A stiff, mechanical salute, squaring of shoulders, inflating of chest, pecking at the two men, who nearly bent double. Wilhelm acted as if his spine were paralysed. No graven image of his own design appears stiffer, more jointless. Somebody has likened him to a coloured plate out of a book of etiquette. He certainly looked it, for etiquette taboos smiles, real courtesy, humanity itself.
While his eyes swept the room, the silver helmet came crashing down on a table. He would have given much to discover reasons for complaint, and Prince Bülow’s precautions against draughts discomforted him more than his negligence would have done; it robbed him of the chance for flying into a passion.
"Pretty goings on at Downing Street and Quai d’Orsay," he snarled. "Yesterday it was Kiau-chau. To-day it’s German Belgium and Northern France they ask. Any additional insults since then?"
"All the dispatches are in Your Majesty’s hands," replied the Chancellor, looking significantly at Herr von Bohlen.
"Report." If the Lord of Statecraft and gentleman born and bred, Chancellor and Prince, had been a thieving valet, Wilhelm could not have spoken with more contemptuous severity.
"Will Your Majesty be pleased to be seated?" This with another questioning look at Bertha’s fiancé. Prince von Bülow had more than a little respect for the dignity of his office.
"Without reserve," muttered the War Lord, dropping into an arm-chair. "I want him to know, and knowing, to understand the imperativeness of his duties as head of the Krupp works. Report, sir."
The Chancellor, who wore Hussar uniform with the insignia of Major-General and more decorations than the most beloved of cotillon favourites at 2 A.M., bowed ceremoniously, then stood bolt upright and somewhat constrainedly.
"May it please Your Majesty," he began, weighing a parcel of dispatches in his hand, but not looking at them. "The Paris disclosures just made seem to be the direct outcome of the friendly understanding between Great Britain and France——"
"The abortion called _Entente Cordiale_," interrupted the War Lord—a red rag to a bull already wounded.
The Chancellor continued: "The British assume that we are planning the destruction of France, and, that accomplished, the invasion of England. British statesmen recognise that the French army is no match for ours, that even with the assistance of the English Yeomanry——"