Suddenly she lifted her hands above her head and clenched
them in a burst of silent rage. A dupe! doubly a dupe! To-morrow
the whole world would laugh at her, and she was without means of
wreaking vengeance. Presently the woman rose above the princess.
She sat down, laid her face on her arms and wept.
Fitzgerald stepped from behind one of the curtains. He had taken
refuge there during the archbishop's speech. He had not the
strength to witness the final humiliation of the woman he loved.
He was gazing out of the window at the troops in the Platz when
the door closed.
Madame heard the rustle of the curtain and looked up. She sprang
to her feet, her eyes blazing.
"You?" she cried. "You? You have dared to hide that you might
witness my weakness and my tears? You. . . ."
"Madame!"
"Go! I hate you!"
"Ah, Madame, we always hate those whom we have wronged. Do not
forget that I love you, with a love that passes convention."
"Monsieur, I am yet a princess. Did you not hear me bid you go?"
"Why?" in a voice singularly free from agitation. "Because I am
the only man who has served you unselfishly? Is that the reason,
Madame? You have laughed at me.
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