But the woman did not speak. Her hands were clenched, her lips tremulous, while in her eyes was a look of unutterable sorrow.
"But we have not come to the end of our little comedy yet, Olga," went on Romanoff. "You have still your chance of victory."
"Comedy!" she repeated; "it is the blackest tragedy."
"Tragedy, eh? Yes; it will be tragedy if you fail."
"And I must fail," she cried. "I am powerless to reach him, and yet I would give my heart's blood to win his love. But go, go! Let me never see your face again."
"You will not get rid of me so easily," mocked the Count. "We made our pact. I will keep my side of it, and you must keep yours."
"I cannot, I tell you. Something, something I cannot understand, mocks me."
"You love the fellow still," said Romanoff. "Fancy, Olga Petrovic is weak enough for that."
"Yes, I love him," cried the woman—"I admit it—love him with every fibre of my being. But not as you would have me love him. I have tried to obey you; but I am baffled. The man's clean, healthy soul makes me ashamed. God alone knows how ashamed I am! And it is his healthiness of soul that baffles me."
"No, it is not," snarled Romanoff. "It is because I have been opposed by one of whom I was ignorant. That chit of a girl, that wayside flower, whom I would love to see polluted by the filth of the world, has been used to beat me. Don't you see? The fellow is in love with her. He has been made to love her. That is why you have failed."