“It is not good news, monsieur, but the worst for his daughter,” continued the Prince, relentlessly. “You have forced me to tell you. His life was spared against his wish when his offences were proved; and it is by his own desire that he has remained in Siberia, dead to all who knew him.”
“It is a lie, a base lie, a lie of lies,” cried Helga, with sudden passion. “He is dead, and you—you, Prince Kalkov, are his murderer.”
“You are ungenerous, even for an enemy, mademoiselle,” replied the Prince, with a bow that was not without courtesy and dignity. “Had you come to me openly years ago, I would have told you the truth.”
“It is false, and you know it. You tried to wreak your malevolence on me. You know I speak the truth, just as you know you were afraid I should tear the mask from your life and ruin you in the eyes of your Emperor. How can you be so base?”
“The full truth of your father’s offences was and is known to but two men in the Empire, mademoiselle. The Emperor himself is one, and I am the other. I had and have nothing to fear from any disclosure or inquiry.”
“God, that such villainy should prosper!” she cried again, with passionate vehemence.
“What I have told you is the truth, and I offer you the means to prove my words.”
“What means?” I asked.
“I will not dishonour my father by even listening further,” exclaimed Helga.
“Mademoiselle Helga can communicate with her father, or you, monsieur, can go to him,” said Kalkov, disregarding her protest, and turning to me.