This time it was not the prisoner's cheeks which reddened. Even Madame was forced to look away, for if this reply touched the Englishman it certainly touched her as deeply. Incidentally, she was asking herself why she had permitted the Englishman to possess her lips, hers, which no man save her father had ever possessed before. A kiss, that was all it had been, yet the memory of it was persistent, annoying, embarrassing. In the spirit of play—a spirit whose origin mystified her—she had given the man something which she never could regain, a particle of her pride.
Besides, this was not all; she had in that moment given up her right to laugh at him when the time came; now she would not be able to laugh. She regretted the folly, and bit her lip at the thought of it. Consequences she had laughed at; now their possibilities disturbed her. She had been guilty of an indiscretion. The fact that the Englishman had ruined himself at her beck did not enter her mind. The hour for that had not yet arrived.
Seeing that his neat barb had left them all without answer, Maurice said: “Doubtless the informant who watches over your interests and various other interests of which you have no inkling, was the late Colonel Beauvais? For my part, I wish it was the late Beauvais in the sense in which we refer to the departed ones. But let us give him his true name—Prince Konrad, the last of the Walmodens, a cashiered gamester.”
Only Fitzgerald showed any surprise. Maurice once saw that the others were in the secret. They knew the Colonel. Did they know why he was in Bleiberg? Let them find it out for themselves. He would not lift a finger to aid them. He leaned back and yawned.
“Pardon me,” he said, with mock politeness, “but my hands are tied, and the truth is, I am sleepy.”
“Count,” said Madame, “release him. He will be too well guarded to fear his escaping.”
The Colonel performed this service with alacrity. He honestly admired the young fellow who so seldom lost his temper. Besides, he had a sneaking idea that the lad was being unjustly accused.
Maurice got up and stretched himself. He rubbed his wrists, then sat down and waited for the comedy to proceed.
“So you confess,” said Madame, “that you sold the consols to the archbishop?”
“I, confess?” Maurice screwed up his lips and began to whistle softly: