“Who spoke to me? How did anybody know?--I mean, what business has anybody----” Then frightened, but still speaking in a much sharper tone than I hope young ladies of rank are in the habit of speaking--“Old woman, you will be kind enough not to say 'the baby,' but 'the Prince.' Keep away; his Royal Highness is just going to sleep.” “Nevertheless I must kiss him. I am his god-mother.” “You!” cried the elegant lady nurse. “You!” repeated all the gentlemen and ladies-in-waiting. “You!” echoed the heralds and pages--and they began to blow the silver trumpets in order to stop all further conversation. The Prince's procession formed itself for returning,--the King and his train having already moved off toward the palace,--but on the top-most step of the marble stairs stood, right in front of all, the little old woman clothed in gray. She stretched herself on tiptoe by the help of her stick, and gave the little Prince three kisses. “This is intolerable!” cried the young lady nurse, wiping the kisses off rapidly with her lace handkerchief. “Such an insult to his Royal Highness! Take yourself out of the way, old woman, or the King shall be informed immediately.” “The King knows nothing of me, more's the pity,” replied the old woman, with an indifferent air, as if she thought the loss was more on his Majesty's side than hers. “My friend in the palace is the King's wife.” “King's have not wives, but queens,” said the lady nurse, with a contemptuous air. “You are right,” replied the old woman. “Nevertheless I know her Majesty well, and I love her and her child. And--since you dropped him on the marble stairs (this she said in a mysterious whisper, which made the young lady tremble in spite of her anger)--I choose to take him for my own, and be his godmother, ready to help him whenever he wants me.” “You help him!” cried all the group breaking into shouts of laughter, to which the little old woman paid not the slightest attention. Her soft gray eyes were fixed on the Prince, who seemed to answer to the look, smiling again and again in the causeless, aimless fashion that babies do smile. “His Majesty must hear of this,” said a gentleman-in-waiting. “His Majesty will hear quite enough news in a minute or two,” said the old woman sadly. And again stretching up to the little Prince, she kissed him on the forehead solemnly. “Be called by a new name which nobody has ever thought of. Be Prince Dolor, in memory of your mother Dolorez.” “In memory of!” Everybody started at the ominous phrase, and also at a most terrible breach of etiquette which the old woman had committed. In Nomansland, neither the king nor the queen was supposed to have any Christian name at all. They dropped it on their coronation day, and it never was mentioned again till it was engraved on their coffins when they died.