IN THE LITTLE REPUBLIC.

It was in the smallest Republic of our Continent—Altenet—rich in mines of zinc. It lies, like a tiny wedge, between the great German empire, the small kingdom of Holland, and the still smaller one of Belgium.

Seldom has a stranger set foot here; few know the district even by name; only a single encyclopædia makes mention of it; the atlases have forgotten it,—nay, it has even been forgotten by the political world.

When the separation between Belgium and Holland took place in 1830, the representatives of the various powers could not come to any agreement over this little piece of ground. It was therefore resolved to declare it “neutral territory,” till a later Congress should find a better solution to the problem.

The old schoolmaster of the neighbouring village of Oppenaken always asserted that the learned politicians assembled at the aforesaid Congress had been too drunk to know what they were doing. If his listeners looked at him incredulously, or began to laugh, he would indignantly ask, “Don’t you believe me? Then I’ll prove it!” And then he would fetch an atlas, open it at the map of the Netherlands, and, following with his finger the boundary of our provinces of Limburg and Brabant, continue—“Just look at this line here how it goes—first to the left, then to the right—here crooked, then slanting—then again forward for a bit, then backwards—one minute straight, and then again with a great bend—isn’t it just like the line a tipsy man would take in walking?”

In the year 1866 another European Congress took place; but it seemed as though the gentlemen taking part in it had not recovered from the effects of the drinking bout attributedto them by the Oppenaken schoolmaster, for this time Altenet was forgotten—forgotten for good and all.

“TOO DRUNK TO KNOW WHAT THEY WERE DOING.”

Thus the Altenetters lived on, independent of all foreign domination. The miners continued to extract zinc from the ground, and pile it up in the great waggons which transported it to other countries; the peasant ploughed his field and reaped his grain; the wind might be heard sighing in the clumps of trees on the hill-tops, the brook rushing andmurmuring between the rocks, and the lark singing high in air—and what could you want more?

The government of the little Republic was entirely in the hands of the burgomaster, Willem Drikus Bloemstein, a broad-shouldered man of portly presence, red-haired and red-bearded, fully conscious of his own importance, and loyally supported in all his works and ways by the elect of Altenet, who were associated with him as Councillors.

It was quite an earthly Paradise—a little Eden full of peace and happiness! Here was no such thing as strife or hatred, for parties had no existence, and life offered no opportunity for insult or injury on political grounds. The taxes were not high, and there was no standing army, so that no one thought it necessary to hold meetings in order to discuss the advantages and disadvantages of compulsory service. The only measure taken for the defence of the country was the weekly drill of the rural rifle corps; and though no one was forced to take his place in its ranks, yet every right-minded man of Altenet felt it his duty to place himself under the orders of General Bauer—on working days an energetic mine-superintendent.

Suddenly this happy state of things was disturbed.

A tiresome man—a German politician—had discovered the above-mentioned negligence on the part of the statesmen of Europe, and pointed out to the Government of his country that here was an opportunity for gratifying its well-known love of annexation. The high and mighty Reichstag took the hint, and resolved to proceed to a speedy settlement of the still unsolved question of the division of Altenet.

A storm of indignation swept through the whole Republic. The head of the State, honest Bloemstein, immediately summoned all the members of the Council, in order to consult as to ways and means of averting the threatened misfortune, and the summons was obeyed by every one.

They were all assembled. Klessens, the rich brewer;young Holzert, an ugly little man, whose bow-legs were a continual challenge to any poodle who had learned to jump through a hoop, but whose shrewdness and clear insight into things were praised by every one; the just-mentioned Bauer, the commander of the rifle corps; Marbaise, the landlord of the “Lump of Zinc”; and Conrads, the wealthy farmer.

“What’s got to be done?” was the question addressed by Bloemstein to the notables of Altenet.

“It seems to me we ought to write the Prussian a civil letter, telling him not to trouble his head about us,” was the opinion delivered by Klessens, after coughing and clearing his throat for some time.

