The late Whistler would have loved to draw Franz's face while the future Emperor of the Slavs listened with covetousness and fanaticism, the zealot's ardour and the brute's vindictiveness written large in his usually stony face.
"Will have to make submission to Rome," he interrupted, pounding the table.
"As you like, King of Rome." To offset the Duke's holy fervour, the War Lord affected a tone of calmness utterly at variance with his ideas.
"The coming union of the Catholic and Orthodox Churches——" he continued.
"The absorption of the schismatic Church by the only true Church," insisted Franz.
"Will make it particularly important for you to have the office of Pontifex Maximus in addition to that of Emperor and King," said the War Lord. "I'll let Bülow talk details."
"After consultation with my father confessor?" asked Franz anxiously.
"Why not unfold our plans to a council of Archduchesses and the whole priest-ridden pest?" cried the War Lord, momentarily forgetful of his rôle. "I beg your pardon," he added quickly; "I was quoting Bismarck. What I meant to say is: that our pourparlers are strictly confidential—not a word to any one, confessor, Francis Joseph, or the Princess herself. I have your word as an officer?"
Never was a word of honour more reluctantly forthcoming than that of the prospective Emperor of the Slavs.
CHAPTER XIV