Eugene, Prince of Seyre, had spent the early part of that afternoon in a
manner wholly strange to him. In pursuance of an order given to his
majordomo immediately on his return from the club after lunch, the great
reception rooms of Seyre House, the picture-gallery and the ballroom,
were prepared as if for a reception. Dust-sheets were swept aside,
masterpieces of painting and sculpture were uncovered, the soft
brilliance of concealed electric lights lit up many dark corners.
When all was ready, the prince, with his hands clasped behind him, with
expressionless face and slow, thoughtful movements, passed from room to
room of the treasure-house which had come to him through a long line of
distinguished and famous men. Here and there he paused to handle with
the fingers of a connoisseur some excellent piece of bronze statuary,
some miracle of Sevres china, some treasure of carved ivory, yellow with
age. And more than once he stood still for several minutes in rapt
contemplation of one of the great masterpieces with which the walls were
hung.
As he passed, a solitary figure, from one to another of that long chain
of lofty, palatial rooms, his stature seemed more than ever
insignificant; yet he walked always with the dignity of the master.
Notwithstanding the slight excesses of his immaculate morning dress, his
pallid features, his insignificant build, he appeared to belong to
these things, to dominate them, to understand them. Every beautiful
object upon which he looked brought back to his memory some reminiscence
of his years of travel. He knew the history of the chinas and the
bronzes, the statuary and the lacquer-work, the friezes, and the great
pictures which adorned his house. Perhaps, he thought, as he paused to
study some Italian tapestry of his own discovery, he had spent too many
years in the contemplative life.
There had been many careers open to him in his younger days. France was
still his own country, and he might easily have joined the long line of
soldiers whose portraits filled one side of the picture-gallery. Once he
had had ambitions, either to wield the sword or to take his place in the
world of diplomacy. It was his political inheritance which had deadened
them, the awful debt of blood that he still owed to the enemies of his
race. He had found the spirit of patriotism dead within him, and in that
day he had turned his back upon his country. Since then he had carried
his great name through the pleasure places of the world, always
upholding its dignity, perhaps, but never adding to its luster.
He was forty-one years old that day, and the few words which John had
spoken to him barely an hour ago had made him realize that there was
only one thing in life that he desired. The sight of his treasures
merely soothed his vanity. It left empty and unsatisfied his fuller and
deeper desire of living. He told himself that his time had come. Others
of his race had paid a great price for the things they had coveted in
life. He, too, must follow their example.
He was in Louise's drawing-room when she returned--Louise, with hair and
cheeks a little damp, but with a wonderful light in her eyes and with
footsteps that seemed to fall upon air.
"Some tea and a bath this moment, Aline!" she called out, as she ran
lightly up the stairs. "Never mind about dinner, I am so late. I will
have some toast. Be quick!"
"_Madame_--" Aline began.
"Don't bother me about anything now," Louise interrupted. "I will throw
my things off while you get the bath ready."
She stepped into her little room, throwing off her cloak as she entered.
Then she stopped short, almost upon the threshold. The prince had risen
to his feet.
"Eugene!"
He came toward her. Even as he stooped to kiss her fingers, his eyes
seemed to take in her disheveled condition, the little patches of color
in her cheeks, the radiant happiness which shone in her eyes.
"I am not an unwelcome intruder, I hope," he said. "But how wet you
are!"
The fingers which he released fell nervelessly to her side. She stood
looking at him as if confronted with a sudden nightmare. It was as if
this new-found life were being slowly drained from her veins.
"You are overtired," he murmured, leading her with solicitude toward an
easy chair. "One would imagine, from your appearance, that I was the
bearer of some terrible tidings. Let me assure you that it is not so."
He spoke with his usual deliberation, but she seemed powerless to
recover herself. She was still dazed and white. She sank into the chair
and looked at him.
"Nothing, I trust," he went on, "has happened to disturb you?"
"Nothing at all," she declared hastily. "I am tired. I ran up-stairs
perhaps a little too quickly. Aline had not told me that there was any
one here."
