“A lie as black as hell!” cried Alexander in a sudden blaze of wrath, the more striking from his previous enforced calmness. Unable longer to control himself he sprang to his feet, at the same time half-unsheathing his sword, as if with the intention of striking the other dead. Then, as reason asserted itself, the weapon slid from his relaxed fingers down into its scabbard again, and the Emperor resumed his seat, glancing at the door as if fearing lest his voice should have reached the ears of his ministers in the ante-chamber.
“If it be a lie, ascribe it not to me, but to Prince Ouvaroff, from whom I receive the story.”
“I will hear Ouvaroff. I will examine him—by torture if necessary. If you and he are found to be liars, you die. If you speak truth——But I’ll not think that, yet. Where is this Lord Courtenay at the present time?”
“In St. Petersburg, Sire, at the French Embassy.”
“The French Embassy! How comes he to be there?”
Baranoff explained the circumstances.
“What was the Baroness’ motive for this act?”
The Count shrugged his shoulders.
“Mischief, pure mischief! Pauline de Vaucluse is sometimes a woman, and sometimes a girl. As a girl she delights in offering defiance to established authority. ’Twas unwise of the Marquis to countenance his daughter’s action, for whatever secret this Englishman happens to pick up at the Embassy will soon be transmitted to his own government.”
“How? You think him to be a spy?”