The Puppet Crown [69]
purchased. This convinced Napoleon of their earnestness, for he could buy kings and princes. The students were invisible, implacable, and many a brilliant officer of the imperial guard disappeared, never to return.
This historic relic of the Konigstrasse had been the headquarters of one of the branches of these numerous societies; and the students still held to those ancient traditions. But men and epochs pass swiftly; only the inanimate remain. This temple of patriotism is simply an inn to-day, owned by one Stuler, and is designated by those who patronize it as "Old Stuler's." It is the gathering place of the students. It consists of a hall and a garden, the one facing the street, the other walled in at the rear.
The hall is made of common stone, bald and unadorned save by four dingy windows and a tarnished sign, "Garten," which hangs obliquely over the entrance. At the curb stands a post with three lamps pendant; but these are never lit because Old Stuler can keep neither wicks nor glass beyond the reach of canes.
Old Stuler was well versed in the peculiarities of students. In America they paint statues; in Austria they create darkness. On warm, clear nights the students rioted in the garden; when it rained, chairs and tables were carried into the hall, which contained a small stage and a square gallery. Never a night passed without its animated scene.
Here it was that the evils of monarchical systems were discussed, the army service, the lack of proper amusement, the restrictions at the stage entrance to the opera; here it was that they concocted their exploits, fought their duels, and planned means of outwitting Old Stuler's slate.
Stuler was a good general; he could keep the students in order, watch his assistants draw beer, the Rhine wine, and the scum (dregs of the cask, muddy and strong), and eye the accumulating accounts on the slate. This slate was wiped out once the month; that is to say, when remittances came from home. The night following remittances was a glorious one both to Stuler and the students. There were new scars, new subjects for debate, and Stuler got rid of some of his prime tokayer. The politics of the students was socialism, which is to say they were always dissatisfied. Tourists seldom repeated their visits to Stuler's. There was too much spilling of beer in laps, dumping of pipe ash into uncovered steins, and knocking off of stiff hats.
It was in front of Old Stuler's that Maurice came to a pause. He had heard of the place and the praise of its Hofbrau and Munich beers. He entered. He found the interior dark and gloomy, though outside the sun shone brilliantly. He ordered a stein of Hofbrau, and carried it into the main hall, which was just off the bar- room. It was much lighter here, though the hall had the tawdry appearance of a theater in the day-time; and the motes swam thickly in the beams of sunshine which entered through the half- closed shutters. It was only at night that Stuler's was presentable.
Scarcely a dozen men sat at the tables. In one corner Maurice saw what appeared to be a man asleep on his arms, which were extended the width of the table. It was the cosiest corner in the hall, and Maurice decided to establish himself at the other side of the table, despite the present incumbent. Noiselessly he crossed the floor and sat down. The light was at his back, leaving his face in the shadow, but shone squarely on the sleeper's head.
"I do not envy his headache when he wakes up," thought Maurice. He had detected the vinous odor of the sleeper's breath. "These headaches, while they last, are bad things. I know; I've had 'em. I wonder," lifting the stein and draining it, "who the duffer was who said that getting drunk was fun? His name has slipped my memory; no matter." He set down the stein and banged the lid.
The sleeper stirred. "Rich," he murmured; "rich, rich! I'm rich! A hundred thousand crowns!"
"My friend, I'm not in the position to dispute with you on that subject," said Maurice, smiling. He rapped
This historic relic of the Konigstrasse had been the headquarters of one of the branches of these numerous societies; and the students still held to those ancient traditions. But men and epochs pass swiftly; only the inanimate remain. This temple of patriotism is simply an inn to-day, owned by one Stuler, and is designated by those who patronize it as "Old Stuler's." It is the gathering place of the students. It consists of a hall and a garden, the one facing the street, the other walled in at the rear.
The hall is made of common stone, bald and unadorned save by four dingy windows and a tarnished sign, "Garten," which hangs obliquely over the entrance. At the curb stands a post with three lamps pendant; but these are never lit because Old Stuler can keep neither wicks nor glass beyond the reach of canes.
Old Stuler was well versed in the peculiarities of students. In America they paint statues; in Austria they create darkness. On warm, clear nights the students rioted in the garden; when it rained, chairs and tables were carried into the hall, which contained a small stage and a square gallery. Never a night passed without its animated scene.
Here it was that the evils of monarchical systems were discussed, the army service, the lack of proper amusement, the restrictions at the stage entrance to the opera; here it was that they concocted their exploits, fought their duels, and planned means of outwitting Old Stuler's slate.
Stuler was a good general; he could keep the students in order, watch his assistants draw beer, the Rhine wine, and the scum (dregs of the cask, muddy and strong), and eye the accumulating accounts on the slate. This slate was wiped out once the month; that is to say, when remittances came from home. The night following remittances was a glorious one both to Stuler and the students. There were new scars, new subjects for debate, and Stuler got rid of some of his prime tokayer. The politics of the students was socialism, which is to say they were always dissatisfied. Tourists seldom repeated their visits to Stuler's. There was too much spilling of beer in laps, dumping of pipe ash into uncovered steins, and knocking off of stiff hats.
It was in front of Old Stuler's that Maurice came to a pause. He had heard of the place and the praise of its Hofbrau and Munich beers. He entered. He found the interior dark and gloomy, though outside the sun shone brilliantly. He ordered a stein of Hofbrau, and carried it into the main hall, which was just off the bar- room. It was much lighter here, though the hall had the tawdry appearance of a theater in the day-time; and the motes swam thickly in the beams of sunshine which entered through the half- closed shutters. It was only at night that Stuler's was presentable.
Scarcely a dozen men sat at the tables. In one corner Maurice saw what appeared to be a man asleep on his arms, which were extended the width of the table. It was the cosiest corner in the hall, and Maurice decided to establish himself at the other side of the table, despite the present incumbent. Noiselessly he crossed the floor and sat down. The light was at his back, leaving his face in the shadow, but shone squarely on the sleeper's head.
"I do not envy his headache when he wakes up," thought Maurice. He had detected the vinous odor of the sleeper's breath. "These headaches, while they last, are bad things. I know; I've had 'em. I wonder," lifting the stein and draining it, "who the duffer was who said that getting drunk was fun? His name has slipped my memory; no matter." He set down the stein and banged the lid.
The sleeper stirred. "Rich," he murmured; "rich, rich! I'm rich! A hundred thousand crowns!"
"My friend, I'm not in the position to dispute with you on that subject," said Maurice, smiling. He rapped