“Come into my closet, then,” replied the Prince, in a fretful voice.
Roger and the Countess Bertha remaining alone, the Countess appeared to be furiously vexed.
“His Highness discusses questions of state before me,” she said; “I do not know why the Duke of Berwick can object to my presence.”
“Nor can I, dear lady,” said Roger, with a grin, “unless it be that he has orders from his Most Christian Majesty to make his communication in the strictest privacy. And it would be exactly like the Duke of Berwick to do what the King of France told him, in spite of your own sweet wishes.”
Countess Bertha turned very red in her anger, unlike the Prince, who turned pale when he was in a rage.
“At all events, I shall know all that passes; of that you may be sure.”
“My charming friend, of course I know it. The Prince leaks like a sieve. The King of France took, I think, much trouble for nothing.”
Countess Bertha’s eyes flashed. The impudence of this fellow was past bearing.
“I think I understand you, Mr. Egremont,—and I understand why you and your friend the Duke of Berwick treat the Prince and me with such studied disrespect. We all had eyes last night. There is a personage here in whom you take a singular interest. Her enemies are your enemies, her feuds are your feuds, her friends your friends; shall I speak her name?”
“Not, dearest madam, if you have the least regard for your present health and future welfare. For, I swear to you, if you speak that lady’s name before me with any but the most profound respect, I am your enemy and you are mine, to the very last hour of my life. Remember, creatures like you hold their power by a very uncertain tenure, and the personage you dare to allude to holds hers by the power of a subsidy of two hundred thousand livres a year. The Prince loves money better than he loves you, and upon the report that we take back to France does that two hundred thousand livres depend.”