“And the price?”
“A mere nothing. A promise signed by your husband to resign his post, for reasons of health, when he is required to do so by Scythia.”
“He would never do it.”
“I think he would, when he knew that the document would be made public in case of his refusing.”
Eirene flushed angrily. “You know I don’t mean that!” she cried. “What Maurice promised he would do, of course. But he would never give the promise.”
“Then he will be handed over to Roum, and—shot.”
“Madame, you ask impossibilities. Why tantalise me like this? My husband would refuse the suggestion with scorn.”
“Dear madame, did I not say that you and I would arrange the matter for his good? He will sign the promise, but it is not necessary he should know what it is.”
“He would never sign it without reading it.”
“Then he must think it something different from what it is. Madame, I understand that your husband has something to forgive you. Have you not the courage, the cunning, if you will, to play a slight trick upon him for his life’s sake?”