“Cuernavaca is His Majesty’s country sit-down, about a douzaine of leagues from here. You have not read of this morning the Journal Officiel? Here it is. The court went there yesterday. His Majesty has to need rest.”
“But he was to see me to-day! What’s the matter with him?”
M. Éloin’s brow contracted narrowly, and he shrugged his shoulders. “His Imperial Highness is much worked. He is worse of good health. Her Majesty sought at having him stay, to give you that same-self answer he had promised already. And the Marshal Bazaine, sensible this once, did talk yesterday night before last, after you were there, and beseeched him to accept your offer. And they all beseeched, Her Majesty and Madame la Maréchale, and I.–But, what would you?”
“I’m sure I don’t know. What the devil––”
“No, not him! But her, sir, her!”
“Her, who?”
“Why, her. We all talk, argue, beseech; and she, in one 252little whisper, she only tell His Majesty he has to need that rest–and, poof! off they all go to Cuernavaca, and I know nothing. Her Majesty leave me a note. I bring you it here.”
“But who is the ‘she?’ You don’t mean––”
“Yes, we others call her Jacqueline. She did it, against everybody who beseech. But we–how you say?–we fool her, you and me. Come, we are there to-night, at Cuernavaca.”
“Just that little girl––” Driscoll murmured wonderingly.