"Majesty? ... King Jerome?"
"Did you think," said Geiger-Hans, compassionately, "that Meyer and Schmidt were usual names for Frenchmen? Why, the precious incognito would not have deceived a cat."
The dawn was growing softly outside, but there was sudden vivid light in Steven's brain.
"Then—then," he stammered, struggling to his feet—"the lady——"
"The lady, my poor young friend, is naught but a dancing girl from Genoa, whom that wise and powerful man, the Emperor Napoleon, sent two emissaries to remove—it is not the first time he has had to attend to such matters—from her charming apartments in 'Napoleonshöhe,' where her presence conduced neither to the King's dignity, nor to the Queen's. The great Napoleon is mighty particular about her Westphalian Majesty's dignity. Our ardent little sovereign, however, determined to snatch a last meeting; hence the romantic attack and rescue—the casual meeting!"
"O Lord!" said Steven, and passed his hand across his mouth, as if the shadow of the yearned-for kiss polluted it.
"And so that Meyer fellow is——"
"Our brother Jerome—yes."
The fiddler lifted a sweet, worn voice, while his bow danced lightly on the strings and chanted to the absurd lilt—
"Nous allons chercher un royaume
Pour not' p'tit frère Jérome."