The prince shook his head.
"I am not of the people," he said, "and I have no sympathy with them. I detest the bourgeoisie of every country in the world—my own more particularly."
"If you only knew how strangely that sounds!" she murmured.
"Does it?" he answered. "You should read my family history, read of the men and women of my race who were butchered at the hands of that drunken, lustful mob whom lying historians have glorified. I am one of those who do not forget injuries. My estates are administered more severely than any others in France. No penny of my money has ever been spent in charity. I neither forget nor forgive."
She laughed a little nervously.
"What an unsympathetic person you can be, Eugène!"
"And for that very reason," he replied, "I can be sympathetic. Because I hate some people, I have the power of loving others. Because it pleases me to deal severely with my enemies, it gives me joy to deal generously with my friends. That is my conception of life. May I wish you a pleasant evening?"
"You are going now?" she asked, a little surprised.
He smiled faintly as he raised her fingers to his lips. She had made a little movement toward him, but he took no advantage of it.
"I am going now."