Prince Ricardo of Pantouflia: Being the Adventures of Prince Prigio's Son

“I don’t know the arms,” Ricardo said.

“Oh, Ricardo, how you do neglect your Heraldry! Old Green Stocking is in despair over your ignorance.”

Now Green Stocking was the chief herald of Pantouflia, just like Blue Mantle in England.

“Why, these are the Royal Arms of England, you great ignorant Dick!”

“But Rome isn’t in England, is it? – and the post-mark is ‘Roma’: that’s Rome in some lingo, I expect. It is in Latin, anyhow, I know. Mortuus est Romæ– ‘He died at Rome.’ It’s in the Latin Grammar. Let’s see what the fellow says, anyhow,” added Ricardo, breaking the seal.

“He begins, ‘Prins and dear Cousin!’ I say, Jaqueline, he spells it ‘Prins;’ now it is P-r-i-n-c-e. He must be an ignorant fellow!”

“People in glass houses should not throw stones, Dick,” said Jaqueline.

“He signs himself ‘Charles, P. W.,’” said Ricardo, looking at the end. “Who on earth can he be? Why does he not put ‘P. W. Charles,’ if these are his initials? Look here, it’s rather a long letter; you might read it to us, Jack!”

The princess took the epistle and began:

“How nice it smells, all scented! The paper is gilt-edged, too.”

“Luxurious beggar, whoever he is,” said Ricardo.

“Well, he says: ‘Prins and dear Cousin, – You and me’ (oh, what grammar!) ‘are much the same age, I being fifteen next birthday, and we should be better ackwainted. All the wurld has herd of the fame of Prins Ricardo, whose name is feerd, and his sord dreded, wherever there are Monsters and Tirants. Prins, you may be less well informed about my situation. I have not killed any Dragguns, there being nun of them here; but I have been under fiar, at Gaeta.’ Where’s Gaeta, Dick?”

“Never heard of it,” said Ricardo.

“Well, it is in Italy, and it was besieged lately. He goes on: ‘and I am told that I did not misbehave myself, nor disgrace the blud of Bruce.’”

“I’ve heard of Robert Bruce,” said Dick; “he was the man who did not kill the spider, but he cracked the head of Sir Harry Bohun with one whack of his axe. I remember him well enough.”

“Well, your correspondent seems to be a descendant of his.”

“That’s getting more interesting,” said Dick. “I wish my father would go to war with somebody. With the Sword of Sharpness I’d make the enemy whistle! Drive on, Jack.”

“‘As a prins in distress, I apeal to your valler, so renouned in Europe. I am kept out of my own; my royal father, King Gems,’ – well, this is the worst spelling I ever saw in my life! He means King James, – ‘my royal father, King Gems, being druv into exile by a crewl Usurper, the Elector of Hannover. King Gems is old, and likes a quiat life; but I am determined to make an effort, if I go alone, and Europe shall here of Prince Charles. Having heard – as who has not? – of your royal Highness’s courage and sordsmanship, I throw myself at your feet, and implore you to asist a prins in distres. Let our sords be drawn together in the caus of freedom and an outraged country, my own.

“‘I remain,“‘Prins and dear Cuzen,“‘Charles, P. W.’

“P. W. means Prince of Wales,” added Jaqueline. “He is turned out of England you know, and lives at Rome with his father.”

“I like that chap,” said Prince Ricardo. “He does not spell very well, as you say, but I sometimes make mistakes myself; and I like his spirit. I’ve been looking out for an adventure; but the big game is getting shy, and my sword rusts in his scabbard. I’ll tell you what, Jack – I’ve an idea! I’ll put him on the throne of his fathers; it’s as easy as shelling peas: and as for that other fellow, the Elector, I’ll send him back to Hanover, wherever that may be, and he can go on electing, and polling his vote in peace and quietness, at home. Just wait till I spot the places.”

The prince ran up to the turret, fetched the magic spy-glass, and looked up London, Rome, and Hanover, as you would in a map.

“Well, Dick, but how do you mean to do it?”

“Do it? – nothing simpler! I just take my Seven-league Boots, run over to Rome, pick up Prince Charles, put him on the magic carpet, fly to London, clap the Cap of Darkness on him so that nobody can see him, set him down on the throne of his fathers; pick up the Elector, carry him over to his beloved Hanover, and the trick is done – what they call a bloodless revolution in the history books.”

“But if the English don’t like Prince Charles when they get him?”

