“Oh, I could be pushed to an obvious enough retort,” he said, losing patience, for now it was plain that they were outraging every etiquette by so long talking together while others were in the room. “I was to blame, Heaven knows! I'm not denying that, but you—but you—” And his fingers nervously sought in his coat for the flageolet.
Mrs. Petullo's face flamed. “Oh, you hound!” she hissed, “you hound!” and then she laughed softly, hysterically. “That is the gentleman for you! The seed of kings, no less! What a brag it was! That is the gentleman for you!—to put the blame on me. No, Sim; no, Sim; I will not betray you to Miss Mim-mou', you need not be feared of that; I'll let her find you out for herself and then it will be too late. And, oh! I hate her! hate her! hate her!”
“Thank God for that!” said the Chamberlain with a sudden memory of the purity she envied, and at these words Mrs. Petullo fell in a swoon upon the floor.
“Lord, what's the matter?” cried her husband, running to her side, then crying for the maid.
“I haven't the slightest idea,” said Sim MacTag-gart. “But she looked ill from the first,” and once more he inwardly cursed his fate that constantly embroiled him in such affairs.
Ten minutes later he and the Count were told the lady had come round, and with expressions of deep sympathy they left Petullo's dwelling.
CHAPTER XXIII — A MAN OF NOBLE SENTIMENT
There was a silence between the two for a little after they came out from Petullo's distracted household. With a chilling sentiment towards his new acquaintance, whom he judged the cause of the unhappy woman's state, Count Victor waited for the excuse he knew inevitable. He could not see the Chamberlain's face, for the night was dark now; the tide, unseen, was running up on the beach of the bay, lights were burning in the dwellings of the little town.
“M. Montaiglon,” at last said the Chamberlain in a curious voice where feelings the most deep appeared to strive together, “yon's a tragedy, if you like.”