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And now I shall dance as I have never danced before, and perhaps I shall forget Brandenstein. But I don't think that I ever shall, for I have been even madder than the Grand Duke."

But at least she was more fortunate than Eitel Gustav, for she, after a period of bewilderment and despair, had recovered her sanity, nor was she compelled to live as he was forced to do, in a padded room, the window of which was placed so high that he might not even—he who so deeply loved beauty—gaze out upon the tranquil waters of the Rhine and find a little solace in so much beauty. On the contrary, he was compelled by the cruelty of an inexorable destiny to drag out the remaining ten years of his life in the futile delusion that he had become the wretched child Dauphin of the Revolution, that he was imprisoned in the Temple, and that his attendant, a kindly man, was none other than Simone, the brutal cobbler. . . .

Such was the end of Eitel Gustav, hereditary Grand Duke of Brandenstein and Kunitz.

Lina's fire, that had burned with a marigold brightness when she first began her supper, sank into smoldering ruins long before she had forgotten Eitel Gustav, his fantastic toy duchy, her gimcrack pavilion in his castle park, and Guy's last letter, the letter doomed to remain for ever unanswered. But she realized, with a curious clearness as she sat smoking cigarettes before this dying fire, all forgetful of her aching tiredness, that never again, whatever frightful blows her destiny might have in store for her, could she be hurt as she had been hurt at Brandenstein on that cold and frosty day, so long ago, when she had stood at the French windows, a letter crumpled in her hand, to watch the snow birds of Brandenstein wheel wildly in the air, battling with all their strength toward the milder breezes of the South.