Aware of his high lineage, she hated him and beat him and despitefully used him.

She never gushed, it is true, over her offspring; but the little Buttons flourished under genuine motherment.

They, inconsiderable brats, were her veritable children.

Whereas he, Paul-it was as plain as daylight.
Somewhere far away in the great world, an august and griefstricken pair, at that very moment, were mourning the loss of their only son.
There they were, in their marble palace, surrounded by flunkeys all crimson and gold (men servants were always "gorgeously apparelled flunkeys" in Paul's books), sitting at a table loaded with pineapples on golden dishes, and eating out their hearts with longing.

He could hear their talk.
"If only our beloved son were with us," said the princess, wiping away a tear.
"We must be patient, my sweet Highness," replied the prince, with lofty resignation stamped on his noble brow.