There has been another supper
of six at the Inn of the Twisted Pines--with four bottles of Imperial
Tokay; and, afterward, a charming ride home in the moonlight.
To-night, there is to be a great State Dinner at the Palace, whereat
His Majesty will formally announce the betrothal of the Princess Royal
of Valeria and Field Marshal, the Grand Duke Armand.
So much I know--and, surely, it is enough; and far more than enough.
Yet, having that fixed and settled, there is another matter touching
which Dehra and I have a vast curiosity:
What says the great, brass-bound Laws of the Dalbergs? Has the Order
of Succession been changed? Will I supplant Lotzen as the Heir
Presumptive?
But, on that, His Majesty is silent; and the Book is locked. Nor does
even the Princess venture to inquire. Perchance, he is reserving it
for a surprise at the Dinner, to-night. Perchance, he thinks I have
honor sufficient.
Yet, none the less, do I wonder; and, I confess it, none the less do I
hope. Nor is the hope for myself alone--for, to be an Archduke of
Valeria is rank enough for any man--but, also, for her whom I love, and
the Nation loves, and who was born to wear a Crown.
And, for her dear sake, do I pray, with all humility, yet, somehow,
with the confidence of Right, that, in my unworthy self, the Line of
stubborn old Hugo may come to its own again.
Pages:
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334