“And within an hour of your doing so the whole town of Vescova will be in revolt. We’ll all have to leave the Palace, and fly for our precious skins. We’ll be lucky if we get away with them intact. A pretty piece of business! Tsargradev, from being Grand Vizier, will become Grand Mogul; and farewell to the illustrious dynasty of Pavelovitch! Oh, lady, lady! I call it downright unfriendly, downright inhospitable of you. Where shall my grey hairs find shelter? I’m so comfortable here under your royal rooftree. You wouldn’t deprive the gentlest of God’s creatures of a happy home? Better that a thousand Tsargradevs should flourish like a green bay-tree, than that one upright man should be turned out of comfortable quarters. There, now, be kind. As a personal favour to me, won’t you please just leave things as they are?” The Queen laughed a little—not very heartily, though, and not at all acquiescently. “Monsieur Tsargradev must go to prison,” was her inexorable word. We pleaded, we argued, we exhausted ourselves in warnings and protestations, but to no purpose. And in the end she lost her patience, and shut us up categorically. “No! Laissez moi tranquille!” she cried. “I’ve heard enough. I know my own mind. I won’t be bothered.” It was with heavy spirits and the dismallest forebodings that we assisted at her subsequent proceedings. We had an anxious time of it for many days; and it has never ceased to be a source of astonishment to me that it all turned out as well as it did. But—ce que femme veult.... She began operations by despatching an aide-decamp to M. Tsargradev’s house, with a note in which she commanded him to wait upon her forthwith at the Palace, and to deliver up his seals of office. At the same time she summoned to her presence General Michaïlov, the Military Governor of Vescova, and Prince Vasiliev, the leader of the scant Conservative opposition in the Soviete. She awaited these gentleman in the throne-room, surrounded by the officers of the household in full uniform. Florimond and I hovered uneasily in the background. “By Jove, she does look her part, doesn’t she?” Florimond whispered to me. She wore a robe of black silk, with the yellow ribbon of the Lion of Monterosso across her breast, and a tiara of diamonds in her hair. Her eyes glowed with a fire of determination, and her cheeks with a colour that those who knew her recognised for a danger-signal. She stood on the steps of the throne, waiting, and tapping nervously with her foot. And then the great white-and-gold folding doors were thrown open, and M. Tsargradev entered, followed by the aide-de-camp who had gone to fetch him. He entered, bowing and smiling, grotesque in his ministerial green and silver; and the top of his bald head shone as if it had been waxed and polished. Bowing and smirking, he advanced to the foot of the throne, where he halted.