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.
“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—was sent 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.”
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!”