"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.You made it once, though you are not willing to repeat it.But I have your word, Sylvia; I am content.Not all the world could make me believe that you would willingly retract that word."Her name, for the first time coming from his lips, caused her to start.She sent him a penetrating glance, but it broke on a face immobile as marble.
"I do not recollect granting you permission to use my given name,"she said.
"O, that was before the world.But alone, alone as we are, you and I, it is different." The smile which accompanied these words was frankness itself, but it did not deceive Madame, who read his eyes too well."Ali, but the crumbs you give this love of mine are so few!" "You are the only man in the world permitted to avow love to me.You have kissed my hand.""A privilege which seems extended to all."Madame colored, but there was not light enough for him to perceive it.
"The , hand you kissed is the hand of the woman; others kiss it to pay homage.Monsieur, 'forgive me for having deceived you, you were so easy to deceive." His eyes met hers steadily.
"I am not Madame simply.I am Stephonia Sylvia Auersperg; the name I assumed was my mother's." His lack of surprise alarmed her.
"I am well aware of that," he said."You are the duchess."Something in his tone warned her of a crisis, and she put forth her cunning to avert it."And.you-you will not love me less?"her voice vibrant as the string of a viol."I am a princess, but yet a woman.In me there are two, the woman and the princess.
The princess is proud and ambitious; to gain her ends she stops at nothing.As a princess she may stoop to trickery and deceit, and step back untouched.But the woman-ah, well; for this fortnight I have been most of all the woman.""And all this to me-is a preamble to my dismissal, since my promise remains unfulfilled? Madame, do not think that because fate has willed that my promise should become void, that my conscience acquits me of dishonor.For love of you I have thrown honor to the winds.But do I regret it? No.For I am mad, and being mad, I am not capable of reason.I have broken all those ties which bind a man's respect to himself.I have burned all bridges, but I laugh at that.It is only with the knowledge that your love is mine that I can hold high my head.
"As the princess in you is proud, so is the man in me.Aprincess? That is nothing; I love you.Were you the empress of all the Russias, the most unapproachable woman in the world, Ishould not hesitate to profess my love, to find some means of declaring it to you.I love you.To what further depths can Ifall to prove it?" Again he sought the window, and leaned heavily on the sill.He waited, as a man waits for an expected blow.
As she listened a delicious sensation swept through her heart, a sensation elusive and intangible.She surrendered without question.At this moment the Eve in her evaded all questions.
Here was a man.The mood which seized her was as novel as this love which asked nothing but love, and the willingness to pay any price; and the desire to test both mood and love to their full strength was irresistible.She was loved for herself alone;hitherto men had loved the woman less and the princess more.To surrender to both mood and love, if only for an hour or a day, to see to what length this man would go at a sign from her.
He was almost her equal in birth; his house was nearly if not quite as old and honored as her own; in his world he stood as high as she stood in hers.She had never committed an indiscretion; passion had never swayed her; until now she had lived by calculation.As she looked at him, she knew that in all her wide demesne no soldier could stand before him and look straight into his eyes.So deep and honest a book it was, so easily readable, that she must turn to its final pages.Love him? No.Be his wife? No.She recognized that it was the feline instinct to play which dominated her.Consequences? Therein lay the charm of it.
"Patience, Monsieur," she said."Did I promise to be your wife?
Did I say that I loved you? ~Eh, bien~, the woman, not the princess, made those vows.I am mistress not only of my duchy, but of my heart." She ceased and regarded him with watchful eves.
He did not turn."Look at me, John!" The voice was of such winning sweetness that St.Anthony himself, had he heard it, must have turned."Look at me and see if I am more a princess than a woman."He wheeled swiftly.She was leaning toward him, her face was upturned.No jewel in her hair was half so lustrous as her eyes.
From the threaded ruddy ore of her hair rose a perfume like the fabulous myrrhs of Olympus.Her lips were a cup of wine, and her eyes bade him drink, and the taste of that wine haunted him as long as he lived.He made as though to drain the cup, but Madame pushed down his arms, uttered a low, puzzled laugh, and vanished from the room.He was lost! He knew it; yet he did not care.He threw out his arms, dropped them, and settled his shoulders.Asmile, a warm, contented smile, came into his face and dwelt there.For another such kiss he would have bartered eternity.
And Madame? Who can say?
