Then the great bell of the Cathedral began to chime the hour; and, with
a word of caution, I led the way to the Gallery.
The floor was covered with a thick carpet and eight small chairs were
placed close to the railing. The tapestry was very old and thin and,
by putting one's face close to it, the room below was rather dimly, yet
quite sufficiently, visible. Its dimensions were unusually
ample--possibly forty feet by sixty--and its furnishings most gorgeous.
The chandelier and side-lights were burning, and a huge vase lamp, pink
shaded, was on the large table in the centre. At the moment, the room
was untenanted.
In a little while a door opposite the Gallery opened and Madeline
Spencer entered.
A woman usually knows her good points physically and how to bring them
out. And Mrs. Spencer was an adept in the art--though, in truth,
little art was needed. To her, Nature had been over generous.
She affected black; and that was her gown, now--cut daringly low and
without a jot of color about it, save the dead white of her arms and
shoulders, and a huge bunch of violets at her waist.
I thought I could guess whence the flowers came. And, though I
despised her, yet, I could but admit her dazzling beauty.
She moved slowly about the room, touching an ornament here, a picture
there. At length, she came to the table and, dropping languidly into a
chair, rested her elbow on the arm and, with chin in hand, stared into
vacancy.
Presently, there was a sharp knock at the corridor door. She glanced
quickly at the clock--then, picked up a book and, sinking back in easy
posture, assumed to read.
"Entréz," she called, without looking up.
The door opened instantly and a man entered. A long military cloak was
over his plain evening dress; one fold was raised to hide his face. He
dropped it as he closed the door.
Mrs. Spencer lowered her book--then arose with all the sinuous grace
she knew so well how to assume.
"Welcome, Your Royal Highness," she said, and curtsied very low. "It
was good of you to come."
The Duke of Lotzen tossed off his cloak--and, coming quickly over, took
her hand and kissed it.
"It was more than good of you to let me come," he answered.
"I feared you might not get my note," she said. "I believe I am under
constant surveillance."
He smiled. "Even the Secret Police would hesitate to tamper with my
mail," he said.
"That was my hope," she answered.
He looked at her steadily, a moment.
"I am always ready to be a--hope to you," he said.
She dropped her eyes--then picked up a cigarette case from the table.
"Will Your Royal Highness smoke?" she asked.
"If you will light it for me."
(The Princess pressed my hand. I understood.)
Mrs. Spencer touched the cigarette to the tiny alcohol name; then
offered it to the Duke.
"Someone has spoiled you," she said lightly.
Lotzen took her hand and, with it, put the cigarette between his lips.
"Unfortunately, no," he answered. "But I once saw a pretty woman do
that for another man."
(Again Dehra pressed my fingers.)
"And did he hold her hand afterward?" she asked--freeing her own from
the Duke's.
"They were not alone," he said--and tried to take it again.
But she put both hands behind her.
"Come, Your Highness, this is not the Masque," she said. But there was
no reproof in her tones.
"Tell me," said he; "how did you know me, last night?"
"What matters it? Particularly, since it was only because you knew me
that you spoke."
"You think I was searching for you?" he asked.
She blew a cloud of smoke under the lamp shade and watched it float out
at the top.
"Were you?" she asked.
"If I said yes, would it please you?"
"Not unless I thought it true, monsieur--and, also, knew the reason."
He looked at her steadily a moment.
"What better reason could I have than that you are the most beautiful
woman in Valeria?"
She put her fan before her face.
"Your Highness's compliment is very delicate," she laughed.
"It wasn't meant for a compliment," he answered. "If you have looked
in your mirror, to-night, you know I speak the simple truth."
She got up and went over to a great glass, on the opposite wall.
Lotzen followed her, and they stood there, a bit, looking in it.
"You like me in black?" she asked, smiling at him in the mirror.
"I like you in anything," he answered--and made as though to put his
arm around her waist.
She swung quickly away from him--just out of reach.
"Even in a gypsy dress?" she asked.
"It was charming--but, I think I prefer this," and he nodded toward her
gleaming shoulders.
She made a gesture of dissent, and they went back to the table. Lotzen
drew a small chair close and sat staring at her. She studied her fan
and waited.
Then he hooked his hands about his knee and leaned back.
"Do you know," he said, "it's a crying shame you are married to my dear
cousin."
She looked him full in the face--and smiled.
"Why didn't you make me a widow, then, last night, when you had the
chance?"
Lotzen shrugged his shoulders.
"The chance was all right, but the end was bad--though you didn't stay
to see it."
She laughed. "Didn't I? I stayed long enough to see your sword
sticking in the turf. I took that to be the end--was there more of it,
later?"
"No; that was the end--for that time."
"And for that particular method, I fancy," said she. "He wields a
pretty blade."
"Had you known it?" he asked.
"He was the best swordsman in the American Army," she answered.
"Ordinarily, that does not mean much," said Lotzen. "But, as a matter
of fact, so far as I know, he has got only one superior in Europe."
"Then why not get that chap to fight him?"
The Duke laughed.
"I would be very willing to; only, the chap happens to be that infernal
Irish adventurer, Moore, who is on his Staff."
"Why don't you try it again, yourself?" she asked.
He tapped his cigarette carefully against the ash receiver.
"Because I'm not yet tired of life," he said. "I know when I have met
my master."
"But, one of your thrusts might go home," she insisted.
He looked at her with an amused smile.
"Yes--it might," he said. "But, you see, my dear girl, what troubles
me are the many thrusts he has, any one of which would be sure to go
home in me."
"You seem to have escaped, last night," she observed.
"Purely by his favor--even luck hadn't a finger in it."
"But discretion had," she remarked. "He would not dare kill you."
Lotzen shook his head.
"You don't seem to know this husband of yours. A Dalberg will dare
anything."
"Some Dalbergs," she scoffed.
The Duke flushed.
"I'm doing badly--you think me a coward," he said.
"Oh, no, Prince--only carefully discreet;" and she leaned back and
slowly fanned herself.
He looked at her for a bit.
"Are you aware, my dear, that you are conniving at--some might call it
instigating--the death of your husband?" he asked.