It was like a dear old-fashioned blood-and-thunder opera, and I was almost behind the scenes. But oh, that hypocritical young fiddler-monk, Sebastian Roch! Would he make good his promise, after this, to look me up? The police were said to be prosecuting a diligent endeavour to look him up, but with, as yet, indifferent success.
Of course, upon the accession of the new ruler, the print shops of the town displayed her Highness’s portraits for sale—photographs and chromo-lithographs; you paid your money and you took your choice. These represented her as a slight young woman, with a delicate, interesting face, a somewhat sarcastic mouth, a great abundance of yellowish hair, and in striking contrast to this, a pair of brilliant dark eyes—on the whole, a picturesque and pleasing, if not conventionally a handsome, person. I could not for the life of me have explained it, but there was something in her face that annoyed me with a sense of having seen it before, though I was sure I never had. In the course of a fortnight, however, I did see her—caught a flying glimpse of her as she drove through the Marktstrasse in her victoria, attended by all manner of pomp and circumstance. She lay back upon her cushions, looking pale and interesting, but sadly bored, and responded with a languid smile to the hat-lifting of her subjects. I stared at her intently, and again I experienced that exasperating sensation of having seen her somewhere—where?—when?—in what circumstances?—before.
IV
One night I was awakened from my slumbers by a violent banging at my door.
“Who’s there?” I demanded. “What’s the matter?”
“Open—open in the name of the law!” commanded a deep bass voice.
“Good heavens! what can the row be now?” I wondered.
“Open, or we break in the door,” cried the voice.
“You must really give me time to put something on,” I protested, and hurriedly wrapped myself in some clothes.
Then I opened the door.