"What a beautiful girl!" said Madame, fondly. "Poor dear! Her
life has not been a bed of roses."
"No?" said Maurice, while Fitzgerald raised his eyebrows
inquiringly.
"No. She was formerly a maid of honor to her Highness. She made
an unhappy marriage."
"And where is the count?" asked Fitzgerald in surprise. He shot
a glance of dismay at Maurice, who, translating it, smiled.
"He is dead."
Fitzgerald looked relieved.
"What a fine thing it is," said Maurice, rising, "to be a man
and wed where and how you will!" He withdrew to the main hall to
don his cap and spurs. As he stooped to strap the latter, he saw
a sheet of paper, crinkled by recent dampness, lying on the
floor. He picked it up--and read it.
"The plan you suggest is worthy of you, Madame. The
Englishman is fair game, being a common enemy. Let
us gain our ends through the heart, since his purse
is impregnable to assaults. But the countess? Why not
the pantry maid, since the other is an American? They
lack discrimination. The king grows weaker every
day. Nothing was found in the Englishman's rooms.
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