, but it is you who deafen yourself
with words. What, after all, is that crown of Illyria that you are
always talking about? It is worth nothing except on a king's head;
elsewhere it is obstruction, a useless thing, which for flight is
carried hidden away in a bonnet-box or exposed under a glass shade like
the laurels of an actor or the blossoms of a _concierge's_ bridal
wreath. You must be convinced of one thing, Frederique. A king is truly
king only on the throne, with power to rule; fallen, he is nothing, less
than nothing, a rag. Vainly do we cling to etiquette, to our titles,
always bringing forward our Majesty, on the panels of our carriages, on
the studs of our cuffs, hampering ourselves with an empty ceremonial. It
is all hypocrisy on our part, and mere politeness and pity on the part
of those who surround us--our friends and our servants. Here I am King
Christian II. for you, for Rosen, for a few faithful ones. Outside I
become a man like the rest, M. Christian Two. Not even a surname, only
'Christian,' like an actor of the Gaete."

He stopped, out of breath; he did not remember having ever spoken so
long standing. The shrill notes of the night-birds, the prolonged trills
of the nightingales, broke the silence of the night. A big moth that had
singed its wings at the lights flew about, thumping against the walls.
This fluttering distress and the smothered sobs of the Queen were the
only sounds to be heard; she knew how to meet rage and violence, but was
powerless before this scoffing banter, so foreign to her sincere nature;
it found her unarmed, like the valiant soldier who expects straight
blows and feels only the harassing stings of insects. Seeing her break
down, Christian thought her vanquished, and to complete his victory he
put the finishing touch to the burlesque picture he had drawn of kings
in exile. "What a pitiful figure they cut, all these poor princes _in
partibus_, figurants of royalty, who drape themselves in the frippery of
the principal characters, and declaim before the empty benches without a
farthing of receipts! Would they not be wiser if they held their peace
and returned to the obscurity of common life? For those who have money
there is some excuse. Their riches give them some right to cling to
these grandeurs. But the others, the poor cousins of Palermo for
instance, crowded together in a tiny house with their horrid Italian
cookery. It smells of onions when the door is opened. Worthy fo