“Like him? they’re sure to like him, a young fellow like that! Besides, I’ll take the sword with me in case of accidents.”

“But, Dick, it is your father’s rule that you are never to meddle in the affairs of other countries, and never to start on an expedition when he is not at home.”

“Oh, he won’t mind this time! There’s no kind of danger; and I’m sure he will approve of the principle of the thing. Kings must stick up for each other. Why, some electing characters might come here and kick us out!”

“Your father is not the sort of king who is kicked out,” said Jaqueline.

But there was no use in talking to Dick. He made his simple preparations, and announced that he would be back in time for luncheon.

What was poor Jaqueline to do? She was extremely anxious. She knew, as we saw, what King Prigio had intended about changing the fairy things for others that would not work. She was certain Dick would get himself into a scrape; how was she to help him? She made up her mind quickly, while Dick was putting his things together. She told the queen (it was the nearest to the truth she could think of) that she “was going for a turn with Dick.” Then she changed herself into a mosquito – a kind of gnat that bites – and hid herself under a fold of Dick’s coat. Of course he knew nothing about her being there. Then he started off in his Seven-league Boots, and before you could say “Jack Robinson” he was in Rome, in the grounds of a splendid palace called the Villa Borghese.

There he saw an elderly gentleman, in a great curled wig, sound asleep on a seat beneath a tree. The old gentleman had a long, pale, melancholy face, and across his breast was a broad blue ribbon with a star. Ah! how changed was King James from the handsome Prince who had loved fair Beatrix Esmond, thirty years ago! Near him were two boys, not quite so old as Prince Ricardo. The younger was a pretty dark boy, with a funny little roundabout white wig. He was splendidly dressed in a light-blue silk coat; a delicate little lace scarf was tied round his neck; he had lace ruffles falling about his little ringed hands; he had a pretty sword, with a gold handle set with diamonds – in fact, he was the picture of a little dandy. The other lad had a broad Scotch bonnet on, and no wig; beautiful silky yellow locks fell about his shoulders. He had laid his sword on the grass. He was dressed in tartan, which Ricardo had never seen before; and he wore a kilt, which was also new to Ricardo, who wondered at his bare legs – for he was wearing shoes with no stockings. In his hand he held a curious club, with a long, slim handle, and a head made heavy with lead, and defended with horn. With this he was aiming at a little white ball; and suddenly he swung up the club and sent the ball out of sight in the air, over several trees.

Prince Ricardo stepped up to this boy, took off his cap, and said:

“I think I have the honour of addressing the Prince of Wales?”

Prince Charles started at the sight of a gentleman in long riding-boots, girt with a broadsword, which was not then generally worn, and carrying a Persian rug under his arm.

“That is what I am called, sir,” he said, “by those who give me the title which is mine by right. May I inquire the reason which offers me the pleasure of this unexpected interview?”

“Oh, I’m Ricardo of Pantouflia!” says Dick. “I had a letter from you this morning, and I believe you wanted to see me.”

“From Pantouflia, sir,” said Prince Charles; “why, that is hundreds of leagues away!”

“It is a good distance,” said Dick; “but a mere step when you wear Seven-league Boots like mine.”

“My dear prince,” said Charles, throwing himself into his arms with rapture, and kissing him in the Italian fashion, which Dick did not half like, “you are, indeed, worthy of your reputation; and these are the celebrated Seven-league Boots? Harry,” he cried to his brother, “come here at once and let me present you to his Royal Highness, our illustrious ally, Prince Ricardo of Pantouflia. The Duke of York – Prince Ricardo of Pantouflia. Gentlemen, know each other!”

The prince bowed in the most stately manner.

“I say,” said Dick, who was seldom at all up to the standard of royal conversation, “what’s that game you were playing? It’s new to me. You sent the ball a tremendous long shot.”

“The game is called golf, and is the favourite pastime of my loyal Scottish subjects,” said Prince Charles. “For that reason, that I may be able to share the amusements of my people, whom I soon hope to lead to a glorious victory, followed by a peaceful and prosperous reign, I am acquiring a difficult art. I’m practising walking without stockings, too, to harden my feet,” he said, in a more familiar tone of voice. “I fancy there are plenty of long marches before me, and I would not be a spear’s length behind the hardiest Highlander.”

“By Jove! I respect you,” said Dick, with the greatest sincerity; “but I don’t think, with me on your side, you will need to make many marches. It will all be plain sailing.”

“Pray explain your plan,” said Prince Charles. “The task of conquering back the throne of my fathers is not so simple as you seem to suppose.”

