“Not always, but often! When it is not a farce it is a tragedy. And such a tragedy! My God! Horrible—monstrous—cruel beyond conception, and enough to make one believe in Hell and doubt Heaven!”
He spoke passionately, in a voice vibrating with strong emotion. De Launay glanced at him wonderingly, but did not speak.
“When you see tender young children tortured by disease,” he went on,—“Fair and gentle women made the victims of outrage and brutality—strong men killed in their thousands to gain a little additional gold, an extra slice of empire,—then you see the tragic, the inexplicable, the crazy cruelty of putting into us this little pulse called Life. But I try not to think of this—it is no use thinking!”
He paused,—then in his usual quiet tone said:
“To-morrow night, then, my friend?”
“To-morrow night,” rejoined De Launay,—“Unless you receive further instructions from the King.”
At that moment the clear call of a trumpet echoing across the battlements of the palace denoted the hour for changing the sentry. “Sunset already!” said Von Glauben, walking to the window and throwing back the heavy curtain which partially shaded it, “And yonder is Prince Humphry’s yacht on its homeward way.”
De Launay came and stood beside him, looking out. Before them the sea glistened with a thousand tints of lustrous opal in the light of the sinking sun, which, surrounded by mountainous heights of orange and purple cloud, began to touch the water-line with a thousand arrowy darts of flame. The white-sailed vessel on which their eyes were fixed, came curtseying over the waves through a perfect arch of splendid colour, like a fairy or phantom ship evoked from a poet’s dream.
“Absent all day, as he has been,” said De Launay, “his Royal Highness is punctual to the promised hour of his return.”
“He is, as I told you, honest;” said Von Glauben, “and it is possible his honesty will be his misfortune.”