"Ah, Maurice," he said, "you are growing over fond. But why not?
Who will know? To have loved is something."
He crept into bed; but sleep refused him its offices, and he
tossed about in troubled dreams. He fought all kinds of duels
with all sorts of weapons. He was killed a half dozen times, but
the archbishop always gave him something which rekindled the
vital spark. A thousand Beauvaises raged at him. A thousand
princesses were ever in the background, waiting to be saved. He
swore to kill these Beauvaises, and after many fruitless
endeavors, he succeeded in smothering them in their gray
pelisses. Then he woke, as dreamers always wake when they pass
some great dream-crisis, and found himself in a deadly struggle
with a pillow and a bed-post. He laughed and sprang out of bed.
"It's no use, I can't sleep. I am an old woman."
So he lit his pipe and sat dreaming with his eyes open, smoking
and smoking, until the sickly pallor of dawn appeared in the sky,
and he knew that day had come.
CHAPTER XVIII
A MINOR CHORD AND A CHANGE OF MOVEMENT
Marshal Kampf, wrapt in his military cloak, with the peak of his
cap drawn over his eyes, sat on one of the rustic benches in the
archbishop's gardens and reflected.
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