The King waited a moment. Then, “Come, Anéli—don’t be angry. Answer me. Say that you will go,” he urged, taking her hand.
She snatched her hand away. I’m afraid she stamped her foot. “No!” she cried. “Let me alone. I tell you I won’t.”
“But, my dear....” the King was re-commencing....
“No, no, no! And you needn’t call me your dear. If you had the least love for me, the least common kindness, or consideration for my health or comfort or happiness, you’d never dream of proposing such a thing. To drag me half-way across the Continent of Europe, to be all but killed at the end of the journey by a pack of horrid, coarse, beer-drinking Germans! And tired out, and irritated, and patronised, and humiliated by people like ————— and ————! It’s perfectly heartless of you. And I—when I suggest such a simple natural pleasure as a trip to Paris, or to the Italian lakes in autumn—you tell me we can’t afford it! You’re ready to spend thousands on a stupid, utterly unnecessary and futile absurdity, like this wedding, but you can’t afford to take me to the Italian lakes! And yet you pretend to love me! Oh, its awful, awful, awful!” And her voice failed her in a sob; and she hid her face in her hands, and wept. So the King had to drop the subject again, and to devote his talents to the task of drying her tears.
I don’t know how many times they renewed the discussion, but I do know that the Queen stood firm in her original refusal, and that at last it was decided that the King should go without her, and excuse her absence as best he might on the plea of her precarious state of health. It was only after this resolution was made and registered, and her husband had brought himself to accept it with some degree of resignation—it was only then that her Majesty began to waver and vacillate, and reconsider, and change her mind. As the date approached for his departure, her alternations became an affair of hours. It was, “Oh, after all, I can’t let you go alone, poor Theo. And besides, I should die of heartbreak, here without you. So—there—I’ll make the best of a bad business, and go with you”—it was either that, or else, “No, after all, I can’t. I really can’t. I’m awfully sorry. I shall miss you horribly. But, when I think of what it means, I haven’t the strength or courage. I simply can’t”—it was one thing or the other, on and off, all day.
“When you finally know your own mind, I shall be glad if you’ll send for me,” said Theodore. “Because I’ve got to name a Regent. And if you’re coming with me, I shall name my Uncle Stephen. But if you’re stopping here, of course I shall name you.”
There is a bothersome little provision in the Constitution of Monterosso to the effect that the Sovereign may not cross the frontiers of his dominions, no matter for how brief a sojourn, without leaving a Regent in command. Under the good old régime, before the revolution of 1868, the kings of Tchermnogoria were a good deal inclined to spend the bulk of their time—and money—in foreign parts. They found Paris, Monte Carlo, St. Petersburg, Vienna, and even, if you can believe me, sometimes London, on the whole more agreeable as places of residence than their hereditary capital. (There was the particularly flagrant case of Paul II., our Theodore’s great-grandfather, who lived for twenty years on end in Rome. He fancied himself a statuary, poor gentleman, and produced—oh, such amazing Groups! Tons of them repose in the Royal Museum at Vescova; a few brave the sky here and there in lost corners of the Campagna—he used to present them to the Pope! Perhaps you have seen his Fountain at Acqu’amarra?) It was to discourage this sort of royal absenteeism that the patriotic framers of the Constitution slyly slipped Sub-Clause 18 into Clause ii., of Title 3, of Article XXXVI.: Concerning the Appointment of a Regent.
“So,” said Theodore, “when you have finally made up your mind, I shall be glad if you will let me know; for I’ve got to name a Regent.”
But the Queen continued to hesitate; in the morning it was Yes, in the evening No; and the eleventh hour was drawing near and nearer. The King was to leave on Monday. On the previous Tuesday, in a melting mood, Anéli had declared, “There! Once for all, to make an end of it, I’ll go.” On Wednesday a Commission of Regency, appointing Prince Stephen, was drawn up. On Thursday it was brought to the Palace for the royal signature. The King had actually got so far as the d in his name, when the Queen, faltering at sight of the irrevocable document, laid her hand on his arm. She was very pale, and her voice was weak. “No, Theo, don’t sign it. It’s like my death-warrant. I—I haven’t got the courage. You’ll have to let me stay. You’ll have to go alone.” On Friday a new commission was prepared, in which Anéli’s name had been substituted for Stephen’s. On Saturday morning it was presented to the King. “Shall I sign?” he asked. “Yes, sign,” said she. And he signed.
“Ouf!” she cried. “That’s settled.”