On the third morning after my arrival I was strolling down the street toward the railway station, in company with Mazanovitch, when suddenly I paused and grasped my comrade’s arm convulsively.
“Look there!” I exclaimed.
Mazanovitch shook off my hand, impatiently.
“I see,” he returned; “it is the Senhorita Lesba Paola, riding in the Emperor’s carriage.”
“But that scoundrel Valcour is with her!” I cried.
“Scoundrel? We do not call Senhor Valcour that. He is faithful to the Emperor, who employs him. Shall we, who are unfaithful, blame him for his fidelity?”
While I sought an answer to this disconcerting query the carriage whirled past us and disappeared around a corner; but I had caught a glimpse of Lesba’s bright eyes glancing coyly into the earnest face Valcour bent over her, and the sight filled me with pain and suspicion.
“Listen, Captain,” said I, gloomily, “that girl knows all the important secrets of the conspiracy.”
“True,” answered the unmoved Mazanovitch.
“And she is riding in the Emperor’s carriage, in confidential intercourse with the Emperor’s spy.”