“You stupid fellow!” replied Bauer, pulling in an impressive manner at his thick moustache, “do you think the insolent dog of a Prussian will care anything for a civil letter? No, my boy, you don’t know him yet;au contraire, we ought to show him we’re not afraid.”

“Why, then! therewillbe war!” was timidly interjected by Conrads.

“Very well then! there will be war!” The rest nodded assent.

“But that will surely be a great-to-do,—couldn’t we wait at least till the crops are in?”

“We won’t wait a moment! I shall march with the Rifles to-morrow, right along the Prussian border, and then the miserable wretches can see that we’re not afraid of them!” and Bauer banged the table with his fists.

“That’s not nearly enough,” suggested Marbaise; “the custom-house officers might forget to write to the Emperor about it, and as long as he doesn’t know it, it all goes for nothing.”

“We ought to write to him ourselves, and not civilly,—no, indeed!—but as impudently as we can; and you must sign the letter, Bloemstein, just as if you were a king yourself, and put under it ‘Wullem the First, President of the Republic of Altenet.’”

“BAUER BANGED THE TABLE WITH HIS FISTS.”

“Wullem, Wullem! why, there are so many Wullems,” was the opinion of the man addressed; “the Dutch one is called so, and the Prussian too. ‘Wullem!’—it’s so common.”

“But you have another name, haven’t you?” asked another Councillor.

“Yes, of course,—Drikus.”

“Very well, then,—Drikus the First. What do you think of that?”

“Well, well,” muttered Klessens. “‘Drikus the First, President of the Republic of Altenet’; it doesn’t sound bad, not bad at all.”

“Wouldn’t it be still better to say, ‘President of theIndependentRepublic’?” added the warlike Bauer.

“We might do that,” was the general verdict.

“But then we ought to be called Ministers,” suggested Conrads.

“Of course!” chorussed the rest.

“In that case, I suppose I shall be Minister of War?” asked Bauer.

“Certainly.”

“And I of Agriculture?” asked Conrads.

“Very good, too.”

“Marbaise for Finance.”

“And whom shall we have for Home Affairs?”

“It seems to me that wouldn’t be a bad thing for you, tailor,” put in Bloemstein, addressing Councillor Holzert.

“I have no objection,” replied the latter; “but I’d just like to say something too.”

“Councillor Holzert will now address the meeting.”

A sudden silence fell on the assembly; all were straining their ears to hear what thoughts had arisen in the tailor’s shrewd brain. Speaking slowly, and emphasising every word, he began,—

“We must have stamps made—big stamps, with yourhead on them, Bloemstein; and then we’ll send a letter, with a stamp like that on it, you understand, not to the Emperor of Prussia, but to Bismarck, because, after all, he’s the fellow that does everything; and you must write in that letter, just to rile him, that we are going to let all the priests and Jesuits he has driven out come freely into our country.”

“But only on condition that they brew no beer,” interrupted the brewer, Klessens.

The tailor made believe not to have heard this interested remark, and ended his speech with the question, “What do you think ofthatidea?”

“Bravo, bravo!” cried all; and “You’re a sharp lad; you’re a clever fellow,” added the chairman of the meeting, as he passed his hand complacently over the head whose portrait was shortly to be sent to the Chancellor of the German Empire.

“We haven’t done yet,” continued Holzert; “we have still to find out how we’re going to put your head on the stamps,—with a beard, with a moustache only, or without anything at all.”

“Why, you do think of everything, tailor!” observed Marbaise.

Bauer declared that there could be no two opinions on the point—“With a moustache, that’s quite military,” and, as he spoke, he twisted the ends of his own.

“But I don’t think it would look very well—a red moustache,” objected Marbaise.

“Why, what does that matter? You can’t see it in the picture,” returned Conrads. “Bismarck has a white one.”

“I don’t quite know whether you’re right,” began Holzert again; “just look at Napoleon,—I mean the great Napoleon,—he’s got nothing, no beard and no moustache, and yet he sent the Prussians to the right-about, time and again; but what do you think about it yourself, Bloemstein?”

