"Holy fiddlesticks," laughed the War Lord. "As one of the English Henrys put it: 'I will be damned ere an Italian parson dictates to me in my own realms.'"
The War Lord bowed ceremoniously. "Hail thee, spiritual and mundane lord—true Emperor of Slavs, Czechs, Magyars, Poles, Russians, Servians, Bulgarians and Montenegrins."
"But Italy—you promised me Italy," muttered Franz.
"Correct, in exchange for German Austria!" said the War Lord.
"Do I have to give up Vienna?"
"Rome is a more celebrated place, and if it gets too hot in August, Petersburg will make a splendid summer resort. There is Prague and Budapest besides. I thought you liked the Hradschin?" he added gaily.
When Franz still refrained from entering into the spirit of the proposals, the War Lord opened a miniature safe on the top of his desk.
"Have a 'genuine,' same as Edward smokes. Have to keep them in a burglar-proof safe—those thieving lackeys, you know. You have the same trouble at Bellevue" (the Austrian heir's Vienna town house) "I suppose."
"God punish the scoundrels—yes," replied the pious Franz, and, accustomed to the cheap and nasty output of the Austrian tobacco monopoly with its endless stogies, helped himself eagerly.
"A mark apiece," boasted Wilhelm, like a Jew commenting on early strawberries.