The Puppet Crown by Harlod MacGrath (e book reader online TXT) 📖

the nozzles toward the candle light -and again cursed. The barrels were clogged up. Notwithstanding, he plucked forth the cleaning-rod and forced it into one of the tubes. There was a slight resistance, and something fluttered to the floor and rolled about. The second tube was treated likewise, with the same result. Johann laughed silently. The fifty crowns were tangible; he could hear them jingling in his pocket, and a pretty music they made. He returned the leather case to its original place and devoted his attention to the cylinder-shaped papers on the floor.

For a quarter of an hour Johann remained seated on the floor, in the wavering candle light, forgetful of all save the delicate tracings of steel engraving, the red and green inks, the great golden seal, the signatures, the immensity of the ciphers which trailed halfway across each crackling parchment. He counted sixteen of them in all. Four millions of crowns. . . . He was rich, rich beyond all his wildest dreams.

He rose, and restored the gun to its case. Fifty crowns? No, no! A hundred thousand, not a crown less; a hundred thousand! all thoughts of the green baize and the rattle of the roulette ball passed away. There was no need to seek fortune; she had come to him of her own free will. Wine, Gertrude of the opera, Paris and a life of ease; all these were his. A hundred thousand crowns, a hundred thousand florins, two hundred thousand francs, two hundred thousand marks! He computed in all monetary denominations; in all countries it was wealth.

Something rose and swelled in his throat, and he choked hysterically. A voice whispered "No, not a hundred thousand; four millions!" But reason, though it tottered, regained its balance, and he saw the utter futility of attempting to dispose of the orders on the government independently. His hands trembled; he could scarcely hold this vast treasure. Twice, in his haste to pocket the certificates, they slipped from his grasp and scattered. How those six syllables frolicked in his mind! A hundred thousand crowns!

He extinguished the candle and laid it on the floor, put the quilt on the bed, then climbed through the window, which he closed without mishap. He descended the ladder. As he reached the bottom round his heart gave a great leap. From the alley came the sound of approaching steps. Nearer and nearer they came; a shadow entered the courtyard and made straight for the door, which was but a few feet from the reclining ladder. The kitchen door opened and the burst of light revealed a belated serving maid. A moment passed, and all became dark again. But Johann felt a strange weakness in his knees, and a peculiar thrill at the roots of his hair. He dared not move for three or four minutes. But he waited in vain for other steps. He cursed the serving maid for the fright, disposed of the ladder, and sought the street. He directed his steps toward Stuler's.

"The pig of an Englishman was deeper than I thought. In the gun barrels, the gun barrels! If I had not wanted to play they would have been there yet! A hundred thousand crowns!"

It had ceased to rain, and a frost was congealing the moisture under foot. On the way back to Stuler's Johann slipped and fell several times; but he was impervious to pain, bruises were nothing. He was rich! He laughed; and from time to time thrust his hand into his vest to convince himself that he was not dreaming. To whom should he sell? To the Osians? To the duchess? To the king that was to be? Who would pay quickest the hundred thousand crowns? He knew. Aye, two hundred thousand would not be too much. The Englishman would send for the certificates, but his agent would not find them. The abduction? He would carry it through as he had promised. It was five thousand crowns in addition to his hundred thousand. He was rich! He shook his hand toward the inky sky, toward the palace, toward all that signified the past . . . . . A hundred thousand crowns!


CHAPTER XVI


WHAT HAPPENED AT THE ARCHBISHOP'S PALACE AND AFTER

Maurice, as he labored before his mirror, wondered why in the world it took him so long to dress. An hour had passed since he began his evening toilet; yet here he was, still tinkering, so to speak, over the last of a dozen cravats. The eleven others lay strewn about, hopelessly crumpled; mute witnesses of angry fingers and impassioned mutterings. Usually he could slip into his evening clothes in less than thirty minutes. Something was wrong. But perhaps this occasion was not usual.

First, the hems of his trousers were insurgent; they persisted in hitching on the tops of his button shoes. Laces were substituted. Then came a desultory period, during which gold buttons were exchanged for pearl and pearl for gold, and two- button shirts for three-button. For Maurice was something of a dandy. He could not imagine what was the matter with his neck, all the collars seemed so small. For once his mishaps did not appeal to his humor. The ascent from his shoes to his collar was as tortuous as that of the alpine Jungfrau.

Ah, Madam, you may smile as much as you please, but it is a terrible thing for a man to dress and at the same time think kindly of his fellow-beings. You set aside three hours for your toilet, and devote two hours to the little curl which droops over the tip of your dainty ear; but with a man who has no curl, who knows nothing of the practice of smiles and side glances, the studied carelessness of a pose, it is a dismal, serious business up to the last moment.

