“That is my hope.”
“Why?”
“Can you ask why?” returned the Marquis. “To preserve the honour of Pauline de Vaucluse. And that is the reason why I, her father, am acting as Lord Courtenay’s second. Can he have a more suitable one?”
“Your daughter’s honour was never at hazard,” said Pauline haughtily, rising to her full stature and facing her father. “Do you think that I would ever consent to become the Czar’s mistress? You doubt my word, I see.”
Taking from her bosom a small scroll of parchment, she unfolded it, and held it before the eyes of the Marquis.
“Perhaps this will convince you. Here you have the reason why I have consorted so much with Alexander.”
The Marquis took the scroll in both hands, which trembled with suppressed agitation. Though there was not much writing on the scroll he had to read it several times before he could grasp its meaning. And when at last its meaning was grasped, his face wore a ghastly smile, the half-believing, half-sceptical smile of the pauper, when suddenly told that he is heir to stores of gold.
“You see what a traitress I have been to your diplomatic policy? But you forgive me, mon père; is it not so? You give up Bonaparte from this day henceforth. The Bourbons must be your friends now as they once were.”
“Can this be true?” murmured the Marquis hoarsely, lifting his eyes from the document to his daughter’s face.