More.
Did he not know that the city in which he planned his nutty nuptials, videlicet Vienna, was about to hospit the Congress of Europe — where Scythia-Pannonia-Transbalkania would attempt finally to rectify its almost- unrectifiable boundaries — and that in consequence S.-P.-T. would become a laughingstock? No. (Of course not.) Did he care? (Don’t ask silly questions.) And, for a frowzy icing on this very rancid cake, just as Marie Antoinette did not want to flee from France until her diamond-crusted travelling-case was ready (in consequence of which delayed flight. . . well, never mind. Oh dear.), so August Salvador did not want to leave on his not- even-morganatic honeymoon without his wardrobe. And, lest by an examination at the border of his baggage, with its crest-embroidered underwear, he be discovered, he had hit upon the — for him — brilliant idea of concealing it all beneath a Seal of Diplomatic Immunity. And of which Immune Diplomat was the Seal?
That of the Titular Personal Envoy of the Grand Mogul.
Oh dear.
Popoff hauled out his maps; they were compared to those which Von Shtrumpf and Shtruvvelpeyter had brought with them. On which of the spider’s-web of roads (assuming the web to have been spun out the anterior of a very drunken spider) which obtained between Bella and the border might His Young (not to say, infantile) Highness be assumed to be now in progress?
They came to no conclusion.
Popoff was not precisely shy about showing the use of his scry-stones; that is, he turned an enquiring look upon Eszterhazy, who nodded. That was enough for Popoff. Von Shtrumpf wished to be assured that no form of witchcraft was involved; Dr. Eszterhazy showed him in print, fetched down from the prince’s shelves, that the last Ecclessiastical Council of Ister, whilst utterly condemning the ceremonial eating of horse-flesh on holy days “after the manner and usage of the pagan and damnable Sarmatians, upon whose so-called sacred places it is permitted, nay meritorious, to micturate”; said absolutely nothing on the subject of scrying: which was good enough for Von Shtrumpf. And Shtruvvelpeyter recollected that “he had read something-or-other about it in a French or German paper once — frightfully scientific these French and Germans were, not so, Engelbert?” — and that was good enough for Shtruvvelpeyter. So Popoff once again uncovered his scry-stones. Psalmanazzar. And Agag.
Psalmanazzar showed, briefly and rather vaguely, the Crown Princeling’s face at the window of a vehicle; Agag (on indefinite loan from the prince’s cousin, Baron Big Boris) proved to be a bit more precise as to what else the Crown Princeling was doing: he was picking his shapely nose.
“By the color of the mud splashed against the carriage window,” suggested Eszterhazy, “I should infer that the carriage is now travelling along the Official Northern Remote Route Road.”
“And if so, almost a sufficient punishment for his sins!” cried Shtruvvelpeyter. “The local holders of the electoral franchise so seldom chose to pay the very moderate poll-tax that, as a result, the road there hasn’t been paved since . . . since . . . well, since quite a while ago. Or so they tell me. I have never been.”
“I have,” said Popoff. “I trust that His Young Highness is not obliged to try any of the local hostelries. The fleas there are reported to be large enough to qualify as cavalry remounts.”
Von Shtrumpf, however, was not interested in such matters. “If this crack-brained enterprise of August Salvador’s is not nipped in the bud,” he declared grimly, “our grandchildren may find themselves paying poll-taxes to Austria or Russia or — God help us! who knows what nation or nations which may snap us up as we come apart, like Poland, for lack of a sensible sovereign — Bulgaria, maybe — or Graustark, even — in any of which cases ' I shall migrate to Egypt, rather than submit. Very well, if ‘well’ it is, His Nipplehead is on the Official Northern Remote Route Road: what next?” And, before anyone could answer, added that there were worse fates than being bit by fleas, however large.
Eszterhazy rubbed his forehead with his knuckles. “Much as the magnetic telegraph has served to debase human language,” he said, “still, it is swifter than any horse, or locomotive engine. The same telegram, in effect, which was sent me, should it not be sent to the cross-station at the terminus of the Official Northern Remote Route Road?”
Agreement was that it should; the message was redrafted, and handed over to either the same constable, or another available such; there seeming to be no limit to or shortage of men of that rank in the region of the Red Mountain; who had taken the message of enquiry originally drafted by Dr. Eszterhazy. And so then arose the question, what should they do in the meanwhile?
Von Shtrumpf chose to make a speech. “Only the existence of a single sovereign,” he said, “keeps the Flemings and the Walloons together in Belgium. The same is true of Scandia and Froreland. Of Austria-Hungary. And of Scythia-Pannonia-Transbalkania. Let the respected sovereign be removed, and what may the result be? Chaos. That’s what.”
Eszterhazy, a trifle more testily than was usual with him, said, “And my hair is getting thinner on top. What else is new?”
PopofF, who seldom displayed interest in any events of a political nature more current than the Pragmatic Sanction, which had confirmed Maria Teresa as (among other items) “King” of Hungary — the ancient usages of that nation making no provision for a Queen Regnant — pointed out that Switzerland had remained united as a republic despite its severalty of languages and peoples. It was pointed out to him that Switzerland had had more centuries to grow used to such union than S.-P.-T. had had decades; for a moment he grew silent. Then —
“I know what let’s do!” he exclaimed. “Ye all know the trouble with boar- spears is that the momentum of the charging boar sometimes carries him, the charging boar, that is, right up along the shaft of the spear, so that sometimes he can slash his tushes into the huntsman before he dies. Well, I have had cross-guards set onto my new boar-spears, so as to prevent this. In theory. Why shouldn’t we, in the time we’re waiting, all go out and see how this works? Eh?”
Shtruvvelpeyter said — let it not be said with haste, but without delay — that, alas, his gout —
And Von Shtrumpf declared that, being a servant of the August House, he had no right to risk his person in anything but service to that House. “Much as I should like to, of course. Love to.”
So it was at length agreed that they should grill some chops offlast week’s boar (by now growing rather short on chops), and, in the meanwhile, have some good hot Mokha coffee with some good Yah-mah-ee-ka rum. And this was agreed to.
Before and after the grilling of the chops and the eating thereof, a game of whist was played, one of boston, and then another of whist; presently people began to squirm. Von Shtrumpf returned to his theme, but his heart seemed not in it. “And what keeps the Wallachians and the Moldavians united in Romania?” he asked, rhetorically.
“The subventions paid them by the Czar of Russia,” was the short reply of Shtruvvelpeyter. As this was not the answer which Von Shtrumpf had expected to get, he followed the way of all flesh, and ignored it.
“What is delaying the fellow?” he asked. “Can he have stopped to drink somewhere?”
Prince Popoff did not appear worried. “Nothing is delaying him, except the fact that his horse has no wings. And when on such a mission, he would certainly not have stopped to drink somewhere. Fierce and faithful are the constables of this mountain region. He will be here in a minute.”