th a strong sense that Providence had erred in not
making her a saint, a king, or anything else that demands a resolute
repression of human infirmities. Some people are content to triumph over
their own weaknesses; my mother had an eye also for the frailty of
others.

She made no reference at all to Varvilliers. There was always something
to be learned from Princess Heinrich. From early youth I was inured to a
certain degree of painfulness in the lesson.

"Willingly give thyself up to Clotho." My mother was more than willing.
She was proud; and, if I may be allowed to vary the metaphor, she
embarked on the ship of destiny with a family ticket.

CHAPTER XXIII.

A PARADOX OF SENSIBILITY.

To many the picture presented by my life might seem that of a man who
detects the trap and yet walks into it, sinks under burdens that he
might cast aside, groans at chains that he could break, and will not
leave the prison although the door-key is in his pocket. Such an
impression my record may well give, unless it be understood that what
came upon me was not an impossibility of movement, but a paralysis of
the will to move. In this there is nothing peculiar to one placed as I
was. Most men could escape from what irks, confines, or burdens them at
the cost of effacing their past lives, breaking the continuity of
existence, cutting the cord that binds together, in a sequence of
circumstances and incidents, youth, and maturity, and age. But who can
do the thing? One man in a thousand, and he generally a scoundrel.

Our guests returned to Bartenstein, the Duchess still radiant and
maternal, Elsa infinitely kind, infinitely apologetic, a little tearful,
never for an instant wavering in her acceptance of the future.
Varvilliers took leave of me with great friendliness; there was in his
air now just a hint of amusement, most decorously suppressed; he was
charmingly unconscious of any possible seriousness in the position. My
mother went to visit Styrian relatives. Victoria and William Adolphus
had taken a villa by the seaside. I was quite alone at Artenberg, save
for my faithful Vohrenlorf, and Vohrenlorf was bored to death. That will
not appear strange; to me it seemed enviable. A prisoner under sentence
probably discerns much that is attractive even in the restricted life of
his jailer.

In a day or two there came upon me a persistent restlessness, and with
it constant thoughts of Wetter. I wondered where he was and what he d