The Puppet Crown [82]
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,
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,