“You have not consented to discuss the question formally with the Franconian ambassador”—in the smooth voice an element of irritation was rising—“nor to have him present at the banquet to-morrow night; when, very firmly, you will announce your desire, your earnest desire that the alliance should take place. And listen to me, Richard—you remember that this is the last resort: you have admitted everything else has been tried, and to no purpose, in this situation with Franconia. Now it lies with you. Hitherto, you have refused to discuss the subject of John’s betrothal, even with the family, or your ministers. In this I do not say you have been wrong. It has doubtless been as well to keep the matter quiet until we could learn that the suggestion would be welcomed by Franconia. Now that we are assured of that, however—well, you will make the informal announcement to-morrow night. You know, Richard, where John is concerned, you are apt to be over-lenient. And some one told me——”
“I understand you, Alix.” He understood, too, that when she said over-lenient, she meant weak; no one appreciated the fact that the Queen reigned, more intelligently than did the King. “I could wish, however, that ‘some one’ was not always telling you things about John. It looks—you will pardon me—unpleasantly like spying.”
“One cannot sacrifice the State to looks,” returned the Queen coolly. “If you will insist on forgetting your duty to your people, Richard, somebody must remember it for you. You are not just a plain, ordinary person, you know.” And she swept back up the stair again, and into the Palace.
“Oh, God, if I only were!” groaned the King, turning on his heel with a sudden fierceness very foreign to a mere mannequin. Then he saw his Fool standing there.
“A fine night,” observed the King formally.
“It would be if it were raining, your Majesty,” replied the Fool.
“If it were raining?”
“Yes, your Majesty. When it rains, so many things can happen. One slips, one slides, one tumbles into a puddle: there are all sorts of possibilities. While a fine night—is just a fine night, that’s all. Most distressingly ordinary. Before I was a fool——”
“What were you?” interrupted the King.
“A very wise man, my liege. You see, I have changed but little; except that when I was a wise man, I did not enjoy knowing myself to be a fool; whereas now it gives me the subtlest sort of pleasure, knowing how very wise I really am. All a matter of placing oneself, Sire; a matter of light and shade; and if one has the true artistic eye——”