"I had a fancy to see you this afternoon," the prince explained, "and,
finding you out, I took the liberty of waiting. If you would rather I
went away and came for you later, please do not hesitate to say so."
"Of course not!" she exclaimed. "I do not know why I should have been so
silly. Aline, take my coat and veil," she directed, turning to the maid,
who was lingering at the other end of the room. "I am not wet. Serve
some tea in here. I will have my bath later, when I change to go to the
theater."
She spoke bravely, but fear was in her heart. She tried to tell herself
that this visit was a coincidence, that it meant nothing, but all the
time she knew otherwise.
The door closed behind Aline, and they were alone. The prince, as if
anxious to give her time to recover herself, walked to the window and
stood for some moments looking out. When he turned around, Louise had at
least nerved herself to meet what she felt was imminent.
The prince approached her deliberately. She knew what he was going to
say.
"Louise," he began, drawing a chair to her side, "I have found myself
thinking a great deal about you during the last few weeks."
She did not interrupt him. She simply waited and watched.
"I have come to a certain determination," he proceeded; "one which, if
you will grace it with your approval, will give me great happiness. I
ask you to forget certain things which have passed between us. I have
come to you to-day to beg you to do me the honor of becoming my wife."
She turned her head very slowly until she was looking him full in the
face. Her lips were a little parted, her eyes a little strained. The
prince was leaning toward her in a conventional attitude; his words had
been spoken simply and in his usual conversational manner. There was
something about him, however, profoundly convincing.
"Your wife!" Louise repeated.
"If you will do me that great honor."
It seemed at first as if her nerves were strained to the breaking-point.
The situation was one with which her brain seemed unable to grapple. She
set her teeth tightly. Then she had a sudden interlude of wonderful
clear-sightedness. She was almost cool.
"You must forgive my surprise, Eugene," she begged. "We have known each
other now for some twelve years, have we not?--and I believe that this
is the first time you have ever hinted at anything of the sort!"
"One gathers wisdom, perhaps, with the years," he replied. "I am
forty-one years old to-day. I have spent the early hours of this
afternoon in reflection, and behold the result!"
"You have spoken to me before," she said slowly, "of different things.
You have offered me a great deal in life, but never your name. I do not
understand this sudden change!"
"Louise," he declared, "if I do not tell you the truth now, you will
probably guess it. Besides, this is the one time in their lives when a
man and a woman should speak nothing but the truth. It is for fear of
losing you--that is why."
Her self-control suddenly gave way. She threw herself back in her chair.
She began to laugh and stopped abruptly, the tears streaming from her
eyes. The prince leaned forward. He took her hands in his, but she drew
them away.
"You are too late, Eugene!" she said. "I almost loved you. I was almost
yours to do whatever you liked with. But somehow, somewhere,
notwithstanding all your worldly knowledge and mine, we missed it. We do
not know the truth about life, you and I--at least you do not, and I did
not."
He rose very slowly to his feet. There was no visible change in his face
save a slight whitening of the cheeks.
"And the sequel to this?" he asked.
"I have promised to marry John Strangewey," she told him.
"That," he replied, "is impossible! I have a prior claim."
The light of battle flamed suddenly in her eyes. Her nervousness had
gone. She was a strong woman, face to face with him now, taller than he,
seeming, indeed, to tower over him in the splendor of her anger. She was
like a lioness threatened with the loss of the one dear thing.
"Assert it, then!" she cried defiantly. "Do what you will. Go to him
this minute, if you have courage enough, if it seems to you well. Claim,
indeed! Right! I have the one right every woman in the world
possesses--to give herself, body and soul, to the man she loves! That is
the only claim and the only right I recognize, and I am giving myself to
him, when he wants me, forever!"
She stopped suddenly. Neither of them had heard a discreet knock at the
door. Aline had entered with the tea. There was a moment of silence.
"Put it down here by my side, Aline," her mistress ordered, "and show
the Prince of Seyre out."
Aline held the door open. For a single moment the prince hesitated. Then
he picked up his hat and bowed.
"Perhaps," he said, "this may not be the last word!"