to Siberia--and in irons too. Told me here in this very
room that he was much frightened. They lighted fires in Poland to honour
his patriotism. He acknowledged that _he_ would have played twenty
national hymns, but he couldn't remember the Russian one, or never knew
it--anyhow, he was christened a patriot, and all by a slip of the
memory. Now, that's luck, isn't it?"

She began to dislike this cynical old man with his depreciating tales of
genius. She knew that her idols often tottered on clay feet, but she
hated to be reminded of that disagreeable reality. She went to Monsieur
Rajewski and thanked him prettily in her cool new voice, and again the
princess nodded approval.

"She is _chic_, your little girl," she confided in her deep tones to
Mrs. Sheldam, whose tired New England face almost beamed at the
compliment.

"We were in Hamburg at the Zooelogical Garden; I always go to see
animals," declaimed the princess, in the midst of a thick silence. "For
you know, my friends, one studies humanity there in the raw. Well, I
dragged our party to the large monkey cage, and we enjoyed
ourselves--immensely! And what do you think we saw! A genuine novelty.
Some mischievous sailor had given an overgrown ape a mirror, and the
poor wretch spent its time staring at its image, neglecting its food and
snarling at its companions. The beast would catch the reflection of
another ape in the glass and quickly bound to a more remote perch. The
keeper told me that for a week his charge had barely eaten. It slept
with the mirror held tightly in its paws. Now, what did the mirror mean
to the animal! I believe"--here she became very vivacious--"I really
believe that it was developing self-consciousness, and in time it would
become human. On our way back from Heligoland, where we were entertained
on the emperor's yacht at the naval manoeuvres, we paid another visit to
our monkey house. The poor, misguided brute had died of starvation. It
had become so vain, so egotistical, so superior, that it refused food
and wasted away in a corner, gazing at itself, a hairy Narcissus, or
rather the perfect type of your modern Superman, who contemplates his
ego until his brain sickens and he dies quite mad."

Every one laughed. Mrs. Sheldam wondered what a Superman was, and
Ermentrude felt annoyed. Zarathustra was another of her gods, and this
brusquely related anecdote did not seem to her very spirituelle. But
she had not formulated an answer when she he