“Yes,” said Anthony. “And it did for him too, poor beggar. She was some little guttersnipe of a music hall artiste in Paris⁠—not even suitable for a morganatic alliance. But Nicholas had a frightful crush on her, and she was all out for being a queen. Sounds fantastic, but they managed it somehow. Called her the Countess Popoffsky, or something, and pretended she had Romanov blood in her veins. Nicholas married her in the cathedral at Ekarest with a couple of unwilling Archbishops to do the job, and she was crowned as Queen Varaga. Nicholas squared his ministers, and I suppose he thought that was all that mattered⁠—but he forgot to reckon with the populace. They’re very aristocratic and reactionary in Herzoslovakia. They like their kings and queens to be the genuine article. There were mutterings and discontent, and the usual ruthless suppressions, and the final uprising which stormed the palace, murdered the king and queen, and proclaimed a republic. It’s been a republic ever since⁠—but things still manage to be pretty lively there, so I’ve heard. They’ve assassinated a president or two, just to keep their hand in. But revenons à nos moutons . You had got to where Count Stylptitch was hailing you as his preserver.”