And she would step out upon her balcony, in full sight of the enemy, and look down upon them calmly, contemptuously. Still, the military did contrive to prevent an actual revolution, and to maintain the status quo. The news reached the King at Vienna. He turned straight round and hurried home. “Oh, my dear, my dear!” he groaned. “You have made a mess of things.” “You think so? Read this.” It was a copy of the morning’s Gazette, containing Prince Vasiliev’s report of the interesting discoveries he had made amongst the papers Tsargradev had left behind him at the Home Office. There was an immediate revulsion of public feeling. The secret understanding with Berlin was the thing that “did it.” The Monterossans are hereditarily, temperamentally, and from motives of policy, Russophils. They couldn’t forgive Tsargradev his secret treaty with Berlin; and they promptly proceeded to execrate him as much as they had loved him. For State reasons, however, it was decided not to prosecute him. On his release from prison, he asked for his passport, that he might go abroad. He has remained an exile ever since, and (according to Florimond, at any rate) “is spending his declining years colouring a meerschaum.” “People talk of the ingratitude of princes,” said the Queen, last night. “But what of the ingratitude of nations? The Monterossans hated me because I dismissed M. Tsargradev; and then, when they saw him revealed in his true colours, they still hated me, in spite of it. They are quick to resent what they imagine to be an injury; but they never recognise a benefit. Oh, the folly of universal suffrage! The folly of constitutional government! I used to say, ’Surely a good despot is better than a mob.’ But now I’m convinced that a bad despot, even, is better. Come, Florimond, let us sing.... you know.... that song....” “God save—the best of despots?” suggested Florimond. COUSIN ROSALYS Isn’t it a pretty name, Rosalys? But, for me, it is so much more; it is a sort of romantic symbol. I look at it written there on the page, and the sentiment of things changes: it is as if I were listening to distant music; it is as if the white paper turned softly pink, and breathed a perfume—never so faint a perfume of hyacinths. Rosalys, Cousin Rosalys.... London and this sad-coloured February morning become shadowy, remote. I think of another world, another era. Somebody has said that old memories and fond regrets are the day-dreams of the disappointed, the illusions of the age of disillusion. Well, if they are illusions, thank goodness they are where experience can’t touch them—on the safe side of time.