‘You will have a whisky-and-soda, will you not?’ she said. ‘Touch that bell behind you.’
Malakopf resumed his seat, and the two talked of indifferent subjects till the footman had brought the Prime Minister his whisky; then she spoke again.
‘Who set these things in currency?’ she asked abruptly. ‘Do you—do you really suspect Prince Petros of disloyalty to the Princess, and, what is worse even, of disloyalty to his wife?’
‘No, I do not,’ said Malakopf; ‘but from what you tell me, from what I have myself heard, I gather there is much feeling against the Princess, and much sympathy with her husband. Petros—Prince Petros—I know feels his position acutely; more than that I could not say. But disloyalty—— Why, the man is as true as steel!’ and his voice rang as false as a cracked crockery plate.
The conversation was bearing much fruit, so thought Lady Blanche, and so also thought Malakopf. Lady Blanche felt convinced in her own mind that no rumours had reached Malakopf about the Princess’s growing unpopularity, but she had with some ingenuity led the other on to expand embellish his invention of them as he would have them be, and with complete success. The distrust she had ever felt of this cunning old man, the growing distrust with which she had seen his ripening intimacy with Petros, was suddenly struck with colour. She felt sure he was talking out of his own mouth. Malakopf, on the other hand, was entranced to find his airy inventions solidified and his own intuitions so flatteringly supported; it appeared that after all there did exist in the minds of the people that dissatisfaction with Sophia which it should be his work and Petros’ to foment. The seeds of revolution, it seemed, were already sown, and, to judge by the way in which Lady Blanche endorsed his tentative words, bid fair to flourish.
‘I am glad to hear you say he is so true,’ she said. ‘Personally I know little of him, but I have seen with so much interest the growing intimacy between you. Who should know him, if you do not?’
Malakopf’s exultation broke the bonds of his caution.
‘Know him!’ he cried. ‘I know him as I know the shape of the glove that covers my hand; indeed, he is very like the glove that covers my hand.’
Next moment it was as if another had spoken and the Prime Minister had heard. He got up abruptly as these imprudent words were conveyed to him, turned to Lady Blanche, whom for that one minute he had forgotten.
‘I will wish you good-night,’ he said; ‘I have a great quantity of work to get through before I go to bed.’