Maximilian’s eyes flashed.
“Then I abdicate–herewith!”
Fischer meekly assented.
“There are rumors, nay, more than rumors,” he mused 348aloud, “that a strong hand is needed in Austria. I repeat only what all Europe says boldly, that Franz Josef cannot long hold his throne. Yes, yes, sire, but do not stare so!–Yet the crown prince is a child. Who then shall be regent? Who but––”
“Enough, enough, I say! Now look to my orders. We start to-morrow.”
The secretary beamed unctious joy that his master had so decided, and was bowing himself out, when abruptly he paused, “Oh, I forgot, a packet for Your Majesty.”
Maximilian took the missive. It was not heavy. It did not seem as heavy as Fate, not as heavy as a coffin.
“This is an old date,” he said in a puzzled way. “See, the postmark, ‘Brussels, Sept. 17.’”
“It just came by courier from Vera Cruz, being sent via New York no doubt accounts for the delay.”
Maximilian sighed. Even the post no longer considered royalty. Packets had taken on leisurely habits since the Empire’s crumbling–or since the secretary’s ascendancy. He broke the seal with tremulous fingers. The thing must tell him of Charlotte.