“I think not, mademoiselle. I am not a sentimentalist, as you know, and I cannot flatter myself that the meeting would afford any comfort to her Majesty. It is not as though things were as they used to be.”
“You mean that you do not now love her? But if that is the case, you have never loved her. Oh, assure me of that, let me tell her from yourself that you sought her only for the help she could give to your political designs, that you awoke her love for you merely that you might climb to power by its means, and that it was only natural you should throw off the mask when she refused to serve your purpose any longer. It will wound her terribly, but her pride will help her to tear you from her heart. You need not try to keep up the mockery any longer, surely?”
“I should be delighted to meet your wishes, mademoiselle, but unfortunately I am not quite quixotic enough to blacken my own character so gratuitously as you propose. I did love her Majesty at one time—in fact, until three days ago. I will not say that at any time I should have been willing to make a fool of myself to please her, as some men would, but once, at any rate, I was prepared to die for her. Is it beyond your power to imagine an experience by which love should be altogether burnt out and destroyed? That was my case when, thanks to the Queen, I saw my policy overthrown, the labours of twenty years undone, and myself held up to the ridicule of Europe.”
“But if you love her, you can forgive even that. She was wrong, no doubt, but has she not suffered for it? Is she not willing to share with you the consequences of her fault, as the only reparation she can make? You say you loved her——”
“Pardon me; I fear I have not made my meaning clear. I did once love her Majesty, but—I do so no longer.”
“You really loved her? I hope you did; I am glad if you did. You think your love is dead; but it will come to life again to torment you, and then, perhaps—oh, I trust it will be so!—you will know something of the pain you are making her suffer, when you feel that you would give anything to see her and to touch her hand again, and you cannot approach her. If the time ever came for her to treat you as you are treating her now, I could die happy.”
“May I suggest, mademoiselle, that I feel a slight delicacy in listening to these accounts of her Majesty’s feelings—under the circumstances?”
“You are a cruel, heartless man,” said Anna Mirkovics despairingly, “and I hope God will punish you as you deserve!”
“I fear that you must rate my deserts very low, mademoiselle, if you mean to imply that the punishment I merit is even worse than all that has already happened to me.”
He looked round with a faint smile at the dismantled room and the untidy packet of papers, and Anna Mirkovics realised dimly that whatever his punishment was to be in the future, it had begun in the present.