Colonel Benedetti succinctly explained, while the twenty revolvers continued to cover his listener. “Speaking for the army and people of Altronde, I beg to inform Your Highness that we are tired of you—tired of your rule and tired of your extravagant and disgusting habits. I hold in my hand an Act of Abdication, which Your Highness will be good enough to sign.” He thrust an elaborately engrossed parchment under the Duke's nose, and offered him a fountain pen.
“This is treason,” said Massimiliano. “It is also,” was his happy anti-climax, “a gross abuse of hospitality.”
“Sign—sign!” sang one-and-twenty martial voices.
“But I should read the document first. Do I abdicate in favour of my son?”
“Your Highness has no legitimate son,” Benedetti politely reminded him, “and Altronde has no throne for a bastard. You abdicate in favour of Civillo Bertrandoni, Duke of Oltramare, already our sovereign in the rightful line.”
Massimiliano plucked up a little spirit. “Bertrandoni—the hereditary enemy of my house? That I will never do. You may shoot me if you will.”
“It is not so much a question of shooting,” said the urbane Colonel. “We cover Your Highness with our firearms merely to ensure his august attention. It is a question of perpetual imprisonment in a fortress—and deprivation of alcoholic stimulants.” Massimiliano's jaw dropped.
“Whereas,” the Colonel added, “in the event of peaceful abdication, Your Highness receives a pension of one hundred thousand francs, and can reside anywhere he likes outside the Italian peninsula—in Paris, for example, where alcohol in many agreeable forms is plentiful and cheap.”
“Sign—sign!” sang twenty voices, with a lilt of gathering impatience.
Of course poor Massimiliano signed, Civillo forthwith was proclaimed from the palace steps, and at five o'clock that afternoon, amid much popular rejoicing, he entered his capital. He had happened, providentially, to be sojourning incognito in the nearest frontier town.