“Oh, I am seriously love-sick,” cried Ferdinand Augustus, welcoming the subject. “I went in for a sensation, and I’ve got a real emotion.”
“Poor youth! And she won’t look at you, I suppose?” was Hilary’s method of commiseration.
“I have not seen her for a mortal fortnight. She has completely vanished. And for the first time in my life I’m seriously in love.”
“You’re incapable of being seriously in love,” said Hilary.
“I had always thought so myself,” admitted Ferdinand Augustus. “The most I had ever felt for any woman was a sort of mere lukewarm desire, a sort of mere meaningless titillation. But this woman is different. She’s as different to other women as wine is different to toast-and-water. She has the feu-sacré. She’s done something to the very inmost soul of me; she’s laid it bare, and set it quivering and yearning. She’s made herself indispensable to me; I can’t live without her. Ah, you don’t know what she’s like. She’s like some strange, beautiful, burning spirit. Oh, for an hour with her I’d give my kingdom. To touch her hand—to look into those eyes of hers—to hear her speak to me! I tell you squarely, if she’d have me, I’d throw up the whole scheme of my existence, I’d fly with her to the uttermost ends of the earth. But she has totally disappeared, and I can do nothing to recover her without betraying my identity; and that would spoil everything. I want her to love me for myself, believing me to be a plain man, like you or anybody. If she knew who I am, how could I ever be sure?”
“You are in a bad way,” said Hilary, looking at him with amusement. “And yet, I’m gratified to see it. Her hair is not so red as I could wish, but, after all, it’s reddish; and you appear to be genuinely aflame. It will do you no end of good; it will make a man of you—a plain man, like me or anybody. But your impatience is not reasoned. A fortnight? You have not met her for a fortnight? My dear, to a plain man (like me or anybody) a fortnight’s nothing. It’s just an appetiser. Watch and wait, and you’ll meet her before you know it. And now, if you will excuse me, I have business in another quarter of the palace.”
Ferdinand Augustus, left to himself, went down into the garden. It was a wonderful summer’s evening, made indeed (if I may steal a phrase from Hilary) of perfumed velvet. The sun had set an hour since, but the western sky was still splendid, like a dark banner, with sombre reds and purples; and in the east hung the full moon, so brilliant, so apposite, as to seem somehow almost like a piece of premeditated decoration. The waters of the fountains flashed silverly in its light; glossy leaves gave back dim reflections; here and there, embowered among the trees, white statues gleamed ghost-like. Away in the park somewhere, innumerable frogs were croaking, croaking; subdued by distance, the sound gained a quality that was plaintive and unearthly. The long façade of the palace lay obscure in shadow; only at the far end, in the Queen’s apartments, were the windows alight. But, quite close at hand, the moon caught a corner of the terrace; and here, presently, Ferdinand Augustus became aware of a human figure. A woman was standing alone by the balustrade, gazing out into the wondrous night. Ferdinand Augustus’s heart began to pound; and it was a full minute before he could command himself sufficiently to move or speak.
At last, however, he approached her. “Good evening,” he said, looking up from the pathway.
She glanced down at him, leaning upon the balustrade. “Oh, how do you do?” She smiled her surprise. She was in evening dress, a white robe embroidered with pearls, and she wore a tiara of pearls in her hair. She had a light cloak thrown over her shoulders, a little cape trimmed with swan’s-down. “Heavens!” thought Ferdinand Augustus. “How magnificent she is!”
“It’s a hundred years since I have seen you,” he said.