In the spacious marble court of a certain great house in the Avenue Bois de Boulogne, the oppressive sultriness of the night was tempered by the delicious coolness of a fountain in full play which flung a quivering column of snow-white against the darkness and tinkled its falling drops into a bronze basin below with a musical softness as of far-distant sleigh-bells. The court itself was gracefully built after Athenian models,—its slender Ionic columns supported a domed roof which by daylight would have shown an exquisite sculptured design, but which now was too dimly perceived for even its height to be guessed. Beyond the enclosure stretched the vague outline of a garden which adjoined the Bois, and here there were tall trees and drooping branches that moved mysteriously now and then, as though touched by an invisible finger-tip. Within each corner of the court great marble vases stood, brimming over with growing blossoms,—pale light streaming from an open window or door in the house shed a gleam on some statue of a god or goddess half hidden among flowers,—and here in this cool quietness of stately and beautiful surroundings sat, or rather reclined, Diana, on a cushioned bench, her head turned towards her sole companion, Féodor Dimitrius. He sat in a lounge chair opposite to her, and his dark and brilliant eyes studied her fair features with wistful gravity.
“I think I have told you all,” he said, speaking in slow, soft tones. “Poor Chauvet’s death was sudden, but from his written instructions I fancy he was not unprepared. He has no relatives,—and he must have found great consolation in making his will in your favour. For he cared very greatly for you,—he told me he had asked you to marry him.”
Diana moved a little restlessly. As she did so a rosy flash glittered from a great jewel she wore round her neck,—the famous “Eye of Rajuna,” whose tragic history she had heard from Chauvet himself.
“Yes,” she answered—“That is true. But—I forgot!”
“You forgot?” he echoed, wonderingly. “You forgot a proposal of marriage? And yet—when you came to me first in Geneva you thought love was enough for everything,—your heart was hungry for love——”
“When I had a heart—yes!” she said. “But now I have none. And I do not hunger for what does not exist! I am sorry I forgot the kind Professor. But I did,—completely! And that he should have left me all he possessed is almost a punishment!”
“You should not regard it as such,” he answered. “It is hardly your fault if you forgot. Your thoughts are, perhaps, elsewhere?” He paused,—but she said nothing. “As I have told you,” he went on, “Chauvet has left you an ample fortune, together with this house and all it contains—its unique library, its pictures and curios, to say nothing of his famous collection of jewels, worth many thousands of pounds—and as everything is in perfect order you will have no trouble. Personally, I had no idea he was such a wealthy man.”
She was still silent, looking at him more or less critically. He felt her eyes upon him, and some impulse stung him into sudden fervour.
“You look indifferent,” he said, “and no doubt you are indifferent. Your nature now admits of no emotion. But, so far as you are woman, your circumstances are little changed. You are as you were when you first became my ‘subject’—‘of mature years, and alone in the world without claims on your time or your affections.’ Is it not so?”
A faint, mysterious smile lifted the corners of her lovely mouth.