“I’ve done a good many difficult things,” said Dick, modestly.

“The conqueror of the magician, Gorgonzola, and the Giant Who never Knew when he had Enough, need not tell me that,” said Prince Charles, with a courteous allusion to two of Ricardo’s most prodigious adventures.

“Oh! I’ve very little to be proud of, really,” said Dick, blushing; “anyone could do as much with my fairy things, of which, no doubt, you have heard. With a Sword of Sharpness and a Cap of Darkness, and so forth, you have a great pull over almost anything.”

“And you really possess those talismans?” said the prince.

“Certainly I do. You see how short a time I took in coming to your call from Pantouflia.”

“And has Holy Church,” asked the Duke of York, with anxiety, “given her sanction and her blessing to those instruments of an art, usually, in her wisdom, forbidden?”

“Oh, never mind Holy Church, Harry!” said Prince Charles. “This is business. Besides, the English are Protestants.”

“I pray for their conversion daily,” said the Duke of York.

“The end justifies the means, you know,” answered Prince Charles. “All’s fair in love and war.”

“I should think so,” said Ricardo, “especially against those brutes of Electors; they give trouble at home sometimes.”

“You, too, are plagued with an Elector?” asked Prince Charles.

“An Elector? thousands of them!” answered Dick, who never could understand anything about politics.

Prince Charles looked puzzled, but requested Dick to explain his great plan.

They sat down on the grass, and Ricardo showed them how he meant to manage it, just as he had told Jaqueline. As he said, nothing could be simpler.

“Let’s start at once,” he said, and, inducing Prince Charles to sit down on the magic carpet, he cried:

“England! St. James’s Palace!”

But nothing happened!

The carpet was not the right magic carpet, but the one which King Prigio had put in its place.

“Get on! England, I said!” cried Dick.

But there they remained, under the chestnut tree, sitting on the carpet above the flowery grass.

Prince Charles leaped to his feet; his face like fire, his eyes glowing.

“Enough of this fooling, sir!” he said. “It is easy, but cowardly, to mock at an unfortunate prince. Take your carpet and be off with you, out of the gardens, or your shoulders shall taste my club.”

“There has been some mistake,” Ricardo said; “the wrong carpet has been brought by accident, or the carpet has lost its power.”

“In this sacred city, blessed by the presence of his Holiness the Pope, and the relics of so many martyrs and saints, magic may well cease to be potent,” said the Duke of York.

“Nonsense! You are an impostor, sir! Leave my presence!” cried Prince Charles, lifting his golf-club.

Dick caught it out of his hand, and broke across his knee as fine a driver as ever came from Robertson’s shop at St. Andrew’s.

“The quarrels of princes are not settled with clubs, sir! Draw and defend yourself!” he said, kicking off his boots and standing in his socks on the grass.

Think of the horror of poor Jaqueline, who witnessed this terrible scene of passion from a fold in Prince Ricardo’s dress! What could the girl do to save the life of two princes, the hopes of one nation, and of a respectable minority in another?

In a moment Prince Charles’s rapier was shining in the sunlight, and he fell on guard in the most elegant attitude, his left hand gracefully raised and curved.

Dick drew his sword, but, as suddenly, threw it down again.

“Hang it!” he exclaimed, “I can’t hit you with this! This is the Sword of Sharpness; it would cut through your steel and your neck at a touch.”

He paused, and thought.

“Let me beseech your Royal Highness,” he said to the Duke of York, who was in a terrible taking, “to lend your blade to a hand not less royal than your own.”

“Give him it, Hal!” said Prince Charles, who was standing with the point of his sword on the ground, and the blade bent. “He seems to believe in his own nonsense.”

The duke yielded his sword; Dick took it, made a nourish, and rushed at Prince Charles.

Now Ricardo had always neglected his fencing lessons. “Where’s the good of it,” he used to ask, “all that stamping, and posture-making, and ha-haing? The Sword of Sharpness is enough for me.”

But now he could not, in honour, use the Sword of Sharpness; so on he came, waving the rapier like a claymore, and made a slice at Prince Charles’s head.

The prince, very much surprised, parried in prime, riposted, and touched Dick on the hand.

At this moment the Princess Jaqueline did what she should have thought of sooner. She flew out of Dick’s coat, and stung old King James on his royal nose. The king wakened, nearly crushed the princess (so dangerous is the practice of magic to the artist), and then leaped up, and saw Dick’s blade flying through the air, glittering in the sun. The prince had disarmed him.

