The Prisoner of Zenda by Anthony Hope (the little red hen read aloud .TXT) 📖

“Ah, cousin Michael! I call him the Duke of Strelsau.”

“You call him Michael when you meet him?”

“Yes—by the orders of your father.”

“I see. And now by mine?”

“If those are your orders.”

“Oh, decidedly! We must all be pleasant to our dear Michael.”

“You order me to receive his friends, too, I suppose?”

“The Six?”

“You call them that, too?”

“To be in the fashion, I do. But I order you to receive no one unless you like.”

“Except yourself?”

“I pray for myself. I could not order.”

As I spoke, there came a cheer from the street. The princess ran to the window.

“It is he!” she cried. “It is—the Duke of Strelsau!”

I smiled, but said nothing. She returned to her seat. For a few moments we sat in silence. The noise outside subsided, but I heard the tread of feet in the ante-room. I began to talk on general subjects. This went on for some minutes. I wondered what had become of Michael, but it did not seem to be for me to interfere. All at once, to my great surprise, Flavia, clasping her hands asked in an agitated voice:

“Are you wise to make him angry?”

“What? Who? How am I making him angry?”

“Why, by keeping him waiting.”

“My dear cousin, I don’t want to keep him—”

“Well, then, is he to come in?”

“Of course, if you wish it.”

She looked at me curiously.

“How funny you are,” she said. “Of course no one could be announced while I was with you.”

Here was a charming attribute of royalty!

“An excellent etiquette!” I cried. “But I had clean forgotten it; and if I were alone with someone else, couldn’t you be announced?”

“You know as well as I do. I could be, because I am of the Blood;” and she still looked puzzled.

“I never could remember all these silly rules,” said I, rather feebly, as I inwardly cursed Fritz for not posting me up. “But I’ll repair my fault.”

I jumped up, flung open the door, and advanced into the ante-room. Michael was sitting at a table, a heavy frown on his face. Everyone else was standing, save that impudent young dog Fritz, who was lounging easily in an armchair, and flirting with the Countess Helga. He leapt up as I entered, with a deferential alacrity that lent point to his former nonchalance. I had no difficulty in understanding that the duke might not like young Fritz.

I held out my hand, Michael took it, and I embraced him. Then I drew him with me into the inner room.

“Brother,” I said, “if I had known you were here, you should not have waited a moment before I asked the princess to permit me to bring you to her.”

He thanked me, but coldly. The man had many qualities, but he could not hide his feelings. A mere stranger could have seen that he hated me, and hated worse to see me with Princess Flavia; yet I am persuaded that he tried to conceal both feelings, and, further, that he tried to persuade me that he believed I was verily the King. I did not know, of course; but, unless the King were an impostor, at once cleverer and more audacious than I (and I began to think something of myself in that role), Michael could not believe that. And, if he didn’t, how he must have loathed paying me deference, and hearing my “Michael” and my “Flavia!”

“Your hand is hurt, sire,” he observed, with concern.

“Yes, I was playing a game with a mongrel dog” (I meant to stir him), “and you know, brother, such have uncertain tempers.”

He smiled sourly, and his dark eyes rested on me for a moment.

“But is there no danger from the bite?” cried Flavia anxiously.

“None from this,” said I. “If I gave him a chance to bite deeper, it would be different, cousin.”

“But surely he has been destroyed?” said she.

“Not yet. We’re waiting to see if his bite is harmful.”

“And if it is?” asked Michael, with his sour smile.

“He’ll be knocked on the head, brother,” said I.

“You won’t play with him any more?” urged Flavia.

“Perhaps I shall.”

“He might bite again.”

“Doubtless he’ll try,” said I, smiling.

Then, fearing Michael would say something which I must appear to resent (for, though I might show him my hate, I must seem to be full of favour), I began to compliment him on the magnificent condition of his regiment, and of their loyal greeting to me on the day of my coronation. Thence I passed to a rapturous description of the hunting-lodge which he had lent me. But he rose suddenly to his feet. His temper was failing him, and, with an excuse, he said farewell. However, as he reached the door he stopped, saying:

“Three friends of mine are very anxious to have the honour of being presented to you, sire. They are here in the ante-chamber.”

I joined him directly, passing my arm through his. The look on his face was honey to me. We entered the ante-chamber in fraternal fashion. Michael beckoned, and three men came forward.

“These gentlemen,” said Michael, with a stately courtesy which, to do him justice, he could assume with perfect grace and ease, “are the loyalest and most devoted of your Majesty’s servants, and are my very faithful and attached friends.”

“On the last ground as much as the first,” said I, “I am very pleased to see them.”

They came one by one and kissed my hand—De Gautet, a tall lean fellow, with hair standing straight up and waxed moustache; Bersonin, the Belgian, a portly man of middle height with a bald head (though he was not far past thirty); and last, the Englishman, Detchard, a narrow-faced fellow, with close-cut fair hair and a bronzed complexion. He was a finely made man, broad in the shoulder and slender in the hips. A good fighter, but a crooked customer, I put him down for. I spoke to him in English, with a slight foreign accent, and I swear the fellow smiled, though he hid the smile in an instant.

“So Mr.