'Yes, yes. But whom do you command? Where, exactly, do you stand now?'
'At the head of the army in any enterprise into which the Countess sends her captains.'
'The Countess?' The Prince shifted his bulk uneasily in his chair, slewing round so as to face the soldier more fully. 'What then if ... What if the Countess should not ...' He waved his fat hands helplessly.
'It is not likely that the Countess should oppose your own wishes, highness.'
'Not likely? But—Lord of Heaven!—it's possible.' He heaved himself up, nervous, agitated. 'I must know. I must ... I'll send for her.' He reached for a hand-bell on the table.
But Bellarion's hand closed over his own before he could ring.
'A moment, Lord Prince. Before you send for the Lady Beatrice, had you not best consider precisely what you will say to her?'
'What is to say beyond discovering her disposition towards me.'
'Can you entertain a doubt upon that, Lord Prince?' Bellarion was smiling. Their hands came away together from the bell, and fell apart. 'Her disposition towards your potency is, to my knowledge, of the very kindliest. Such, indeed, that—I'll be frank with you—I found it necessary once to remind her of her duty to her lord.'
'Ah!' The fat pale face quivered into something akin to malevolence. The Prince remembered a sudden coolness in the Countess and her removal to Melegnano, and perceived in this meddler's confession the explanation of it. 'By Saint Ambrose, that was bold of you!'