Rimbaud, Conte

A prince was irritated that he was never employed in anything but the perfection of vulgar generosities. He foresaw astonishing cycles of love, suspected his women of a power stronger than some complaisance embellished of luxury and sky. He wanted to see the truth, the hour of essential desire and satisfaction. Whether this was or was not an aberration of piety, he desired it. He at least held a very large human capacity.

Every woman who had known him was assassinated: what a sack of the garden of beauty! Under the saber, they blessed him. So he ordered nothing more. -- The women returned.

He killed everyone who followed him, after the hunt and libations. -- Everyone followed him.

He amused himself by de-gorging luxurious beasts. He set fire to the palace. He rushed upon people and trimmed them to pieces. -- The crowd, the roofs of gold, the belle beasts subsisted.

Can a man enrapture in destruction, rejuvenate in cruelty! The people didn't murmur. None held concourse in their views.

One night, he was galloping fiercely. A Genius appeared, of unspeakable beauty, inadmissible even. In contrast to his features and his disposition was the promise of a love multiplicit and complex! Of an unspeakable happiness, even insupportable! The Prince and the Genius annihilated each other, probably in lieu of their essential health. How couldn't they have died from it? So they died together.

But this Prince died in his palace, at the usual age. The Prince was the Genius, and the Genius, the Prince.

The savant twang defaults our urge.