The Puppet Crown Part 44

"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.

"G.o.d 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 doc.u.ments 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 the house of Auersperg for fifty years, that is to say, since I was sixteen; I had hoped to die in the service. Perhaps my own reason for distrusting you has not been disinterested."

"Perhaps not."

"And as I now stand I shall die neither in the service of the house of Auersperg nor of Osia. It is not the princess; it is the lonely girl."

"I need not tell you," said the prelate quietly, "that I am in Bleiberg only for that purpose. And since we are together, I will tell you this: Madame the d.u.c.h.ess will never sit upon this throne. To-day I am practically regent, with full powers from his Majesty. I have summoned von Wallenstein and Mollendorf for a purpose which I shall make known to you." He held up two doc.u.ments, and gently waving them: "These contain the dismissal of both gentlemen, together with my reasons. There were three; one I shall now destroy because it has suddenly become void." He tore it up, turned, and flung the pieces into the grate.

The Marshal glanced instinctively at his shoulder straps, and saw that they had come very near to oblivion.

"There is nothing more, Marshal," went on the prelate. "What I had to say to you has slipped my mind. Under the change of circ.u.mstances, it might embarra.s.s you to meet von Wallenstein and Mollendorf. You have spoken frankly, and in justice to you I will return in kind. Yes, in the old days I was ambitious; but G.o.d has punished me through those I love.

I shall leave to you the selection of a new Colonel of the cuira.s.siers."

"What! and Beauvais, too?" exclaimed the Marshal.

"Yes. My plans require it. I have formed a new cabinet, which will meet to-night at eight. I shall expect you to be present."

The two old men rose. Suddenly, a kindly smile broke through the austereness of the prelate's countenance, and he thrust out his hand; the old soldier met it.

"Providence always watches over the innocent," said the prelate, "else we would have been still at war. Good morning."

The Marshal returned home, thoughtful and taciturn. What would be the end?

Ten minutes after the Marshal's departure, von Wallenstein and Mollendorf entered the prelate's breakfast room.

"Good morning, Messieurs," said the churchman, the expression on his face losing its softness, and the glint of triumph stealing into his keen eyes. "I am acting on behalf of his Majesty this morning,"

presenting a doc.u.ment to each. "Observe them carefully." He turned and left the room. The archbishop had not only eaten a breakfast, he had devoured a cabinet.

Count von Wallenstein watched the retreating figure of the prelate till the door closed behind it; then he smiled at Mollendorf, who had not the courage to return it, and who stared at the parchment in his hand as if it were possessed of basilisk eyes.

"Monseigneur," said the count, as he glanced through the contents of the doc.u.ment, "has forestalled me. Well, well; I do not begrudge him his last card. He has played it; let us go."

"Perhaps," faltered Mollendorf, "he has played his first card. What are you going to do?"

"Remain at home and wait. And I shall not have long to wait. The end is near."

"Count, I tell you that the archbishop is not a man to play thus unless something strong were behind him. You do wrong not to fear him."

Von Wallenstein recalled the warning of the Colonel of the cuira.s.siers.

"Nevertheless, we are too strong to fear him."

"Monseigneur is in correspondence with Austria," said the minister of police, quietly.

"You said nothing of this before," was the surprised reply.

"It was only this morning that I learned it."

The count's gaze roamed about the room, and finally rested on the charred slips of paper in the grate. He shrugged.

"If he corresponds with Austria it is too late," he said. "Come, let us go." He snapped his fingers in the air, and Mollendorf followed him from the room.

The princess still remained on the rustic bench; her head was bowed, but her tears were dried.