The Puppet Crown [64]
and mend the collar. By the way, who is eating three meals a day in the east corridor on the third floor?"
Their glances fenced. The Colonel rubbed his mustache.
"I like you," he said; "hang me if I don't. But as well as I like you, I would not give a denier for your life if you were found in that self-same corridor. The sentinel has orders to shoot; but don't let that disturb you; you will know sooner or later. It is better to wait than be shot. A horse will be saddled at six. You will find it in the court. The countersigns are Weixel and Arnoldt. Good luck to you."
"The same to you," rejoined Maurice, "only worse."
The Colonel's departure was followed by a period of temporary speechlessness. Maurice smoked several "Khedives," while Fitzgerald emptied two or three pipe-bowls.
"You seem to be in bad odor, Maurice," the latter ventured.
"In more ways than one. Where, in heaven's name, did you resurrect that pipe?"
"In the stables. It isn't the pipe, it's the tobacco. I had to break up some cigars."
Then came another period in the conversation. It occurred to both that something yawned between them--a kind of abyss. Out of this abyss one saw his guilt arise. . . . A woman stood at his side. He had an accomplice. He had thrown the die, and he would stand stubbornly to it. His pride built yet another wall around him, impregnable either to protests or to sneers. He loved-- that was recompense enough. A man will forgive himself of grave sins when these are debtors to his love.
As for the other, he beheld a trust betrayed, and he was powerless to prevent it. Besides, his self-love smarted, chagrin made eyes at him; and, more than all else, he recognized his own share in the Englishman's fall from grace. It had been innocent mischief on his part, true, but nevertheless he stood culpable. He had no business to talk to a woman he did not know. The more he studied the aspects of the situation the more whimsical it grew. He was the prime cause of a king losing his throne, of a man losing his honor, of a princess becoming an outcast.
"Your bride-elect," he said, "seems somewhat over-hasty. Well, I'm off to bed."
"Maurice, can you blame me?"
"No, John; whom the gods destroy they first make mad. You will come to your senses when it is too late."
"For God's sake, Maurice, who is she?"
"What will you do if she breaks her promise?" adroitly evading the question.
"What shall I do?" He emptied the ashes from his pipe, and rose; all that was aggressive came into his face. "I will bind her hands and feet and carry her to the altar, and shoot the priest that refuses to marry us. O Maurice, rest easy; no woman lives who will make a fool of me, and laugh."
"That's comfort;" and Maurice turned in.
This night it was the Englishman who sat up till the morning hours. Sylvia Amerbach. . . . A fear possessed him. If it should be, he thought; if it should be, what then?
Midnight in Madame's boudoir; no light save that which streamed rosily from the coals in the grate. The countess sat with her slippered feet upon the fender. She held in her hand a screen, and if any thoughts marked her face, they remained in blurred obscurity.
"Heu!" said Madame from the opposite side; "it is all over. It was detestable. I, to suffer this humiliation! Do you know what I have done? I have promised to be his wife! His wife, I! Is it not droll?" There was a surprising absence of mirth in the low laugh which followed.
"I trust Madame will find it droll."
"And you?"
"And I, Madame?"
"Yes; did you not bring the clown to your feet?"
"No, Madame."
"How? You did not have the joy denied me --of laughing in his face?"
"No, Madame." With each answer the voice grew lower.
"Since when have I been Madame to you?"
"Since to-day."
Madame reached out a band and pressed down the screen. "Elsa, what is it?"
"What is what, Madame?"
"This strange mood of yours."
Silence.
"You were gay enough this morning. Tell me."
"There is nothing to tell,
Their glances fenced. The Colonel rubbed his mustache.
"I like you," he said; "hang me if I don't. But as well as I like you, I would not give a denier for your life if you were found in that self-same corridor. The sentinel has orders to shoot; but don't let that disturb you; you will know sooner or later. It is better to wait than be shot. A horse will be saddled at six. You will find it in the court. The countersigns are Weixel and Arnoldt. Good luck to you."
"The same to you," rejoined Maurice, "only worse."
The Colonel's departure was followed by a period of temporary speechlessness. Maurice smoked several "Khedives," while Fitzgerald emptied two or three pipe-bowls.
"You seem to be in bad odor, Maurice," the latter ventured.
"In more ways than one. Where, in heaven's name, did you resurrect that pipe?"
"In the stables. It isn't the pipe, it's the tobacco. I had to break up some cigars."
Then came another period in the conversation. It occurred to both that something yawned between them--a kind of abyss. Out of this abyss one saw his guilt arise. . . . A woman stood at his side. He had an accomplice. He had thrown the die, and he would stand stubbornly to it. His pride built yet another wall around him, impregnable either to protests or to sneers. He loved-- that was recompense enough. A man will forgive himself of grave sins when these are debtors to his love.
As for the other, he beheld a trust betrayed, and he was powerless to prevent it. Besides, his self-love smarted, chagrin made eyes at him; and, more than all else, he recognized his own share in the Englishman's fall from grace. It had been innocent mischief on his part, true, but nevertheless he stood culpable. He had no business to talk to a woman he did not know. The more he studied the aspects of the situation the more whimsical it grew. He was the prime cause of a king losing his throne, of a man losing his honor, of a princess becoming an outcast.
"Your bride-elect," he said, "seems somewhat over-hasty. Well, I'm off to bed."
"Maurice, can you blame me?"
"No, John; whom the gods destroy they first make mad. You will come to your senses when it is too late."
"For God's sake, Maurice, who is she?"
"What will you do if she breaks her promise?" adroitly evading the question.
"What shall I do?" He emptied the ashes from his pipe, and rose; all that was aggressive came into his face. "I will bind her hands and feet and carry her to the altar, and shoot the priest that refuses to marry us. O Maurice, rest easy; no woman lives who will make a fool of me, and laugh."
"That's comfort;" and Maurice turned in.
This night it was the Englishman who sat up till the morning hours. Sylvia Amerbach. . . . A fear possessed him. If it should be, he thought; if it should be, what then?
Midnight in Madame's boudoir; no light save that which streamed rosily from the coals in the grate. The countess sat with her slippered feet upon the fender. She held in her hand a screen, and if any thoughts marked her face, they remained in blurred obscurity.
"Heu!" said Madame from the opposite side; "it is all over. It was detestable. I, to suffer this humiliation! Do you know what I have done? I have promised to be his wife! His wife, I! Is it not droll?" There was a surprising absence of mirth in the low laugh which followed.
"I trust Madame will find it droll."
"And you?"
"And I, Madame?"
"Yes; did you not bring the clown to your feet?"
"No, Madame."
"How? You did not have the joy denied me --of laughing in his face?"
"No, Madame." With each answer the voice grew lower.
"Since when have I been Madame to you?"
"Since to-day."
Madame reached out a band and pressed down the screen. "Elsa, what is it?"
"What is what, Madame?"
"This strange mood of yours."
Silence.
"You were gay enough this morning. Tell me."
"There is nothing to tell,