She looked at him with a sort of fear in her eyes, as if detecting some hidden meaning in his words.
“Do you know that you have made me lose my honour?” he continued.
“In what way?”
“You have caused me to break my word to be at a certain spot by eight this morning. My absence will be attributed to fear.”
At this point Pauline’s pent up excitement bubbled over in a quick agitated flow of words.
“You have no right,” she cried, “to undertake this duel. A chance slip of your blade, and all might be over with Alexander. And how would you save yourself from death? Whither would you flee? To the British Embassy? Do you think that the people of St. Petersburg, roused to fury by the death of the Czar, would care anything for the law of nations? You, and the uncle that gave you protection, and all the English within the building, would be dragged forth into the streets and massacred. Think of others, if you will not think of yourself. The Czar, in condescending to waive his rank and to meet you in duel, is acting like a gentleman, but you are not acting as such in taking advantage of his condescension. Indifferent as to whether you kill Alexander, indifferent as to whether the Peace Treaty be signed, indifferent as to whether you plunge an empire into mourning, or cover European politics with inextricable confusion, you wish for the duel merely to boast of being the only man in history to cross swords with a Czar, merely to be talked about. Not honour, or truth, or justice, calls you to this duel, but sheer vanity, and vanity alone.”
She paused, completely out of breath, with her rapid speaking. Never had Wilfrid seen her looking so angry; and he was fain to confess that her lifted hand, the unstudied grace of her figure, the sparkling of her eye, and the colour that burned on her cheek, gave a new aspect to her beauty.
“I want to be talked about?” said he, taking up her words with a feeling that he had been somewhat hard hit by them. “Well, and what if I do? Call it vanity, if you like. The poet will style it fame; the soldier glory; the statesman ambition. As to this idol of yours, this unclean thing called a Czar, the craven who shrank from punishing his father’s assassins, who let a printed lie go forth to the world, who continued his father’s war, and then made peace as soon as he heard the British fleet was coming—whether he be worthy of your fiery defence is a question I shall leave to the judgment of history.”
At the word “unclean,” the scarlet glow of anger on Pauline’s face gave way to a deathly white. Wilfrid could see that her teeth were set, and that she breathed hard. Her look of anguish was so keen that he almost regretted his use of the word. And yet, was it not applicable?
She was silent for a few moments, and when she spoke it was in a humbler key.