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The Ducal Audience
by
“Nevertheless–“
“She will be Regent”–and the Grand Duke chuckled. “I can see her now,–St. Elizabeth, with a dash of Boadicea. Noumaria will be a pantheon of the virtues, and my children will be reared on moral aphorisms and rational food, with me as a handy example of everything they should avoid. Deuce take it, Amalia,” he added, “a father must in common decency furnish an example to his children!”
“Pray,” asked the Baroness, “do you owe it to your children, then, to take this trip to Vienna–“
“Ma foi!” retorted the Grand Duke, “I owe that to myself.”
“–and thereby break the Grand Duchess’ heart?”
“Indeed,” observed his Highness, “you appear strangely deep in the confidence of my wife.”
Again the Baroness descended to aphorism. “All women are alike, your Highness.”
“Ah, ah! Well, I have heard,” said the Grand Duke, “that seven devils were cast out of Magdalene–“
“Which means–?”
“I have never heard of this being done to any other woman. Accordingly I deduce that in all other women must remain–“
“Beware, your Highness, of the crudeness of cynicism!”
“I age,” complained the Grand Duke, “and one reaches years of indiscretion so early in the forties.”
“You admit, then, discretion is desirable?”
“I admit that,” his Highness said, with firmness, “of you alone.”
“Am I, in truth,” queried the Baroness, “desirable?” And in this patch of moonlight she looked incredibly so.
“More than that,” said the Grand Duke–“you are dangerous. You are a menace to the peace of my Court. The young men make sonnets to your eyes, and the ladies are ready to tear them out. You corrupt us, one and all. There is de Ch�teauroux now–“
“I assure you,” protested the Baroness, “Monsieur de Ch�teauroux is not the sort of person–“
“But at twenty-five,” the Grand Duke interrupted, “one is invariably that sort of person.”
“Phrases, your Highness!”
“Phrases or not, it is decided. You shall make no more bad poets.”
“You will,” said the Baroness, “put me to a vast expense for curl-papers.”
“You shall ensnare no more admirers.”
“My milliner will be inconsolable.”
“In short, you must leave Noumaria–“
“You condemn me to an exile’s life of misery!”
“Well, then, since misery loves company, I will go with you. For we should never forget,” his Highness added, with considerable kindliness, “always to temper justice with mercy. So I have ordered a carriage to be ready at dawn.”
The Baroness reflected; the plump little Grand Duke smiled. And he had reason, for there was about this slim white woman–whose eyes were colossal emeralds, and in show equivalently heatless, if not in effect,–so much of the baroque that in meditation she appeared some prentice queen of Faëry dubious as to her incantations. Now, though, she had it–the mislaid abracadabra.
“I knew that I had some obstacle in mind–Thou shalt not commit adultery. No, your Highness, I will not go.”
“Remember Sapphira,” said the Grand Duke, “recall Herodias who fared happily in all things, and by no means forget the portmanteau.”
“I have not the least intention of going–” the Baroness iterated, firmly.
“Nor would I ever suspect you of harboring such a thought. Still, a portmanteau, in case of an emergency–“
“–although–“
“Why, exactly.”
“–although I am told the sunrise is very beautiful from the Gardens of Breschau.”
“It is well worth seeing,” agreed the Grand Duke, “on certain days–particularly on Thursdays. The gardeners make a specialty of them on Thursdays.”
“By a curious chance,” the Baroness murmured, “this is Wednesday.”
“Indeed,” said the Grand Duke, “now you mention it, I believe it is.”
“And I shall be here, on your Highness’ recommendation, to see the sunrise–“
“Of course,” said the Grand Duke, “to see the sunrise,–but with a portmanteau!”
The Baroness was silent.
“With a portmanteau,” entreated the Grand Duke. “I am a connoisseur of portmanteaux. Say that I may see yours, Amalia.”
The Baroness was silent.
“Say yes, Amalia. For to the student of etymology the very word portmanteau–“
The Baroness bent toward him and said:
“I am sorry to inform your Highness that there is some one at the door of the summer-house.”
II
Inasmuch as all Noumaria knew that its little Grand Duke, once closeted with the lady whom he delighted to honor, did not love intrusions, and inasmuch as a discreet Court had learned, long ago, to regard the summer-house as consecrate to his Highness and the Baroness von Altenburg,–for these reasons the Grand Duke was inclined to resent disturbance of his privacy when he first peered out into the gardens.