“Never! I shall come back to this accursed country never again. No; I am going once and for all. I will soil myself with the mud of its gutters no more. I came for the sake of Julie; and now—how has she treated me?” Edouard shrugged his shoulders. “And you—how has she treated you?”
“Never mind me.”
“Ah, but I must mind you. Only that you would not let me manage, it might be yours now—yes, all. Why did you come down to that accursed island?”
“It was my way to play my game. Leave that alone, Sophie.” And there came a frown over the brother’s brow.
“Your way to play your game! Yes; and what has become of mine? You have destroyed mine; but you think nothing of that. After all that I have gone through, to have nothing; and through you—my brother! Ah, that is the hardest of all—when I was putting all things in train for you!”
“You are always putting things in train. Leave your trains alone, where I am concerned.”
“But why did you come to that place in the accursed island? I am ruined by that journey. Yes; I am ruined. You will not help me to get a shilling from her—not even for my expenses.”
“Certainly not. You are clever enough to do your own work without my aid.”
“And is that all from a brother? Well! And now that they have drowned themselves—the two Claverings—the fool and the brute; and she can do what she pleases—”
“She could always do as she pleased since Lord Ongar died.”
“Yes; but she is more lonely than ever now. That cousin who is the greatest fool of all, who might have had everything—mon Dieu! yes, everything;—she would have given it all to him with a sweep of her hand, if he would have taken it. He is to marry himself to a little brown girl, who has not a shilling. No one but an Englishman could make follies so abominable as these. Ah, I am sick—I am sick when I remember it!” And Sophie gave unmistakeable signs of a grief which could hardly have been self-interested. But in truth she suffered pain at seeing a good game spoilt. It was not that she had any wish for Harry Clavering’s welfare. Had he gone to the bottom of the sea in the same boat with his cousins, the tidings of his fate would have been pleasurable to her rather than otherwise. But when she saw such cards thrown away as he had held in his hand, she encountered that sort of suffering which a good player feels when he sits behind the chair of one who plays up to his adversary’s trump, and makes no tricks of his own kings and aces.
“He may marry himself to the devil, if he please;—it is nothing to me,” said the count.
“But she is there;—by herself—at that place;—what is it called? Ten‑bie. Will you not go now, when you can do no harm?”
“No; I will not go now.”
“And in a year she will have taken some other one for her husband.”
“What is that to me? But look here, Sophie, for you may as well understand me at once. If I were ever to think of Lady Ongar again as my wife, I should not tell you.”
“And why not tell me—your sister?”
“Because it would do me no good. If you had not been there she would have been my wife now.”
“Edouard!”
“What I say is true. But I do not want to reproach you because of that. Each of us was playing his own game; and your game was not my game. You are going now, and if I play my game again I can play it alone.”
Upon hearing this Sophie sat awhile in silence, looking at him. “You will play it alone?” she said at last. “You would rather do that?”
“Much rather, if I play any game at all.”
“And you will give me something to go?”
“Not one sou.”
“You will not;—not a sou?”
“Not half a sou—for you to go or stay. Sophie, are you not a fool to ask me for money?”
“And you are a fool—a fool who knows nothing. You need not look at me like that. I am not afraid. I shall remain here. I shall stay and do as the lawyer tells me. He says that if I bring my action she must pay me for my expenses. I will bring my action. I am not going to leave it all to you. No. Do you remember those days in Florence? I have not been paid yet, but I will be paid. One hundred and seventy-five thousand francs a year—and after all I am to have none of it! Say;—should it become yours, will you do something for your sister?”
“Nothing at all;—nothing. Sophie, do you think I am fool enough to bargain in such a matter?”
“Then I will stay. Yes;—I will bring my action. All the world shall hear, and they shall know how you have destroyed me and yourself. Ah;—you think I am afraid; that I will not spend my money. I will spend all—all—all; and I will be revenged.”
“You may go or stay; it is the same thing to me. Now, if you please, I will take my leave.” And he got up from his chair to leave her.
“It is the same thing to you?”
“Quite the same.”
“Then I will stay, and she shall hear my name every day of her life;—every hour. She shall be so sick of me and of you, that—that—that—Oh, Edouard!” This last appeal was made to him because he was already at the door, and could not be stopped in any other way.
“What else have you to say, my sister?”
“Oh, Edouard, what would I not give to see all those riches yours? Has it not been my dearest wish? Edouard, you are ungrateful. All men are ungrateful.” Now, having succeeded in stopping him, she
