“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?”
“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.
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.”
“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.’”
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.