"You're king at last," he seemed to say again.

CHAPTER XII.

KING AT A PRICE.

The death of Prince von Hammerfeldt furnished the subject of a picture
exhibited at Forstadt with great success a few years ago. The old man's
simple room, its plain furniture, the large window facing the garden,
were faithfully given; the bed was his bed and no other bed; the nurses
were portraits, the doctors were portraits, the Prince's features were
exactly mapped; I myself was represented sitting in an armchair by his
side, with a strong light on my face as I leaned forward to catch his
faint words. The artist's performance was, in fact, a singularly
competent reproduction of every external object, human or other, in the
room; and with the necessary alteration of features and title the
picture would have served to commemorate the death-bed of any aged
statesman who had a young prince for his pupil. Hammerfeldt is evidently
giving a brief summary of his principles, providing me with a _vade
mecum_ of kingship, a manual on the management of men. I listen with an
expression of deep attention and respectful grief. By a touch which no
doubt is dramatic, the other figures are gazing intently at me, on whom
the future depends, not at the dying man whose course is run. Looking at
the work as a whole, I am not in the least surprised that I was
recommended to bestow the Cross of St. Paul on the painter. I consented
without demur. In mere matters of taste I have always considered myself
bound to reflect public opinion.

Now for reality. An old man struggling hard for breath; gasps now
quicker, now slower; a few words half-formed, choked, unintelligible;
eyes that were full of an impotent desire to speak; these came first.
Then the doctors gathered round, looked, whispered, went away. I rose
and walked twice across the room; coming back, I stood and looked at
him. Still he knew me. Suddenly his hand moved toward me. I bent my head
till my ear was within three inches of his lips; I could hear nothing. I
saw a doctor standing by, watch in hand; he was timing the breath that
grew slower and slower. "Will he speak?" I asked in a whisper; a shake
of the head answered me. I looked again into his eyes; now he seemed to
speak to me. My face grew hot and red; but I did not speak to him. Yet I
stroked his hand, and there was a gleam of understanding in his eyes. A
moment later his eyes closed; the gasps became slower and slower. I
raised my h