Riding to the palace with my granite General, he expressed approval of my day’s work.
“Ah, General,” said I, “the public enthusiasm is stimulating. Not all the school children of my native town, bribed by oranges and buns, can shout like your honest people.”
“And the Princess?” he asked anxiously.
“And the Princess is divine.”
A week passed in a whirl of popular excitement. No one guessed; the Russian dared not speak openly. In any case I hardly think Russia would have avowed her kidnapping of the Prince. As it was, the Baron had too great a fear of the document he believed I held. On the second day the Princess gave me her answer. We were betrothed. Public joy expressed itself in gala nights at the Opera, in fireworks, in torchlight processions. And for me all the zest of the game I was playing departed. As I listened to Marie, as I learned from her own lips that she loved me, I realized bitterly the part I was playing. Not all the General’s sophistries could disguise it from me. I was cheating her. And her trust was perfect. I writhed under her praise, I was tortured by the possession of her love, a possession which, come by honestly, I would have treasured beyond all else.
On the eighth day, the evening of the gala ball, my granite General came to my private chamber.
“The Coquette entered Trieste last night,” he said harshly. I started. Coquette was the name of the soprano’s yacht.
“Well?” I replied. We stared at each other. General Hartzel had been growing brusk and ill-humored with me. I think he guessed at the romance.
“The King will be here tomorrow night.”
“Suppose I answer that by saying the King is here?”