“She is old—a spy of Louis and stale at the game.”
The Princess was startled, both at his clear vision and his calm statement.
“Oh, be careful!” she whispered.
“I know no other word for spy, Madame.”
The Princess rose and touched her grandson’s shoulder.
“You frighten me, William.… Madame Lavalette represents France.”
The Prince put his hand to his forehead and answered in a low but moved tone—
“I listened to what she had to say.… She insulted me … like every one.” His eyes flashed bitterly. “Even Bromley thinks he serves the puppet of France.… And you, Madame——” He checked himself scornfully,—“But let it go.”
“I do not understand,” faltered the Princess.
“No one understands … save M. Triglandt.” He kissed her hand. “Good-night, Madame.”