‘The world would have lost nothing,’ answered the girl, a little bitterly. ‘The world and I have no affinity.’
‘That is only an idea. In a few years you will habituate yourself to——’ he paused and added with meaning, ‘to many things which seem to you harsh and cold. Penelope nowadays, if she spin at all to console herself for abandonment, only weaves the web of flirtages——’
Yseulte coloured at the insinuation contained in the phrase. Her heart was too full for her to trust herself to answer. Did all these people know, as she knew, that her husband had never loved her?
‘You are trop taillée à l’antique,’ said de Vannes with a little impertinence. ‘Do you think you are ever thanked for all this exclusive devotion which does not permit you to smile at a ball? Do not be angered, Yseulte. I should be glad if I could persuade you that it would be much wiser to smile often—and smile on others. Men are ungrateful, my cousin. The spaniel love is not what moves them most.’
‘I do not know why you should say this to me,’ she murmured with embarrassment and offence. ‘You presume too far on our relationship——’
‘Pardon me!’ said the Duc very humbly. ‘My indignation is apt to outrun my prudence. I do not like to see—any one—passively accept neglect. Neglect should be avenged. It is the only way in which it can be transformed into allegiance.’
Yseulte made a courageous effort to conceal her knowledge of the drift of his words.
‘I cannot tell what you allude to,’ she said coldly. ‘Nor do I see why you should feel any anger for which you are not asked.’
‘In the last century,’ continued de Vannes, as though he had not heard her, ‘there was a woman called Lescombat; she was very beautiful and had many lovers; she incited them to many crimes. One of them, Mongeôt, was condemned to be broken on the wheel for one of these crimes. He could have cleared himself if he had revealed her name; but he never did. He died on the wheel silent. She went to the Place de Grêve and smiled to see his tortures. ‘Il ne fallait pas moins que cela pour faire rougir Mongeôt!’ she cried so loud that he could hear her: he had always been very fair and pale. But he died mute, nevertheless. It is women like the Lescombat, my cousin, who are loved like that. Pauline de Beaumont, the very flower and perfection of womanhood, was only allowed as a reward for her devotion to follow her lover at a distance like a dog and die in Rome. It is always so.’