The Puppet Crown [141]
covertly at the Englishman. But he, with wide-astonished eyes, was staring at the foot of the throne, from which gradually rose a terrible figure, covered with blood and caked with drying clay. The figure leaned heavily on the hilt of a saber, and swayed unsteadily. He drew all eyes.
"Ha!" he said, with a prolonged, sardonic intonation, "is that you, Madame the duchess? You are talking of war? What! and you, my lord the Englishman? Ha! and war? Look at me, Madame; I have been in a battle, the only one fought to-day. Look at me! Here is the mark of that friend who watched over your interests. But where is he? Eh? Where? Did you pick him up on the way? . . . . He is dead. For all that he was a rascal, he died like a man. . . . . as presently I shall die! Princes and kings and thrones; the one die and the other crumble, but truth lives on. And you, Madame, have learned the truth. Shame on your mean and little souls! There was only one honest man among you, and you dishonored him. The Marshal . . . I do not see him. An honest man dies but once, but a traitor dies a thousand deaths. Kronau . . . . is that your name? It was an honest one once. And the paltry ends you gain! . . . . The grand duchess of Gerolstein ! . . . . What a comic opera! Not even music to go by! Eh, you,-- you Englishman, has Madame made you a Lieutenant?--a Captain?--a General? What a farce! Nobles, you? I laugh at you all for a pack of thieves, who are not content with the purse, but must add honor to the bag. A man is what he makes himself. Medals and clothes, medals and clothes; that is the sum of your nobility!" He laughed, but the laughter choked in his throat, and he staggered a few paces away from the throne.
"Seize him!" cried Madame.
When the men sprang forward to execute this command, Fitzgerald barred the way.
"No," he said doggedly; "you shall not touch him."
"Stand aside, Monsieur," said Madame, determined to vent her rage on some one.
"Madame," said von Mitter, "I will shoot down the first man who lays a hand on Monsieur Carewe."
The princess, her heart beating wildly at the sudden knowledge that lay written on the inner vision, a faintness stealing away her sight, leaned back against the prelate.
"He is dying," she whispered; "he is dying for me!"
Maurice was now in the grasp of the final delirium. "Come on!" he cried; "come on! I will show you how a brave man can die. Come on, Messieurs Medals and Clothes! Aye, who will go out with me?" He raised the saber, and it caught the flickering light as it trailed a circle above his head. He stumbled toward them, sweeping the air with the blade. Suddenly there came a change. He stopped. The wild expression faded from his face; a surprised look came instead. The saber slipped from his fingers and clanged on the floor. He turned and looked at the princess, and that glance conveyed to her the burden of his love. "Mademoiselle . . . . " His knees doubled, he sank, rolled face downward, and a dark stain appeared and widened on the marble floor.
"Go, Madame," said the prelate. "This palace is indeed a tomb." He felt the princess grow limp on his arm. "Go."
"Maurice!" cried Fitzgerald, springing to the side of the fallen man. "My God! Maurice!"
CHAPTER XXVIII
INTO THE HANDS OF AUSTRIA
Madame, surrounded by her staff and courtiers, sat in the main salon of the Continental Hotel, waiting for the archbishop. The false, self-seeking ministers of Leopold's reign crowded around her to pay their respects, to compliment and to flatter her. Already they saw a brilliant court; already they were speculating on their appointments. Offices were plenty; new embassies were to be created, old embassies to be filled anew.
Madame listened to all coldly. There was a canker in her heart, and no one who saw that calm, beautiful face of hers dreamed how deeply the canker was eating. There were two men who held aloof from compliments and flattery. On the face of one rested a moody scowl; on the other, agony and remorse. These
"Ha!" he said, with a prolonged, sardonic intonation, "is that you, Madame the duchess? You are talking of war? What! and you, my lord the Englishman? Ha! and war? Look at me, Madame; I have been in a battle, the only one fought to-day. Look at me! Here is the mark of that friend who watched over your interests. But where is he? Eh? Where? Did you pick him up on the way? . . . . He is dead. For all that he was a rascal, he died like a man. . . . . as presently I shall die! Princes and kings and thrones; the one die and the other crumble, but truth lives on. And you, Madame, have learned the truth. Shame on your mean and little souls! There was only one honest man among you, and you dishonored him. The Marshal . . . I do not see him. An honest man dies but once, but a traitor dies a thousand deaths. Kronau . . . . is that your name? It was an honest one once. And the paltry ends you gain! . . . . The grand duchess of Gerolstein ! . . . . What a comic opera! Not even music to go by! Eh, you,-- you Englishman, has Madame made you a Lieutenant?--a Captain?--a General? What a farce! Nobles, you? I laugh at you all for a pack of thieves, who are not content with the purse, but must add honor to the bag. A man is what he makes himself. Medals and clothes, medals and clothes; that is the sum of your nobility!" He laughed, but the laughter choked in his throat, and he staggered a few paces away from the throne.
"Seize him!" cried Madame.
When the men sprang forward to execute this command, Fitzgerald barred the way.
"No," he said doggedly; "you shall not touch him."
"Stand aside, Monsieur," said Madame, determined to vent her rage on some one.
"Madame," said von Mitter, "I will shoot down the first man who lays a hand on Monsieur Carewe."
The princess, her heart beating wildly at the sudden knowledge that lay written on the inner vision, a faintness stealing away her sight, leaned back against the prelate.
"He is dying," she whispered; "he is dying for me!"
Maurice was now in the grasp of the final delirium. "Come on!" he cried; "come on! I will show you how a brave man can die. Come on, Messieurs Medals and Clothes! Aye, who will go out with me?" He raised the saber, and it caught the flickering light as it trailed a circle above his head. He stumbled toward them, sweeping the air with the blade. Suddenly there came a change. He stopped. The wild expression faded from his face; a surprised look came instead. The saber slipped from his fingers and clanged on the floor. He turned and looked at the princess, and that glance conveyed to her the burden of his love. "Mademoiselle . . . . " His knees doubled, he sank, rolled face downward, and a dark stain appeared and widened on the marble floor.
"Go, Madame," said the prelate. "This palace is indeed a tomb." He felt the princess grow limp on his arm. "Go."
"Maurice!" cried Fitzgerald, springing to the side of the fallen man. "My God! Maurice!"
CHAPTER XXVIII
INTO THE HANDS OF AUSTRIA
Madame, surrounded by her staff and courtiers, sat in the main salon of the Continental Hotel, waiting for the archbishop. The false, self-seeking ministers of Leopold's reign crowded around her to pay their respects, to compliment and to flatter her. Already they saw a brilliant court; already they were speculating on their appointments. Offices were plenty; new embassies were to be created, old embassies to be filled anew.
Madame listened to all coldly. There was a canker in her heart, and no one who saw that calm, beautiful face of hers dreamed how deeply the canker was eating. There were two men who held aloof from compliments and flattery. On the face of one rested a moody scowl; on the other, agony and remorse. These