“Well, I will tell you. For three hundred and sixty days in the year I am a cipher, a sexless vagrant, unknown and a mystery; but for five days maybe I wear my jewels and am a woman rejoicing in my health and my beauty. These are my woman’s hours, glorious hours. That is one reason; the other is—revenge!”
“Ah!” He rubbed his hands appreciatively.
“And you?” she asked, with a faint smile of the most tempting provocation.
“For love,” he spoke with a hint of pain. “To the world you are a mysterious number, but to me you are the most beautiful, most splendid woman on earth, without whose love I cannot live. Had you not by chance crossed my path I would have dropped this dirty felon’s game, but I go on and shall go on, taking my chance of the wheel, the halter, or the footpad’s death in the gutter, till you are mine, wholly mine.”
Her lip curled. “The wine is getting into your head,” she said, in her passionless tones. “In your trade and mine that is dangerous. Remember the fate of all who, knowing what you know, have seen my face; remember your friend, Captain Statham, who recognised the Princess in the hut near Fontenoy. Love? Love? You are a strong, vile animal of a man tempted by mere beauty of body. But I am not an animal, nor a woman as women are in Paris, London, Vienna. Love? a man’s animal love? Think you if that was what I could feel or wanted I would be to-day a thief of state secrets, a cipher, a skulker from justice? No, I would be the mistress of the King of France and would rule a great kingdom. And you have the insolence to offer me the caresses of a felon, a spy, a traitor. You are mad.”
“It is you who made me and keep me mad, thank God!”
She sat down, beckoning him to sit beside her. “Now listen,” she said calmly. “The game is up. There will be no more papers for a long time. Why? Because my foes are on my track. The toils are being drawn around me. My sources of information are being discovered and stopped. And—” she paused—“and a man worth ten of you, unless I am very careful, will——”
“The Vicomte de Nérac?” he gasped out. “Curse him!”
“Yes, the Vicomte de Nérac, who balked you at Fontenoy.”
“You let him balk us—you did.”