charitable bazaars, the dismal dances, the impossibly bad concerts, I
have no idea. She must have had some purpose, for she did nothing
without. I myself descended into fulfilling the functions of a
rudimentarily developed chaperon--functions similar in importance to
those performed by the eyes of a mole. I had the maddest of accesses of
jealousy if she talked to a man--and _such_ men--or danced with one. And
then I was forever screwing my courage up and feeling it die away. We
used to drive about in a coupe, a thing that shut us inexorably
together, but which quite as inexorably destroyed all opportunities for
what one calls making love. In smooth streets its motion was too glib,
on the _pavé_ it rattled too abominably. I wanted to make love to
her--oh, immensely, but I was never in the mood, or the opportunity was
never forthcoming. I used to have the wildest fits of irritation; not of
madness or of depression, but of simple wildness at the continual
recurrence of small obstacles. I couldn't read, couldn't bring myself to
it. I used to sit and look dazedly at the English newspapers--at any
newspaper but the _Hour_. De Mersch had, for the moment, disappeared.
There were troubles in his elective grand duchy--he had, indeed,
contrived to make himself unpopular with the electors, excessively
unpopular. I used to read piquant articles about his embroglio in an
American paper that devoted itself to matters of the sort. All sorts of
international difficulties were to arise if de Mersch were ejected.
There was some other obscure prince of a rival house, Prussian or
Russian, who had desires for the degree of royalty that sat so heavily
on de Mersch. Indeed, I think there were two rival princes, each waiting
with portmanteaux packed and manifestos in their breast pockets, ready
to pass de Mersch's frontiers.

The grievances of his subjects--so the Paris-American _Gazette_
said--were intimately connected with matters of finance, and de Mersch's