The Puppet Crown [93]
and perspiration rolled down his cheek.
"By George!" This exclamation stood alone, but it was an Odyssey. He remained stupefied, staring at his shoes, over which his stockings had fallen. His shirt buttons were gone, and the bosom was guiltless of its former immaculateness. After a time he became conscious of a burning pain in the elbow of his right arm. He glanced down at his hand, to find it covered with drying blood. He jumped up and cast about his clothes. One leg of his trousers was soaked, and the dull ache in his thigh told the cause. He salved the wounds and bound them in strips of handkerchiefs, which he held in place by using some of the cast-off cravats.
"That was about as close to death as a man can get and pull out. I feel as if I had swallowed that cursed blade of his. I am an ass, sure enough. I've always a bad cold when there's a rat about; can't smell him. And the rascal remembered me! Will he stay in spite of my threat? I'll hang on here till to-morrow. If he stays--I won't. He has the devil's own of a sword. Hang it, my nerves are all gone to smash."
Soon some gentler thought took hold, and he smiled tenderly. He brought forth the rose, turned it this way and that, studied it, stroked it, held it to his lips as a lover holds the hand of the woman he loves. Her rose; somehow his heart told him that she had laughed because Beauvais had stooped in vain.
"Ah, Maurice," he said, "you are growing over fond. But why not? Who will know? To have loved is something."
He crept into bed; but sleep refused him its offices, and he tossed about in troubled dreams. He fought all kinds of duels with all sorts of weapons. He was killed a half dozen times, but the archbishop always gave him something which rekindled the vital spark. A thousand Beauvaises raged at him. A thousand princesses were ever in the background, waiting to be saved. He swore to kill these Beauvaises, and after many fruitless endeavors, he succeeded in smothering them in their gray pelisses. Then he woke, as dreamers always wake when they pass some great dream-crisis, and found himself in a deadly struggle with a pillow and a bed-post. He laughed and sprang out of bed.
"It's no use, I can't sleep. I am an old woman."
So he lit his pipe and sat dreaming with his eyes open, smoking and smoking, until the sickly pallor of dawn appeared in the sky, and he knew that day had come.
CHAPTER XVIII
A MINOR CHORD AND A CHANGE OF MOVEMENT
Marshal Kampf, wrapt in his military cloak, with the peak of his cap drawn over his eyes, sat on one of the rustic benches in the archbishop's gardens and reflected. The archbishop had announced an informal levee, the first since the king's illness. He had impressed the Marshal with the fact that his presence was both urgent and necessary. Disturbed as he was by the unusual command, the Marshal had arrived an hour too early. Since the prelate would not rise until nine, the Marshal told the valet that he would wait in the gardens.
An informal levee, he mused. What was the meaning of it? Had that master of craft and silence found a breach in the enemy's fortifications? He rubbed the chill from his nose, crossed and re-crossed his legs and teetered till the spurs on his boots set up a tuneful jingle.
So far as he himself was concerned, he was not worried. The prelate knew his views and knew that he would stand or fall with them. He had never looked for benefits, as did those around him. He had offered what he had without hope of reward, because he had considered it his duty. And, after all, what had the Osian done that he should be driven to this ignominious end? His motives never could be questioned; each act had been in some way for the country's good. Every king is a usurper to those who oppose him.
Would the kingdom be bettered in having a queen against whom the confederation itself was opposed? Would it not be adding a twofold burden to the one? The kingdom was at peace with those countries from which it had most to fear. Was it wise to antagonize
"By George!" This exclamation stood alone, but it was an Odyssey. He remained stupefied, staring at his shoes, over which his stockings had fallen. His shirt buttons were gone, and the bosom was guiltless of its former immaculateness. After a time he became conscious of a burning pain in the elbow of his right arm. He glanced down at his hand, to find it covered with drying blood. He jumped up and cast about his clothes. One leg of his trousers was soaked, and the dull ache in his thigh told the cause. He salved the wounds and bound them in strips of handkerchiefs, which he held in place by using some of the cast-off cravats.
"That was about as close to death as a man can get and pull out. I feel as if I had swallowed that cursed blade of his. I am an ass, sure enough. I've always a bad cold when there's a rat about; can't smell him. And the rascal remembered me! Will he stay in spite of my threat? I'll hang on here till to-morrow. If he stays--I won't. He has the devil's own of a sword. Hang it, my nerves are all gone to smash."
Soon some gentler thought took hold, and he smiled tenderly. He brought forth the rose, turned it this way and that, studied it, stroked it, held it to his lips as a lover holds the hand of the woman he loves. Her rose; somehow his heart told him that she had laughed because Beauvais had stooped in vain.
"Ah, Maurice," he said, "you are growing over fond. But why not? Who will know? To have loved is something."
He crept into bed; but sleep refused him its offices, and he tossed about in troubled dreams. He fought all kinds of duels with all sorts of weapons. He was killed a half dozen times, but the archbishop always gave him something which rekindled the vital spark. A thousand Beauvaises raged at him. A thousand princesses were ever in the background, waiting to be saved. He swore to kill these Beauvaises, and after many fruitless endeavors, he succeeded in smothering them in their gray pelisses. Then he woke, as dreamers always wake when they pass some great dream-crisis, and found himself in a deadly struggle with a pillow and a bed-post. He laughed and sprang out of bed.
"It's no use, I can't sleep. I am an old woman."
So he lit his pipe and sat dreaming with his eyes open, smoking and smoking, until the sickly pallor of dawn appeared in the sky, and he knew that day had come.
CHAPTER XVIII
A MINOR CHORD AND A CHANGE OF MOVEMENT
Marshal Kampf, wrapt in his military cloak, with the peak of his cap drawn over his eyes, sat on one of the rustic benches in the archbishop's gardens and reflected. The archbishop had announced an informal levee, the first since the king's illness. He had impressed the Marshal with the fact that his presence was both urgent and necessary. Disturbed as he was by the unusual command, the Marshal had arrived an hour too early. Since the prelate would not rise until nine, the Marshal told the valet that he would wait in the gardens.
An informal levee, he mused. What was the meaning of it? Had that master of craft and silence found a breach in the enemy's fortifications? He rubbed the chill from his nose, crossed and re-crossed his legs and teetered till the spurs on his boots set up a tuneful jingle.
So far as he himself was concerned, he was not worried. The prelate knew his views and knew that he would stand or fall with them. He had never looked for benefits, as did those around him. He had offered what he had without hope of reward, because he had considered it his duty. And, after all, what had the Osian done that he should be driven to this ignominious end? His motives never could be questioned; each act had been in some way for the country's good. Every king is a usurper to those who oppose him.
Would the kingdom be bettered in having a queen against whom the confederation itself was opposed? Would it not be adding a twofold burden to the one? The kingdom was at peace with those countries from which it had most to fear. Was it wise to antagonize