“Pardon, for giving me pleasure?”
There was fire in Wilfrid’s blood when she spoke like that, and he was gladder than ever that they were not alone.
“It must be our aim to do the right,” he remarked. “There is something higher in life than love—there is honour.”
“That means that you have ceased to love me,” she said; in her voice a pathos that thrilled him to the heart.
“Your Majesty, I would gladly resign life itself to ensure your happiness.”
“I know it and am grateful. But,” she faltered sorrowfully, “that feeling is loyalty, not love.” There was a brief interval of silence, and then she resumed:—
“The Czar loves Pauline; he will obtain a divorce and then—then—what is to prevent us from being—happy?”
“That were to justify men’s suspicions of our relations. Your fair name would be gone. No, your Majesty. You are an Empress and shall remain such. The Czar will forget his fancy for Pauline when he finds that she is set against him. He shall believe in your innocence—how, I do not at present know, but all will come right in the end.”
Deep down in her heart Marie was fain to confess the justice of what she felt was Wilfrid’s final decision, but—the hardness of it! Without Wilfrid the future seemed black and joyless. What was the diadem of an empress without Wilfrid’s love?
Under the vigorous strokes of the four oarsmen The Pauline moved onwards at a fair pace, Ouvaroff keeping to mid-stream, the better to escape notice from the shore.