Othmar, with a gesture, intimated that the misfortune of his late adversary was a matter of utter indifference.
‘If you be sorry that he limps,’ he said impatiently, ‘be sorry that you gave him your bouquet to carry. Princess, you are very fond of psychological studies, but you do not like to be reminded of what others pay for them. You know well enough what men suffer for you, and through you, but you do not choose ever to blame yourself for making them do so. The world has not changed; the mode of expression may have altered, but men feel as they felt in the days of David or of Æschylus. Love is what it was then, a mere passing pleasure or pain to many, but to some the herald of heaven or of hell, the begetter of heroism or of crime.’
‘My dear Othmar, pray excuse me,’ said Nadine Napraxine, ‘you talk beautifully, you always did, but I cannot stay to hear you when the sun is just going down, and we have only a yacht that crawls to take us home to dinner. It is my fault that it crawls: he would have had a steam one if I had not prevented him. I detest smoke and machinery, but still certainly without them one crawls. Monsignore, will you come if you have finished talking about the Little Sisters of the Poor?’
Othmar’s face grew cold, a sombre displeasure darkened his eyes, he drew back and let Melville join Madame Napraxine. He himself walked beside her friend down the path through the woods talking, but not sensible of what he said, watching the red sunshade with its embroidered humming-birds pass before him under the boughs.
As they neared the quay he took from the hands of one of his men two bouquets of gardenias and orchids, and offered them to the two ladies; they were in pretty cornucopiæ of silvered wicker-work. Any one would have thought that there had been the preparation of a week for this afternoon visit.
‘You are bon prince,’ said Madame Napraxine as she took her orchids, ‘why will you pretend to be a barbarian? The little graceful amenities of the world become you, and you do them so well, though you do them so seldom; why will you make yourself un homme de foyer—manqué? It is much nicer,’ she added in a low murmur, ‘to give me a bouquet than to shoot another man for carrying one.’
He did not answer. Her jests jarred on him.
When they reached the quay the sun was setting, the boat was waiting, the sailors immovable, their oars held straight in the air.
‘Adieu, Othmar!’ said the Princess Nadine gaily. ‘Your château is marvellous, your orchids are exquisite, and your tea was enchanting; we will leave you all alone in your poetic solitude, and when you want prose and society you will come to La Jacquemerille.’