The thirteenth dance. The lights were very low. There was the heavy, thick scent of gardenias. The Chinese lanterns swayed curiously. When I pulled myself together they were still. The wound pricked unpleasantly.
Marie came.
“This is most unorthodox, Your Majesty,” she said mockingly. “Everyone is asking for you.”
“Will you sit down, dear?” I spoke very slowly. In truth the pain in my arm was like a red-hot steel needle. She sobered quickly. I could not see very well. I think she went white. She sat down meekly. I could see her big eyes, only her eyes.
“Paul!” she breathed.
“I am not Paul,” I said. “I am not King. I am only the King’s image, a poor counterfeit.”
“Paul!” she said again. Then she checked herself.
“He will be here tomorrow. My period of usefulness will be over. He—he was kidnapped. I came—because I was bored, because there was some chance of adventure, because an old man pleaded for his country. Now it is all over—the King comes, the King’s image is wanted no longer.”
“Paul, I want you,” she said in a low voice.
“I am not Paul. And—and, Marie, there is duty! A nation may groan under the tyranny of Russia unless—You understand, Marie. Our lives cannot always be ministers to our desires. We—we are caught in the toils; we can only obey, we can only do our duty, trusting that somehow it will be found good.”