“Well, what am I to say to you? A beard is not respectable,and I shall have mine shaved off; then we can see if the moustache alone looks well; and if that is not the case, I’ll have that taken off too.”

All thought this an excellent idea.

“Don’t get shaved here, though. You’d better have that done at Aix-la-Chapelle, and then you can get yourself taken at the same time for the stamps.”

“Among the Prussians? Never! as long as I live. I’ll never help them to earn a cent,” thundered Bloemstein.

“In Maastricht, then,” suggested another.

“All right. I’ll have it done on Monday. Has any one anything more to say to the meeting?”

They looked at each other, but no one broke the silence.

“No one’s got nothing, then?”

“Just wait a minute,” cried Conrads. “You ought to have a crown, Bloemstein.”

“A crown?—that’s expensive.”

“Nonsense; have one made of brass, and well polished up, then it will shine just as if it were gold.”

“Then we ought to have Ministers’ uniforms. I’ll make them as cheap and as quickly as possible,” said the tailor-Minister; “and then I’ll make a long cloak for you, Bloemstein.”

“If the gentlemen will allow, I’ve something more to say,” said Marbaise.

“It’s Marbaise’s turn to speak.”

“We ought to forbid all Altenet girls marrying Prussians.”

“What about my Marieke, who’s courting with the Prussian doctor?” was Bloemstein’s terrified reply. “What a set-out my daughter will make—and, above all, my wife, when I tell them that.”

“Then you must just say that our country doesn’t permit it,” and the whole assembly nodded in token of assent.

“Oh, Lord!” groaned the unlucky President; “it’s the hardest thing you could ask me to do.”

“Our country! the Republic! the Independent Republic!” cried the others, wagging their heads hither and thither, shrugging up their shoulders, and holding out their hands with all their fingers extended in air.

“BOTH WALKED ON IN SILENCE.”

Here the weighty deliberations came to an end; and thereupon the President and his Ministers slowly proceeded homewards.

Holzert escorted the newly appointed ruler to his dwelling. For a considerable time both walked on in silence. At last the tailor spoke:

“Bloemstein,” he began, “if your Marieke is not to marry the Prussian doctor, ... in that case ... I’d like to have her. I always had a liking for the girl; but I couldn’t say anything; ... but now I’m Minister of the Interior, ... that sounds fine, eh? ... that’s something.... I think perhaps it might do.”

“Why, my good fellow, I’ve nothing against you. You always were a clever chap, and you’ve shown it again with those stamps. It would be a good enough idea; ... but—Marieke! and then my wife!”

“But, after all, you’re the master. Why, you’re the king of everything in the place! You must put on a bold face, and stand firm!”

“Very well, lad, I’ll try.”

With wrathful strides, his head well thrown back, and his hand resting on the front of his ample waistcoat, Bloemstein entered his own house.

Marieke sprang to meet him, embraced him cordially, and then said, “Father, I’ve just had a letter from Heinrich, he’s coming to dinner with us to-morrow.”

“I’m very sorry, child; but this marriage with the Prussian doctor can’t come to anything. I’ve another husband for you. You’re to marry my Minister of the Interior.”

“Whom do you say I am to marry?”

“My Minister of the Interior.”

“Who’s that?”

“Mr Holzert.”

“The crooked tailor! what a joke! I didn’t know you could be so funny, father!”

“It’s no joke; it’s quite serious, Marieke!” and he recounted all that had taken place at the meeting.

Marieke, however, was not convinced. “I won’t have him!” she cried, and stamped her little foot on the ground;—“and if you say I must, I’ll never marry at all!—there! ... I’ll go and tell mother about it!”

Bloemstein did not await the arrival of his better half. Under pretext of urgent business, the ruler of all Altenet, except his own house, hastily escaped up the street, and did not return home till late in the evening.

On the following day—it was Sunday—all Altenet was clean turned upside down.

Bauer had summoned all his riflemen, as soon as high mass was over, and they assembled in full uniform at the tavern kept by the Minister of Finance.

In a vigorous and pithy speech,—which he had been thinking over all night,—he explained to his troops the danger which threatened the country.

