alone, why, I
do not say that I should trouble myself, for you yourself would not be
troubled. But I have grown to love that child of yours. It is all for
her. Do you now understand why I make the request? It appears Quixotic?
Not at all. Put my money in jeopardy? Not while the kingdom exists. If
you can not pay back, your kingdom will. Perhaps you ask what is the
difference, whether I or the duke becomes your creditor? This: in ten
years I shall be happy to renew the loan. In ten years, if I am gone,
there will be my son. You wonder why I do this. I repeat it is for your
daughter. And perhaps,” with a dry smile, “it is because I have no love
for Josef.”

“I will defeat him!” cried the king, a fire at last shining in his eyes.

“You will not.”

“I will appeal to the confederation and inform them of the plot.”

“The resource of a child! They would laugh at you for your pains.
For they are too proud of their prowess in statecraft to tolerate
a suspicion that your cousin is a cleverer man than all of them put
together. There remains only one thing for you to do.”

“And what is that?” wearily.

“Accept my friendship at its true value.”

The king made no reply. He set his elbows on the arms of the rustic
seat, interlaced his fingers and rested his chin on them, while his
booted legs slid out before him. His meditation lengthened into several
minutes. The diplomat evinced no sign of impatience.

“Come with me,” said the king, rising quickly. “I will no longer dream.
I will act. Come.”

The diplomat nodded approvingly; and together they marched toward the
palace. The bulldog trotted on behind, his pink tongue lolling out
of his black mouth, a white tusk or two gleaming on each side. The
Lieutenant of the cuirassiers saluted as they passed him, and, when they
had gone some distance, swung in behind. He observed with some concern
that his Majesty was much agitated.

The business of the kingdom, save that performed in the Diet, was
accomplished in the east wing of the palace; the king's apartments,
aside from the state rooms, occupied the west wing. It was to the
business section that the king conducted the diplomat. In the chamber of
finance its minister was found busy at his desk. He glanced up casually,
but gave an ejaculation of surprise when he perceived who his visitors
were.

“O, your Majesty!” he cried, bobbing up and running out his chair.
“Good afternoon, your Excellency,” to the Englishman, adjusting his
gold-rimmed glasses, through which his eyes shone pale and cold.

The diplomat bowed. The little man reminded him of M. Thiers, that
effervescence of soda tinctured with the bitterness of iron. He
understood the distrust which Count von Wallenstein entertained for him,
but he was not distrustful of the count. Distrust implies uncertainty,
and the Englishman was not the least uncertain as to his conception of
this gentleman of finance.

There were few men whom the count could not interpret; one stood before
him. He could not comprehend why England had sent so astute a diplomat
and politician to a third-rate kingdom. Of that which we can not
understand we are suspicious, and the guilty are distrustful. Neither
the minister of police nor his subordinates could fathom the purpose of
this calm, dignified old man with the difficult English name.

“Count,” began the king, pleasantly, “his Excellency here has made a
peculiar request.”

“And what might that be, Sire?”

“He offers to purchase the entire number of certificates issued to-day
for our loan.”

“Five millions of crowns?” The minister's astonishment was so genuine
that in jerking back his head his glasses slipped from his nose and
dangled on the string.

The Englishman bowed again, the wrinkle of a smile on his face.

“I would not believe him serious at first, count,” said the king,
laughing easily, “but he assured me that he is. What can be done about
it?”

“O, your Majesty,” cried the minister, excitedly, “it would not be
politic. And then the measure--”

“Is it possible that I have misconstrued its import?” the diplomat
interposed with a fine air of surprise.

“You are familiar--” began the count, hesitatingly.

“Perfectly; that is, I believe so.”

“But England--”

“Has nothing whatever to do with the matter. Something greater, which
goes by the name of self-interest.”

“Ah,” said the count, his wrinkles relaxing; “then it is on your own
responsibility?”

“Precisely.”

“But five millions of crowns--two hundred and fifty thousand pounds!”
 The minister could not compose himself. “This is a vast sum of money. We
expected not an individual, but a syndicate, to accept our securities,
to become debtors to the various banks on the continent. But a personal
affair! Five millions of crowns! The possibilities of your wealth
overwhelm me.”

The Englishman smiled. “I dare say I have more than my share of this
world's goods. I can give you a check for the amount on the bank of
England.”

“Your Majesty's lamented predecessor--”

“Is dead,” said the king gently. He had no desire to hear the minister
recount that ruler's virtues. “Peace to his ashes.”

“Five millions of crowns!” The minister had lost his equipoise in the
face of the Englishman's great riches, of which hitherto he had held
some doubts. Suddenly a vivid thought entered his confused brain. The
paper cutter in his hand trembled. In the breathing space allowed him
he began to calculate rapidly. The king and the diplomat had been in the
garden; something had passed between them. What? The paper cutter slowly
ceased its uneven movements. The count calmly placed it behind the
inkwells. .... The Englishman knew. The glitter of gold gave way to
the thought of the peril. A chasm yawned at his feet. But he was an old
soldier in the game of words and cross-purposes.

“We should be happy to accord you the privilege of becoming the
kingdom's creditor,” he said, smiling at the diplomat, whom nothing had
escaped. “I am afraid, however, that your request has been submitted too
late. At ten o'clock this morning the transfer of the certificates would
have been a simple matter. There are twenty in all; it may not be too
late to secure some of them.” He looked tranquilly from the Englishman
to the king.

The smiling mask fell from the king's face; he felt that he was lost. He
tried to catch his friend's eye, but the diplomat was deeply interested
in the console of the fireplace.

“They seem to be at a premium,” the Englishman said, “which speaks well
for the prosperity of the country. I am sorry to have troubled you.”

“It would have been a pleasure indeed,” replied the count. He stood
secure within his fortress, so secure that he would have liked to laugh.

“It is too bad,” said the king, pulling his thoughts together.

“Your Majesty is giving the matter too much importance,” said the
diplomat. “It was merely a whim. I shall have the pleasure and honor of
presenting my successor this evening.”

The count bent low, while the king nodded absently. He was thinking that
a penful of ink, carelessly trailed over a sheet of paper, had lost him
his throne. He was about to draw the arm of the diplomat through his
own, when his step was arrested by the entrance of a messenger who
presented a letter to the minister of finance.

“With your Majesty's permission,” he said, tearing open the envelope.
As he read the contents, his shoulders sank to their habitual stoop and
benignity once more shone in the place of alertness. “Decidedly, fate is
not with your Excellency to-day. M. Jacobi writes me that four millions
have already been disposed of to M. Everard & Co., English bankers in
the Konigstrasse, who are representing a French firm in this particular
instance. I am very sorry.”

“It is of no moment now,” replied the Englishman indifferently.

The adverb which concluded this declaration caught the keen ear of the
minister, who grew tall again. What would he not have given to read
the subtle brain of his opponent, for opponent he knew him to be! His
intense scrutiny was blocked by a pair of most innocent eyes.

“Well,” said the king impatiently, “let us be gone, my friend. The talk
of money always leaves a copperish taste on my tongue.”

Arm in arm they passed from the chamber. When the door closed behind
them, the minister of finance drew his handkerchief across his brow.

“Everard & Co.,” mused the Englishman aloud. “Was it not indeed a stroke
for your cousin to select them as his agents? You will in truth be
accused of selling out to the English. But there is a coincidence in all
this.”

“I am lost!” said the king.

“On the contrary, you are saved. Everard & Co. are my bankers and
attorneys; in fact, I own an interest in the firm.”

“What is this you tell me?” cried the king.

“Sire, we English have a peculiar trait; it is asking for something
after we have taken it. The human countenance is a fine picture book.
I should like to read that belonging to your cousin Josef, providing I
could read unobserved.”

“My friend!” said the king.

“Say nothing. Here is the bulldog; take him to her Royal Highness with
my compliments. There is no truer friend than an animal of his breed.
He is steadfast in his love, for he makes but few friends; he is a good
companion, for he is undemonstrative; he can read and draw inferences,
and your enemies will be his. I shall bid you good afternoon. God be
with your Majesty.”

“Ah, to lose you now!” said, the king, a heaviness in his heart such as
presentiment brings.

The diplomat turned and went down the grand corridor. The bulldog tugged
at his chain. Animals are gifted with prescience. He knew that his
master had passed forever out of his life. Presently he heard the
voice of the princess calling; and the glamour of royalty encompassed
him,--something a human finds hard to resist, and he was only a dog.

Meanwhile another messenger had entered the chamber of finance and had
gone. On the minister's desk lay a crumpled sheet of paper on which was
written:

“Treason and treachery! It has at this moment been ascertained that,
while pretending to be our agents in securing the consols, M. Everard &
Co. now refuse to deliver them into the custody of Baron von Rumpf, as
agreed, and further, that M. Everard & Co. are bankers and attorneys to
his Excellency the British minister. He must not leave this city with
those consols.”

With his eyes riveted on these words, the minister of finance, huddled
in his chair, had fallen into a profound study.

There were terrible times in the house of Josef that night.




CHAPTER III. AN EPISODE TEN YEARS AFTER

One fine September morning in a year the date of which is of no
particular importance, a man stepped out of a second-class carriage
on to the canopied platform of the railway terminus in the ancient and
picturesque city of Bleiberg. He yawned, shook himself, and stretched
his arms and legs, relieved to find that the tedious journey from Vienna
had not cramped those appendages beyond recovery.

He stood some inches above the average height, and was built up in
a manner that suggested the handiwork of a British drill-master, his
figure being both muscular and symmetrical. Besides, there was on his
skin that rich brown shadow which is the result only of the forces
of the sun and wind, a life in the open air. This color gave peculiar
emphasis to the yellow hair and mustache. His face was not handsome,
if one accept the Greek profile as a model of manly beauty, but it
was cleanly and boldly cut, healthful, strong and purposeful, based on
determined jaws and a chin which would have been obstinate but for the
presence of a kindly mouth.

A guard deposited at his feet a new hatbox, a battered traveling bag and
two gun cases which also gave evidence of rough usage. The luggage was
literally covered with mutilated square and oblong slips of paper of
many colors, on which were printed the advertisements of far-sighted
hotel keepers all the way from Bombay to London and half-way back across
the continent.

There was nothing to be seen, however, indicative of the traveler's
name. He surveyed his surroundings with lively interest shining in his
gray eyes, one of which peered through a monocle encircled by a thin rim
of tortoise shell. He watched the fussy customs officials, who, by
some strange mischance, overlooked his belongings. Finally he made an
impatient gesture.

“Find me a cab,” he said to the attentive guard, who, with an eye to
the main chance, had waved off the approach of a station porter. “If the
inspectors are in no hurry, I am.”

“At once, my lord;” and the guard, as he stooped and lifted the luggage,
did not see the start which this appellation caused the stranger to
make, but who, after a moment, was convinced that the guard had given
him the title merely out of politeness. The guard placed the traps
inside of one of the many vehicles stationed at the street exit of the
terminus. He was an intelligent and deductive servant.

The traveler was some noted English lord who had come to Bleiberg
to shoot the famed golden pheasant, and had secured a second-class
compartment in order to demonstrate his incognito. Persons who traveled
second-class usually did so to save money; yet this tall Englishman,
since the train departed from Vienna, had almost doubled in gratuities
the sum paid for his ticket. The guard stood respectfully at the door
of the cab, doffed his cap, into which a memento was dropped, and went
along about his business.

The Englishman slammed the door, the jehu cracked his whip, and a moment
later the hoarse breathings of the motionless engines became lost in the
sharper noises of the city carts. The unknown leaned against the faded
cushions, curled his mustache, and smiled as if well satisfied with
events. It is quite certain that his sense of ease and security would
have been somewhat disturbed had he known that another cab was close
on the track of his, and that its occupant, an officer of the city
gendarmerie, alternately smiled and frowned as one does who floats
between conviction and uncertainty. At length the two vehicles turned
into the Konigstrasse, the principal thoroughfare of the capital, and
here the Englishman's cab came to a stand. The jehu climbed down and
opened the door.

“Did Herr say the Continental?” he asked.

“No; the Grand.”

The driver shrugged, remounted his box, and drove on. The Grand Hotel
was clean enough and respectable, but that was all that could be said
in its favor. He wondered if the Englishman would haggle over the fare.
Englishmen generally did. He was agreeably disappointed, however, when,
on arriving at the mean hostelry, his passenger plunged a hand into a
pocket and produced three Franz-Josef florins.

“You may have these,” he said, “for the trouble of having them exchanged
into crowns.”

As he whipped up, the philosophical cabman mused that these tourists
were beyond the pale of his understanding. With a pocket full of money,
and to put up at the Grand! Why not the Continental, which lay close to
the Werter See, the palaces, the royal and public gardens? It was at
the Continental that the fine ladies and gentlemen from Vienna, and
Innsbruck, and Munich, and Belgrade, resided during the autumn months.
But the Grand--ach! it was in the heart of the shops and markets, and
within a stone's throw of that gloomy pile of granite designated in the
various guide books as the University of Bleiberg.

The Englishman had some difficulty in finding a pen that would write,
and the ink was oily, and the guest-book was not at the proper angle.
At last he managed to form the letters of his name, which was John
Hamilton. After some deliberation, he followed this with “England.” The
proprietor, who acted as his own clerk, drew the book toward him, and
after some time, deciphered the cabalistic signs.

“Ah, Herr John Hamilton of England; is that right?”

“Yes; I am here for a few days' shooting. Can you find me a man to act
as guide?”

“This very morning, Herr.”

“Thanks.”

Then he proceeded up the stairs to the room assigned to him. The smell
of garlic which pervaded the air caused him to make a grimace. Once
alone in the room, he looked about. There was neither soap nor towel,
but there was a card which stated that the same could be purchased at
the office. He laughed. A pitcher of water and a bowl stood on a small
table, which, by the presence of a mirror (that could not in truth
reflect anything but light and darkness), served as a dresser. These
he used to good advantage, drying his face and hands on the white
counterpane of the bed, and laughing quietly as he did so. Next he lit
a pipe, whose capacity for tobacco was rather less than that of a lady's
thimble, sat in a chair by the window, smoked quietly, and gazed down on
the busy street.

It was yet early in the morning; sellers of vegetables, men and women
peasants, with bare legs and wooden shoes, driving shaggy Servian ponies
attached to low, cumbersome carts, passed and repassed, to and from the
markets. A gendarme, leaning the weight of his shoulder on the guard of
a police saber, rested against the corner of a wine shop across the way.
Students, wearing squat caps with vizors, sauntered indolently along,
twirling canes and ogling all who wore petticoats. Occasionally the
bright uniform of a royal cuirassier flashed by; and the Englishman
would lean over the sill and gaze after him, nodding his head in
approval whenever the cuirassier sat his horse well.

In the meantime the gendarme, who followed him from the station, had
entered the hotel, hastily glanced at the freshly written name, and made
off toward the palace.

