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 off," he said.
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