Observe half a dozen young officers riding horseback in the neighborhood of their garrison town, Bernhardt at the head. At a bend in the road, a rural funeral cortège hoves into sight: coffin borne on the shoulders of half a dozen peasants; weeping relatives; friends promising themselves a good time at the widow's expense on returning home. A black cross lifted high; priest and choir-boys in their robes.
"Halt," thunders Bernhardt, blocking the way.
The priest tries to expostulate with the half-drunken fellow.
"Shut up, black-coat. I am His Royal Highness, Prince Bernhardt."
Then—the devil must be riding him—he orders the coffin put down on the ground.
"Out of the way, yokels."
And he leaps his horse three or four times across the coffin.
The outrage is duly reported in the newspapers and Bernhardt is summoned before the King. "Don't you dare to appear in uniform," Albert added in his own hand.
"What has happened?" I asked the ne'er-do-well, when he begged for an audience after meeting the King.