“Hullo! what’s all this? À moi, mes gardes!” cried the old king, in French and English; and then he ran up, just in time to hear Prince Charles say:

“Sir, take your life! I cannot strike an unarmed man. A prince you may be, but you have not learned the exercises of gentlemen.”

“What is all this, Carluccio?” asked the old king. “Swords out! brawling in my very presence! blood drawn!” for Dick’s hand was bleeding a good deal.

Prince Charles, as briefly as possible, explained the unusual nature of the circumstances.

“A king must hear both sides,” said King James. “What reply have you, sir, to make to his Royal Highness’s statements?”

“The carpet would not work, sir,” said Dick. “It never happened before. Had I used my own sword,” and he explained its properties, “the Prince of Wales would not be alive to tell his story. I can say no more, beyond offering my apology for a disappointment which I could not have foreseen. A gentleman can only say that he is sorry. But wait!” he added; “I can at least prove that my confidence in some of my resources is not misplaced. Bid me bring you something – anything – from the ends of the earth, and it shall be in your hands. I can’t say fairer.”

King James reflected, while Prince Ricardo was pulling on the Seven-league Boots, which he had kicked off to fight more freely, and while the Duke of York bandaged Dick’s hand with a kerchief.

“Bring me,” said his Majesty, “Lord Lovat’s snuff-mull.”

“Where does he live?” said Dick.

“At Gortuleg, in Scotland,” answered King James.

Dick was out of sight before the words were fairly spoken, and in ten minutes was back, bearing a large ram’s-horn snuff-box, with a big cairngorm set in the top, and the Frazer arms.

“Most astonishing!” said King James.

“A miracle!” said the Duke of York.

“You have entirely cleared your character,” said the king. “Your honour is without a stain, though it is a pity about the carpet. Your nobility in not using your magical sword, under the greatest provocation, reconciles me to this fresh blighting of my hopes. All my allies fail me,” said the poor king with a sigh; “you alone have failed with honour. Carluccio, embrace the prince!”

They fell into each other’s arms.

“Prince,” said Dick, “you have taught me a lesson for which I shall not be ungrateful. With any blade a gentleman should be able to hold his own in fair fight. I shall no longer neglect my fencing lessons.”

“With any blade,” said Prince Charles, “I shall be happy to find Prince Ricardo by my side in a stricken field. We shall not part till I have induced you to accept a sword which I can never hope to draw against another adversary so noble. In war, my weapon is the claymore.”

Here the prince offered to Ricardo the ruby-studded hilt of his rapier, which had a beautiful white shark-skin sheath.

“You must accept it, sir,” said King James; “the hilt holds the rubies of John Sobieski.”

“Thank you, prince,” said Ricardo, “for the weapon, which I shall learn to wield; and I entreat you to honour me by receiving this fairy gift – which you do not need – a ring which makes all men faithful to the wearer.”

The Prince of Wales bowed, and placed the talisman on his finger.

Ricardo then, after a few words of courtesy on both parts, picked up his useless carpet, took his farewell of the royal party, and, with Jaqueline still hidden under his collar, returned at full speed, but with a heavy heart, to Pantouflia, where the palace gong was just sounding for luncheon.

Ricardo never interfered in foreign affairs again, but his ring proved very useful to Prince Charles, as you may have read in history.

CHAPTER VI.

Ricardo’s Repentance

The queen, as it happened fortunately, was lunching with one of the ladies of her Court. Ricardo did not come down to luncheon, and Jaqueline ate hers alone; and very mournful she felt. The prince had certainly not come well out of the adventure. He had failed (as all attempts to restore the Stuarts always did); he had been wounded, though he had never received a scratch in any of his earlier exploits; and if his honour was safe, and his good intentions fully understood, that was chiefly due to Jaqueline, and to the generosity of King James and Prince Charles.

“I wonder what he’s doing?” she said to herself, and at last she went up and knocked at Ricardo’s door.

“Go away,” he said; “I don’t want to see anybody. Who is it?”

“It’s only me – Jaqueline.”

“Go away! I want nobody.”

“Do let me in, dear Dick; I have good news for you,” said the princess.

“What is it?” said Ricardo, unlocking the door. “Why do you bother a fellow so?”

He had been crying – his hand obviously hurt him badly; he looked, and indeed he was, very sulky.

“How did you get on in England, Dick?” asked the princess, taking no notice of his bandaged hand.

