“To work for its downfall,” she repeated. “And I shall succeed,” she continued, with a smile as of coming triumph. “Mark me,” she added, “smile, doubt, call it vaunting, if you will, but when the secret history of to-day comes to be written, it will be found that I, Pauline de Vaucluse, Baroness of Runö, have been the chief cause of Bonaparte’s downfall.”
But when Wilfrid asked in what way she intended to accomplish this, he was met by a tantalising shake of her head.
However strange her words, there was in her manner something which led him to believe that they were no mere boast. Still, great as was his desire to witness the fulfilment of them, he did not like to see a daughter working in opposition to her father, especially if—he trusted he was not wronging her by the supposition—she should be availing herself of the political secrets acquired by her residence in the Embassy.
However, being as yet not sufficiently advanced in her friendship, he refrained from taking upon himself the office of Mentor.
At a sign from the Baroness, her maid, Vera, withdrew, returning with a bright samovar or tea-urn.
“Do you take sugar?” asked Pauline, who seemed to have recovered from the gloom occasioned by her reminiscences. “Yes? I fear I can offer you none but Barth’s.”
“And who is Barth?”
“A man who is making his fortune out of beetroot. We have to rely upon him ever since Paul forbade the import of your colonial sugar.”
“It seems to me,” grumbled Wilfrid, “that this Paul lays his despotic finger upon every department of life.”