“I have no fear,” he said; “if I had, I would not help to make him king—yet, if I may be permitted, Henry the Fifth would be a title far more pleasing to the nation than Armand the First. He bears the Great Henry’s features, let him bear his name, as well.”
She sprang up.
“He shall, he shall!” she exclaimed; “he will do it for me, I know.”
The old Count’s face softened in one of its rare smiles.
“He would be a poor sort of man, indeed, my lady, who would deny anything to you,” he said, and in his stately, old-fashioned way he bent and kissed her hand.
As he arose, the Princess suddenly slipped an arm around his neck, and for the briefest moment her soft lips rested on his forehead.
The Prime Minister kept his face lowered; when he raised it, the tears still trembled in his eyes.
“Don’t tell the Archduke,” she laughed gayly, seeing how he was moved.
“No,” said he, laughing with her now, “I’ll not tell him—and lose all chance for another.”
“I’ll give you another now,” she cried, and, springing on the chair beside him, she kissed him on the cheek. “Now go—you’ve had more than your share—but you shall have a third the day Armand is king.”