The few words which Marguerite Blakeney had managed to read on
the half-scorched piece of paper, seemed literally to be the words of
Fate. "Start myself tomorrow. . . ." This she had read quite
distinctly; then came a blur caused by the smoke of the candle, which
obliterated the next few words; but, right at the bottom, there was
another sentence, like letters of fire, before her mental vision, "If
you wish to speak to me again I shall be in the supper-room at one
o'clock precisely." The whole was signed with the hastily-scrawled
little device--a tiny star-shaped flower, which had become so familiar
One o'clock precisely! It was now close upon eleven, the last
minuet was being danced, with Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and beautiful Lady
Blakeney leading the couples, through its delicate and intricate
Close upon eleven! the hands of the handsome Louis XV. clock
upon its ormolu bracket seemed to move along with maddening rapidity.
Two hours more, and her fate and that of Armand would be sealed. In
two hours she must make up her mind whether she will keep the
knowledge so cunningly gained to herself, and leave her brother to his
fate, or whether she will wilfully betray a brave man, whose life was
devoted to his fellow-men, who was noble, generous, and above all,
unsuspecting. It seemed a horrible thing to do. But then, there was
Armand! Armand, too, was noble and brave, Armand, too, was
unsuspecting. And Armand loved her, would have willingly trusted his
life in her hands, and now, when she could save him from death, she
hesitated. Oh! it was monstrous; her brother's kind, gentle face, so
full of love for her, seemed to be looking reproachfully at her. "You
might have saved me, Margot!" he seemed to say to her, "and you
the life of a stranger, a man you do not know, whom you have never
seen, and preferred that he should be safe, whilst you sent me to the
All these conflicting thoughts raged through Marguerite's
brain, while, with a smile upon her lips, she glided through the
graceful mazes of the minuet. She noted--with that acute sense of
hers--that she had succeeded in completely allaying Sir Andrew's
fears. Her self-control had been absolutely perfect--she was a finer
actress at this moment, and throughout the whole of this minuet, than
she had ever been upon the boards of the Comedie Francaise; but then,
a beloved brother's life had not depended upon her histrionic powers.
She was too clever to overdo her part, and made no further
allusions to the supposed BILLET DOUX, which had caused Sir Andrew
Ffoulkes such an agonising five minutes. She watched his anxiety
melting away under her sunny smile, and soon perceived that, whatever
doubt may have crossed his mind at the moment, she had, by the time
the last bars of the minuet had been played, succeeded in completely
dispelling it; he never realised in what a fever of excitement she
was, what effort it cost her to keep up a constant ripple of BANAL
When the minuet was over, she asked Sir Andrew to take her
into the next room.
"I have promised to go down to supper with His Royal
Highness," she said, "but before we part, tell me. . .am I forgiven?"
"Yes! Confess, I gave you a fright just now. . . . But
remember, I am not an English woman, and I do not look upon the
exchanging of BILLET DOUX as a crime, and I vow I'll not tell my
little Suzanne. But now, tell me, shall I welcome you at my
water-party on Wednesday?"
"I am not sure, Lady Blakeney," he replied evasively. "I
have to leave London to-morrow."
"I would not do that, if I were you," she said earnestly; then
seeing the anxious look reappearing in his eyes, she added gaily; "No
one can throw a ball better than you can, Sir Andrew, we should so
miss you on the bowling-green."
He had led her across the room, to one beyond, where already
His Royal Highness was waiting for the beautiful Lady Blakeney.
"Madame, supper awaits us," said the Prince, offering his arm
to Marguerite, "and I am full of hope. The goddess Fortune has
frowned so persistently on me at hazard, that I look with confidence
for the smiles of the goddess of Beauty."
"Your Highness has been unfortunate at the card tables?" asked
Marguerite, as she took the Prince's arm.
"Aye! most unfortunate. Blakeney, not content with being the
richest among my father's subjects, has also the most outrageous luck.
By the way, where is that inimitable wit? I vow, Madam, that this
life would be but a dreary desert without your smiles and his sallies."
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