The loss of her memory had ceased to trouble the Princess: nay, she was now apprehensive lest the revelation consequent upon its recovery should cause a return to her former life. With very little knowledge of that former life she had, nevertheless, a profound belief that it fell far short of her present happy state. At any rate it had been a life apart from Wilfrid, and Wilfrid was now the chief, if not the sole, object of her thoughts. It was no secret to her that she was loved by him, for though he had not said it, his homage showed his feelings as plainly as if he had spoken.
It was sweet to have such power over him; a source of pride to her that she should be preferred to all others. It was wonderful, for example, that he had not fallen in love with the beautiful Pauline, but it was certain that he had not. In his eyes Pauline was a friend—the dearest, staunchest friend, it might be—but still no more than that. At least, that is what Marie usually thought, but, once or twice, when she was sitting close to Wilfrid, Pauline had drawn near, in her eyes a wistful look, as if yearning for the affection that was being bestowed upon another.
One day when Wilfrid was in the armoury teaching Beauvais some secrets in swordsmanship, Marie ventured to question the Baroness on this matter. And she came to the point without any skirmishing.
“Pauline, do you love Lord Courtenay?”
The Baroness gave a start.
“Have I ever shown that I do?”
“No,” answered Marie, not altogether truthfully.
“Then why should you ask?”
“Because,” said Marie evasively, “Lord Courtenay is so brave, so handsome, so—so winning—that’s the word—that—that——”
“It is difficult for woman to avoid falling in love with him. Is that what you would say?” smiled Pauline. “Well, you see, it would be foolish to love one that does not love me.”