muttered to his brother.
The girls now performed a special chorus they had rehearsed, to go between each verse. It had no words, just a lyrical melody that they hummed in harmony.
Hummmmm. Hummmmm. Hummmmm.
Count Colin elbowed his brother. " Bummmmm, " he sang, and raised an eyebrow naughtily.
"Don't," Count Cuthbert said. " Bum is rude."
"But—"
"And butt is rude, too! Stop it! Sing right!"
They were both silent for a moment, but one of the triplets glanced over at them and grinned. So the conjoint counts began to sing. They sang in harmony, one tenor, one bass; the three girls felt their way into the same harmony, and they completed the song together. The audience applauded. The three girls curtsied, and the counts lumbered awkwardly to their feet, and bowed, side by side.
"Now," said the king, when the applause subsided, "the gifts from the suitors, and the choice."
18. The Choice
"Wipe your nose," the orphan instructed.
They had announced the Duke of Dyspepsia first. Obediently he took the napkin the little girl had handed him and wiped his streaming eyes and nose.
"Hold my hand?" he implored. Gently she placed her small hand in his, and he stood. He had entirely forgotten the speech he had intended to make. Something about how the princess would be lucky to have him? Had that really been what he had planned to say?
"I'm Duke Desmond," he said, and sniffed back fresh tears. The little girl squeezed his hand. "Duke of Dyspepsia," he added.
"Ugliest man in the world!" he wailed.
Liz stood up. "Is not!" she said loudly. "He only needs sumbody to take care of him and make him brush his teef every single day! He's nice! And he brung a nice gift, too!
"Show it!" she told the weeping duke.
He wiped his eyes again, leaned down, and lifted the small bamboo cage that he had placed under his chair. The guests leaned forward in their seats, trying to see what might be inside the cage.
"I can't hear a word he's saying," the queen said irritably. "What's that he's holding?"
"Shhh," said the king. "It's a cage of some sort."
"Tell about it," Liz whispered to the duke. "Speak up nice and loud!"
So the duke, choking back tears, for he could not stop thinking about how ugly he felt, explained how he had sent searchers for the rarest of butterflies as a gift to the king in exchange for the hand of his daughter.
"And this one came from Africa," he said. "I forget how to say its name. Chara ... Well, something."
" Charaxes acraeoides? " The king was on his feet.
"That's it," the duke replied. "Look!" He lifted the small golden latch and opened the door of the bamboo cage. An amber-colored butterfly with black decorations on its wings fluttered free.
"Blimey, it's beautiful!" the little girl said. "And lookit it go!"
The rare butterfly, the most powerful flier in the Congo, swooped the length of the huge head table, circled the head of the amazed king, lifted itself into a long upward glide, and disappeared through the open window.
"That were sumfink to see!" Liz exclaimed, clapping her hands.
The king, his mouth open, sat back down slowly. "It's gone," he said.
Duke Desmond, still holding Liz's hand, sat down as well. "Yes," he said. "Free."
The queen tapped her crystal water glass with a silver knife to order quiet. She had not understood much of what had just occurred. "Next?" she called.
The thin bald man in black stood up slowly. "I am Percival," he said, "Prince of Pustula." He picked up a butter knife, held it in front of his face, and examined what he saw. No mustache. No hair. He felt destroyed.
"I brought a gift," he announced. "But it is useless now."
He reached into his back pocket, removed the small silver box, and tossed it toward the place where the princess sat. "Here," he said contemptuously. "Do what you want with it. I'm so out of here."
Then he stalked from the room and they could all hear his footsteps as he descended the staircase.
Curiously the princess reached for the container. She
The girls now performed a special chorus they had rehearsed, to go between each verse. It had no words, just a lyrical melody that they hummed in harmony.
Hummmmm. Hummmmm. Hummmmm.
Count Colin elbowed his brother. " Bummmmm, " he sang, and raised an eyebrow naughtily.
"Don't," Count Cuthbert said. " Bum is rude."
"But—"
"And butt is rude, too! Stop it! Sing right!"
They were both silent for a moment, but one of the triplets glanced over at them and grinned. So the conjoint counts began to sing. They sang in harmony, one tenor, one bass; the three girls felt their way into the same harmony, and they completed the song together. The audience applauded. The three girls curtsied, and the counts lumbered awkwardly to their feet, and bowed, side by side.
"Now," said the king, when the applause subsided, "the gifts from the suitors, and the choice."
18. The Choice
"Wipe your nose," the orphan instructed.
They had announced the Duke of Dyspepsia first. Obediently he took the napkin the little girl had handed him and wiped his streaming eyes and nose.
"Hold my hand?" he implored. Gently she placed her small hand in his, and he stood. He had entirely forgotten the speech he had intended to make. Something about how the princess would be lucky to have him? Had that really been what he had planned to say?
"I'm Duke Desmond," he said, and sniffed back fresh tears. The little girl squeezed his hand. "Duke of Dyspepsia," he added.
"Ugliest man in the world!" he wailed.
Liz stood up. "Is not!" she said loudly. "He only needs sumbody to take care of him and make him brush his teef every single day! He's nice! And he brung a nice gift, too!
"Show it!" she told the weeping duke.
He wiped his eyes again, leaned down, and lifted the small bamboo cage that he had placed under his chair. The guests leaned forward in their seats, trying to see what might be inside the cage.
"I can't hear a word he's saying," the queen said irritably. "What's that he's holding?"
"Shhh," said the king. "It's a cage of some sort."
"Tell about it," Liz whispered to the duke. "Speak up nice and loud!"
So the duke, choking back tears, for he could not stop thinking about how ugly he felt, explained how he had sent searchers for the rarest of butterflies as a gift to the king in exchange for the hand of his daughter.
"And this one came from Africa," he said. "I forget how to say its name. Chara ... Well, something."
" Charaxes acraeoides? " The king was on his feet.
"That's it," the duke replied. "Look!" He lifted the small golden latch and opened the door of the bamboo cage. An amber-colored butterfly with black decorations on its wings fluttered free.
"Blimey, it's beautiful!" the little girl said. "And lookit it go!"
The rare butterfly, the most powerful flier in the Congo, swooped the length of the huge head table, circled the head of the amazed king, lifted itself into a long upward glide, and disappeared through the open window.
"That were sumfink to see!" Liz exclaimed, clapping her hands.
The king, his mouth open, sat back down slowly. "It's gone," he said.
Duke Desmond, still holding Liz's hand, sat down as well. "Yes," he said. "Free."
The queen tapped her crystal water glass with a silver knife to order quiet. She had not understood much of what had just occurred. "Next?" she called.
The thin bald man in black stood up slowly. "I am Percival," he said, "Prince of Pustula." He picked up a butter knife, held it in front of his face, and examined what he saw. No mustache. No hair. He felt destroyed.
"I brought a gift," he announced. "But it is useless now."
He reached into his back pocket, removed the small silver box, and tossed it toward the place where the princess sat. "Here," he said contemptuously. "Do what you want with it. I'm so out of here."
Then he stalked from the room and they could all hear his footsteps as he descended the staircase.
Curiously the princess reached for the container. She
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