“Well, here we are,” mused the Englishman, pressing his thumb into the
bowl of his pipe. “The affair promises some excitement. To-morrow will
be the sixth; on the twentieth it will be a closed incident, as the
diplomats would say. I don't know what brought me here so far ahead of
time. I suppose I must look out for a crack on the head from some one
I don't know, but who knows me so deuced well that he has hunted me
in India and England, first with fine bribes, then with threats.” He
glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the gun cases. “It was a
capital idea, otherwise a certain ubiquitous customs official, who lies
in wait for the unwary at the frontier, would now be an inmate of
a hospital. To have lived thirty-five years, and to have ground out
thirteen of them in her Majesty's, is to have acquired a certain disdain
for danger, even when it is masked. I am curious to see how far these
threats will go. It will take a clever man to trap me. The incognito is
a fort. By the way, I wonder how the inspectors at the station came to
overlook my traps? Strange, considering what I have gone through.”

At this moment the knuckles of a hand beat against the door.

“Come in!” answered the Englishman, wheeling his chair, but making no
effort to rise. “Come in!”

The door swung in, and there entered a short, spectacled man in dark
gray clothes which fairly bristled with brass buttons. He was the chief
inspector of customs. He bowed.

The Englishman, consternation widening his eyes, lowered his pipe.

“Monsieur Hamilton's pardon,” the inspector began, speaking in French,
“but with your permission I shall inspect your luggage and glance at
your passports.” He bowed again.

“Now do you know, mon ami,” replied the Englishman, “that Monsieur
Hamilton will not permit you to gaze even into yonder washbowl?” He rose
lazily.

“But, Monsieur,” cried the astonished official, to whom non-complaisance
in the matter of inspection was unprecedented, “you certainly will not
put any obstacle in the path of my duty!”

“Your duty, Monsieur the Spectacles, is to inspect at the station.
There your assistants refused to award me their attention. You are
trespassing.”

“Monsieur forgets,” sternly; “it is the law. Is it possible that I shall
be forced to call in the gendarmes to assist me? This is extraordinary!”

“I dare say it is, on your part,” admitted the Englishman, polishing the
bowl of his pipe against the side of his nose. “You had best go at once.
If you do not, I shall take you by the nape of your Bleibergian neck and
kick you down the stairs. I have every assurance of my privileges.
The law here, unless it has changed within the past hour, requires
inspection at the frontier, and at the capital; but your jurisdiction
does not extend beyond the stations. Bon jour, Monsieur the Spectacles;
bon jour!”

“O, Monsieur!”

“Good day!”

“Monsieur, it is my duty; I must!”

“Good day! How will you go, by the stairs or by the window? I--but
wait!” an idea coming to him which caused him to reflect on the possible
outcome of violence done to a government official, who, perhaps, was
discharging his peculiar duty at the orders of superiors. He walked
swiftly to the door and slid the bolt, to the terror of the inspector,
on whose brow drops of perspiration began to gather. “Now,” opening the
hat box and taking out a silk hat, “this is a hat, purchased in Paris
at Cook's. There is nothing in the lining but felt. Look into the
box; nothing. Take out your book and follow me closely,” he continued,
dividing the traveling bag into halves, and he began to enumerate the
contents.

“But, Monsieur!” remonstrated the inspector, who did not enjoy this
infringement of his prerogatives; his was the part to overhaul. “This
is--”

“Be still and follow me,” and the Englishman went on with the
inventory. “There!” when he had done, “not a dutiable thing except this
German-Scotch whisky, and that is so bad that I give it to you rather
than pay duty. What next? My passports? Here they are, absolutely
flawless, vised by the authorities in Vienna.”

The slips crackled in the fluttering fingers of the inspector. “They
are as you say, Monsieur,” he said, returning the permits. Then he added
timidly, “And the gun cases?”

“The gun cases!” The pipe spilled its coal to the floor. “The gun
cases!”

“Yes, Monsieur.”

“And why do you wish to look into them?” with agitation.

“Smugglers sometimes fill them with cigars.”

“Ah!” The Englishman selected two loaded shells, drew a gun from the
case, threw up the breech and rammed in the shells. Then he extended
the weapon to within an inch of the terrified inspector's nose. “Now,
Monsieur the Spectacles, look in there and tell me what you see.”

The fellow sank half-fainting into a chair. “Mon Dieu, Monsieur, would
you kill me who have a family?”

“What's a customs inspector, more or less?” asked the terrible islander,
laughing. “I advise you not to ask me to let you look into the other
gun, out of consideration for your family. It has hair triggers, and my
fingers tremble.”

“Monsieur, Monsieur, you do wrong to trifle with the law. I shall be
obliged to report you. You will be arrested.”

“Nothing of the kind,” was the retort. “I have only to inform the
British minister how remiss you were in your obligations. I should go
free, whereas you would be discharged. But what I demand to know is,
what the devil is the meaning of this farce.”

“I am simply obeying orders,” answered the inspector, wiping his
forehead. “It is not a farce, as Monsieur will find.” Then, as if to
excuse this implied threat: “Will Monsieur please point the gun the
other way?”

The Englishman unloaded the gun and tossed it on the bed.

“Thanks. In coming here I simply obeyed the orders of the minister of
police.”

“And what in the world did you expect to find?”

“We are looking--that is, they are looking--O, Monsieur, it is
impossible for me to disclose to you my government's purposes.”

“What and whom were you expecting?” demanded the Englishman. “You
shall not leave this room till you have fully explained this remarkable
intrusion.”

“We were expecting the Lord and Baronet Fitzgerald.”

“The lord!” laughing. “Does the lord visit Bleiberg often, then, that
you prepare this sort of a reception? And the Baronet Fitzgerald?”

“They are the same and the one person.”

“And who the deuce is he; a spy, a smuggler, a villain, or what?”

“As to that, Monsieur,” with a wonder why this man laughed, “I know no
more than you. But I do know that for the past month every Englishman
has been subjected to this surveillance, and has submitted with more
grace than you,” with an oblique glance.

“What! Examined his luggage at the hotel?”

“Yes, Monsieur. It is the order of the minister of police. I know not
why.” The natural color was returning to his cheeks.

“This is a fine country, I must say. At least the king should acquaint
his visitors with the true cause of this treatment.” In his turn the
Englishman resorted to oblique glances.

“The king?” The inspector raised a shoulder and spread his hands. “The
king is a paralytic, Monsieur, and has little to say these days.”

“A paralytic? I thought he was called `the handsome monarch'?”

“That was years ago, Monsieur. For three years he has been helpless and
bedridden. The archbishop is the real king nowadays. But he meddles not
with the police.”

“This is very sad. I suppose it would be impossible for strangers to see
him now.”

“An audience?” a sparkle behind the spectacles. “Is your business with
the king, Monsieur?”

“My business is mine,” shortly. “I am only a tourist, and should have
liked to see the king from mere curiosity. However, had you explained
all this to me, I should not have caused you so many gray hairs.”

“Monsieur did not give me the chance,” simply.

“True,” the Englishman replied soberly. He began to think that he had
been over hasty in asserting his privileges. “But all this has nothing
to do with me. My name is John Hamilton. See, it is engraved on the
stock of the gun,” catching it up and holding it under the spectacled
eyes, which still observed it with some trepidation. “That is the name
in my passports, in the book down stairs, in the lining of my hat. I am
sorry, since you were only obeying orders, that my rough play has caused
you alarm.” He unbolted the door. “Good morning.”

The inspector left the room as swiftly as his short legs could carry
him, ignoring the ethics of common politeness. As he stumbled down the
stairs he cursed the minister of police for requiring this spy work of
him, and not informing him why it was done. Ah, these cursed Anglais
from Angleterre! They were all alike, and this one was the worst he had
ever encountered. And those ugly black orifices in the gun! Peste! He
would resign! Yes, certainly he would resign.

As to the Englishman, he stood in the center of the room and scratched
his head. “Hang it, I've made an ass of myself. That blockhead will have
the gendarmes about my ears. If they arrest me there will be the devil
to pay. The Lord and the Baronet Fitzgerald!” he repeated. He sat down
on the edge of the bed, and fell to laughing again. “Confound these
picture-book kingdoms! They always take themselves so seriously. Well,
if the gendarmes call this afternoon I'll not be at home. No, thank you.
I shall be hunting pheasants.”

And thereat he set to work cleaning the gun which had all but prostrated
the inspector. Soon the room smelled of oiled rags and tobacco.
Some-times the worker whistled softly. Sometimes he let the gun fall
against his knee, and stared dreamily through the window at the flight
of the ragged clouds. Again, he would shake his head, as if there were
something which he failed to understand. Half an hour passed, when again
some one knocked on the door.

“Come in!” Under his breath he added: “The gendarmes, likely.”

But it was only the proprietor of the hotel. “Asking Herr's pardon,” he
said, “for this intrusion, but I have secured a man for you. I have the
honor to recommend Johann Kopf as a good guide and hunter.”

“Send him up. If he pleases me, I'll use him.”

The proprietor withdrew.

Johann Kopf proved to be a young German with a round, ruddy face,
which was so innocent of guile as to be out of harmony with the
shrewd, piercing black eyes looking out of it. The Englishman eyed him
inquisitively, even suspiciously.

“Are you a good hunter?” he asked.

“There is none better hereabout,” answered Johann, twirling his cap with
noticeably white fingers. It was only in after days that the Englishman
appreciated the full significance of this answer.

“Speak English?”

“No. Herr's German is excellent, however.”

“Humph!” The Englishman gave a final glance into the shining tubes of
the gun, snapped the breach, and slipped it into the case. “You'll do.
Return to the office; I'll be down presently.”

“Will Herr hunt this morning?”

“No; what I wish this morning is to see the city of Bleiberg.”

“That is simple,” said Johann. The fleeting, imperceptible smile did not
convict his eyes of false keenness.

He bowed out. When the door closed the Englishman waited until the sound
of retreating steps failed. Then he took the gun case which he had not
yet opened, and thrust it under the mattress of the bed.

“Johann,” he said, as he put on a soft hat and drew a cane from the
straps of the traveling bag, “you will certainly precede me in our
hunting expeditions. I do not like your eyes; they are not at home in
your boyish face. Humph! what a country. Every one speaks a different
tongue.”

The city of Bleiberg lay on a hill and in the valleys which fell away
to the east and west. It was divided into two towns, the upper and
the lower. The upper town and that part which lay on the shores of the
Werter See was the modern and fashionable district. It was here that the
king and the archbishop had their palaces and the wealthy their brick
and stone. The public park skirted the lake, and was patterned after
those fine gardens which add so much to the picturesqueness of Vienna
and Berlin. There were wide gravel paths and long avenues of lofty
chestnuts and lindens, iron benches, fountains and winding flower beds.
The park, the palaces, and the Continental Hotel enclosed a public
square, paved with asphalt, called the Hohenstaufenplatz, in the center
of which rose a large marble fountain of several streams, guarded by
huge bronze wolves. Here, too, were iron benches which were, for the
most part, the meeting-place of the nursemaids. Carriages were allowed
to make the circuit, but not to obstruct the way.

The Konigstrasse began at the Platz, divided the city, and wound away
southward, merging into the highway which continued to the Thalian Alps,
some thirty miles distant. The palaces were at the southeast corner of
the Platz, first the king's, then the archbishop's. The private gardens
of each ran into the lake. Directly across from the palaces stood the
cathedral, a relic of five centuries gone. On the northwest corner stood
the Continental Hotel, with terrace and parapet at the water's edge, and
a delightful open-air cafe facing the Platz. September and October were
prosperous months in Bleiberg. Fashionable people who desired quiet made
Bleiberg an objective point. The pheasants were plump, there were boars,
gray wolves, and not infrequently Monsieur Fourpaws of the shaggy coat
wandered across from the Carpathians.

As to the lower town, it was given over to the shops and markets, the
barracks, the university, and the Rathhaus, which served as the house of
the Diet. It was full of narrow streets and quaint dwellings.

Up the Konigstrasse the guide led the Englishman, who nodded whenever
the voluble chatter of the German pleased him. When they began the
descent of the hill, the vista which opened before them drew from the
Englishman an ejaculation of delight. There lay the lake, like a bright
new coin in a green purse; the light of the sun broke on the white
buildings and flashed from the windows; and the lawns twinkled like
emeralds.

“It makes Vienna look to her laurels, eh, Herr?” said Johann.

“But it must have cost a pretty penny.”

“Aye, that it did; and the king is being impressed with that fact every
day. There are few such fine palaces outside of first-class kingdoms.
The cathedral there was erected at the desire of a pope, born five
hundred years ago. It is full of romance. There is to be a grand wedding
there on the twentieth of this month. That is why there are so many
fashionable people at the hotels. The crown prince of Carnavia, which
is the large kingdom just east of us, is to wed the Princess Alexia, the
daughter of the king.”

“On the twentieth? That is strange.”

“Strange?”

“I meant nothing,” said the Englishman, jerking back his shoulders;
“I had in mind another affair.”

There was a flash in Johann's eyes, but he subdued it before the
Englishman was aware of its presence. “However,” said Johann, “there is
something strange. The prince was to have arrived a week ago to complete
the final arrangements for the wedding. His suite has been here a week,
but no sign of his Highness. He stopped over a train at Ehrenstein
to visit for a few hours a friend of the king, his father. Since then
nothing has been heard from him. The king, it is said, fears that some
accident has happened to him. Carnavia is also disturbed over this
disappearance. Some whisper of a beautiful peasant girl. Who can say?”

“Any political significance in this marriage?”

“Leopold expects to strengthen his throne by the alliance. But--”
 Johann's mouth closed and his tongue pushed out his cheek. “There will
be some fine doings in the good city of Bleiberg before the month is
gone. The minister from the duchy has been given his passports. Every
one concedes that trouble is likely to ensue. Baron von Rumpf--”

“Baron von Rumpf,” repeated the Englishman thoughtfully.

“Yes; he is not a man to submit to accusations without making a
disagreeable defense.”

“What does the duke say?”

“The duke?”

“Yes.”

“His Highness has been dead these four years.”

“Dead four years? So much for man and his futile dreams. Dead four
years,” absently.

“What did you say, Herr?”

“I? Nothing. How did he die?”

“He was thrown from his horse and killed. But the duchess lives, and she
is worthy of her sire. Eh, Herr, there is a woman for you! She should
sit on this throne; it is hers by right. These Osians are aliens and
were forced on us.”

“It seems to me, young man, that you are talking treason.”

“That is my business, Herr.” Johann laughed. “I am a socialist, and
occasionally harangue for the reds. And sometimes, when I am in need of
money, I find myself in the employ of the police.”

The muscles of the Englishman's jaws hardened, then they relaxed. The
expression on the face of his guide was free from anything but bonhomie.

“One must live,” Johann added deprecatingly.

“Yes, one must live,” replied the Englishman.

“O! but I could sell some fine secrets to the Osians had they money to
pay. Ach! but what is the use? The king has no money; he is on the verge
of bankruptcy, and this pretty bit of scenery is the cause of it.”

“So you are a socialist?” said the Englishman, passing over Johann's
declamatory confidences.

“Yes, Herr. All men are brothers.”

“Go to!” laughed the Englishman, “you aren't even a second cousin to me.
But stay, what place is this we are passing?” indicating with his cane a
red-brick mansion which was fronted by broad English lawns and protected
from intrusion by a high iron fence.


