And then, for three or four days, he did not see her, though he paid
frequent enough visits to the feeding-place of the carp.
“I wish it would rain,” he confessed to Hilary. “I hate the
derisive cheerfulness of this weather. The birds sing, and the flowers
smile, and every prospect breathes sodden satisfaction; and only man is
bored.”
“Yes, I own I find you dull company,” Hilary responded, “and if
I thought it would brisk you up, I’d pray with all my heart for rain.
But what you need, as I’ve told you a thousand times, is a love-affair
with a red-haired woman.”
“Love-affairs are tedious repetitions,” said Ferdinand. “You play
with your new partner precisely the same game you played with the old:
the same preliminary skirmishes, the same assault, the same feints of
resistance, the same surrender, the same subsequent disenchantment.
They’re all the same, down to the very same scenes, words, gestures,
suspicions, vows, exactions, recriminations, and final break-ups. It’s
a delusion of inexperience to suppose that in changing your mistress you
change the sport. It’s the same trite old book, that you’ve read and
read in different editions, until you’re sick of the very mention
of it. To the deuce with love-affairs. But there’s such a thing as
rational conversation, with no sentimental nonsense. Now, I’ll not
deny that I should rather like to have an occasional bit of rational
conversation with that red-haired woman we met the other day in the
park. Only, the devil of it is, she never appears.”
“And then, besides, her hair isn’t red,” added Hilary.
“I wonder how you can talk such folly,” said Ferdinand.
“C’est mon métier, Uncle. You should answer me! according to it.
Her hair’s not red. What little red there’s in it, it requires
strong sunlight to bring out. In shadow her hair’s a sort of dull
brownish-yellow,” Hilary persisted.
“You’re colour-blind,” retorted Ferdinand. “But I won’t
quarrel with you. The point is, she never appears. So how can I have my
bits of rational conversation with her?”
“How, indeed?” echoed Hilary, with pathos.
“And therefore you’re invoking storm and whirlwind. But hang
a horseshoe over your bed to-night, turn round three times as you
extinguish your candle, and let your last thought before you fall asleep
be the thought of a newt’s liver and a blind man’s dog; and it’s
highly possible she will appear to-morrow.”
I don’t know whether Ferdinand Augustus accomplished the rites that
Hilary prescribed, but it is certain that she did appear on the
morrow: not by the pool of the carp, but in quite another region
of Bellefontaine, where Ferdinand Augustus was wandering at hazard,
somewhat disconsolately. There was a wide green meadow, sprinkled with
buttercups and daisies; and under a great tree, at this end of it,
he suddenly espied her. She was seated on the moss, stroking with one
finger-tip a cockchafer that was perched upon another, and regarding the
little monster with intent meditative eyes. She wore a frock the bodice
part of which was all drooping creamy lace; she had thrown her hat and
gloves aside; her hair was in some slight, soft disarray; her loose
sleeve had fallen back, disclosing a very perfect wrist and the
beginning of a smooth white arm. Altogether she made an extremely
pleasing picture, sweetly, warmly feminine. Ferdinand Augustus stood
still, and watched her for an instant before he spoke. Then——
“I have come to intercede with you on behalf of your carp,”
he announced. “They are rending heaven with complaints of your
desertion.”
She looked up, with a whimsical, languid little smile. “Are they?”
she asked lightly. “I’m rather tired of carp.”
He shook his head sorrowfully. “You will permit me to admire your
fine, frank disregard of their feelings.”
“Oh, they have the past to remember,” she said. “And perhaps some
day I shall go back to them. For the moment I amuse myself very well
with cockchafers. They’re less tumultuous. And then, carp won’t come
and perch on your finger. And then, one likes a change.—Now fly away,
fly away, fly away home; your house is on fire, and your children will
burn,” she crooned to the cockchafer, giving it never so gentle a
push. But instead of flying away, it dropped upon the moss, and thence
began to stumble, clumsily, blunderingly, towards the open meadow.
“You shouldn’t have caused the poor beast such a panic,” he
reproached her. “You should have broken the dreadful news gradually.
As you see, your sudden blurting of it out has deprived him of the
use of his faculties. Don’t believe her,” he called after the
cockchafer. “She’s practising upon your credulity. Your house
isn’t on fire, and your children are all safe at school.”
