Kophetua the Thirteenth

by Julian Stafford Corbett

"Madam," cried the King loftily, "I swear to you—is that not enough?—I swear to you she is pure as snow; I swear that of all women——"

"Stay, sir," said the Queen, with suppressed anger. "'Tis only as I thought; but I beg you to remember where you are and to whom you speak. A mighty fine thing, sir, a vastly fine thing for a son to ask of the mother he hardly deigns to own. You have reasons, have you, why you may not say who this lady is? There is no need. I know them well enough. It is vastly fine, sir. Kophetua the King, Kophetua, the thirteenth of his name, shall go and rake in any filthy hole for his toys, and bring them to his father's wife to hide in her bosom. It is vastly fine, sir, but you know not my father's daughter, and have forgotten yourself."

"Madam, you do me wrong!" cried Kophetua passionately. "Before Heaven, you do me wrong!"

"Peace! peace!" cried the Queen, "lest Heaven blast you. I know you well. It is useless to speak so fine. I know you for the son you are. See what it is you do, and pray forgiveness of Heaven. That were the best. You, my son, my one son, who have been my only thought, while I grew grey with thinking; you who have cast me off to be the puppet of a man your father raised from the very ground; it is you who sat and took your pleasure while I grew grey and grieved for the love you had denied me! But I waited through the long years alone, saying, 'Surely when my punishment is ended, God will send him back, and in his arms the sweet fruits of love and repentance!' and now, to-day, you came at last, and I thought the days of my mourning were over. I held out my hands for the rich gift of your love that should sweeten the last bitter drops in my cup—weary and sick with longing I hold them out, and you would put into them your—your——" she sank in her chair, unable to say the word, and, burying her head in her arms upon the grinning monster, sobbed out hysterically, "'Tis vastly fine, 'tis vastly fine!"

But Kophetua neither heard nor saw. At the climax of her speech he had turned on his heel and left the room, lest he should be tempted to return her anger with anger. His pride was as high as his mother's, and it came to his aid, just as it had come to hers in her interview with Turbo. So he drew himself up and slowly left the pavilion, proud that with all his temptations his life was yet without the reproach his mother had flung at him, and proud that, deep as the insult was, he was too chivalrous even to resent it, seeing that it came from a woman. But he was cut to the heart nevertheless. With a great effort he had resolved to come to his mother for sympathy and help in his trouble. It was she, he felt, who alone would understand, or if she would not, then it was hopeless, and he knew not which way to turn. It had cost him much to make up his mind to try and fill the gulf that was between them, but he had humbled himself at last. He had come to her feet, and she had cast him off with insults. She had utterly misunderstood him. The breach, instead of being mended, was widened tenfold, and for ever he must be alone.

With such thoughts he strode from the pavilion, and took his way out of the garden, with the noble and resolute look which came over him in his better moments, and which became him so well. As he turned from the main alley into a sidewalk thickly edged with grotesque cactus, the soft sound of a voice stopped his measured stride. He looked to see Mlle de Tricotrin before him in the way, kneeling in her soft white dress.

"Pardon!" she said very softly, "I crave your majesty's pardon." At that moment, of all others, he would have avoided her if it had been possible, but she was straight in his path, and then as she rested on one knee and looked imploringly upon his face, her beauty was such that in any case he could hardly have passed her by.

"It was not my fault," she continued, "that I heard what I did. You desired me to remain, and I left as soon as I saw the mistake her majesty made."

"It is a little fault," answered he, "to crave pardon for on your knees."