“No, indeed,” assented Grafton, “that would never do. Where is the entrance to the galleries?”
“Take the path to the left until you come to the modern wing. The entrance is under the balcony; you will see it.”
Grafton followed the gardener’s directions and, climbing the steps, was about to open the door. At each side, in the same frame, were long, narrow glass windows. At one of these peeping-windows he saw the Grand Duke, his mouth distended in a tremendous yawn. Grafton hesitated. The Grand Duke, in an old, black frock-suit, opened the door.
“Good-morning,” said Grafton. “Are you the keeper of the galleries. These are the Grand Duke’s galleries, are they not?”
“Yes.” The Grand Duke beamed. “Won’t you come in?”
“I’m an American,” continued Grafton, “and I’m much interested in pictures. I particularly wished to see the Grand Duke’s Rembrandts.”
“Ah; it will be a pleasure to show you through. We like Americans here.” He spoke in excellent English. “We once had an American at our little court. But when her husband died she fled. It was too dull for her. But we have to stay here.”
“You surprise me,” said Grafton. “I had always heard that the Grand Duke was a most interesting, a most unusual man.”
Casimir shrugged his shoulders. “He is the most bored of all. He does nothing but regret his youth. He is old, worn-out, a poor creature—no strength, no stomach, no nothing but memories, and a bad temper. And he doesn’t get much pleasure out of his temper. Of what use is a temper when no one dares answer back?”
They had come to Grafton’s Spaniard, indifferently hung among the fierce-looking Teutonic war-lords in armor. “Evidently he doesn’t care especially for it,” said Grafton to himself. Aloud he said: “What a collection of fighters!”