There was nothing for it but to plump out the name. Even were he willing to gain time by asserting that the man had not yet been chosen, he knew that she would detect the lie and place him at an immediate disadvantage. He answered stolidly,
“Aloys Franz—”
“What?” she stood up and stared down upon him as if she were repeating his statement to herself and endeavoring to place it in connection with her brain. In a moment the blood rose hotly to her hair, even her eyes looked bloodshot. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Oh!” and then she walked to the window.
It was an opportune moment for retreat, but there was more to be said; she was calm, and the sooner the whole task was finished the better.
“Perhaps you will understand why I think it best you should not return to Budapest,” he said gently. “It is well for many reasons that this wedding take place at once, and it is my duty to expose you to no further temptation. It can be given out that your trousseau detains you here, or Sarolta’s illness—”
Ranata wheeled about and faced him. For the first time in her life she was ugly.
“And have you really deluded yourself,” she asked with an ominous calm, “that you will marry me to that man?—or to any one else?”
The Emperor rose then and faced her. War was declared, and he knew where he stood. There was no better mettle in Europe than his.
“You will marry Aloys Franz,” he said.
Again Ranata laughed, and for the moment she looked hideous. “I shall not,” she said. “And you should know by this time what stuff I am made of.”