“You were not told his offence?”
“I was told nothing, your Majesty, except that Monsieur Maurice was an enemy to the state, and—”
“And what?”
My father's hand went up to his moustache, as it was wont to do in perplexity.
“I—so please your Majesty, I think there is some foul mystery in it at bottom,” he said, bluntly. “There hath been that thing proposed to me that I am ashamed to repeat. I do beseech your Majesty that some investigation....”
His eyes happened for a moment to rest upon the card. He stammered—changed colour—stopped short in his sentence—took off his hat—laid the card upon it—and so handed it to the King.
His Majesty Frederick William the Third of Prussia was, like most of the princes of his house, tanned, soldierly, and fresh-complexioned; but florid as he was, there came a darker flush into his face as he read what Monsieur Maurice had written.
“An attempt upon his life!” he exclaimed. “The thing is not possible.”
My father was silent. The king looked at him keenly.
“Is it possible, Colonel Bernhard?” he said.