“For Monsieur le Duc,” he said. Tatiana sat down abruptly on the nearest chair, her face suddenly white. Pavlo stopped short, looking at her concernedly, and Salvières quickly tore open the message.
Very carefully he refolded the tinted sheet, replaced it in its envelope, and, turning to the man waiting in readiness with pad and pencil, said, “No answer,” in his ordinary matter-of-fact tone; then he offered his arm to his wife.
“Let us go to your little salon,” he calmly remarked. Pavlo, without a word or question, followed his parents, looking perturbed, as though he felt that his joking prognostications had come true.
“And now,” Salvières said, after closing the boudoir door behind them, “here comes a very pretty bit of news. Don’t take it unnecessarily to heart, Tatiana. Laurence has run away with Preston Wynne on her yacht, destination unknown. Régis de Plenhöel telegraphs me not to allow Basil to find this out, since as yet there has been no public scandal.” He paused and glanced first at his wife and then at his son. “Well?” he added, after a second.
Pavlo made a helpless little gesture with his hands, as one utterly at a loss to find adequate words; Tatiana rose quickly and whirled toward her husband.
“What did I tell you?” she cried. “Misfortune over misfortune around that unfortunate child’s head. The wretched woman! Oh, the villain! My poor Basil and—that poor Mr. Wynne, too! What a fool!”
“You are the only person in the world,” Salvières observed, “who could make one feel like laughing at such a catastrophe. What in the name of all common sense induces you to pity Wynne?”
“Why,” Tatiana rejoined, her eyes sparkling with anger, “because he is such a nice chap; so was that young Moray; and, moreover, because I never blame the man in such affairs. It is the woman who is invariably the guilty party, and it is so easy to behave oneself, especially when one has a good and good-looking husband. Besides, fancy any man landing that Laurence on his back for the rest of his natural existence—without being obliged to do so. A second Basil! Good Lord!”
Salvières took her strong little hand in his and patted it; but she was in no mood for tenderness, and, tearing herself away, she began to pace the floor, speaking as she moved.
“I have no patience with misconduct—inexcusable misconduct—like this! A cold-blooded coquette ruining life after life, dishonoring everybody concerned with her. How do you suppose that Basil will ever accept little Piotr as his now, after this new proof of Laurence’s incorrigible lightness? And—oh! but it is too atrocious! Now Basil will kill Preston Wynne, too! He does not joke about such things, as he has proved.”