energy which it contained could be liberated at the same moment it would be sufficient to hurl Mont Blanc and Chamonix into the air; but that, as it happened, such a thing could never take place.
“But you’ll do it,” said d’Hémon seriously and definitely.
The Princess leaned over towards them: “What were you saying?”
“I was saying that he will do it,” repeated Monsieur d’Hémon with perfect simplicity.
“There you are,” said the Princess loudly, and sat down victoriously. Prokop grew red and did not dare to look at her.
“And if he does do it,” she asked breathlessly, “will he be terribly famous? Like Darwin?”
“If he does it,” said Monsieur d’Hémon without hesitation, “kings will consider it an honour to carry his coffin. That is, if there are still any kings.”
“Rubbish,” muttered Prokop, but the Princess glowed with inexpressible delight. He would not have looked at her for anything in the world; embarrassed, he mumbled something or other, crumbling a piece of sugar in his fingers. Finally he ventured to lift his eyes. She looked at him directly, with passionate love. “Do you?” she said to him under her breath. He understood only too well what she meant: Do you love me?—but he pretended that he had not heard and quickly looked at the tablecloth instead. God! that girl’s mad, or else she deliberately wants. . . . “Do you?” came to him across the table, still more loudly and urgently. He nodded quickly and looked at her with eyes filled with happiness. Luckily in the
