“He is no countryman of mine. He is an Italian. I know him but by sight and by name,” said the prince, stiffly.
“He is of very ancient birth, I believe.”
“Unquestionably. His ancestors were gentlemen.”
“And very rich.”
“Indeed! I have understood the contrary. He enjoys, it is true, a large revenue.”
A young attache, less discreet than the prince; here observed, “Oh, Peschiera! poor fellow, he is too fond of play to be rich.”
“And there is some chance that the kinsman whose revenue he holds may obtain his pardon, and re-enter into possession of his fortunes—so I hear, at least,” said Randal, artfully.
“I shall be glad if it be true,” said the prince, with decision; “and I speak the common sentiment at Vienna. That kinsman had a noble spirit, and was, I believe, equally duped and betrayed. Pardon me, sir; but we Austrians are not so bad as we are painted. Have you ever met in England the kinsman you speak of?”
“Never, though he is supposed to reside here; and the count tells me that he has a daughter.”
“The count—ha! I heard something of a scheme,—a wager of that—that count’s. A daughter! Poor girl! I hope she will escape his pursuit; for, no doubt, he pursues her.”