With a final glance into the mirror, and convinced that if he touched himself it would be only to disarrange the perfection which he had striven so hard to attain, Maurice went down stairs. He had still an hour to while away before presenting himself at the archbishop's palace. So he roamed about the verandas, twirled his cane, and smoked like a captain who expects to see his men in active engagement the very next moment. This, together with the bad hour in his room, was an indication that his nerves were finely strung.

He was nervous, not because he was to see strange faces, not because his interest in the kingdom's affairs was both comic and tragic, nor because he was to present himself at the archbishop's in a peculiar capacity, that of a prisoner on parole. No, it was due to none of these. His pulse did not stir at the prospect of meeting the true king. Diplomatic functions were every-day events with him. He had passed several years of his life in the vicinity of emperors, kings, viceroys, and presidents, and their greatness had long ago ceased to interest or even to amuse him. He was conscious only of an agitation which had already passed through the process of analysis. He loved, he loved the impossible and the unattainable, and it was the exhilaration of this thought that agitated him. He never would be the same again- he would be better. Neither did he regret this love.

Even now he could see himself back in his rooms in Vienna, smoking before the fire, and building castles that tumbled down. It was worth while, if only to have something to dream about. He did not regret the love, he regretted its futility. How could he serve her? What could he do against all these unseen forces which were crumbling her father's throne? So she remembered what he had said to her in the archbishop's garden? He looked at his watch. It was nine.

"Let us be off," he said. He started for the Platz. "How uncertain life is. It seems that I did not come to Bleiberg carelessly in the way of amusement, but to work out a part of my destiny." He arrested his steps at the fountain and listened to the low, musical plash of the water, each drop of which fell with the light of a dazzling jewel. The cold stars shone from above. They were not farther away than she. A princess, a lonely and forlorn princess, hemmed in by the fabric of royal laws; a princess yet possessing less liberty than the meanest of her peasants. Nothing belonged to her, not even her heart, which was merchandise, a commodity of exchange, turned over to the highest bidder. "Royalty," he mused, "is a political slave-dealer; the slaves are those who wear the crowns."

Once inside the palace, he became a man of the world, polished, nonchalant, handsome, and mildly curious. Immediately after the usher announced his name, he crossed the chamber and presented his respects to the prelate, who, he reasoned not unwisely, expected him. The friendly greeting of the archbishop confirmed this reasoning.

"I am delighted to see you, Monsieur," he said, showing his remarkably well preserved teeth in the smile that followed his words. "A service to her Royal Highness is a service to me. Amuse yourself; you will find some fine paintings in the west gallery."

"I trust her Royal Highness is none the worse for the fright," Maurice replied. He also remarked (mentally) that he did not see her Highness anywhere. Several introductions followed, and he found himself chatting with the British minister.

"Carewe?" the Englishman repeated thoughtfully. "Are you not Maurice Carewe, of the American Legation in Vienna?"

"Yes."

"May I ask you a few questions?"

"A thousand."

"A fellow-countryman of mine has mysteriously disappeared. He left Vienna for Bleiberg, saying that if nothing was heard of him within a week's time, to make inquiries about him. This request was left with the British ambassador, who has just written me, adding that a personal friend of the gentleman in question was in Bleiberg, and that this friend was Maurice Carewe, attache to the American Legation. Are you acquainted with Lord Fitzgerald, son of my late predecessor?"

"I am indeed. I saw him in Vienna," said Maurice; "but he said nothing to me about coming here," which was true enough. "Is there any cause for apprehension?"

"Only his request to be looked up within a certain time. The truth is, he was to have come here on a peculiar errand," with lowered voice. "Did you ever hear of what is called 'Fitzgerald's folly?'"

"Yes; few haven't heard of it." Maurice could never understand why he resisted the impulse to tell the whole affair. A dozen words to the man at his side, and the catastrophes, even embryonic, would be averted. "You must tell me who most of these people are," he said, in order to get around a disagreeable subject. "I am a total stranger."

"With pleasure. That tall, angular old man, in the long, gray frock, with decorations, is Marshal Kampf. You must meet him; he is the wittiest man in Bleiberg. The gentleman with the red beard is Mollendorf of the police. And beside him-yes, the little man with glasses and a loose cravat-is Count von Wallenstein, the minister of finance. That is the chancellor talking to the archbishop. Ah, Mr. Carewe, these receptions are fine comedies. The Marshal, the count and Mollendorf represent what is called the Auersperg faction under the rose. It is a continual battle of eyes and tongues. One smiles at his enemy, knows him to be an enemy, yet dares not touch him.

"Confidentially, this play has never had the like. To convict his enemies of treason has been for ten years the labor of the chancellor; yet, though he knows