The Puppet Crown [96]
pity's sake!" She caught at his hands and strove to read his eyes. "For pity's sake!"
He drew his breath deeply. He dared not look into her eyes for fear she might see the tears in his; so he bent hastily and pressed her hands to his lips. But in his heart he knew that his promise to the dead was gone with the winds, and that he would shed the last drop of blood in his withered veins for the sake of this sad, lonely child.
"Your father, my child, will never stand up straight again," he said. "As for the rest, that is in the hands of God. But I swear to you that this dried-up old heart beats only for you. I will stand or fall with you, in good times or bad." And he rubbed his nose more fiercely than ever. "Had I a daughter-- But there! I have none."
"My heart is breaking," she said, with a little sob. She sank back, her head drooped to the arm of the bench, and she made no effort to stem the flood of tears. "I have no mother, and now my father is to leave me. And I love him so, I love him so! He has sacrificed all his happiness to secure mine--in vain. I laugh and smile because he asks me to, and all the while my heart is breaking, breaking."
At this juncture the doves rose hurriedly. The Marshal discovered the archbishop's valet making toward him.
"Monsieur the Marshal, Monseigneur breakfasts and requests you to join him."
"Immediately;" and the Marshal rose. He placed his hand on the dark head. "Keep up your heart, my child," he said, "and we shall see if I have grown too old for service." He squared his shoulders and followed the valet, who viewed the scene with a valet's usual nonchalance. When the Marshal reached the steps to the side entrance, he looked back. The dog had taken his place, and the girl had buried her face in his neck. A moment later the old soldier was ushered into the archbishop's presence, but neither with fear nor uneasiness in his heart.
"Ah ! Good morning, Marshal," said the prelate. "Be seated. Did you not find it chilly in the gardens?"
"Not the least. It is a fine day. I have just left her Royal Highness."
The prelate arched his eyebrows, and an interrogation shot out from under them.
"Yes," answered the observant soldier. "My heart has ever been hers; this time it is my hand and brain."
The prelate's egg spoon remained poised in mid-air; then it dropped with a clatter into the cup! But a moment gone he had held a sword in his hand; he was disarmed.
"I have promised to stand and fall with her."
"Stand and fall? Why not 'or'?" with a long, steadfast gaze.
"Did I say 'and'? Well, then," stolidly, "perhaps that is the word I meant to use. If I do the one I shall certainly do the other."
The archbishop absently stirred his eggs.
"God is witness," said the Marshal, "I have always been honest."
"Yes."
"And neutral."
"Yes; honest and neutral."
"But a man, a lonely man like myself, can not always master the impulses of the heart; and I have surrendered to mine."
The listener turned to some documents which lay beside the cup, and idly fingered them. "I am glad; I am very glad. I have always secretly admired you; and to tell the truth, I have feared you most of all--because you are honest."
The Marshal shifted his saber around and drew his knees together. "I return the compliment," frankly. "I have never feared you; I have distrusted you."
"And why distrusted?"
"Because Leopold of Osia would never have forsaken his birthright, nor looked toward a throne, had you not pointed the way and coveted the archbishopric."
"I wished only to make him great;" but the prelate lowered his eyes.
"And share his greatness," was the shrewd rejoinder. "I am an old man, and frankness in old age is pardonable. There are numbers of disinterested men in the world, but unfortunately they happen to be dead. O, I do not blame you; there is human nature in most of us. But the days of Richelieus and Mazarins are past. The Church is simply the church, and is no longer the power behind the throne. I have served
He drew his breath deeply. He dared not look into her eyes for fear she might see the tears in his; so he bent hastily and pressed her hands to his lips. But in his heart he knew that his promise to the dead was gone with the winds, and that he would shed the last drop of blood in his withered veins for the sake of this sad, lonely child.
"Your father, my child, will never stand up straight again," he said. "As for the rest, that is in the hands of God. But I swear to you that this dried-up old heart beats only for you. I will stand or fall with you, in good times or bad." And he rubbed his nose more fiercely than ever. "Had I a daughter-- But there! I have none."
"My heart is breaking," she said, with a little sob. She sank back, her head drooped to the arm of the bench, and she made no effort to stem the flood of tears. "I have no mother, and now my father is to leave me. And I love him so, I love him so! He has sacrificed all his happiness to secure mine--in vain. I laugh and smile because he asks me to, and all the while my heart is breaking, breaking."
At this juncture the doves rose hurriedly. The Marshal discovered the archbishop's valet making toward him.
"Monsieur the Marshal, Monseigneur breakfasts and requests you to join him."
"Immediately;" and the Marshal rose. He placed his hand on the dark head. "Keep up your heart, my child," he said, "and we shall see if I have grown too old for service." He squared his shoulders and followed the valet, who viewed the scene with a valet's usual nonchalance. When the Marshal reached the steps to the side entrance, he looked back. The dog had taken his place, and the girl had buried her face in his neck. A moment later the old soldier was ushered into the archbishop's presence, but neither with fear nor uneasiness in his heart.
"Ah ! Good morning, Marshal," said the prelate. "Be seated. Did you not find it chilly in the gardens?"
"Not the least. It is a fine day. I have just left her Royal Highness."
The prelate arched his eyebrows, and an interrogation shot out from under them.
"Yes," answered the observant soldier. "My heart has ever been hers; this time it is my hand and brain."
The prelate's egg spoon remained poised in mid-air; then it dropped with a clatter into the cup! But a moment gone he had held a sword in his hand; he was disarmed.
"I have promised to stand and fall with her."
"Stand and fall? Why not 'or'?" with a long, steadfast gaze.
"Did I say 'and'? Well, then," stolidly, "perhaps that is the word I meant to use. If I do the one I shall certainly do the other."
The archbishop absently stirred his eggs.
"God is witness," said the Marshal, "I have always been honest."
"Yes."
"And neutral."
"Yes; honest and neutral."
"But a man, a lonely man like myself, can not always master the impulses of the heart; and I have surrendered to mine."
The listener turned to some documents which lay beside the cup, and idly fingered them. "I am glad; I am very glad. I have always secretly admired you; and to tell the truth, I have feared you most of all--because you are honest."
The Marshal shifted his saber around and drew his knees together. "I return the compliment," frankly. "I have never feared you; I have distrusted you."
"And why distrusted?"
"Because Leopold of Osia would never have forsaken his birthright, nor looked toward a throne, had you not pointed the way and coveted the archbishopric."
"I wished only to make him great;" but the prelate lowered his eyes.
"And share his greatness," was the shrewd rejoinder. "I am an old man, and frankness in old age is pardonable. There are numbers of disinterested men in the world, but unfortunately they happen to be dead. O, I do not blame you; there is human nature in most of us. But the days of Richelieus and Mazarins are past. The Church is simply the church, and is no longer the power behind the throne. I have served