Her admiration made me forget what I had endured since we separated; why, all that was an ugly dream, to arise at times like a phantom, conjured to existence by a desire to compare present happiness with past misery, and then allowed to sink back into its grave again.
She insisted on hearing the story of the attack on the citadel, and between us we gave it to her. When Robbins thought I faltered in touching upon my own share in the exploit, he rushed in and described with the tongue of a romancist the tragic events preceding and succeeding the smashing of the door. So that, taking it in all, I rather imagine the little woman received a pretty strong impression of what that affair was like.
She kept squeezing my arm sympathetically all the while, as though she appreciated how vast an amount of heroic blood it required to do such things in these days of modern destructive engines of war; and when I incidentally mentioned being knocked down by the discharge of the cannon, she threw her arms suddenly about my neck—Jove! I would cheerfully allow myself to be prostrated by such concussion of air again and again if by so doing I could merit so sweet a recompense.
At last it was all told.
The hour had grown very late.
We began to realize how sleepy we were, and I knew I must personally secure some rest if I expected to take up the burden of my official business on the following day.
Then it was I experienced the first qualms of burning regret at having been lured into acceptance; why, only for that I could look forward to sweet idleness, sailing a handsome yacht over the blue waters of the summer seas, and up the grand, historic Nile; whereas now I must assume the burden of governing a nation.
It made me sad.
Still, why should I complain, so long as Hildegarde were content to remain with me and share my lot? Paradise would be where she was.
I ought to be thankful indeed.