Rudolf threw himself back in his chair with a peevish air. “Well, if you must, you must. What is this great affair, Count? Let us have it over, and then you can tell me about the dogs.”
Rischenheim looked round the room. There was nobody; the curtains were still; the king’s left hand caressed his beardless chin; the right was hidden from his visitor by the small table that stood between them.
“Sire, my cousin, the Count of Hentzau, has entrusted me with a message.”
Rudolf suddenly assumed a stern air.
“I can hold no communication, directly or indirectly, with the Count of Hentzau,” said he.
“Pardon me, sire, pardon me. A document has come into the count’s hands which is of vital importance to your Majesty.”
“The Count of Hentzau, my lord, has incurred my heaviest displeasure.”
“Sire, it is in the hopes of atoning for his offences that he has sent me here to-day. There is a conspiracy against your Majesty’s honor.”
“By whom, my lord?” asked Rudolf, in cold and doubting tones.
“By those who are very near your Majesty’s person and very high in your Majesty’s love.”