She
had stepped down from the pinnacle of her pride to which she
might never again ascend. He had kissed her. How she hated him!
And yet . . . Ah, the wine was flat, tinctured with the
bitterness of gall, and her own greed had forced the cup to her
lips. She could not remain silent before this girl; she must
reply; her shame was too deep to resolve itself into silence.
"Mademoiselle," she said, "I beg of you to accept my sympathies;
but the fortunes of war--"
"Ah, Madame," interrupted the prelate, lifting his white,
attenuated hand, "we will discuss the fortunes of war--later."
Madame choked back the sudden gust of rage. She glanced covertly
at the Englishman. But he, with wide-astonished eyes, was
staring at the foot of the throne, from which gradually rose a
terrible figure, covered with blood and caked with drying clay.
The figure leaned heavily on the hilt of a saber, and swayed
unsteadily. He drew all eyes.
"Ha!" he said, with a prolonged, sardonic intonation, "is that
you, Madame the duchess? You are talking of war? What! and you,
my lord the Englishman? Ha! and war? Look at me, Madame; I have
been in a battle, the only one fought to-day.
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