“It is too late,” lowly. “I have been Madame's understudy too long not to read. Forgive me. I was to keep you apart; I have done so. The evil can not now be repaired. Your hope is that Madame has not fully considered his pride.”
“Has she any regard for him?”
“Sentiment?—love?” She uttered a short, incredulous laugh. “Madame has brain, not heart. Could a woman with a heart plan as she plans?”
“Well, let us not talk of plots and plans; let us talk of—”
“Monsieur, do not be unkind. I have asked your forgiveness. Let us not talk; let us be silent and listen to the night;” and she leaned over the terrace balustrade.
Maurice floated. As he leaned beside her a strand of perfumed hair blew across his nostrils. ... The princess was at best a dream. It was not likely that he ever would speak to her again. The princess was a poem, unlettered and unrhymed. But here, close to him, was a bit of beautiful material prose. The hair again blew out toward him and he moved his lips. She heard the vague sound and lifted her head.
Far away came the call of the sentry; a horse whinneyed in the stables. There was in the air the odor of an approaching storm.
CHAPTER XII. WHOM THE GODS DESTROY AND A FEW OTHERS
Some time passed before Fitzgerald became aware of Maurice's departure. When he saw that he and Madame were alone, he said nothing, but pulled all the quicker at his clay. He wondered at the desire which suddenly manifested itself. Fly? Why should he fly? The beat of his pulse answered him.... What a fine thing it was to feel the presence of a woman—a woman like this! What a fine thing always to experience the content derived from her nearness!