His manly language carried his audience with him. The shout, “We’ll conquer or die!” raised by the Minister of War, was loudly echoed by every one; and in order still further to raise their courage, they all added, “Another drop all round!” which was poured out by the Minister of Finance in his shirt-sleeves, and with fingers trembling with emotion.

“And now,” yelled Bauer, “we’re going to make a military march along the Prussian frontier, and then all thatcanaillecan see that we’re not afraid of them. Marbaise—you with the drum, your eldest boy with the accordeon, and the other with the trumpet in front,—you three are the band. Then you, Ummels, with the flag; and you, Gradus, with the bird; and then we, the people!”

However, it was a considerable time before all of them had left the tavern and taken up their positions.

They were a peculiar-looking troop, of about a hundred and twenty men; mostly broad-shouldered fellows, though not tall—a kind of build common to most miners. They wore all possible costumes, of all sorts of colours; check trousers and black coats—blue blouses, long, short, new, or half-worn;—suits of cloth, wool or linen—here and there a hero marching insabots. The majority were armed with old-fashioned bell-mouthed blunderbusses; some, the tallest of the lot, were provided with double-barrelled fowling-pieces, which at once branded them as poachers.

“CAUSED THEM TO GO THROUGH ALL POSSIBLE MANŒUVRES.”

All, however, had the same head-covering—a green cap, with yellow braid,—and all had wooden pipes in their mouths. The flag matched the caps—white and yellowish green. The place next to the flag was occupied by the silver bird, hung round with all the gold and silver medals worn by the Altenetters in shooting competitions.

“Look out!” cried Bauer, who, in token of his exalted position was hung round with a string of small silver plates of different shapes and sizes, and who, besides, showed his superior dignity by smoking, not a pipe like the rest, but a cigar of immense length and thickness, which had cost him two cents and a half.

All placed themselves in position.

“Right-about-face, and along the cinder path to the Prussian frontier. Band, advance!”

They advanced, with drum beating and accordeon chirping. Just in full view of the German officials, who had come out to ascertain the cause of the approaching noise, Bauer called a halt. Then he caused them to go through all possible manœuvres, shoulder arms, port arms,—but not “present”—thathe would never do “for those pig-dogs of Prussians.”

These evolutions did not appear to command any particular admiration on the part of the Germans; pitying smiles were seen to pass over their countenances, and when at the command “Right-about-face!” half the company turned to the left, so that the soldiers of Altenet stood facing each other, they burst into a roar of laughter, which so aroused the wrath of Klaos Drehmans (who had spent some years at Sittard), that he stepped out of the ranks, and snorted defiance at the principal custom-house clerk as follows:—

“You! do you know whatyouare? you’re a regularnuisance!” while another member of the Altenet militia yelled at the top of his voice, quite at a loss for a worse epithet, “Oh! thou accursed Prussian of a Prussian!”

It was truly a triumphal march when the Republican army returned from this glorious campaign; the inhabitants uttered loud cries of joy, alternating with abuse of the cowardly Prussian lot.

Bloemstein stood, proudly defiant, in the full consciousness of his presidential dignity, on the “stoop” of his house. And when the standard-bearer had waved his flag three times over his head in the President’s honour, and then tossed it on high, the President smiled very genially, and waved back a salute with his hand, blowing thick clouds of smoke the while from his long German pipe, a proceeding which elicited thundering “hurrahs” from assembled Altenet.

The only Altenetters who had not been able to witness this sublime spectacle were Bloemstein’s wife and daughter; they had walked out to meet Dr Olthausen coming from Aix-la-Chapelle, and fell in with him near the village of Vaals.

After the usual salutations, Marieke related to her betrothed all the changes which had taken place in the government of Altenet, and also her father’s resolution to marry her to the Minister of the Interior. At this part of the story the mother clenched her fists, her eyes flashed fire, and she said, threateningly, “Just let the fellow come into our house, and I’ll make him repent his Affairs of the Interior.”

