“Well, that depends,” said the Count. “I do not think I should enjoy your society if he were here, and, if there is any prospect of our passing some pleasant days together, you may be sure that he will not hear from me while they last.”
Bertha divined his purpose and her proud spirit rebelled at the virtual threat. So this young man proposed to force himself upon her and to oblige her to endure his society. If she did not comply, then he intended to send for her guardian. Whatever slight feeling of respect she may have had for him vanished at once. No wonder that his mother hated him. What a mean-spirited young man he was! But what could she do? Then the thought came to her that Jack was coming to Corsica. Perhaps he had already arrived and would soon be there to protect her. She turned to the Count.
“It makes little difference to me, Count Mont d’Oro,” she said, “whether my guardian comes here or not. I have other friends upon whose protection I can rely.”
“I know whom you mean,” said the Count, “but he will not come. You are thinking of Monsieur De Vinne. Your guardian expected to break the sad news to you himself, but as he is not here I will tell you what he told me. Your young friend, Monsieur De Vinne, was, unfortunately, killed in a fight which took place between a Frenchman and an Englishman.”
There was a look of scorn upon Bertha’s face and a withering tone of disdain in her voice when she spoke. “Count Mont d’Oro, what you have just told me is a falsehood. I know that it is not true. I have a letter from Mrs. Glynne in which she tells me that Mr. De Vinne expressed his intention of starting for Corsica at once. If he has not already arrived, he will be here very soon. I do not understand what your motive has been in telling me such untruths. I do not believe that my guardian is here or that he has made you any such promise as you say he has. While I remain in your mother’s care, which I trust will not be for long, I will try to be civil to you, but I do not care to have any further conversation with you upon any subject whatever.”
As she uttered the last words the door opened and Countess Mont d’Oro entered. She took in the situation at a glance. Her son, as usual, was making himself disagreeable. She had heard Bertha’s closing words and her womanly intuition supplied the rest of the story.
“Napier,” she said, “your presence here, as I have told you many times, is unwelcome to me, and I know that it must be to Mademoiselle Renville, from what I have just heard. If you insist upon remaining, it must be in your own apartments. I will see that your meals are sent to you. Come, mademoiselle.”
She took Bertha’s arm and the two women left the room.
The Count stepped out upon the terrace. The hunt was up. He had been beaten at his own game. What a fool he had been to say anything about De Vinne. He had gone too far, had said too much, and had lost all. Well, there were plenty of pretty women in the world, but this fair, young Miss Renville was so different from the others. The case was not hopeless, after all. De Vinne had not arrived, and the guardian had. He would see the guardian and put him on the watch. Some plan could be formed, no doubt, by which the lovers could be kept apart.
He descended the long flight of steps and walked towards the gateway. A horse was fastened to a tree just outside. To whom could it belong? Perhaps young De Vinne had arrived, his mother knew it, and had taken Madamoiselle Renville to meet him. Hearing voices, he glanced down a wooded path and saw a young man in naval uniform, and—he was speaking to a young lady. Who could it be? A few quick strides down the path and he saw that it was Vivienne Batistelli.