V
When next morning the news reached Villa Santa Cecilia, by the medium of a dispatch in the Fieramosca, we may believe it caused excitement.
“But it can't be true,” said Lucilla. “Only two days ago the Duchess assured me—in all good faith, I'm certain—that her husband had no more chance of regaining his throne than he had of growing wings, and Bertram himself has always scoffed at the idea.”
“Yes,” said Ponty. “But perhaps Bertram and his mother were not entirely in the Pretender's confidence. This story, for a fake, is surprisingly apropos of nothing, and surprisingly circumstantial. No, I'm afraid it's true.”
He reread the dispatch, frowning, seeking discrepancies.
“Oh, it's manifestly true,” was his conclusion. “I suppose I ought to go down to the Lung 'Arno, and offer Bertram our congratulations. And as for you”—he bowed to Ruth,—“pray accept the expression of our respectful homage. Here, instead of an empty title, is the reversion of a real grand-ducal crown. And you a mere little American! What trifling results from mighty causes flow. A People rise in Revolution—that a mere little American girl may adorn her brown-red hair with a grand-ducal crown.”
“The People don't appear to have had any voice in the matter,” said Lucilla, poring over the paper. “It was just a handful of officers. It was what they call a Palace Revolution.”
“It was what the judicious call a Comic Opera Revolution,” said Ponty. “It was a Palace version of Box and Cox.”
He went down to the Lung 'Arno, and found Bertram, pale, agitated, in the midst of packing.
“Oh, for Heaven's sake, don't talk of congratulations,” the troubled young man cried, walking up and down the floor, and all but wringing his hands, while his servant went methodically on folding trousers and waistcoats. “This may be altogether the worst thing that could possibly have happened, so far as I'm concerned.”