To the great surprise of both ladies, Olthausen did not appear to be angry; on the contrary, he began to laugh loudly, and seemed especially diverted by the story of the postage-stamps.

“We’ll have a regular good joke out of that,” he said, still laughing; “but I won’t come to dinner with you to-day.”

“Are you afraid of Bloemstein?” asked the mother. “Because you needn’t be; I shall be at dinner too.”

“No, I’m not afraid of him—only of laughing more than I ought.”

“Never mind that; laugh at him as he deserves, and we’ll laugh too, won’t we, Marieke?”

“Nein, liebes Madamchen,” returned the doctor, “it will be better if I don’t come—we’ll have some dinner here.”

“JUST LET THE FELLOW COME INTO OUR HOUSE.”

He went with the two women into the nearest eating-house in the village and ordered dinner, also two sheets of paper and an envelope. While the ladies were dining, he wrote a letter on one sheet, slowly and carefully, with beautiful round letters, then dashed off another more hastily, and enclosed both in one envelope, which he stamped and addressed to “Herrn Oscar Olthausen, Rechtsanwalt, Berlin.” He then directed Marieke to wait till her father was about to send away the letters with the new Altenetstamps. “Then you must keep back the one addressed to Bismarck, and post this in place of it; and then I assure you that everything will come right, without you or your mother getting into any trouble with the old gentleman.”

They remained chatting for some little time longer, and then Dr Olthausen took his leave and returned to Aix-la-Chapelle.

Early on the following day Drikus the First set out for Limburg’s metropolis. Arrived there, he turned his steps towards the barber’s shop. A young shopman came to meet him, and politely relieved him of his coat and hat.

“See here, lad,” began Bloemstein, “did you ever shave a president?”

“Why, yes, sir; only yesterday the President of the Congregation of the Sacred Heart.”

“No, I don’t mean one like that; I mean a great president.”

“Oh, the one of the great club?”

“No—greater still.”

“The President of the Tribunal, then?”

“No; greater still—a president of a republic!”

“Of a republic, you say? No, I never shaved one—never in my life!”

“Do you know what he looks like?”

“Why, yes—like a gentleman.”

“Very good, my boy; I see you understand. Now, that’s the way you’ve got to shave me—for I’m one.”

“You a president of a republic? Ha! ha! ha!”

“What are you laughing at, boy?”

“Because you’re trying to make a fool of me.”

“Indeed and I’m not. I’m Drikus the First, President of the Independent Republic of Altenet.”

The lad laughed no longer; he looked round in alarm, convinced that he had a madman in the room with him.

“Shave my beard off!” commanded Bloemstein.

“Very well, Mr ... President.”

“À la bonne heure, my lad! I like that—you know how to behave.”

“SEE HERE, LAD, DID YOU EVER SHAVE A PRESIDENT?”

As speedily as possible the wish of this strange customer was gratified.

“Now just wait a bit, my boy. I must see how the moustache looks by itself,” and the ruler of the republic placed himself before the mirror.

He remained for some time lost in admiration, then began to turn the points of his moustache first up and then down.

“What do you think of it, lad? Is it good enough for a president of a republic?”

“I don’t know.”

“Hold your tongue, then, can’t you?”

“Very good, Mr ... President ... as you please.”

Suddenly honest Bloemstein turned round and fairly snorted at the poor youth. “Just shave this side off,” he blustered, pointing to the right half of his countenance.

The youthful Figaro hastened to comply, having heard that a madman must not be contradicted or he may become violent. His request having been complied with, the President rose in order to admire himself in the mirror. He covered first one and then the other half of his face with one hand, in order to convince himself which style was most becoming to the presidential dignity.

The attractions of the clean-shaven half at length prevailed, and the last remaining hair was removed.

“What have you got to get?” asked Bloemstein, when this was done.

“Ten centimes ... Mr President.”

“There are two groschen for you.”

“I have to give you two centimes change.”

“Never mind that—you may keep them. A president of a republic has nothing mean about him.”

