“Truly, madam, you grieve me. But if I have had no love affairs, consider, I have had but little money. So long as my father’s bastard enjoys my estate, so long shall I be a poor man. I am like some of the other poor and virtuous in this world,—virtuous because I am poor.”
“François has not even that excuse. But you have not asked me one word about my niece, the Princess of Orlamunde.”
Roger felt himself grow pale, but he answered readily:
“I was about then to inquire of her Highness.”
“Highness fiddlestick! Dearly has she paid for that ridiculous title and that semi-royal coronet she wears. Did I not tell you and Berwick that one look at my cousin of Orlamunde convinced me that he was a scoundrel? And I do not think my niece a woman to submit humbly to a scoundrel. She made some spirited attempts to drive out the men and women rascals and harpies whom the Prince had collected around him; but, of course, she failed. Then, instead of taking to lap-dogs or devotion, as most women do, my lady defiantly leads her own life; has clever men about her, when she can get them; has learned the lesson of despising what the world says,—a dangerous, dangerous lesson for any woman to learn; drives her husband wild by her defiance of him, and then laughs at him; in short, acts just as one could foresee a proud, injured, fearless woman would. I fancy, too, her health is breaking down under the strain of misery. In one thing alone has she been judicious; she kept the French King informed of exactly how Orlamunde was standing to his engagements—which is very poorly indeed—as long as she could; and but for her Orlamunde would have sold those two fortified places to the allies, within a year from the time he guaranteed them to Louis. Even now it is not certain that the French guns have not been sold to William of Orange,—twenty-four bronze cannon, so I have heard. Of course, this only makes Orlamunde hate her the more, and he has found means to stop her correspondence with France. And who, think you, is the precious gentleman through whom Orlamunde has been transacting this vile business with Dutch William? Your bastard brother, Hugo Stein—who is the English diplomatic agent at Orlamunde.”
Roger had been getting paler and paler as the old lady spoke, her dark eyes sparkling. Now he flushed deeply.
“Yes, Hugo Egremont, as he calls himself, is Orlamunde’s alter ego, and has been, almost since that unfortunate marriage. It was he who was after the Prince to give up the fortified places,—and it is he who has been trying to persuade the Prince to sell the bronze guns, and he may have succeeded. He seems to have plenty of money, so I hear—got from his estates in England—”
“My oak timber!” burst in Roger, thinking of the eight thousand pounds of which Dicky had told him.
“And has the entire confidence of his government.”
“He was ever an astute scoundrel,” again broke in Roger, growing a deeper and darker red.