The Puppet Crown

by Harold MacGrath

  CHAPTER VI. MADEMOISELLE OF THE VEIL

  The public park at night was a revelation to Maurice, who, lonely andrestless, strolled over from the hotel in quest of innocent amusement.He was none the worse for his unintended bath; indeed, if anything,he was much the better for it. His imagination was excited. It was notevery day that a man could, at one and the same time, fall out of a boatand into the presence of a princess of royal blood.

  He tried to remember all he had said to her, but only two utterancesrecurred to him; yet these caused him an exhilaration like the bouquetof old wine. He had told her that she was beautiful, indirectly, it wastrue; she had accepted his friendship, also indirectly, it was true. Nowthe logical sequence of all this was--but he broke into a light laugh.What little vanity he possessed was without conceit. Princesses of royalblood were beyond the reach of logical sequence; and besides, she was tobe married on the twentieth of the month.

  He followed one of the paths which led to the pavilion. It was acharming scene, radiant with gas lamps, the vivid kaleidoscope of gownsand uniforms. Beautiful faces flashed past him. There were in the airthe vague essences of violet, rose and heliotrope. Sometimes he caughtthe echo of low laughter or the snatch of a gay song. The light ofthe lamps shot out on the crinkled surface of the lake in tongues ofquivering flame, which danced a brave gavot with the phantom stars; andafar twinkled the dipping oars. The brilliant pavilion, which restedpartly over land and partly over water, was thronged.

  The band was playing airs from the operas of the day, and Mauriceyielded to the spell of the romantic music. He leaned over the pavilionrail, and out of the blackness below he endeavored to conjure up theface of Nell (or was it Kate?) who had danced with him at the embassiesin Vienna, fenced and ridden with him, till--till--with a gesture ofimpatience he flung away the end of his cigar.

  Memory was altogether too elusive. It was neither Nell nor Kate hesaw smiling up at him, nor anybody else in the world but the PrincessAlexia, whose eyes were like wine in a sunset, whose lips were as redas the rose of Tours in France, and whose voice was sweeter than thatthrobbing up from the 'cello. If he thought much more of her, therewould be a logical sequence on his side. He laughed again--with aneffort--and settled back in his chair to renew his interest in thepanorama revolving around him.

  "They certainly know how to live in these countries," he thought,"for all their comic operas. All I need, to have this fairy scene madecomplete, is a woman to talk to. By George, what's to hinder me fromfinding one?" he added, seized by the spirit of mischief. He turnedhis head this way and that. "Ah! doubtless there is the one I'm lookingfor."

  Seated alone at a table behind him was a woman dressed in gray. Herback was toward him, but he lost none of the beautiful contours of herfigure. She wore a gray alpine hat, below the rim of which rebelliouslittle curls escaped, curls of a fine red-brown, which, as they trailedto the nape of the firm white neck, lightened into a ruddy gold. Herdelicate head was turned aside, and to all appearances her gaze wasdirected to the entrance to the pavilion. A heavy blue veil completelyobscured her features; though Maurice could see a rose-tinted ear andthe shadow of a curving chin and throat, which promised much. To a manthere is always a mystery lurking behind a veil. So he rose, walked pasther, returned and deliberately sat down in the chair opposite to hers.The fact that gendarmes moved among the crowd did not disturb him.

  "Good evening, Mademoiselle," he said, politely lifting his hat.

  She straightened haughtily. "Monsieur," she said, resentment,consternation and indignation struggling to predominate in her tones, "Idid not give you permission to sit down. You are impertinent!"

  "O, no," Maurice declared. "I am not impertinent. I am lonesome. In allBleiberg I haven't a soul to talk to, excepting the hotel waiters, andthey are uninteresting. Grant me the privilege of conversing with youfor a moment. We shall never meet again; and I should not know you if wedid. Whether you are old or young, plain or beautiful, it matters not.My only wish is to talk to a woman, to hear a woman's voice."

  "Shall I call a gendarme, Monsieur, and have him search for your nurse?"The attitude which accompanied these words was anything but assuring.

  He, however, evinced no alarm. He even laughed. "That was good! We shallget along finely, I am sure."

  "Monsieur," she said, rising, "I repeat that I do not desire yourcompany, nor to remain in the presence of your unspeakable effrontery."

  "I beseech you!" implored Maurice, also rising. "I am a foreigner,lonesome, unhappy, thousands of miles from home--"

  "You are English?" suddenly. She stood with the knuckle of herforefinger on her lips as if meditating. She sat down.

  Maurice, greatly surprised, also sat down.

