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?”