“So it would seem—though not with the same motives,” the Count sneered—then arose hastily. “The King, my lords, the King!” he exclaimed, as the door in the far corner opened and Armand entered, unattended, and behind him came a manservant bearing a brass-bound, black-oak box, inlaid with silver.
Never had any of the Council seen it, yet instantly all surmised what it contained; and, courtiers though they were, they (save the old Count) stared at it so curiously that the Archduke, with an amused glance at the latter, turned and motioned the servant to precede him.
“Place it before His Excellency, the Prime Minister,” he said; and now the stares shifted, in unfeigned astonishment to Armand—while the Count’s thin lips twitched ever so slightly, and, for an instant, his faded blue eyes actually sparkled, as they lingered in calm derision on the Baron’s face.
And Retz, turning suddenly, caught the look and straightway realized he had been outplayed. He understood, now, that the Count had been aware, all along, of the Archduke’s purpose to produce the Laws to the Council, this morning, and that he, by his very persistence, had given the grim old diplomat an opportunity to demonstrate, in the most effective fashion, the unprecedented honor Armand was now doing them. It was irritating enough to be out-manœuvered, but to have his own ammunition seized and used to enhance another’s triumph was searing to his pride; and, in truth, this was not the first time that the Prime Minister had left his scar and a score to settle between them.
“Be seated, my lords,” said Armand, “and accept my apologies for my tardiness,” and he took the chair at the head of the table.
Count Epping drew his sword and raised it high.
“Valeria hails the Head of the House of Dalberg as the King!” he cried.
And back from the others, as their blades rang together above the table, came the echo:
“We hail the Dalberg King!”
It was the ancient formula, which had always been used to welcome the new ruler upon his first entrance to the Royal Council.