"Never!" she said sharply. "Never the slightest doubt! In fact I would far rather believe myself guilty of cheating at cards than I would Richard. I think it was an infamous accusation! Why, surely you, Julian, felt and feel the same?" She looked at him with real distress and anger in her blue eyes.
"Oh yes," he said slowly, "I certainly felt the same at the time. Still, his present way of going on looks very odd. It doesn't seem to me that of an innocent man. Why should he compel his wife to lead such a life as that she evidently does lead at St. Germains?"
"But how young she still looks," said Madame Sampiero eagerly. "I really think she's as pretty as ever!"
"H'm!" he said. "Rather faded—at least so I thought. And then,—another notion of Richard's no doubt,—there seemed something wrong about her dress."
Barbara Sampiero laughed. "You are quite right," she said, "but how odd that you should have noticed it! Richard won't allow her to wear a crinoline! Isn't he absurd? But she hasn't changed a bit. She loves him as much as ever—nay, more than ever, and that, Julian,"—again their hands clasped,—"is, you must admit, very rare and touching after all that has come and gone."
But each of the speakers felt that this visit to St. Germains had been vaguely disappointing, that it had not yielded all they had hoped it would do.
Barbara Sampiero made up her mind that before leaving Paris she would come again, and come alone. She did not carry out her good resolution, and many long years were to pass by before she and her god-daughter met again. And to both, by the time of that second meeting, St. Germains had become a place peopled with sad ghosts and poignant memories which both strove rather to forget than to remember.
End of the Prologue.