"
"The King," added old Sapt (who, I began to find, loved a good lie for
its own sake), "has slept without a break all night."
The young gentleman (he reminded me of "Osric" in Hamlet) bowed himself
out again. The farce was over, and Fritz von Tarlenheim's pale face
recalled us to reality--though, in faith, the farce had to be reality
for us now.
"Is the King dead?" he whispered.
"Please God, no," said I. "But he's in the hands of Black Michael!"
CHAPTER 8
A Fair Cousin and a Dark Brother
A real king's life is perhaps a hard one; but a pretended king's is,
I warrant, much harder. On the next day, Sapt instructed me in my
duties--what I ought to do and what I ought to know--for three hours;
then I snatched breakfast, with Sapt still opposite me, telling me that
the King always took white wine in the morning and was known to detest
all highly seasoned dishes. Then came the Chancellor, for another three
hours; and to him I had to explain that the hurt to my finger (we turned
that bullet to happy account) prevented me from writing--whence arose
great to-do, hunting of precedents and so forth, ending in my "making
my mark," and the Chancellor attesting it with a superfluity of solemn
oaths. Then the French ambassador was introduced, to present his
credentials; here my ignorance was of no importance, as the King would
have been equally raw to the business (we worked through the whole _corps
diplomatique_ in the next few days, a demise of the Crown necessitating
all this bother).
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