Speculation is vain. The "monde" has its imperial secrets.
Who can solve the equation of womanhood? Colonel Joseph is effusive
in his cheery greeting. "My dear madame, I am glad to be in Paris
once more." He would charm this sphinx into life and warmth. Foolish
Joseph.
"We all are charmed to see you safely returned," murmurs the madame.
The padre is studying the art treasures of the incomparable "Salon
de Santos."
"I have some messages from a friend of yours," continues Joseph,
strangely intent upon the narrow rim of his hat.
"Ah, yes! Pray who remembers me so many years?"
Joseph fires out the answer like a charge of canister from a
Napoleon gun: "Philip Hardin."
The lady's lips close. There is a steely look in her eyes. Her hand
seeks her heaving bosom. Is there a dagger there?
"Useless, my lady." There are two men here. The padre is intent
upon a war picture of Detaille. His eyes catch a mirror showing
the startled woman.
"And--what--did--Mr.--Philip--Hardin say?" the lady gasps.
"He asked me if you remembered Hortense Duval, the Queen of the
El--" Natalie reels and staggers, as if shot.
"By God, Lee was right!" cries Woods. He catches her falling form.
The first and only time he will ever hold her in his arms.
Pages:
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494