‘Hush,’ returned the French Emperor—‘listen, there’s a volley of kisses going off—be quiet, pray!’ ‘It’s getting beyond a joke—it really is! Just look at the Empress, she’s gone green in the face! Mercia’s looking pretty pink, and altogether the matter is too blue for my modesty!’ exclaimed the Prince, while bursting with suppressed mirth. All eyes regarded the beautiful culprit seated in the witness box with increased interest. ‘Oh, thou guilty creature—think shame to thyself!’ the ladies’ looks said as plainly as possible. ‘He’s having a good time of it!’ whispered one to his neighbour. ‘She’s no better than she should be, after all!’ muttered another. ‘Such pretty lips were made for kissing!’ remarked another jocularly. ‘So it seems!’ answered his neighbour dryly. ‘Felicitas hasn’t bad taste!’ cried another. ‘He knows how to do it!’ was the rejoinder. ‘Most entertaining, truly,’ remarked a lady sarcastically. ‘Entertaining isn’t the word for it—’tis scrumptious!’ returned her husband. ‘One hears the kisses, and sees the lady; ’tis a treat for the gods!’ ‘Oh, the hussy! Don’t look at her. What a cheek, to face it out like this!’ These various remarks, and many more besides, occupied but a few seconds for delivery, for the Usher calling out silence, on hearing the low murmur of voices, the machine began talking again. ‘What means the Emperor by this unheard-of liberty? What have I done that I should be treated as a courtesan by my Sovereign?’ cried the machine, in a voice choked with pain and indignation. ‘A courtesan!’ repeated the Emperor’s voice, ‘I would give thee a crown if I could! Thy queenly brow was truly made for one. And by the stars, thou shalt have it yet! Yes, dear Mercia, thou shalt share my throne, and rule me, my sweet, together with mine Empire.’ ‘Share thy throne and rule thine Empire! Surely, Sire, thou hast gone mad!’ ‘Yes, truly, I am mad—mad with love for thee, and thou knowest it, Mercia, else wouldst thou have kissed my hand in acknowledgment of it?’ ‘In acknowledgment of _thy_ love!’ cried the machine scornfully. ‘It was not so—_thy_ love never entered my thought.’ ‘Whose then?’ ‘Geometrus,’ said the instrument, in Mercia’s soft voice. ‘Geometrus!’ scoffed the machine in the Emperor’s tones. ‘And dost thou place that poltroon before _me_? Am I to be flouted for _him_?’ ‘His love is honourable, and thine is not; therein lies the difference, my Sire,’ the voice of Mercia replied in a propitiating tone; as if to win the monarch over to give consent to her marriage with Geometrus.