The door closed. For a little while he watched the gay street, stretching southward for half a mile to the center of the city, where the lights blazed variegatedly and brightest. The theatres had tossed out their crowds, and below him the van of the carriage column was hurrying homeward, to the fashionable district out the Avenue, or to the Hanging Garden above the Lake. Occasionally a face, usually a woman’s, would lean close to the door and look at the Epsau curiously—it housed the man who was likely to be King. And the man smiled with half bitter cynicism, and wondered what words followed the look, and who spoke them, and to whom. Once, he recognized Count Epping’s lean visage, and in that carriage, at least, he felt that the words were friendly; a moment later, the snake eyes of Baron Retz went glittering by—but never a glance did he turn aside.
“You little reptile,” the Archduke muttered aloud, “you ought to crawl, not ride.”
He dropped the curtain and turned away—then stopped, and his lips softened; and presently he laughed. Just inside the door, and standing stiffly at attention, was Colonel Bernheim, holding the cape and cap and stick the servant had been sent for.
“Now what’s the trouble?” Armand demanded.
“Your Highness desired these?” said Bernheim.
“Yes—but I didn’t send for you.” The tone was very kindly.
“But you are going out, sir?”
“Yes.”
“And I’m on duty to-night.”
“You’re excused—go to bed.”