The Puppet Crown

  CHAPTER XII. WHOM THE GODS DESTROY AND A FEW OTHERS

  Some time passed before Fitzgerald became aware of Maurice's departure.When he saw that he and Madame were alone, he said nothing, but pulledall the quicker at his clay. He wondered at the desire which suddenlymanifested itself. Fly? Why should he fly? The beat of his pulseanswered him.... What a fine thing it was to feel the presence of awoman--a woman like this! What a fine thing always to experience thecontent derived from her nearness!

  He looked into his heart; there was no animosity; there was nothing atall but a sense of gratefulness. In the dreary picture of his life therewas now an illumined corner. He had ceased to blame her; she was doingfor her country what he, did necessity so will, would do for his. Andafter all, he could not war against a woman--a woman like this. Hisinnate chivalry was too deep-rooted.

  How soft her voice was! The color of her hair and eyes followed himnight and day. Once he had been on the verge of sounding Maurice inregard to Madame, Maurice was so learned in femininities; but thiswould have been an acknowledgment of his ignorance, and pride closedhis mouth. It was all impossible, but then, why should he return to hisloneliness without attempting to find some one to share it with him? Theking was safe; his duty was as good as done; his conscience was atease in that direction. He needed not love, he thought, so much assympathy.... Sympathy. He turned over the word in his mind as a gemmerchant turns over in his hand a precious jewel. Sympathy; it was thekey to all he desired--woman's sympathy. There was nothing but ash inthe bowl of his pipe, but he continued to puff.

  Madame was seated at the piano again, idly thrumming soft minor chords.She was waiting for him to speak; she wanted to test his voice, to knowand measure its emotion. At times she turned her head and shot a slyglance at him as he sat there musing. There was a wrinkle of contemptand amusement lurking at the corners of her eyes. Had Maurice been therehe would have seen it. Fitzgerald might have gazed into those eyes untildoomsday, and never have seen else than their gray fathoms. Minute afterminute passed, still he did not speak; and Madame was forced to breakthe monotony. She was not sure that the countess could hold Maurice verylong.

  "Of what are you thinking, Monsieur?" she asked, in a soft key.

  He started, looked up and laid the pipe on the sill. "Frankly, I wasthinking that nothing can be gained by keeping us prisoners here." Hetold the lie rather diffidently.

  "Not even forgiveness?" The lids of the gray eyes drooped and the musicceased.

  "Forgiveness? O, there is nothing to forgive you; it is only yourmistress I can not forgive. On the contrary, there is much to thank youfor."

  "Still, whatever I do or have done is merely in accordance with herHighness's wishes."

  He moved uneasily. "It is her will, not yours."

  "Yes; the heart of Madame Amerbach is supine to the brain of Madame theduchess." She rose and moved silently to the window and peered out. Hethought her to be star-gazing; but she was not. She was endeavoring tosee where Maurice and the countess were.

  "Madame, shall I tell you a secret?"

  "A secret? Tell me," sitting in the chair next to his.

  "This has been the pleasantest week I have known in thirteen years."

  "Then you forgive me!" Madame was not only mistress of music but oftones.

  "Yes."

  And then, out of the fullness of his lonely heart, he told her all abouthis life, its emptiness, its deserts, its longings. Each sentence was aknife placed in her hands; and as she contemplated his honest face whichcould conceal nothing, his earnest eyes which could hide nothing, Madamewas conscious of a vague distrust of herself. If only he had offered tofight, she thought. But he had not; instead, he was giving to her allhis weapons of defense.

  "Ah, Monsieur, you do wrong to forgive me!" impulsively.

  He smiled.

  "Why should you be friendly to me when I represent all that isantagonistic to you?"

  "To me you represent only a beautiful woman."

  "Ah; you have been taking lessons of your friend."

  "He is a good teacher. He is one of those men whom I admire. Women havenever mastered him. He knows so much about them."

  "Yes?" a flicker in her eyes.

  "Beneath all his banter there is a brave heart. He is a rare man who,having brain and heart to guide, follows the heart." He picked up thepipe and began to play a tattoo on the sill. "As for me, I know nothingof women, save what I have read in books, and save that I have been toolong without them."

  "And you have gone all these years without knowing what it is to love?"To a man less guileless, this question would not have been in goodtaste.

  Fitzgerald was silent; he dared not venture another lie.

  "What! you are silent? Is there, after all, a woman somewhere in yourlife?"

  "Yes." He continued to tap the pipe. His gaze wandered to the candles,strayed back to the window, then met hers steadfastly, so steadfastly,that she could not resist. She was annoyed.

  "Tell me about her."

  "My vocabulary is too limited. You would laugh at me."

  "I? No; love is sacred." She had boasted to Maurice that she was withoutconscience; she had only smothered it. "Come; is she beautiful?"

