If you make the mistake with the princess that you made with me, I
warn you it will not be so easily corrected."
My poor riddle! My stony sphinx! My clinging hallucination! Again I
should have it with me, stalking at my side by day, lying by me at
night, whirling through my brain at all times, and driving me mad with
its eternal question, "Who is Yolanda?" The solution of my riddle may be
clear to you as I am telling you the story. At least, you may think it
is, since I am trying to conceal nothing from you. I relate this history
in the order of its happening, and wish, if possible, to place before
you the manner in which this question of Yolanda's identity puzzled me.
If you will put yourself in my place, you will at once realize how
deeply I was affected by this momentous, unanswered, unanswerable
question, "Who is Yolanda?" and you will understand why I could not see
the solution, however clear you may believe it to be to yourself.
We soon went in to supper and, after the peacock, the pheasants, and the
pastries were removed, we were served with a most delicious after-dish
in sparkling glass cups. It was frozen orange-water mixed with wine of
Burgundy. I had never tasted a dish so palatable. I had dined at the
emperor's table in Vienna; I had lived in Italy; I had sojourned in the
East, where luxuries are most valued and used, but I had never partaken
of a more delicious supper than that which I ate at the house of my rich
burgher friend, George Castleman.
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