“That is the British legation, Herr.”

The Englishman stopped and stared, unconscious of the close scrutiny of
the guide. His eyes traveled up the wide flags leading to the veranda,
and he drew a picture of a square-shouldered old man tramping backward
and forward, the wind tangling his thin white hair, his hands behind his
back, his chin in his collar and at his heels a white bulldog. Rapidly
another picture came. It was an English scene. And the echo of a voice
fell on his ears. “My way and the freedom of the house and the key to
the purse; your way and a closed door while I live. You can go, but you
can not come back. You have decided? Yes? Then good morning.” Thirteen
years, thirteen years! He had sacrificed the freedom of the house and
the key to the purse, the kind eyes and the warm pressure of that old
hand. And for what? Starvation in the deserts, plenty of scars and
little of thanks, ingratitude and forgetfulness.

And now the kind eyes were closed and the warm hand cold. O, to recall
the vanished face, the silent voice, the misspent years, the April days
and their illusions! The Englishman took the monocle from his eye and
looked at it, wondering what had caused the sudden blur.

“There was a fine old man there in the bygone days,” said Johann.

“And who was he?”

“Lord Fitzgerald, the British minister. He and Leopold were close
friends.” Johann's investigating gaze went unrewarded. The Englishman's
face had resumed its expression of mild curiosity.

“Ah; a compatriot of mine,” he said. Inwardly he mused: “This guide is
watching me; let him catch me if he can. His duchess? I know far too
much of her!”

“He was a millionaire, too,” went on Johann.

“Well, we can't all be rich. Come.”

They crossed the Strasse and traversed the walk at the side of the
palace enclosures. The Englishman aimlessly trailed his cane along the
green pickets of the fence till they ended in a stone arch which rose
high over the driveway. The gates were open, and coming toward the two
wanderers as they stood at the curb rolled the royal barouche, on
each side of which rode a mounted cuirassier, sashed and helmeted. The
Englishman, however, had observed nothing; he was lost in some dream.

“Look, Herr!” cried Johann, rousing the other by a pull at the sleeve.
“Look!” Socialist though he claimed to be, Johann touched his cap.

In the barouche, leaning back among the black velvet cushions, her face
mellowed by the shade of a small parasol, was a young woman of nineteen
or twenty, as beautiful as a da Vinci freshly conceived. The Englishman
saw a pair of grave dark eyes which, in the passing, met his and held
them. He caught his breath.

“Who is that?” he asked.

“That is her Royal Highness the Crown Princess Alexia.”

Afterward the Englishman remembered seeing a white dog lying on the
opposite seat.




CHAPTER IV. AN ADVENTURE WITH ROYALTY

Maurice Carewe, attached to the American legation in Vienna, leaned
against the stone parapet which separated the terraced promenade of the
Continental Hotel from the Werter See, and wondered what had induced him
to come to Bleiberg.

He had left behind him the glory of September in Vienna, a city second
only to Paris in fashion and gaiety; Vienna, with its inimitable bands,
its incomparable gardens, its military maneuvers, its salons, its
charming women; and all for a fool's errand. His Excellency was to
blame. He had casually dropped the remark that the duchy's minister,
Baron von Rumpf, had been given his passports as a persona non grata by
the chancellor of the kingdom, and that a declaration of war was likely
to follow. Maurice's dormant love of journalistic inquiry had become
aroused, and he had asked permission to investigate the affair, a favor
readily granted to him.

But here he was, on the scene, and nobody knew anything, and nobody
could tell anything. The duchess had remained silent. Not unnaturally he
wished himself back in Vienna. There were no court fetes in the city
of Bleiberg. The king's condition was too grave to permit them. And,
besides, there had been no real court in Bleiberg for the space of ten
years, so he was told. Those solemn affairs of the archbishop's, given
once the week for the benefit of the corps diplomatique, were dull and
spiritless. Her Royal Highness was seldom seen, save when she drove
through the streets. Persons who remembered the reign before told what a
mad, gay court it had been. Now it was funereal. The youth and beauty of
Bleiberg held a court of its own. Royalty was not included, nor did it
ask to be.

A strange capital, indeed, Maurice reflected, as he gazed down into the
cool, brown water. He regretted his caprice. There were pretty women in
Vienna. Some of them belonged to the American colony. They danced well,
they sang and played and rode. He had taught some of them how to fence,
and he could not remember the times he had been “buttoned” while paying
too much attention to their lips and eyes. For Maurice loved a thing
of beauty, were it a woman, a horse or a Mediterranean sunset. What a
difference between these two years in Vienna and that year in Calcutta!
He never would forget the dingy office, with its tarnished sign, “U. S.
Consul,” tacked insecurely on the door, and the utter loneliness.

He cast a pebble into the lake, and watched the ripples roll away and
disappear, and ruminated on a life full of color and vicissitude. He
remembered the Arizona days, the endless burning sand, the dull routine
of a cavalry trooper, the lithe brown bodies of the Apaches, the first
skirmish and the last. From a soldier he had turned journalist, tramped
the streets of Washington in rain and shine, living as a man lived who
must.

One day his star had shot up from the nadir of obscurity, not very far,
but enough to bring his versatility under the notice of the discerning
Secretary of State, who, having been a friend of the father, offered
the son a berth in the diplomatic corps. A consulate in a South American
republic, during a revolutionary crisis, where he had shown consummate
skill in avoiding political complications (and where, by a shrewd
speculation in gold, he had feathered his nest for his declining years),
proved that the continual incertitude of a journalistic career is a fine
basis for diplomatic work. From South America he had gone to Calcutta,
thence to Austria.

He was only twenty-nine, which age in some is youth. He possessed an old
man's wisdom and a boy's exuberance of spirits. He laughed whenever he
could; to him life was a panorama of vivid pictures, the world a
vast theater to which somehow he had gained admission. His beardless
countenance had deceived more than one finished diplomat, for it was
difficult to believe that behind it lay an earnest purpose and a daring
courage. If he bragged a little, quizzed graybeards, sought strange
places, sported with convention, and eluded women, it was due to his
restlessness. Yet, he had the secretiveness of sand; he absorbed, but
he revealed nothing. He knew his friends; they thought they knew him. It
was his delight to have women think him a butterfly, men write him down
a fool; it covered up his real desires and left him free.

What cynicism he had was mellowed by a fanciful humor. Whether with
steel or with words, he was a master of fence; and if at times some one
got under his guard, that some one knew it not. To let your enemy see
that he has hit you is to give him confidence. He saw humor where no one
else saw it, and tragedy where it was not suspected. He was one of those
rare individuals who, when the opportunity of chance refuses to come,
makes one.

“Germany and Austria are great countries,” he mused, lighting a cigar.
“Every hundredth man is a king, one in fifty is a duke, every tenth man
is a prince, and one can not take a corner without bumping into a
count or a baron. Even the hotel waiters are disquieting; there is that
embarrassing atmosphere about them which suggests nobility in durance
vile. As for me, I prefer Kentucky, where every man is a colonel, and
you never make a mistake. And these kingdoms!” He indulged in subdued
laughter. “They are always like comic operas. I find myself looking
around every moment for the merry villagers so happy and so gay (at
fifteen dollars the week), the eternal innkeeper and the perennial
soubrette his daughter, the low comedian and the self-conscious tenor.
Heigho! and not a soul in Bleiberg knows me, nor cares.

“I'd rather talk five minutes to a pretty woman than eat stuffed
pheasants the year around, and the stuffed pheasant is about all
Bleiberg can boast of. Well, here goes for a voyage of discovery;” and
he passed down the stone steps to the pier, quite unconscious of the
admiring glances of the women who fluttered back and forth on the wide
balconies above.

It was four o'clock in the afternoon; a fresh wind redolent of pine and
resin blew across the lake. Maurice climbed into a boat and pulled away
with a strong, swift stroke, enjoying the liberation of his muscles. A
quarter of a mile out he let the oars drift and took his bearings. He
saw the private gardens of the king and the archbishop, and, convinced
that a closer view would afford him entertainment, he caught up the oars
again and moved inland.

The royal gardens ran directly into the water, while those of the
archbishop were protected by a wall of brick five or six feet in height,
in the center of which was a gate opening on the water. Behind the gate
was a small boat dock. Maurice plied the oars vigorously. He skirted the
royal gardens, and the smell of newly mown lawns filled the air. Soon he
was gliding along the sides of the moss-grown walls. A bird chirped in
the overhanging boughs. He was about to cast loose the oars again, when
the boat was brought to a violent stop. A few yards waterward from the
gate there lay, hidden in the shadowed water, a sunken pier. On one of
the iron piles the boat had become impaled.

Maurice was tumbled into the bow of the boat, which began rapidly to
fill. First he swore, then he laughed, for he was possessed of infinite
good humor. The only thing left for him to do was to swim for the gate.
With a rueful glance at his thin clothes, he dropped himself over the
side of the wreck and struck out toward the gate. The water, having its
source from the snowclad mountains, was icy. He was glad enough to grasp
the lower bars of the gate and draw himself up. He was on the point of
climbing over, when a picture presented itself to his streaming eyes.

Seated on a bench made of twisted vine was a young girl. She held in her
hand a book, but she was not reading it. She was scanning the unwritten
pages of some reverie; her eyes, dark, large and wistful, were holding
communion with the god of dreams. A wisp of hair, glossy as coal,
trembled against a cheek white as the gown she wore.

At her side, blinking in the last rays of the warm sun, sat a bulldog,
toothless and old. Now and then a sear leaf, falling in a zig-zag
course, rustled past his ears, and he would shake his head as if he,
too, were dreaming and the leaves disturbed him. All at once he sniffed,
his ears stood forward, and a low growl broke the enchantment. The
girl, on discovering Maurice, closed the book and rose. The dog, still
growling, jumped down and trotted to the gate. Maurice thought that it
was time to speak.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, “pardon this intrusion, but my boat has met
with an accident.”

The girl came to the gate. “Why, Monsieur,” she exclaimed, “you are
wet!”

“That is true,” replied Maurice, his teeth beginning to knock together.
“I was forced to swim. If you will kindly open the gate and guide me to
the street, I shall be much obliged to you.”

The gate swung outward, and in a moment Maurice was on dry land, or the
next thing to it, which was the boat-dock.

“Thank you,” he said.

“O! And you might have been drowned,” compassion lighting her beautiful
eyes. “Sit down on the bench, Monsieur, for you must be weak. And it was
that sunken pier? I shall speak to Monseigneur; he must have it
removed. Bull, stop growling; you are very impolite; the gentleman is in
distress.”

Maurice sat down, not because he was weak, but because the desire to
gain the street had suddenly subsided. Who was this girl who could say
“must” to the formidable prelate? His quick eye noticed that she showed
no sign of embarrassment. Indeed, she impressed him as one who was
superior to that petty disturbance of collected thought. Somehow it
seemed to him, as she stood there looking down at him, that he, too,
should be standing. But she put forth a hand with gentle insistence when
he made as though to rise. What an exquisite face, he thought. Against
the whiteness of her skin her lips burned like poppy petals. Innocent,
inquisitive eyes smiled gently, eyes in whose tranquil depths lay the
glory of the world, asleep. Presently a color, faint and fugitive,
dimmed the whiteness of her cheeks. Maurice, conscious of his rudeness
and of a warmth in his own cheeks, instinctively lowered his gaze.

“Pardon my rudeness,” he said.

“What is your name, Monsieur,” she asked calmly.

“It is Maurice Carewe. I am living in Vienna. I came to Bleiberg for
pleasure, but the first day has not been propitious,” with an apologetic
glance at his dripping clothes.

“Maurice Carewe,” slowly repeating the full name as if to imprint it on
her memory. “You are English?”

He said: “No; I am one of those dreadful Yankees you have possibly read
about.”

Her teeth gleamed. “Yes, I have heard of them. But you do not appear so
very dreadful; though at present you are truly not at your best. What is
this--this Yankeeland like?”

“It would take me ever so long to tell you about it, it is such a great
country.”

“You are a patriot!” clapping her hands. “No other country is so
fine and large and great as your own. But tell me, is it as large as
Austria?”

“Austria? You will not be offended if I tell you?”

“No.”

“Well,” with fun in his eyes, “it is my opinion that I could hide
Austria in my country so thoroughly that nobody would ever be able to
find it again.” He wondered how she would accept this statement.

She lifted her chin and laughed, and the bulldog wagged his tail, as
he always did when mirth touched her. He jumped up beside Maurice and
looked into his face. Maurice patted his broad head, and he submitted.
The girl looked rather surprised.

“Are you a magician?” she asked.

“Why?”

“Bull never makes friends.”

“But I do,” said Maurice; “perhaps he understands that, and comes
half-way. But it is rather strange to see a bulldog in this part of the
country.”

“He was given to me, years ago, by an Englishman.”

“That accounts for it.” He was experiencing a deal of cold, but he dared
not mention it. “And may I ask your name?”

“Ah, Monsieur,” shyly, “to tell you my name would be to frighten you
away.”

“I am sure nothing could do that,” he declared earnestly. Had he been
thinking of aught but her eyes he might have caught the significance of
her words. But, then, the cold was numbing.

She surveyed him with critical eyes. She saw a clean-shaven face, brown,
handsome and eager, merry blue eyes, a chin firm and aggressive, a
mischievous mouth, a forehead which showed the man of thought, a slim
athletic form which showed the man of action--all of which combined to
produce that indescribable air which attaches itself to the gentleman.

“It is Alexia,” she said, after some hesitation, watching him closely to
observe the effect.

But he was as far away as ever. “Alexia what?”

“Only Alexia,” a faint coquetry stealing into her glance.

“O, then you are probably a maid?”

“Y--es. But you are disappointed?”

“No, indeed. You have put me more at ease. I suppose you serve the
princess?”

“Whenever I can,” demurely.

He could not keep his eyes from hers. “They say that she is a very
lonely princess.”

“So lonely.” And the coquetry faded from her eyes as her glance wandered
waterward and became fixed on some object invisible and far away. “Poor
lonely princess!”

Maurice was growing colder and colder, but he did not mind. He had
wished for some woman to talk to; his wish had been granted. “I feel
sorry for her, if what they say is true,” having no other words.

“And what do they say, Monsieur?”

“That she and her father have been socially ostracized. I should be
proud to be her friend.” Once the words were gone from him, he saw
their silliness. “A presumptuous statement,” he added; “I am an obscure
foreigner.”

“Friendship, Monsieur, is a thing we all should prize, all the more so
when it is disinterested.”

He said rapidly, for fear she might hear his teeth chatter: “They say
she is very beautiful. Tell me what she is like.”

“I am no judge of what men call beauty. As to her character, I believe I
may recommend that. She is good.”

He was sure that merriment twitched the corners of her lips, and he grew
thoughtful. “Alexia. Is that not her Highness's name also?”

“Yes, Monsieur; we have the same names.” Her eyes fell, and she began to
finger the pages of the book.

“I am rested now,” he said, with a sudden distrust. “I thank you.”

