"No, to Belgium with the First Consul: to Antwerp, I believe."
I spoke also in French, but added in English:
"Mademoiselle, if you need me, I will not go to Belgium; I will resign."
She shook her head.
"No; I am sorry you are going, but I would not have you resign. The First Consul is vindictive, they say; should you reject his favors, he may remember your St. Cloud offense."
"I care not for that!" And then I added moodily, "They will compel you to marry him."
She threw up her head in much the same fashion Fatima throws up hers when she scents conflict in the distance.
"They cannot coerce me!" she said proudly, and then she added, half playfully, half defiantly:
"They tell me I have royal blood; they shall see I know how to use my royal prerogative." She held out her hand to me and spoke again in French: