And though it fretted her beyond measure to dawdle in idleness and tiresome inanition, even in the luxury of the Ferida, yet she endured it with amazing equanimity; and amused herself, the while, by flirting with the Duke’s friends, when the Duke was not in presence—and sometimes when he was. And then, when he sulked or stormed, a soft arm would slip around his neck, and a pair of red lips smile close to his face; and, presently, he was caressing the one, and pleading for the others—and there was peace, and on her terms. The marvel of it all, was how she held him—as no woman had ever held him hitherto; she made no pretense of love, nor tried for it from him—a pleasant camaraderie was all she gave, and all she asked for; favor-free to-day, favor-cold to-morrow; elusive as a moon-beam; fickle as the wind; tempting and alluring as a vestal; false and faithless as the Daughter of the Foam.
And though Lotzen knew it—and knew it well—for she had told him frankly what she was and what she lived for, yet her fascinations negatived her words; while her indifference as to whether she stayed or went—and which he was thoroughly aware was not assumed—only captivated him the more, who had been used to easy conquest and clinging hearts.
He had explained fully to her the complication produced by the disappearance of the Laws, recounting in detail the scene at the Royal Council, when the compromise was forced; but as to Adolph and the incidents of the King’s library he said never a word. To her prompt query, as to how he accounted for the Book’s disappearance, he answered that the American, knowing it contained no decree in his favor, had stolen and, doubtless, destroyed it—and that the Princess Royal’s story was a clever lie—“just such a lie as you, yourself, would have told for me, in a similar exigency,” he had added; and she had smiled an acquiescence—thinking, the while, that for the American she would have done much more than lie, and gladly, if he would but let her.
Since the day when, as Colonel Spencer’s bride, she had come to the old fort on the Missouri, and had first set eyes on Captain Armand Dalberg, there was but one man who might have stirred her cold heart to an honest beat; and though he had ignored her overtures, and finally had scorned them with scarring words, yet it had not entirely killed the old desire; and even now, after all that she had done against him, and was ready yet to do, a single word from him would have brought her to his side. Yet, because she knew that word would never come, and that another woman claimed him honestly and without fear, she would go on with her part; and all the more willingly that it enabled her to strike through him the woman who had won him.
And now, after the two weeks quiescence, the restless fever was upon her, and the Duke had caught the signs; next would come the call to Paris; and he knew the second call would win. If he were to hold her, it was time to start the campaign she had come to assist—and that very day was his visit to the Summer Palace, and the sudden determination of his plan. But when, in the evening, he had gone to her apartments to tell her of it, and to discuss the opening moves, she had sent him the message that she was indisposed and had retired, and that he should breakfast with her the next day.
And in the morning he had found her in her boudoir, in the most enticing of soft blue gowns, and no touch of dishabille nor carelessness in all her attire, from the arrangement of the raven hair to the shoeing of the slender feet. Madeline Spencer was much too clever to let a man see her in negligée when, to him, the hour for negligée was passed.
She met him with a smile, and let him kiss her cheek.
“I am sorry about last night, dear,” she said, “but I was quite too wretched to see even you—and I wanted to see you.”
He sat on the arm of the chair, playing softly with her hair.
“I wish I could believe that it was just I you wanted,” he said.