“Your consideration is entirely misplaced,” she assured him, with
the same slight whimsical smile. “The cockchafer knows perfectly
well that his house isn’t on fire, because he hasn’t got any
house. Cockchafers never have houses. His apparent concern is sheer
affectation. He’s an exceedingly hypocritical little cockchafer.”
“I should call him an exceedingly polite little cockchafer. Hypocrisy
is the compliment courtesy owes to falsehood. He pretended to believe
you. He would not have the air of doubting a lady’s word.”
“You came as the emissary of the carp,” she said, “and now you
stay to defend the character of their rival.”
“To be candid, I don’t care a hang for the carp,” he confessed
brazenly. “The unadorned fact is that I’m immensely glad to see
you.”
She gave a little laugh, and bowed with exaggerated ceremony. “Grand
merci, Monsieur; vous me faites trop d’honneur,” she murmured.
“Oh, no, not more than you deserve. I’m a just man, and I give you
your due. I was boring myself into melancholy madness. The afternoon lay
before me like a bumper of dust and ashes, that I must somehow empty.
And then I saw you, and you dashed the goblet from my lips. Thank
goodness (I said to myself), at last there’s a human soul to talk
with; the very thing I was pining for, a clever and sympathetic
woman.”
“You take a great deal for granted,” laughed she.
“Oh, I know you’re clever, and it pleases me to fancy that you’re
sympathetic. If you’re not,” he pleaded, “don’t tell me so. Let
me cherish my illusion.”
She shook her head doubtfully. “I’m a poor hand at dissembling.”
“It’s an art you should study,” said he. “If we begin by
feigning an emotion, we’re as like as not to end by genuinely feeling
it.”
“I’ve observed for myself,” she informed him, “that if we begin
by genuinely feeling an emotion, but rigorously conceal it, we’re
as like as not to end by feeling it no longer. It dies of suffocation.
I’ve had that experience quite lately. There was a certain person whom
I heartily despised and hated; and then, as chance would have it, I
was thrown two or three times into his company; and for motives of
expediency I disguised my antagonism. In the end, do you know, I found
myself rather liking him?”
“Oh, women are fearfully and wonderfully made,” he said.
“And so are some men,” said she. “Could you oblige me with
the name and address of a competent witch or warlock?” she added
irrelevantly.
“What under the sun can you want with such an unholy thing?” he
exclaimed.
“I want a hate-charm—something that I can take at night to revive my
hatred of the man I was speaking of.”
“Look here,” he warned her, “I’ve not come all this distance,
under a scorching sun, to stand here now and talk of another man.
Cultivate a contemptuous indifference towards him. Banish him from your
mind and conversation.”
“I’ll try,” she consented; “though, if you were familiar with
the circumstances, you’d recognise a certain difficulty in doing
that.” She reached for her gloves, and began to put one on. “Will
you be so good as to tell me the time of day?”
He looked at his watch. “It’s nowhere near time for you to be moving
yet.”
“You must not trifle about affairs of state,” she said. “At a
definite hour I have business at the palace.”
“Oh, for that matter, so have I. But it’s half-past four. To
call half-past four a definite hour would be to do a violence to the
language.”
“It is earlier than I thought,” she admitted, discontinuing her
operation with the glove.
He smiled approval. “Your heart is in the right place, after all. It
would have been inhuman to abandon me. Oh, yes, pleasantry apart, I am
in a condition of mind in which solitude spells misery. And yet I am on
speaking terms with but three living people whose society I prefer to
it.”
“You are indeed in sad case, then,” she compassionated him. “But
why should solitude spell misery? A man of wit like you should have
plenty of resources within himself.”
“Am I a man of wit?” he asked innocently.
Her eyes gleamed mischievously. “What is your opinion?”
“I don’t know,” he reflected. “Perhaps I might have been, if I
had met a woman like you earlier in life.”
“At all events,” she laughed, “if you are not a man of wit, it is
not for lack of courage. But why does solitude spell misery? Have you
great crimes upon your conscience?”
“No, nothing so amusing. But when one is alone, one thinks; and when
one thinks—that way madness lies.”
“Then do you never think when you are engaged in conversation?” She
raised her eyebrows questioningly.
“You should be able to judge of that by the quality of my remarks. At
any rate, I feel.”
“What do you feel?”
