She was a princess royal, he the slave who stood afar off and worshipped beyond the barrier of her disdain.

In his leather pocketbook lay the ever-present reminder that she could be no more than a dream to him.

It was the clipping from a Paris newspaper, announcing that the Princess Genevra was to wed Prince Karl during the Christmas holidays.
He had seen the Christmas holidays come and go with the certain knowledge in his heart that they had given her to Brabetz as the most glorious present that man had ever received.

If he was tormented by this thought at the happiest season of the year, his crustiness was attributed by others to the loneliness of his life on the island.

If he grew leaner and more morose, no one knew that it was due to the passing of a woman.
Now she was come to the island and, so far as he had been able to see, there was no sign of the Prince of Brabetz in attendance.