recalls her kiss and the mad embrace of her arms. Yes, it
was a blissful enervation, an intoxication of the flesh, an unknown
giddiness, a physical comfort. But love: was it love?... And he has to
make up his mind: perhaps it is love; and, though he feels something
lacking in his soul, he makes up his mind for all that: yes, perhaps
that is what it is ... love.

"And when shall I see your highness again?" she whispers.

The question is put crudely and surprises him. But this single second of
momentary solitude is so precious to the duchess that she cannot do
otherwise. She observes his surprise and adores him for his innocence;
and her eyes gaze so beseechingly that he replies:

"To-morrow I am dining with the French ambassador; after that I am going
to the opera.... Can I find you here at eleven o'clock?"

He is surprised at the logical sequence of his thoughts, at his
question, which sounds so strangely in his ears. But she answers,
laughing disconcertedly:

"For God's sake, highness, not here, at eleven o'clock! How could we!...
But ... come to ... Dutri's...."

She stammers; she remembers the equerry's luxurious flat and sees
herself there again ... with others. And in her confusion she does not
perceive that she has wounded him deeply and torn his sensitiveness as
though with sharp claws; she fails all the more to perceive this,
because he answers, confusedly:

"Very well...."

They return, laughing, with their official, colourless voices; they walk
slowly: he, so young in his silver uniform, with the helmet, with its
drooping plume, under the natural grace of his rounded arm; she, with
her expansive brilliancy, trailing her ivory train, waving her fan of
feathers and diamonds to and fro against her Carrara-marble bosom. All
eyes are turned in their direction and observe the duchess' triumph....

And Othomar now knows that his "love" will become what is called a
_liaison_, such as he has heard of in connection with this one and that,
or read of in novels. He had not yet imagined such an arrangement. He
does not know how he is to tell Dutri that he has made an assignation
with the duchess in his rooms; and, when he thinks of the equerry,
something of his innate sovereignty is chipped off as little pieces of
marble or alabaster might be from a frail column....

Joining the duke and the general, he talks of the approaching
manoeuvres. He now sees the duchess standing at a distance and Mena-Doni
bending hi