The old soldier shook his head. “I’m going with you.”
“Nonsense,” said Armand, “nonsense! I’m for only a short walk up the Avenue.”
“I must go with you, sir,” the Aide insisted.
The Archduke looked at him in some surprise.
“Positively, Bernheim,” he said, “if you keep this up you will have nervous prostration. Quit it, man, quit it.” He flung on the cape, and taking cap and cane went toward the door. “Good night.”
The Colonel stood aside, hand at the salute. “Your pardon, sir—but I must go with you—it is the Regent’s personal order.”
“What!”
“She telephoned me this evening always to see that you had an escort, after dark.”
The Archduke sat on the end of the writing-table and laughed until the tears came—and even old Bernheim condescended to emit, at intervals, a grim sort of chuckle.
“What hour are you to put me to bed, nurse?” Armand asked.