"She was kind to you?"
"Very, mother."
"Then why have you been crying, Augustin?"
"I haven't been crying," said I. The lie was needful to my compact with the Countess; my honour was rooted in dishonour.
"Yes, you have," said she, but not quite in the accusing tones that generally marked the detection of falsehood. She seemed to look at me more in curiosity than in anger. Then she bent down toward me. "What did you talk about?" she asked.
"Nothing very particular, mother. She asked me if I liked being king."
"And what did you say?"
"I said I liked it pretty well."
My mother made no answer. I stole a look at her handsome clean-cut features; she was frowning a little.
"I didn't tell her much," said I, aiming at propitiation.
"Much of what?" came sharply, but not unkindly. Yet the question posed me.
"Oh, I don't know!" I murmured forlornly; and I was surprised when she turned and kissed me, saying:
"We all love you, Augustin; but you have to be king, and you must learn how."
"Yes," I assented. The thing was quite inevitable; I knew that.
Silence followed for a little while. Then my mother said:
"When you're ten you shall have a tutor, and your own servants, Augustin."
Hastily I counted the months. There were nine;
