“This little difference of opinion,” the Prince remarked, looking
thoughtfully through the emerald green of his liqueur, “interests me.
Our friend Dolinski here thinks that he will not come because he will
be afraid. De Brouillac, on the contrary, says that he will not come
because he is too sagacious. Felix here, who knows him best, says that
he will not come because he prefers ever to play the game from outside
the circle, a looker-on to all appearance, yet sometimes wielding an
unseen force. It is a strong position that.”
Lucille raised her head and regarded the last speaker steadily.
“And I, Prince!” she exclaimed, “I say that he will come because he is a
man, and because he does not know fear.”
The Prince of Saxe Leinitzer bowed low towards the speaker.
“Dear Lucille,” he said, so respectfully that the faint irony of his
tone was lost to most of those present, “I, too, am of your opinion.
The man who has a right, real or fancied, to claim you must indeed be
a coward if he suffered dangers of any sort to stand in the way. After
all, dangers from us! Is it not a little absurd?”
Lucille looked away from the Prince with a little shudder. He laughed
softly, and drank his liqueur. Afterwards he leaned back for a moment
in his chair and glanced thoughtfully around at the assembled company as
though anxious to impress upon his memory all who were present. It was a
little group, every member of which bore a well-known name. Their host,
the Duke of Dorset, in whose splendid library they were assembled, was,
if not the premier duke of the United Kingdom, at least one of those
whose many hereditary offices and ancient family entitled him to a
foremost place in the aristocracy of the world. Raoul de Brouillac,
Count of Orleans, bore a name which was scarcely absent from a single
page of the martial history of France. The Prince of Saxe Leinitzer kept
up still a semblance of royalty in the State which his ancestors had
ruled with despotic power. Lady Muriel Carey was a younger daughter of
a ducal house, which had more than once intermarried with Royalty. The
others, too, had their claims to be considered amongst the greatest
families of Europe.
The Prince glanced at his watch, and then at the bridge tables ready set
out.
“I think,” he said, “that a little diversion--what does our hostess
say?”
“Two sets can start at least,” the Duchess said. “Lucille and I will
stay out, and the Count de Brouillac does not play.”
The Prince rose.
“It is agreed,” he said. “Duke, will you honour me? Felix and Dolinski
are our ancient adversaries. It should be an interesting trial of
strength.”
There was a general movement, a re-arrangement of seats, and a little
buzz of conversation. Then silence. Lucille sat back in a great chair,
and Lady Carey came over to her side.
“You are nervous to-night, Lucille,” she said.
“Yes, I am nervous,” Lucille admitted. “Why not? At any moment he may be
here.”
“And you care--so much?” Lady Carey said, with a hard little laugh.
“I care so much,” Lucille echoed.
Lady Carey shook out her amber satin skirt and sat down upon a low
divan. She held up her hands, small white hands, ablaze with jewels, and
looked at them for a moment thoughtfully.
“He was very much in earnest when I saw him at Sherry’s in New York,”
she remarked, “and he was altogether too clever for Mr. Horser and our
friends there. After all their talk and boasting too. Why, they are
ignorant of the very elements of intrigue.”
Lucille sighed.
“Here,” she said, “it is different. The Prince and he are ancient
rivals, and Raoul de Brouillac is no longer his friend. Muriel, I am
afraid of what may happen.”
Lady Carey shrugged her shoulders.
“He is no fool,” she said in a low tone. “He will not come here with a
magistrate’s warrant and a policeman to back it up, nor will he attempt
to turn the thing into an Adelphi drama. I know him well enough to be
sure that he will attempt nothing crude. Lucille, don’t you find it
exhilarating?”
“Exhilarating? But why?”
“It will be a game played through to the end by masters, and you, my
dear woman, are the inspiration. I think that it is most fascinating.”
Lucille looked sadly into the fire.
