“At the present you are simply an attaché,” explained his wife. “With my good help you will become an ambassador. That was why I married you. I always thought the position of ambassadress would suit me admirably.”
“So! You flatter me, Madame.”
“Why not? You surely did not think I was in love with you.”
“Well, I own I had some faint hope you returned my adoration.”
Eméraude glanced quickly at her husband, and smiled, a strange, hard little smile. Lying back with half-shut eyes, she said to the poet:
“It is evident that my husband is on his wedding tour, judging by the pretty things he says.”
“I shall doubtless reach perfection in that art under your amiable tuition,” retorted the bridegroom, as he turned to inspect the crowd.
“They certainly don’t give the unblest any reason to envy their happiness,” mused the poet. “Who would have thought that such a gentle, girlish boy would turn into a bitter and cynical rake?”
Some friends of Eméraude bore down upon her, and after a torrent of congratulation, haughtily received by Rudolph, the latter rose and took the poet’s arm. They walked past the hotel, and a dark flush spread like a flame over Rudolph’s face when he recognised the gallant Captain of the Artillery.
“The sister is here, too,” said the poet, not troubled with any hesitation or sensitiveness to the delicacy of the subject.