"Then I abdicate--herewith!" Fischer meekly assented. "There are rumors, nay, more than rumors," he mused aloud, "that a strong hand is needed in Austria. I repeat only what all Europe says boldly, that Franz Josef cannot long hold his throne. Yes, yes, sire, but do not stare so!--Yet the crown prince is a child. Who then shall be regent? Who but----" "Enough, enough, I say! Now look to my orders. We start to-morrow." The secretary beamed unctious joy that his master had so decided, and was bowing himself out, when abruptly he paused, "Oh, I forgot, a packet for Your Majesty." Maximilian took the missive. It was not heavy. It did not seem as heavy as Fate, not as heavy as a coffin. "This is an old date," he said in a puzzled way. "See, the postmark, 'Brussels, Sept. 17.'" "It just came by courier from Vera Cruz, being sent via New York no doubt accounts for the delay." Maximilian sighed. Even the post no longer considered royalty. Packets had taken on leisurely habits since the Empire's crumbling--or since the secretary's ascendancy. He broke the seal with tremulous fingers. The thing must tell him of Charlotte. "From Monsieur Eloin," he said. "But he--he does not send bad news, nothing, sire, of Her Imperial Highness?" Well enough did that soul of mud know the letter's contents. Well enough he knew that Eloin and himself could waste no time on an insane woman. Their chances of future position were in too critical a state. And the packet was designed for just such a crisis as the present. Maximilian frowned, read excitedly. He was swept along as by a torrent. Fixed on him were the small bead eyes of the priest, darting a light, like a flame on oil. And when the Emperor gasped quickly and sprang to his feet with hands clenched in the manner of a strong man, the priest was ready. "Good news, then?" he cried. "What fortune! Now Your Majesty will hurry the faster to Vienna?" Maximilian gave him a glance, as though he were dense to think so. "Here, read, read it!" M. Eloin, sycophant, courtier, had never sung for his royal patron a roundelay more pleasing than his prose of the moment. It caused to vibrate the very heart chords of the susceptible prince. There were subtle appeals to spite ungratified, to wounded pride, to ambition, to honor. The letter ran: ... Nevertheless, I am convinced that to abandon the throne now, before the return of the French army, would be interpreted as an act of weakness.... If this appeal (to the Mexican people) is not heard, then Your Majesty, having accomplished his noble mission to the end, will return to Europe with all the prestige that accompanied his departure; and mid important events that are certain to happen, he will be able to play the role that belongs to him in every way.... And then the supreme refrain: