who in the name of Fate is this?’
It was M. Menshikoff, who had come in with the commissioner, who answered.
‘Antonio Selleni, an anarchist of Milan,’ he reported.
Carlos Ferdinand Bourbon, Prince of the Escorial, Duke of Buda-Gratz, and heir to three thrones, was married, and his many august cousins scattered throughout Europe had a sense of heartfelt relief.
A prince with admittedly advanced views, an idealist, with Utopian schemes for the regeneration of mankind, and, coming down to the mundane practical side of life, a reckless motorcar driver, an outrageously daring horseman, and possessed of the indifference to public opinion which is equally the equipment of your fool and your truly great man, his marriage had been looked forward to throughout the courts of Europe in the light of an international achievement.
Said his Imperial Majesty of Central Europe to the grizzled chancellor:
‘Te Deums — you understand, von Hedlitz? In every church.’
‘It is a great relief,’ said the chancellor, wagging his head thoughtfully.
‘Relief!’ the Emperor stretched himself as though the relief were physical, ‘that young man owes me two years of life. You heard of the London essay?’
The chancellor had heard — indeed, he had heard three or four times — but he was a polite chancellor and listened attentively. His Majesty had the true storytelling faculty, and elaborated the introduction.
‘…if I am to believe his Highness, he was sitting quietly in his box when the Italian entered. He saw the knife in his hand and half rose to grapple with the intruder. Suddenly, from nowhere in particular, sprang three men, who had the assassin on the floor bound and gagged. You would have thought our Carlos Ferdinand would have made an outcry! But not he! He sat stock still, dividing his attention between the stage and the prostrate man and the leader of this mysterious band of rescuers.’
‘The Four Just Men!’ put in the chancellor.
‘Three, so far as I can gather,’ corrected the imperial storyteller. ‘Well, it would appear that this leader, in quite a logical calm, matter-of-fact way, suggested that the prince should leave quietly; that his motorcar was at the stage door, that a saloon had been reserved at Charing Cross, a cabin at Dover, and a special train at Calais.’
His Majesty had a trick of rubbing his knee when anything amused him, and this he did now.
‘Carl obeyed like a child — which seems the remarkably strange point about the whole proceedings — the captured anarchist was trussed and bound and sat on the chair, and left to his own unpleasant thoughts.’
‘And killed,’ said the chancellor.
‘No, not killed,’ corrected the Emperor. ‘Part of the story I tell you is his — he told it to the police at the hospital — no, no, not killed — his friend was not the marksman he thought.’
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
