"Well, Sire, feel better?"
"What!" stuttered Frederick-Christian, scarcely able to speak for indignation.
"Yes," continued Wulf, "I'm glad to see you up; as for me, I'm all right ... but you must remember that I drank less than you did last night. I tell you they've capital vermouth here ... shall I order your Majesty a bottle?"
"What's your name?" asked the King.
Wulf considered his sovereign with compassion.
"He's still a bit soused," he muttered to himself, then wagging a reproving finger at the King, he continued:
"Who am I? Wulfenmimenglaschk, Sire, at your service, and I've already saved your life twice ... that's why I may be allowed to give you a bit of advice. Cut out the booze, Sire, you're distinctly the worse for wear ... you're so changed that if it wasn't for your dressing-gown...."
Wulf was undoubtedly very drunk; otherwise he could not have failed to notice the difference between the King of the last few days and the present one.
Frederick-Christian held himself in hand as long as possible, then burst out:
"What does this attitude mean?... this familiarity? What makes you speak in French?"