Maurice's dormant love of journalistic inquiry had become
aroused, and he had asked permission to investigate the affair,
a favor readily granted to him.
But here he was, on the scene, and nobody knew anything, and
nobody could tell anything. The duchess had remained silent. Not
unnaturally he wished himself back in Vienna. There were no
court fetes in the city of Bleiberg. The king's condition was
too grave to permit them. And, besides, there had been no real
court in Bleiberg for the space of ten years, so he was told.
Those solemn affairs of the archbishop's, given once the week
for the benefit of the corps diplomatique, were dull and
spiritless. Her Royal Highness was seldom seen, save when she
drove through the streets. Persons who remembered the reign
before told what a mad, gay court it had been. Now it was
funereal. The youth and beauty of Bleiberg held a court of its
own. Royalty was not included, nor did it ask to be.
A strange capital, indeed, Maurice reflected, as he gazed down
into the cool, brown water. He regretted his caprice. There were
pretty women in Vienna. Some of them belonged to the American
colony.
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