"How comes the King here?" I asked, to break an embarrassed silence. "It
is the duke's land here, you say."
"The duke invited him, sir, to rest here till Wednesday. The duke is at
Strelsau, preparing the King's reception."
"Then they're friends?"
"None better," said the old lady.
But my rosy damsel tossed her head again; she was not to be repressed
for long, and she broke out again:
"Ay, they love one another as men do who want the same place and the
same wife!"
The old woman glowered; but the last words pricked my curiosity, and I
interposed before she could begin scolding:
"What, the same wife, too! How's that, young lady?"
"All the world knows that Black Michael--well then, mother, the
duke--would give his soul to marry his cousin, the Princess Flavia, and
that she is to be the queen."
"Upon my word," said I, "I begin to be sorry for your duke. But if a man
will be a younger son, why he must take what the elder leaves, and be
as thankful to God as he can;" and, thinking of myself, I shrugged my
shoulders and laughed. And then I thought also of Antoinette de Mauban
and her journey to Strelsau.
"It's little dealing Black Michael has with--" began the girl, braving
her mother's anger; but as she spoke a heavy step sounded on the floor,
and a gruff voice asked in a threatening tone:
"Who talks of 'Black Michael' in his Highness's own burgh?"
The girl gave a little shriek, half of fright--half, I think, of
amusement.
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