"I wish to see the King," said Henri in a loud tone. Because at that
moment the secretary, lamp and inkwell and all, retired suddenly to a
very great distance, as if one had viewed them through the reverse end
of an opera glass.
The secretary knew Henri. He, too, eyed him curiously.
"The King has retired, monsieur."
"I think," said Henri in a dangerous tone, "that he will see me."
To tell the truth, the secretary rather thought so too. There was a
strange rumor going round, to the effect that the boy had followed a
woman to England at a critical time. Which would have been a pity, the
secretary thought. There were so many women, and so few men like Henri.
The secretary considered gravely. Henri was by that time in a chair, but
it moved about so that he had to hold very tight to the arms. When he
looked up again the secretary had picked up his soft black hat and was
at the door.
"I shall inquire," he said. Henri saluted him stiffly, with his left
hand, as he went out.
The secretary went to His Majesty's equerry, who was in the next house
playing solitaire and trying to forget the family he had left on the
other side of the line.
So it was that in due time Henri again traversed miles of path and
pavement, between tall borders of wild sea grass, miles which perhaps
were a hundred yards. And went round the screen, and--found the King
on the hearthrug. But when he drew himself stiffly to attention he
overdid the thing rather and went over backward with a crash.
He was up again almost immediately, very flushed and uncomfortable.
After that he kept himself in hand, but the King, who had a way all his
own of forgetting his divine right to rule, and a great many other
things--the King watched him gravely.
Henri sat in a chair and made a clean breast of it. Because he was
feeling rather strange he told a great many things that an agent of the
secret service is hardly expected to reveal to his king. He mentioned,
for instance, the color of Sara Lee's eyes, and the way she bandaged,
like one who had been trained.
Once, in the very middle of his narrative, where he had put the letter
from the Front in his pocket and decided to go to England anyhow, he
stopped and hummed Rene's version of Tipperary. Only a bar or two.
Then he remembered.
But one thing brought him round with a start.