"I shall always be very, very fond of you," said I.
She laughed a funny little laugh, and then sighed.
"If God sends me a little son, I hope he'll be like you," she whispered, with her cheek against mine.
"He won't be a king," said I with a sigh of envy.
"You poor dear!" cooed she.
Then came my mother's clear, high-bred voice, just outside the door, descanting on the beauty of the Count's parterres and orangery. A swift warning glance flew from me to my hostess. I scampered off my perch, and she stood up in respectful readiness for the entrance of Princess Heinrich.
"Don't tell mother," I whispered urgently.
"Not a word!"
"Whatever they do to you?"
"No, whatever they do to me!"
My mother was in the room, the Count holding the door for her and closing it as she passed through. I felt her glance rest on me for a moment; then she turned to the Countess and expressed all proper admiration of the gardens, the house, and the whole demesne.
"And I hope Augustin has been a good boy?" she ended.
"The King has been very good, madame," returned the Countess. Then she looked in an inquiring way at her husband, as though she did not quite know whether she were right or not, and with a bright blush added, "If you would let him come again some day, madame!"
My mother smiled quite graciously.
"You mustn't leave me out of the invitation," she said. "We will both come, won't we, Augustin?"
"Yes, please, mother," said I, relapsed into shyness and in great fear lest our doings should be discovered.
"Say good-bye now," commanded the Princess.
I should have liked to kiss the Countess again, but such an act would have risked a betrayal. Our adieu was made in proper form, the Countess accompanying us to the door. There we left her curtseying, while the Count handed my mother into the carriage. I looked round, and the Countess blew me a surreptitious kiss.
When we had driven a little way, my mother said:
"Do you like the Countess von Sempach?"
"Yes, very much."
"She was kind to you?"
"Very, mother."
"Then why have you been crying, Augustin?"
"I haven't been crying," said I. The lie was needful to my compact with the Countess; my honour was rooted in dishonour.
"Yes, you have," said she, but not quite in the accusing tones that generally marked the detection of falsehood. She seemed to look at me more in curiosity than in anger. Then she bent down toward me. "What did you talk about?" she asked.
"Nothing very particular, mother. She asked me if I liked being king."
"And what did you say?"
"I said I liked it pretty well."
My mother made no answer. I stole a look at her handsome clean-cut features; she was frowning a little.
"I didn't tell her much," said I, aiming at propitiation.
"Much of what?" came sharply, but not unkindly. Yet the question posed me.
"Oh, I don't know!" I murmured forlornly; and I was surprised when she turned and kissed me, saying:
"We all love you, Augustin; but you have to be king, and you must learn how."
"Yes," I assented. The thing was quite inevitable; I knew that.
Silence followed for a little while. Then my mother said:
"When you're ten you shall have a tutor, and your own servants, Augustin."
Hastily I counted the months. There were nine; but what did the proposal mean? Was I to be a free man then?
"And we women will leave you alone," my mother went on. She kissed me again, adding, "You don't like us, do you?"
"I like you, mother," I said gravely, "at least generally—not when you let Kr—the Baroness——"
"Never mind the Baroness," she interrupted. Then she put her arm round my neck and asked me in a very low voice, "You didn't like the Countess better than me, did you, Augustin?"
"N—no, mother," said I, but I was an unaccomplished hypocrite, and my mother turned away. My thoughts were not on her, but on the prospect her words had opened to me.
"Do you mean that the Baroness won't be my governess any more?"
"Yes. You'll have a governor, a tutor."
"And shall I——?"
"I'll tell you all about it soon, dear."
The rest of our drive was in silence. My mind was full to overflowing of impressions, hopes, and wonders; my mother's gaze was fixed on the windows of the carriage.
We reached home, and together went up to the schoolroom. It was not tea-time yet, and lesson-books were on the table. Krak sat beside it, grave, grim, and gray. Victoria was opposite to her. Victoria was crying. Past experience enlightened me; I knew exactly what had happened; Victoria had a delightfully unimpressionable soul; no rebuke from Krak brought her to tears; Krak had been rapping her knuckles, and her tears were an honest tribute to pain, with no nonsense of merely wounded sensibility about them. My mother went up and whispered to Krak. Krak had, of course, risen, and stood now listening with a heavy frown. My mother drew herself up proudly; she seemed to brace herself for an effort; I heard nothing except "I think you should consult me," but our quick children's eyes apprehended the meaning of the scene. Krak was being bearded. There was no doubt of it; for presently Krak bowed her head in a jerky unwilling nod and walked out of the room. My mother stood still for a moment with a vivid red colour in her cheeks. Then she walked across to Victoria, lifted one of her hands from the table, and kissed it.
"You're going to have tea with me to-day, children," said she, "and we'll play games afterward. Augustin shall play at not being a king."
I remember well the tea we had and the games that followed, wherein we all played at being what we were not, and for an evening cheated fate of its dues. My mother was merriest, for over Victoria and myself there hung a veil of unreality, a consciousness that indeed we played and set aside for an hour only the obstinate claims of the actual. But we were all merry; and when we parted—for my mother had a dinner-party—we both kissed her heartily; me she kissed often. I thought that she wanted to ask me again whether I liked the Countess better than her, but was afraid to risk the question. What I wanted to say was that I liked none better if she would be always what she was this evening; but I found no skill adequate to a declaration of affection so conditional. It would be to make a market of my kisses, and I had not yet come to the age for such bargains.
Then we were left alone, Victoria and I, to sit together for a while in the dusk; and, sitting there, we totted up that day's gains. They were uncertain, yet seemed great. All that had passed I told Victoria, save what in loyalty to my countess I might not; Victoria imparted to me the story of the knuckle-rapping. For her an added joy lay in the fact that on this occasion, if ever, she had deserved the affliction; she had been gloriously naughty, and gloried in it now; did not her sinfulness enhance the significance of this revolution? So carried away were we by our triumph that now again, after a long interval, we allowed our imagination to paint royalty in glowing colours, and our Arabian Nights and fairy tales seemed at last not altogether cunningly wrought deceptions. When we had gone to bed, again we met, I creeping into her room, and rousing her to ask whether in truth a new age had come and the yoke of Krak been broken from off our backs. Victoria sat up in bed and discussed the problem gravely. For me she was sanguine, for herself less so; for, said she, they go on worrying the girls for ever so long. "She won't rap your knuckles any more," I suggested,