"Sorry comedians, like their master, up to the very last moment!" And Don Marcos, thinking of the fear these men have made the whole world feel for thirty years, cries out in anger:
"Swindlers! Swindlers!"
Once more the Prince comes out of his reverie. Somebody has stopped in front of him, and he hears a well known voice.
"Your Highness, what a joy to see you! The Colonel has just told me of your arrival."
It is Spadoni: the same old Spadoni, as though but a few hours have gone by since his last interview with the Prince; as though it is only yesterday that he bellowed with indignation, as he studied at the piano What the Palm Tree Said to the Century Plant.
He doesn't want to sit down: he is in a hurry; he came just to shake hands with his Highness. He will make a point of seeing him later when he has more time, in the Casino. He takes it for granted that the Prince is going into the Casino. Where else could a decent person go in Monte Carlo?
He gives Lubimoff's uniform a rapid glance, and admires his rough soldierly appearance.
"I have heard of the great deeds of your Highness; I always used to ask the Colonel about you ... a hero!"
Lubimoff has scarcely time to shake his head at this praise. Spadoni starts to talk about something more interesting. The war, heroes, and all that, are nebulous, meaningless things. He is for reality, and begins to talk about a new personage whom he admires, a Portuguese who plays big stakes, and whose name, because of his winnings, during the last few days, has been filling the gambling rooms.
"I am studying him; besides, he is a friend of mine and I think I have his secret. Imagine, Prince...."