and lack of consideration for the
feelings of others--but Bernhardt seems to qualify for a vulture, and no
original one at that, for a like offense as he is charged with was,
several years ago, laid at the door of my cousin, Archduke Otho of
Austria.

Observe half a dozen young officers riding horseback in the neighborhood
of their garrison town, Bernhardt at the head. At a bend in the road, a
rural funeral _cortege_ hoves into sight: coffin borne on the shoulders
of half a dozen peasants; weeping relatives; friends promising
themselves a good time at the widow's expense on returning home. A black
cross lifted high; priest and choir-boys in their robes.

"Halt," thunders Bernhardt, blocking the way.

The priest tries to expostulate with the half-drunken fellow.

"Shut up, black-coat. I am His Royal Highness, Prince Bernhardt."

Then--the devil must be riding him--he orders the coffin put down on the
ground.

"Out of the way, yokels."

And he leaps his horse three or four times across the coffin.

The outrage is duly reported in the newspapers and Bernhardt is summoned
before the King. "Don't you dare to appear in uniform," Albert added in
his own hand.

"What has happened?" I asked the ne'er-do-well, when he begged for an
audience after meeting the King.

He pointed to a swollen cheek.

"He hit me three times in _the eats_." (I beg the Diary's pardon for the
language; I report literally.) "Three times," repeated Bernhardt,
"that's the reason he wanted me to appear in mufti. As I went out one of
the lackeys said: 'I never heard His Majesty rave so.'"

"But why did you make a beast of yourself?" I asked.

"To force the King to transfer me to another garrison, of course. I
can't remain where I am, for the people are terribly incensed against
me."

"Did you tell His Majesty?"

"Not on your life," answered Bernhardt. "If I did, I would have to stay
there until my last tooth falls out. As things are, the Colonel will
insist upon my speedy transference, and that's worth the three slams on
the face I got in addition to the various _Lausbubs_."

"He called you, an army officer, a '_Lausbub_.' Where is his vaunted
respect for the uniform?"

"Didn't he hit me in _the eats_?" lamented Bernhardt tragically in his
terrible lingo. "I responded both to insult and injury by knocking my
heels together and saying: 'At Your Majesty's commands.'"

Of course, I told Romano. "Royalty," he said, "has only, on the face of