“Come, countess,” said Maurice, gaily; “we'll take the ride together, since Madame has to write and my lord to read.”
“Five minutes until I dress,” replied the countess, and she sped away.
“What a beautiful girl!” said Madame, fondly. “Poor dear! Her life has not been a bed of roses.”
“No?” said Maurice, while Fitzgerald raised his eyebrows inquiringly.
“No. She was formerly a maid of honor to her Highness. She made an unhappy marriage.”
“And where is the count?” asked Fitzgerald in surprise. He shot a glance of dismay at Maurice, who, translating it, smiled.
“He is dead.”
Fitzgerald looked relieved.
“What a fine thing it is,” said Maurice, rising, “to be a man and wed where and how you will!” He withdrew to the main hall to don his cap and spurs. As he stooped to strap the latter, he saw a sheet of paper, crinkled by recent dampness, lying on the floor. He picked it up—and read it.
“The plan you suggest is worthy of you, Madame. The
Englishman is fair game, being a common enemy. Let
us gain our ends through the heart, since his purse
is impregnable to assaults. But the countess? Why not
the pantry maid, since the other is an American? They
lack discrimination. The king grows weaker every
day. Nothing was found in the Englishman's rooms. I
fear that the consols are in the safe at the British
legation. As usual, a courier will arrive each night.
B.”