“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 cuirassier, 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, God 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 cuirassier 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 space?”

Maurice put up a hand to his water-soaked hair, and gave an ejaculation
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 cuirassier caught the
infection.

“However, there is some compensation for the hat,” said the cuirassier,
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
shins. 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
ass. 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 passed 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 ass!”

Having arrived at this conclusion, and brushing 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
unobservant of the marked attention bestowed on him. Carriages filled
the Strasse, 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 passing
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 bumped 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 ass 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 duchess 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 pass 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 butt of wineroom wits, the object of contumely to his people, his
beneficiaries!

The ingratitude of kings bites not half so deep as the ingratitude 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.

“And Prince Frederick has not yet been heard from?” was his first
inquiry.

“No, Sire,” answered the chancellor. “The matter is altogether
mysterious. The police can find no trace of him. He left Carnavia for
Bleiberg; he stopped at Ehrenstein, directed his suite to proceed;
there, all ends. The ambassador from Carnavia approached me to-day. He
scouts the idea of a peasant girl, and hinted at other things.”

“Yes,” said the king, “there is something behind all this. Frederick is
not a youth of peccadilloes. Something has happened to him. But God send
him safe and sound to us, so much depends on him. And Alexia?”

“Says nothing,” the archbishop answered, “a way with her when troubled.”

“And my old friend, Lord Fitzgerald?”

The prelate shook his head sadly. “We have just been made acquainted
with his death. God rest his kindly soul.”

The king sank deeper into his pillows.

“But we shall hear from his son within a few days,” continued the
prelate, taking the king's hand in his own. “My son, cease to worry.
Alexia's future is in good hands. I have confidence that the public debt
will be liquidated on the twentieth.”

“Or renewed,” said the chancellor. “Your Majesty must not forget that
Prince Frederick sacrifices his own private fortune to adjust our
indebtedness. That is the wedding gift which he offers to her Highness.
One way or the other, we have nothing to fear.”


“O!” cried the king, “I had forgotten that magnanimity. His
disappearance is no longer a mystery. He is dead.”

His auditors could not repress the start which this declaration caused
them to make.

“Sire,” said the chancellor, quietly, “princes are not assassinated
these days. Our worry is perhaps all needless. The prince is young, and
sometimes youth flings off the bridle and runs away. But he loves her
Highness, and the Carnavians are not fickle.”

The prelate and the statesman had different ideas in regard to the
peasant girl. To the prelate a woman was an unknown quantity, and he
frowned. The statesman, who had once been young, knew a deal about
woman, and he smiled.

“Sometimes, my friends,” said the king, “I can see beyond the human
glance. I hear the crumbling of walls. But for that lonely child I could
die in peace. The crown I wear is of lead; God hasten the day that lifts
it from my brow.” When the king spoke again, he said: “And that insolent
Von Rumpf is gone at last? I am easier. He should have been sent about
his business ten years ago. What does Madame the duchess say?”

“So little,” answered the chancellor, “that I begin to distrust her
silence. But she is a wise woman, though her years are but five and
twenty, and she will not make any foolish declaration of war which would
only redound to her chagrin.”

“What is the fascination in these crowns of straw?” said the king to the
prelate. “Ah, my father, you strive for the crown to come; and yet your
earnest but misguided efforts placed this earthly one on my head. You
were ambitious for me.”

“Nay,” and the prelate bent his head. “It was self that spoke, worldly
aggrandizement. I wished--God forgive me!--to administer not to the
prince but to the king. I am punished. The crown has broken your life.
It was the passing glory of the world; and I fell.”

“And were not my eyes as dazzled by the crown as yours were by the
robes? Why did we leave the green hills of Osia? What destiny writes,
fate must unfold. And oh, the dreams I had of being great! I am
fifty-eight and you are seventy. And look; I am a broken twig, and you
tower above me like an ancient oak, and as strong.” To the chancellor he
said: “And what is the budget?”

“Sire, it is fairly quiet in the lower town. The native troops have been
paid, and all signs of discontent abated. The duchess can do nothing but
replace von Rumpf. The Marshal is a straw in the wind; von Wallenstein
and Mollendorf, I hold a sword above their necks. Nearly half the
Diet is with us. There has been some strange meddling in the customs.
Englishmen have brought me complaints, through the British legation,
regarding such inspections as were never before heard of in a country
at peace. I consulted the chief inspector and he affirmed the matter.
He was under orders of the minister of police. It appears to me that
a certain Englishman is to be kept out of the country for reasons well
known to us. I have suspended police power over the customs. Ah, Sire,
if you would but agree with Monseigneur to dismiss the cabinet.”

“It is too late,” said the king.

“There is only one flaw,” continued the chancellor. “This flaw is
Colonel Beauvais, chief in command of the cuirassiers, who in authority
stands between the Marshal and General Kronau. I fear him. Why?
Instinct. He is too well informed of my projects for one thing; he
laughs when I suggest in military affairs. Who is he? A Frenchman, if
one may trust to a name; an Austrian, if one may trust from whence he
came, recommended by the premier himself. He entered the cuirassiers as
a Captain. You yourself, Sire, made him what he is--the real military
adviser of the kingdom. But what of his past? No one knows, unless it be
von Wallenstein, his intimate. I, for one, while I may be wrong, trust
only those whose past I know, and even then only at intervals.”

“Colonel Beauvais?” murmured the king. “I am sure that you are unjustly
suspicious. How many times have I leaned on his stout arm! He taught
Alexia a thousand tricks of horse, so that to-day she rides as no other
woman in the kingdom rides. Would that I stood half so straight and
looked at the world half so fearlessly. He is the first soldier in the
kingdom.”

“All men are honest in your Majesty's eyes,” said the archbishop.

“All save the man within me,” replied the king.

At this juncture the king's old valet came in with the evening meal; and
soon after the prelate and the chancellor withdrew from the chamber.

“How long will he live?” asked the latter.

“A year; perhaps only till to-morrow. Ah, had he but listened to me
several years ago, all this would not have come to pass. He would
see nothing; he persisted in dreams. With the death of Josef he was
convinced that his enemies had ceased to be. Had he listened, I should
have dismissed the cabinet, and found enough young blood to answer
my purposes; I should have surrounded him with a mercenary army two
thousand strong; by now he should have stood strongly entrenched.

“They have robbed him, but you and I were permitted to do nothing. Where
is the prosperity of which we formerly boasted? I, too, hear crumbling
walls. Yet, the son of this Englishman, whose strange freak is still
unaccountable, will come at the appointed time; I know the race. He will
renew the loan for another ten years. What a fancy! Lord Fitzgerald was
an eccentric man. Given a purpose, he pursued it to the end, neither
love nor friendship, nor fear swerved him. Do you know that he made
a vow that Duke Josef should never sit on this throne, nor his
descendants? What were five millions to him, if in giving them he
realized the end? The king would never explain the true cause of this
Englishman's folly, but I know that it was based on revenge, the cause
of which also is a mystery. If only the prince were here!”

“He will come; youth will be youth.”

“Perhaps.”

“You have never been young.”

“Not in that particular sense to which you refer,” dryly.

* * * * * *

In the chamber of finance Colonel Beauvais leaned over the desk and
perused the writing on a slip of paper which the minister had given him.
Enough daylight remained to permit the letters to stand out legibly.
When he had done the Colonel tossed back the missive, and the minister
tore it into shreds and dropped them into the waste basket.

“So much for your pains,” said Beauvais. “The spy, who has eaten up ten
thousand crowns, is not worth his salt. He has watched this man Hamilton
for two days, been his guide in the hills, and yet learns nothing. And
the rigor of the customs is a farce.”

“This day,” replied the minister, “the police lost its jurisdiction over
the customs. Complaints have been entered at the British legation, which
forwarded them to the chancellor.”

“O ho!” The Colonel pulled his mustache.

“I warned you against this. The chancellor is a man to be respected,
whatever his beliefs. I warned you and Mollendorf of the police what the
result would be. The chancellor has a hard hand when it falls. He was
always bold; now he is more so since he practically stands alone. In
games of chance one always should play close. You are in a hurry.”

“I have waited six years.”

“And I have waited fourteen.”

“Well, then, I shall pass into the active. I shall watch this Englishman
myself. He is likely to prove the agent. Count, the time for waiting
is gone. If the debt is liquidated or renewed--and there is Prince
Frederick to keep in mind--we shall have played and lost. Disgrace for
you; for me--well, perhaps there is a power behind me too strong.
The chancellor? Pouf! I have no fear of him. But you who laugh at the
archbishop--”

“He is too old.”

“So you say. But he has dreams unknown to us. He has ceased to act;
why? He is waiting for the curtain to rise. Nothing escapes him; he is
letting us go to what end we will, only, if we do not act at once,
to draw us to a sudden halt. Now to this meddling Englishman: we have
offered him a million--five millions for four. He laughs. He is a
millionaire. With characteristic bombast he declares that money has no
charms. For six months, since his father's death, we have hounded him,
in vain. It is something I can not understand. What is Leopold to these
Englishmen that they risk a princely fortune to secure him his throne?
Friendship? Bah, there is none.”

“Not in France nor in Austria. But this man was an Englishman; they
leave legacies of friendship.”

The Colonel walked to the window and looked down into the gardens. He
remained there for a time. Von Wallenstein eyed him curiously. Presently
the soldier returned to his seat.

“We are crossing a chasm; a man stands in our way; as we can not go
around him, we, being the stronger, push him aside. Eh?”

“You would not kill--” began the minister.

“Let us use the French meaning of the word `suppress.' And why not?
Ambition, wherever it goes, leaves a trail of blood. What is a human
life in this game we play? A leaf, a grain of sand.”

“But, since the prince promises to liquidate the debt, what matters it
if the Englishman comes? It is all one and the same.”

“Within twenty, nay, within fifteen days, what may not happen?”

“You are ambitious,” said von Wallenstein, slyly.

“And who is not?”

“Is a Marshal's baton so much, then, above your present position? You
are practically the head of the army.”

“A valiant army!” laughing; “five thousand men. Why, Madame the duchess
has six thousand and three batteries.”

“Her army of six thousand is an expedient; you can raise volunteers to
the amount of ten thousand.”

“To be sure I could; but supposing I did not want to?”

The minister dropped his gaze and began fingering the paper cutter. The
Colonel's real purpose was still an enigma to him. “Come, you have the
confidence of the king, the friendship of her Royal Highness. What do
you gain in serving us? The baton?”

“You embarrass me. Questions? I should not like to lie to you. Batons
were fine things when Louises and Napoleons conferred them. I have
thrown my dice into the common cup; let that be sufficient.”

“A man who comes from a noble house such as you come from--”

“Ah, count, that was never to be referred to. Be content with my brain
and sword. And then, there is the old saying, Give a man an ell, and
look to your rod. We are all either jackals or lions, puppets or men
behind the booth. I am a lion.” He rose, drew his saber half-way from
the scabbard, and sent it slithering back. “In a fortnight we put it
to the touch to win or lose it all, as the poet says. Every man for
himself, and let the strongest win, say I.”

“You are playing two games,” coldly.

“And you? Is it for pure love of Madame the duchess that you risk your
head? Come, as you say; admit that you wish to see my hand without
showing yours. A baton is not much for me, as you have hinted, but it is
all that was promised me. And you, if we win, will still be minister of
finances? What is that maggot I see behind your eyes? Is it not spelled
`chancellor'? But, remember, Madame has friends to take care of in
the event of our success. We can not have all the spoils. To join the
kingdom and the duchy will create new offices, to be sure, but we can
have only part of them. As to games, I shall, out of the kindness in my
heart, tell you that I am not playing two, but three. Guess them if you
can. Next to the chancellorship is the embassy to Vienna, and an embassy
to Paris is to be created. Madame is a superior woman. Who knows?” with
a smile that caused the other to pale.

“You are mad to dream of that.”

“As you say, I come of a noble house,” carelessly.

“You are mad.”

“No, count,” the soldier replied. “I have what Balzac calls a thirst for
a full life in a short space.”

“I would give a deal to read what is going on in that head of yours.”

“Doubtless. But what is to become of our friends the Marshal and
Mollendorf? What will be left for them? Perhaps there will be a chamber
of war, a chamber of the navy. As a naval minister the Marshal would
be nicely placed. There would be no expense of building ships or paying
sailors, which would speak well for the economy of the new government.
The Marshal is old; we shall send him to Servia. At least the office
will pay both his vanity and purse to an extent equal to that of his
present office. By the way, nothing has yet been heard from Prince
Frederick. Ah, these young men, these plump peasant girls!”

Both laughed.

“Till this evening, then;” and the Colonel went from the room.

The minister of finance applied a match to the tapers. He held the
burning match aloft and contemplated the door through which the soldier
had gone. The sting of the incipient flame aroused him.

“What,” he mused aloud, as he arranged the papers on his desk, “is his
third game?”

“It appears to me,” said a voice from the wall behind, “that the same
question arises in both our minds.”

The minister wheeled his chair, his mouth and brows puckered in dismay.
From a secret panel in the wall there stepped forth a tall, thin,
sour-visaged old man of military presence. He calmly sat down in the
chair which Beauvais had vacated.

“I had forgotten all about you, Marshal!” exclaimed the count, smiling
uneasily.

“A statement which I am most ready to believe,” replied old Marshal
Kampf, with a glance which caused the minister yet more uneasiness.
“What impressed me among other things was, `But what is to become of our
friends the Marshal and Mollendorf?' I am Marshal; I am about to risk
all for nothing. Why should I not remain Marshal for the remainder of
my days? It is a pleasant thing to go to Vienna once the year and to
witness the maneuvers, with an honorary position on the emperor's staff.
To be Marshal here is to hold a sinecure, yet it has its compensations.
The uniforms, gray and gold, are handsome; it is an ostrich plume that I
wear in my chapeau de bras; the medals are of gold. My friend, it is the
vanity of old age which forgives not.” And the Marshal, the bitterest
tongue in all Bleiberg, reached over and picked up the cigar which lay
by the inkwells. He lit it at one of the tapers, and sank again into the
chair. “Count, how many games are you playing?”

“My dear Marshal, it was not I who spoke of games. I am playing no game,
save for the legitimate sovereign of this kingdom. I ask for no reward.”

“Disinterested man! The inference is, however, that, since you have not
asked for anything, you have been promised something. Confess it, and
have done.”

“Marshal!”

“Well?”

“Is it possible that you suspect me?” The cold eyes grew colder, and the
thin lips almost disappeared.

“When three men watch each other as do Beauvais, Mollendorf and you, it
is because each suspects the other of treachery. You haven't watched
me because I am old, but because I am old I have been watching
you. Mollendorf aspires to greatness, you have your gaze on the
chancellorship, and curse me if the Colonel isn't looking after my old
shoes! Am I to give up my uniform, my medals and my plume--for nothing?
And who the devil is this man Beauvais, since that is not his name? Is
he a fine bird whose feathers have been plucked?”

The minister did not respond to the question; he began instead to fidget
in his chair.

