“Let him do as he will.”
“M. Denver has not quite explained my position. It is that you are free to leave Russia and go to the United States, if you hand to me the papers of which you obtained possession.”
“I do not make conditions with you, Prince Kalkov,” answered Helga with splendid scorn.
“You are right, madame. It is I who make them, you who obey them,” he cried, rising, his voice trembling with anger under the lash of her words and look. “I will have no more of this; my patience is exhausted. Will you give them up, monsieur, and go?”
He was not pretty in his anger, but I ventured on one more little tonic for it. I burst into a laugh.
“Oh, the papers you want? Why didn’t you say so? I haven’t them; so I can’t give them to you.”
“It is false, monsieur, it is false. You are lying!” he exclaimed in a flame of passion, his eyes blazing. Then his rage seemed to burst out like a long smouldering volcano, which, breaking at length through the thin restraining crust, pours out its flood of white hot lava. “I know the truth. I have heard from your Embassy. They were given to you to-day. I know where you have been since. I have watched you here, and I know they are upon your person now.” I started back and, as if involuntarily, put my hand to my breast pocket. He smiled cunningly. “Yes, I understand that gesture. Come, monsieur, I have outplayed you; give them me, and even now you can go.”
“With your treacherous heart, Prince, you should guard against such passion as this.”
“Silence, monsieur,” he said, half beside himself with anger. “Give them to me, give them to me!” and he came toward me, his hand outstretched and trembling violently. He looked the very incarnation of triumphant and unbridled fury.
“I have told your Highness I have not them,” I said, drawing back.