"In other words you mean that it is the Archduke who has slandered you, do you not?" asked Madame de Carlsberg, after a short silence.
"Everything appeared to condemn me," replied Florence, ignoring the Baroness's remark, "but when there is faith there can be no question of trusting to appearances. Do you not think so?"
"I think that Verdier loves you," said Ely, in reply, "and that in love there is jealousy. But what was the matter?"
"There can be no love where there is no esteem," said the young girl, angrily, "and you cannot esteem a woman whom you think capable of certain things. You know," she went on, her anger increasing in a way that proved how keenly she felt the outrage, "you know that Andryana and her husband hired a villa at Golfe Juan. I went there several times with Andryana, and Monsieur Verdier knew about it. How I do not know, and yet it does not astonish me, for once or twice as we went there about tea-time I thought I saw Monsieur von Laubach prowling about. And what do you think Monsieur Verdier dared to think of me,—of me, an American? What do you think he dared to reproach me with? That I was chaperoning an intrigue between Andryana and Corancez, that I was cognizant of one of those horrible things you call a liaison."
"But it was the simplest thing in the world to clear yourself," said Ely.
"I could not betray Andryana's secret," replied Florence. "I had promised to keep it sacred, and I would not ask her permission to speak; in the first place, because I had no right to do so, and in the second," and her physiognomy betrayed all her wounded pride and sensation of honor, "in the second because I would not stoop to defend myself against suspicion. I told Monsieur Verdier that he was mistaken. He did not believe me, and all is over between us."
"So that you accept the idea of not marrying him," said Ely, "simply through pride or bitterness rather than make a very simple explanation!—But suppose he came here, here upon your uncle's boat, to beg you to forgive him for his unjust suspicions, or rather for what he believed himself justified in thinking? Suppose he did better still; suppose he asks for your hand, that he asks you to marry him, will you say him nay? Will all be over between you?"
"He will not come," said Florence. "He has not written or taken a step for the last week. Why do you speak to me in that way? You are taking away all my courage, and, believe me, I have need of it all."
"What a child you are, Flossie!" said Ely, kissing her. "You will realize some day that we women have no courage to withstand those we love and those that love us. Let me follow my idea. You will be engaged before this evening is over."
She spoke the last words of exhortation and hope with a bitter tone that Florence did not recognize. As she listened to the young girl telling of the little misunderstanding that separated her and Verdier, she had a keen sensation of her own misery. This lovers' quarrel was only a dispute between a child—as she had called Miss Marsh—and another child. She thought of her rupture with Pierre. She thought of all the bitterness and vileness and inexpiable offence that there was between them. Face to face with the pretty American's pride before an unjust suspicion, she felt more vividly the horror of being justly accused and of being obliged either to lie or to own her shame while asking for pity. At the same time she was overwhelmed with a flood of indignation at the thought of the odious means employed by the Archduke to keep Verdier with him. She found in it the same sentiment that had aroused her hatred against Olivier the night before: the attachment of man for man, the friendship that is jealous of love, that is hostile to woman, that pursues and tracks her in order to preserve the friend. True, the sentiment of the Prince for his coadjutor was not precisely the same that Pierre felt for Olivier and that Olivier felt for Pierre. It was the affection of a scientist for his companion of the laboratory, of a master for his disciple, almost of a father for a son.