“When I gave my word to his Highness the duke, it was without
conditions. I asked no favors; I considered it my duty. Let us come to
an understanding. Material comfort is necessary to a man of my age.
Fine phrases and a medal or two more do not count. I am, then, to go to
Servia. You were very kind to hide me in your cabinet.”

“It was to show you that I had no secrets from you,” quickly.

“Let us pass on. Mollendorf is to go to Paris, where he will be a
nonentity, while in his present office he is a power in the land--Devil
take me, but it seems to me that we are all a pack of asses! Our gains
will not be commensurate with our losses. The navy? Well, we'll let that
pass; the Colonel, I see, loves a joke.”

“You forget our patriotism for the true house.”

“Why not give it its true name--self-interest?”

“Marshal, in heaven's name, what has stirred your bile?” The minister
was losing his patience, a bad thing for him to do in the presence of
the old warrior.

“It is something I've been swallowing this past year.” The Marshal
tipped the ash of his cigar into the waste basket.

“Marshal, will you take the word not of the minister, but of the von
Wallenstein, that whatever my reward shall be for my humble services,
yours shall not be less?”

“Thanks, but I have asked for no reward. If I accepted gain for what I
do, I should not be too old to blush.”

“I do not understand.”

“Self-interest blinds us. I have nothing but pity for this king whose
only crime is an archbishop; and I can not accept gain at his expense; I
should blush for shame. Had I my way, he should die in peace. He has
not long to live. The archbishop--well, we can not make kings, they are
born. But there is one thing more: Over all your schemes is the shadow
of Austria.”

“Austria?”

“Yes. The Colonel speaks of a power behind him. Bismarck looks
hungrily toward Schleswig-Holstein. Austria casts amorous eyes at us.
A protectorate? We did not need it. It was forced on us. When Austria
assumed to dictate to us as to who should be king, she also robbed us of
our true independence. Twenty years ago there was no duchy; it was all
one kingdom. Who created this duchy when Albrecht came on the throne?
Austria. Why? If we live we shall read.” He rose, shook his lean legs.
“I have been for the most part neutral. I shall remain neutral. There is
an undercurrent on which you have failed to reckon. Austria, mistress
of the confederation. There are two men whom you must watch. One is the
archbishop.”

“The archbishop?” The minister was surprised that the Marshal should
concur with the Colonel. “And the other?”

“Your friend the Colonel,” starting for the door.

The minister smiled. “Will you not dine with me?” he asked.

“Thanks. But I have the Servian minister on my hands to-night. A propos,
tell the Colonel that I decline Belgrade. I prefer to die at home.” And
he vanished.

Von Wallenstein reviewed the statements of both his visitors.

“I shall watch Monseigneur the archbishop.” Then he added, with a
half-smile: “God save us if the Marshal's sword were half so sharp as
his tongue! It was careless of me to forget that I had shut him up in
the cabinet.”

Meanwhile Beauvais walked slowly toward his quarters, with his saber
caught up under his arm. Once he turned and gazed at the palace, whose
windows began to flash with light.

“Yes, they are puppets and jackals, and I am the lion. For all there
shall serve my ends. I shall win, and when I do--” He laughed silently.
“Well, I am a comely man, and Madame the duchess shall be my wife.”




CHAPTER VI. MADEMOISELLE OF THE VEIL

The public park at night was a revelation to Maurice, who, lonely and
restless, strolled over from the hotel in quest of innocent amusement.
He was none the worse for his unintended bath; indeed, if anything,
he was much the better for it. His imagination was excited. It was not
every day that a man could, at one and the same time, fall out of a boat
and into the presence of a princess of royal blood.

He tried to remember all he had said to her, but only two utterances
recurred to him; yet these caused him an exhilaration like the bouquet
of old wine. He had told her that she was beautiful, indirectly, it was
true; she had accepted his friendship, also indirectly, it was true. Now
the logical sequence of all this was--but he broke into a light laugh.
What little vanity he possessed was without conceit. Princesses of royal
blood were beyond the reach of logical sequence; and besides, she was to
be married on the twentieth of the month.

He followed one of the paths which led to the pavilion. It was a
charming scene, radiant with gas lamps, the vivid kaleidoscope of gowns
and uniforms. Beautiful faces flashed past him. There were in the air
the vague essences of violet, rose and heliotrope. Sometimes he caught
the echo of low laughter or the snatch of a gay song. The light of
the lamps shot out on the crinkled surface of the lake in tongues of
quivering flame, which danced a brave gavot with the phantom stars; and
afar twinkled the dipping oars. The brilliant pavilion, which rested
partly over land and partly over water, was thronged.

The band was playing airs from the operas of the day, and Maurice
yielded to the spell of the romantic music. He leaned over the pavilion
rail, and out of the blackness below he endeavored to conjure up the
face of Nell (or was it Kate?) who had danced with him at the embassies
in Vienna, fenced and ridden with him, till--till--with a gesture of
impatience he flung away the end of his cigar.

Memory was altogether too elusive. It was neither Nell nor Kate he
saw smiling up at him, nor anybody else in the world but the Princess
Alexia, whose eyes were like wine in a sunset, whose lips were as red
as the rose of Tours in France, and whose voice was sweeter than that
throbbing up from the 'cello. If he thought much more of her, there
would be a logical sequence on his side. He laughed again--with an
effort--and settled back in his chair to renew his interest in the
panorama revolving around him.

“They certainly know how to live in these countries,” he thought,
“for all their comic operas. All I need, to have this fairy scene made
complete, is a woman to talk to. By George, what's to hinder me from
finding one?” he added, seized by the spirit of mischief. He turned
his head this way and that. “Ah! doubtless there is the one I'm looking
for.”

Seated alone at a table behind him was a woman dressed in gray. Her
back was toward him, but he lost none of the beautiful contours of her
figure. She wore a gray alpine hat, below the rim of which rebellious
little curls escaped, curls of a fine red-brown, which, as they trailed
to the nape of the firm white neck, lightened into a ruddy gold. Her
delicate head was turned aside, and to all appearances her gaze was
directed to the entrance to the pavilion. A heavy blue veil completely
obscured her features; though Maurice could see a rose-tinted ear and
the shadow of a curving chin and throat, which promised much. To a man
there is always a mystery lurking behind a veil. So he rose, walked past
her, returned and deliberately sat down in the chair opposite to hers.
The fact that gendarmes moved among the crowd did not disturb him.

“Good evening, Mademoiselle,” he said, politely lifting his hat.

She straightened haughtily. “Monsieur,” she said, resentment,
consternation and indignation struggling to predominate in her tones, “I
did not give you permission to sit down. You are impertinent!”

“O, no,” Maurice declared. “I am not impertinent. I am lonesome. In all
Bleiberg I haven't a soul to talk to, excepting the hotel waiters, and
they are uninteresting. Grant me the privilege of conversing with you
for a moment. We shall never meet again; and I should not know you if we
did. Whether you are old or young, plain or beautiful, it matters not.
My only wish is to talk to a woman, to hear a woman's voice.”

“Shall I call a gendarme, Monsieur, and have him search for your nurse?”
 The attitude which accompanied these words was anything but assuring.

He, however, evinced no alarm. He even laughed. “That was good! We shall
get along finely, I am sure.”

“Monsieur,” she said, rising, “I repeat that I do not desire your
company, nor to remain in the presence of your unspeakable effrontery.”

“I beseech you!” implored Maurice, also rising. “I am a foreigner,
lonesome, unhappy, thousands of miles from home--”

“You are English?” suddenly. She stood with the knuckle of her
forefinger on her lips as if meditating. She sat down.

Maurice, greatly surprised, also sat down.

“English?” he repeated. His thought was: “What the deuce! This is the
third time I have been asked that. Who is this gay Lothario the women
seem to be expecting?” To her he continued: “And why do you ask me
that?”

“Perhaps it is your accent. And what do you wish to say to me,
Monsieur?” It was a voice of quality; all the anger had gone from it.
She leaned on her elbows, her chin in her palms, and through the veil
he caught the sparkle of a pair of wonderful eyes. “Let us converse in
English,” she added. “It is so long since I have had occasion to speak
in that tongue.” She repeated her question.

“O, I had no definite plan outlined,” he answered; “just generalities,
with the salt of repartee to season.” He pondered over this sudden
transition from wrath to mildness. An Englishman? Very well; it might
grow interesting.

“Is it customary among the English to request to speak to strangers
without the usual formalities of an introduction?”

“I can not say that it is,” he answered truthfully enough; “but the
procedure is never without a certain charm and excitement.”

“Ah; then you were led to address me merely by the love of adventure?”

“That is it; the love of adventure. I should not have spoken to you had
you not worn the veil.” He remarked that her English was excellent.

“You differ from the average Englishman, who is usually wrapt up
in himself and has no desire to talk to strangers. You have been a
soldier.”

The evolutions of his cane ceased. “How in the world did you guess
that?” surprised beyond measure.

“Perhaps there is something suggestive in your shoulders.”

He tried to peer behind the veil, but in vain. “Am I speaking to one I
have met before?”

“I believe not; indeed, sir, I am positive.”

“I have been a soldier, but my shoulders did not tell you that.”

“Perhaps I have the gift of clairvoyance,” gazing again toward the
entrance.

“Or perhaps you have been to Vienna.”

“Who knows? Most Englishmen are, or have been, soldiers.”

“That is true.” Inwardly, “There's my friend the Englishman again. She's
guessing closer than she knows. Curious; she has mistaken me for some
one she does not know, if that is possible.” He was somewhat in a
haze. “Well, you have remarkable eyes. However, let us talk of a more
interesting subject; for instance, yourself. You, too, love adventure,
that is, if I interpret the veil rightly.”

“Yes; I like to see without being seen. But, of course, behind this love
of adventure which you possess, there is an important mission.”

“Ah!” he thought; “you are not quite sure of me.” Aloud, “Yes, I came
here to witness the comic opera.”

“The comic opera? I do not understand?”

“I believed there was going to be trouble between the duchy and the
kingdom, but unfortunately the prima donna has refused the part.”

“The prima donna!” in a muffled voice. “Whom do you mean?”

“Son Altesse la Grande Duchesse! 'Voici le sabre de mon pere!'” And he
whistled a bar from Offenbach, his eyes dancing.

“Sir!--I!--you do wrong to laugh at us!” a flash from the half-hidden
eyes.

“Forgive me if I have offended you, but I--”

“Ah, sir, but you who live in a powerful country think we little folk
have no hearts, that we have no wrongs to redress, no dreams of conquest
and of power. You are wrong.”

“And whose side do you defend?”

“I am a woman,” was the equivocal answer.

“Which means that you are uncertain.”

“I have long ago made up my mind.”

“Wonderful! I always thought a woman's mind was like a time-table,
subject to change without notice. So you have made up your mind?”

“I was born with its purpose defined,” coldly.

“Ah, now I begin to doubt.”

“What?” with a still lower degree of warmth.

“That you are a woman. Only goddesses do not change their
minds--sometimes. Well, then you are on the weaker side.”

“Or the stronger, since there are two sides.”

“And the stronger?” persistently.

“The side which is not the weaker. But the subject is what you English
call 'taboo.' It is treading on delicate ground to talk politics in the
open--especially in Bleiberg.”

“What a diplomat you would make!” he cried with enthusiasm. Certainly
this was a red-letter day in his calendar. This adventure almost
equalled the other, and, besides, in this instance, his skin was dry; he
could enjoy it more thoroughly. Who could this unknown be? “If only you
understood the mystery with which you have enshrouded yourself!”

“I do.” She drew the veil more firmly about her chin.

“Grant me a favor.”

“I am talking to you, sir.”

This candor did not disturb him. “The favor I ask is that you will lift
the corner of your veil; otherwise you will haunt me.”

“I am doomed to haunt you, then. If I should lift the corner of my veil
something terrible would happen.”

“What! Are you as beautiful as that?”

There was a flash of teeth behind the veil, followed by the ripple of
soft laughter. “It is difficult to believe you to be English. You are
more like one of those absurd Americans.”

Maurice did not like the adjective. “I am one of them,” wondering what
the effect of this admission would be. “I am not English, but of the
brother race. Forgive me if I have imposed on you, but it was your
fault. You said that I was English, and I was too lonesome to enlighten
you.”

“You are an American?” She began to tap her gloved fingers against the
table.

“Yes.”

Then, to his astonishment, she gave way to laughter, honest and hearty.
“How dense of me not to have known the moment you addressed me! Who
but the American holds in scorn custom's formalities and usages? Your
grammar is good, so good that my mistake is pardonable. The American is
always like the terrible infant; and you are a choice example.”

Maurice was not so pleased as he might have been. His ears burned.
Still, he went forward bravely. “A man never pretends to be an
Englishman without getting into trouble.”

“I did not ask to speak to you. No one ever pretends to be an American.
Why is it you are always ashamed of your country?” with malice
aforethought.

Maurice experienced the sting of many bees. “I see that your experience
is limited to impostors. I, Mademoiselle, am proud of my country, the
great, free land which stands aside from the turmoil and laughs at your
petty squabbles, your kings, your princes. Laugh at me; I deserve it for
not minding my own business, but do not laugh at my country.” His face
was flushed; he was almost angry. It was not her words; it was the
contempt with which she had invested them. But immediately he was
ashamed of his outburst. “Ah, Mademoiselle, you have tricked me; you
have found the vulnerable part in my armor. I have spoken like a child.
Permit me to apologize for my apparent lack of breeding.” He rose,
bowed, and made as though to depart.

“Sit down, Monsieur,” she said, picking up her French again. “I forgive
you. I do more; I admire. I see that your freak had nothing behind it
but mischief. No woman need fear a man who colors when his country is
made the subject of a jest.”

All his anger evaporated. This was an invitation, and he accepted it. He
resumed his seat.

“The truth is, as I remarked, I was lonesome. I know that I have
committed a transgression, but the veil tempted me.”

“It is of no matter. A few moments, and you will be gone. I am waiting
for some one. You may talk till that person comes.” Her voice was now
in its natural tone; and he was convinced that if her face were half
as sweet, she must possess rare beauty. “Hush!” as the band began to
breathe forth Chopin's polonaise. They listened until the music ceased.

“Ah!” said he rapturously, “the polonaise! When you hear it, does there
not recur to you some dream of bygone happy hours, the sibilant murmur
of fragrant night winds through the crisp foliage, the faint call
of Diana's horn from the woodlands, moon-fairies dancing on the
spider-webs, the glint of the dew on the roses, the far-off music of the
surges tossing impotently on the sands, the forgetfulness of time and
place and care, and not a cloud 'twixt you and the heavens? Ah, the
polonaise!”

“Surely you must be a poet!” declared the Veil, when this panegyric was
done.

“No,” said he modestly, “I never was quite poor enough for that exalted
position.” He had recovered his good humor.

“Indeed, you begin to interest me. What is your occupation when not in
search of--comic operas?”

“I serve Ananias.”

“Ananias?” A pause. “Ah, you are a diplomat?”

“How clever of you to guess.”

“Yours is a careless country,” observed the Veil.

“Careless?” mystified.

