"You must show it to me to-morrow," he said. "And I will give you some ointment I always carry, made by my own chemist to my own prescription. Schalk laughs at my chemistry, but that's because he's jealous. I will apply it for you, and in three days you will see the difference. What are you laughing at, Schalk?"
"A man may laugh at his thoughts, sir, may he not?" said Schalk, with a dour smile.
"Not in the presence of the little father, Schalk, unless he shares them with the little father. What are you laughing at? But there, since you bungled that treaty with the wily Teuton your thoughts are not of much consequence. You know I don't care a doit for your thoughts, Schalk, since you went to Berlin. The thoughts of Schalk, forsooth! The wine is with you, you rascal. Remember that in England it is not considered to be good breeding to get drunk before your King."
"In Illyria, sir, that is always held to be impossible," said Schalk.
Ferdinand the Twelfth indulged in a guffaw.
"Good for you, impious one! Nay, fill up your glass before you pass it, and keep out your long nose, else our English friends will think we have no manners in Illyria."
When it pleases a monarch to unbend, the laughter his sallies evoke may seem overmuch for his wit. But it is an excellent custom to laugh heartily at the humour of kings. Ferdinand the Twelfth, in spite of his long journey, was in a very gracious mood and indulged us with many sallies at the expense of his Chancellor. Baron von Schalk, however, was well able to defend himself. It must be allowed, I think, that the royal wit was neither very refined nor very courteous. Rough and primitive, it had something of a Gargantuan savour. But his own deep-voiced appreciation of it was a perpetual feast. He also told one or two stories of a true Rabelaisian cast. They were told with an immense gusto, and he led the laughter himself with a whole-heartedness which was quite Homeric. Before the bottle the Victor of Rodova was magnificent company. It was impossible not to respond to his unaffected, if extremely catholic, good-humour.
When we joined the ladies we found them playing a game of patience. The Father of his People immediately carried a chair to the side of Mrs. Arbuthnot, sat beside her and offered pertinent help in the arrangement of her cards. "But this game is only fit for people like Schalk," he declared. "Britch is the game we play in Illyria."
Interpreting such a remark as being in the nature of a command, the hostess swept her cards together, and imperiously ordered her spouse to get the bridge markers.
"How shall we play, sir?" said Mrs. Arbuthnot.