He just
thought that she had dropped dead of heart disease. Indeed, I
fancy that the only people who ever knew that Florence had
committed suicide were Leonora, the Grand Duke, the head of the
police and the hotel-keeper. I mention these last three because my
recollection of that night is only the sort of pinkish effulgence
from the electric-lamps in the hotel lounge. There seemed to bob
into my consciousness, like floating globes, the faces of those
three. Now it would be the bearded, monarchical, benevolent head
of the Grand Duke; then the sharp-featured, brown,
cavalry-moustached feature of the chief of police; then the
globular, polished and high-collared vacuousness that represented
Monsieur Schontz, the proprietor of the hotel. At times one head
would be there alone, at another the spiked helmet of the official
would be close to the healthy baldness of the prince; then M.
Schontz's oiled locks would push in between the two. The
sovereign's soft, exquisitely trained voice would say, "Ja, ja, ja!"
each word dropping out like so many soft pellets of suet; the
subdued rasp of the official would come: "Zum Befehl
Durchlaucht," like five revolver-shots; the voice of M.
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