“When I am engaged in conversation with you, I feel a general sense
of agreeable stimulation; and, in addition to that, at this particular
moment———But are you sure you really wish to know?” he broke
off.
“Yes, tell me,” she said, with curiosity.
“Well, then, a furious desire to smoke a cigarette.”
She laughed merrily. “I am so sorry I have no cigarettes to offer
you.”
“My pockets happen to be stuffed with them.”
“Then, do, please, light one.”
He produced his cigarette-case, but he seemed to hesitate about lighting
a cigarette.
“Have you no matches?” she inquired.
“Yes, thank you, I have matches. I was only thinking.”
“It has become a solitude, then?” she cried.
“It is a case of conscience, it is an ethical dilemma. How do I
know—the modern woman is capable of anything—how do I know that you
may not yourself be a smoker? But if you are, it will give you pain to
see me enjoying my cigarette, while you are without one.”
“It would be civil to begin by offering me one,” she suggested.
“That is exactly the liberty I dared not take—oh, there are limits
to my boldness. But you have saved the situation.” And he offered her
his cigarette-case.
She shook her head. “Thank you, I don’t smoke.” And her eyes were
full of teasing laughter, so that he laughed too, as he finally applied
a match-flame to his cigarette. “But you may allow me to examine
your cigarette-case,” she went on. “It looks like a pretty bit of
silver.” And when he had handed it to her, she exclaimed, “It is
engraved with the royal arms.”
“Yes. Why not?” said he.
“Does it belong to the King?”
“It was a present from the King.”
“To you? You are a friend of the King?” she asked, with some
eagerness.
“I will not deceive you,” he replied. “No, not to me. The King
gave it to Hilary Clairevoix, the Constable of Bellefontaine;
and Hilary, who’s a careless fellow, left it lying about in his
music-room, and I came along and pocketed it. It is a pretty bit of
silver, and I shall never restore it to its rightful owner if I can help
it.”
“But you are a friend of the King’s?” she repeated, with
insistence.
“I have not that honour. Indeed, I have never seen him. I am a friend
of Hilary’s; I am his guest. He has stayed with me in England—I am
an Englishman—and now I am returning his visit.”
“That is well,” said she. “If you were a friend of the King, you
would be an enemy of mine.”
“Oh?” he wondered. “Why is that?”
“I hate the King,” she answered simply.
“Dear me, what a capacity you have for hating! This is the second
hatred you have avowed within the hour. What has the King done to
displease you?”
“You are an Englishman. Has the King’s reputation not reached
England yet? He is the scandal of Europe. What has he done? But no—do
not encourage me to speak of him. I should grow too heated,” she said
strenuously.
“On the contrary, I pray of you, go on,” urged Ferdinand Augustus.
“Your King is a character that interests me more than you can think.
His reputation has indeed reached England, and I have conceived a great
curiosity about him. One only hears vague rumours, to be sure, nothing
specific; but one has learned to think of him as original and romantic.
You know him. Tell me a lot about him.”
“Oh, I do not know him personally. That is an affliction I have as yet
been spared.” Then, suddenly, “Mercy upon me, what have I said!”
she cried. “I must ’knock wood,’ or the evil spirits will bring
me that mischance to-morrow.” And she fervently tapped the bark of the
tree beside her with her knuckles.
Ferdinand Augustus laughed. “But if you do not know him personally,
why do you hate him?”
“I know him very well by reputation. I know how he lives, I know what
he does and leaves undone. If you are curious about him, ask your friend
Hilary. He is the King’s foster-brother. He could tell you stories,”
she added meaningly.
“I have asked him. But Hilary’s lips are sealed. He depends upon the
King’s protection for his fortune, and the palace-walls (I suppose he
fears) have ears. But you can speak without danger. He is the scandal of
Europe? There’s nothing I love like scandal. Tell me all about him.”
“You have not come all this distance, under a scorching sun, to stand
here now and talk of another man,” she reminded him.
“Oh, but kings are different,” he argued. “Tell me about your
King.”
“I can tell you at once,” said she, “that our King is the frankest
egotist in two hemispheres. You have learned to think of him as original
and romantic? No; he is simply intensely selfish and intensely silly.