“Yes, to send forth her green and salad youth. Eh, bien! There are
hopes for you. If you live you will grow old; you will become bald and
reserved; you will not speak to strangers, to while away an idle hour;
for permit me, Monsieur, who am wise, to tell you that it is a dangerous
practice.”

“And do I look so very young?”

“Your beard is that of a boy.”

“David slew Goliath.”

“At least you have a ready tongue,” laughing.

“And you told me that I had been a soldier.”

But to this she had nothing to say.

“I am older than you think, Mademoiselle of the Veil. I have been a
soldier; I have seen hard service, too. Mine is no cushion sword. Youth?
'Tis a virtue, not a crime; and, besides, it is an excellent disguise.”

For some time she remained pensive.

“You are thinking of something, Mademoiselle.”

“Do you like adventure?”

“I subsist on it.”

“You have been a soldier; you are, then, familiar with the use of arms?”

“They tell me so,” modestly. What was coming?

“I have some influence. May I trust you?”

“On my honor,” puzzled, yet eager.

“There may be a comic opera, as you call it. War is not so impossible as
to be laughed at. The dove may fly away and the ravens come.”

“Who in thunder might this woman be?” he thought.

“And,” went on the Veil, “an extra saber might be used. Give me your
address, in case I should find it necessary to send for you.”

Now Maurice was a wary youth. Under ordinary circumstances he would have
given a fictitious address to this strange sybil with the prophecy of
war; for he had accosted her only in the spirit of fun. But here was the
key which he had been seeking, the key to all that had brought him to
Bleiberg. Intrigue, adventure, or whatever it was, and to whatever end,
he plunged into it. He drew out a card case, selected a card on which he
wrote “Room 12, Continental,” and passed it over the table. She read it,
and slipped it into her purse.

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.”

Maurice saw a brace of revolvers on the mantel. The table stood between.

“Well,” he said, banteringly, “bring on your banquet; the hour is late.”

“That's the way; don't lose your temper, and no harm will come to you.”

“What do you wish of me?”

“Merely the pleasure of your company. Lieutenant, bring out the
treasure.”

One of the soldiers entered the next room and soon returned pushing
Fitzgerald before him. The Englishman was bound and gagged.

“How will you have the pheasant served?” asked the leader.

“Like a gentleman!” cried Maurice, letting out a little of his anger.
“Take out the gag; he will not cry.”

The leader nodded, and Fitzgerald's mouth was relieved. He spat some
blood on the carpet, then looked at his captors, the devil in his eyes.

“Proceed to kill me and have done,” he said.

“Kill you? No, no!”

“I advise you to, for if you do not kill me, some day I shall be free
again, and then God help some of you.”

Maurice gazed at the candles on the table, and smiled.

“I'm sorry they dragged you into it, Maurice,” said Fitzgerald.

“I'm glad they did. What you want is company.” There was a glance, swift
as light. It went to the mantel, then passed to the captive. “Well,”
 said Maurice, “what is next on your damned program?”

“The other side of the frontier.”

“Maybe,” said Maurice.

With an unexpected movement he sent the table over, the lights went
out; and he had judged the distance so accurately that he felt his hands
close over the revolvers.

“The door! the door!” a voice bawled. “Knock down any one who attempts
to pass.”

This was precisely what Maurice desired. With the soldiers massed about
the door, he would be free to liberate Fitzgerald; which he did. He
had scarcely completed the task, when a flame spurted up. The leader
fearlessly lit a candle and righted the table. He saw both his
prisoners, one of them with extended arms, at the ends of which
glistened revolver barrels.

“The devil!” he said.

“Maybe it is,” replied Maurice. “Now, my gay banqueteers, open the door;
and the first man who makes a suspicious movement will find that I'm a
tolerable shot.”

“Seize him, your Excellency!” shouted one of the troopers. “Those are my
revolvers he has, and they are not loaded.”




CHAPTER VIII. THE RED CHATEAU

Two o'clock in the morning, on the king's highway, and a small body of
horse making progress. The moon was beginning to roll away toward the
west, but the world was still frost-white, and the broad road stretched
out like a silver ribbon before the horsemen, until it was lost in the
blue mist of the forests.

The troop consisted of ten men, two of whom rode with their hands tied
behind their backs and their feet fastened under the bellies of the
horses. The troop was not conspicuous for this alone. Three others had
their heads done up in handkerchiefs, and a fourth carried his arm in a
sling.

Five miles to the rear lay the sleeping city of Bleiberg, twenty miles
beyond rose the formidable heights of the Thalians. At times the horses
went forward at a gallop, but more often they walked; when they galloped
the man with his arm in the sling complained. Whenever the horses
dropped into a walk, the leader talked to one of the prisoners.

“You fight like the very devil, my friend,” he said; “but we were
too many by six. Mind, I think none the less of you for your attempt;
freedom is always worth fighting for. As I said before, no harm is meant
to you, physically; as to the moral side, that doesn't concern me. You
have disabled four of my men, and have scarcely a dozen scratches to
show for it. I wanted to take only four men with me; I was ordered to
take eight. The hand of providence is in it.”

“You wouldn't be so polite, Colonel,” spoke up the trooper whose arm was
in the sling, “if you had got this crack.”

“Baron, who told you to call me Colonel?” the leader demanded.

“Why, we are out of the city; there's no harm now that I can see.”

“Is it possible,” said Maurice ironically, “that I have had the honor of
hitting a baron on the head and breaking his arm?”

The baron muttered a curse and fell back.

“And you,” went on Maurice, addressing the leader, “are a Colonel?”

“Yes.”

“For the duchess?”

“For the duchess.”

“A black business for you, Colonel; take my word for it.”

“A black business it is; but orders are orders. Have you ever been a
soldier?”

“I have.”

“Well, there's nothing more to be said.”

“America--” Maurice began.

“Is several thousand miles away.”

“Not if you reckon from Vienna.”

“I'd rather not reckon, if it's all the same to you. Your friend--I
might say, your very valuable friend--takes the matter too much to
heart.”

“He's not a talkative man.”

Fitzgerald looked straight ahead, stern and impassive.

“But now that we are talking,” said Maurice, “I should like to know how
the deuce you got hold of my name and dragged me into this affair?”

“Simple enough. A card of yours was given to me; on it was your name and
address. The rest was easy.”

Maurice grew limp in the saddle.

“By George! I had forgotten! The woman is at the bottom of it.”

“Quite likely. I thought you'd come to that conclusion. Sometimes when
we play with foxes they lead us into bear traps. Young man, witness
these gray hairs; never speak to strange women, especially when they
wear veils.”

Fitzgerald was now attending the conversation.

“And who is this woman?” asked Maurice.

“Mademoiselle of the Veil, according to your picturesque imagination; to
me she is the intimate friend and adviser of her Highness Stephonia.” He
wheeled to the troopers with a laugh: “Hoch, you beggars, hoch!”

Maurice indulged in some uncomplimentary remarks, among which was: “I'm
an ass!”

“Every man improves on making that discovery; the Darwinian theory is
wrong.”

After a pause Maurice said: “How did you get on the ground so quickly?”

“We arrived yesterday afternoon as the escort of your charmer. A pretty
woman finds it troublesome to travel alone in these parts. When you
slapped your friend on the back and bawled out his name--a name known
from one end of the kingdom to the other--the plan of action was
immediately formed. You were necessary, for it was taken for granted
that you knew too much. You had also promised your sword,” with a
chuckle.

“I made no promise,” said Maurice. “I only said that I should easily be
found when wanted.”

“Well, so you were; there's no gainsaying that.”

Maurice said some more uncomplimentary things.

“It was neatly done, you will admit. Life is a game of cards; he wins
who plays first.”

“Or he doesn't. Colonel, a game is won only when it is played'.”

“That's true enough.”

“Kings are a tolerable bother on earth,” Maurice declared, trying to
ease his wrists by holding them higher against his back.

“What do you know about them?”

“When I was in the army I often fell in with three or four of a night.”

“Eh?--kings?”

“Yes; but usually I was up against aces or straight flushes.”

“Cards! Well, well; when you get down to the truth of the matter, real
kings differ but little from the kings in pasteboard; right side up, or
wrong side up, they serve the purpose of those who play them. There's a
poor, harmless devil back there,” with a nod toward Bleiberg. “He never
injured a soul. Perhaps that's it; had he been cruel, avaricious, sly,
all of them would be cringing at his feet. Devil take me--but I'm a
soldier,” he broke off abruptly; “it's none of my business.”

“Have you any titles?” Maurice asked presently.

“Titles?” The Colonel jerked around on his horse. “Why?”

“O,” said Maurice carelessly, “I thought it not unlikely that you might
have a few lying around loose.”

The Colonel roared. “You Americans beat the very devil with your
questions. Well, I am politely known as Count Mollendorf, if that will
gratify you.”

“What! brother of Mollendorf of the king's police?”

“God save the mark! No; I am an honest man--some of the time.”

Maurice laughed; the old fellow was amusing, and besides, this
conversation helped to pass away the time.

“Wake up, Jack; here's entertainment,” he said.

A scowl added itself to the stern expression on Fitzgerald's face.

“I trust that none of your teeth are loose,” ventured the Colonel.

“If they are, they'll be tight enough ere many days have passed,” was
the threatening reply.

“Beware the dog!” cried the Colonel, and he resumed his place at the
head of the little troop.

Maurice took this opportunity to bend toward Fitzgerald. “Have you
anything of importance about you?” he whispered significantly.

“Nothing. But God send that no chambermaid change the sheet in my bed at
the hotel.”

“Are they--”

“Silence.” Fitzgerald saw the trooper next with his hand to his ear.

After a time the Colonel sang out: “Fifteen miles more, with three on
the other side, men; we must put more life into us. A trot for a few
miles. The quicker the ride is done, baron, the quicker the surgeon will
look to your arm.”

And silence fell upon the troop. Occasionally a stray horse in the
fields whinneyed, and was answered from the road; sometimes the howl of
a dog broke the monotony. On and on they rode; hour and mile were left
behind them. The moon fell lower and lower, and the mountains rose
higher and higher, and the wind which had risen had a frosty sting to
it. Maurice now began to show the true state of his temper by cursing
his horse whenever it rubbed against one of its fellows. His back was
lame, and there was a dull pain in one of his shoulders. When he had
made the rush for the door, clubbing right and left with the empty
revolvers, he had finally been thrown on an overturned chair.

“Here, hang you!” he said to the trooper who held the bridle of his
horse, “I'm cold; you might at least turn up my collar about my throat.”

“You are welcome to my cloak,” said the trooper, disengaging that
article from his shoulders.

“Thank you,” said Maurice, somewhat abashed by the respectful tone.

The trooper offered his blanket to Fitzgerald.

“I wish no favors,” said the Englishman, thanklessly.

The trooper shrugged, and caught up Maurice's bridle.

At length the troop arrived at the frontier. There was no sign of life
at the barrack. They passed unchallenged.

“What!” exclaimed Maurice, “do they sleep here at night, then? A fine
frontier barrack.” He had lived in hopes of more disturbance and a
possible chance for liberty.

“They will wake up to-day,” answered the Colonel; “that is, if the wine
we gave them was not too strong. Poor devils; they must be good and cold
by this time, since we have their clothes. What do you think of a king
whose soldiers drink with any strangers who chance along?”

Maurice became resigned. To him the present dynasty was as fragile as
glass, and it needed but one strong blow to shatter it into atoms. And
the one hope rode at his side, sullen and wrathful, but impotent; the
one hope the king had to save his throne. He had come to Bleiberg in
search of excitement, but this was altogether more than he had bargained
for.

The horses began to lift and were soon winding in and out of the narrow
mountain pass. The chill of the overhanging snows fell upon them.

“It wouldn't have hurt you to accept the blanket,” said Maurice to
Fitzgerald.

“Curse it! I want nothing but two minutes freedom. It would be warm
enough then.”

“No confidences, gentlemen,” warned the Colonel; “I understand English
tolerably well.”

“Go to the devil, then, if you do!” said Fitzgerald discourteously.

“When the time comes,” tranquilly. “Of the two I like your friend
the better. To be resigned to the inevitable is a sign of good mental
balance.”

“I am not used to words,” replied the Englishman.

“You are used to orders. I am simply obeying mine. If I took you off
your guard it was because I had to, and not because I liked that method
best. Look alive, men; it's down hill from now on.”

A quarter of an hour later the troop arrived at the duchy's frontier
post. There was no sleep here. The Colonel flung himself from his horse
and exercised his legs.

“Sergeant,” he said, “how far behind the others?”

“They passed two hours ago, Excellency. And all is well?” deferentially.

“All is indeed well,” with a gesture toward the prisoners.

“I've a flask of brandy in my hip pocket,” said Maurice. “Will you help
me to a nip, Colonel?”

“Pardon me, gentlemen; I had forgotten that your hands were still in
cords. Corporal,” to a trooper, “relieve their hands.”

The prisoners rubbed their wrists and hands, which were numb and cold.
Maurice produced his flask.

“I was bringing it along for your sprained ankle,” he said, as he
extended the flask to Fitzgerald, who drank a third of it. “I'd offer
you some, Colonel, only it would be like heaping coals of fire on your
head; and, besides, I want it all myself.” He returned the emptied flask
to his pocket, feeling a moderate warmth inside.

“Drink away, my son,” said the Colonel, climbing into the saddle;
“there'll be plenty for me for this night's work. Forward!”

The troop took up the march again, through a splendid forest kept clear
of dead wood by the peasants. It abounded with game. The shrill cry of
the pheasants, the rustle of the partridges in the underbrush, the bark
of the fox, all rose to the ears of the trespassers. The smell of warm
earth permeated the air, and the sky was merging from silver into gold.

When Napoleon humiliated Austria for the second time, one of his
mushroom nobles, who placed too much faith in the man of destiny,
selected this wooded paradise as a residence. He built him a fine castle
of red brick, full of wide halls and drawing rooms and chambers of
state, and filled it with fabulous paintings, Gobelin tapestries, and
black walnut wainscot. He kept a small garrison of French soldiers
by converting the huge stables partly into a barrack. One night the
peasantry rose. There was a conflict, as the walls still show; and the
prince by patent fled, no one knew where. After its baptism in blood
it became known far and wide as the Red Chateau. Whenever children were
unruly, they were made docile by threats of the dark dungeons of the Red
Chateau, or the ghosts of the French and German peasants who died there.
As it now stood, it was one of the summer residences of her Highness.

It was here that the long night's journey came to an end.

“Gentlemen,” said the Colonel, dismounting, “permit me, in the name of
her Highness, to offer you the hospitality of Red Chateau. Consider;
will you lighten my task by giving me your word of honor to make no
attempt to escape? Escape is possible, but not probable. There are
twenty fresh men and horses in the stables. Come, be reasonable. It will
be pleasanter on both sides.”

“So far as I'm concerned,” said Maurice, who needed liberty not half so
much as sleep, “I pass my word.”

“And you, sir?” to Fitzgerald.

Fitzgerald gazed about him. “Very well,” he said, as he saw the futility
of a struggle.

“Your humble servant, Messieurs,” touching his cap. “Take the ropes off
their ankles, men.”

