onel of the Xara Cuirassiers,
silver, red and white; he holds his plumed helmet under his arm; he
presses the duke's hand, he addresses him with genial words; but, in the
ingenuousness of his youthful soul, he feels bitter remorse gnawing at
his conscience now that he speaks of Castel Vaza, now that he listens to
the cordial protestations of the duke. Othomar also shakes hands with
the Marquis of Xardi.

Then the duchess approaches and greets the crown-prince with her famous
curtsey. Lady Danbury envies her her grace and asks herself how it is
possible, with those statuesque lines; she cannot deny that the Duchess
of Yemena is a splendid woman.... Between the duke and the duchess, the
prince walks down the row of bowing guests; the Marquis of Xardi follows
with the equerries.

Othomar has seen the duchess once or twice at the Imperial since his
return to Lipara, but never alone. They now exchange courteous phrases,
with official voices and intonations. The groups form once more, as at
an intimate rout.

The duchess walks on with Othomar, till they reach the long
conservatory, dimly lighted, dusky-green, with the stately palm-foliage
of the tall plants, with the delicate tracery of the bamboos, which
exude beads of dew against the square panes. They are silent for a
moment, looking at each other; and Othomar feels that his emotions for
this woman are nothing more than fleeting moments, cloudlets in his
soul. The unknown has opened out to him, but has turned to disillusion.
Nevertheless he is thankful to her for what she gave him: the
consolation of her passion, while his eyes were still moist with tears.
She strengthened him by this consolation and made him discover his
manhood. But everything in life is twofold; and his gratitude has a
reverse of sin. He sees the duke in the distance holding an animated
conversation, underlined with elegant, precise gestures, with Ducardi;
and remorse softly pierces his boyish soul.

And next to his gratitude he feels his disillusion. Love! Is this
love?... He feels nothing; nothing new has come into his heart. He sees
how deliciously beautiful the duchess is in her ivory brocade, her train
edged with dark fur, her bodice cut square, a string of pearls round her
neck. The half-light drifts past her through the plants, a faery green,
with a gentle slumbering and with shadows full of mystery; her face,
with its delicate smile, stands out against the background of blurred
darkness. He