“I have no immediate intention of putting my hand in my pocket, if that is what you mean. Nor is the time ripe for him to strike.”
Ranata drew a long breath. To bridge an interval she asked, “Is it true—I mean in your personal knowledge—that the Balkan states would rally to him in case of a war with Russia—that they share the infatuated notion that he is destined to be the savior of eastern Europe—instead of ourselves!”
“I am as sure of it as one can be of anything in Eastern politics.”
“And this story I heard yesterday—that he is having his second son taught Hungarian—is that true?”
“I heard it in Berlin, but not from the Emperor.”
For a moment Ranata hated him. Then she registered a vow anew, and this time her chin seemed to absorb its firm pink flesh. She turned to Fessenden pettishly. “I hate politics!” she said. “I shall play my part here quietly, but there is no necessity to talk or even to think about it, except when I am obliged to discuss some point with Count von Königsegg. Of course, if you have advice to give me I shall be grateful, but at other times please forget and let me forget that I am an unhappy princess imagining I have the fate of an empire on my shoulders.”
“I am not in Hungary to talk politics.”
Ranata lifted her eyes to his; they were both soft and dazzling. “Why are you here?” she whispered audaciously.
The fires in Fessenden flew to his head and flashed from his eyes, but his voice if unsteady came to her ear distinctly. “If we are ever alone for a moment I will tell you why.”
Ranata received her first electric shock of passion. He had won again and with her own weapons. Tumultuous delight, amazement, anger, rushed through her brain. She clinched her hand in an attempt at self-control, and it slipped from her knee and touched his. She recovered herself at once.