“Thirty minutes, have I?” he said. “Are you, James Fitzjames, the ruler of Orlamunde, or is Prince Karl?”
Berwick turned such a look upon the Prince that he was galvanized into action.
“I—I—am extremely sorry, Sir Hugo,” he faltered. “As you know, I am under a very strict agreement,—obligation, one may say,—to His Most Christian Majesty. The Duke of Berwick has made the demand—I mean the request—for your dismissal.”
Hugo Stein looked about him at the three men before whom he stood. He was an inborn time-server, but he was not devoid of sense, nor was this bastard Egremont devoid of courage. He knew all about the Duke of Berwick, and knowing the man, he felt a perfect certainty that he would have to leave Orlamunde. Nevertheless, he would make a fight for it. He turned to the craven Prince and said, with a low bow,—
“Is your Highness willing to take the responsibility of dismissing the accredited agent of the King of England at the bidding of the King of France? I beg an answer.”
This opened a loophole for the poor stupid princeling. He tried to bluster.
“My lord Duke,” he said, turning to Berwick; “what Sir Hugo Egremont says is of moment. It will be a very gross affront to the King of England.”
“No, it will not,” replied Berwick. “Your Highness must be aware that the King of England dwells at St. Germains, and the Stadtholder of Holland reigns in England. But that is neither here nor there. If your Highness does not dismiss this man, you will hear from the King of France. His message will be brought by a couple of regiments of tall, stout fellows, who will remain at Orlamunde, to be fed at your expense, until this man, Hugo Stein, goes. And the soldiers of His Most Christian Majesty have enormous appetites! They will eat up the palace of Monplaisir, the schloss in the town, all your Highness’s carriages and horses, pictures and statues, jewels and money,—everything, in short, and possibly end by devouring your Highness.”
The Prince wiped his face, which was sicklier, more cadaverous, than ever. He got up from his chair and sat down again. He looked into Hugo Stein’s handsome eyes, and saw there the promise of the vengeance of a desperate man. He looked into Berwick’s, and saw there the promise of the vengeance of the King of France.
He said no articulate word; but a sound, a motion, conveyed to Hugo Stein that he was beaten. Countess Bertha sat, inwardly raging, but afraid to speak. Roger stood, enjoying himself hugely, and feeling little thrills of happiness run up and down his legs and his back at the discomfiture of his enemy. Roger could not say, however, that Hugo showed any discomfiture in his eye. He stood, a smile breaking over his handsome face, his hand gently tapping his new sword, and had the air of a man with a card in hand yet.