Part 24 (2/2)
”And you care--so much?” Lady Carey said, with a hard little laugh.
”I care so much,” Lucille echoed.
Lady Carey shook out her amber satin skirt and sat down upon a low divan. She held up her hands, small white hands, ablaze with jewels, and looked at them for a moment thoughtfully.
”He was very much in earnest when I saw him at Sherry's in New York,”
she remarked, ”and he was altogether too clever for Mr. Horser and our friends there. After all their talk and boasting too. Why, they are ignorant of the very elements of intrigue.”
Lucille sighed.
”Here,” she said, ”it is different. The Prince and he are ancient rivals, and Raoul de Brouillac is no longer his friend. Muriel, I am afraid of what may happen.”
Lady Carey shrugged her shoulders.
”He is no fool,” she said in a low tone. ”He will not come here with a magistrate's warrant and a policeman to back it up, nor will he attempt to turn the thing into an Adelphi drama. I know him well enough to be sure that he will attempt nothing crude. Lucille, don't you find it exhilarating?”
”Exhilarating? But why?”
”It will be a game played through to the end by masters, and you, my dear woman, are the inspiration. I think that it is most fascinating.”
Lucille looked sadly into the fire.
”I think,” she said, ”that I am weary of all these things. I seem to have lived such a very long time. At Lenox I was quite happy. Of my own will I would never have left it.”
Lady Carey's thin lips curled a little, her blue eyes were full of scorn. She was not altogether a pleasant woman to look upon. Her cheeks were thin and hollow, her eyes a little too prominent, some hidden expression which seemed at times to flit from one to the other of her features suggested a sensuality which was a little incongruous with her somewhat angular figure and generally cold demeanour. But that she was a woman of courage and resource history had proved.
”How idyllic!” she exclaimed. ”Positively medieval! Fancy living with one man three years.”
Lucille smiled.
”Why, not? I never knew a woman yet however cold however fond of change, who had not at some time or other during her life met a man for whose sake she would have done--what I did. I have had as many admirers--as many lovers, I suppose, as most women. But I can truthfully say that during the last three years no thought of one of them has crossed my mind.”
Lady Carey laughed scornfully.
”Upon my word,” she said. ”If the Prince had not a temper, and if they were not playing for such ruinous points, I would entertain them all with these delightful confidences. By the bye, the Prince himself was once one of those who fell before your chariot wheels, was he not? Look at him now--sideways. What does he remind you of?”
Lucille raised her eyes.
”A fat angel,” she answered, ”or something equally distasteful. How I hate those mild eyes and that sweet, slow smile. I saw him thrash a poor beater once in the Saxe Leinitzer forests. Ugh!”
”I should not blame him for that,” Lady Carey said coldly. ”I like masterful men, even to the point of cruelty. General Dolinski there fascinates me. I believe that he keeps a little private knout at home for his wife and children. A wicked little contrivance with an ivory handle. I should like to see him use it.”
Lucille shuddered. This tete-a-tete did not amuse her. She rose and looked over one of the bridge tables for a minute. The Prince, who was dealing, looked up with a smile.
”Be my good angel, Countess,” he begged. ”Fortune has deserted me to-night. You shall be the G.o.ddess of chance, and smile your favours upon me.”
A hard little laugh came from the chair where Lady Carey sat. She turned her head towards them, and there was a malicious gleam in her eyes.
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