  "English?" he repeated. His thought was: "What the deuce! This is thethird time I have been asked that. Who is this gay Lothario the womenseem to be expecting?" To her he continued: "And why do you ask methat?"

  "Perhaps it is your accent. And what do you wish to say to me,Monsieur?" It was a voice of quality; all the anger had gone from it.She leaned on her elbows, her chin in her palms, and through the veilhe caught the sparkle of a pair of wonderful eyes. "Let us converse inEnglish," she added. "It is so long since I have had occasion to speakin that tongue." She repeated her question.

  "O, I had no definite plan outlined," he answered; "just generalities,with the salt of repartee to season." He pondered over this suddentransition from wrath to mildness. An Englishman? Very well; it mightgrow interesting.

  "Is it customary among the English to request to speak to strangerswithout the usual formalities of an introduction?"

  "I can not say that it is," he answered truthfully enough; "but theprocedure is never without a certain charm and excitement."

  "Ah; then you were led to address me merely by the love of adventure?"

  "That is it; the love of adventure. I should not have spoken to you hadyou not worn the veil." He remarked that her English was excellent.

  "You differ from the average Englishman, who is usually wrapt upin himself and has no desire to talk to strangers. You have been asoldier."

  The evolutions of his cane ceased. "How in the world did you guessthat?" surprised beyond measure.

  "Perhaps there is something suggestive in your shoulders."

  He tried to peer behind the veil, but in vain. "Am I speaking to one Ihave met before?"

  "I believe not; indeed, sir, I am positive."

  "I have been a soldier, but my shoulders did not tell you that."

  "Perhaps I have the gift of clairvoyance," gazing again toward theentrance.

  "Or perhaps you have been to Vienna."

  "Who knows? Most Englishmen are, or have been, soldiers."

  "That is true." Inwardly, "There's my friend the Englishman again. She'sguessing closer than she knows. Curious; she has mistaken me for someone she does not know, if that is possible." He was somewhat in ahaze. "Well, you have remarkable eyes. However, let us talk of a moreinteresting subject; for instance, yourself. You, too, love adventure,that is, if I interpret the veil rightly."

  "Yes; I like to see without being seen. But, of course, behind this loveof adventure which you possess, there is an important mission."

  "Ah!" he thought; "you are not quite sure of me." Aloud, "Yes, I camehere to witness the comic opera."

  "The comic opera? I do not understand?"

  "I believed there was going to be trouble between the duchy and thekingdom, but unfortunately the prima donna has refused the part."

  "The prima donna!" in a muffled voice. "Whom do you mean?"

  "Son Altesse la Grande Duchesse! 'Voici le sabre de mon pere!'" And hewhistled a bar from Offenbach, his eyes dancing.

  "Sir!--I!--you do wrong to laugh at us!" a flash from the half-hiddeneyes.

  "Forgive me if I have offended you, but I--"

  "Ah, sir, but you who live in a powerful country think we little folkhave no hearts, that we have no wrongs to redress, no dreams of conquestand of power. You are wr
ong."

  "And whose side do you defend?"

  "I am a woman," was the equivocal answer.

  "Which means that you are uncertain."

  "I have long ago made up my mind."

  "Wonderful! I always thought a woman's mind was like a time-table,subject to change without notice. So you have made up your mind?"

  "I was born with its purpose defined," coldly.

  "Ah, now I begin to doubt."

  "What?" with a still lower degree of warmth.

  "That you are a woman. Only goddesses do not change theirminds--sometimes. Well, then you are on the weaker side."

  "Or the stronger, since there are two sides."

  "And the stronger?" persistently.

  "The side which is not the weaker. But the subject is what you Englishcall 'taboo.' It is treading on delicate ground to talk politics in theopen--especially in Bleiberg."

  "What a diplomat you would make!" he cried with enthusiasm. Certainlythis was a red-letter day in his calendar. This adventure almostequalled the other, and, besides, in this instance, his skin was dry; hecould enjoy it more thoroughly. Who could this unknown be? "If only youunderstood the mystery with which you have enshrouded yourself!"

  "I do." She drew the veil more firmly about her chin.

  "Grant me a favor."

  "I am talking to you, sir."

  This candor did not disturb him. "The favor I ask is that you will liftthe corner of your veil; otherwise you will haunt me."

  "I am doomed to haunt you, then. If I should lift the corner of my veilsomething terrible would happen."

  "What! Are you as beautiful as that?"

  There was a flash of teeth behind the veil, followed by the ripple ofsoft laughter. "It is difficult to believe you to be English. You aremore like one of those absurd Americans."