He is a King Do-Nothing, a Roi Fainéant, who shirks and evades all
the duties and responsibilities of his position; who builds extravagant
chateaux in remote parts of the country, and hides in them, alone with a
few obscure companions; who will never visit his capital, never show his
face to his subjects; who takes no sort of interest in public business
or the welfare of his kingdom, and leaves the entire government to his
ministers; who will not even hold a court, or give balls or banquets;
who, in short, does nothing that a king ought to do, and might, for all
the good we get of him, be a mere stranger in the land, a mere visitor,
like yourself. So closely does he seclude himself that I doubt if there
be a hundred people in the whole country who have ever seen him, to
know him. If he travels from one place to another, it is always in the
strictest incognito, and those who then chance to meet him never have
any reason to suspect that he is not a private person. His very effigy
on the coin of the realm is reputed to be false, resembling him in no
wise. But I could go on for ever,” she said, bringing her indictment
to a termination.
“Really,” said Ferdinand Augustus, “I cannot see that you have
alleged anything very damaging. A Roi Fainéant? But every king of a
modern constitutional state is, willy-nilly, that. He can do nothing but
sign bills which he generally disapproves of, lay foundation-stones, set
the fashion in hats, and bow and look pleasant as he drives through the
streets. He has no power for good, and mighty little for evil. He is
just a State Prisoner. It seems to me that your particular King has
shown some sense in trying to escape so much as he may of the prison’s
irksomeness. I should call it rare bad luck to be born a king. Either
you’ve got to shirk your kingship, and then fair ladies dub you the
scandal of Europe; or else you’ve got to accept it, and then you’re
as happy as a man in a strait-waistcoat. And then, and then! Oh, I can
think of a thousand unpleasantnesses attendant upon the condition of
a king. Your King, as I understand it, has said to himself, ’Hang it
all, I didn’t ask to be born a king, but since that is my misfortune,
I will seek to mitigate it as much as I am able. I am, on the whole,
a human being, with a human life to live, and only, probably,
threescore-and-ten years in which to live it. Very good; I will live
my life. I will lay no foundation-stones, nor drive about the streets
bowing and looking pleasant. I will live my life, alone with the few
people I find to my liking. I will take the cash and let the credit
go.’ I am bound to say,” concluded Ferdinand Augustus, “that your
King has done exactly what I should have done in his place.”
“You will never, at least,” said she, “defend the shameful manner
in which he has behaved towards the Queen. It is for that, I hate him.
It is for that, that we, the Queen’s gentlewomen, have adopted ’7’
is a weary day as a watchword. It will be a weary day until we see the
King on his knees at the Queen’s feet, craving her forgiveness.”
“Oh? What has he done to the Queen?” asked Ferdinand.
“What has he done! Humiliated her as never woman was humiliated
before. He married her by proxy at her father’s court; and she was
conducted with great pomp and circumstance into his kingdom—to find
what? That he had fled to one of his absurd castles in the north, and
refused to see her! He has remained there ever since, hiding like—but
there is nothing in created space to compare him to. Is it the behaviour
of a gentleman, of a gallant man, not to say a king?” she cried
warmly, looking up at him with shining eyes, her cheeks faintly flushed.
Ferdinand Augustus bowed. “The Queen is fortunate in her advocate. I
have not heard the King’s side of the story. I can, however, imagine
excuses for him. Suppose that his ministers, for reasons of policy,
importuned and importuned him to marry a certain princess, until
he yielded in mere fatigue. In that case, why should he be bothered
further? Why should he add one to the tedious complications of existence
by meeting the bride he never desired? Is it not sufficient that, by
his complaisance, she should have gained the rank and title of a queen?
Besides, he may be in love with another woman. Or perhaps—but who can
tell? He may have twenty reasons. And anyhow, you cannot deny to the
situation the merit of being highly ridiculous. A husband and wife who
are not personally acquainted! It is a delicious commentary upon the
whole system of marriages by proxy. You confirm my notion that your King
is original.”
“He may have twenty reasons,” answered she, “but he had better
have twenty terrors. It is perfectly certain that the Queen will be
revenged.”
“How so?” asked Ferdinand Augustus.
“The Queen is young, high-spirited, moderately good-looking, and
unspeakably incensed. Trust a young, high-spirited, and handsome woman,
outraged by her husband, to know how to avenge herself. Oh, some day he
will see.”
“Ah, well, he must take his chances,” Ferdinand sighed. “Perhaps
he is liberal-minded enough not to care.”
