Father Fischer, of course! What else? How consummate was the snake in his cunning! He counted on honesty and nobility in another, though having none himself. He knew Jacqueline. He thought that, both good and frank, she must advise the Emperor as his mother had done. Accordingly, when Maximilian became afflicted with doubts, the priest allowed him to go to Jacqueline. She would be an accomplice despite herself. Only his judgment did not go quite far enough. Jacqueline had not spoken all her mind.
Imperiously she compelled Maximilian’s attention. “I said ignominy, yes,” she persisted, “but I would have added that honor–the modern and the decent–and the only courage, lies in facing this same ignominy. Listen. If the least of impure ambition enters in your decision to remain, then for each death in the civil war that must result, Your Highness may hold himself to account, and so be held by history. Now,” she went on, unmoved by the fact that he had winced, “the question remains with Your Highness–does aught besides honor hold you to stay?”
To himself he answered as she spoke, and guilt confessed mounted his brow.
“But there,” she said, “Father Fischer will interpret the 341will of the Almighty. Before Your Imperial Highness retires to-night, my words will be forgotten.”
The lash fell on flesh already raw and smarting. To predict that he would change yet again, when to change he branded himself a wilful murderer–no! That was more than he could endure. She must not think that of him. He held out his hand. “Jeanne!” he murmured imploringly.
“Don’t!” she cried, “Don’t call me that!”
Then she bit her lip, and her fury turned against herself. “Jeanne” was feminine and French for “John,” which was masculine and–American. This important discovery she had made months ago when riding beside a man whose horse was “Demijohn.” As a girl in love, she had found a cozy joy in their names being the same. But for that very reason any recollection of it, since then, was the less to be borne.
Blushing indignantly, she saw that Maximilian was regarding her with a puzzled expression. Manlike, he referred it to himself, and suddenly, he too started. Only once before had he addressed her thus familiarly, which was during that memorable afternoon beside the artificial lake at Cuernavaca. Here, therefore, must lie the association that caused her agitation. Yet, since that afternoon, she had permitted no reference to their interview, unless to raise her brows quizzically at his continued presence in Mexico. But now, what of the self-betrayal into which he had just surprised her? It could not but be connected with that other time when he had murmured her name. There was, however, no conscious vanity in the remarkable explanation. It was remorse. He thought of Charlotte, his wife. And this other woman, had he wronged her also? For during the past weeks of trouble he had forgotten that he had loved her, and she had not forgotten. In two such facts, falling together, was the wrong, and one that a woman scarcely ever forgives, as he had had reason to know.
“I could not help supposing, mademoiselle,” he ventured 342diffidently, “that what you said at Cuernavaca was inspired by–by no feeling toward myself. I could suppose nothing else in the light of your utter indifference since then, and–and your aversion for my very presence.”
Jacqueline laughed pleasantly. “In that Your Highness deceives himself. I did then, as I do now, feel for Your Highness enough to wish him safely out of Mexico.”