The Puppet Crown | Page 4

TO OFFENBACH
XXIII. A GAME OF POKER AND THE STAKES
XXIV. THE PRISONER OF THE RED CHATEAU
XXV. THE FORTUNES OF WAR
XXVI. A PAGE FORM TASSO
XXVII. WORMWOOD AND LEES
XXVIII. INTO THE HANDS OF AUSTRIA
XXIX. INTO STILL WATERS AND SILENCE

Ah Love! Could you and I with Him conspire To grasp this sorry
Scheme of Things entire Would not we shatter it to bits--and then
Re-mold it nearer to the Heart's desire!
- Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
CHAPTER I
THE SCEPTER WHICH WAS A STICK
The king sat in his private garden in the shade of a potted orange tree,
the leaves of which were splashed with brilliant yellow. It was high

noon of one of those last warm sighs of passing summer which now
and then lovingly steal in between the chill breaths of September. The
velvet hush of the mid-day hour had fallen.
There was an endless horizon of turquoise blue, a zenith pellucid as
glass. The trees stood motionless; not a shadow stirred, save that which
was cast by the tremulous wings of a black and purple butterfly, which,
near to his Majesty, fell, rose and sank again. From a drove of wild
bees, swimming hither and thither in quest of the final sweets of the
year, came a low murmurous hum, such as a man sometimes fancies he
hears while standing alone in the vast auditorium of a cathedral.
The king, from where he sat, could see the ivy-clad towers of the
archbishop's palace, where, in and about the narrow windows, gray and
white doves fluttered and plumed themselves. The garden sloped gently
downward till it merged into a beautiful lake called the Werter See,
which, stretching out several miles to the west, in the heart of the
thick-wooded hills, trembled like a thin sheet of silver.
Toward the south, far away, lay the dim, uneven blue line of the
Thalian Alps, which separated the kingdom that was from the duchy
that is, and the duke from his desires. More than once the king leveled
his gaze in that direction, as if to fathom what lay behind those lordly
rugged hills.
There was in the air the delicate odor of the deciduous leaves which,
every little while, the king inhaled, his eyes half- closed and his nostrils
distended. Save for these brief moments, however, there rested on his
countenance an expression of disenchantment which came of the
knowledge of a part ill-played, an expression which described a
consciousness of his unfitness and inutility, of lethargy and weariness
and distaste.
To be weary is the lot of kings, it is a part of their royal prerogative; but
it is only a great king who can be weary gracefully. And Leopold was
not a great king; indeed, he was many inches short of the ideal; but he
was philosophical, and by the process of reason he escaped the pitfalls
which lurk in the path of peevishness.

To know the smallness of the human atom, the limit of desire, the
existence of other lives as precious as their own, is not the philosophy
which makes great kings. Philosophy engenders pity; and one who
possesses that can not ride roughshod over men, and that is the business
of kings.
As for Leopold, he would rather have wandered the byways of Kant
than studied royal etiquette. A crown had been thrust on his head and a
scepter into his hand, and, willy-nilly, he must wear the one and wield
the other. The confederation had determined the matter shortly before
the Franco-Prussian war.
The kingdom that was, an admixture of old France and newer Austria,
was a gateway which opened the road to the Orient, and a gateman
must be placed there who would be obedient to the will of the great
travelers, were they minded to pass that way. That is to say, the
confederation wanted a puppet, and in Leopold they found a dreamer,
which served as well. That glittering bait, a crown, had lured him from
his peaceful Osian hills and valleys, and now he found that his crown
was of straw and his scepter a stick.
He longed to turn back, for his heart lay in a tomb close to his castle
keep, but the way back was closed. He had sold his birthright. So he
permitted his ministers to rule his kingdom how they would, and gave
himself up to dreams. He had been but a cousin of the late king,
whereas the duke of the duchy that is had been a brother. But cousin
Josef was possessed of red hair and a temper which was redder still,
and, moreover, a superlative will, bending to none, and laughing at
those who tried to bend him.
He would have been a king to the tip of