‘You speak once more as a private person,’ said the Princess; ‘nor do I blame you. But my own thoughts are more distracted. However, as I believe you are truly a friend to my—to the—as I believe,’ she said, ‘you are a friend to Otto, I shall put the order for his release into your hands this moment. Give me the ink-dish. There!’ And she wrote hastily, steadying her arm upon the table, for she trembled like a reed. ‘Remember; madam,’ she resumed, handing her the order, ‘this must not be used nor spoken of at present; till I have seen the Baron, any hurried step—I lose myself in thinking. The suddenness has shaken me.’
‘I promise you I will not use it,’ said the Countess, ‘till you give me leave, although I wish the Prince could be informed of it, to comfort his poor heart. And O, I had forgotten, he has left a letter. Suffer me, madam, I will bring it you. This is the door, I think?’ And she sought to open it.
‘The bolt is pushed,’ said Seraphina, flushing.
‘O! O!’ cried the Countess.
A silence fell between them.
‘I will get it for myself,’ said Seraphina; ‘and in the meanwhile I beg you to leave me. I thank you, I am sure, but I shall be obliged if you will leave me.’
The Countess deeply curtseyed, and withdrew.
CHAPTER XIV—RELATES THE CAUSE AND OUTBREAK OF THE REVOLUTION
Brave as she was, and brave by intellect, the Princess, when first she was alone, clung to the table for support. The four corners of her universe had fallen. She had never liked nor trusted Gondremark completely; she had still held it possible to find him false to friendship; but from that to finding him devoid of all those public virtues for which she had honoured him, a mere commonplace intriguer, using her for his own ends, the step was wide and the descent giddy. Light and darkness succeeded each other in her brain; now she believed, and now she could not. She turned, blindly groping for the note. But von Rosen, who had not forgotten to take the warrant from the Prince, had remembered to recover her note from the Princess: von Rosen was an old campaigner, whose most violent emotion aroused rather than clouded the vigour of her reason.
The thought recalled to Seraphina the remembrance of the other letter—Otto’s. She rose and went speedily, her brain still wheeling, and burst into the Prince’s armoury. The old chamberlain was there in waiting; and the sight of another face, prying (or so she felt) on her distress, struck Seraphina into childish anger.