“Oh no,” was her reply. “That letter—ah! it was about something—something which affected me very closely. I know that I was very foolish to allow it to upset me so. It was absurd of me to faint as I did. But I could not help it. I suppose I am but a woman, after all.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to describe how old Ghelardi had discovered them together in the room of the Minister of the Household, but he hesitated, fearing to unduly cause her annoyance. He had defied the chief spy of Italy, but was as yet uncertain whether the crafty old fellow had not gone secretly to the King and told him the story—with many embellishments, perhaps.
“Your indisposition was not your own fault, Lola,” he answered in a voice of deepest sympathy. “No doubt Monsieur Pujalet’s letter contained something to cause you the gravest disconcern.”
“Disconcern!” she cried, starting up wildly, her big expressive eyes full of anxiety. “Ah! you do not know—how can you know all the tortures of conscience, of the daily, hourly terror I am now suffering! No! You cannot understand.”
“Because you will explain nothing,” he remarked with dissatisfaction.
“I cannot, I dare not—even to you, my most intimate friend!”
“Well, Lola, I confess that each time we meet you become more and more mysterious.”
“Ah! Because I am compelled. Surrounded by enemies, even my association with you seems to have placed you also in a deadly peril. That is why I am appealing to you to leave Rome.”
“I can’t,” he said. “That is entirely out of the question. But now that you have warned me I will be wary—and will carry my revolver, if you think it necessary.”
“Cannot you leave Italy? It would be far safer.”