and old Jean Damour's little fortune, will never make a brilliant marriage. Perhaps he does not mind, but his mother does. On the simple, practical, and erstwhile filial soul of Marie Delestre vanity has set its seal. She is a princess: her son is a prince. She is undoubtedly admitted to the drawing-rooms which are not excessively strict and which have cosmopolitan at-homes on Thursdays, whereas they receive the real set quietly on Mondays. On Thursdays Princess Maria is received. Is she not a sensible woman, a good mother, a talented musician, and, moreover, is she not really Princess Chalcondylas? She has to be received on the Thursdays . . . although she is never there on the Mondays.
This makes Princess Maria very unhappy, both because of her son and because of her vanity. They are her son and daughter. Vanity is her younger daughter, almost as dear to her as her son.
When Princess Maria is alone, she thinks of the old days and sometimes forgets her vanity. And then she gives a little smile and shrugs her shoulders. For in reality she is a sensible woman with good qualities all her own. And she herself feels that life is never more tragic than tragedy; and she realizes at the same time how humorous it all is, that she, Marie Delestre, the little governess, has become Princess Chalcondylas and her son Prince Basile. . . .
