The Puppet Crown | Page 5

his fiery hair; and it was for
this very reason that his subsequent appeals for justice and his rights
fell on unheeding ears. The confederation feared Josef; therefore they
dispossessed him. Thus Leopold sat on the throne, while his Highness
bit his nails and swore, impotent to all appearances.
Leopold leaned forward from his seat. In his hand he held a riding stick
with which he drew shapeless pictures in the yellow gravel of the path.

His brows were drawn over contemplative eyes, and the hint of a sour
smile lifted the corners of his lips. Presently the brows relaxed, and his
gaze traveled to the opposite side of the path, where the British minister
sat in the full glare of the sun.
In the middle of the path, as rigid as a block of white marble, reposed a
young bulldog, his moist black nose quivering under the repeated
attacks of a persistent insect. It occurred to the king that there was a
resemblance between the dog and his master, the Englishman. The
same heavy jaws were there, the same fearless eyes, the same
indomitable courage for the prosecution of a purpose.
A momentary regret passed through him that he had not been turned
from a like mold. Next his gaze shifted to the end of the path, where a
young Lieutenant stood idly kicking pebbles, his cuirass flaming in the
dazzling sunshine. Soon the drawing in the gravel was resumed.
The British minister made little of the three-score years which were
closing in on him, after the manner of an army besieging a citadel. He
was full of animal exuberance, and his eyes, a trifle faded, it must be
admitted, were still keenly alive and observant. He was big of bone,
florid of skin, and his hair-- what remained of it--was wiry and
bleached. His clothes, possibly cut from an old measure, hung loosely
about the girth-- a sign that time had taken its tithe. For thirty-five years
he had served his country by cunning speeches and bursts of fine
oratory; he had wandered over the globe, lulling suspicions here and
arousing them there, a prince of the art of diplomacy.
He had not been sent here to watch this kingdom. He was touching a
deeper undercurrent, which began at St. Petersburg and moved toward
Central Asia, Turkey and India, sullenly and irresistibly. And now his
task was done, and another was to take his place, to be a puppet among
puppets. He feared no man save his valet, who knew his one weakness,
the love of a son on whom he had shut his door, which pride forbade
him to open. This son had chosen the army, when a fine diplomatic
career had been planned--a small thing, but it sufficed. Even now a
word from an humbled pride would have reunited father and son, but
both refused to speak this word.

The diplomat in turn watched the king as he engaged in the aimless
drawing. His meditation grew retrospective, and his thoughts ran back
to the days when he first befriended this lonely prince, who had come
to England to learn the language and manners of the chill islanders. He
had been handsome enough in those days, this Leopold of Osia, gay
and eager, possessing an indefinable charm which endeared him to
women and made him respected of men. To have known him then, the
wildest stretch of fancy would never have placed him on this puppet
throne, surrounded by enemies, menaced by his adopted people,
rudderless and ignorant of statecraft.
"Fate is the cup," the diplomat mused, "and the human life the ball, and
it's toss, toss, toss, till the ball slips and falls into eternity." Aloud he
said, "Your Majesty seems to be well occupied."
"Yes," replied the king, smiling. "I am making crowns and scratching
them out again-- usurping the gentle pastime of their most Christian
Majesties, the confederation. A pretty bauble is a crown, indeed--at a
distance. It is a fine thing to wear one-- in a dream. But to possess one
in the real, and to wear it day by day with the eternal fear of laying it
down and forgetting where you put it, or that others plot to steal it, or
that you wear it dishonestly--Well, well, there are worse things than a
beggar's crust."
"No one is honest in this world, save the brute," said the diplomat,
touching the dog with his foot. "Honesty is instinctive with him, for he
knows no written laws. The gold we use is stamped with dishonesty,
notwithstanding the beautiful mottoes; and so long as we barter and sell
for it, just so long we remain dishonest. Yes, you wear your crown
dishonestly but lawfully, which is a nice distinction. But is any crown
worn honestly? If