“You entertain me, John Armitage! You speak of that packet as though it were a pound of tea. Francis and his friends, Winkelried and Rambaud, are not chasers of fireflies, I would have you know. If the Archduke and his son are dead, then a few more deaths and Francis would rule the Empire.”
John Armitage and Count von Stroebel stared at each other in silence.
“Events! Events!” muttered the old man presently, and he rested one of his hands upon the despatch box, as though it were a symbol of authority and power.
“Events!” the young man murmured.
“Events!” repeated Count von Stroebel without humor. “A couple of deaths and there you see him, on the ground and quite ready. Karl was a genius, therefore he could not be king. He threw away about five hundred years of work that had been done for him by other people—and he cajoled you into sharing his exile. You threw away your life for him! Bah! But you seem sane enough!”
The prime minister concluded with his rough burr; and Armitage laughed outright.
“Why the devil don’t you go to Vienna and set yourself up like a gentleman?” demanded the premier.
“Like a gentleman?” repeated Armitage. “It is too late. I should die in Vienna in a week. Moreover, I am dead, and it is well, when one has attained that beatific advantage, to stay dead.”
“Francis is a troublesome blackguard,” declared the old man. “I wish to God he would form the dying habit, so that I might have a few years in peace; but he is forever turning up in some mischief. And what can you do about it? Can we kick him out of the army without a scandal? Don’t you suppose he could go to Budapest to-morrow and make things interesting for us if he pleased? He’s as full of treason as he can stick, I tell you.”
Armitage nodded and smiled.