And with a proud and stately demeanour he departed in the direction of the photographer’s. Scarcely had he left the barber’s, when the boy hastened to the police-office, to relate how he had just been shaving a fellow who must certainly have just escaped from the lunatic asylum, for he had told him quite seriously that he was the president of arepublic. A policeman started immediately with the terrified barber’s boy to search the streets of Maastricht for the lunatic.

It was, however, in vain. Bloemstein had already entered the studio of a neighbouring photographer, muttering, “I shall have to explain myself differently here. It seems as though these Maastricht people had never heard of the president of a republic.”

When the photographer appeared, he accordingly delivered himself as follows: “I want my photograph taken, but it must be properly done, for I am a king.”

“Very good, sir. Shall I give you a gun, then, or do you prefer a bow?”

“A gun!—a bow! What for?”

“Why, I’ve photographed a whole number of kings, and they——”

“Ah! you know how to do it then?”

“Of course I do.”

“What kings have you taken?”

“Why, only yesterday the Gronsveld one, and a few days ago one from Neer-Itteren.”

“How—what—kings of Gronsveld and Neer-Itteren?”

“Yes, of course—those of the archery competition.”

“You confounded idiot!—did I get shaved for that? Do I look like a king of the archery competition? Why, I am king of a country—of a republic—an independent republic! Do you understand now?”

“Oh heavens!” cried the artist to himself, “the fellow is certainly touched in the upper storey, and I shall have to look out, or he’ll knock the whole shop to pieces.” He made his visitor a low bow, and said,—

“Very pleased, sir, to be honoured with your custom. May I ask your Majesty to take a seat.... How would you like your portrait, full-length, or bust only?”

“Nothing but the bust; it’s for the stamps of the country, do you understand?”

“Certainly, certainly, sir, and will you kindly look through this thing?”

“NOW YOU CAN GO AHEAD.”

“Very good, but remember that I want it to look respectable—do you hear? ... And just wait a bit—I must see if my hair is all right;” and he hastened to the looking-glass, moistened his palms, smoothed his head with them, and took his place, with a last self-satisfied look at his own image.

“Now you can go ahead.”

The photographer placed himself in front of his apparatus,and declared, a moment later, that the picture was a splendid success, notwithstanding the fact that it was impossible to pronounce on that point with any degree of certainty, since he had not the courage to go into the dark room and leave his eccentric customer alone.

“When will they be finished?” asked Bloemstein.

“Oh! as soon as your Majesty likes to have them.”

“Can I have them next week? All right then, just send them to Drikus the First, King of the Independent Republic of Altenet.”

“I’ll do so without fail, your Majesty.”

“If they turn out well, I’ll come back and bring my wife the queen, and my daughter the princess; and I’ll give you leave to hang out a fine gilt signboard with your own name on it, and after that ‘Photographer to the King of the Republic of Altenet.’”

“I’ll do my best, your Majesty.”

The photographer too, immediately after his visitor’s departure, hastened away to the temple of Justice, with the tidings that a fellow as mad as a hatter, calling himself king of a republic, had just been at his studio. Another gendarme was at once sent in pursuit.

Meanwhile the object of their solicitude had entered the church of St Servaas. It had struck him that, since his august head ought certainly to be adorned with a crown, he might here find a pattern for the same in painting or sculpture. He remained standing a long time before a picture representing the Adoration of the Magi, but none of the three crowns worn by those royal personages suited his fancy. “They haven’t got points enough,” he muttered, and searched further, but in vain, till at last he came to a statue of the Madonna, which realised his ideal. There was the crown he had always imagined—with points standing straight up all round it.

He delayed not a moment, but hastened out into the street, and entered the first coppersmith’s shop he came to.

“Can you make me a crown like Our Lady’s in St Servaas’s?” he asked.

“Oh! yes, sir. What size do you want it?”

“HIS AUGUST HEAD OUGHT CERTAINLY TO BE ADORNED WITH A CROWN.”

“As big as my head; you can take the measure now.”

“What for? You don’t want to wear it, do you?”

“Of course I do—nothing is more certain.”

