Sylvia assured her that nothing like this had taken place at the Emperor’s, but Clara remained unconvinced.
A week or two passed. The reception was almost forgotten, when one day Sylvia found the dark-complexioned young man with whom Monkley had made friends talking earnestly to him and her father.
“You understand,” he was saying. “I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t require money for my work. You must not look upon me as a pretender. I really am the only surviving descendant in the direct line of the famous Prince de Condé.”
“Of course,” Monkley answered. “I know you’re genuine enough. All you’ve got to do is to back—Well, here he is,” he added, turning round and pointing to Sylvia.
“I don’t think Sil looks much like a king,” Henry said, pensively. “Though I’m bound to say the only one I ever saw in real life was Leopold of Belgium.”
Sylvia began to think that Clara had been right, after all.
“What about the present King of Spain, then?” Monkley asked. “He isn’t much more than nine years old, if he’s as much. You don’t suppose he looks like a king, do you? On the Spanish stamps he looks more like an advertisement for Mellin’s food than anything else.”
“Naturally the de jure King of Spain, who until the present has been considered to be Don Carlos, is also the de jure King of France,” said the Prince de Condé.
“Don’t you start any of your games with kings of France,” Henry advised. “I know the French well and they won’t stand it. What does he want to be king of two places for? I should have thought Spain was enough for anybody.”
“The divine right of monarchs is something greater than mere geography,” the Prince answered, scornfully.