“That your Majesty might have a right judgment,” replied Pauline with a meaning plain enough to Wilfrid, though not to the Czar.
“‘Sire!’ ‘Majesty!’” repeated Alexander, with what in a woman would be called a pout. “Leave this formal style to ministers and courtiers. With you I am Sasha. Ah! shall I ever forget the night when first you called me by that name? Never did it sound so pretty as when coming from your lips! And you said that your name to me must be no more Baroness but Pauline. Do you remember?”
“I remember,” she answered with a sigh.
Becoming conscious of this restraint in her manner, Alexander eyed her wistfully, failing, however, to divine the reason for her altered demeanour.
He was not much more than a youth and a somewhat simple-minded one to boot, but he had a high sense of his sovereignty, and it never occurred to him that the gallantries of an emperor could be other than acceptable to the object of them.
“Pauline, how beautiful you are!” he murmured after a moment’s silence.
Time was when she would have thrilled at such language. But to-night his words had lost their old charm.
“Your Majesty must not speak thus.”
“‘Majesty’ again? But I let it pass. Why must I refrain from speaking the truth?”
“You must reserve such language for Elizavetta only.”