Yes, this is the end of the story which I began (it seems in a previous
incarnation) at Murglebed-on-Sea.
The maiming of Lola's beauty has been the last jest which the
Arch-Jester has practised on me. I fancy he thought that this final
scurvy trick would wipe Simon de Gex for ever out of the ranks of his
rivals. But I flatter myself that, having snapped my fingers in his
face, the last laugh has been on my side. He has withdrawn discomfited
from the conflict and left me master of the ground. Love conquers all,
even the Arch-Jester.
There are some who still point to me as one who has deliberately ruined
a brilliant career, who pity me as one who has gone under, who speak
with shrugged shoulders and uplifted eyebrows at my unfortunate marriage
and my obscure and cranky occupation. The world, they say, was at
my feet. So it was. But what the pitying critics lack the grace to
understand is that better than to have it under one's feet is to have
it, or that of it which matters, at one's heart.
I sit in this tiny hotel by the sea and reflect that it is over three
years since I awoke from death and assumed a new avatar.
Pages:
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515