“Oh, don’t ask me!” said Ricardo. “I’ve not been to England at all.”

“Why, what happened?”

“Everything that is horrid happened,” said Dick; and then, unable to keep it any longer to himself, he said: “I’ve failed to keep my promise; I’ve been insulted, I’ve been beaten by a fellow younger than myself; and, oh! how my hand does hurt, and I’ve got such a headache! And what am I to say to my mother when she asks why my arm is in a sling? and what will my father say? I’m quite broken down and desperate. I think I’ll run away to sea;” and indeed he looked very wild and miserable.

“Tell me how it all happened, Dick,” said the princess; “I’m sure it’s not so bad as you make out. Perhaps I can help you.”

“How can a girl help a man?” cried Dick, angrily; and poor Jaqueline, remembering how she had helped him, at the risk of her own life, when King James nearly crushed her in the shape of a mosquito, turned her head away, and cried silently.

“I’m a beast,” said Dick. “I beg your pardon, Jack dear. You are always a trump, I will say; but I don’t see what you can do.”

Then he told her all the story (which, of course, she knew perfectly well already), except the part played by the mosquito, of which he could not be aware.

“I was sure it was not so bad as you made it out, Dick,” she said. “You see, the old king, who is not very wise, but is a perfectly honourable gentleman, gave you the highest praise.” She thought of lecturing him a little about disobeying his father, but it did not seem a good opportunity. Besides, Jaqueline had been lectured herself lately, and had not enjoyed it.

“What am I to say to my mother?” Dick repeated.

“We must think of something to say,” said Jaqueline.

“I can’t tell my mother anything but the truth,” Ricardo went on. “Here’s my hand, how it does sting! and she must find out.”

“I think I can cure it,” said Jaqueline. “Didn’t you say Prince Charles gave you his own sword?”

“Yes, there it is; but what has that to do with it?”

“Everything in the world to do with it, my dear Dick. How lucky it is that he gave it to you!”

And she ran to her own room, and brought a beautiful golden casket, which contained her medicines.

Taking out a small phial, marked (in letters of emerald):

“Weapon Salve,”

the princess drew the bright sword, extracted a little of the ointment from the phial, and spread it on a soft silk handkerchief.

“What are you going to do with the sword?” asked Ricardo.

“Polish it a little,” said Jaqueline, smiling, and she began gently to rub, with the salve, the point of the rapier.

As she did so, Ricardo’s arm ceased to hurt, and the look of pain passed from his mouth.

“Why, I feel quite better!” he said. “I can use my hand as well as ever.”

Then he took off the stained handkerchief, and, lo, there was not even a mark where the wound had been! For this was the famous Weapon Salve which you may read about in Sir Kenelm Digby, and which the Lady of Branxholme used, in The Lay of the Last Minstrel. But the secret of making it has long been lost, except in Pantouflia.

“You are the best girl in the world, Jaqueline,” said Ricardo. “You may give me a kiss if you like; and I won’t call you ‘Jack,’ or laugh at you for reading books, any more. There’s something in books after all.”

The princess did not take advantage of Dick’s permission, but advised him to lie down and try to sleep.

“I say, though,” he said, “what about my father?”

“The king need never be told anything about it,” said Jaqueline, “need he?”

“Oh, that won’t do! I tell my father everything; but then, I never had anything like this to tell him before. Don’t you think, Jaqueline, you might break it to him? He’s very fond of you. Just tell him what I told you; it’s every word of it true, and he ought to know. He might see something about it in the Mercure de France.”

This was the newspaper of the period.

“I don’t think it will get into the papers,” said Jaqueline, smiling. “Nobody could tell, except the king and the princes, and they have reasons for keeping it to themselves.”

“I don’t trust that younger one,” said Dick, moodily; “I don’t care for that young man. Anyway, my father must be told; and, if you won’t, I must.”

“Well, I’ll tell him,” said Jaqueline. “And now lie down till evening.”

After dinner, in the conservatory, Jaqueline told King Prigio all about it.

His Majesty was very much moved.

“What extraordinary bad luck that family has!” he thought. “If I had not changed the rug, the merest accident, Prince Charles would have dined at St. James’s to-night, and King George in Hanover. It was the very nearest thing!”

“This meddling with practical affairs will never do,” he said aloud.

“Dick has had a lesson, sire,” said the princess. “He says he’ll never mix himself up with politics again, whatever happens. And he says he means to study all about them, for he feels frightfully ignorant, and, above all, he means to practise his fencing.”