Maximilian’s manner became slightly more agitated. For a moment he spoke as if forgetting his assumed character.
“Ah, that is it!” he exclaimed passionately. “That is the true hereditary curse, not the madness, but the suspicion it engenders in others’ minds! In the case of an ordinary individual you see nothing serious in a little eccentricity, a certain degree of enthusiasm; you may sneer at him, you may even admire him. But when you are told that his grandfather cut his throat, or his great-grandfather died in an asylum, then you shake your head and whisper, ‘Beware of him! He is showing the hereditary tendency. He is going mad!’”
He stopped, and glanced with a certain apprehension at his listener. But the other showed no sign of surprise at this outbreak. On the contrary, he appeared to have been considerably impressed by the King’s words, as he sat with bent head and eyes drooped towards the ground.
“Then what do you think really,” he said, at length, directing his gaze once more at Maximilian, “is the King’s state of mind?”
“I think he is as mad as most other men, and as mad as he ever will be,” was the cynical response.
And, as if unwilling to prolong the conversation, Maximilian rose from his seat, and again began restlessly pacing the narrow limits of the chamber.
His fellow-prisoner sat on, watching him silently. A little time afterwards the door of the cell was again opened.
A strange warder appeared, who cast his eye indifferently over the two prisoners, as he inquired—
“Which of you is named Hans Trübner?”
The man so designated instantly rose, and, in obedience to the warder’s instructions, followed him from the cell.