This may or may not be my
last night on earth. . . . Let us go to the opera. Let us be original
in all things. I shall pay a prima donna to sing my requiem from the
footlights--before I am dead."
"Jack!" cried Pembroke, anxiously.
"Oh, do not worry," said I. "I am only trying to laugh--but I can't!"
"Are you truly serious about going to the opera?" he asked.
"Yes. Hurry and dress," said I.
I leaned against the mantel and stared into the flickering tongues of
flame. A caprice? I read the letter again, then threw it into the
grate and watched the little darts of light devour it. Now and then a
word stood out boldly. Finally the wind carried the brown ashes up the
chimney, I would keep the other letter--the one she had asked for--and
the withered rose till the earth passed over me. She was a Princess; I
was truly an adventurer, a feeble pawn on the chess-board. What had I
to do with Kings and bishops and knights? The comedy was about to
end--perhaps with a tragedy. I had spoken my few lines and was going
behind the scenes out of which I had come. As I waited for Pembroke
the past two years went by as in a panorama.
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