“They do. It is for that reason, sire, that I advise particular caution.” He hesitated. Then, “Sire,” he said earnestly, “there is something of which I must speak. The Committee of Ten has organized again.”
Involuntarily the King glanced at the photograph on the table.
“Forgive me, sire, if I waken bitter memories. But I fear—”
“You fear!” said the King. “Since when have you taken to fearing?”
“Nevertheless,” maintained General Mettlich doggedly, “I fear. This quiet of the last few months alarms me. Dangerous dogs do not bark. I trust no one. The very air is full of sedition.”
The King twisted his blue-veined old hands together, but his voice was quiet. “But why?” he demanded, almost fretfully. “If the people are fond of the boy, and I think they are, to—to carry him off, or injure him, would hurt the cause. Even the Terrorists, in the name of a republic, can do nothing without the people.”
“The mob is a curious thing, sire. You have ruled with a strong hand. Our people know nothing but to obey the dominant voice. The boy out of the way, the prospect of the Princess Hedwig on the throne, a few demagogues in the public squares—it would be the end.”
The King leaned back and closed his eyes. His thin, arched nose looked pinched. His face was gray.
“All this,” he said, “means what? To make the boy a prisoner, to cut off his few pleasures, and even then, at any time—”
“Yes, sire,” said Mettlich doggedly. “At any time.”