“Ah, General,” said I, “the public enthusiasm is stimulating. Not all the school children of my native town, bribed by oranges and buns, can shout like your honest people.” “And the Princess?” he asked anxiously. “And the Princess is divine.” A week passed in a whirl of popular excitement. No one guessed; the Russian dared not speak openly. In any case I hardly think Russia would have avowed her kidnapping of the Prince. As it was, the Baron had too great a fear of the document he believed I held. On the second day the Princess gave me her answer. We were betrothed. Public joy expressed itself in gala nights at the Opera, in fireworks, in torchlight processions. And for me all the zest of the game I was playing departed. As I listened to Marie, as I learned from her own lips that she loved me, I realized bitterly the part I was playing. Not all the General’s sophistries could disguise it from me. I was cheating her. And her trust was perfect. I writhed under her praise, I was tortured by the possession of her love, a possession which, come by honestly, I would have treasured beyond all else. On the eighth day, the evening of the gala ball, my granite General came to my private chamber. “The _Coquette_ entered Trieste last night,” he said harshly. I started. _Coquette_ was the name of the soprano’s yacht. “Well?” I replied. We stared at each other. General Hartzel had been growing brusk and ill-humored with me. I think he guessed at the romance. “The King will be here tomorrow night.” “Suppose I answer that by saying the King is here?” “You will not do that. Your honor is engaged.” “You have been teaching me to do without honor.” “I must tell her tonight.” I rose. “You will not. I will tell her.” “You will seek to dissuade her!” “I will tell her. It is my right, Hartzel.” “You promise——?” “I promise nothing. Man, do you think I will slink out of this like a whipped cur? I have cheated. I will confess.” After the first ceremonial reception I slipped into the dark garden. My brain was hot. I wanted to feel the soft coolness of the night. In an avenue I stumbled upon the Prince Otho and the Russian Baron. They barred my way. “Impostor!” cried the Prince. The news had leaked out. The Russian knew and had told his friend. I took off my glove and struck him in the face. “After the fourth waltz,” I said. “There is a moon. In the walled garden. And, gentlemen, whatever you may know, keep silence. Berlin will speak if you do.” I sought Hartzel. He was not difficult to find. He was dogging my steps like a spy. I told him of my meeting in the garden, and asked him to be my second. “He is a good swordsman,” he said. I think he was sorry. “Then I sincerely hope the real Paul won’t miss his train. To have the throne vacant again would be annoying.” “And you?” he asked. “My dear General,” I said, with a smile, “when a man is giving up a pearl of infinite value he does not care much for the tarnished gold of his own life.”