“You mistake, monsieur,” she said, very low, “I——”
“On the whole, you preferred me to Kurakin,” I interrupted bitterly. “I thank you, Mme. la Princesse. I have heard that he killed his first wife. Possibly a French gentleman is better than a murderer.”
She did not reply, but her head drooped.
“I congratulate madame,” I added, “on the swift transition. Prince Galitsyn will doubtless find a way to free you from any shackles that remain—of the marriage ceremony. For my part, I absolve you!”
Still she did not speak, but she raised her head proudly, I thought. My heart was as bitter as the wormwood that grows on the great steppes to the southwest of her home.
“I thank you, madame,” I went on, “for coming to bid me farewell, but it is a thankless task. You cast me off last night—and, if you love me not, I care not for your gratitude.”
She found her voice, but it was very low.
“You are mistaken, monsieur,” she faltered. “I——”
She could say no more; for a moment we were silent; I, with folded arms, looking at her, she with her face hidden in her hood. Then she spoke again.
“Monsieur, I pray you go away,” she said. “Your life is in peril here; every hour, every moment increases the danger of your stay—it will be to—to die!” she ended with a little cry, suddenly laying her trembling hand on my arm.