Foiled in his attempt Wilfrid looked angrily round upon the place appointed for his detention. It was an apartment dainty with pictures and tapestry, with velvet carpeting and costly furniture. The bookcase contained the works of those English authors for whom he had once expressed a preference in Pauline’s hearing. Upon a table was an epergne crowned with fruit of different kinds. Various sorts of wines glowed in decanters, and Wilfrid, reading the silver labels, saw in them another tribute to Pauline’s memory. A box of fragrant Havanas was likewise to be seen. It was evidently the aim of the Baroness to make his captivity as pleasant as possible.
To avail himself of these luxuries would, to a certain extent, placate Pauline; for this very reason he resolved to abstain from them.
After a long and careful scrutiny of the apartment, with its barred windows, locked doors, solid walls, and flooring of oak, Wilfrid sat down to think out some plan of escape; but whatever shape the attempt might take, its execution must be deferred till nightfall. The numerous servants, moving in and around the castle, would make his flight in the face of day difficult, if not impossible.
His natural longing for freedom was intensified by the wish to see the Princess again, the desired of the Czar! As he contemplated his position, nameless terrors for her safety seized him. He was tormented with a mixed sensation of love and jealousy, fear and despair; in this mood he sprang to his feet again, and paced the apartment, inwardly raging against the Czar, Lord St. Helens, Beauvais, and above all, against Pauline, the originator of his present misfortune.
The grating of a key caused him to sink quietly with folded arms into a chair that faced one of the open windows, through which came a pleasant breeze.
He did not even turn his head to notice who was entering, but the rustle of silken skirts showed that the new-comer was a woman, and he supposed that it was Pauline. He would abide by his word, and treat her with silence.
Pauline—for it was she—suddenly stopped. The fruit and the wine had been arranged by her own hand; she saw that neither had been touched. She turned her eyes to the bookcase; not one volume had been lifted from its shelf. With a strange sinking of heart she realised that he would take no favour at her hands.
Though well aware that Pauline was standing by his chair, Wilfrid took not the least notice of her, but continued to gaze fixedly through the window over the Cronstadt Bay, whose waters glittered in the rays of the afternoon sun.
“Lord Courtenay,” she said, with an air of humility, very rare in her, “I regret that this—this state of affairs should have arisen between us. Promise that you will not seek to renew this duel, and I will let you go.”
The colour of shame tinged her cheek as she spoke. What right had she to detain him a prisoner against his will? Even the sanction of that great potentate, Lord St. Helens, was proving but a sorry salve to her conscience. Her cheek paled again when she found that Wilfrid remained indifferent both to her presence and to her words.