Scarcely had the aide-de-camp time to take leave of the two ladies, so precipitately did the Archduke depart, with the air of a man who could no longer contain himself.
"And that is the secret of his fury," said Madame Brion, when her friend had repeated the brutal discourse of the Prince. "It is very unjust. But I am glad it is only that. I was so afraid he had heard of your play last night, and especially that imprudence. You are going to cancel your invitation to Miss Florence?"
"I?" said the Baroness, shrugging her shoulders, and her noble face wore an expression of disgust. "There was a time when this boorishness crushed me; a time when it revolted me. To-day I care no more than that for this brute and all his rage."
While saying this she had lit a Russian cigarette, with a long paper stem, at a little lamp used for this purpose, and from her contemptuous lips she blew a ring of smoke, which rose, opening and stretching out till it was dissipated in the warm and perfumed atmosphere of the little room. It was an atmosphere of intimacy surrounding the two friends, in this bright parlor, with the soft shades of its tapestry, the old paintings, the precious furniture, the vague green of the conservatory behind one of the glass doors, and everywhere flowers—the beautiful living flowers of the South, interwoven with threads of sunlight. Lamps, large and small, veiled in shades of supple silk, radiated through this retreat an attenuated light which blended with the clear, gay fire. Ah, the unfortunate would little envy these surroundings of the rich, if they but knew the secret agony for which these surroundings so often serve as a theatre! Ely de Carlsberg had sunk upon a lounge; she was saying:—
"What do you suppose these wretched things matter to me, with the pain you know is in my heart? I shall receive Flossie Marsh to-morrow, and for several days after, and the Archduke may be as angry as he likes. He says he knows the place to attack me. There is only one, and I am going to strike it myself. It is as though he should threaten to fight a duel with some one who has determined to commit suicide."
"But do you not think he is right about Marsh's calculations?" asked Madame Brion to arrest the crisis of the revolt which she saw approaching.
"It is quite possible," said the Baroness. "He is an American, and for those people a sentiment is a fact like any other, and is to be utilized as much as possible. But admitting that he speculates on Flossie's passion for a savant and an inventor, does the uncle's speculation prove that the sentiment of the niece is not sincere? Poor Flossie," she added in a tone that once more vibrated with her inward torment. "I hope she will not allow herself to be separated from the man she loves. She would suffer too much, and if it is necessary to help her not to lose him, I will help her."
These two successive cries betrayed such distress, and in consequence so much uncertainty still remaining in the wise resolution they had made together, that the faithful friend was terrified. The thought which she had had the night before, and had rejected as being too difficult to execute, the thought of appealing directly to the magnanimity of the young man, seized her again with excessive force. This time, she gave free rein to it, and the next morning a messenger, found at the station, delivered at the Hôtel des Palmes the following letter, which Pierre Hautefeuille opened and read after a long night of anxiety and cruel insomnia:—
"MONSIEUR—I trust to your delicacy not to seek to know who I am, or the motive which leads me to write you these lines. They come from one who knows you, although you do not know her, and who esteems you profoundly. I have no doubt that you will listen to this appeal made to your honor. A word will suffice to show you how much your honor is concerned in ceasing to compromise, most involuntarily, I am sure, the peace and the reputation of a person who is not free, and whose elevated situation is exposed to much envy. You were seen, Monsieur, the night before last, in the roulette hall at Monte Carlo, when you bought an article which that person had just sold to a merchant. If that were an isolated circumstance, it would not have such a dangerous significance. But you must yourself perceive that your attitude during the last few weeks could not have escaped malignant comments. The person concerned is not free. She has suffered a great deal in her private life, and the slightest injury done to the one upon whom her situation depends might provoke a catastrophe for her. Perhaps she will never tell you herself what pain your action, of which she has been informed, has caused her. Be an honest man, Monsieur, and do not try to enter into a life which you can only trouble. Do not compromise a noble-hearted woman, who has all the more right to your respect from the fact that she does not distrust you. Have, then, the courage to do the only thing that can prevent calumny, if it has not already begun, and that can put an end to it if it had begun. Leave Cannes, Monsieur, for some weeks. The day will come when you will be glad to think you have done your duty, your whole duty, and that you have given to a noble woman the one proof of devotion that you could be permitted to offer—a consideration for her welfare and her honor."
In the famous story of Daniel DeFoe, that prodigious epitome of all the profound emotions of the human heart, there is a celebrated page which symbolizes the peculiar terror we feel at revelations that are absolutely, tragically unexpected. It is when Robinson sees with a shudder the print of a bare foot on the shore of his island.