“No, she will not refuse to come,” Garrassime assured her in a deep, extra-guttural voice. “But will it be well, Excellency, if it be found out afterward that Your Highness cannot manage her own people; that only our own born Princess, one of our House, can do this easy deed?”
“Easy deed?” exclaimed Laurence. “Easy deed? Besides, what does it matter to me? I will have nothing to do with the people, I tell you! What do you think I care about what these savages think or don’t think? The Duchess may do so, but the Duchess belongs here, not I! Let her come, and I will go. I have had enough—enough of this awful country and its awful ways. Send for her. Tell the women to pack up my things at once. Prepare Prince Piotr. We go, I tell you—we go—at once!”
“No!”
At the sudden cry both Laurence and Garrassime turned with one impulse to face the gallant little figure in Russian-green velvet bounding in from the next salon.
“No!” again repeated the childish voice. “I have heard! I was looking for Garrassime. I will not go and leave the sick people alone. Papa is away, and now I am the Prince!”
The boy’s dark eyes were glowing, and with his little flushed face thrust excitedly forward, his baby speech suddenly clear and masterful, in spite of his short five years of life, he looked every inch what he claimed to be—the master in his father’s absence.
A silent laugh swept over Garrassime’s severe features, but he said nothing.
“You wretched child!” shrieked Laurence, sweeping forward as she spoke. “Carry him to his room, Garrassime, this instant. Well, this is the climax!”
“Don’t you touch me, Garrassime—and, mother, you keep off.” Two small fists shot out in defense, and, quivering all over, Piotr stood his ground.
With a choking gasp Laurence paused. This was the last straw for nerves wire-drawn with boredom, and now frayed out by fear. “Do what you like with him, Garrassime, but send immediately for the Duchess,” she cried, and, gathering her long train under her arm, she fled before the unspoken contempt of the servant, the hatred in her son’s eyes—fled by the nearest door, running straight before her, and as fast as she could.