The Goose Girl | Page 6

in order to finish his cigar on the little balcony fronting his
window, found it necessary to put on his light overcoat, though he
perfectly knew that he was in no manner forced to smoke on the
balcony. But the truth was he wanted a clear vision of the palace and
the lighted windows thereof, and of one in particular. He had no more
sense than Tom-fool, the abetter of follies. She was as far removed
from him as the most alien of the planets; but the magnet shall ever
draw the needle, and a woman shall ever draw a man. He knew that it
was impossible, that it grew more impossible day by day, and he railed
at himself bitterly and satirically.
He sighed and teetered his legs. A sigh moves nothing forward, yet it is
as essential as life itself. It is the safety-valve to every emotion; it is the
last thing in laughter, the last thing in tears. One sighs in entering the
world and in leaving it, perhaps in protest. A child sighs for the moon
because it knows no better. Carmichael sighed for the Princess
Hildegarde, understanding. It was sigh or curse, and the latter mode of
expression wastes more vitality. Oh, yes; they made over him, as the
world goes; they dined and wined him and elected him honorary
member to their clubs; they patted him on the back and called him
captain; but it was all in a negligent toleration that turned every
pleasure into rust.
Arthur Carmichael was Irish. He was born in America, educated there
and elsewhere, a little while in Paris, a little while at Bonn, and, like all
Irishmen, he was baned with the wandering foot; for the man who is
homeless by choice has a subtle poison in his blood. He was at Bonn
when the Civil War came. He went back to America and threw himself
into the fight with all the ardor that had made his forebears famous in
the service of the worthless Stuarts. It wasn't a question with him of the
mere love of fighting, of tossing the penny; he knew with which side he
wished to fight. He joined the cavalry of the North, and hammered and
fought his way to a captaincy. He was wounded five times and
imprisoned twice. His right eye was still weak from the effects of a
powder explosion; and whenever it bothered him he wore a single glass,
abominating, as all soldiers do, the burden of spectacles. At the end of
the conflict he returned to Washington.

And then the inherent curse put a hand on his shoulder; he must be
moving. His parents were dead; there was no anchor, nor had lying
ambition enmeshed him. There was a little property, the income from
which was enough for his wants. Without any influence whatever, save
his pleasing address and his wide education, he blarneyed the State
Department out of a consulate. They sent him to Ehrenstein, at a salary
not worth mentioning, with the diplomatic halo of dignity as a tail to
the kite. He had been in the service some two years by now, and those
who knew him well rather wondered at his sedative turn of mind. Two
years in any one place was not in reckoning as regarded Carmichael;
yet, here he was, caring neither for promotion nor exchange. So, then,
all logical deductions simmered down to one: Cherchez la femme.
He knew that his case would never be tried in court nor settled out of it;
and he realized that it would be far better to weigh anchor and set his
course for other parts. But no man ever quite forsakes his
dream-woman; and he had endued a princess with all the shining
attributes of an angel, when, had he known it, she was only angelic.
The dreamer is invariably tripping over his illusions; and Carmichael
was rather boyish in his dreams. What absurd romances he was always
weaving round her! What exploits on her behalf! But never anything
happened, and never was the grand duke called upon to offer his
benediction.
It was all very foolish and romantic and impossible, and no one
recognized this more readily than he. No American ever married a
princess of a reigning house, and no American ever will. This law is as
immovable as the law of gravitation. Still, man is master of his dreams,
and he may do as he pleases in the confines of this small circle. Outside
these temporary lapses, Carmichael was a keen, shrewd, far-sighted
young man, close-lipped and observant, never forgetting faces, never
forgetting benefits, loving a fight but never provoking one. So he and
the world were friends. Diplomacy has its synonym in tact, and he was
an able tactician, for