Ezarhédine bowed in silence.
She shuddered slightly from head to foot; her eyes opened wide with an expression of great terror; her lips turned white. She sat down on the nearest seat, and motioned to him to be seated by her.
‘Has he fought with Othmar?’ she said hoarsely, so low that her words were scarcely intelligible.
‘With Othmar? No, madame,’ Ezarhédine answered in surprise; and told her with whom he had fought and how he had died.
She heard in perfect silence; but the colour had returned to her lips.
‘Poor Napraxine; he died for her sake, and it is only of Othmar that she thought,’ mused Prince Ezarhédine as he left her house when his painful mission was over.
CHAPTER XLVI.
Othmar was in his own house that day at two o’clock looking at a portrait, by Cabanel, of his wife, which had been sent home in the forenoon, and which had been left standing in the salon, where she passed most of her hours. The portrait was one of the triumphs of that elegant master. He had painted her in a gown of white velvet, with her favourite peacocks near, and some high shrubs of red azaleas to lend her the contrast of rich colour. The whole composition was a masterpiece of softness, brilliancy, and sunshine. Othmar stood looking at it and speaking of it to the Baron and to Yseulte when Alain de Vannes was ushered into the room, and, scarcely pausing for the usual ceremonies of salutation, said abruptly to him: ‘You have heard the news of the morning? Napraxine is dead.’