She shrank back, as if detected in her guilt; and Don Philip continued:
“I look to you not to force me into some very drastic measures to cut this trouble at its root. Think well of what I say, for much concerning another welfare than yours depends on it.”
He had found the way to silence her. She could not misread the hint, or blind herself to the understanding which lay behind it. His life lay at the mercy of her conduct. If she would preserve it, she must assume a placid resignation, seem to repudiate the very suggestion of any arrière pensée in her proposal.
The shock was stunning, but, having surmounted it, she bent herself with piteous eagerness to play the deceiver’s part. Her fear went on tiptoe; she smiled and sang in the duke’s presence, so that it was pathetic to see her—a thing to turn one’s eyes from. He may have approved the effort; yet in truth she could not so suffer without betraying a sign. To clinch the matter, he decided to play, in collusion with another, his reserve card.
One day, the Infanta being present, his Highness began, on some pre-arranged provocation, to banter La Coque upon his former jealousy of a rival musician.
“Admit he sang divinely,” he said.
“In truth, monseigneur, I saw but little divinity in the man.”
“O, you would not, chirruping with your nose to the ground!”
“That’s as it may be. I fear no test, before an impartial judge.”
“What; you would back yourself in a competition of voices?”