“Well?” It seemed to Hermengarde that she could scarcely breathe.
“The Council has proclaimed your son King, by the style of Ernest V. And it has declared his Royal Highness Frederick Leopold von Astolf, Regent.”
Hermengarde’s eyes flashed with fury.
“Be careful, sir. Be careful, gentlemen. By what right have you passed me over?”
The Chancellor again gave the answer.
“By the family statutes of the House of Astolf, and by the Franconian Constitution, the Regency goes of right to the next heir to the crown. It would have been illegal to appoint you, Madam.”
The Princess began to realise the bitter truth. She had been completely outwitted by the servile courtier. He had been preparing this blow from the very first.
“Enough,” she said, with some dignity. “I will not say more to you, now. In two years my son will take the government into his own hands, and then your authority will be over.”
“I fear not, Madam.” It was the Regent who spoke, and Hermengarde, looking at him, saw the deep mournfulness on his face assume a new and dreadful significance. And then, before anything could happen, she was aware of the presence of the tall, spare figure, clad in its long black coat, the sight of which, walking across the gardens of Neustadt on a memorable morning, had fallen like a blight upon Maximilian’s heart. And she reeled back, and sank bereft of spirit upon the ground with the slow deliberate words beating like hammers upon her brain: “Madam, the King, your son, is mad!”