"Bertha, there is nothing I do not dare. What would be known? I give orders that this room be utterly darkened; I send secret police to seize a man from the city at random and fetter him to a chain in that room; then I bring you to the room and fasten you to the other end of the chain, and for three days I have food introduced into the room. Results? For the man, death; for you, a knowledge first of yourself and, secondly, of love. The State will benefit."
"It is bestial—incredible."
"Bestial? Tut! I play the part of God and even surpass Him. I put you face to face with a temptation through which you shall come to know yourself. You lose a dream; you gain a fact. It is well. Shame will guard the secret in your heart—and the State will benefit. Still you see that I am paternal—merciful. I do not punish you for your past obstinacy. I still give you a choice. Bertha, will you marry as I wish, or will you force me to play the part of God?"
"I shall not marry."
"Ah, you will wait for God to make up the difference. It is well—very well; le Dieu c'est moi. Ha! That is greater than the phrase of Louis XIV. You shall have still more time, but the moment the sun goes down, if I do not hear from you, I shall ring a bell that will send my secret police out to seize a man indiscriminately from the masses of the city. I shall not even stipulate that he be young. My trust in nature is—absolute. Adieu!"
She made up her mind the moment he left the room. She drew on her cloak. Before the pier glass she paused.
"Aye," she murmured, "I could not match the first farmer's daughter. But still there must be one man in the world—and God will make up the difference!"
She threw open the door which gave on a passage leading to a side entrance. A grenadier of the palace guard jumped to attention and presented arms.
"Pardon," he said.
He completely blocked the hall; the prince had left nothing to chance. She started to turn back and then hesitated and regarded the man carefully.