Madame Demidoff said nothing more; for a while she sat, pensively watching the clouds of smoke, as they rose from her cigarette, and her eyes wandered from time to time towards the Cardinal, who sat absorbed in reflections, probably of that Bohemian trip he was forced to abandon.
“Ah! how I wish I could see those candlesticks!” said madame at last, with an impatient little sigh.
“Have you never seen them? They are certainly the most exquisite works of art it has ever been my good fortune to see.”
“Your Eminence, it is truly cruel to torture the soul of a humble collector, like myself, by telling me of treasures I shall now never behold.”
“Would that be so great a hardship?” he asked, smiling.
“Oh! do not laugh; I am simply burning with curiosity; all night I shall dream of vieux Vienne candlesticks, of gold mounts, of secret springs. How can I imagine a thing, that I know must surpass anything of the kind I have ever seen? It will be a nightmare surely.”
“Do not say that, chère madame, think of the tortures of remorse I shall have to endure, knowing that my momentary indiscretion, in speaking of these bibelots, has caused you a restless night.”
“Why not avoid the remorse for yourself and the nightmare for me by gratifying my burning curiosity?”
“With all the pleasure in life,” said his Eminence with alacrity; “if madame will honour me, by stepping into my carriage and paying my dreary abode a visit, the candlesticks will but need unpacking——”
“Oh, mon Dieu! your Eminence! What you propose would be très-compromettant for me; think of your servants, of M. Volenski.”