Evidently the shaft told truly, for the Cardinal did not reply. She saw she had gained a point. She was now burning with curiosity, and, woman-like, was more determined than ever to pierce his Eminence’s last attempts at mystery.
“I thought,” she added, with real reproach in her voice, “that when your Eminence did me the honour to employ my poor services to aid you in some of your delicate diplomatic missions, that we had both agreed to share all political secrets with each other.”
“This is not a political secret, chère madame,” protested the Cardinal.
“Private then? Ah! take care! my jealousy might prove more serious than my curiosity.”
“Not my own, I repeat,” hastily corrected the Cardinal.
“Whose then?” she persisted. “Your Eminence told me that you had seen no one this Ash-Wednesday save M. Volenski, and——”
She paused. In a moment she had guessed, and, more than that, had guessed correctly. His Eminence’s conscious look spoke volumes.
“So your Eminence is taking a secret private message from his Majesty to some remote place elsewhere,” she said, delighted at her first success. “Ah! now you cannot damp my curiosity any more. You must tell me all about it. For whom is the message?… A lady of course.… The Emperor’s newest chère amie.… I have it!… The Princess Marïonoff!… Your Eminence is going to Petersburg with a billet doux from the Emperor to the beautiful Princess Marïonoff!”
“Chère madame!” still feebly protested the Cardinal.
“Ah! your Eminence deserves that, after your want of confidence in me, I should publish the fact in the Viennese papers to-morrow. What a delightful paragraph it would make: ‘A cardinal as Cupid’s messenger.’ Truly the secret is now mine. Mine by right of conquest. Your Eminence should have trusted a tried friend, and might have guessed that a mystery which baffles Madame Demidoff has yet to be invented, and is none of your or his Majesty’s making.”