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Ill
I SPENT the two following days alone, yearning for the
solitude of my library, the cellars of which, once the
sculpture rooms of the museum, suited my mood. The
large room, built in the rococo style and looking on to the
"Lions’ Court," contained the manuscripts. I spent a
great deal of time there, reading at haphazard anything
A\hich seemed old enough to draw my attention from
recent events. But the more I read, the more the present
melted into the past, and Queen Christine’s letters, yellow
with age, whispered into my ears Mords of love from the
Baroness.
To avoid the company of inquisitive friends, I shunned
my usual restaurant. I could not bear the thought of
degrading my tongue by confessing my new faith before
those scoffers ; they should never know. I was jealous
of my own personality, which was henceforth consecrated
to her only. As I went through the streets, I had a vision
of acolites walking before me, their tinkling bells an-
nouncing to the passers-by the approach of the Holy
of Holies enshrined in the monstrance of my heart. I
imagined myself in mourning, deep mourning for a queen,
and longed to bid the crowd bare their heads at the
passing of my stillborn love, which had no chance of
ever quickening into life.
On the third day I was roused from my lethargy by
the rolling of drums and the mournful strains of Chopin’s
Funeral March. I rushed to the window and noticed the
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