He was the prime cause of a king losing his throne, of a
man losing his honor, of a princess becoming an outcast.
"Your bride-elect," he said, "seems somewhat over-hasty. Well,
I'm off to bed."
"Maurice, can you blame me?"
"No, John; whom the gods destroy they first make mad. You will
come to your senses when it is too late."
"For God's sake, Maurice, who is she?"
"What will you do if she breaks her promise?" adroitly evading
the question.
"What shall I do?" He emptied the ashes from his pipe, and rose;
all that was aggressive came into his face. "I will bind her
hands and feet and carry her to the altar, and shoot the priest
that refuses to marry us. O Maurice, rest easy; no woman lives
who will make a fool of me, and laugh."
"That's comfort;" and Maurice turned in.
This night it was the Englishman who sat up till the morning
hours. Sylvia Amerbach. . . . A fear possessed him. If it should
be, he thought; if it should be, what then?
Midnight in Madame's boudoir; no light save that which streamed
rosily from the coals in the grate. The countess sat with her
slippered feet upon the fender.
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