When Maurice was lifted from his horse and placed on the ground, his
legs suddenly bent under him, and he went sprawling to the grass. A
trooper sprang to his assistance.

“My legs have gone to sleep!”

The Englishman was affected likewise, and it was some moments before
either could walk. They were conducted to a chamber high up in the left
wing, which overlooked the forest and the mountains. It was a large airy
room, but the windows were barred and there were double locks on the
doors. The Colonel followed them into the room and pointed to the table.

“Breakfast, Messieurs, and a good sleep for you till this noon. As for
the rest, let that take care of itself.” And he left them.

Maurice, after having tried all the bars and locks in answer to his
conscience, gave his attention to the breakfast. On lifting the covers
he found fish, eggs, toast and coffee.

“Here's luck!” he cried. “We were expected.”

“Curse it, Maurice!” Fitzgerald began pacing the room.

“No, no,” said Maurice; “let us eat it; that's what it's here for,” and
he fell to with that vigor known only to healthy blood.

“But what's to be done?”

“Follow Solomon's advice, and wait.”

“You're taking it cursed cool.”

“Force of habit,” breaking the toast. “What's the use of wasting powder?
Because I have shown only the exterior, our friend the Colonel has
already formed an opinion of me. I am brave if need be, but young and
careless. In a day or so--for I suppose we are not to be liberated at
once--he'll forget to use proper caution in respect to me. And then,
'who can say?' as the Portuguese says when he hasn't anything else to
say. They'll keep a strict watch over you, my friend, because you've
played the lion too much. Just before I left the States, as you call
them, a new slang phrase was going the rounds;--'it is better to play
the fox some of the time than to roar all of the time.' Ergo, be foxy.
Take it cool. So long as you haven't got that mint packed about your
person, the game breaks even.”

“But the king!”

“Is as secure on his throne as he ever was. If you do not present those
consols, either for renewal or collection, on the twentieth, he loses
nothing. As you said, let us hope that the chambermaid is a shifty,
careless lass, who will not touch your room till you return.” Maurice
broke an egg and dropped a lump of sugar into his cup.

“Is this the way you fight Indians?”

“Indians? What the deuce has fighting Indians to do with this? As to
Indians, shoot them in the back if you can. Here, everything depends not
on fighting but the right use of words. A man may be a diplomat and
not render his country any large benefit; still, it's a fine individual
training. Thrones stand on precipices and are pushed back to safety by
the trick of a few words. Have an egg; they're fresh.”

Fitzgerald sat down and gulped his coffee. “They broke my monocle in the
struggle.”

Maurice choked in his cup.

“I've worn it twelve years, too,” went on Fitzgerald.

“Everything is for the best,” said Maurice. “You will be able to see out
of both eyes.”

“Confound you!” cried Fitzgerald, smiling in spite of himself; “nothing
will disturb you.”

“You mean, nothing shall. Now, there's the bed and there's the lounge.
Since you are the principal, that is to say, the constituent part of
this affair, and also the principal actor in this extravaganza, suppose
you take the bed and leave me the lounge? And the deuce take the
duchess, who is probably a woman with a high forehead and a pair of
narrow eyes!” He threw down his napkin and made for the lounge, without
giving any particular attention to the smile and frown which were
struggling in the Englishman's eyes. In less than a minute Maurice was
dozing.

Fitzgerald thought that the best thing he could do was to follow the
philosophical example of his friend. “These Americans,” he mused, as he
arranged the pillow under his ear, “are `fifteen puzzles'; you can move
them, or you can't.”

As for Maurice, he was already dreaming; he was too tired to sleep.
Presently he thought he was on a horse again, and was galloping,
galloping. He was heading his old company to the very fringe of the
alkali. The Apaches had robbed the pay train and killed six men, and
the very deuce was to pay all around.... Again he was swimming, and a
beautiful girl reached out a hand and saved him. Ah! how beautiful she
was, how soft and rich the deep brown of her eyes!... The scene shifted.
The president of the South American republic had accepted his sword
(unbeknown to the United States authorities), and he was aiding to quell
the insurrection. And just then some one whispered to him that gold
would rise fifty points. And as he put out his hands to gather in the
glittering coins which were raining down, the face of Colonel Beauvais
loomed up, scowling and furious.... And yet again came the beautiful
girl. He was holding her hand and the archbishop had his spread out in
benediction over their heads.... A hand, which was not of dreamland,
shook him by the arm. He opened his eyes. Fitzgerald was standing over
him. The light of the sun spangled the walls opposite the windows. The
clock marked the eleventh hour of day.

“Hang you!” he said, with blinking eyes; “why didn't you let me be?
I was just marrying the princess, and you've spoiled it all. I--” He
jumped to his feet and rubbed his eyes, and, forgetful of all save his
astonishment, pursed his lips into a low whistle.




CHAPTER IX. NOTHING MORE SERIOUS THAN A HOUSE PARTY

Standing just within the door, smiling and rubbing the gray bristles
on his lip, was the Colonel. In the center of the room stood a
woman dressed in gray. Maurice recognized the dress; it belonged to
Mademoiselle of the Veil, who was now sans veil, sans hat. A marvelous
face was revealed to Maurice, a face of that peculiar beauty which poets
and artists are often minded to deny, but for the love of which men die,
become great or terrible, overturn empires and change the map of the
world.

Her luxuriant hair, which lay in careless masses about the shapely head
and intelligent brow, was a mixture of red and brown and gold, a variety
which never ceases to charm; skin the pallor of ancient marble, with
the shadow of rose lying below the eyes, the large, gray chatoyant
eyes, which answered every impulse of the brain which ruled them. The
irregularity of her features was never noticeable after a glance into
those eyes. At this moment both eyes and lips expressed a shade of
amusement.

Maurice, who was astonished never more than a minute at a time,
immediately recovered. His toilet was somewhat disarranged, and the back
of his head a crow's nest, but, nevertheless, he placed a hand over his
heart and offered a low obeisance.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” she said, in a voice which Maurice would
have known anywhere. “I hope the journey has caused you no particular
annoyance.”

“The annoyance was not so particular, Madame,” said Fitzgerald stiffly,
“as it was general.”

“And four of my troopers will take oath to that!” interjected the
Colonel.

“Will Madame permit me to ask when will the opera begin?” asked Maurice.

“I am glad,” said she, “that you have lost none of your freshness.”

Maurice was struck for a moment, but soon saw that the remark was
innocent of any inelegance of speech. Fitzgerald was gnawing his
mustache and looking out of the corner of his eyes--into hers.

“My task, I confess, is a most disagreeable one,” she resumed, lightly
beating her gauntlets together; “but when one serves high personages one
is supposed not to have any sentiments.” To Fitzgerald she said: “You
are the son of the late Lord Fitzgerald.”

“For your sake, I regret to say that I am.”

“For my sake? Worry yourself none on that point. As the agent of her
Highness I am inconsiderable.”

“Madame,” said Maurice, “will you do us the honor to inform us to whom
we are indebted for this partiality to our distinguished persons?”

“I am Sylvia Amerbach,” quietly.

“Amerbach?” said Maurice, who was familiar with the great names of the
continent. “Pardon me, but that was once a famous name in Prussia.”

“I am distantly related to that house of princes,” looking at her
gauntlets.

“Well, Madame, since your business doubtless concerns me, pray, begin;”
 and Fitzgerald leaned against the mantelpiece and fumbled with the rim
of his monocle.

Maurice walked to one of the windows and perched himself on the broad
sill. He began to whistle softly:

Voici le sabre de mon pere! Tu vas le mettre a ton cote....

Beyond the window, at the edge of the forest, he saw a sentinel pacing
backward and forward. Indeed, no matter which way he looked, the
autumnal scenery had this accessory. Again, he inspected the bars. These
were comparatively new. It was about thirty feet to the court below. On
the whole, the outlook was discouraging.

“Count,” said the distant relative of the house of Amerbach, “how shall
I begin?”

“I am not a diplomat, Madame,” answered the Colonel. “If, however, you
wish the advice of a soldier, I should begin by asking if my lord the
Englishman has those consols about his person.”

“Fie, count!” she cried, laughing; “one would say that was a prelude to
robbery.”

“So they would. As for myself, I prefer violence to words. If we take
these pretty papers by violence, we shall still have left our friend
the Englishman his self-respect. And as for words, while my acquaintance
with our friend is slight, I should say that they would only be wasted
here.”

The whistle from the window still rose and fell.

“Monsieur, I have it in my power to make you rich.”

“I am rich,” replied Fitzgerald.

“In honors?”

“Madame, the title I have is already a burden to me.” Fitzgerald
laughed, which announced that the cause of the duchess was not getting
on very well. Once or twice he raised the tortoiseshell rim to his eye,
but dropped it; force of habit was difficult to overcome.

“Your father nourished a particular rancor against the late duke.”

“And justly, you will admit.”

“Her Highness has offered you five millions for slips of paper worth no
more than the ink which decorates them.”

“And I have refused. Why? Simply because the matter does not rest with
me. You have proceeded with a high hand, Madame, or rather your duchess
has. Nothing will come of it. Had there been any possibility of my
considering your proposals, this kidnaping would have destroyed it.”

She smiled. Maurice saw the smile and stopped whistling long enough to
scratch his chin, which was somewhat in need of a razor. He had
seen many women smile that way. He had learned to read it. It was an
inarticulate “perhaps.”

“The rightful successor to the throne--”

“Is Madame the duchess,” Fitzgerald completed. “I haven't the slightest
doubt of that. One way or the other, it does not concern me. I came here
simply to fulfill the wishes of my father; and my word, Madame, fulfill
them I shall. You are holding me a prisoner, but uselessly. On the
twentieth the certificates fall due against the government. If they are
not presented either for renewal or collection, the bankruptcy scheme of
your duchess will fall through just the same. I will tell you the
truth, Madame. My father never expected to collect the moneys so long as
Leopold sat on the throne.”

The whistle grew shrill.

“This officer here,” continued Fitzgerald, while the Colonel made a
comical grimace, “suggests violence. I shall save him the trouble. I
have seen much of the world, Madame--the hard side of it--and, knowing
it as I do, it is scarcely probable that I should carry about my person
the equivalent of four millions of crowns.”

“Well, Madame,” said the Colonel, pushing his belt closer about his
hips, as a soldier always does when he is on the point of departure,
“what he says is true, every word of it. I see nothing more to do at
present.”

Mademoiselle of the Veil was paying not so much attention to the
Colonel's words as she was to Maurice's whistle.

“Monsieur,” she said, coldly, “have you no other tune in your
repertory?”

“Pardon me!” exclaimed Maurice. “I did not intend to annoy you.” He
stepped down out of the window.

“You do not annoy me; only the tune grows rather monotonous.”

“I will whistle anything you may suggest,” he volunteered.

She did not respond to this flippancy, though the pupils of her gray
eyes grew large with anger. She walked the length of the room and back.

“Count, what do you think would be most satisfactory to her Highness,
under the circumstances?”

“I have yet to hear of her Highness' disapproval of anything you
undertake.”

“Messieurs, your parole d'honneur, and the freedom of the chateau is
yours--within the sentry lines. I wish to make your recollections of the
Red Chateau rather pleasant than otherwise. I shall be most happy if you
will honor my table with your presence.”

The Colonel coughed, Maurice smoothed the back of his head, and
Fitzgerald caught up his monocle.

“My word, Madame,” said Maurice, “is not worth much, being that of
a diplomat, but such as it is it is yours. However, my clothes are
scarcely presentable,” which was true enough. Several buttons were
missing, and the collar hung by a thread.

“That can be easily remedied,” said she. “There are several new hussar
uniforms in the armory.”

“O, Madame, and you will permit me to wear one of those gay uniforms of
light blue and silver lace?”

The Colonel looked thoughtfully at Maurice. He was too much a banterer
himself to miss the undercurrent of raillery. He eyed Madame discreetly;
he saw that she had accepted merely the surface tones.

“And you will wear one, too, Jack?” said Maurice.

“No, thank you. I pass my word, Madame; I do not like confinement.”

“Well, then, the count will shortly return and establish you in better
quarters. Let us suppose you are my guests for a--a fortnight. Since
both of us are right, since neither your cause nor mine is wrong,
an armistice! Ah! I forgot. The east corridor on the third floor is
forbidden you. Should you mistake and go that way, a guard will direct
you properly. Messieurs, till dinner!” and with a smile which illumined
her face as a sudden burst of sunshine flashes across a hillside, she
passed out of the room, followed by her henchman, who had not yet put
aside the thoughtful repose of his countenance.

“A house party,” said Maurice, when he could no longer hear their
footsteps. “And what the deuce have they got so valuable in the east
corridor on the third floor?”

“It's small matter to me,” said Fitzgerald tranquilly. “The main fact is
that she has given up her game.”

Said Maurice, his face expressing both pity and astonishment: “My dear,
dear John! Didn't you see that woman's eyes, her hair, her chin, her
nose?”

“Well?”

“True; you haven't had any experience with petticoats. This woman will
rend heaven and earth rather than relinquish her projects, or rather
those of her mistress. I should like to see this duchess, who shows a
fine discernment in the selection of her assistants. Beware of the
woman who is frankly your enemy. If she is frank, it is because she is
confident of the end; if not, she is frank in order to disarm us of the
suspicion of cunning. I would give much to know the true meaning of this
house party.”

“Hang me if I can see what difference it makes. She can not do anything
either by frankness or by cunning.”

“She gathered us in neatly, this red-haired Amazon.”

“Red-haired!” in a kind of protest.

“Why, yes; that's the color, isn't it?” innocently.

“I thought it a red-brown. It's too bad that such a woman should be
mixed up in an affair like this.”

“Woman will sacrifice to ambition what she never will sacrifice to love.
Hush; I hear the Colonel returning.”

They were conducted to the opposite wing of the chateau, to a room on
the second floor. Its windows afforded an excellent view of the land
which lay south. Hills rolled away like waves of gold, dotted here and
there with vineyards. Through the avenue of trees they could see the
highway, and beyond, the river, which had its source in the mountains
ten miles eastward.

The room itself was in red, evidently a state chamber, for it contained
two canopied beds. Several fine paintings hung from the walls, and
between the two windows rose one of those pier glasses which owe their
existence to the first empire of France. On one of the beds Maurice saw
the hussar uniform. On the dresser were razors and mugs and a pitcher of
hot water.

“Ah,” he said, with satisfaction.

“The boots may not fit you,” said the Colonel, “but if they do not we
will manage some way.”

“I shall not mind the fortnight,” said Maurice. “By the way, Colonel, I
notice that French seems to prevail instead of German. Why is that?”

“It is the common language of politeness, and servants do not understand
it. As for myself, I naturally prefer the German tongue; it is blunt
and honest and lacks the finesse of the French, which is full of evasive
words and meanings. However, French predominates at court. Besides,
heaven help the foreigner who tries to learn all the German tongues to
be found in the empires of the Hohenzollern and Hapsburg. Luncheon will
be served to you in the dining hall; the first door to the right at
the foot of the grand staircase. I shall send you a trooper to act as
valet.”

