AUDLEY (who does not seem to like the notion of having his thoughts and sensations rummaged, even by his friend, and even in fancy)—“Pooh, pooh, pooh! Do talk like a man of sense.”
HARLEY.—“Man of sense! Where shall I find a model? I don’t know a man of sense!—never met such a creature. Don’t believe it ever existed. At one time I thought Socrates must have been a man of sense: a delusion; he would stand gazing into the air, and talking to his Genius from sunrise to sunset. Is that like a man of sense? Poor Audley! how puzzled he looks! Well, I’ll try and talk sense to oblige you. And first” (here Harley raised himself on his elbow),—“first, is it true, as I have heard vaguely, that you are paying court to the sister of that infamous Italian traitor?”
“Madame di Negra? No: I am not paying court to her,” answered Audley, with a cold smile. “But she is very handsome; she is very clever; she is useful to me,—I need not say how or why; that belongs to my metier as a politician. But I think, if you will take my advice, or get your friend to take it, I could obtain from her brother, through my influence with her, some liberal concessions to your exile. She is very anxious to know where he is.”
“You have not told her?”
“No; I promised you I would keep that secret.”
“Be sure you do; it is only for some mischief, some snare, that she could desire such information. Concessions! pooh! This is no question of concessions, but of rights.”
“I think you should leave your friend to judge of that.”
“Well, I will write to him. Meanwhile, beware of this woman. I have heard much of her abroad, and she has the character of her brother for duplicity and—”
“Beauty,” interrupted Audley, turning the conversation with practised adroitness. “I am told that the count is one of the handsomest men in Europe, much handsomer than his sister still, though nearly twice her age. Tut, tut, Harley; fear not for me. I am proof against all feminine attractions. This heart is dead.”
“Nay, nay; it is not for you to speak thus,—leave that to me. But even I will not say it. The heart never dies. And you; what have you lost?—a wife; true: an excellent, noble-hearted woman. But was it love that you felt for her? Enviable man, have you ever loved?”