And in this fashion, too, commenced that odd friendship between him and the American lad that was to have so vital an effect on the very life itself of the Crown Prince Ferdinand William Otto of Livonia.
Late that evening, old Adelbert’s problem having been solved, Pepy the maid and Bobby had a long talk. It concerned itself mainly with kings. Pepy sat in a low chair by the tiled stove in the kitchen, and knitted a stocking with a very large foot.
“What I want to know is this,” said Bobby, swinging his legs on the table: “What are the Terrorists?”
Pepy dropping her knitting, and stared with open mouth. “What know you of such things?” she demanded.
“Well, Terrorists killed the Crown Prince’s father, and—”
Quite suddenly Pepy leaped from her chair, and covered Bobby’s mouth with her hand. “Hush!” she said, and stared about her with frightened eyes. The door into the dining-room was open, and the governess sat there with a book. Then, in a whisper: “They are everywhere. No one knows who they are, nor where they meet.” The superstition of her mountains crept into her voice. “It is said that they have the assistance of the evil one, and that the reason the police cannot find them is because they take the form of cats. I myself,” she went on impressively, “crossing the Place one night late, after spending the evening with a friend, saw a line of cats moving in the shadows. One of them stopped and looked at me.” Pepy crossed herself. “It had a face like the Fraulein in there.”
Bobby stared with interest through the doorway. The governess did look like a cat. She had staring eyes, and a short, wide face. “Maybe’s she’s one of them,” he reflected aloud.
“Oh, for God’s sake, hush!” cried Pepy, and fell to knitting rapidly. Nor could Bobby elicit anything further from her. But that night, in his sleep, he saw a Crown Prince, dressed in velvet and ermine, being surrounded and attacked by an army of cats, and went, shivering, to crawl into his mother’s bed.