  "Yes." These questions disturbed him.

  "Certainly she must be worthy or you would not love her. She is rich?"

  "That does not matter; I am." He was wishing that Maurice would hurryback; the desire to fly was returning.

  "And she rejected you and sent you to the army?"

  "She has not rejected me, though I dare say she would, had I thepresumption to ask her."

  "A faint heart, they say--"

  "My heart is not faint; it is my tongue." He rose and wandered about theroom. Her breath was like orris, and went to his head like wine.

  "Monsieur," she said, "is it possible that you have succumbed to thecharms of Madame the countess?"

  He laughed. "One may admire exquisite bric-a-brac without loving it."

  "Bric-a-brac! Poor Elsa!" and Madame laughed. "If it were the countess Icould aid you."

  "Love is not merchandise, to traffic with."

  Madame's cheeks grew warm. Sometimes the trick of fence is beaten downby a tyro's stroke.

  "Eh, bien, since it is not the countess--"

  He came toward her so swiftly that instinctively she rose and movedto the opposite side of her chair. Something in his face caused her toshiver. She had no time to analyze its meaning, but she knew that theshiver was not unmixed with fear.

  "Madame, in God's name, do not play with me!" he cried.

  "Monsieur, you forget yourself," for the moment forgetting her part.

  "Yes, there is no self in my thoughts since they are all of you! Youknow that I love you. Who could resist you? Thirteen years? They arewell wasted, in the end to love a woman like you."

  Before she could withdraw her hands from the top of the chair he hadseized them.

  "Monsieur, release me." She struggled futilely.

  "I love you." He began to draw her from behind the chair.

  "Monsieur, Monsieur!" she, cried, genuinely alarmed; "do not forget thatyou are a gentleman."

  "I am not a gentleman now; I am a man who loves."

  Madame was now aware that what she had aroused could not be subdued byangry words.

  "Monsieur, you say that you love me; do not degrade me by forcing meinto your arms. I am a woman, and weak, and you are hurting me."

  He let go her hands, and they stood there, breathing deeply and quickly.But for her it was a respite. She had been too precipitate. She broughttogether the subtle forces of her mind. She could gain nothing by force;she must use cunning. To hold him at arm's length, and yet to hold him,was her desire. She had reckoned on wax; a man stood before her. All atonce the flutter of admiration stirred in her heart. She was a soldier'sdaughter, the daughter of a man who loved strong men. And this man wasdoubly strong because he was fearless and honest. She read in his eyesthat a moment more and he had kissed her, a t
hing no man save her fatherhad ever done.

  "O, Monsieur," she said lightly, "you soldiers are such forward lovers!You have not even asked me if I love you." He made a move to regain herhands. "No, no!" darting behind the chair. "You must not take my hands;you do not realize how strong you are. I am not sure that my heartresponds to yours."

  "Tell me, what must I do?" leaning across the chair.

  "You must have patience. A woman must be wooed her own way, or not atall. What a whirlwind you are!"

  "I would to heaven," with a gesture indicative of despair, "that youhad kept me behind bars and closed doors." He dropped his hands from thechair and sought the window, leaning his arms against the central frame.

  Madame had fully recovered her composure. She saw her way to the end.

  "It is true," she said, "that I do not love you, but it is also truethat I am not indifferent to you. What proof have I that you really loveme? None, save your declaration; and that is not sufficient for a womansuch as I am. Shall I place my life in your hands for better or forworse, simply because you say you love me?"

  "My love does not reason, Madame."

  She passed over this stroke. "I do not know you; it is not less thannatural for me to doubt you. What proof have I that your declarationof love is not a scheme to while away your captivity at my expense?My heart is not one to be taken by storm. There is only one road to myaffections; it is narrow. Other men have made love to me, but they havehesitated to enter upon this self-same road."

  "Love that demands conditions? I have asked none."

  Madame blushed. "A man offers love; a woman confers it."

  "And what is this narrow road called which leads to your affections? Isyour heart a citadel?"

  "It is called sacrifice. Those who dwell in my heart, which you call acitadel, enter by that road."

  "Sacrifice?" Fervor lighted his face again. "Do you wish my fortune? Itis yours. My life? It is yours. Do you wish me to lead the army of theduchess into Bleiberg? It shall be done. Sacrifice? I have sacrificedthe best years of youth for nothing; my life has been made up ofsacrifices."

  "Monsieur, if I promised to listen to you here-after, if I promised aheart that has never known the love of man, if I promised lips that havenever known the lips of any man save my father--" She moved away fromthe chair, within an arm's length of him. "If I promised all thesewithout reservation, would you aid me to give back to the duchess herown?"

  Instantly her arms were pinioned to her sides, and he had drawn her soclose that she could feel his heart beat against her own.

