She opened her lips; evidently she would have told him—had not some secondary thought arisen to check her confidence, whatever it might be.
“Will you see me every day for one week? then I will tell you,” she said, imploringly. “Lady Forwood said you would be my good friend. Be my good friend, monsieur, and do this!”
It was an embarrassing position; and although Hugh was deeply moved by the girl’s pathetic tone of entreaty, by this almost desperate appeal to him—for that was really what it seemed to be,—he wondered what was behind this strange request. Was Mercedes in the power of one of those two men—the prince and the count,—and unconsciously aiding in some bet or frivolous conspiracy? Or was she herself whimsical and capricious—“hysterical”? No! Those last ideas were treason. Having harboured them for an instant brought back his instinctive faith in the simple young creature.
“I would do what you ask, but really it is not possible, princess,” he said, gently, respectfully. Then he explained how his time was occupied, and gave her a list, jotted down hastily upon a leaf torn out of his pocket-book, of the engagements for the next few days, which could not be cancelled.
She took the list and went over it carefully, in a practical manner, quite unlike that of a hysterical woman.
“I see,” she said. “But, monsieur, the evenings? There is nothing for the evenings.”
Hugh told her that his evenings were sacred to his son.
“I am all that he has,” he said, “both mother and father. His mother died when he was born.”
She asked his age, and Hugh told her.
“Nineteen!” she said, with a little laugh of surprise. “How funny! That is my age. But your son, when is he nineteen? You say, a few days ago? Why, he is older than I am, monsieur? You could be my father.”