That night Prince Aribert dined with his august nephew in the superb dining-room of the Royal apartments. Hans served, the dishes being brought to the door by other servants. Aribert found his nephew despondent and taciturn. On the previous day, when, after the futile interview with Sampson Levi, Prince Eugen had despairingly threatened to commit suicide, in such a manner as to make it ‘look like an accident’, Aribert had compelled him to give his word of honour not to do so.
‘What wine will your Royal Highness take?’ asked old Hans in his soothing tones, when the soup was served.
‘Sherry,’ was Prince Eugen’s curt order.
‘And Romanée-Conti afterwards?’ said Hans. Aribert looked up quickly.
‘No, not to-night. I’ll try Sillery to-night,’ said Prince Eugen.
‘I think I’ll have Romanée-Conti, Hans, after all,’ he said. ‘It suits me better than champagne.’
The famous and unsurpassable Burgundy was served with the roast. Old Hans brought it tenderly in its wicker cradle, inserted the corkscrew with mathematical precision, and drew the cork, which he offered for his master’s inspection. Eugen nodded, and told him to put it down. Aribert watched with intense interest. He could not for an instant believe that Hans was not the very soul of fidelity, and yet, despite himself, Racksole’s words had caused him a certain uneasiness. At that moment Prince Eugen murmured across the table:
‘Aribert, I withdraw my promise. Observe that, I withdraw it.’ Aribert shook his head emphatically, without removing his gaze from Hans. The white-haired servant perfunctorily dusted his napkin round the neck of the bottle of Romanée-Conti, and poured out a glass. Aribert trembled from head to foot.
Eugen took up the glass and held it to the light.
‘Don’t drink it,’ said Aribert very quietly. ‘It is poisoned.’