The
French Revolution--its Reign of Terror--the orgies of carnage--the
cataclysms of agony--need not have been, but they WERE. To put it
in words of one syllable."
"What!" was her involuntary exclamation. "You are seeking such
similes as the French Revolution!"
"Who knows how far a madness may reach and what Reign of Terror may
take form?" He sat down and drew an atlas towards him. It always lay
upon the table on which all the Duchess desired was within reach.
It was fat, convenient of form, and agreeable to look at in its
cover of dull, green leather. Coombe's gesture of drawing it towards
him was a familiar one. It was frequently used as reference.
"The atlas again?" she said.
"Yes. Just now I can think of little else. I have realized too
much."
The continental journey had lasted a month. He had visited more
countries than one in his pursuit of a study he was making of
the way in which the wind was blowing particular straws. For long
he had found much to give thought to in the trend of movement in
one special portion of the Chessboard. It was that portion of it
dominated by the ruler of whose obsession too careless nations made
sly jest. This man he had known from his arrogant and unendearing
youth. He had looked on with unbiassed curiosity at his development
into arrogance so much greater than its proportions touched the
grotesque.
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