The beautiful singer received him graciously. A woman of capricious moods, she had, for a brief space, admitted to herself that she had not treated him quite fairly, had been found lacking in the spirit of true comradeship. After all, Zouroff had loved her in his rough, masterful way, and he had always been generous.
She had played him false in this respect, that she had allowed herself to be attracted by the handsome young Italian, to the extent of thwarting the Prince’s plans in regard to him. And it was to no purpose. Corsini was in love with the Princess Nada, no doubt a hopeless passion on his part. But he would never give a thought to her save in the way of friendship. And that was the last thing that the passionate heart of the Spanish woman desired.
When, therefore, Zouroff entered her boudoir, in apparently one of his best moods, she felt some of his old attraction for her returning. She little knew what deep anger against her was burning in his heart.
But he was a skilful diplomatist; he showed nothing of this. He kissed her fondly, with the warm kiss of a man who hoped some day to make her his wife.
“Ah, my dear sweetheart, how pleasant to see you again!” said the base hypocrite. “I have had a busy day. Things are going well. It will not be long before my utmost ambitions are realised.” He spoke confidently; he was ever an optimist, and he believed in his own particular star.
La Belle Quéro felt an inward qualm. Corsini was nothing to her now. And, in that brief interview with Nada, she had surmised, through all her girlish dignity and reticence, that the Princess was more than half in love with him. Otherwise, would she have been so eager to save him?
But if Zouroff triumphed, as he seemed to have every hope of doing, the Italian’s fate would be sealed. And Le Belle Quéro was sure she could not save him a second time. The fates would not be propitious to her again.
“Old friends are best, my dear,” said the Prince in his most agreeable tones, as he seated himself in one of the luxurious easy-chairs and lighted a cigarette. “Somehow a little cloud seems to have come between us lately, I should like to remove it.”
Madame Quéro looked a little uneasy. She knew full well to what he was alluding. Her obvious tendresse for the young director had occasioned a good deal of talk; no doubt some of it had floated to Zouroff’s ears.
“Do not let us speak of clouds, Boris. We have been long and good friends. Let us be good friends again.”