A deep fire burned in her eyes, that was true; but on her face was—what? It was not rage, it was not passion, it was not chagrin. No, in truth and justice I swear that what I then saw on her face was that same look I had noted once before, an expression of almost childish pathos, of longing, of appeal for something missed or gone, though much desired. No vanity could contemplate with pleasure a look like that on the face of a woman such as Helena von Ritz.
I fancied her unstrung by excitement, by the strain of her trying labor, by the loneliness of her life, uncertain, misunderstood, perhaps, as it was. I wondered if she could be more unhappy than I myself, if life could offer her less than it did to me. But I dared not prolong our masking, lest all should be unmasked.
"It is nothing!" she said at last, and laughed gaily as ever.
"Yes, Madam, it is nothing. I admit my defeat. I shall ask no more favors, expect no further information from you, for I have not earned it, and I can not pay. I will make no promise that I could not keep."
"Then we part even!"
"As enemies or friends?"
"I do not yet know. I can not think—for a long time. But I, too, am defeated."
"I do not understand how Madam can be defeated in anything."
"Ah, I am defeated only because I have won. I have your secret; you do not have mine. But I laid also another wager, with myself. I have lost it. Ceremony or not—and what does the ceremony value?—you are married. I had not known marriage to be possible. I had not known you—you savages. No—so much—I had not known."
"Monsieur, adieu!" she added swiftly.