not appeal to his humor. The ascent from his shoes to his
collar was as tortuous as that of the alpine Jungfrau.

Ah, Madam, you may smile as much as you please, but it is a terrible
thing for a man to dress and at the same time think kindly of his
fellow-beings. You set aside three hours for your toilet, and devote two
hours to the little curl which droops over the tip of your dainty ear;
but with a man who has no curl, who knows nothing of the practice of
smiles and side glances, the studied carelessness of a pose, it is a
dismal, serious business up to the last moment.

With a final glance into the mirror, and convinced that if he touched
himself it would be only to disarrange the perfection which he had
striven so hard to attain, Maurice went down stairs. He had still an
hour to while away before presenting himself at the archbishop's palace.
So he roamed about the verandas, twirled his cane, and smoked like a
captain who expects to see his men in active engagement the very next
moment. This, together with the bad hour in his room, was an indication
that his nerves were finely strung.

He was nervous, not because he was to see strange faces, not because his
interest in the kingdom's affairs was both comic and tragic, nor because
he was to present himself at the archbishop's in a peculiar capacity,
that of a prisoner on parole. No, it was due to none of these. His
pulse did not stir at the prospect of meeting the true king. Diplomatic
functions were every-day events with him. He had passed several years of
his life in the vicinity of emperors, kings, viceroys, and presidents,
and their greatness had long ago ceased to interest or even to amuse
him. He was conscious only of an agitation which had already passed
through the process of analysis. He loved, he loved the impossible
and the unattainable, and it was the exhilaration of this thought that
agitated him. He never would be the same again--he would be better.
Neither did he regret this love.

Even now he could see himself back in his rooms in Vienna, smoking
before the fire, and building castles that tumbled down. It was worth
while, if only to have something to dream about. He did not regret the
love, he regretted its futility. How could he serve her? What could he
do against all these unseen forces which were crumbling her father's
throne? So she remembered what he had said to her in the archbishop's
garden? He looked at his watch. It was nine.

"Let us be