“Did she marry Kurakin?” the prince demanded, in a low voice, but in a tone that might well strike terror to a weak heart; “did Sophia force her to that?”
“No,” I replied, “no, your excellency, for I prevented it——”
He broke in upon me with a kind of fierce joy.
“You prevented it—and how, sir?”
“I married the Princess Daria myself,” I said.
A pause followed, a pause so deadly that I heard Maître le Bastien breathing like a man spent with running. I believe that Galitsyn thought me mad; he looked at me as if he doubted his own senses, and that doubt alone stayed his hand. I think, on the first impulse, he would have struck me dead—if he could. He wore the look men wear when they strike to kill; I saw just such a look on the face of M. d’Argenson that morning in Easter week, on the Place Royale. And Galitsyn meant to kill me, but after a moment, a moment of sharp suspense, he laughed harshly.
“I think you jest, sir,” he said, with bitter pleasantry, “but ’tis a dangerous jest—here.”
Saint Denis! who could doubt it, with that fierce eye of his upon me and that row of scowling savage faces below me in the hall? It was like to be a sorry jest indeed. But I cared neither for him nor for his menials, now that I was sure that the princess was not in his power, yet I meant to let him know that she was mine—and mine she should be—in spite of him.
“I jest so little, M. le Prince,” I said, “that he who dares to contradict my statement will do it at his peril. The Princess Daria is my wife.”
“Your wife,” he replied bitterly, measuring me with a fierce eye, “by Saint Nikolas of Mojaïsk, she shall be your widow, then!” and he raised his right hand sharply, but Maître le Bastien flung himself upon that arm and held it.