‘But, Richie,’ said he, pressing me again to write the moving line, ’a letter with a broad black border addressed by me might pass.’  He looked mournfully astute.  ’The margravine might say to herself, “Here’s Doctor Death in full diploma come to cure the wench of her infatuation.”  I am but quoting the coarse old woman, Richie; confusion on her and me! for I like her.  It might pass in my handwriting, with a smudge for paternal grief—­it might.  “To Her Serene Highness the Margravine of Rippau, etc., etc., etc., in trust for the Most Exalted the Princess of Eppenwelzen-Sarkeld.”  I transpose or omit a title or so.  “Aha!” says she, “there’s verwirrung in Roy’s poor head, poor fellow; the boy has sunk to a certainty.  Here (to the princess), it seems, my dear, this is for you.  Pray do not communicate the contents for a day or so, or a month."’

His imitation of the margravine was the pleasantest thing I heard from him.  The princess’s maid and confidante, he regretted to state, was incorruptible, which I knew.  That line of Ottilia’s writing, ’Violets are over,’ read by me in view of the root-mountain of the Royal House of Princes, scoffed at me insufferably whenever my father showed me these openings of his mind, until I was dragged down to think almost that I had not loved the woman and noble soul, but only the glorified princess—­the carved gilt frame instead of the divine portrait! a shameful acrid suspicion, ransacking my conscience with the thrusting in of a foul torch here and there.

For why had I shunned him of late?  How was it that he tortured me now?  Did I in no degree participate in the poignant savour of his scheme?  Such questionings set me flushing in deadly chills.  My brain was weak, my heart exhausted, my body seemed truthful perforce and confessed on the rack.  I could not deny that I had partly, insensibly clung to the vain glitter of hereditary distinction, my father’s pitfall; taking it for a substantial foothold, when a young man of wit and sensibility and, mark you, true pride, would have made it his first care to trample that under heel.  Excellent is pride; but oh! be sure of its foundations before you go on building monument high.  I know nothing to equal the anguish of an examination of the basis of one’s pride that discovers it not solidly fixed; an imposing, self-imposing structure, piled upon empty cellarage.  It will inevitably, like a tree striking bad soil, betray itself at the top with time.  And the anguish I speak of will be the sole healthy sign about you.  Whether in the middle of life it is adviseable to descend the pedestal altogether, I dare not say.  Few take the precaution to build a flight of steps inside—­it is not a labour to be proud of; fewer like to let themselves down in the public eye—­it amounts to a castigation; you must, I fear, remain up there, and accept your chance in toppling over.  But in any case, delude yourself as you please, your lofty