“I am far from meaning the vulgar revenge you fancy,” she put in
quickly. “The Queen’s revenge will be subtle and unexpected. She is
no fool, and she will not rest until she has achieved it. Oh, he will
see!”
“I had imagined it was the curse of royalty to be without true
friends,” said Ferdinand Augustus. “The Queen has a very ardent one
in you.”
“I am afraid I cannot altogether acquit myself of interested
motives,” she disclaimed modestly. “I am of her Majesty’s
household, and my fortunes must rise and fall with hers. But I am
honestly indignant with the King.”
“The poor King! Upon my soul, he has my sympathy,” said Ferdinand.
“You are terribly ironical,” said she.
“Irony was ten thousand leagues from my intention,” he protested.
“In all sincerity the object of your indignation has my sympathy. I
trust you will not consider it an impertinence if I say that I already
count you among the few people I have met whose good opinion is a matter
to be coveted.”
She had risen while he was speaking, and now she bobbed him a little
curtsey. “I will show my appreciation of yours, by taking flight
before anything can happen to alter it,” she laughed, moving away. V
“You are singularly animated to-night,” said Hilary, contemplating
him across the dinner-table; “yet, at the same time, singularly
abstracted. You have the air of a man who is rolling something pleasant
under his tongue, something sweet and secret: it might be a hope, it
might be a recollection. Where have you passed the afternoon? You’ve
been about some mischief, I’ll warrant. By Jove, you set me thinking.
I’ll wager a penny you’ve been having a bit of rational conversation
with that brown-haired woman.”
“Her hair is red,” Ferdinand Augustus rejoined, with firmness.
“And her conversation,” he added sadly, “is anything you please
but rational. She spent her whole time picking flaws in the character of
the King. She talked downright treason. She said he was the scandal of
Europe and the frankest egotist in two hemispheres.”
“Ah? She appears to have some instinct for the correct use of
language,” commented Hilary.
“All the same, I rather like her,” Ferdinand went on, “and
I’m half inclined to undertake her conversion. She has a gorgeous
figure—there’s something rich and voluptuous about it. And there
are depths of promise in her eyes; there are worlds of humour and of
passion. And she has a mouth—oh, of a fulness, of a softness, of
a warmth! And a chin, and a throat, and hands! And then, her voice.
There’s a mellowness yet a crispness, there’s a vibration, there’s
a something in her voice that assures you of a golden temperament
beneath it. In short, I’m half inclined to follow your advice, and go
in for a love-adventure with her.”
“Oh, but love-adventures—I have it on high authority—are damnable
iterations,” objected Hilary.
“That is very true; they are,” Ferdinand agreed. “But the life of
man is woven of damnable iterations. Tell me of any single thing that
isn’t a damnable iteration, and I’ll give you a quarter of my
fortune. The day and the night, the seasons and the years, the fair
weather and the foul, breakfast and luncheon and dinner—all are
damnable iterations. If there’s any reality behind the doctrine
of metempsychosis, death, too, is a damnable iteration. There’s no
escaping damnable iterations: there’s nothing new under the sun.
But as long as one is alive, one must do something. It’s sure to be
something in its essence identical with something one has done before;
but one must do something. Why not, then, a love-adventure with a woman
that attracts you?”
“Women are a pack of samenesses,” said Hilary despondently.
“Quite so,” assented Ferdinand. “Women, and men too, are a pack of
samenesses. We’re all struck with the same die, of the same metal,
at the same mint. Our resemblance is intrinsic, fundamental; our
differences are accidental and skin deep. We have the same features,
organs, dimensions, with but a hair’s-breadth variation; the same
needs, instincts, propensities; the same hopes, fears, ideas. One
man’s meat is another man’s meat; one man’s poison is another
man’s poison. We are as like to one another as the leaves on the same
tree. Skin us, and (save for your fat) the most skilled anatomist could
never distinguish you from me. Women are a pack of samenesses; but, hang
it all, one has got to make the best of a monotonous universe. And
this particular woman, with her red hair and her eyes, strikes me as
attractive. She has some fire in her composition, some fire and flavour.
Anyhow, she attracts me; and—I think I shall try my luck.”
“Oh, Nunky, Nunky,” murmured Hilary, shaking his head, “I am
shocked by your lack of principle. Have you forgotten that you are a
married man?”
