“Monseigneur?” he said, faintly.
“Do you wish absolution, my son?”
“I am dying...?”
“Yes.”
“I am dying.... God has my account and he will judge it. I am not a Catholic, Monseigneur.” He turned his head. “Your Highness?” He roved about the room with his eyes and discerned the feminine touch in all the appointments.
“Where am I?”
“You are in my room, Monsieur,” she said. Her voice broke, but she met his eyes with a brave smile. “Is there anything we can do for you?”
“Nothing. I am alone. To die.... Well, one time or another. And yet, it is a beautiful world, when we but learn it, full of color and life and love. I am young; I do not wish to die. And now... even in the midst... to go... where? Monseigneur, I am dying; to me princes and kings signify nothing. That is not to say that they ever did. In the presence of death we are all equal. Living, I might not speak; dying... since I have but a little while to stay... I may speak?”
“Yes, my son, speak. Her Highness will listen.”
“It is to her Highness that I wish to speak.”