During the week that followed we met several times. She showed herself in no way averse to my companionship, for she told me that she was always at home on Thursdays and would be pleased to see me. This invitation I accepted, and thus I became a frequent visitor.
One afternoon I had called and lingered. The guests had departed.
In the fading light of the summer’s evening I was sitting with her in her pretty drawing-room that overlooked the dusty trees. As she lolled gracefully against the window the last ray of sunlight fell upon her, and she looked daintily bewitching.
I admit that I loved her madly, passionately. Overwhelmed by the contemplation of her beauty, enchanted by the magic of her voice, which made the sweetest music out of the merest phrases, I thought of nought but her, and was only happy when at her side. Yet when I remembered the difference in our social position, and her marriage with the Prince, I was almost beside myself with despair; I knew that mine was an adoration that could only end in unhappiness.
Involuntarily my hand touched my pocket and struck something hard. I drew it away in horror. What terrible irony of fate! The woman I loved dearer than life was doomed to die by my hand!
She had been gazing dreamily out of the window, when suddenly with a mischievous smile she exclaimed—
“You are very silent, m’sieur.”
I scarcely know what prompted me, but, jumping up quickly, and grasping her tiny, bejewelled hand, I raised it to my lips and in English poured forth a declaration of my love.
She trembled. Her breath came and went in short, quick gasps, but she did not attempt to arrest the flood of passionate words that escaped me. Ere I had concluded, my heart was filled with joy, for I saw my passion was reciprocated.