  "Have no fear," he said. The voice was unfamiliar to her ears. "I shallnot kiss you. Let me look into your eyes, Madame, your eyes, and readthe lie which is written there. My fortune and my life are not enough.Keep your love, Madame; I have no wish to purchase it. What! if Isurrender my honor it is agreed that you surrender yours? A love such asmine requires a wife. You would have me break my word to the dead andto the living, and you expect me to believe in your promises! Faugh!" Hepushed her from him, and resumed his stand by the window.

  The hate of a thousand ancestors surged into her heart, and she wouldhave liked to kill him. Mistress! He had dared. He had dared to speak toher as no other man living or dead had dared. And he lived. All thatwas tigerish in her soul rose to the surface; only the thought of theglittering goal stayed the outburst. She had yet one weapon. A minutewent by, still another; silence. A hand was laid tremblingly on his arm.

  "Forgive me! I was wrong. Love me, love me, if you must. Keep yourhonor; love me without conditions. I--" She stumbled into the chair,covered her eyes and fell to weeping.

  Fitzgerald, dumfounded and dismayed, looked down at the beautiful head.He could fight angry words, tempests of wrath--but tears, a woman'stears, the tears of the woman he loved!

  "Madame," he said gently, "do you love me?"

  No answer.

  "Madame, for God's sake, do not weep! Do you love me? If you love me--ifyou love me--"

  She sprang to her feet. Once again she experienced that shiver; againher conscience stirred.

  "I do not know," she said. "But this I may say: your honor, which youhold above the price of a woman's love, will be the cause of bloodshed.Mothers and wives and sisters will execrate your name, brave men will besacrificed needlessly. What are the Osians to you? They are strangers.You will do for them, and uselessly, what you refuse to do for the womanyou profess to love. I abhor bloodshed. Your honor is the offspring ofpride and egotism. Can you not see the inevitable? War will be declared.You can not help Leopold; but you can save him the degradation of beingexpelled from his throne by force of arms. The army of the duchess istrue to its humblest sword. Can you say that for the army of the king?Would you witness the devastation of a beautiful city, by flame andsword?

  "Monsieur, Austria is with us, and she will abide with us whicheverway we move. Austria, Monsieur, which is Leopold's sponsor. And thisLeopold, is he a man to sit upon a throne? Is he a king in any sense ofthe word? Would a king submit to such ignominy as he submits to withoutstriking a blow? Would he permit his ministers to override him? Would hepermit his army to murmur, his agents to plunder, his people to laughat him, if he possessed one kingly attribute? No, no! If you were king,would you allow these things? No! You would silence all murmurs, youwould disgorge your agents, you would throttle those who dared to laugh.

  "Put yourself in the duchess's place. All these beautiful lands are hersby right of succession; is she wrong to desire them? What does she wishto accomplish? She wishes to join the kingdom and the duchy, and to makea great kingdom, as it formerly was. Do you know why Leopold was seatedupon the throne?

  "Some day the confederation will decide to divide all these lands intotidbits, and there will be no one to oppose them. Madame the duchesswishes to be strong enough to prevent it. And you, Monsieur, are thegrain of sand which stops all this, you and your pride. Not even awoman's love--There, I have said it!--not even a woman's love--will moveyour sense of justice. Go! leave me. Since my love is nothing, sincethe sacrifice I make is useless, go; you are free!" The tears which cameinto her eyes this time were genuine; tears of chagrin, vexation, and ofa third sensation which still remained a mystery to her.

  To him, as she spoke, with her wonderful eyes flashing, a rich colorsuffusing her cheeks and throat and temples, the dim candle lightbreaking against the ruddy hair; honor or pride, whichever it was, waswell worth the losing. He was a man; it is only the pope who is said tobe infallible. His honor could not save the king. All she had said wastrue. If he held to his word there would be war and bloodshed.

  On the other hand, if he surrendered, less harm would befall the king,and the loss of his honor--was it honor?--would be well recompensed forthe remainder of his days by the love of this woman. His long years ofloneliness came back; he wavered. He glanced first at her, then at thedoor; one represented all that was desirable in the world, the othermore loneliness, coupled with unutterable regret. Still he wavered, andfinally he fell.

  "Madame, will you be my wife?"

  "Yes." And it seemed to her that the word, came to her lips by novolition of hers. As she had grown red but a moment gone, she now grewcorrespondingly pale, and her limbs shook. She had irrevocably committedherself. "No, no!" as she saw him start forward with outstretched arms,"not my lips till I am your wife! Not my lips; only my hands!"

  He covered them with kisses.

  "Hush!" as she stepped back.

