“Can you see anything new?”
“No,” answered the Prince.
“How so, no?” exclaimed Jealousia. “Can’t you see that some mighty monarch has sent us new clothes? He sent a skirt to Spitefulnia, new robes and a mantle to the King, and a beautiful scarf to me, just like the one that that harridan sister of mine tore yesterday.”
Thankfully, Spitefulnia was busy admiring her skirt, so that she did not hear Jealousia’s words.
The Prince laughed.
“Truly, there has been a miracle,” he said, “but you should seek its agent not outside, but inside this palace. Your clothes are the same, only a little fairy has darned them for you.”
“A fairy!” said the Queen ecstatically, clasping her fine, beautiful hands together. “Oh, did you see her? And did she not bring me some emerald bracelet, such as that of the Queen my Royal Aunt?”
“That would have been a hard task to perform,” replied the Prince. “Little Irene has nimble fingers, but no florins!”
Explanations were called for. And so the Prince told them the story of how Little Irene had waited up for him during the night, while everyone else was asleep, and how she had sat down and darned everyone else’s clothes.
The Queen was outraged.
“My daughter, a seamstress!” she cried out. “But this is unheard of! Is this how low my daughter, the royal Princess, has fallen?”
With that, she suffered one of her attacks of nerves, and had to leave the room.
“How perfectly vulgar!” said the fair-haired maid-in-waiting, disgusted. “I can’t possibly have anything to do with her any longer, after such conduct!”
And most majestically, she sprawled herself on the sofa.
“Why must you be so daft?” whispered the other to her. “On the contrary, cajole her and pet her, so she will sew you new dresses. I for one shall tell her all the sweet nothings I know, on the off-chance that she might sew me a dress as beautiful as Jealousia’s was, before it became all covered with stains.”
Jealousia, seeing that her scarf was once again as good as new, knew not whether she ought to treat her sister with contempt or not. Spitefulnia, however, felt a most vital urge to pronounce a few of her usual statements.
“One cannot, of course, blame the poor girl,” she said with stinging envy. “Some people are by nature born base and vulgar.”
“Indeed; like you, for instance,” Jealousia said maliciously.
Spitefulnia pounced at her and seized her by the hair bun.
Jealousia turned around, and gave her a smack that resonated all the way to the scullery, where Little Irene was cooking the birds in red sauce, and Polycarpus was rinsing the wild greens.
Immediately there followed an outburst of screaming.
“The same as always!” muttered Little Irene.
And abandoning her stewpot to Polycarpus’s care, she ran to the dining room, entering just as the Prince was holding back Jealousia firmly in one corner, while the King, collapsed on the sofa, was restraining an enraged Spitefulnia by the skirt.
“Oh, shame, my sisters, shame!” said Little Irene ruefully. “Do not scream like this! You will wake up the entire land!”
As soon as her sisters caught sight of her, they suddenly abandoned all fighting, to ask if it had really been she who had darned their clothes — how had she done it?
So Little Irene took out her needles and thread, and sat on the window ledge to show them how to use them.
“Father,” the Prince then said, “last night I found a letter at Faintheart’s house, only I do not know how to read it, so I have brought it to you.”
The King took it, put on his spectacles, and read out:
Your Excellency!
I expect no other visitor apart from Your Eminence today at my house, and so because I have no time to come myself to yours, I am leaving here this letter, so you may find it and know immediately that we, you and I both, are in the gravest danger. The Prince, who seems to be a lion cub and an eaglet too, knows that you never sold your chain of office. He knows some other things besides, which could well damage you, were you to remain here. I am making off as we speak, chain and all, to go to the King the Royal Uncle, where, as I am hoping, thanks to some information that I intend to give him regarding the lamentable condition of our State, I shall persuade him to come to my aid with his army so that I may conquer that fine piece of land that the King refused to grant me as a gift, and which lies yonder by the river. Should you wish to, come and find me. Bring with you the diamond-studded goblets of the King, and the last remaining jewels of the Queen, which are in your cellar, and which would be worth a fair number of florins. Fear nothing, for there can be no battle without soldiers, victory is ours. Only leave at once.
Your faithful servant,
Faintheart
The King raised his eyes, and looked at his son from above his reading spectacles.
“What can this mean?” he enquired, baffled and dazed.
The Prince took a few steps around the room; he then went back to the King.
“It means, father, that this letter was intended for Cunningson. It means that Faintheart is not only a blackguard, but also a traitor, and that in a few days, a few hours, perhaps, the armies of the King our Royal Uncle could be invading our State. It also means another thing: that he appears to know things that we ourselves ignore, for instance the fact that we have no army, and that there will be no resistance at the borders.”
“What nonsense and fiddlesticks!” said the King uneasily. “No army, he says! Drivel and twaddle, I say! I can throw into my uncle’s kingdom thousands of soldiers, whenever and however I wish to. And a hundred ironclad fighting vessels the river shall carry southwards, at my slightest command! We have no army, he says! I shall hang the first man who dares say so again, and I’ll throw his corpse to the vultures, that they may feast upon it!”
And, livid with rage, the King shoved this crown back to the top of his head, and with long strides marched twice, thrice, up and down the room.
The Prince glanced with forlorn eyes at the donkey’s head, which gazed with derision at them all from above the gold-leaf cabinet, its tin crown perched impertinently between its ears.
“Father,” he said at last, “call the Supreme Commander of the Army. He will give us the information we need.”
The King rang the bell, and immediately Polydorus the equerry appeared before him.
“Summon the Supreme Commander of the Army at once,” commanded the King, and resumed his nervous pacing up and down the room.
The equerry bowed, and made as though to leave. But at the door he stopped.
“My lord…” he muttered, “I do not know who the Supreme Commander is.”
“You do not know?” cried his sovereign with rage. “You do not know?”
And changing tone:
“Hmmm… I do not know myself any more what his name is… Blast and bebother that idiot Cunningson, why did he have to go and kill himself just when I need him? He took care of everything, and knew everything like the back of his hand!.. Well, then, summon my chamberlain, Cartwheeler.”
Polydorus bowed deeply, and left.
A few minutes later he returned with the Lord Chamberlain.
Master Cartwheeler was short and fat, with swollen, sagging cheeks, and such an enormous belly that he could never go through a doorway or near a piece of furniture without stumbling and bumping.
“Cartwheeler,” said the King imperiously, “call immediately the General-in-Chief.”
“My lord,” Cartwheeler replied, struggling in vain to bend at the waist in order to bow. “My lord, we have not had a General-in-Chief for these past two years.”