“Sir, are you mad? or might you happen to be a Freemason?”

“Mad! mad! Mad yourself, fellow!”

“Just wait a bit, and I’ll show you which of us is mad!” and before the poor president could assume a defensive attitude, the smith had seized him and thrown him into the street.

This roused Bloemstein’s wrath, and his objurgations speedily collected a crowd in the street.

“There he is!” a voice cried suddenly, echoed by “Now you’ve got him!” from another quarter, as the barber’s boy and the photographer appeared on the scene, escorted by a policeman apiece. In the twinkling of an eye the two officials had mastered the furious president, and in spite of his vigorous resistance, and his protestation that, as President of Altenet, his person was inviolable, the unhappy man was lugged off to the little dark hole known to the population of Maastricht as “the larder.”

“What is your name?” was the first question asked him by the police commissioner.

“You might ask it a little more civilly,” was the reply.

The commissioner immediately complied with this request.

“Will you be so kind as to tell me whom I have the honour of speaking to?”

“That’s the proper way to speak, and now I shall answer you. I am Wullem Drikus Bloemstein, President of the Independent Republic of Altenet.”

“And where do you live?”

“Well, I should have thought you had no need to ask. At Altenet, the capital of the Republic of Altenet.”

“Thank you.”

One of the inspectors was immediately despatched to Altenet to make inquiries on the spot as to the personality of the prisoner.

“THERE HE IS!”

The officer returned the same day, with the tidings that all Altenet was one great lunatic asylum; that every human being he had met and spoken to there was even madder than the one who had been caught; everything he had seen and heard was sheer nonsense and delirium, and so he had been obliged to return as he came.

Medical aid was summoned, but all in vain; the gentlemen were unable to agree, one asserting that the patient was suffering fromaberratio mentalis, while another thought things were not so bad as that.

“After all, what business is it of ours?” said one at last. “Send him back to his home, and let them settle it among themselves.”

This counsel met with unanimous approbation, and was, in fact, the most practical, and at the same time the easiest, way of disposing of the prisoner.

Bloemstein was furious; and when the gendarmes who escorted him took leave of him at the frontier, he was almost beside himself with rage. He would have liked to take them with him into his dominions, where he was undisputed lord and master; he would then have summoned the commander of the local rifles, and ordered him to shut up the Maastricht officials for a whole day in the cellar below the council-chamber. But, alas! fate was against him, he could not gratify his desire for vengeance; but being forced to relieve his feelings in some way, he did so by indignantly shouting after their retreating figures, “You Dutch cheese-heads, you!”

With hasty steps he forthwith sought his chief counsellor, the Minister for Home Affairs, the tailor Holzert. In excited language, and with wild gestures, he related the story of the outrage suffered by him at Maastricht, and asked, in conclusion, “What are we to do?”

The tailor put his hand to his head, and remained for some little time lost in thought.

“What are we to do?” repeated Bloemstein; “we can’t let a thing like that pass.”

“What are we to do?” replied Holzert, speaking slowly and solemnly. “Why, we must declare war against Holland.”

“Declare war against Holland?”

“Yes.”

“And what for?”

“For high treason.”

“You’re right, you’re right; we must send for Bauer at once.”

“No, not so fast; we must have the stamps first, with your head on them, and then the Hollanders can see whom they have to deal with.”

“You’re right again, tailor,” said Drikus I., flattered not a little by these words.

“Besides that, I haven’t finished the ministers’ suits yet, and we can do nothing without them; everything has got to be respectable.”

“Of course.”

During the next few days an unheard-of political commotion prevailed in the usually calm atmosphere of Altenet.

Every evening, when work was over, Bauer’s rifles assembled in the Minister of Finance’s public-house, in order to exchange ideas as to the coming war with Holland.

Guesses were given as to where the first battle would be fought, and calculations were made as to how soon they would be before the gates of Amsterdam, and how many thousand millions they would make the Dutch pay as war indemnity.

Bloemstein, meanwhile, wrote innumerable letters to all the powers of Europe, to give them notice of his accession. All of them were enclosed in large square envelopes, and laid out in a long row on the table.

