The necessity of keeping his mind on his task somewhat restored his calm.
"Give the messenger refreshment," he said, "and send for Father Scholasticus."
Father Scholasticus was the priest of the village, and the duke's very dear friend.
The reason for this explosion was the news, brought by swiftest courier, that Duke Stanislaus' brother was dead, and that he himself was thus become King of Bohemia.
By the time Father Scholasticus arrived, the bees were housed in their new home, and the duke was seated in his library, among the books that he loved no less than his bees, with various important-looking parchments spread out before him: despatches of state brought to him by the courier, which he had been scanning with great impatience.
"I warn you, my friend," he said, looking up as the good father entered, "that you will find me in a very bad temper. Ferdinand is dead—can you imagine anything more unreasonable of him? He was always the most inconsiderate of mortals; and now, without the least warning, he shuffles his responsibilities upon my shoulders."
The priest knew his friend and the way of his thought, and he could not help smiling at his quaint petulance.
"Which means that you are King of Bohemia ... sire!" said he, with a half-whimsical reverence. Where on earth—he was wondering—was there another man who would be so put out at being made a king?
"Exactly," answered the duke. "Do you wonder that I am out of temper? You must give me your advice. There must be some way out of it. What—what am I to do?"
"I am afraid there is nothing for you to do but—reign ... your Majesty," answered the priest. "I agree with you that it is a great hardship."