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But Nikky was an informal person, and was quite apt to bow deeply before his future sovereign, and then poke him in the chest. "Well!" said Nikky. "Good-morning," said Prince Ferdinand William Otto, in a small and nervous voice. "Nothing wrong, is there?" demanded Nikky. M. Puaux got out his handkerchief and said nothing violently. "Otto!" said Miss Braithwaite. "What did you do?" "Nothing."
And standing there in the sunshine was the commander of the field battery, Captain Mignot. A tall and bearded man, essentially grave, he listened while Lieutenant Puaux explained the request from General Foch that I see his battery. He turned and scanned the sky. "We regret," he said seriously, "that at the moment there is no aëroplane in sight. We will, however, show Madame everything."
Prince Ferdinand William Otto tore off the corner of a piece of paper, chewed it deliberately, rounded and hardened it with his royal fingers, and aimed it at M. Puaux. It struck him in the eye. Instantly things happened. M. Puaux yelled, and clapped a hand to his eye. Miss Braithwaite rose. His Royal Highness wrote a rather shaky French verb, with the wrong termination.
Through what outpourings of oratory he had sat or stood, in his almost ten years! "Then that's settled," he said at last. "I'm very happy. This morning I shall apologize to M. Puaux." During the remainder of the morning the Crown Prince made various excursions to the window to see if the weather was holding good.
He looked about. He was quite convinced that M. Puaux was what Bobby would have termed a poor sport, and had not played the game fairly. The guard at the railway, he felt, would not have yelled and wept. "Oh, well, I threw a piece of paper. That's all. I didn't think it would hurt." Miss Braithwaite rose and glanced at the carpet. But Nikky was quick. Quick and understanding.
Prince Ferdinand William Otto felt uneasy. "But I am very comfortable, and and happy," he hastened to say. "You are, please, not to worry about me, sir. And about the paper I threw at Monsieur Puaux the other day, I am sorry about that too. I don't know exactly why I did it." The King still held his hand, but he said nothing. There were many things he wanted to say.
The tall, blonde, young officer, Lieutenant Puaux, pointed out to me a detachment of Belgian soldiers mending roads. As our car passed they leaned on their spades and looked after us. "Belgian carabineers," he said. "They did some of the most heroic work of the war last summer and autumn. They were decorated by the King. Now they are worn out and they mend roads!"
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