The Duc de Vannes approached Yseulte.
‘My cousin,’ he said with gentle mockery, ‘was poor Napraxine such a favourite of yours that you look so stricken with sorrow? If I had known that my intelligence would have caused such regret, I would have been less precipitate in relating it.’
Yseulte coloured; she was conscious that it was her husband’s emotion, not hers, at which he jested.
‘Death is always terrible,’ she murmured, not knowing what to say. ‘And Prince Napraxine always seemed so well, so strong, so full of health——’
De Vannes laughed a little grimly.
‘Poor Napraxine had only one vulnerable point—his heart; some gossiper pecked at that as jays peck at fruit; and this is the end. You know he adored his wife, most unfortunately for himself; she is called the Marie Stuart of our day, and to complete the parallel, it was necessary for her to be the cause of her husband’s death.’
‘But—she must suffer now?’ said Yseulte, her golden eyes dim and dark with feeling.
‘Suffer?’ echoed Alain de Vannes. ‘I see you do not know Madame Napraxine, though you meet so often. The long strict Russian mourning and all the religious rites will weary her terribly. Beyond that, she will not be much distressed, and she will have many—consolations.’
‘She has children,’ said Yseulte.
The Duc smiled.