“Spare me, Colonel,” said Maurice, who did not want any one between him
and the Englishman when they were alone.

“I have never had a valet,” said Fitzgerald; “he would embarrass me.”

“As you please,” said the Colonel, a shade of disappointment in his
tones. “After all, you are soldiers, where every man is for himself.
Make yourselves at home;” and he withdrew.

Maurice at once applied lather and razor, and put on the handsome
uniform, which fitted him snugly. The coat was tailless, with rows of
silver buttons running from collar to waist. The breast and shoulders
and sleeves were covered with silver lace, and Maurice concluded that it
must be nothing less than a captain's uniform. The trousers were tight
fitting, with broad stripes of silver; and the half boots were of patent
leather. He walked backward and forward before the pier-glass.

“I say, Fitz, what do you think of it?”

“You're a handsome rascal, Maurice,” answered the Englishman, who had
watched his young friend, amusement in his sober eyes. “Happily, there
are no young women present.”

“Go to! I'll lay odds that our hostess is under twenty-five.”

“I meant young women of sixteen or seventeen. Women such as Madame have
long since passed the uniform fever.”

“Not when it has lace, my friend, court lace. Well, forward to the
dining hall.”

Both were rather disappointed to find that Madame would be absent until
dinner. Fitzgerald could not tell exactly why he was disappointed, and
he was angry with himself for the vague regret. Maurice, however, found
consolation in the demure French maid who served them. Every time he
smiled she made a courtesy, and every time she left the room Maurice
nudged Fitzgerald.

“Smile, confound you, smile!” he whispered. “There's never a maid but
has her store of gossip, and gossip is information.”

“Pshaw!” said Fitzgerald, helping himself to cold ham and chicken.

“Wine, Messieurs?” asked the maid.

“Ah, then Madame offers the cellars?” said Maurice.

“Yes, Messieurs. There is chambertin, champagne, chablis, tokayer and
sherry.”

“Bring us some chambertin, then.”

“Oui, Messieurs.”

“Hurry along, my Hebe,” said Maurice.

The maid was not on familiar terms with the classics, but she told the
butler in the pantry that the smooth-faced one made a charming Captain.

“Keep your eyes open,” grumbled the butler; “he'll be kissing you next.”

“He might do worse,” was the retort. Even maids have their mirrors, and
hers told a pretty story. When she returned with the wine she asked:
“And shall I pour it, Messieurs?”

“No one else shall,” declared Maurice. “When is the duchess to arrive?”

“I do not know, Monsieur,” stepping in between the chairs and filling
the glasses with the ruby liquid.

“Who is Madame Sylvia Amerbach?”

“Madame Sylvia Amerbach,” placing the bottle on the table and going to
the sideboard. She returned with a box of “Khedives.”

Fitzgerald laughed at Maurice's disconcertion.

“Where has Madame gone?”

“To the summer home of Countess Herzberg, who is to return with Madame.”

“Oho!” cried Maurice, in English. “A countess! What do you say to that,
my Englishman?”

“She is probably old and plain. Madame desires a chaperon.”

“You forget that Madame desires nothing but those certificates. And the
chaperon does not live who could keep an eye on Madame Sylvia Amerbach.”

The mention of the certificates brought back all the Englishman's
discomfort, and he emptied his glass of wine not as a lover of good wine
should. Soon they rose from the table. The maid ran to the door and held
it open. Fitzgerald hurried through, but Maurice lingered a moment. He
put his hand under the porcelain chin and looked into the china-blue
eyes. Fitzgerald turned.

“What was that noise?” he asked, as Maurice shouldered him along the
hall.

“What noise?”

Madame came back to the chateau at five, and dinner was announced at
eight. The Countess Herzberg was young and pretty, the possessor of a
beautiful mouth and a charming smile. The Colonel did the honors at
the table. Maurice almost fancied himself in Vienna, the setting of the
dining room was so perfect. The entire room was paneled in walnut. On
the mantel over the great fireplace stood silver candlesticks with
wax tapers. The candlestick in the center of the table was composed of
twelve branches. The cuisine was delectable, the wines delicious. Madame
and the countess were in evening dress. The Colonel was brimming with
anecdote, the countess was witty, Madame was a sister to Aspasia.

Maurice, while he enjoyed this strange feast, was puzzled. It was very
irregular, and the Colonel's gray hairs did not serve to alter this
fact. What was the meaning of it? What lay underneath?

Sometimes he caught Fitzgerald in the act of staring at Madame when her
attention was otherwise engaged; at other times he saw that Madame was
returning this cursory investigation. There was, however, altogether a
different meaning in these surreptitious glances. In the one there were
interest, doubt, admiration; in the other, cold calculation. At no time
did the conversation touch politics, and the crown was a thousand miles
away--if surface indications went for aught.

Finally the Colonel rose. “A toast--to Madame the duchess, since this is
her very best wine!”

Maurice emptied his glass fast enough; but Fitzgerald lowered his eyes
and made no movement to raise his glass. The pupils in Madame's eyes
grew small.

“That is scarcely polite, Monsieur,” she said.

“Madame,” he replied gently, “my parole did not include toasts to her
Highness. My friend loves wine for its own sake, and seldom bothers his
head about the toast as long as the wine is good. Permit me to withdraw
the duchess and substitute yourself.”

“Do so, if it will please you. In truth, it was bad taste in you, count,
to suggest it.”

“It's all the same to me;” and the Colonel refilled his glass and
nodded.

The countess smiled behind her fan, while Maurice felt the edge of the
mild reproach which had been administered to him.

“I plead guilty to the impeachment. It was very wrong. Far from it that
I should drink to the health of the Philistines. Madame the countess was
beating me down with her eyes, and I did not think.”

“I was not even looking at you!” declared the countess, blushing.

The incident was soon forgotten; and at length Madame and the countess
rose.

Said the first: “We will leave you gentlemen to your cigars; and when
they have ceased to interest you, you will find us in the music room.”

“And you will sing?” said Maurice to the countess.

“If you wish.” She was almost beautiful when she smiled, and she smiled
on Maurice.

“I confess,” said he, “that being a prisoner, under certain
circumstances, is a fine life.”

“What wicked eyes he has,” said the countess, as she and Madame entered
the music room.

“Do not look into them too often, my dear,” was the rejoinder. “I have
asked not other sacrifice than that you should occupy his attention and
make him fall in love with you.”

“Ah, Madame, that will be easy enough. But what is to prevent me from
falling in love with him? He is very handsome.”

“You are laughing!”

“Yes, I am laughing. It will be such an amusing adventure, a souvenir
for my old age--and may my old age forget me.”

The men lit their cigars and smoked in silence.

“Colonel,” said Maurice at last, “will you kindly tell me what all this
means?”

“Never ask your host how old his wine is. If he is proud of it, he will
tell you.” He blew the smoke under the candle shades and watched it as
it darted upward. “Don't you find it comfortable? I should.”

“Conscience will not lie down at one's bidding.”

“I understood that you were a diplomat?” The Colonel turned to
Fitzgerald. “I hope that, when you are liberated, you will forget the
manner in which you were brought here.”

“I shall forget nothing,” curtly.

“The devil! I can not fight you; I am too old.”

Fitzgerald said nothing, and continued to play with his emptied
wine-glass.

“The Princess Alexia,” went on the Colonel, “has a bulldog. I have
always wondered till now what the nationality of the dog was. The
bulldog neither forsakes nor forgives; he is an Englishman.”

This declaration was succeeded by another interval of silence. The
Englishman was thinking of his father; the thoughts of Maurice were
anywhere but at the chateau; the Colonel was contemplating them both,
shrewdly.

“Well, to the ladies, gentlemen; it is half after nine.”

The countess was seated at the piano, improvising. Madame stood before
the fireplace, arranging the pieces on a chess board. In the center
of the room was a table littered with books, magazines and illustrated
weeklies.

“Do you play chess, Monsieur?” said Madame to Fitzgerald.

“I do not.”

“Well, Colonel, we will play a game and show him how it is done.”

Fitzgerald drew up a chair and sat down at Madame's elbow. He followed
every move she made because he had never seen till now so round and
shapely an arm, hands so small and white, tipped with pink filbert
nails. He did not learn the game so quickly as might be. He, like
Maurice, was pondering over the unusual position in which he found
himself; but analysis of any sort was not his forte; so he soon forgot
all save the delicate curve of Madame's chin and throat, the soft ripple
of her laughter, the abysmal gray of her eyes.

“Monsieur le Capitaine,” said the countess, “what shall I sing to you?”

“To me?” said Maurice. “Something from Abt.”

Her fingers ran lightly over the keys, and presently her voice rose in
song, a song low, sweet, and sad. Maurice peered out of the window
into the shades of night. Visions passed and repassed the curtain of
darkness. Once or twice the countess turned her head and looked at him.
It was not only a handsome face she saw, but one that carried the mark
of refinement.... Maurice was thinking of the lonely princess and her
grave dark eyes. He possessed none of that power from which princes
derive benefits; what could he do? And why should he interest himself in
a woman who, in any event, could never be anything to him, scarcely even
a friend? He smiled.

If Fitzgerald was not adept at analysis, he was. Nothing ever entered
his mind or heart that he could not separate and define. It was strange;
it was almost laughable; to have fenced as long and adroitly as he had
fenced, and then to be disarmed by one who did not even understand the
foils! Surrender? Why not?... By and by his gaze traveled to the chess
players. There was another game than chess being played there, though
kings and queens and knights and bishops were still the sum of it.

“Are you so very far away, then?” The song had ceased; the countess was
looking at him curiously.

“Thank you,” he said; “indeed, you had taken me out of myself.”

“Do you like chestnuts?” she asked suddenly.

“I am very fond of them.”

“Then I shall fetch some.” It occurred to her that the room was very
warm; she wanted a breath of air--alone.

“Checkmate!” cried the Colonel, joyfully.

“Do you begin to understand?” asked Madame.

“A little,” admitted Fitzgerald, who did not wish to learn too quickly.
“I like to watch the game.”

“So do I,” said Maurice, who had approached the table. “I should like to
know what the game is, too.”

Both Madame and the Colonel appeared to accept the statement and not the
innuendo. Madame placed the figures on the board.

Maurice strolled over to the table and aimlessly glanced through the
Vienna illustrated weeklies. He saw Franz Josef in characteristic poses,
full-page engravings of the military maneuvers and reproductions of the
notable paintings. He picked up an issue dated June. A portrait of the
new Austrian ambassador to France attracted his attention. He turned the
leaf. What he saw on the following page caused him to widen his eyes and
let slip an ejaculation loud enough to be heard by the chess players.
Madame seemed on the point of rising. Maurice did not lower his eyes nor
Madame hers.

“Checkmate in three moves, Madame!” exclaimed the Colonel; “it is
wonderful.”

“What's the matter, Maurice?” asked Fitzgerald.

“Jack, I am a ruined man.”

“How? What?” nearly upsetting the board.

“I just this moment remember that I left my gas burning at the hotel,
and it is extra.”

The Colonel and Fitzgerald lay back in their chairs and roared with
laughter.

But Madame did not even smile.




CHAPTER X. BEING OF LONG RIDES, MAIDS, KISSES AND MESSAGES

Fitzgerald was first into bed that night.

“I want to finish this cigar, Jack,” said Maurice, who wished to be
alone with his thoughts. He sat in the chair by the window and lifted
his feet to the sill. The night wind was warm and odorous. He had
found a clue, but through what labyrinth would it lead him? A strange
adventure, indeed; so strange that he was of half a mind that he
dreamed. Prisoners.... Why? And these two women alone in this old
chateau, a house party. There lay below all this some deep design.

Should he warn his friend? Indeed, as yet, of what had he to warn him?
To discover Madame to Fitzgerald would be to close the entrance to this
labyrinth which he desired to explore. How would Madame act, now that
she knew he possessed her secret? Into many channels he passed, but
all these were blind, and led him to no end. Madame had a purpose; to
discover what this purpose was Fitzgerald must remain in ignorance. What
a woman! She resembled one of those fabulous creatures of medieval days.
And why was the countess on the scene, and what was her part in this
invisible game?

He finished his cigar and lit another; but the second cigar solved no
more than the first. Mademoiselle of the Veil! He knew now what she
meant; having asked her to lift her veil, she had said, “Something
terrible would happen.” At last he, too, sought bed, but he did not
sleep so soundly as did Fitzgerald.

Ten days of this charming captivity passed; there was a thicker carpet
of leaves on the ground, and new distances began to show mistily through
the dismantling forest. But there were no changes at the Red Chateau--no
outward changes. It might, in truth, have been a house party but for
the prowling troopers and the continual grumbling of the Englishman when
alone with Maurice.

During the day they hunted or took long rides into the interior of the
duchy. Both women possessed a fine skill in the saddle. In the evenings
there were tourneys at chess, games and music.

Each night Fitzgerald learned a little more about chess and a little
less about woman. The countess, airy and delicate as a verse of
Voiture's, bent all her powers (and these were not inconsiderable)
toward the subjugation of Maurice. She laughed, she sang, she
fascinated. She had the ability to amuse hour after hour. She offered
vague promises with her eyes, and refused them with her lips. Maurice,
who was never impregnable under the fire of feminine artillery, was
at times half in love with her; but his suspicions, always near the
surface, saved him.

Sometimes he caught her hand and retained it over long; and once, when
he kissed it, there was no rebuke. Again, when she sang, he would lean
so close that she could feel his breath on her cheek, and her fingers
would stumble into discords. Often she would suddenly rise from the
piano and walk swiftly from the room, through the halls, into the park,
where, though he followed, he never could find her. One day she and
Madame returned from a walk in the forest, the one with high color and
brilliant eyes, the other impassive as ice. Now, all these things
did not escape Maurice, but he could not piece them together with any
result.

On the morning of the tenth day the two prisoners came down to
breakfast, wondering how much longer this house party was going to last.

“George! I wish I had a pipe,” said Maurice.

“So do I,” Fitzgerald echoed glumly. “I am tired of cigars and weary
of those eternal cigarettes. How the deuce are we going to get out of
this?”

“What's your hurry? We're having a good time.”

“That's the trouble. Hang the duchess!”

“Hang her and welcome. But why do you complain to me and not to Madame?
Are you afraid of her? Does she possess, then, what is called tamer's
magnetism? O, my lion, if only you would roar a bit more at her and less
at me!”

“I don't know what she possesses; but I do know that I'd give a deal to
be out of this.”

“Is the chambermaid idea bothering you?”

“No, Maurice, it is not the chambermaid. I feel oppressed by something
which I can not define.”

“Maybe you are not used to tokay forty years old?”

“Wine has nothing to do with it.”

He was so serious that Maurice dropped his jesting tone. “By the way,”
 he said, “do you sleep soundly?”

“No. Every night I am awakened by the noise of a horse entering the
court-yard.”

“So am I. Moreover, Madame seems to be troubled with the same
sleeplessness.

“Madame?”

“Yes. She is so troubled with sleeplessness that nothing will quiet her
but the sight of the man who rides the horse: all of which is to say
that a courier arrives each night with di

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