“Yet with not,” said Jacqueline, “a foot of land to be free on. But you know, messieurs, that Utopia is an asylum for the blind.”
“It’s a spider on his ceiling,” muttered Colonel Dupin, touching his own head significantly.
The emancipator’s face was beatific. He heard the peons acclaim him, as gradually they began to understand that there was to be no more unhappiness. But it was curious how far, far away the sweet music sounded, even when some belated “Viva el Señor Emperador!” cracked in ludicrous falsetto. For the poet-prince these human chords might have been the strings of a harp, softly touched. And as far away as posterity.
Jacqueline fell to clapping her hands noiselessly. “Oh, lá-lá,” she cried, “if we are not to have an epic flight from Monsieur Éloin!”
It was true in a degree. Five minutes of stupendous history making had just elapsed, and some graceful tribute was due. The royal favorite had foreseen the need, and he was prepared; but whether by borrowing or originating, it is impossible to say.
“‘Vous l’avez relevé; votre main souveraine L’a rendu d’un seul coup à la famille humaine. De ce premier bienfait, Sire, soyez content: L’Indien fera de vous MAXIMILIEN LE GRAND!’”
“Parbleu, why not?” demanded Jacqueline. “If only he were as great as his decrees, poor man!”
Maximilian by this time remembered that he must be somebody’s guest. “Who receives Us here?” he asked. But none of his court knew. Even Monsieur Éloin could only point to the administrador. “Why is your master not present?” inquired General Almonte. The administrador opened his mouth, and it stayed open. Colonel Dupin had promised to shoot him if he breathed a word of Don Anastasio being a prisoner.
