LE THING HAPPENS

I

Since the break-up of his plans the King had been finding consolation in
his son's book, an advance copy of which had reached him while Max was
still abroad. Consolation is, perhaps, hardly the right word; it had
distracted him in more ways than one; partly, and in a good sense, from
his own personal depression over things gone wrong, but more with a
scared apprehension of the terrible hubbub that would arise when its
contents became known. The title, _Government and the Governed_, was
sober enough, and the post-diluvian motto once threatened by Max had
been omitted; but the contents were of a highly revolutionary character,
and the bland "take-or-leave me" attitude of the author toward the
public he would some day be called upon to rule was on a par with that
statement of her prison doings which Charlotte was preparing for the
delectation of Hans Fritz Otto, Prince of Schnapps-Wasser. In neither
case did it seem likely that such a confession would draw parties
together.

And so before the King had even finished reading he felt it his duty to
write imploring his son not to publish.

Before an answer could reach him important events supervened. The
reverberations of the bomb brought Max flying back to the bosom of his
family; and then the Charlotte episode had followed, over which Max had
not been at all sympathetic, for in spite of his emancipated views about
things in general, he had still the particular notion that revolution
belonged only to men, and that women, incapable of conducting it
efficiently, had far better leave it alone.

And so it was that only when things had begun to resettle themselves was
any fresh reference made to the book's forthcoming publication.

As soon as the subject was broached Max presented a face of polite
astonishment.

"I thought you knew, sir," he said.

"Knew what?"

"The most important event in recent history; I even thought you might
have instigated it."

"I don't know what you are talking about."

"Then I must break the news. My book has been burned to the ground." He
spoke as though it had been an edifice. "I am told, for my consolation,
that it burned extremely well--'fiercely,' the papers said--and gave the
firemen a lot of trouble. Your letter and the news reached me almost
simultaneously; I knew, therefore, that you would be glad."

"No, no, don't say 'glad,'" protested the King; "in a way I am sorry,
even. I only wanted it to be anony