  It was time. Maurice and the countess entered the room. Mauriceglanced from Madame to Fitzgerald and back to Madame; he frowned. TheEnglishman, who had never before had cause to dissemble, caught up hispipe and fumbled it. This act merely discovered his embarrassment to thekeen eyes of his friend. He had forgotten all about Maurice. What wouldhe say? Maurice was something like a conscience to him, and his heartgrew troubled.

  "Madame," Maurice whispered to the countess, "I have lost all faith inyou; you have kept me too long under the stars."

  "Confidences?" said Mada
me, with a swift inquiring glance at thecountess.

  "O, no," said Maurice. "I simply complained that Madame the countesshad kept me too long under the stars. But here is Colonel Mollendorf,freshly returned from Brunnstadt to inform you that the army is fullyprepared for any emergency. Is not that true, Colonel?" as he beheldthat individual standing in the doorway.

  "Yes; but how the deuce--your pardon, ladies!--did you find that out?"demanded the Colonel.

  "I guessed it," was the answer. "But there will be no need of an armynow. Come, John, the Colonel, who is no relative of the king's ministerof police, has not the trick of concealing his impatience. He hassomething important to say to Madame, and we are in the way. Come along,AEneas, follow your faithful Achates; Thalia has a rehearsal."

  Fitzgerald thrust his pipe into a pocket. "Good night, Madame," he saiddiffidently; "and you, countess."

  "Good night, Colonel," sang out Maurice over his shoulder, and togetherthe pair climbed the stairs.

  Fitzgerald was at a loss how to begin, for something told him thatMaurice would demand an explanation, though the affair was none ofhis concern. He filled his pipe, fired it and tramped about the room.Sometimes he picked up the end of a window curtain and felt of it;sometimes he posed before one of the landscape oils.

  "You have something on your mind," said Maurice, pulling off his hussarjacket and kicking it across the room.

  "Madame has promised to be my wife."

  "And the conditions?" curtly.

  Fitzgerald pondered over the other's lack of surprise. "What would youdo if you loved a woman and she promised to be your wife?"

  "I'd marry her," sitting down at the table.

  "What would you do in my place, and Madame had promised to marry you?"puffing quickly.

  "I'd marry her," answered Maurice, banging his fist on the table, "evenif all the kings and queens of Europe rose up against me. I would marryher, if I had to bind her hands and feet and carry her to the altar andforce the priest at the point of a pistol, which, in all probability, iswhat you will have to do."

  "I love her," sullenly.

  "Do you know who she is?"

  "No."

  "Would it make any difference?"

  "No. Who is she?"

  "She is a woman without conscience; she is a woman who, to gain hermiserable ends, will stop neither at falsehood, deceit nor bloodshed. Doyou want me to tell you more? She is--"

  "Maurice, tell me nothing which will cause me to regret your friendship.I love her; she has promised to be my wife."

  "She will ruin you."

  "She has already done that," laconically.

  "Do you mean to tell me--"

  "Yes! For the promise of her love I am dishonored. For the privilegeof kissing her lips I have sold my honor. To call her mine, I would gothrough hell. God! do you know what it is to be lonely, to starve inGod-forsaken lands, to dream of women, to long for them?"

  "And the poor paralytic king?"

  "What is he to me?"

  "And your father?"

  "What are my dead father's wishes? Maurice, I am mad!"

  "You are a very sick man," Maurice replied crossly. "What's to become ofall these vows--"

  "You are wasting your breath! Do you remember what Rochefoucauld saidof Madame de Longueville?--`To win her heart, to delight her beautifuleyes, I have taken up arms against the king; I would have done the sameagainst the gods!' Is she not worth it all?" with a gesture of his armswhich sent the live coals of his pipe comet-like across the interveningspace. "Is she not worth it all?"

  "Who?--Madame de Longueville? I thought she was dead these two hundredyears!"

  "Damn it, Maurice!"

  "I will, if you say so. The situation is equal to a good deal of plain,honest damning." Maurice banged his fist again. "John, sit down andlisten to me. I'll not sit still and see you made a fool. Promises?This woman will keep none. When she has wrung you dry she will flingyou aside. At this moment she is probably laughing behind your back.You were brought here for this purpose. Threats and bribes were withouteffect. Love might accomplish what the other two had failed to do. Youknow little of the ways of the world. Do you know that this house partyis scandalous, for all its innocence? Do you know that Madame's namewould be a byword were it known that we have been here more than twoweeks, alone with two women? Who but a woman that feels herself aboveconvention would dare offer this affront to society? Do you know whyMadame the countess came? Company for Madame? No; she was to play makelove to me to keep me out of the way. Ass that I was, I never suspectedtill too late! Madame's name is not Sylvia Amerbach; it is--"

  The door opened unceremoniously and in walked the Colonel.

  "Your voices are rather high, gentlemen," he said calmly, and sat downin an easy chair.