“And when once I’ve stuck on the stamps, with my head on them, why, then, I shall be no end of a fellow, Marieke,” he repeatedly remarked to his daughter.

The portraits, however, did not arrive.

“WROTE INNUMERABLE LETTERS TO ALL THE POWERS OF EUROPE.”

After the lapse of a fortnight, Bloemstein’s ploughman—for he had no intention of going to Maastricht again himself—wassent to the photographer’s, to ask whether the portraits of the President of the Republic of Altenet were not yet ready.

“Do you really want them?—seriously?” inquired the artist.

“I suppose so, seeing as how I had to come here a-purpose.”

“Very well, I’ll send them next week.”

At the appointed time the impatiently awaited packet at last arrived at the house of Altenet’s ruler. Something else arrived as well,—the long royal mantle promised by the tailor, richly ornamented with gold fringe.

Bloemstein was quite excited with joy. Without a moment’s delay he flung the royal insignia round his shoulders, and then stood before the mirror, admiring his front and back view by turns. He was satisfied—perfectly and entirely satisfied—both with the garment and him who wore it!

“The other fellows must see that too! Thunder! how they’ll stare!”

Immediately Bloemstein’s man was sent to summon the council, and before long Marbaise, Klessens, Conrads, Bauer, and Holzert entered—all clad in their uniforms, consisting of long coats trimmed with gold lace, knee-breeches, long woollen stockings of a doubtful white, and swords dangling at their sides.

It was quite evident that Holzert had given his whole time and attention to the job, as was, moreover, irrefutably proved by an unexpected incident.

When all were gathered round the big table, loudly uttering their admiration of their ruler’s portrait, long Kwoib Hermes suddenly rushed into the room, in his red baize drawers, with the tails of a blue shirt fluttering above them, and shouted aloud—“Thou accursed tailor, where are my trousers? I must go to early mass to-morrow, and I have no trousers!”

“You shall have them to-morrow; to-morrow morning early, Kwoib,” replied the indignant tradesman.

“No, I want them to-night. You’ve promised me them all the week, and I’m going to have those trousers of mine to-night.”

“Man, don’t make such a scandalous row! Just think where you are—before the ministers of the republican council!”

“The ministers and the council and the whole republic may be stolen, for all I care! I want my trousers, and I’m not going away from here before I get them.” And therewith he took a chair, and seated himself among the ministers of the crown.

“Will you get out or not?” asked Bauer, threateningly.

“No; I’m not going before I get my trousers.”

Suddenly Bloemstein heard the steps of his wife and daughter, who were coming to see what the noise was. Fearing that they might come in for this unseemly spectacle, he thrust the intruder into the next room, with the words, “There; you’ll find some trousers in there; just put them on in the meantime.”

Not long after, Hermes appeared in a garment much too short for him, which, however, by way of compensation, was also a great deal too wide.

The assembly was now able to finish its deliberations in peace and quiet. The portraits having been unanimously approved of, No. 2 of the Agenda came up for discussion. This was, “Declaration of war against Holland on the ground of high treason.” The debate was lively and confused.

Bauer wanted to summon his men at once, surprise Maastricht the same night, take the garrison prisoners, and march farther into the country.

Conrads, on the other hand, could see no good in such incautious haste. “Let’s wait till we get the corn in; then we can bake bread for our men through the war.”

“No need of that!” shouted Bauer. “We’ll get all the bread we want from the Dutch.”

Holzert was inclined to agree with Conrads, but for other reasons. “We must ask for explanations first; that’s always the way,” he declared. “We ought to give them time to investigate the outrage committed on our president, and make their apologies. Besides that,” he added, “till we have stamps of our own we can’t declare war.”

“That’s true, that’s true!” cried several voices, “it would never do to declare war on Holland with Prussian stamps.”

“Very well, then,” raged Bauer, “but you must get them made directly, Bloemstein!”

“I’ll promise that,” replied the President.

Herewith the solemn session concluded.

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