Stories of his actions, many of them the reverse of creditable, had reached her ears, but she never gave credence to any of them. When people discussed him she refused to listen. He was her husband, the father of her little Ignatia, therefore she would hear nothing to his discredit.
Yes. Her disposition was quiet and sweet, and she was always loyal to him. He, however, entirely misjudged her.
An hour later, when she had gone to her room, her husband burst in angrily and ordered the two maids out, telling them that they would not be wanted further that night. Then, when the door was closed, he strode up to where she sat before the great mirror, lit by its waxen candles, for Henriette had been arranging her hair for the night.
“Well, woman!” he cried, standing before her, his brows knit, his eyes full of fire, “and what is your excuse to me this time?”
“Excuse?” she echoed, looking at him in surprise and very calmly. “For what, Ferdinand?”
“For your escapade in Vienna!” he said between his teeth. “The instant you had left, Leitolf received a telegram calling him to Wiesbaden, but instead of going there he followed you.”
“Not with my knowledge, I assure you,” she said quickly. “Why do you think so ill of me—why do you always suspect me?” she asked in a low, trembling voice of reproach.
“Why do I suspect you? You ask me that, woman, when you wrote to the man at his hotel, made an appointment, and actually visited him there? One of our agents watched you. Do you deny it?”
“No,” she answered boldly. “I do not deny going to the Count’s hotel. I had a reason for doing so.”
He laughed in her face.