"After all," he went on, "it is neither your fault nor Mr. Benton's that
the King could have done very well without either the Crown or his life.
You restored something which perhaps he held worthless.... But that is
his own misfortune."
Blanco's expressive face mirrored a shade of resentment. He had come on
summons from the King and found himself listening to the familiar, even
disrespectful, chatter of some underling who laughed at his Monarch and
lightly appraised the value of his life while he smoked cigarettes in
the Royal apartments. The Spaniard bowed stiffly.
"I observe you are in the confidence of the King," he said, in a tone
not untouched with disapproval.
The other man's lips curled in amusement. After a moment he replied with
simple gravity.
"I am the King."
Blanco stood gazing in astonishment. "You--the King!" Then, recognizing
that the shaving of a mustache and the change into civilian clothes had
made the difference in a face and figure he had seen only on the streets
and through shifting crowds, he bowed with belated deference.
Karyl once more held out his case. "Now perhaps you will have a
cigarette?"
The toreador took one and lighted it slowly. The King went on.
"My sole pleasure is pretending that I am not a Monarch. Between
ourselves, I should prefer other employment. You, for example, I am told
have won fame in the bull ring--and it was fame you earned for
yourself."
Blanco flushed, then, bethinking himself of the fact that he had been
brought here presumably with a purpose, he ventured to suggest: "Your
Majesty wished to see me about some matter?"
The other shook his head.
"No," he said slowly, "it was not really I who sent for you. It was Her
Majesty, the Queen."
Before he had time for response the toreador caught the sound of a
shaken curtain behind him, but since he stood facing the King he did not
turn.
Karyl, however, looked up, and then swiftly crossed the room. As he
passed, Blanco wheeled to face him and was in time to see him holding
back the portières of a door for the Queen to enter.
She was gowned in black with the sparkle of passementerie and jet, and
at her breast she wore a single red rose. As she stood for a moment on
the threshold, despite the majesty of her slender poise it appeared to
Blanco that her grace was rather that of something wild and free and
that the Palace seemed to cage her. But that may have been because, as
she paused, her hands went to her breast and a furrow came between her
brows, while the corners of her lips drooped wistfully like a child's.
The King stooped to kiss her hand, and she turned toward him with a
smile which was pallid and which did not dissipate the unhappiness of
her face. Then Karyl straightened and said to Blanco, who felt himself
suddenly grow awkward as a muleteer: "The Queen."