“How often do you send for me?” she cried. “It is compromising.”
Gondremark laughed. “Speaking of that,” said he, “what in the devil’s name were you about? You were not home till morning.”
“I was giving alms,” she said.
The Baron again laughed loud and long, for in his shirtsleeves he was a very mirthful creature. “It is fortunate I am not jealous,” he remarked. “But you know my way: pleasure and liberty go hand in hand. I believe what I believe; it is not much, but I believe it.—But now to business. Have you not read my letter?”
“No,” she said; “my head ached.”
“Ah, well! then I have news indeed!” cried Gondremark. “I was mad to see you all last night and all this morning: for yesterday afternoon I brought my long business to a head; the ship has come home; one more dead lift, and I shall cease to fetch and carry for the Princess Ratafia. Yes, ’tis done. I have the order all in Ratafia’s hand; I carry it on my heart. At the hour of twelve tonight, Prince Featherhead is to be taken in his bed and, like the bambino, whipped into a chariot; and by next morning he will command a most romantic prospect from the donjon of the Felsenburg. Farewell, Featherhead! The war goes on, the girl is in my hand; I have long been indispensable, but now I shall be sole. I have long,” he added exultingly, “long carried this intrigue upon my shoulders, like Samson with the gates of Gaza; now I discharge that burden.”
She had sprung to her feet a little paler. “Is this true?” she cried.
“I tell you a fact,” he asseverated. “The trick is played.”
“I will never believe it,” she said. “An order in her own hand? I will never believe it, Heinrich.”
“I swear to you,” said he.
“Oh, what do you care for oaths—or I either? What would you swear by? Wine, women, and song? It is not binding,” she said. She had come quite close up to him and laid her hand upon his arm. “As for the order—no, Heinrich, never! I will never believe it. I will die ere I believe it. You have some secret purpose—what, I cannot guess—but not one word of it is true.”
“Shall I show it you?” he asked.
“You cannot,” she answered. “There is no such thing.”
“Incorrigible Sadducee!” he cried. “Well, I will convert you; you shall see the order.” He moved to a chair where he had thrown his coat, and then drawing forth and holding out a paper, “Read,” said he.
She took it greedily, and her eye flashed as she perused it.
“Hey!” cried the Baron, “there falls a dynasty, and it was I that felled it; and I and you inherit!” He seemed to swell in stature; and next moment, with a laugh, he put his hand forward. “Give me the dagger,” said he.
But she whisked the paper suddenly behind her back and faced him, lowering. “No, no,” she said. “You and I have first a point to settle. Do you suppose me blind? She could never have given that paper but to one man, and that man her lover. Here you stand—her lover, her accomplice, her master—Oh, I well believe it, for I know your power. But what am I?” she cried; “I, whom you deceive!”
“Jealousy!” cried Gondremark. “Anna, I would never have believed it! But I declare to you by all that’s credible that I am not her lover. I might be, I suppose; but I never yet durst risk the declaration. The chit is so unreal; a mincing doll; she will and she will not; there is no counting on her, by God! And hitherto I have had my own way without, and keep the lover in reserve. And I say, Anna,” he added with severity, “you must break yourself of this new fit, my girl; there must be no combustion. I keep the creature under the belief that I adore her; and if she caught a breath of you and me, she is such a fool, prude, and dog in the manger, that she is capable of spoiling all.”
“All very fine,” returned the lady. “With whom do you pass your days? and which am I to believe, your words or your actions?”
“Anna, the devil take you, are you blind?” cried Gondremark. “You know me. Am I likely to care for such a preciosa? ’Tis hard that we should have been together for so long, and you should still take me for a troubadour. But if there is one thing that I despise and deprecate, it is all such figures in Berlin wool. Give me a human woman—like myself. You are my mate; you were made for me; you amuse me like the play. And what have I to gain that I should pretend to you? If I do not love you, what use are you to me? Why, none. It is as clear as noonday.”
“Do you love me, Heinrich?” she asked, languishing. “Do you truly?”
“I tell you,” he cried, “I love you next after myself. I should be all abroad if I had lost you.”
“Well, then,” said she, folding up the paper and putting it calmly in her pocket, “I will believe you, and I join the plot. Count upon me. At midnight, did you say? It is Gordon, I see, that you have charged with it. Excellent; he will stick at nothing—”
Gondremark watched her suspiciously. “Why do you take the paper?” he demanded. “Give it here.”
“No,” she returned; “I mean to keep it. It is I who must prepare the stroke; you cannot manage it without me; and to do my best I must possess the paper. Where shall I find Gordon? In his rooms?” She spoke with a rather feverish self-possession.
“Anna,” he said sternly, the black, bilious countenance of his palace role taking the place of the more open favour of his hours at home, “I
