'If you ever hope to be Duchess of Maäsau,' he answered significantly, 'leave Valerie's lovers, Unziar and the Englishman, to take care of themselves. Keep your tongue silent! Remember!' He caught her slender wrist roughly as he spoke and pressed it to enforce the command.
The Countess made no reply, but her fingers closed in upon her palms.
'Come, give me a kiss, and promise me to do so much towards making yourself a Grand Duchess.' He brushed her lips carelessly with his moustache.
The caress brought no response; but as he bent over her she whispered, 'Have mercy on me Simon!' (it was a prayer born rather of some vague instinct of danger than any defined fear); 'don't kill me!'
He put his thick arm round her and shook her impatiently.
'Kill you, Isolde? Are you mad? You are far more useful to me living than dead. Get rid of your silly fears, and remember—silence!'
Then putting her back on the couch with more gentleness than might have been expected of him, he walked out of the room. For a little while she sat listening, then opened her eyes and glanced about her. Yes, he was gone. But it was characteristic of her that at such a time her chief and overpowering thought was Valerie as a rival! 'Valerie's lovers, Unziar and the Englishman!' A score of trifles rushed back upon her memory; but no it could not be. It was one of the Count's amiable ways to suggest causes of jealousy to his wife. He meant nothing, for what could he know? The soothing conviction grew upon her that the taunt was thrown at her for what it was worth. Oh, how she hated Sagan—hated his bloodshot, beast's eyes, his mocking laugh, his cruel hands, his crueller gibes!
She pushed back the lace from her wrist and saw the thin parallels of bruised flesh his fingers had left—entirely unaware, it must be owned—upon her whiteness. Ah, she would show these to Rallywood—as a proof that she was in danger, that she actually needed his protection, and so win him from his post, which to-night would become the post of death.
All her little vain soul thrilled within her at the possibility of triumph—of defeating the honour of such a man—of winning him from his watch for love's sake—of overcoming the scruples that had for so long a time stood out against her wiles.
And yet in her poor way she loved him—loved him as she would probably never love another. Some women are made in that way, they take pride in the loftiness of the height from which they drag men down. Then he must be saved, she told herself, at all costs saved! He would live to thank her yet. A thought of him lying dead in his blood by the dark embrasure that masked the entrance to the royal apartments flashed across her mind. She stretched out her arms with a soft call like a bird's.