“‘Indeed,’ she said, ‘I must be at the theatre again directly, and I have much to do before that. Music is a hard mistress, Count, as I discovered years ago. Some day, perhaps, I will tell you more of my troubles; but to-day they must wait. I came here to speak to you of something which is very difficult to speak about—and yet for both our sakes I must speak.’
“It was his turn to become serious now, and to show her by his manner that he was in no mood for confidences.
“‘Really,’ said he, ‘it is difficult to believe that Mademoiselle Zlarin has any troubles!’
“She laughed—a laugh rather of defiance than of merriment.
“‘Perhaps I have none, Count,’ she exclaimed; ‘it may be that I imagine them. If each of us could be as happy as he thinks his friend, what a pleasant world it would be! But I am not here to weary you with my own history. I came rather to save you from my troubles and from those who make them. You will know of whom I speak. If you still wish to do me a kindness, avoid my husband while you are in Vienna. I say no more—you will understand.’
“The Count leant back in his chair and laughed heartily. He had thought that she was about to invite discussion of those things which it was his object not to discuss. When she spoke of Ugo Klun the relief was great.
“‘Ho, ho, Christine, so I am to avoid your husband? You came to tell me that! He has threatened me, eh? Certainly, I must send for the police, or buy a shirt of mail, little one. Donnerwetter, that the rogue should have the impertinence!’
“Christine rose from her chair and wrapped her furs about her neck. She was trembling—but not with cold. The indifference of the man—his mocking tone—cut her to the quick. She seemed to live years during the few minutes she was in the room with him.
“‘Herr Count,’ she said, ‘I thought it my duty to speak, and I have spoken; the rest I leave to you. Remember the words—even if you forget the speaker.’
“She held out her hand to him, and he saw that she was about to leave him. His raillery ceased instantly as his fingers closed upon hers, and for the first time during the interview an overwhelming desire came upon him to remind her of the days at Jézero when they had lived together in the gardens of life. He knew it not, but Destiny had led him then to the well of love, and he had but to stoop and drink. A word—a look from the eyes—and he would have held her in his arms and have gathered the firstfruits of her abiding passion. The fatal instant during which he paused to reckon with himself was one the opportunity of which would never be his again. Even as he put the silent question: ‘What of my determination?’ the girl had turned from him and left the room. His hand was still hot with the touch of hers when she stepped into her carriage and drove to her home.