“Yet I left them all to come here,” she answered.
“But now you would go back.”
She smiled up at him. “Yes, but with you, dear—not alone.” Her hand stole into his. “Tell me, sweetheart, why you will not go—might it cause Frederick to deprive you of the succession?”
For a space the Duke made no answer, gazing the while steadily into the distance, with eyebrows slightly drawn. And she, having dared so far, dared further.
“Surely, dear, he would not wrong you by making Armand king!” she exclaimed, as though the thought had but that moment come.
He turned to her with quick sympathy, a look of warm appreciation in his eyes. The answer she had played for trembled on his lips—then died unspoken.
He bent down and kissed her forehead.
“We of the Dalbergs still believe, my dear, that the King can do no wrong,” he said, and swung her to the floor. “Come, let us walk on the wall, and forget everything except that we are together, and that I love you.”
She closed her eyes to hide the flash of angry disappointment, though her voice was calm and easy.
“Love!” she laughed; “love! what is it? The infatuation of the moment—the pleasure of an hour.”