On the evening of the day Hedwig had made her futile appeal to the King, the Chancellor sat alone. His dinner, almost untasted, lay at his elbow. It was nine o’clock. At something after seven he had paid his evening visit to the King, and had found him uneasy and restless.
“Sit down;” the King had said. “I need steadying, old friend.”
“Steadying, sire?”
“I have had a visit from Hedwig. Rather a stormy one, poor child.” He turned and fixed on his Chancellor his faded eyes. “In this course that you have laid out, and that I am following, as I always have,” irony this, but some truth, too,—“have you no misgivings? You still think it is the best thing?”
“It is the only thing.”
“But all this haste,” put in the King querulously.
“Is that so necessary? Hedwig begs for time. She hardly knows the man.”
“Time! But I thought—” He hesitated. How say to a dying man that time was the one thing he did not have?
“Another thing. She was incoherent, but I gathered that there was some one else. The whole interview was cyclonic. It seems, however, that this young protege of yours, Larisch, has been making love to her over Otto’s head.”
Mettlich’s face hardened, a gradual process, as the news penetrated in all its significance.