  Maurice did not like the adjective. "I am one of them," wondering whatthe effect of this admission would be. "I am not English, but of thebrother race. Forgive me if I have imposed on you, but it was yourfault. You said that I was English, and I was too lonesome to enlightenyou."

  "You are an American?" She began to tap her gloved fingers against thetable.

  "Yes."

  Then, to his astonishment, she gave way to laughter, honest and hearty."How dense of me not to have known the moment you addressed me! Whobut the American holds in scorn custom's formalities and usages? Yourgrammar is good, so good that my mistake is pardonable. The American isalways like the terrible infant; and you are a choice example."

  Maurice was not so pleased as he might have been. His ears burned.Still, he went forward bravely. "A man never pretends to be anEnglishman without getting into trouble."

  "I did not ask to speak to you. No one ever pretends to be an American.Why is it you are always ashamed of your country?" with maliceaforethought.

  Maurice experienced the sting of many bees. "I see that your experienceis limited to impostors. I, Mademoiselle, am proud of my country, thegreat, free land which stands aside from the turmoil and laughs at yourpetty squabbles, your kings, your princes. Laugh at me; I deserve it fornot minding my own business, but do not laugh at my country." His facewas flushed; he was almost angry. It was not her words; it was thecontempt with which she had invested them. But immediately he wasashamed of his outburst. "Ah, Mademoiselle, you have tricked me; youhave found the vulnerable part in my armor. I have spoken like a child.Permit me to apologize for my apparent lack of breeding." He rose,bowed, and made as though to depart.

  "Sit down, Monsieur," she said, picking up her French again. "I forgiveyou. I do more; I admire. I see that your freak had nothing behind itbut mischief. No woman need fear a man who colors when his country ismade the subject of a jest."

  All his anger evaporated. This was an invitation, and he accepted it. Heresumed his seat.

  "The truth is, as I remarked, I was lonesome. I know that I havecommitted a transgression, but the veil tempted me."

  "It is of no matter. A few moments, and you will be gone. I am waitingfor some one. You may talk till that person comes." Her voice was nowin its natural tone; and he was convinced that if her face were halfas sweet, she must possess rare beauty. "Hush!" as the band began tobreathe forth Chopin's polonaise. They listened until the music ceased.

  "Ah!" said he rapturously, "the polonaise! When you hear it, does therenot recur to you some dream of bygone happy hours, the sibilant murmurof fragrant night winds through the crisp foliage, the faint callof Diana's horn from the woodlands, moon-fairies dancing on thespider-webs, the glint of the dew on the roses, the far-off music of thesurges tossing impotently on the sands, the forgetfulness of time andplace and care, and not a cloud 'twixt you and the heavens? Ah, thepolonaise!"

  "Surely you must be a poet!" declared the Veil, when this panegyric wasdone.

  "No," said he modestly, "I never was quite poor enough for that exaltedposition." He had recovered his good humor.

  "Indeed, you begin to interest me. What is your occupation when not insearch of--comic operas?"

  "I serve Ananias."

  "Ananias?" A pause. "Ah, you are a diplomat?"

  "How clever of you to guess."

  "Yours is a careless country," observed the Veil.

  "Careless?" mystified.

  "Yes, to send forth her green and salad youth. Eh, bien! There arehopes for you. If you live you will grow old; you will become bald andreserved; you will not speak to strangers, to while away an idle hour;for permit me, Monsieur, who am wise, to tell you that it is a dangerouspractice."

  "And do I look so very young?"

  "Your beard is that of a boy."

  "David slew Goliath."

  "At least you have a ready tongue," laughing.

  "And you told me that I had been a soldier."

  But to this she had nothing to say.

  "I am older than you think, Mademoiselle of the Veil. I have been asoldier; I have seen hard service, too. Mine is no cushion sword. Youth?'Tis a virtue, not a crime; and, besides, it is an excellent disguise."

  For some time she remained pensive.

  "You are thinking of something, Mademoiselle."

  "Do you like adventure?"

  "I subsist on it."

  "You have been a soldier; you are, then, familiar with the use of arms?"

  "They tell me so," modestly. What was coming?

  "I have some influence. May I trust you?"

  "On my honor," puzzled, yet eager.

  "There may be a comic opera, as you call it. War is not so impossible asto be laughed at. The dove may fly away and the ravens come."

  "Who in thunder might this woman be?" he thought.

  "And," went on the Veil, "an extra saber might be used. Give me youraddress, in case I should find it necessary to send for you."

