“Yes, he can have it,” the princess replied calmly, “but that will not matter—it is only the beginning of the end. It was folly, it was madness——” She broke off, and stood looking at the ground, an expression of great perplexity upon her face. She had pushed her veil aside and I saw that she was very pale.
Lissa looked at her, clinging to her hand.
“Oh, I think it will not matter so much, Daria,” she said. “Uncle Kirill will straighten it for us.”
The princess smiled sadly and shook her head.
“If you will trust me,” I said, addressing her, “I will take the miniature to her highness, and I will so bear the matter out that you shall not fall under the shadow of a connection with the change of portraits. You may trust me, mademoiselle, on my honour as a French gentleman.”
She gave me a swift, searching glance, and with her hand on Lissa’s lips checked that young girl’s impulsive reply.
“Sir,” she said gravely, “you cannot understand how serious this matter is. It began in a moment of folly—a jest upon Prince Galitsyn, but I had repented of it—and all would have been well but for the—the accident that gave the locket back to him, and through him to the czarevna.”
“Surely, mademoiselle, not by his free will,” I said, “if he is the brave man that men call him.”
She coloured deeply. “I think not by his free will,” she said, “for he must know the peril of it for me, and for mine. Howbeit, I am no coward,” she added proudly, “and I must face it to the end. But you must have the miniature, if only for Maître le Bastien’s sake, and”—she stopped and glanced at me almost shyly, more girlish in her aspect than I had ever seen her—“and for yours, monsieur.”
I bowed gravely. “Consider me not at all, Princess,” I said softly, “except as your servant.”