“I think,” she said, “that I am weary of all these things. I seem to
have lived such a very long time. At Lenox I was quite happy. Of my own
will I would never have left it.”
Lady Carey’s thin lips curled a little, her blue eyes were full of
scorn. She was not altogether a pleasant woman to look upon. Her cheeks
were thin and hollow, her eyes a little too prominent, some hidden
expression which seemed at times to flit from one to the other of her
features suggested a sensuality which was a little incongruous with her
somewhat angular figure and generally cold demeanour. But that she was a
woman of courage and resource history had proved.
“How idyllic!” she exclaimed. “Positively medieval! Fancy living with
one man three years.”
Lucille smiled.
“Why, not? I never knew a woman yet however cold however fond of change,
who had not at some time or other during her life met a man for whose
sake she would have done--what I did. I have had as many admirers--as
many lovers, I suppose, as most women. But I can truthfully say that
during the last three years no thought of one of them has crossed my
mind.”
Lady Carey laughed scornfully.
“Upon my word,” she said. “If the Prince had not a temper, and if they
were not playing for such ruinous points, I would entertain them all
with these delightful confidences. By the bye, the Prince himself was
once one of those who fell before your chariot wheels, was he not? Look
at him now--sideways. What does he remind you of?”
Lucille raised her eyes.
“A fat angel,” she answered, “or something equally distasteful. How I
hate those mild eyes and that sweet, slow smile. I saw him thrash a poor
beater once in the Saxe Leinitzer forests. Ugh!”
“I should not blame him for that,” Lady Carey said coldly. “I like
masterful men, even to the point of cruelty. General Dolinski there
fascinates me. I believe that he keeps a little private knout at home
for his wife and children. A wicked little contrivance with an ivory
handle. I should like to see him use it.”
Lucille shuddered. This tete-a-tete did not amuse her. She rose and
looked over one of the bridge tables for a minute. The Prince, who was
dealing, looked up with a smile.
“Be my good angel, Countess,” he begged. “Fortune has deserted me
to-night. You shall be the goddess of chance, and smile your favours
upon me.”
A hard little laugh came from the chair where Lady Carey sat. She turned
her head towards them, and there was a malicious gleam in her eyes.
“Too late, Prince,” she exclaimed. “The favours of the Countess are all
given away. Lucille has become even as one of those flaxen-haired dolls
of your mountain villages. She has given her heart away, and she is
sworn to perpetual constancy.”
The Prince smiled.
“The absence,” he said, glancing up at the clock, “of that most
fortunate person should surely count in our favour.”
Lucille followed his eyes. The clock was striking ten. She shrugged her
shoulders.
“If the converse also is true, Prince,” she said, “you can scarcely have
anything to hope for from me. For by half-past ten he will be here.”
The Prince picked up his cards and sorted them mechanically.
“We shall see,” he remarked. “It is true, Countess, that you are here,
but in this instance you are set with thorns.”
“To continue the allegory, Prince,” she answered, passing on to the next
table, “also with poisonous berries. But to the hand which has no fear,
neither are harmful.”
The Prince laid down his hand.
“Now I really believe,” he said gently, “that she meant to be rude.
Partner, I declare hearts!”
Felix was standing out from the next table whilst his hand was being
played by General Dolinski, his partner. He drew her a little on one
side.
“Do not irritate Saxe Leinitzer,” he whispered. “Remember, everything
must rest with him. Twice to-night you have brought that smile to his
lips, and I never see it without thinking of unpleasant things.”
“You are right,” she answered; “but I hate him so. He and Muriel Carey
seem to have entered into some conspiracy to lead me on to say things
which I might regret.”
“Saxe Leinitzer,” he said, “has never forgotten that he once aspired to
be your lover.”
“He has not failed to let me know it,” she answered. “He has even
dared--ah!”
There was a sudden stir in the room. The library door was thrown open.
The solemn-visaged butler stood upon the threshold.
“His Grace the Duke of Souspennier!” he announced.