“And how can I give you proof when Mr Bourne and his friend are in custody in London? Let them be extradited to Treysa, and then you may have them brought before you privately and questioned.”
For some moments he did not speak. What she had just alleged had placed upon the matter an entirely different aspect. Indeed, within himself he was compelled to admit that the suspicions he had lately entertained regarding Hinckeldeym had now been considerably increased by her surprising statements. Was she speaking the truth?
Whenever he allowed his mind to wander back he recollected that it had been the crafty old President who had first aroused those fierce jealous thoughts within his heart. It was he who had made those allegations against Leitolf; he who, from the very first weeks of his marriage, had treated Claire with marked antipathy, although to her face he had shown such cordiality and deep obeisance that she had actually believed him to be her friend. Yes, he now recognised that this old man, in whom his father had reposed such perfect confidence, had been the fount of all those reports that had scandalised Europe. If his calm, sweet-faced wife had, after all, been a really good and faithful woman, then he had acted as an outrageous brute to her. His own cruelty pricked his conscience. It was for her to forgive, not for her to seek forgiveness.
She saw his hesitation, and believed it due to a reluctance to accept her allegations as the real truth.
“If you doubt me, Ferdinand, call Hinckeldeym at this instant. Let me face this man before you, and let me categorically deny all the false charges which he and his sycophants have from time to time laid against me. Here, at Court, I am feared, because they know that I am aware of all my secret enemies. Make a clearance of them all and commence afresh,” she urged, a sweet light in her wonderful eyes. “You have clever men about you who would make honest and excellent Ministers; but while you are surrounded by such conspirators as these, neither you nor the throne itself is safe. I know,” she went on breathlessly, “that you have been seized by a terrible jealousy—a cruel, consuming jealousy, purposely aroused against me in order to bring about the result which was but the natural outcome—my exile from Treysa and our estrangement. It is true that you did not treat me kindly—that you struck me—that you insulted me—that you have disfigured me by your blows; but recollect, I beg, that I have never once complained. I never once revealed the secret of my dire unhappiness; only to one man, the man who has been my friend ever since my childhood—Carl Leitolf. And if you had been in my place, Ferdinand, I ask whether you would not have sought comfort in relating your unhappiness to a friend. I ask you that question,” she added, in a low, intense, trembling voice. “For all your unkindness and neglect I have long ago really forgiven you. I have prayed earnestly to God that He would open your eyes and show me in my true light—a faithful wife. I leave it to Him to be my judge, and to deal out to my enemies the justice they deserve.”
“Claire!” he cried, suddenly taking her slim white hand in his and looking fiercely into her beautiful eyes, “is this the real truth that you have just told me?”
“It is!” she answered firmly; “before God, I swear that it is! I am a poor sinner in His sight, but as your wife I have nothing with which to reproach myself—nothing. If you doubt me, then call Leitolf from Rome; call Bourne. Both men, instead of being my lovers, are your friends—and mine. I can look both you and them in the face without flinching, and am ready to do so whenever it is your will.”
All was consummated in that one final touch of truth and nature. The consciousness of her own worth and integrity which had sustained her through all her trials of heart, and that pride of station for which she had contended through long years—which had become more dear by opposition and by the perseverance with which she had asserted it—remained the last strong feeling upon her mind even at that moment, the most fateful crisis of her existence.
Her earnest, fearless frankness impressed him. Was it really possible that his wife—this calm-faced woman who had been condemned by him everywhere, and against whom he had already commenced proceedings for a divorce—was really, after all, quite innocent?
He remembered Hinckeldeym’s foul allegations, the damning evidence of his spies, the copies of certain letters. Was all this a tissue of fraud, falsehood, and forgery?