  Now Maurice was a wary youth. Under ordinary circumstances he would havegiven a fictitious address to this strange sybil with the prophecy ofwar; for he had accosted her only in the spirit of fun. But here was thekey which he had been seeking, the key to all that had brought him toBleiberg. Intrigue, adventure, or whatever it was, and to whatever end,he plunged into it. He drew out a card case, selected a card on which hewrote "Room 12, Continental," and passed it over the table. She read it,and slipped it into her purse.

  Maurice thought: "Who wouldn't join the army with such recruitingofficers?"

  While the pantomime took place, a man pushed by Maurice's chair andcrossed over to the table recently occupied by him. He sat down, lita short pipe, rested his feet on the lowest rung of the ladder-likerailing, and contemplated the western hills, which by now were envelopedin moon mists. Neither Maurice nor his mysterious vis-a-vis remarkedhim. Indeed, his broad back afforded but small attraction. And if hepuffed his pipe fiercely, nobody cared, since the breeze carried thesmoke waterward.

  After putting the card into her purse, Mademoiselle of the Veil's gazeonce more wandered toward the entrance, and this time it grew fixed.Maurice naturally followed it, and he saw a tall soldier in fatigue
dress elbowing his way through the crush. Many moved aside for him;those in uniform saluted.

  "Monsieur," came from behind the veil, "you may go now. I dismiss you.If I have need of you I promise to send for you."

  He stood up. "I thank you for the entertainment and the promise youextend. I shall be easily found," committing himself to nothing. "Isuppose you are a person of importance in affairs."

  "It is not unlikely. I see that you love adventure for its own sake,for you have not asked me if it be the duchy or the kingdom. Adieu,Monsieur," with a careless wave of the gray-gloved hand. "Adieu!"

  He took his dismissal heroically and shot a final glance at theapproaching soldier. His brows came together.

  "Where," he murmured, "have I seen that picturesque countenance before?Not in Europe; but where?" He caught the arm of a passing gendarme. "Whois that gentleman in fatigue uniform, coming this way?"

  "That, Monsieur," answered the gendarme in tones not unmixed with awe,"is Colonel Beauvais of the royal cuirassiers."

  "Thanks.... Beauvais; I do not remember the name. Truly I have hadexperiences to-day. And for what house is Mademoiselle of the Veil?Ravens? War? `Voici le sabre de mon pyre!'" and with a gay laugh he wenthis way.

  Meanwhile Colonel Beauvais arrived at the table, tipped his hat to theVeil, who rose and laid a hand on his arm. He guided her through thepressing crowds.

  "Ah, Madame," he said, "you are very brave to choose such a rendezvous."

  "Danger is a tonic to the ill-spirited," was the reply.

  "If aught should happen to you--"

  "It was in accord with her wishes that I am here. She suffers fromimpatience; and I would risk much to satisfy her whims."

  "So would I, Madame; even life." There was a tremor of passion in hisvoice, but she appeared not to notice it. "Here is a nook out of thelights; we may talk here with safety."

  "And what is the news?" she asked.

  "This: The man remains still in obscurity. But he shall be found.Listen," and his voice fell into a whisper.

  "Austria?" Mademoiselle of the Veil pressed her hands together inexcitement. "Is it true?"

  "Did I not promise you? It is so true that the end is in sight.Conspiracy is talked openly in the streets, in the cafes, everywhere.The Osians will be sand in the face of a tidal wave. A word from me,and Kronau follows it. It all would be so easy were it not for thearchbishop."

  "The archbishop?" contemptuously.

  "Ay, Madame; he is a man so deep, with a mind so abyssmal, that I wouldgive ten years of my life for a flash of his thoughts. He has someproject; apparently he gives his whole time to the king. He loves thisweak man Leopold; he has sacrificed the red hat for him, for thehat would have taken him to Italy, as we who procured it intended itshould."

  "The archbishop? Trust me; one month from now he will be recalled. Thatis the news I have for you."

  "You have taken a weight from my mind. What do you think in regard tothe rumor of the prince and the peasant girl?"

  "It afforded me much amusement. You are a man of fine inventions."

  "Gaze toward the upper end of the pavilion, the end which we havejust left. Yes--there. I am having the owner of those broad shoulderswatched. That gendarme leaning against the pillar follows him whereverhe goes."

  "Who is he?"

  "That I am trying to ascertain. This much--he is an Englishman."

  Mademoiselle of the Veil laughed. "Pardon my irrelevancy, but theremembrance of a recent adventure of mine was too strong."