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Enter Poem or Quote (Required) The footman, in impeccable white hose and pigtailed wig, halts five yards off, and bows. An under-secretary, in the throes of studying the Lombard Ruse, allows the silent slippered servant to slide near. A silver salver bears a folded note. He picks it up. Fine ivory veneer reflects the silver buttons of his coat. The older man is quiet as the grave, and just as still. He contemplates the board. As if they were the marble architrave, both footman and official are ignored. Just then, the boy picks up his knight and moves it forward, capturing a pawn. Here in the Gloriette, warm candlelight: beyond the window, evening-shrouded lawn. “Your Highness has the art,” the old man says, and sits back in his chair. The tartan pile of blanket shrouds his knees. His face betrays the merest specter of a subtle smile. Prince Klemens Wenzel Furst Von Metternich enjoys the eight-year-old’s euphoria. “You’ll make a mighty monarch, naturlich.” His blanket slips (a gift from Queen Victoria). The chance the Under-Secretary sought! He coughs and tugs politely at his cuff. “The note, Your Highness, which the footman brought …” It’s almost imperceptible, the Prince’s huff. “It seems that Talleyrand – well – he is dead. Two nights ago. Near Tours. Chezal-Benoit.” The old man grunts. “We haven’t been misled? He died? I wonder what he meant by that.”
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