“How is her majesty, Queen Doña Ramona?” asked the emperor kindly.
“Bad enough, under present circumstances.”
“Man, that is the worst news yet! And what ails her?”
“What the devil do I know? The evil one alone understands these women. If your majesty could only guess the commission she has given me—”
“Hallo, hallo! Well, let us hear it.”
“She says—but pshaw! One is ashamed to say it. She says to see if your majesty could consult with the Pope, and between you manage to make her God.”
“Eh! That is a greater request. Make her God, eh!”
“Your majesty sees already that it is a piece of madness; for a woman can't complain of the small advance in her career who to-day is a queen, and not a year ago lived in a stable. A stable is a disgrace to nobody, sure enough; for, after all, Our Lord, though he was God, lived in one when he made himself man.”
“So the good Doña Ramona wishes to be God, eh!”
“You've hit it, your majesty.”