“That will be my safeguard. I can make love to her with a clear
conscience. If I were single, she might, justifiably enough, form
matrimonial expectations for herself.”
“Not if she knew you,” said Hilary.
“Ah, but she doesn’t know me—and shan’t,” said Ferdinand
Augustus. “I will take care of that.” VI
And then, for what seemed to him an eternity, he never once encountered
her. Morning and afternoon, day after day, he roamed the park of
Bellefontaine from end to end, in all directions, but never once caught
sight of so much as the flutter of her garments. And the result was
that he began to grow seriously sentimental. “Im wunderschônen Monat
Mai!” It was June, to be sure; but the meteorological influences were,
for that, only the more potent. He remembered her shining eyes now as
not merely whimsical and ardent, but as pensive, appealing, tender; he
remembered her face as a face seen in starlight, ethereal and mystic;
and her voice as low music far away. He recalled their last meeting as a
treasure he had possessed and lost; he blamed himself for the frivolity
of his talk and manner, and for the ineffectual impression of him this
must have left upon her. Perpetually thinking of her, he was perpetually
sighing, perpetually suffering strange, sudden, half painful, half
delicious commotions in the tissues of his heart. Every morning he rose
with a replenished fund of hope: this day at last would produce her.
Every night he went to bed pitying himself as bankrupt of hope. And
all the while, though he pined to talk of her, a curious bashfulness
withheld him; so that, between him and Hilary, for quite a fortnight she
was not mentioned. It was Hilary who broke the silence.
“Why so pale and wan?” Hilary asked him. “Will, when looking well
won’t move her, looking ill prevail?”
“Oh, I am seriously love-sick,” cried Ferdinand Augustus, welcoming
the subject. “I went in for a sensation, and I’ve got a real
emotion.”
“Poor youth! And she won’t look at you, I suppose?” was Hilary’s
method of commiseration.
“I have not seen her for a mortal fortnight. She has completely
vanished. And for the first time in my life I’m seriously in love.”
“You’re incapable of being seriously in love,” said Hilary.
“I had always thought so myself,” admitted Ferdinand Augustus.
“The most I had ever felt for any woman was a sort of mere lukewarm
desire, a sort of mere meaningless titillation. But this woman is
different. She’s as different to other women as wine is different to
toast-and-water. She has the feu-sacré. She’s done something to the
very inmost soul of me; she’s laid it bare, and set it quivering
and yearning. She’s made herself indispensable to me; I can’t live
without her. Ah, you don’t know what she’s like. She’s like some
strange, beautiful, burning spirit. Oh, for an hour with her I’d give
my kingdom. To touch her hand—to look into those eyes of hers—to
hear her speak to me! I tell you squarely, if she’d have me, I’d
throw up the whole scheme of my existence, I’d fly with her to the
uttermost ends of the earth. But she has totally disappeared, and I can
do nothing to recover her without betraying my identity; and that would
spoil everything. I want her to love me for myself, believing me to be
a plain man, like you or anybody. If she knew who I am, how could I ever
be sure?”
“You are in a bad way,” said Hilary, looking at him with amusement.
“And yet, I’m gratified to see it. Her hair is not so red as I could
wish, but, after all, it’s reddish; and you appear to be genuinely
aflame. It will do you no end of good; it will make a man of you—a
plain man, like me or anybody. But your impatience is not reasoned. A
fortnight? You have not met her for a fortnight? My dear, to a plain man
(like me or anybody) a fortnight’s nothing. It’s just an appetiser.
Watch and wait, and you’ll meet her before you know it. And now, if
you will excuse me, I have business in another quarter of the palace.”
Ferdinand Augustus, left to himself, went down into the garden. It was a
wonderful summer’s evening, made indeed (if I may steal a phrase
from Hilary) of perfumed velvet. The sun had set an hour since, but the
western sky was still splendid, like a dark banner, with sombre reds and
purples; and in the east hung the full moon, so brilliant, so apposite,
as to seem somehow almost like a piece of premeditated decoration. The
waters of the fountains flashed silverly in its light; glossy leaves
gave back dim reflections; here and there, embowered among the
trees, white statues gleamed ghost-like. Away in the park somewhere,
innumerable frogs were croaking, croaking; subdued by distance, the
sound gained a quality that was plaintive and unearthly. The long
façade of the palace lay obscure in shadow; only at the far end, in the
Queen’s apartments, were the windows alight. But, quite close at hand,
the moon caught a corner of the terrace; and here, presently, Ferdinand
Augustus became aware of a human figure. A woman was standing alone
by the balustrade, gazing out into the wondrous night. Ferdinand
Augustus’s heart began to pound; and it was a full minute before he
could command himself sufficiently to move or speak.
