He
himself was but dimly conscious of it. Princess? That did not
matter. Since that morning the veil had fallen from his eyes,
but he had said nothing; he was waiting for her to speak. Would
she laugh at him? No, no! The knowledge that had come to him had
transformed wax into iron. Princess? She was the woman who had
promised to be his wife.
Only two candles burned on the mantel-piece. The library was a
room apart from the festivities. A soft, rose-colored darkness
pervaded the room. Presently a darker shadow tiptoed over the
threshold. He turned, and the shadow approached. Madame's gray
eyes, full of lambent fires, looked into his own.
"I was seeking you," she said. The jewels in her hair threw a
kind of halo above her head.
"Have I the happiness to be necessary to you?" he asked.
"You have not been enjoying yourself."
"No, Madame; my conscience is, unhappily, too green." He turned
to the window again for fear he would lose control of himself.
"I have a confession to make to you," she said humbly. How broad
his shoulders were, was her thought.
"It can not concern me," he replied.
"How?"
"There is only one confession which I care to hear.
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