And he burst into laughter, not realizing that he was standing right by the boy’s ear.
The Prince woke up with a jump, startled out of his sleep.
The blackbird took fright and flew away, the bee hid among the leaves of the lentisk, while the trees lifted up their heads, feigning indifference, as though they had neither seen nor heard a single thing.
Dusk had fallen. The Prince got up and started again on his way. He came out of the forest, crossed the arid, waterless vale, and, turning towards the palace with a quick step, went up the mountain, clambering up the rocks and dry earth as nimbly as a young kid goat.
II. Court and Courtiers
FROM THE GREAT and splendid royal fortress of Prudentius I, only the high donjon tower was now habitable. Everything else — the great halls, the parapet walks, the barracks — all had crumbled to rubble. The tower itself was in a most derelict state. No one ever took care to repair the collapsing plaster. And the wind roamed and wandered unhindered, whistling shrilly in the empty chambers, where most of the windows were now left bereft of their glazing.
The thick walls, however, held strong still. And it was there, in a small number of rooms, that the King and his family had to confine themselves.
As he approached the palace, the Prince could hear angry voices, female as well as male.
He halted for a moment. Then, with a heavy sigh, he made as though to turn and go away again. Yet at that very moment a girl, fifteen or so, leapt out of the rubble and threw herself at his neck.
“Oh, sweet brother, at last you have returned!” she said to him with tears in her eyes. “If only you knew how long I have been waiting for you!”
The Prince kissed her and asked her sadly:
“What is all this screaming again?”
“What do you suppose it is? The same, always the same! Spitefulnia is squabbling with Jealousia, and father, in his efforts to separate them, is only fuelling their anger.”
“And what is mother doing?”
“What would you expect? She is busy making herself pretty, as ever!”
“And you, my Little Irene?”
“I… I…” She hid her face in her hands and burst into tears. “I came out to find you, because you are the only one who knows how to soothe and to offer comfort.”
He sat on the flat stone next to her and rested his chin on the palm of his hand, pensive, listening to the screaming which still persisted in the palace.
Little Irene threw her arm around his neck.
“Say something to me, please do,” she begged fondly.
“What shall I say?” muttered her brother. “I am going to go away, Little Irene.”
“You’ll go away? Where will you go?”
“Where every man who wishes to live with dignity goes, where all those who have left our kingdom and forsaken their country have gone.”
“And you would leave me behind?”
The Prince kissed her.
“No, my Little Irene. I shall take you with me.”
“Irene! Little Irene!” boomed a voice from behind the walls. “Little Irene, where are you? Come along, then, and bring us your smile. I am tired of your older sisters and their screaming!”
At that, the King, his crown askew on his bald head, his mantle worn to shreds, appeared in the doorway.
Brother and sister got up and followed their father to the room where all the family had gathered.
Before a cracked mirror stood Queen Barmy. Two maids were braiding flowers and old, discoloured ribbons through her silvery-white hair, while with their backs turned to one another, at the two opposite ends of the room, sat the two elder princesses, long-faced, with pursed lips, cross and ill-tempered.
“Hark at the beauty and familial joy,” said the King, crossing his arms, and looking in turn at Jealousia and Spitefulnia. “This is how we pass the day, every day: one of the two yells white, while the other one howls black!”
“This is nothing compared to what I have to suffer, poor miserable me!” bemoaned Queen Barmy. “You only have your two daughters to complain about. What about me, having to cope with you, deafening me with your screams, and with your precious son, going off wandering just when I need him to go and fetch me pretty little flowers…”
Yet, seeing that her tears were causing her nose to redden, she stopped abruptly, smiled to her mirror, and with solemn gravity concentrated on attaching to her belt a great tin star.
The King stood up and rang the bell to summon one of his servants. Yet no one came. He rang again, and still no one appeared.
This made him exceedingly cross; he went to the doorway, and began to stamp his feet on the ground, shouting angrily:
“To the devil with all of you! You call yourselves my servants! I will have everyone’s head off!”
At this, frightened and panting, came the High Chancellor.
A tin chain jingled around his neck.
“My lord, please, forgive your unworthy slave—” he began.
“Where are all those monkey-faced servants of mine?” interrupted the King irritably. “Why is there no response when I ring the bell?”
Then, seeing the chain, he burst all of a sudden into a guffaw.
“What’s that you have slung around your neck instead of your golden chain of state?” he asked.
The High Chancellor grew red in the face, mumbled, his words became confused; he froze with embarrassment, and fell silent.
“What’s that you are saying?” exclaimed the King. “You sold it? And what for?”
“So that Your Majesty could dine yesterday,” replied the High Chancellor in an almost inaudible murmur, bowing low all the way to the ground.
“Ah!.. Hmm!.. So be it,” said the King. “I forgive you this time.”
He wrapped himself majestically in the tatters of his mantle and continued:
“Give the orders for the Cellar Master to come. My throat is parched, and I desire to sweeten it with amber-coloured wine from the islands, such as even the King my Royal Uncle would envy! And then command the Master of the Household to set the table. Why does he keep us waiting? The hour is late.”
Bent double, almost to the ground, the High Chancellor stood perfectly still, not moving a muscle.
“Well, did you not hear me?” said the King, raising his royal head even higher. “What are you waiting for?”
“Your Majesty… your Cellar Master has gone, and the cellar is empty.”
“What are you saying?” bellowed the King.
“What are you saying?” echoed Spitefulnia.
And forgetting both tantrums and mulishness, seized by the greater fear of hunger, she leapt up from her seat, while the maids dropped the Queen’s hair, and anxiously they too approached to listen.
The High Chancellor bowed ever so slightly lower, yet made no reply.
The King scratched his bald head nervously, and his crown now slid gloomily over to his left ear.
Somewhat numbed, he asked:
“Is there no food?”
The High Chancellor, still bowing low, offered up for display the open palms of his two hands, showing the King that they were empty.
His Majesty understood. He abandoned his imperious tone, together with the gold-embroidered mantle, which now hung trailing behind him, deplorable and pitiful in its ragged state.
He marched once or twice around the room, then sat on a lame, hole-ridden armchair; and, sending his crown with one determined shove from left to right ear, he made a decision:
“Cunningson, come here!”
The High Chancellor straightened his back, and advanced towards the King.
“My liege…” he said, bowing once more.
“What would you advise?” the King asked curtly.