At last, however, he approached her. “Good evening,” he said,
looking up from the pathway.
She glanced down at him, leaning upon the balustrade. “Oh, how do you
do?” She smiled her surprise. She was in evening dress, a white robe
embroidered with pearls, and she wore a tiara of pearls in her hair. She
had a light cloak thrown over her shoulders, a little cape trimmed
with swan’s-down. “Heavens!” thought Ferdinand Augustus. “How
magnificent she is!”
“It’s a hundred years since I have seen you,” he said.
“Oh, is it so long as that? I should have imagined it was something
like a fortnight. Time passes quickly.”
“That is a question of psychology. But now at last I find you when I
least expect you.”
“I have slipped out for a moment,” she explained, “to enjoy this
beautiful prospect. One has no such view from the Queen’s end of the
terrace. One cannot see the moon.”
“I cannot see the moon from where I am standing,” said he.
“No, because you have turned your back upon it,” said she.
“I have chosen between two visions. If you were to authorise me to
join you, aloft there, I could see both.”
“I have no power to authorise you,” she laughed, “the terrace is
not my property. But if you choose to take the risks——”
“Oh,” he cried, “you are good, you are kind.” And in an instant
he had joined her on the terrace, and his heart was fluttering wildly
with its sense of her nearness to him. He could not speak.
“Well, now you can see the moon. Is it all your fancy painted?” she
asked, with her whimsical smile. Her face was exquisitely pale in the
moonlight, her eyes glowed. Her voice was very soft.
His heart was fluttering wildly, poignantly. “Oh,” he began, but
broke off. His breath trembled. “I cannot speak,” he said.
She arched her eyebrows; “Then we have made some mistake. This will
never be you, in that case.”
“Oh, yes, it is I. It is the other fellow, the gabbler, who is not
myself,” he contrived to tell her.
“You lead a double life, like the villain in the play?” she
suggested.
“You must have your laugh at my expense; have it, and welcome. But I
know what I know,” he said.
“What do you know?” she asked quickly.
“I know that I am in love with you,” he answered.
“Oh, only that,” she said, with an air of relief.
“Only that. But that is a great deal. I know that I love you—oh,
yes, unutterably. If you could see yourself! You are absolutely unique
among women. I would never have believed it possible for any woman to
make me feel what you have made me feel. I have never spoken like this
to any woman in all my life. Oh, you may laugh. It is the truth, upon
my word of honour. If you could look into your eyes—yes, even when
you are laughing at me! I can see your wonderful burning spirit shining
deep, deep in your eyes. You do not dream how different you are to other
women. You are a wonderful burning poem. They are platitudes. Oh, I love
you unutterably. There has not been an hour since I last saw you that
I have not thought of you, loved you, longed for you. And now here you
stand, you yourself, beside me! If you could see into my heart, if you
could see what I feel!”
She looked at the moon, with a strange little smile, and was silent.
“Will you not speak to me?” he cried.
“What would you have me say?” she asked, still looking away.
“Oh, you know, you know what I would have you say.”
“I am afraid you will not like the only thing I can say.” She
turned, and met his eyes. “I am a married woman, and—I am in love
with my husband.”
Ferdinand Augustus stood aghast. “Oh, my God!” he groaned.
“Yes, though he has given me little enough reason to do so, I have
fallen in love with him,” she went on pitilessly. “So you must get
over your fancy for me. After all, I am a total stranger to you. You do
not even know my name.”
“Will you tell me your name?” asked Ferdinand humbly. “It will be
something to remember.”
“My name is Marguerite.”
“Marguerite! Marguerite!” He repeated it caressingly. “It is a
beautiful name. But it is also the name of the Queen.”
“I am the only person named Marguerite in the Queen’s court,” said
she.
“What!” cried Ferdinand Augustus.
“Oh, it is a wise husband who knows his own wife,” laughed she.
And then.... But I think I have told enough.