The nights of dissipation had begun to leave their mark, and her throne was tottering.
The plumpness of her figure began to disappear, and angles crept in to take the place of curves. Her eyes were less bright, and her enthusiasm had lost its edge.
But she didn’t realize this.
She thought she was still Queen and she was living on her past, just as many other real queens have, and for that she is to be forgiven, for it is a woman’s right to think herself the same as she was when she was at her best.
It is the life buoy to which she always clings, and when she dies her arms are found clasped about it with the grip of death.
And then the day came when this Queen, a wisp and shred of a woman, whose dreams had gone, and whose calico had turned to rags, went down the street of the Quarter one night never to return.
She had married a man of her class, and they went into a tenement together.
Her sun had set—her day was done.
One day the priest was sent for to shrive her. I hope there was consolation in his visit, because a dethroned queen needs pity sometimes.
